Shayne tugged at his earlobe. A small fact was going around in his mind. Corelli’s clothes—Italian made and smelling of salt water. Shayne stood up.
“I’ve got an idea, see you later,” he said.
Shayne drove from the station back across the small bridge to Westhampton Beach and Finch’s house. The two men who had tried to kill him still did not fit. They had looked Italian. Shayne decided to set a trap, with himself as bait.
Stealthily, Shayne left the house. Stealthily, but so that everyone in the house—and they were all there now—would see him. He carried a shovel and a large metal box. He walked quickly to the high sand dunes above the sea.
The surf was calm and breaking lazily on the beach. Far out three boats, trawlers of good size, were fishing. Two of them were obviously bunker boats fishing for menhaden. The third was of a type Shayne did not recognize.
Smiling grimly to himself, Shayne picked a spot that was hidden from the house but was in partial view from the sea. He began to dig. He dug for a half an hour, slowly. Then he buried the metal box and returned to the house. He made sure anyone could see that he no longer had the tin box.
In the house Shayne played casino with Alistair Finch until just before dark. He had seated himself so that he could watch the spot where he had buried the metal box. He was sure nothing would happen until dark, but he sat at the window just to be sure. Nothing happened. Finch went to dress for dinner. The others were all in their rooms.
Shayne went to his room, got his pistol, put it into his pocket, and left the big house. He crouched low behind the dunes and hurried to where he had buried the box. Behind a dune, from where he could observe both the spot where he had buried the box, and the sea and beach, Shayne lay down and held his pistol in his hand.
Far out Shayne could see the important something he had been counting on. The moon was just rising, and the detective could make out the vague shadow of a distant boat. One boat now. It was very late for a fishing boat to be at work.
8.
They seemed to rise up like ancient monsters from the sea. Shayne had been staring at the empty ocean, the lazily breaking waves, and then they rose from nowhere. They came straight out of the sea.
There were two of them. In the pale moonlight they were indistinct. They could have been real monsters. But actually they were two men with heavy air-tanks on their backs, rubber suits, fins on their feet, and what looked like spear guns in their hands.
Shayne held his breath and waited. The two men took off their fins, looked carefully around, and started up the beach toward where Shayne had buried the metal box. Both of them had flipped down their rubber head hoods. They walked steadily but carefully to the dunes and stood just above where Shayne had buried the box.
One of the men was carrying a canvas-wrapped case. He put it down and opened it. He took a shovel from the case and began to dig. The other man said something to him. The first man grunted in answer. They were speaking Italian.
Shayne stood up and leveled his pistol. “Sorry gents, the money’s not there,” he said.
The two men leaped back as if shot. One of them—he was small, and thin, and wore a dark mustache—reached for a pocket that bulged in his rubber suit.
“Hold it!” Shayne snapped.
The small thin man stopped moving. Shayne walked down with his pistol covering both men.
“I thought you’d be watching me,” he said, grinning. “Did my digging interest you?”
The thin man with the mustache swore in Italian. The other, who was short and chunky, said nothing.
“Try English,” Shayne said. “You Partisans speak English, I’m sure.”
The thin one shrugged. “Of course we speak English.”
“Bet you were surprised to see me alive,” Shayne said. “Such careless work. I hope you did better in the war.”
“We were in a hurry,” the chunky man said. “I told you to kill him before you threw him into the water, Marcello.”
“Shut your mouth!” Marcello said.
Shayne smiled. “Attempted murder is a bad charge in this country. You want to tell me about it?”
Marcello hesitated. Then the Italian shrugged an eloquent Latin shrug.
“We made a mistake. The car, you understand? It was his car, that Major Finch. We thought you were him.”
“Try again,” Shayne said.
“It is true,” Marcello said. “We think you are Major Finch, the swine, and then when we hit you and see you are not, we think you are in it with him anyway.”
“You think he killed Corelli?” Shayne asked.
“Who else?” Marcello said. “Twice the swine kill Pietro!”
Shayne waved his pistol. “Okay, now sit down and tell me the whole story. All of it.”
