“You passed out,” said O’Malley.
“While I was driving? How did you stop the car?”
“I don’t know myself,” said O’Malley. “You slumped over and there I was at the wheel.”
“And the sedan?”
“It kept on,” said O’Malley.
The thought of the Bugatti’s swerve made Crane’s stomach turn over. “How fast were we going?” he asked.
“A hundred and five,” said O’Malley.
“That fast?” Crane found he couldn’t swallow. “I need a drink.”
“There’s some port in the dashboard compartment,” said Essex. “I’m afraid it’s California port, though.”
“Any port in a storm,” said Crane.
Chapter VI
SUNSHINE AS LIQUID, as thick, as golden as pancake syrup, laved the bed, warmed his face. Through the french windows came the soft froufrou of the surf, like a woman moving about in a satin gown; the whisper of wind in the palms; the buzz of insects. The air was sticky hot. He hid his face under a pillow.
“Go away,” he muttered. “I am unwell.”
O’Malley shook him again. “Come on, dope,” he said; “it’s almost ten.”
Crane opened one eye, peeked out from under the pillow. He saw O’Malley was dressed in a freshly pressed tan gabardine suit. He closed the eye.
“The cops are here,” said O’Malley. “They’ll be wanting to see you.”
“Hold the bed still,” said Crane, “and I’ll see if I can sit up.”
He sat up, pressing the sides of his head with his palms.
“Try this.” O’Malley thrust out a glass half filled with a milky liquid. “A hair of the Saint Bernard that bit you.”
“Oh no. I’ll never drink anything again. What is it?”
“Pernod.”
“I can’t feel any worse.” Crane took the glass, gulped the contents, fell back on the bed.
His pallor alarmed O’Malley. “You gonna be sick?”
“I don’t know.”
He didn’t, either. There was considerable agitation, almost an earthquake, in his stomach, and he closed his eyes and waited. Presently he felt better.
“Ha!” said O’Malley.
Crane sat up, pushed the Nile-green sheet from him. “I may live,” he said, “but I’ll never be a well man again.”
“They found the sedan at a place called Matecumbe,” said O’Malley. “There was blood on the back seat.”
‘“Sleep no more!’” said Crane. “O’Malley does murder sleep!”
“They figure they took her on a boat,” said O’Malley. “The sedan was right by the water. The whole state’s looking for her—police, militia, Coast Guard, everything. Biggest search in history.”
“‘Innocent sleep,’” said Crane, “‘sleep that knits up the ravell’d sleave of care.’”
“Doc Williams telephoned too.”
Crane was massaging his sore jaw. “‘The death of each day’s life——’”
“He said the count didn’t get in until six this morning.”
“Huh?” Crane’s eyes focussed on O’Malley. “Not until six?”
“And the three torpedoes with him have disappeared.”
“That’s very interesting.” Crane swung his feet over the side of the bed. “How’s Essex?”
“He’s all right, I guess. Oh yeah, he got another note.”
“From Old Bright Eye?”
“Yeah, it was pinned to his pillow. He found it when he woke up. He gave it to the cops, but I made a copy of it. Here.”
Crane took the piece of paper. It read:
ESSEX:
If you want your sister back alive get ready to pay the fifty thousand … in small bills … I will let you know when and how.
THE EYE
Crane gave the note back to O’Malley. “That’s not as pretty as the one I got,” he said, taking a folded piece of paper from under the pillow. “Would you care to see it?”
This note read:
FLATFOOT:
The alligators in the swamp are hungry for your flesh … and they shall have it … I rarely warn twice … Did you enjoy your winnings … ha, ha, ha!
THE EYE
Crane held out his foot in the beam of light from the window “O’Malley, would you call that a flat foot?”
O’Malley asked, “What’s he mean about your winnings, ha, ha, ha?”
“He got my wallet.” Crane straightened his leg. “I really think I have a nice arch.”
“He got all nine grand?” O’Malley sounded as though he were about to weep.
