The major came around the table. He held himself like a football lineman, in a half crouch with his arms dangling.
“Stop it! Stop it!” Penn Essex was hammering the table.
O’Malley moved in front of the major, blocked his way. He hoped the major would get tough. For two days he had been wanting to hit him.
“Let him come,” said Boucher.
“No,” said Essex.
“He can’t accuse me of kidnaping Camelia,” said Boucher.
“He didn’t,” said Crane. “He said fifty thousand might be a help to you.”
“The implication was——”
“Hell,” said O’Malley. “Fifty thousand would be a help to anyone.” He had one elbow against Major Eastcomb’s chest.
“Let’s drop it,” said Tony Lamphier.
The major looked around O’Malley. “I’ll see you later, Boucher.”
“Why not now?” Boucher asked.
“Come on; let’s drop it,” said Lamphier.
Boucher no longer seemed afraid. He was angry. He acted as though he could take care of himself. Crane wondered if what he had been afraid of was the revelation that he was in need of money.
“I’ll see you later, Boucher,” the major repeated. He stopped pressing against O’Malley.
“I wish you would both forget it,” said Essex.
“You can’t forget it when a man hits you,” said the major. He fingered his jaw.
Craig, the butler, came into the dining room. He had the Miami News in his hand. “The reporters outside would like to ask you about this,” he said. He handed the News to Essex.
Essex examined the paper, said, “Tell them I’ll be out in a minute, Craig.” He gave the News to Crane, pointed a finger at a classified advertisement in the personal column.
It read:
Money is ready. Please contact. ESSEX
“So you did decide to pay the ransom,” Crane said, passing the paper to O’Malley.
Essex said, “We put ads in all the Miami papers.”
“It’s going to be interesting when The Eye contacts you,” Crane said. “I’ve never yet heard of a foolproof way of receiving a ransom. Are you going to let the police in on it?”
“I don’t know,” said Essex.
“Certainly we are.” Major Eastcomb was pouring himself a large drink of whisky. “Do you think we’d take a chance of your bungling this too?”
Crane ignored him. “What are you going to tell the reporters?” he asked Essex.
“That I’m ready to pay the ransom.”
“I think it would be a good idea to say you intend to keep any messages received from the kidnaper secret until Camelia is returned.”
“Yes, I guess it would.”
O’Malley said, “I’d tell ’em the police aren’t going to be called in, even if it isn’t true.”
“Sort of lull The Eye’s suspicions,” said Lamphier.
“He’s too smart for that,” said Crane. “But it can’t hurt to try.”
Essex said, “Maybe we really should keep the police out.”
“I won’t authorize the use of the money unless the police have full knowledge,” said Major Eastcomb.
“I guess the police are in, then,” said Crane.
O’Malley said, “I think they’ll be reasonable. In New York when the Frachetti boy was snatched they didn’t even try to trail the guy who took out the ransom.”
“I’ll speak to the district attorney,” said the major. “He’ll see the police don’t jeopardize Camelia’s safety.”
Essex said, “We can probably arrange to have them notified the instant the ransom is paid.”
“We better hold off until Camelia is safe,” said Tony Lamphier.
“We better hold off until we get an idea how The Eye wants the ransom paid,” said Crane.
“I’ll see the reporters,” Essex said.
“Let’s join the ladies,” suggested Boucher.
Chairs, feet scraped the red tile floor. A servingman, Carlos, peeped in at them through the swinging door to the butler’s pantry. Their movement toward the door made cigarette smoke swirl over their heads. O’Malley waited for Crane.
“I thought we were going to have a free-for-all,” he said.
“The major’s certainly out for trouble.”
“He’s eager t’put the snatching on someone.”
“Damn eager.”
“I’d like to slug him once.”
“You might as well,” Crane said. “Pretty nearly everyone has.”
They walked toward the patio and O’Malley asked, “What’s on the program?”
“We got to find Buster Brown.” Crane told O’Malley about Essex’ and Miss Day’s bedrooms and how he had seen Brown with a bottle of red ink. “We have to find out what he was doing with it.”
“Questioning him ought to be fun,” O’Malley said.
Over the patio, in a navy-blue sky, hung a three-quarter moon. The milky light outlined shapes, made everything appear black and white, as in a photographic negative. The wind was sweet and lazy; it sighed through the palms and spread the odors of night-blooming moonflowers and jasmine.
Crane pulled a metal chair over to Imago Paraguay. “May I?” he asked.
“Of course.”
He sat down beside her. “Where is your girl friend?”
“My girl friend?”
He offered her a cigarette. “Miss Langley.”
Her face was exquisite in the moonlight. It was as pale, as perfectly textured, as cold as marble. “Why do you think Miss La-angley is my girl friend?” In taking the cigarette her fingers brushed his.
He held a match in his cupped hands, leaned toward her. “It is fairly obvious there is an … attachment.” The flame showed her scarlet lips, the blue shadows under her eyes, the hollows in her cheeks.
She steadied his hands with hers, lighted the cigarette. She leaned back, took the cigarette between her fingers. He blew out the match and her face was once more marble. There was an odor of sandalwood in his nostrils.