The two Italians looked at each other. They both shrugged and sat down. Shayne sat on the sand facing them. Sitting down they were all out of sight from the house and the beach. But Shayne kept his ears cocked for any sound while the thin Italian with the mustache talked.
“That Major Finch he betrayed Corelli,” Marcello said. “The money it disappear, you know? We tell the Americans about it, but they say there is no proof. What can we do? We are poor Italians, and Major Finch is important man. So we try to forget. For nineteen years we try. And that is a very long time.
“Then, one day maybe two, three months ago, Corelli he come back. He was lucky. The Germans who captured him turned him over to regular German Army unit. Those Germans do not know he is great Partisan leader. They put him with many other poor Italians and send him to labor camp in the east of Germany. At end of war Russians liberate him. Corelli identifies himself. They do not treat him well until they check and find he is Pietro Corelli, a great Communist Partisan.
“When they find out who he is, they send him to Russia. He stay there nineteen years. All the time he is asking about Major Finch, Captain Maltz, and that Sergeant Olney. He is sure that one of them betrayed him. He waits. He thinks about all the money. At last he decides to leave Russia. Corelli says Russia is not so good now. They don’t like him any more in Russia because he was a Stalin man.
“He gets away and he comes home. He finds three of us from the Partisan unit. He has plenty money, but he tells us this one who betrayed him must have all the money. If it is Major Finch, we get even more because he is so rich now. Corelli he says he will give us our share.
“So he buys a boat, good fishing boat, and we come over here. Corelli is afraid Italians will put him in jail as traitor or foreign Communist if he tells who he is before he gets the money. With the money he can prove he was betrayed, and, besides, money will buy anything.
“We sail over here. Corelli goes to see Captain Maltz and Sergeant Olney. Then he goes there to the big house to talk to Major Finch. Then he is killed. We know it must be Major Finch. Corelli must have found out and the Major killed him.
“The other two, they did not kill him. That is how we know it is the Major.”
“Then why did you kill Maltz and Olney?” Shayne said.
“Olney? Maltz? No. It is true we try to kill the major, because we were angry. But when we see we have not killed the major, we think. Why kill him, let us get the money first. We see you bury something. We think it is the money.”
Shayne studied the two men. The thin one with the mustache seemed nervous, but Shayne felt he was telling the truth. The chunky one had not spoken. They did not seem like the kind who would kill without an excellent reason, such as revenge or cash. Still, revenge could be the motive, a vendetta for Corelli.
“You two can be jailed for a long time,” Shayne said to the Italians. “Now, maybe I’ll forget about the attempt on me, and about the illegal entry into the United States. I said maybe. If you boys come clean all the way.”
Marcello, the spokesman, shrugged. “What you want to know?”
“You said Corelli didn’t know for sure which of the three Americans betrayed him,” Shayne said. “What made him think he was betrayed at all, and why
only those three?”
Marcello nodded. “All right, I tell you. We were a unit, yes? These Americans they are with us. They have much money for us. This Major Finch he is in charge. One day Corelli he come to us, he say the major wants us to attack a German barrack. Twelve of us! We are to attack a whole barrack, and kill all the Germans.
“Corelli he says the American major is crazy. The job is a suicide, no? We do not like it. Corelli says we cannot say no, because the American major says if we don’t attack we don’t get money. We got to have money to pay for food, to help our wives, to help the poor.
“Corelli says the job is so bad he thinks maybe the American major is trying to get him killed or captured. He says if anything strange happens to him when we attack the barrack, we should tell everyone what we know about the American major.
“Two days before we are supposed to attack we are all scared. I never see us so scared. Then, two days before, Corelli he is out on a routine job. He visit the village for wine. Corelli goes. I go. We are on the way back. Corelli is behind. Then we see the Major Finch and Captain Maltz and the Sergeant Olney.
“They are across the valley, maybe two hundred yards away. They wave. Corelli he goes to see. He gets maybe one hundred yards and the Germans are waiting; I run. I get away. Later the Major, the Captain, and the Sergeant come back. Corelli was captured they tell us. Two days later we all hear. Corelli is dead, shot.