“No, Uncle Willy was too smart for that,” said Crane. “Uncle Willy left about seven hundred dollars in his wallet and hid the rest.”
“Where?” asked O’Malley. Crane pointed and O’Malley said, “Well, for God’s sake!”
Mixed with a crumpled Miami Herald, some torn brown wrapping paper, a piece of string, a black silk sock with a hole in the foot and a shirt cardboard, all in a green metal wastebasket, were nine one-thousand-dollar bills.
“You see, money means nothing to me,” said Crane and then added hurriedly, “Don’t you touch those bills.”
O’Malley collected them, however, and put them on the dresser. “What are you going to do?” he asked.
“If I don’t die I’m going swimming.”
“No, I mean about the girl.”
Crane swung his feet under the bed. “I think we ought to talk to Tortoni and to the count. I’d like to find out if either one knows a gent with no lobe to his ear.”
“That was the guy who grabbed Camelia?”
“Yeah. I’ll bet he’s got something to do with Tortoni.”
“Tortoni is the guy behind all this,” O’Malley said. “I’d bet on that.”
“Not with me. Though I can’t see him writing notes signed ‘The Eye.’”
“Maybe he’s got a Poison Pen planted in the house.”
“Maybe. But let the cops work on that. Asking questions tires me.”
“Don’t forget he’s got seven hundred of yours.”
“He probably needs it to buy red ink.”
Crane went in the bathroom and put on his swimming trunks. He brushed his teeth with some difficulty, finding the blow had made it impossible for him to open his mouth more than a few inches, and drank a glass of water. He felt pretty good.
When he came out O’Malley was staring at the ceiling. “What’s the matter?” he asked him.
“Those places in the ceiling … what are they for?”
Crane looked at the steel grilles in the four corners of the room. They were all about a foot square. “Ventilation,” he said. “I think I heard a fan going in the attic last night.”
“What good does a fan do up there?”
“It draws out the warm air in the house and lets cool air in the windows.” He scowled at O’Malley. “Got any more of that licorice water?”
“You have breakfast first,” said O’Malley.
“Maybe we get no breakfast. I remember the major being a little peeved with me last night.”
“How about the major?”
“That’s right. Where was he when the trouble began?”
“The major told Tony Lamphier they slugged him too.”
“I wonder.”
“Lamphier says the major told him he was out cold all the time we were in front of the joint.”
“I like Lamphier,” Crane said.
“Yeah, he’s all right. He’s certainly sunk about that girl.”
“I got an idea he sort of liked her.”
“Too bad a gal like that has to go for a phony spig.”
Crane put on his bathrobe and started for the door. He said, “What she needs is a nice steady fellow like me.” He went down to the beach.
The water was such a brilliant blue it hurt his eyes. It was warm and remarkably calm and he waded out until he was no longer able to walk. With a long sigh he turned over on his back and allowed himself to float. T
he sky was also very blue.
He wondered what it was like to be a woman and held by kidnapers. He often wondered what it was like to be a woman, but never before in connection with kidnaping. He supposed it was pretty bad. In the first place, when you were kidnaped, man or woman, you were always in doubt whether your captors would ultimately kill you or release you. But with a woman there was another consideration. With a pretty girl like Camelia Essex, especially, there was another consideration.
It was funny people never spoke about this. It was like solo transoceanic flyers. You never heard how they went to the bathroom. It was just something you never spoke about. And so was being raped by kidnapers. What was standard practice? He was a detective, but he didn’t know. How the hell could you know? A girl wouldn’t say: Why, yes, thank you, I was raped. He didn’t think the average kidnaper was above a little rape.
This flight into conjecture so agitated him that he failed to see an approaching whitecap. It tumbled over his face and, spluttering, he swam toward shore. Ordinarily he didn’t worry much about a case he was on, but he was really disturbed about Camelia Essex. He hoped Count di Gregario had her.
On the shore, by his bathrobe, O’Malley and Essex were talking. Essex spoke about the two notes. He looked very white and haggard. “The fellow must have an accomplice in the house,” he said.
