“How much was in it?” O’Malley asked.
“Eighteen grand.” Crane filled two glasses with cracked ice. “He’s been putting away nearly a grand a year for the last twenty years.” He poured the mixture of lime juice and rum over the cracked ice.
O’Malley accepted the filled glass. “I’m going to be a butler.”
“Me too,” said Crane.
They were drinking their second when Essex and three men came out of the house. “Here they are,” Essex said.
Crane recognized one of the men as Captain Enright of the Miami police. He remembered the captain’s broken nose, his dirty shirt. The other men were County Attorney Osborn and Mr Wilson, representing the Department of Justice.
“You’re the private detectives?” asked Wilson. He was neatly dressed in an oxford-gray suit and his black hair was slick. He looked like a recent graduate of a law school.
“Yes,” Crane said.
“You haven’t done so well.”
“No.”
“Why haven’t you offered to help check the servants?”
“We’re working on our own lines.”
“You’re drinking on them, anyway.”
District Attorney Osborn looked as though he would have liked to look like Abraham Lincoln. He was tall; he had a big head, a large nose; his black hair was uncombed. He asked, “How do you think the ransom will be collected?” One of his teeth was discolored.
“O’Malley and I decided the man would have to use a boat or a plane.”
Osborn nodded. “Those seem the only possibilities.” He pulled a chair to the table, sat down. “It’s curious he would want the money delivered in broad daylight … at ten o’clock in the morning.”
Essex was looking under the table. Finally he found the electric buzzer, pushed it with his toe.
“It fits with an airplane,” Crane said. “It would be much easier to land by day.”
Osborn said, “The pilot could make sure there were no policemen hiding by the bridge too.”
Pedro, wearing a white coat, approached the table. Essex told him to bring glasses and scotch.
Twitching slightly, Wilson asked, “What course of action would you recommend, Mr Crane?” His face was small and pointed.
Crane shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know. It would be pretty dangerous to catch the person picking up the ransom—at least for Miss Essex.”
Osborn’s deep voice echoed in the patio. “We don’t plan to apprehend this man, to act until Miss Essex has been released.” He sounded as though he were beginning a political speech.
“The idea is to follow him,” said Wilson.
Crane said, “That will be hard.”
“He’s bound to know,” said O’Malley.
“Not if we are careful,” Wilson said.
He told them of the police plan, and Crane, listening, admitted it was a clever one. It was based on the use of an airplane and two-way radio communication between it and the ground. A very fast plane would be hovering high over Miami around ten o’clock, Wilson said, and its radio would be in contact with a portable police set on the Homestead water tower.
Crane eyed O’Malley. Both remembered the tower they had seen from the bridge.
Watchers on the tower, Wilson went on, would inform the plane the moment the ransom was picked up. It could then, still flying at a very great height, race toward the bridge and pick up the kidnaper’s plane or boat. “It will take only six minutes for it to get here,” he explained.
Osborn said, “The kidnaper would hardly have time to get the money and lift his plane off the water.”
“What if he uses a car?” O’Malley asked.
“There’ll be radio-equipped cars all along the road,” Osborn said.
Pedro appeared with a tray. He poured four scotches from a pinch bottle, added soda, ice. He started to fix small bacardis for Crane and O’Malley, but Crane said, “Never mind.” He went away.
“What if the man has a small boat, goes up the canal and loses himself in the underbrush?” Crane asked.
“We’ve allowed for that,” Osborn said. “We’ll have men hidden up the canal.”
Crane divided the remainder of the rum equally between O’Malley and himself. “If The Eye comes from that way won’t the men alarm him?” he asked.
“They’ll be quite a way from the bridge,” said Wilson. “And they’ll be well hidden.”
“How will they follow him?”
“He can’t make any more speed over the Everglades than they can.”
“What if he circles around to the road and uses a car?”
“They can notify one of our control cars and we’ll pick him up.”
Crane was drinking the bacardi straight. “It sounds all right.” The liquor was smooth. “The only thing is to keep him from spotting you.”
“We can do it,” Osborn said.
“What’ll you do when the guy goes to cover?” O’Malley asked.
Captain Enright said, “Pinch him as soon as Miss Essex is safe.”
Wilson was looking at Crane. “Have you any suggestions?”
“I think it’s risky for Camelia,” Crane said.
“Mr Essex is willing to trust us,” Wilson said.
“Are you?” Crane asked.
“Yes, I think so.” Essex’ eyes went from Crane to Wilson. “Mr Wilson has had more experience and …”
“It’s this way,” Wilson said. “If they were going to harm Miss Essex they would have done it long ago. The only safe victim of a kidnaping is a dead one.”
Essex paled. “You must face the facts, Mr Essex,” Osborn said.
“If she is dead,” Wilson went on, “we want to bring them to justice. The best chance is to follow the man who collects the ransom.”
He and Osborn had evidently used this argument before. Osborn supplemented, “If they haven’t killed her they aren’t intending to do so.”
“So we aren’t really risking her life,” Wilson said.
Crane shrugged his shoulders. If Essex believed this there was nothing he could do. “Who’s Froggy?” he asked.
