The clock read four forty-five. He’d better be going. On his way to the door he paused beside Imago Paraguay’s body. Her face was strange under the soft light. It was like the face of an Asiatic doll: fragile, serene and impassive; cold and inhuman. Over her brow the skin was blue-white; on her cheeks and neck it was pink: a result of the poison. Her mouth was a crushed-raspberry red; lilac mascara shadowed her eyes; the brows were charcoal curves. The soft rise of her breasts was just revealed by the sheet. He resisted an impulse to close her eyes.
He let himself out the door and hurried down the corridor to his room. He felt lewd without his trousers. He went into his room and took off his clothes and got into bed without bothering to put on pajamas. He set the alarm of the traveling clock in the pigskin case for quarter to nine, took a drink of whisky in the glass and turned off the light. He exhaled deeply, wearily.
It had been a swell night.
Chapter XIV
O’MALLEY SHOOK HIM, said, “Wake up, Bill.” Excitement made his voice high. “Wake up. Things have happened.”
No matter where he moved the sun was in Crane’s eyes, like the beam of a searchlight. It made his eyeballs hurt. His mouth tasted as though he had held threepenny nails in it all night. His head ached. He did not feel at all well.
“Come on, dope.” O’Malley pulled him to a sitting position. “I’m going to have to throw water on you.”
“I am not well,” Crane said.
“Are you awake?”. O’Malley asked.
“Yes, but I am not well.”
“Imago Paraguay is dead,” O’Malley said.
Crane sank back on the pillow.
“You hear me?” O’Malley asked. “Imago Paraguay is——
“I hear you.” Crane closed his eyes, buried his face in the pillow.
There was a pause. Then O’Malley said, “You knew it already.”
Crane asked, “What time is it?”
O’Malley glanced at his wrist watch. “Eight-twenty.” He sat on the edge of the bed. “How’d you find out she was dead?”
“She was dead last night.”
“You didn’t talk with her?”
“Yes, I talked with her.”
“You didn’t knock her off?”
Crane opened one eye. “Do they say she was knocked off?” The light was paler now; a cloud had passed in front of the sun.
“No. The cops think she took poison.”
“Who found her?”
“Miss Langley … early this morning.”
“Ha!” said Crane.
O’Malley looked at him suspiciously. “What do you mean, ‘ha’?”
“Just ha,” Crane said.
“Did she tell you anything?”
“No. She changed her mind.”
O’Malley lighted a cigarette, gave it to Crane. “It took you a hell of a time to learn nothing from her.” He raised one knee, clasped it with his hands. “You weren’t in bed when I came in.”
“How do you know I wasn’t in bed?”
“You weren’t in this bed.”
“True.”
Last night’s storm had roused the surf. It wasn’t heavy, but it was coming in fast, making a hissing noise. In the sun, just outside the french window, a butterfly examined the yellow interior of a trumpet vine blossom.
“Were you there when she killed herself?” O’Malley asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Did she die of disappointment?”
“What do you mean?”
O’Malley said, “I’d like to ask you just one question.”
“Go ahead.”
O’Malley asked it.
“A gentleman never tells,” said Crane.
While Crane was taking a bath and shaving O’Malley described the discovery of the body. Miss Langley’s screams had brought everybody to the room, he said, and the major had called the police. So far the theory was suicide, although a careful search had been made of the room. No note had been found.
Cautiously Crane drew his razor over his bruised cheekbone. “They didn’t find a pair of pants in the room, did they?”
“No. Why?”
“I just wondered.” He sighed. “This is the damnedest case.”
There was another piece of news, O’Malley continued: from Di Gregario. Eddie Burns had called to say the count had given them the slip during the night, but they had learned he was in Key West. Williams was now flying there on the Pan American plane to pick him up.
“Those guys are swell shadows,” said Crane.
“It’s tough to hang onto somebody day and night,” O’Malley said.
