The Dead Don’t Care

by Jonathan Latimer

  When the door closed he said, “Jesus W. Ker-riste!” He hung the trousers in the closet. He was utterly dumfounded. They were the dress trousers which had disappeared in Imago’s room.

  This was the Goddamnedest case!

  Chapter XVII

  9:40 A.M.

  THE BUGATTI’S ENGINE, throttled down, went chug-chug … chug-chug-chug. Blue vapor came out of the exhaust. The carburetor had a rich adjustment.

  Major Eastcomb opened the black valise. “Here.” Green bills, tied with rubber bands, were slick in the sunlight. He helped Essex wrap the money in yellow oilskin, put the package in the brown cardboard box. “Fifty thousand dollars.” There was a clean piece of adhesive tape on his nose.

  Wilson, the government agent, pulled his coat sleeve from his wrist. “You’ve got twenty minutes.” His sharp face was excited.

  Essex put the box beside him on the front seat. “I’ll drive slowly.”

  Even before ten the sun was hot. In the glare pebbles on the drive looked as though they had been chalked. From the fountain the two flamingos watched them.

  Miss Day, in flowered beach pajamas, was standing between Crane and O’Malley. Her hair was the deep color of honey which had been a long time in the comb. She said, “Take care of yourself, Penny.”

  Essex’ nervous foot pressed the Bugatti’s throttle, made the engine purr. “I’ll be all right.” His face was pale; his lips mauve. He looked frightened.

  Major Eastcomb took the valise into the house. An elbow on the tonneau, Wilson asked, “You’ll come to the watchtower as soon as you’ve left the money?”

  Essex nodded.

  Crane touched O’Malley’s arm. “Take the roadster and pick him up after he leaves the money.”

  Miss Day asked in alarm: “You don’t think they’d try to kidnap him, do you?”

  “You never can tell,” O’Malley said.

  “The Eye won’t try anything before he leaves the money,” Crane said. “The police would be alarmed if he didn’t show up at the bridge.” He smiled at Miss Day. “If anything does happen it will happen after he leaves the bridge.”

  “You certainly seem worried,” Miss Day said angrily.

  “It’s all in the day’s work.”

  The major came out of the house and went up to the car. He patted Essex’ shoulder. “Cheerio,” he said.

  Essex put the Bugatti in gear. Wilson took his elbow off the tonneau. He said, “Good luck.” The Bugatti sneaked away, sunlight making a nimbus on the black engine hood.

  “You’d think he was going on a transatlantic flight,” said O’Malley.

  9:56 A.M.

  From the observation balcony of the water tower Florida looked like one of those infrared photographs taken from a balloon. The tower was much higher than Crane had realized and he was still out of breath from climbing many steel ladders. He hung onto the rail and tried to see the West Coast. A faint blue haze prevented this, but he was able to see far into the Everglades, to distinguish cases of palms and pine trees and pools of brown water. In one place a brush fire was going, smudging a section of the horizon with smoke.

  Wilson pulled back his sleeve, looked at his watch. “Three more minutes,” he said.

  Toward the Atlantic, Crane could actually see the curve of the earth’s surface. He could see freighters plodding along the edge of the Gulf Stream, the closer ones completely visible and those further less and less visible until of one he could see only smoke and the tips of masts. Back of him was the smoke of Miami.

  “Two more minutes,” said Wilson.

  With Wilson on the balcony were Osborn, the county attorney, a dark, fat man from the sheriff’s office and the radio operator. All were near the portable set the man was using, all watched the bridge through binoculars. Crane moved up to the set.

  “Getting close to the deadline, Mark,” the radio operator was saying into the mouthpiece.

  Crane tried to see the airplane hovering over Miami but he couldn’t find it. There was a small bank of clouds toward Miami and he thought the plane was probably above them.

  “One more minute,” said Wilson.

  “I see him,” said Osborn.