“There’s no doubt of it,” said Crane. “Your guess, though, is as good as mine.”
“The cops are going through our rooms,” said O’Malley.
Crane was alarmed. “They’ll get the nine thou!”
“I got it,” said O’Malley.
“That’s just about as bad.” He put on his candy striped robe. “Is it all right if we have breakfast?” he asked Essex.
“Why not?”
“The major …”
“I’ve talked with him,” said Essex. His eyes were angry. “You’re working for the estate, not for him. He didn’t hire you and he can’t dismiss you.”
“That’s fine. I am a trifle hungry.”
“I told him there’s no reason why you should have helped him against the count. He admitted he started the fight.”
“That’s fine.”
“I’m not going to see you go just when we need you most.” He walked beside Crane toward the patio. “Who do you think’s got her?”
“The Eye,” Crane said.
“No, I mean …”
“I don’t know as I even want to know,” said Crane.
“What do you mean?” asked Essex.
“It may be dangerous to find out—for her.” Crane sat at the breakfast table, told the servingman, “Coffee, toast and orange juice.”
Essex stood beside him. “I don’t understand.”
“Make that tomato juice,” Crane called after the servingman. He faced Essex. “You can bet The Eye isn’t holding her in person. If he’s caught his men may let her go or …”
He drew his finger across his throat.
Essex sank into a chair, leaned his forehead against his palms. “This is terrible.”
Two men, walking heavily on the cement edge of the swimming pool, approached the table. Both were bulky, muscular, red faced; both wore dark fedoras; both looked as though they’d slept in their dark suits. Crane knew they were policemen. One of them had a badly set broken nose.
“You’re Crane, ain’t you?” asked the man with the crooked nose. He was older than his companion.
Crane nodded.
“I’m Captain Enright, out of the bureau in Miami. This is Slocum, of the sheriff’s office.”
“This is O’Malley …” Crane began.
“We know O’Malley,” said Slocum. Black stubble covered his bulldog jaw. “We think you’re a hell of a fine pair of amateur detectives.”
“Now, Slocum.” Captain Enright’s deep voice was soothing. “What’s happened has——”
“Let ’em snatch a girl out from under your eyes … it’s a blot on the whole profession.…”
“They did all they could, Mr Slocum,” said Essex. “If I hadn’t keeled over we would have caught them easily. It’s all my fault.”
The servingman was pouring the coffee. “Two lumps and no cream,” Crane told him.
Captain Enright said, “We’re not blaming you, Mr Essex.”
Slocum had moved around so he could look at Crane’s face. His black eyes were sharp. “It’s these imitation dicks …” he commenced.
“Have some coffee?” inquired Crane.
“Now, look here,” said Slocum.
“Listen, you gorilla,” said Crane angrily, “the taxpayers of Dade County are paying you, not us, to protect them. Why don’t you get mad at yourself?”
O’Malley got into a position to hit Slocum if necessary, but Captain Enright, authority in his voice, said, “Don’t make a fool of yourself, Slocum.”
As Slocum mastered his anger O’Malley said, “I told you we’d talk with you, but if you’re going to bawl us——”
Crane picked up a piece of toast, held it in front of his mouth and said, “I won’t talk to them.”
“Now, we’re sorry, Mr Crane,” said Captain Enright. His theory was that it didn’t cost a policeman anything to be polite. Besides, you never knew who you were talking to. The mayor had a lot of funny friends. “We’re naturally upset about this thing.”
“All right,” said Crane, “I’ll talk to you. But not”—he pointed the piece of toast at Slocum—“with this orangoutang.”
O’Malley got set again, but Slocum accepted the insult. The captain’s failure to back him up frightened him. Maybe this mug with the smooth face was somebody. With the sheriff kind of mad at him over the load of smuggled bacardi he’d picked up that he shouldn’t have, he’d better watch his step. He scowled at Crane, but he didn’t say anything.
Crane ate the piece of toast. “What do you want to know?”