Essex said, “A teddy bear Camelia had. I spilled green paint on it and we named it Froggy. It was a secret name.”
“Then she probably is alive,” said O’Malley.
“Sure,” said Wilson.
Crane asked, “Anybody else know about Froggy?”
“Aunt Sybil—Miss Langley.”
Crane said, “Ha!”
“Why do the directions say to wrap the money in oil-skin?” O’Malley asked.
“I imagine he’s afraid the money will get wet under the bridge,” Wilson said.
“Have you got a cardboard box?” Crane asked Essex.
“I’ve just the thing. One that had been filled with prunes.”
“Fifty thousand is a lot of money,” O’Malley said.
“A king’s ransom,” Wilson said.
“A queen’s ransom,” Crane said.
Each time he lifted his glass Captain Enright cocked his little finger. “It will fit in the box all right.”
Crane looked at Wilson. “You’ve taken the numbers of the bills?”
“Of course.”
Osborn finished his drink, stood up. “It’s time we were going.”
Crane asked, “Would you mind if O’Malley and I watched with you from the water tower?”
“You can if there’s room.”
Wilson was still seated. “One more thing. Crane, what do you know about Miss Paraguay?” His voice was sharp.
Crane was frightened, so he took his time answering. Did someone know he had been in Imago’s room? Did the police know?
“Very little,” he said.
“Did you know she was the—aah—friend of Tortoni?”
“Not until this afternoon.”
“And you’ve no idea why she killed herself?”
“None.”
O’Malley’s eyes were amused; Wilson’s angry.
Osborn said,
“Do you think she knew the kidnaper?”
“She did if Tortoni had a hand in it.”
“That’s obvious,” said Wilson.
“Sure.”
Captain Enright moved uneasily. “We better get going if we want to get things arranged for tomorrow.”
Wilson got to his feet. “All right.” His eyes were on Crane’s face. “See you tomorrow.”
“Fine,” said Crane.
A nurse with a soap-and-water-bright face met Crane at the door to the room and said, “You must be careful. She’s had a terrible shock.”
“I know,” he said.
Rustling, the nurse stepped aside. “Only for a minute,” she said. She smelled of laundry soap.
Drawn curtains made the room dim. Like a corpse, face to the ceiling, great violet eyes open, Miss Langley lay in the double bed. “Who is it?” she whispered. Tiny wrinkles circled her neck.
“William Crane.”
“Oh yes.”
“Could you help me?”
Her skin was so tight over her nose the yellow bone showed through. “How?” she asked. White powder was thick on her face, on her neck. “How?” she asked. “How?”
“I believe Imago was murdered.”
One of the drawn curtains, sucked inward by a current of air, made a rasping noise.
“You are right.”
“How do you know?”
Her thin lips trembled. “I know.” The violet eyes, followed by no motion of the head, turned upon his face.
“But how?”
The eyelids fluttered, closed, and when they opened again the violet eyes were staring at the ceiling. “How does one know anything?” On either side of her mouth the skin hung in pouches.
“Oh,” he said.
“I see death everywhere,” she whispered. “Death … everywhere.”
“But who killed Imago?”
She stared at him, her eyes like a sleepwalker’s. “I am afraid … afraid.” Her voice grated on his ears. “I see death … Imago … Camelia …”
“Yes, Miss Langley, but do you remember Froggy?”
“Froggy? … Froggy? … No.” Her body shook. “I see death. Who will be next?” Her voice was louder, tremulous. “Who?”
The nurse touched his arm. “You are exciting her.”
“This awful house.” Miss Langley tried to sit up. “This awful house.”
“Please go,” said the nurse.
“It is not finished.” Miss Langley’s arm was dry, frail, withered. “There will be more.”
Crane went out of the room, carefully closing the door behind him. He took out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead.
Essex came out to the swimming pool, collapsed in a chair. “If only Camelia …” His voice was weary.
“It should be over tomorrow,” Crane said.
“How do you mean?” Essex looked up. “Have you …?”
“No. I mean that you’ll pay the money and Camelia will be freed.”
“Oh.”
Pedro came up to the table. “A telephone call for Mr Crane or Mr O’Malley.”
Crane said, “You get it, Tom.”
For a moment after O’Malley left they sat in silence. The air was soft and humid and perfumed; it was languorous. It made their eyelids heavy, their movements sluggish, their voices drowsy. It was all Crane could do to reach for his drink.
Finally, finding himself half asleep, he asked, “How did Imago Paraguay happen to be in this house, Mr Essex?”
“A friend of mine, Charley Beauchamp, knew her in Paris.” Essex poured himself a whisky. “He gave her a letter to me. That was in New York. When I found she was going to be in Miami in March I invited her to stay out here.”
“Did you know she was a close friend of Tortoni?”
“I didn’t even know they knew each other.”
Crane yawned. “Do you think Tortoni had her come here to watch you?”
“No. Why should he?”
“The debt.”
“He’d given up all idea of trying to collect that.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m positive. Look.” Essex removed his wallet from his hip pocket, drew out three pieces of paper. “Tortoni gave me my I O Us over two weeks ago.”
