* * *
—
The next day Bitters and I flew south. Just before dark we hit the crowded Miami-Plaza lobby like good news from home. You could hear the conversation gagging when I breezed in wearing a bright suit that screamed for attention, with Bitters, in ministerial black, towering at my heels, and four bellhops staggering after him with loads of swank luggage.
“Mr. Michael Harris,” I gave the pop-eyed clerk. “I reserved a suite by wire.”
He fussed with his necktie, opened and closed his mouth silently, looked at the bellhops ganging behind me, and said, “Uh—yes, sir! Uh—will you register, please?”
I waved my hand languidly up at Bitters.
“I won’t,” says I. “But my man will. Have me put in my suite quickly, please. And send up the manager.”
Near me an over-dressed fat woman made a remark which cut through the sudden quiet.
“How odd!” she said.
I turned, saw her eyeing me through a pair of nose-glasses she held up with a pudgy hand.
“Bitters,” says I coldly. “Make a note of anyone who shows interest in me.”
“A note?” Bitters gulped, looking around wildly.
“You heard me. A note. A memorandum. I wish to be informed, you idiot, of the presence of any suspicious characters. Do I make myself plain?”
Bitters was breathing heavily through his nose by then. He barely managed to bleat, “Yes, sir. Quite so, sir.”
By that time the lady had her glasses down and was breathing hard, too. “Well, I never—” she gasped.
“Madame,” says I coldly, “you’d better.” That got me into the elevator and up to the suite. There I handed each of the bellhops a ten-dollar bill.
“Young men,” I told them severely, “I want service. Very good service. I’m willing to pay for what I get. There’s more where that came from. Pass the word along. Furthermore, I’ll pay twenty dollars for a complete description and report of anyone who tries to pump the staff about me. Do I make myself plain?”
They were pop-eyed by then. The nearest bellhop stuttered, “Are you expecting a sh-shot in the back, Mr. Harris?”
“Son,” I told him, “I’m expecting the manager just now. Get him up here.”
They did.
The manager was a pudgy, pink-faced man who looked as if he could suavely handle any situation which might arise about the hotel. But he entered the suite warily; and he grew fidgety, and his eyebrows went up when he heard my demands.
“I want four bodyguards while I’m here,” I told him coldly. “Big men. Competent men. The uglier their faces, the better. Put two of them outside my door immediately. And have the other two waiting in the lobby every time I come down. Day or night. On second thought, you may need more than four to keep that schedule.”
He moistened his lips.
“That, Mr. Harris, will run into quite a sum of money.”
“Did I ask you about money? I want the guards.”
That sank him. He looked at me askance. His thoughts registered on his face. He was wondering if I was a big-shot dodging trouble up north—and expecting a blow-up down here. Miami, of course, was the happy playground of the big money crooks from all over the north. But usually they buried their differences and lived in harmony while they took the sun and planned future business.
My request for guards was making the manager wonder if I wasn’t one of the boys playing foul ball on local hospitality. It flustered him. “I don’t understand—I’m afraid I don’t understand, Mr. Harris.”
“Who asked you to understand? Do I get the bodyguards?”
He bowed, stiffly. “We try to make our guests feel at home, Mr. Harris. Is there any other way we can be of service to you?”
I took out my new bill-fold. It was fat with Colonel Wedgewood’s money. Bug-eyed, the manager watched the wad of five-hundred-dollar bills I took out and leafed through.
“Let’s see—seventeen thousand. Will you put this in the safe for me? Leave the receipt at the desk.”
“Of course, of course—uh—seventeen thousand,” he mumbled, counting the bills. “You don’t wish to come down and sign for it, Mr. Harris?”
“If I did, I would,” I gave him. “But I don’t.”
He nodded and left in a daze.
The scene had left Bitters breathing heavily through his nose again.
“Unpack!” I snarled at him. “Don’t stand there looking as if you’re in a psychopathic ward! I didn’t hire you to look surprised at what I do.”