“I suppose so.” Crane let hot water run over a washcloth. “Anyway, I’ll have to go to Key West too.”
“To see Di Gregario?”
Crane pressed the dripping cloth against his face. “Yeah.”
“You think he and Imago are connected in some way?”
“It’s possible. Maybe they put on all that cat-and-dog stuff for our benefit.”
“I get the idea.” O’Malley was leaning against the bathroom door. “She put the finger on Camelia Essex for Di Gregario, then killed herself in remorse.”
“She was killed.”
The bathroom door swung back and O’Malley nearly lost his balance. “How do you figure that?”
Crane pretended to be very mysterious. He put his finger to his lips. “It came as a revelation.”
As he put on the coat to his double-breasted linen suit O’Malley asked, “When do we start?”
“You aren’t going.” Crane adjusted his brown tie. “I wouldn’t think of tearing you away from Miss Day.”
“Miss Day won’t give a damn today,” said O’Malley.
“Why not?”
“She’s going to be a cripple, unless she’s tougher than I think.” O’Malley smiled reminiscently. “After we had a swim and polished off the whisky I took her up to her room. She was locked out, so we went in by way of Essex’ rooms. In that sort of dressing room, just past the bathroom, she fell over a chair and damn near broke her neck.”
“Where was Essex when this was happening?”
“Down in the library, asleep.”
“Well, you can’t go anyway.” Crane got his Panama from the closet shelf. “I got a job for you in Miami.”
He told O’Malley that he wanted to know if Imago’s check for one thousand dollars had been found either in Tortoni’s bank or among his effects. “See if you can find out how well they knew each other,” he added.
“O.K.,” said O’Malley. “Now how about a spot of breakfast?”
“Oh, my God!” said Crane. “I’m never going to eat again.”
After an hour’s ride over turquoise water dotted with uninhabited gray-green keys, Key West appeared very large. The Sikorsky passed a beach with thatched roofed cabanas on it, a hotel with gardens and tennis courts, a crumbling red fort, and circled for a landing in calm water outside the entrance to the submarine basin. Deftly the pilot met the water in an easy glide, then gunned the amphibian to the landing dock, passing within a few yards of the fourteen passenger Miami-Key West seaplane. Two men in blue overalls caught ropes, eased the ship to the dock.
The pilot grinned at Crane. “Not a bad trip,” he said. He had blue eyes.
“It was fine,” Crane said.
Tony Lamphier stood up. “You’re sure you don’t mind my coming along?” he asked.
“No. I’m glad to have you.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Really.”
The pilot asked, “When will you be going back?”
“Not until after lunch.”
“O.K.”
They jumped to the wooden dock and climbed a flight of stairs to the pier. To their right, past a gray coast guard cutter and two neat white-and-mahogany cruisers, people were swimming. On the left, pulled up to a series of piers, were other boats, some of them quite large, and in the distance were the yellow walls of a hotel, half hidden by palm trees. The name of
the hotel appeared to be La Concha. There was an odor of fish about the pier.
Crane caught sight of Williams halfway down the dock. “This way,” he said to Tony Lamphier. He walked up to Williams. “Hi, Doc.”
Williams was carrying his green gabardine coat over his arm. His tan silk shirt, open at the collar, was damp with sweat. “Hi,” he said. He wiped his neck with a handkerchief. “This place is hot.” He told them the count was on a boat.
“Which boat?” Crane asked.
“That tub with the green paint on it.”
The boat was fat and grimy and there were uncoiled ropes on the deck. SYLVIA was printed in black letters on the bow. Forward two dark men in olive-brown pants lounged with cigarettes. From the copper-red funnel floated thin smoke which disappeared almost at once in the bright sunlight.
Followed by the others, Crane jumped to the deck. Their feet were noisy on the wood. One of the men came toward them.
“Who do you want?”
“Di Gregario,” said Crane.
The man was a Cuban and his bare feet were dirty. “There is no one of that name here.” He had a hammertoe on his left foot.