Her voice was feline. “You base your conclusion on two days observation, Mr Cra-ane?” She was angry, but he couldn’t tell how angry.
The moonlight was cream colored on the beach, chromium bright on the crests of breaking waves. The surf made a gentle whoosh at intervals, like a big animal exhaling. The murmur of other voices filled the patio.
“Someone else spoke to me of it,” he said.
“Miss Day?”
He was silent.
Her voice was low, passionate; she no longer drawled. “Do you think, because I do not have the large breasts, the elegant buttocks, of that woman, I must not be interested in men?”
“I don’t know.”
Smoke spewed from her mouth. “There is no connection between la-arge breasts and an interest in the opposite sex.”
“There is for me,” said Crane.
“You do not understand what I am——”
“Yes, I do.” Crane dropped his cigarette to the stone flagging of the patio, crushed it under his foot. “I am sorry I mentioned this. It is very ungentlemanly of me to discuss your friendship for Miss Langley.”
Her voice was hard. “It is her friendship, not mine.”
“Yes?”
“I am not fond of my own sex.”
“No?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “It does not worry me, what you think.” The tempo of her words had slowed. “I have other things to worry me.”
“You mean the check?”
“No.” Her voice sank to a whisper. “Someone threatens me.”
“Who?”
“I think it best not to tell you.”
“Is it Di Gregario?”
“I will not tell you.”
“What has he been up to?” Crane was interested. “He certainly seemed scared of you this morning.”
“I have not told you anything, Mr Cra-ane.” There was a faint tinge of amusement in her voice. “I may later this e
vening, but now …”
“I don’t understand,” said Crane.
“You cannot.” She dropped her cigarette in front of him. “Please step on that.” When she stood up he was surprised, as usual, at her height. “I will do this with you,” she said. “I will, if I do not say otherwise, give you some very valuable information tonight.”
He stood up, crushed the cigarette under his foot. “When?”
“At two o’clock, say?”
“All right. But where?”
For an instant her hand touched his, pressed it slightly. “You may come to my room.” She detached her hand, moved away, leaving a faint odor of sandalwood.
Chapter XI
O’MALLEY MET CRANE upstairs, in the hall outside Brown’s room. It was quite warm and O’Malley wiped sweat off his forehead with a silk handkerchief.
“I could use some of that Dutch beer,” he said.
“We need something stronger than that,” said Crane. His knuckles hesitated three inches from the wood. “Where do you want the body sent?”
“Nuts.” O’Malley took his revolver from his underarm holster, tucked it in his belt. “I’ll bump him if he gets tough.”
Crane knocked, his knuckles making a hollow sound on the door. “Yeah?” said a hoarse voice.
Crane shoved open the door.
Chester Brown was reading on his bed. A lamp on a table beside his head outlined a zigzag scar on his right cheek, illuminated clasped hands tattooed on his chest. He wore purple underwear shorts. His legs were hairy.
“Wacha want?” he asked Crane.
“We want to ask a couple of questions.”
He didn’t seem particularly surprised to see them. His muscles bunched, unbunched as he got to a sitting position. “You’re the dicks, ain’t you?” His right ear looked as though it had been badly frozen.
“Yeah,” Crane said.
O’Malley closed the door.
“Well, I got nothing to tell you.”
“Wait until we ask you somethin’,” O’Malley said.
“I’ll talk when I please.” He swung his feet to the floor. “I got a belly full of cops.”
“Sit down,” said O’Malley.
Brown sank back on the bed, his eyes on O’Malley’s gun.
“We aren’t cops,” Crane said. “We’re working for Mr Essex.” He sat in a straight chair. “If you want to keep working for him you’ll try to help us.”
“If you want to keep healthy you’ll try,” said O’Malley.
Sullenly Brown said, “What d’you want to know?”
Crane sat on the edge of the chair so he could move quickly. “What do you know about The Eye?”
Brown scowled at O’Malley. “Put that rod down and I’ll show you what I know.”
“You’ll show us like you did Barney Bennett,” said O’Malley.
“That kike!” said Brown.
“He’s champion, that kike is.”
“He never stopped me.”
“He cut you to bits.”
“He never stopped me. He had ten years on me too.”
“He’d done the same ten years ago,” O’Malley said. “You could never get close enough to hit a guy with a left hand like that.”
“Ask Barney if I couldn’t.”
“Listen,” said Crane. “We came to ask a few questions.”
“Tell that Mick to put away his rod,” Brown said.
“Put it away, O’Malley.”
O’Malley put the 38 in his coat pocket.
“Look,” said Crane. “We want some help.”
“You pick a hell of a way to ask for it.”
“We’re afraid you’ll cool us.”
“I may.”
O’Malley said, “No, you won’t.”
“Be reasonable,” Crane said. “We’re trying to get Miss Essex back. You’re in favor of that, aren’t you?”
“She’s a nice broad.”
“It’s swell of you to say so,” O’Malley said.
Brown half rose from the bed.
“Sit down,” said Crane. “I got a notion to throw you in the can.”
“Tell this Mick to lay off,” said Brown.