“I tell Americans one of those three men, maybe all three, betray Corelli, set trap. Nineteen years we wait. Corelli comes back, and now he is dead again.”
Shayne could see the whole picture. An isolated unit behind enemy lines. Italians and Americans in uneasy alliance. The fear and need of the moment. And someone had ordered a suicide mission? Why?
Olney had said the mission was a suicide job. Finch had said the same. Now the three Italians. Only their stories did not agree. Finch and Olney said the attack on the barrack had been Corelli’s idea. The Italians said it was an American idea. Someone was lying.
“Tell me about Steiner?” Shayne said.
The thin Italian said, “Steiner? Who is he?”
“You never heard of Steiner?”
The thin man shrugged. “No, I never hear.”
The chunky Italian said, “I no hear.”
Shayne pulled his earlobe thoughtfully. They both seemed to be telling the truth.
Shayne heard a faint noise behind him. He whirled, and climbed swiftly to the top of the dune. A hundred yards away in the dark he thought he saw the shadow of a man moving. Then the shadow was gone. It had looked very much like the same man who had killed Olney. Just below where he stood on the dune, Shayne saw depressions in the sand.
Someone had been listening. Someone who had crawled up in total silence. Shayne motioned to the Italians to walk ahead of him. He marched the Italians to the house. He led them into the hall and called Masters. While he was waiting for Masters, Finch came into the hall.
“Marcello! Candio!” Finch cried. “What the hell…”
“The two men you didn’t know who jumped me,” Shayne said.
The thin Italian, Marcello, shouted, “Betrayer! Traitor!”
The chunky Italian spat on the thick carpet of the hall. Finch sat down hard in a chair.
“Get them out of here!” Finch said.
“In a minute,” Shayne said. “They bother you?”
“Get them away from me, Mike!” Finch shouted. “You hear me?”
Finch was almost hysterical. Shayne watched the industrialist. The man was far too affected by men who had simply accused him of something he said he hadn’t done. Finch appeared to be on the verge of attacking the two men.
“Take it easy, Ally,” Shayne said.
“You’re fired, Mike!” Finch cried. “Do you understand? I hired you, and I can fire you. I don’t want you around, I—” The man was raving hysterically now.
Shayne reached out and slapped Finch. Finch stopped and stared. Then the industrialist began to cry. Finch was still crying in the hallway when Masters arrived. The State Police captain looked at Finch.
“Two guests for your calaboose,” Shayne said.
“What charge?” Masters wanted to know.
Shayne looked at the two men. “Illegal entry,” he said. “I want them around a few days, okay?”
Masters nodded. “I can hold them a few days, I suppose. No other charge?”
“Not right now,” Shayne said.
The thin Italian, Marcello, nodded to Shayne. There was a certain gratitude in the eyes of the Italian. The charge could have been much worse.
Masters took the two men away. Finch had vanished somewhere. Shayne rubbed his big jaw for a moment. It was beginning to make some sense, but he had two more things to find out.
9.
After the two Italians had gone, the rest of the night was uneventful. Finch did not appear again. Macadam got quietly drunk by himself on the enormous terrace. The Italian trouble seemed to have disturbed Macadam, and Shayne kept his eye on the yachtsman.
Myrna Mix got noisily drunk, as usual. Helpman took a long walk alone. Berger and Laura Finch went off together for a drive. Sally Helpman did not leave the house. She sat and watched television all night.
Shayne went to his room, and with a cognac in his hand sat in the oversized armchair cogitating on his analysis of the case. The case boiled down to two questions: Had Finch betrayed Corelli and then killed him when he showed up again? If Finch had not killed Corelli, who else knew Corelli? They all could have known Corelli.
One thing was certain. Whoever had killed Corelli had thought that Corelli was dead. Therefore it had to be someone who had known Corelli in Italy and had also known Corelli had been captured and, presumably, shot.