“I saw him come aboard,” said Williams.
“No, señor. There is no one of that name.”
“We’ll look around,” said Crane.
“What’s the matter, Frank?” The other Cuban was coming toward them. “What’s the matter?” He was stocky and there was a long white scar along his belly. It looked as though he had been gored by a bull.
The first Cuban said something in Spanish.
“No. No one here by that name,” said the stocky Cuban. “Now please go.”
“Where’s the captain?” asked Crane.
“You will please go,” said the stocky Cuban.
The other Cuban started to move away. Williams stepped in front of him. Under his coat he held a revolver. “Stay here, spig,” he said.
Both the Cubans were frightened at the sight of the revolver. They rolled their eyes and the stocky one asked, “What does this mean?”
“Keep ’em here, Doc,” said Crane. “We’ll go below.”
The main cabin stank of wine and garlic and sweat. At a round mahogany table in the center sat Di Gregario and an elderly man with white hair and a gray beard. They were looking at a map. In front of them was a wicker jug of Bacardi and two glasses. The portholes were draped with frayed red velvet.
Startled, Di Gregario pushed back his chair. “You!”
In the copper light from dim overhead bulbs the elderly man looked distinguished. His linen suit was well tailored; his beard had been trimmed and brushed; his eyes and arched nose were haughty. “What is this?” he asked.
“I came to ask Di Gregario where he spent last night,” said Crane.
“Who are you?”
“He is an American detective,” said Di Gregario. He made no attempt to move from his chair. “He believes I have kidnap Camelia Essex.”
“So.” The elderly man frowned. “That is not good.”
“He is also a friend of Imago Paraguay,” said Di Gregario.
Water, lapping against the bottom, sounded like someone pouring a drink. There was a noise of pounding in the engine room. Tony Lamphier, beside Crane, moved nervously.
At last the elderly man asked, “Why do you wish to know where Di Gregario was last night?”
“I’ll tell you after he answers,” said Crane.
Di Gregario leaned over the table. “Camelia has come back?”
“Listen,” said Crane. “If you don’t want to answer my question, just say so. Then I can take you over to the sheriff’s office.” He scowled at Di Gregario.
“You better talk here,” said Tony Lamphier.
The elderly man said, “Di Gregario was in Key West last night. He had a room adjoining mine at the Colonial Hotel.”
“Is that so?” Crane asked Di Gregario.
“Yes.”
“And you didn’t murder Imago Paraguay?”
Tony Lamphier gave a startled gasp.
“Imago Paraguay murdered?” Di Gregario straightened up in his chair, then relaxed. “You are joking me.”
“No.”
Di Gregario’s white teeth gleamed. “Then I am glad.”
The elderly man said, “She was an enemy to the Cuban people.”
“What rooms did you have at the hotel?” Crane asked.
“We have them yet.” Di Gregario tossed a key on the table. Crane picked it up. It was for room 410. “That is mine,” said Di Gregario.
“You were there all night?”
“We went to bed soon after one o’clock,” said the elderly man.
“I guess that lets you out.” Crane took his clenched hand from his coat pocket. “At least as far as Miss Paraguay’s concerned.”
“You still believe I kidnap Camelia?” Di Gregario asked.
“This boat would be a good place to hide her.”
The elderly man and Di Gregario looked at each other.
“In fact,” said Crane, “I’d like to look it over.”
Di Gregario and the elderly man exchanged glances again.
“I give you my word she is not aboard,” said the elderly man. “Is that not sufficient?”
“No,” said Crane.
Di Gregario spoke in Spanish. The elderly man replied. Then Di Gregario said, “We are going to trust you.”
“Good.”
“In this boat we have weapons.”
“Ah,” said Crane.
“We are planning to deliver them to a certain country. If the officials of the country learn of this it will become very difficult to do so.”
“We don’t care about gunrunning,” Crane said. “All we’re interested in is Camelia, aren’t we, Tony?”