O’Malley asked, “What have you got on him, Bill?”
“The notes. He’s the only person who could have stuck the note on Essex’ bed in the Waldorf.”
“Oh yeah?” said Brown.
“Yeah.”
Brown leaned forward on the bed. “How about that second note?” His hands were on his knees. “I was in Richmond when that came.”
“You got a pal,” said O’Malley.
“Probably that cute little French maid.” Crane nodded as though everything was becoming clear to him. “That Celeste.”
“The hell!” Scar tissue on Brown’s knuckles was the color of pork rind. “Just because I date a broad don’t mean we’re planning a kidnaping.”
“It doesn’t look good.”
Brown’s scowl was replaced by alarm. “You guys don’t really think I been writing those notes?”
“We don’t know,” said O’Malley.
“Your attitude,” said Crane. “You don’t seem to want to co-operate.”
“You got me all wrong. It’s the way you come busting in here … a guy’ll stand just so much.”
“Stumble-bums!” said O’Malley. “Tough until you’re in a corner.”
Brown’s eyes glowed, but he took it. These guys wouldn’t be so wise, he thought, unless they figured they had something on him. He’d better go easy: he might be in a jam.
“I’ll help,” he said, “but I won’t take no guff.”
“Well, what about those notes?” asked Crane.
“I don’t know nothing.”
“Somebody in the house has been passing them out. You can’t even guess who it is?”
Brown shook his head. He said he didn’t know anybody in the house very well beside Celeste. He’d worked for Essex less than a year and he hadn’t paid much attention to the regular servants. Besides, he and Craig didn’t get along. He thought Craig was making plenty on the household accounts, taking a commission from the stores and stealing supplies, liquor and linen.
“Those two spicks, Carlos and Pedro, are on the take too,” he said.
“Do you think they’d have the connections to kidnap Miss Essex?” Crane said.
“How do you know what connections a spick has?”
“Did you ever hear any of them mention Tortoni?”
“I thought of that myself,” said Brown. “But these are Spanish spicks. Tortoni is—was an Italian spick. The breeds don’t mix.”
“How long has Craig carried a rod?”
“Just since the notes began to come.” Brown scratched his armpit. “Essex had us all get guns.”
“Who’s the guy who watched us arrive?”
“That was me.”
“And the other guy—the one on the balcony.?”
“Me too.”
“Hell, it looked like a different guy.”
“No, that was me.” Brown grinned. “Essex wanted to be sure you weren’t pretendin’ to be detectives.”
“He isn’t sure yet,” said O’Malley.
“And you’ve got no idea how the notes have been arriving?” Crane asked Brown.
“I could make a guess.”
“Go ahead.”
“It’s somebody who was around each time Essex got a note.”
“Who?”
“Well, it’s a broad.”
“Miss Day?”
“Yeah, if that’s her real name.”
“But Essex says nobody was with him at the Waldorf,” said O’Malley.
“She had a room there.”
“So.” Crane nibbled at a fingernail. “Have you got anything on her?”
“No. Just that she’s handy to deliver notes.”
“Deliver? You don’t think she’s writing them?”
Brown slapped a mosquito. “She couldn’t frame a kidnaping by herself.” The
dead mosquito left a blob of bright blood on his arm.
“I guess you’re right.” Crane settled back in his chair. “If she’s in it, she’s working for someone.”
“What about the red ink?” O’Malley asked.
“The hell!” Brown got to his feet. “That reminds me of something.”
He was a well-built, stocky man. His legs were short for great speed, but they were strong. He had been a hooker, able to hit from any angle, and his shoulders were wadded with muscles. From his breastbone to the top button on his drawers ran a strip of black hair, as thick as a wolf’s pelt. Layers of fat rounded his belly.
“This morning the major asked me for some red ink,” he said.
A current of air fluttered the curtain on the west window.
Crane asked, “Did you get him some?”
“There was a bottle in Essex’ study.”
O’Malley asked, “He tell you what he needed it for?”
Brown shook his head.
“Has he still got the bottle?”
“Naw. I put it back in Essex’ desk just before dinner.”
“Looks like we got a date with the major,” O’Malley said.
Crane nodded. “Got any other ideas?” he asked Brown.
Brown had none.
“Well, thanks a lot,” said Crane, rising. “This may come to something.”
“I hope it does. I’m sorry for that broad,” Brown said.
“I guess it isn’t so swell to be kidnaped.”
“Not for a broad,” Brown said.
O’Malley followed Crane out the door. Brown scowled through the opening at him. “I’d like to get you in an alley, Mick,” he said.
O’Malley said, “I never go in alleys.”
On their way downstairs they both had to dry their faces with handkerchiefs. The air was sultry; it felt as though it was going to storm.
“We’re still alive,” said O’Malley.
“But now I got to interview the major,” said Crane. “And he doesn’t like me.”
“He didn’t like that telegram you sent him.”
“There’s more than that. I think he’s trying to marry Camelia for her dough.”
“Everybody is,” said O’Malley.
“Except Tony Lamphier.”
O’Malley transferred his revolver back to the holster. “How’d you happen to know Brown was going with Celeste?”
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