The captain, it seemed, wanted to know everything. He wanted to know exactly what happened at the Blue Castle before and during the kidnaping. He seemed to know everything already, but Crane patiently went over the story. He said nothing, however, of the man with no lobe on his ear. He was just describing the chase when Miss Day sat down at the table. She glanced at the servingman.
“Coffee,” she said, “and plenty of it.”
The yellow sunlight turned to henna in her hair, faintly outlined her body through the Chinese-red pajamas. Her face was tan; her lips scarlet; her eyes shaded with blue mascara. Her pointed breasts pressed against the tight red silk of her pajama coat.
“Go ahead, boys,” she said, perfectly composed under their admiring scrutiny. “Don’t mind me. I’ll just sit here with my headache.”
“Well,” said Crane, “Mr Essex fainted and we damned near turned over. When we got things straightened out the sedan was out of sight.”
“I dunno what we’d have done if we did catch ’em,” said O’Malley. “They probably had a Tommy gun or two.”
“I don’t want to seem critical,” said Captain Enright, “but I think you should have called the police. We could’ve bottled them up when they came through town.”
“We didn’t know what way they were going.” Crane smiled at Miss Day’s sour expression. “Besides, we knew Boucher would call you.”
Slocum said, “In my opinion this Eye is a crank.” He seemed to be speaking to Miss Day.
The servingman was pouring Miss Day’s coffee. Crane leaned toward her. “Jitters?”
Miss Day replied, “And how!”
“Crank or not,” said Captain Enright, “you gotta admit he’s got Miss Essex.”
“Me too,” said Crane to Miss Day. “Do you know what?”
O’Malley asked the captain, “How about Tortoni?”
Miss Day lifted the spoon with her little finger crooked. “No, what?”
“We talked with him,” said Slocum. “He’s O.K. He wouldn’t pull a thing like that in his own place.”
Crane said, “They say brandy is awfully good in
coffee.”
Miss Day smiled. “You got brains, big boy.” She crooked a finger at the waiter. “A bottle of your best brandy.”
“That’s what I thought,” said O’Malley, “but you never can tell.”
“Oh, we’ll keep an eye on Tortoni,” Captain Enright said.
“How about that count?” asked Miss Day. “How about him?”
“I believe you’ve put your finger on it, miss,” said the captain gallantly. “Yes sir, I believe you have.”
“We’re tryin’ to find him,” said Slocum.
The servingman came with the bottle of brandy. Crane took it and poured a quantity in Miss Day’s coffee. Then he put some in his empty cup and poured coffee over it. He put in a lump of sugar. He stirred it with his spoon. He took a long drink. It was fine. He grinned at Miss Day. She smiled at him.
The others discussed the notes. They had them all, including the two received by Crane, in front of them on the breakfast table. Captain Enright maintained The Eye had planned to kidnap Miss Essex from the start. He said that was why the notes threatened Essex: to throw him off his guard. O’Malley wanted to know why The Eye hadn’t gone ahead, then, and kidnaped the girl without warning anybody.
“In my opinion,” said Slocum, “this Eye is a crank.”
Captain Enright said he didn’t think so. He said, leaning over the table and speaking with an air of mystery, that he thought The Eye was right here in the house. Somebody you’d never suspect.
“You make me feel like there was a cold foot in the middle of my back,” Miss Day assured him, pretending to shudder.
Crane poured brandy in her coffee. He poured some in his cup, but did not add any coffee.
Slocum asserted that this was just the point about a crank. A crank was almost always somebody you’d never suspect. He’d had a lot of experience with cranks and he guessed he knew. Take the one he’d caught at the Miami-Biltmore. A religious crank. Guests had complained that somebody was writing on blotters and sticking notes under their doors. He looked around and one day noticed people were coming from the bar with pieces of paper stuck on their backs. He went into the bar and grabbed an old gent that looked like a banker at the door. He was the guy, all right. He’d had his pockets stuffed full of stickers and on them was printed JESUS SAVES.
The Dead Don’t Care Page 7