“Indeed so, sir,” Bitters answered hastily. “I understand you perfectly, sir. I mean—er—I’ll try to understand you perfectly. Unpack, sir—that was what you wished, wasn’t it?” Bitters babbled, looking like his dinner had come to life and snapped at him.
“It is,” says I, turning to the bedroom. “Order Scotch and soda.”
* * *
—
The manager may have left in a daze, but he gave service. By the time I was dressed for dinner, two big huskies were stationed outside my door. I stepped out, looked them over, and spoke to the one on my right, “What’s your name?”
“Joe Jacobs,” he rumbled, looking down his nose, past a face that would have made a mother weak. He had a cauliflower ear, a scar on his jaw, and the shoulders and neck of a wrestler.
“And you?” I asked the other man.
He looked down, too, blinked, and said, “Gus Wayland’s me name, Boss. What’re we supposed to do?” He had a flat nose, long arms, powerful hands, and the trusting brown eyes of a good-natured spaniel.
“All you’ve got to do, Gus,” I explained, “is keep close to me when I tell you to, and not let anyone touch me. You’re bodyguards. Get it? Bodyguards.”
“Har—it’s a pipe!” Gus chortled, with a confidential wink.
“Take that smirk off your map!” I ordered. “D’you think you’re starring in a two-ring circus?”
Gus straightened his face, snapped to attention—and when I went down to eat a few minutes later both of them trotted at my heels as solemn and formidable as two work elephants behind a fox terrier.
When we disgorged from the elevator into the lobby, two more huskies standing nearby took their cue and closed in also.
“Don’t crowd so much or I’ll suffocate!” I snarled from inside that towering wall of meat. “Deliver me to the dining room and wait at the door.”
The dining room was crowded. My ten-dollar tips had been like a shot of yeast to the hotel staff. The headwaiter led the charge. A “reserved” sign was whisked off a table. Waiters flocked around. The head-waiter himself took my order. Diners turned in their chairs and stared at the show.
I looked around for Trixie Meehan—and spotted her at a table across the room.
Little Trixie was dressed in white. She looked fragile, lovely, and very, very helpless. But she had protection. He was past forty, rather sallow, but well-turned out, jaunty and good-looking in a dinner jacket.
I knew the type. He was a wise boy—New York wise—self-assured, smug. But Trixie had him hooked. He was watching her as if fearful the luscious little tidbit might flit away.
Trixie saw me and ignored me. She was working on her escort as if she had suddenly discovered something devastating.
They left before I did. They were not in sight when I emerged from the dining room. So, with my squad of huskies I paraded the lobby, the patios, and out on the ocean terrace for the benefit of the crowd.
They ate it up. I ignored them, and in half an hour went up to the suite and telephoned Trixie’s room.
She was out then, and was still out the next three times I called her. Hours later the telephone beside my bed rang. Trixie cooed over the wire.
“Apsay, do you think you’re another Napoleon with t
hat army of flatfeet?”
“Does this look like Moscow?” I snarled back. “Who was that jumble-brain you speared for the dinner check?”
“And the evening, Useless,” says Trixie. “We’re at the Club Monte now. He dances divinely—and his taxi technique is devastating. I didn’t dream,” Trixie sighed, “that the job would turn out as amusing as this.”
“Get a load of cold turkey!” I snarled at her. “You aren’t here to take up taxi wrestling! Ditch that shined-up Romeo and do something about the Palmer woman’s lawyer! I told you what to do!”
“So thoughtful of you, too, Mike,” Trixie cooed. “I’ve been with him all evening. As a wealthy young widow, I’m a riot. Louie’s weakness is wealth and the widow’s mite.”
“So it’s Louie already?”
Trixie giggled. “What a man he turned out to be, Mike. What a man!”
“Never mind his score card. Will he talk?”
“Louie,” says Trixie cheerfully, “is a gentleman—except in the clinches. Besides, he’s smart. He asks questions, but he does hate to talk about his business. Give me time.”