The next morning, Shayne puzzled over this all the way into New York along the sunny Southern State Parkway. He did not strike bad traffic until he reached Cross Island Parkway and turned north. He went into Manhattan through the Queens-Midtown Tunnel. He drove straight to Finch’s lawyer.
Alistair Finch’s lawyer was an old man. His name was Whitestone Gibbs, and he had been the lawyer for the Finch family for fifty years. The old man was brusque.
“All right, Shayne, I’ve heard about you. I don’t like petty legal peeping toms.”
“And I don’t like shysters,” Shayne said. The redhead eased his big frame into a deep leather chair in Gibbs’ fine office. Shayne smiled. “But then, you’re no more a shyster than I am a peeping tom, are you? Why trade insults for no reason at all?”
Gibbs glared. Then the white-haired old man laughed.
“All right, Shayne. We’ll play it clean.” The old man sat down. “What dirt do you want to know about my client?”
“Does he have any dirt to find?”
“Who doesn’t,” Gibbs said evenly. “I advised him against hiring you, you know, when he asked my advice.”
“He’s smarter than I thought,” Shayne said, “to ask you.”
“I’ll flatter any man who flatters me,” Gibbs said. “What is it, his women? Alistair has three passions, Shayne, but murder isn’t one of them. He is not a violent man despite his war record. As a matter of fact, I imagine he got more medals for less killing of the enemy than any man in history. His forte was clean, safe work. He has courage.”
“What are his passions?” Shayne said.
“Blonde women too young for him, plenty of money and his social position that money helps him keep, and the reputation for being a patriotic industrial genius,” Gibbs said.
“You’ve given him three good reasons for killing Corelli,” Shayne said. “That is, if he betrayed Pietro Corelli. I am presuming Finch told you the whole story!”
“Most of it,” the lawyer said. “And what I told you about Finch would also do for his partner, Kurt Berger, just as well. Berger likes money, he likes position, he likes being the industrial tycoon, and he likes young and blonde women. In fact, he likes the same young blonde woman, I’m very much afraid
.”
“But he didn’t know, or betray, Corelli,” Shayne said. “If Finch betrayed Corelli over there in Italy, he could be made to smell very bad.”
Gibbs agreed. “I doubt if they could touch him, but the Government would put a lot of pressure to get him out of his own company. That I will concede. A traitor makes a bad patriotic industrialist.”
“What about the money? If Finch took the money, Italy and the United States might wonder about his whole operation.”
Gibbs looked at a point above Shayne’s head. “You know, Shayne, I’ve always wondered how Kurt Berger got so high in Alistair’s company so quickly. Berger’s a sly one. There he was, a supposedly unimportant captain in a defeated army, tainted with Nazism, and within two years after the war he owned half of a large international company.”
“Money?” Shayne said.
“Where would Berger get money? On the other hand, how did Berger happen to contact Alistair and go so far so quickly?”
“You’re suggesting that Berger somehow got the Partisan money, found out about Finch at the same time, and looked him up? Is that it?”
“It is a bit of a coincidence that Berger was a Nazi officer, and Alistair operated within the German lines,” Gibbs said. He looked at Shayne. “I suppose you’ve found out that Bonn is interested in Berger’s career?”
“You don’t miss much,” Shayne said.
“No, not much,” Gibbs said. “I believe that Berger stole something from someone back in those days.”
“And you know if Finch needed money before the war,” Shayne said.
The white-haired old man frowned. His lined and weather-beaten face became severe. Shayne watched the old man struggling with himself over something.
“Did he need money?” Shayne said.
Gibbs stared straight ahead. “I’ve been the Finch lawyer a long time, Shayne. I can’t answer that.”
“You mean you won’t? I think the police could find out very quickly,” Shayne said.
“I suppose they could,” Gibbs said. “Let me say this much, Shayne. Old man Finch, Alistair’s father, was not a good businessman. He was a financial wizard, but he was careless about money. It seems a contradiction, but it isn’t. The old man loved finance, the manipulation of money and goods. But he did not care about personal money.”
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