“That’s all.”
Di Gregario said, “if we allow you to search the boat you will say nothing?”
“Not unless we find Camelia.”
“You will not find her.”
“Then we can look?”
The elderly man said, “Yes.”
“Good.” Crane spoke to Di Gregario. “Two of your men would like to make trouble on deck. Will you tell them it is all right?”
They blinked in the sunlight. There was a mixed smell of salt and fish and tar in the air. Doc Williams and the two Cubans were in the bow. The stocky Cuban’s forehead was bruised; blood had stained his cheek. Doc Williams grinned at them. “One of the spicks got kinda fresh,” he said.
Di Gregario spoke to the Cubans in Spanish. Sullenly they watched the three Americans go below again. “Cabrones Americanos!” said the stocky Cuban.
After talking to the clerk at the Colonial Hotel, which turned out to be the one with the yellow walls, they walked down Duval Street toward a place called Sloppy Joe’s. On their way they discussed Di Gregario’s alibi.
“He’s out,” Crane said.
“I’m afraid so,” Tony Lamphier agreed. “Both the girl clerk and the night bellboy were positive he was there.”
Williams said, “It’s funny they’d have a girl for a hotel clerk.”
Crane was admiring a cottage completely covered with bougainvillea blossoms the color of burgundy wine. “I don’t think he’d mix gunrunning and kidnaping,” he said. “And murder too.” Only the peak of the cottage’s roof was visible.
“Not a bad-looking girl, either,” Williams said. “What was her name?”
By another, larger house thousands of hibiscus flowers stuck out scarlet tongues at them.
“What makes you think Imago was murdered?” asked Lamphier.
“I got a hunch,” said Crane.
The street was massed with tropical blooms; the air was thick with tropical odors. Flowers in beds beside the wooden houses were insignificant beside the explosive colors of vines and trees. Magentas, ochers, creams, ultramarines, lemons, ecrus, coquelicots, hennas made a subtropical tartan of the city. The tints were dew fresh, bright.
Williams asked, “What was th
e name of the clerk in the hotel?”
“Miss Sharpley,” Crane said.
“Oh yeah.” Williams grinned. “I was thinking it ought to be Miss Shapely.”
They turned the corner toward the telegraph office and found Sloppy Joe’s. “Three bacardis,” said Crane to a gaunt, red-faced man back of the bar. The man said over his shoulder to a colored man in a white coat, “Three bacardis.” The colored man said, “Three bacardis.”
Three natives were talking over beer at one end of the bar. One of them was saying the tarpon had gone out to spawn. “That’s why there ain’t none in the channel,” he said.
The colored man poured the bacardis. Crane gave him a five-dollar bill and said, “Three more.”
“What’s on the program?” asked Williams.
“You’ll have to stay down.” Crane tasted his drink. “Make sure the count does sail tomorrow.” The drink tasted fine; it was smooth and tart.
“That’s O.K. by me,” Williams said.
“Is he really a count?” asked Lamphier.
“No.” Crane finished his drink. “I think he used his real name at the hotel: Paul Lopez.”
“What’ll I do if he does leave?” asked Williams.
“Give me a ring,” Crane said. He watched the colored man fill the glasses again. “Just keep them filled,” he told him.
The colored man looked surprised. “You mean, just keep on making them? Like I’m doing?”
“Exactly.”
The gaunt man said, “Make ’em up a batch, Skinner.”
“No,” said Crane. “Three at a time. They’re better fresh.”
Skinner began to squeeze limes.
The man who said the tarpon had gone out to spawn said, “I know I’m right. Captain Luther was out with a party the day afore yestiddy. He seen hundreds of ’em rollin’ … right in the Stream.”
“It’s too early for spawnin’,” said the second man.
The third man had a round face and spectacles. His face was red up to the point where his hat circled his forehead. “Captain Luther could a seen anythin’,” he said. “He was carryin’ a load.”
The Dead Don’t Care Page 14