“You’ll be dizzy by then, with a can tied to you. What about La Palmer?”
“Look for the prettiest one,” Trixie said sweetly. “She’s all of thirty-four—and admits to twenty-five, and gets away with it, if the beauty shop gossip is right. The cats usually are. Her hair is corn-colored and she’s about your height, Mike. Tonight she was wearing white and gold—and Louie is in her bad graces because of poor little me. Isn’t it thrilling?”
“Bring that powder-rubber home and knock off for the evening.”
That got me a giggle. “I’m only starting—and I hope you don’t like it,” Trixie gave me. “Au revoir, Napoleon. Don’t fall over your ego.” She hung up on me.
That was Trixie—in my hair already. I bawled out Bitters, had a long Scotch and soda, with visions of Trixie cuddling for that shyster, and finally got to sleep.
In the morning when I crawled out of bed, Bitters handed me a note in a hotel envelope. “This was in your box, sir.”
It was from Trixie, of course; three words: She swims early.
So I swam early, too.
CHAPTER III
Bait
The white beach sand sloped from the hotel terrace to the shallows where mile-long combers broke in creamy smothers. Gay beach umbrellas dotted the sand. An early crowd was out when I hit the ocean with my four husky guards.
We drew a quick gallery. Celebrities were a dime a dozen at the Miami-Plaza, but four ponderous bodyguards were a show. The crowd had nothing to do but look and talk—and they did.
On our second circuit of the beach I spotted the Palmer woman under an umbrella. Bradley was right. What a woman. In her scanty bathing suit she outclassed anything on the beach. She was small, slender, perfect. Her face had a sultry, vivid beauty that was worth money to any smart girl.
And down beside her on one knee, talking vehemently, was Layre, the lawyer. He paid no attention to me as I paraded by. But Lucille Palmer spared one flickering glance of appraisal. Nothing personal. She probably estimated every man.
By the time I turned back along the beach again, Layre was walking away and Lucille Palmer was heading toward the water, adjusting her green rubber cap. I dunked the body also.
The surf was brisk. She swam out and met the breakers shoulder high. I swam out beyond her at an angle, and drifted back in, laying a bearing on her green cap. In the white smother of a breaking wave I rolled in against her.
We both staggered, fighting for footing until the wave washed past. She was annoyed until she recognized me; and then her face changed.
“Excuse me,” I gasped. “I’m not a very g-good swimmer!” And I grabbed her hand and balanced myself.
She let me hold on. “You’re the man with the bodyguards,” she said, studying my face while we both braced for the next wave.
“Yes, ma’am.”
The wave hit us, threw us together, and when we were clear she asked, “Why do you need those four big bruisers to guard you? What are you—a—a what they call a big-shot?”
“Oh, dear me, mercy no!” I denied breathlessly. “My lawyers suggested the guards. Isn’t this great? Look out—here comes the next wave!”
We went together again. When we came out of the smother, Lucille gave me a sidewise look.
“No,” she said dryly, “you couldn’t be.”
“Couldn’t be what, ma’am?”
“A big-shot,” she said coldly, wading back to shallower water. And I’ll take my hand if you don’t mind. Just what are you, Mr. Harris?”
“D-do you know my name?”
Her laugh was throaty. It matched her sultry looks, as she said: “How could I help it? Everyone in the hotel is asking about you.”
“Heavens!” I gulped. “I didn’t mean to attract attention. I—I think I’d better wire my lawyers—er—Miss—”
That drew me another throaty laugh.
“I’m Lucille Palmer. You are a funny man. Tell me why your lawyers insist on those bodyguards?”
I sighed mournfully. “Too much money, I suppose. Kidnapers and all that sort of thing, you know. I’ve been miserable ever since I inherited the estate.”
“Estate?”