Crane examined the papers. One of the I O Us was for six thousand dollars. The others were for nine thousand each. They were all signed Penn Essex.
“Then you weren’t lying when you told me you didn’t have any large debts,” he said.
“Of course not. Why would I lie to you? You’re on my side.”
“I did think it was queer.” Crane gave him back the notes. “Why didn’t you tell Major Eastcomb you had them?”
“I didn’t think it was any of his business.”
“I guess it wasn’t.”
Lights had been turned on around the swimming pool and Crane saw coming toward them a man in blue overalls. The man was old; his face was brown and wrinkled; he had a drooping straw mustache; he walked with a shuffling gait. He was carrying a woman’s bag, made of dark blue beads.
He halted three yards from them and said tentatively, “Mr Essex?”
“What is it, Fritz?”
The man held out the bag. “This I find in the rosebushes.” The movement made the beads glitter.
Essex got up and took the bag. “It looks like one of Imago’s.” He emptied the contents on the table. There was a red lacquer cigarette case, a metal lipstick, possibly platinum, and a red compact. On a fine lace handkerchief was a smear of lipstick. “Nothing to tell whose it is, though.”
“Give it to me,” Crane said. “I’ll tell.”
A heavy odor of sandal wood clung to the bag.
“It is Imago’s,” Crane said.
Essex turned toward the man. “Where did you find it, Fritz?”
“Here by the patio, Mr Essex.”
Crane said, “Could you show us where?”
“Yah. I show you.”
They were just starting to leave the table when O’Malley came out of the house. “Where’re you going?” he asked.
“Just over here.” Crane waited for him. “Who was it?”
“Doc Williams. He said the police have picked up Di Gregario.”
“Ha!” Crane moved his head vertically. “That’s why the G-man wasn’t interested in what I knew about him.”
“Doc says he’ll wait and see what they do with him.”
“Good.”
They went across the patio. The man pointed out a clump of rosebushes. “Here.”
Crane looked up at the white wall of the house. “That’s my room up there, isn’t it, O’Malley?”
“Yeah.”
Essex asked, “Do you think someone threw it down?”
Crane was examining the bushes. “It’s a hell of a funny place to drop a purse,” he said.
The man said to Essex, “It is good I find it. That Garcia, he give it to a girl.”
“Thank you for bringing it in, Fritz,” Essex said.
“That Garcia,” said the man, leaving them.
Essex asked, “But why would anyone want Imago’s bag?”
Crane started toward the house. “She must have had the nine thousand she won at Tortoni’s in it.”
“That’s right.” Essex’ voice had new vitality. “The police didn’t find the money.”
“They’re not mentioning it if they did,” Crane said.
“Do you think someone found her dead in her room, took the money and tossed the purse away?”
“It’s possible.”
They walked through the french windows into the living room. “Who’s Garcia?” O’Malley asked.
“The assistant gardener,” Essex said. “Fritz doesn’t like him.”
Crane glanced at his watch. “I think I’ll take a nap before dinner.”
Essex said, “I wish I could sleep.”
“Didn’t you sleep last night?”
“I took some dope, but I felt worse when I woke up than I
did before.”
“It’s a terrible strain.”
“It wouldn’t be so bad if we could do something.”
“You’ll be able to do something tomorrow,” Crane said.
“Yes. Tomorrow,” said Essex.
Crane led the way up to his room. It was cooler than the patio and a current of air was coming in through the window. A pumpkin-colored moon, almost full, was rising above the cloud banks on the horizon. From it to the house, over water the color and texture of navy-blue silk, extended a tongue of pale gold, contrasting with the silver shimmer of breakers and the salt-white beach. It was bright enough outside to see the palms.
O’Malley went into the bathroom and washed. Crane took off his shoes and coat, unfastened his collar, lay down on his bed. O’Malley came out of the bathroom. “Where’re you going?” Crane asked.
“I thought I’d look up Miss Day.”
Crane yawned, sighed comfortably, let his head sink into the pillow, closed his eyes. He wondered if Imago’s purse had been planted under his window. It looked as though it were an effort to implicate him in her death. A sudden thought occurred to him. He slid off the bed, seized his coat; then sighed with relief. His nine thousand, at least, was safe. He took the money out of the coat and put it in his trousers. What he didn’t understand was how anybody could have gotten into Imago’s room to steal the money. But then he didn’t understand how The Eye had left the two notes he and O’Malley had received. Or how he had taken his wallet with the hundred-dollar bills in it. He got back on the bed and closed his eyes. It was a hell of a case.
He was wakened by someone knocking at his door. He said, “Come in.”
It was Pedro, the servingman. He had a metal coat hanger from which hung blue paper. On the paper was printed: Rite-Way Cleaners, Miami. “This is for you, Mr Crane,” Pedro said.
“The hell.” Crane sat up. “I didn’t send anything to the cleaners.”
“The driver said it went this morning, marked urgent,” Pedro said. “It had your name on it.”
“What is it?”
Pedro lifted the blue paper.
“I guess they are mine,” said Crane. He took the hanger from the servingman. “Thanks.”
The Dead Don’t Care Page 16