“Cousin Jeffry’s estate,” I sighed. “His health was perfect, too. If the train had been only two minutes later that last time he got drunk—”
“Tch, tch—” Lucille said sympathetically. “So Cousin Jeffry was killed in a train wreck?”
“Not exactly. I don’t think the train was wrecked. But if it had been a little late, Jeffry would have gotten over the grade crossing in time. He always was impetuous.”
“Impetuous,” said Lucille queerly. “It must have been a shock. And you’re unsteady now from those waves, aren’t you? Here, give me your hand. We’d better sit on the sand and rest a little.”
So we sat on the sand—and I told Lucille about the Bon Ton glove counter where I used to work, and the trials of having so much money now.
Lucille patted my hand sympathetically. “You don’t play enough, Michael. And if you wish, you may call me Lucille.”
“Lucille,” I sighed.
“Lawyers,” Lucille murmured dreamily, “have to earn their money by giving advice. But you don’t have to be silly enough to take it, Michael.”
“Would—would you take a drive with me, Lucille?”
“Of course I would, Michael. And we won’t need any bodyguards, will we?”
“Well—”
“No bodyguards,” said Lucille firmly. “I’m all the protection you need.”
* * *
—
Bitters was at the telephone when I entered the suite. He hung up hastily. I thought he looked guilty. But his voice was as lugubrious as ever.
“Can I mix you a drink, sir?”
“Who were you telephoning?”
“I thought you might need another bottle of Scotch, sir. I took the liberty of ordering it sent up.”
“Fair enough,” I said. “Go down and get me the papers.”
When Bitters was out of the way, I got the switchboard.
“This is 318,” I said. “Mr. Harris talking. The telephone was used here a few minutes ago. Who was called?”
“Just a moment, Mr. Harris. Outside, I think— Yes, the Atlantic Hotel. Do you wish the number?”
“Who was being called at the Atlantic Hotel?”
“I can’t tell you that, Mr. Harris.”
“Never mind the number.”
So Bitters had lied. Why? He’d been hired from a New York employment agency. References were in good order. He was the perfect gentleman’s gentleman—just what I needed for this act. But now—what about Bitte
rs?
When he returned with the papers, Bitters’s long solemn face was slightly disapproving—no different than it had been since we had arrived.
“Will there be anything else, sir?”
“Not now,” I said. “I’m going for a drive.”
Lucille and I, minus the bodyguards, drove behind a chauffeur in a sixteen-cylinder job I had rented. We came back with a date for dinner.
That afternoon, three bellhops collected their twenty-dollar bills. People had been asking questions about me—a Mrs. Nicolby, the current gossip—Louis Layre, the lawyer—and Lucille Palmer’s maid. A business woman was Lucille.
Bradley telephoned: “Colonel Wedgewood is demanding action, Mike. They’re crowding him for the money. Any luck?”
“Tell him to stall them. Rome wasn’t burned in a day.”
“Rome,” says Bradley, “never was burned up like Colonel Wedgewood is now over your expense account and the delay. For God’s sake, Mike, give me some action for his money!”
“Give him sweet hope,” I said. “And you haven’t seen an expense account yet.” I hung up before Bradley could erupt.
Lucille’s black lace frock that evening infuriated every other woman in the dining room. So Lucille felt good. Afterwards we went to the dog races out north of Miami, taking two of my guards, at my insistence.
With palms and pines flanking the grandstand, and the dogs chasing the mechanical rabbit around the brightly lighted arena, while the crowd yelled and rooted, I bet hard and heavy. And lost one—two—three.
“You’re reckless with your money,” Lucille chided.
Bradley would have groaned at my reply. “It’s nothing. I hardly know what to do with the stuff.”
I’d told Gus and Joe, my guards, to keep their seats. Lucille and I were edging back to our seats in the grandstand before the fifth race. Lucille’s arm, which I held, suddenly went tense. Her eyes, at the moment, were on the seats over to the left. Only one man was looking full at her.
The Big Book of Female Detectives Page 39