  Crane lifted his binoculars to his eyes. They were a fancy pair and it was necessary to adjust each eye separately. He got the right eye immediately, but the left gave him a lot of trouble. When he finally did get it fixed Essex had reached the bridge. Parked in the center of the road, the Bugatti looked like a beetle on a gauze bandage.

  “Stand by, Mark,” the radio operator said.

  Essex climbed out of the car and walked to the canal bank. Crane could see the brown cardboard box under his right arm. He went down the bank sideways, using the edges of his shoes to check his descent, and disappeared under the bridge. He looked about the size of a toy soldier.

  “Right on the dot,” said Wilson.

  Essex reappeared and scrambled up the bank on hands and knees. He walked briskly to the Bugatti, got in, started toward the water tower. Crane figured he would make the eight miles in about ten minutes.

  “Are you standing by, Mark?” asked the radio operator. “O.K.,” he said.

  Wilson said, “Everybody keep their eyes peeled.”

  All of them leaned over the rail, binoculars to eyes.

  10:13 A.M.

  O’Malley at his heels, Essex stepped off the steel ladder to the balcony. “Anything happen?” he asked. He pulled a white handkerchief from his coat pocket, wiped his face.

  “No sign as yet,” said Wilson.

  Crane lowered his binoculars. “Want to take a look?” he said to Essex. The binoculars hurt his eyes anyway.

  “Thanks.”

  Crane asked O’Malley, “Anything funny on the way over here from the bridge?”

  “Not a thing.”

  “You didn’t see any mysterious cars or people?”

  “Not a thing.”

  The radio operator asked, “Still standing by, Mark?” Apparently Mark was, because the radio man didn’t say anything further.

  “It’s hot as hell up here,” said Crane.

  10:30 A.M.

  “Stand by, Mark,” said the radio operator.

  A vegetable truck was going down the road. It crept over the bridge and continued on south.

  “Another truck, Mark,” said the radio operator.

  “He’s certainly taking his time collecting the money,” said O’Malley.

  County Attorney Osborn said, “He’s probably waiting to make sure no police cars are hiding by the bridge.”

  “We can wait as long as he can,” said Wilson.

  11:30 A.M.

  “I wish they had a bar up here,” said Crane.

  11:56 A.M.

  Sweat made the sheriff’s man’s shirt cling to his chest. He lowered his binoculars. “D’you suppose he could have swum up the canal?” He rubbed his eyes with the back of his right hand. “I’m damn near blind.” Thick black hair showed through the damp shirt.

  “We can see both sides of the canal,” said Wilson.

  The strong midday heat made them all perspire. Direct rays from the sun and reflected rays from the big silver water tank toasted their skin like flames from an open fire, dazzled their eyes, made the steel rail around the balcony too hot to touch. Inside the shoes treading the steel floor their feet burned.

  “I’d like to swim up that canal,” said O’Malley.

  Crane wistfully regarded the big tank. He supposed it was utterly full of water.

  The radio operator said, “Standing by, Mark? … O.K.”

  Now there were only clouds on the horizon and a haze over Miami. Overhead the sky was turquoise.

  The sheriff’s man raised his binoculars. “Give us some action.”

  Wilson said, “We just have to wait.”

  12:20 P.M.

  “My God!” Essex said. “Why doesn’t he come?”

  “Take it easy, pal,” said O’Malley.

  “I wonder if he’s wise to our plan?” aske
d the sheriff’s man. His face was beet purple.

  Wilson said, “We have to stick it out.”

  12:31 P.M.

  The radio operator took off his earphones. “Mr Osborn.”

  “Yes?”

  “Mark says he’ll have to come down for gas.”

  Osborn lowered his glasses. A lock of black hair hung over his high forehead. “What’s the matter? Can’t a plane stay up more than three hours?”

  “Yes, Mr Osborn. But Mark says he won’t have enough gas to follow another plane unless he refuels.”

  “Well, Wilson …?”

  “I suppose he’ll have to land.”

  Crane said, “While he’s down suppose we go by the bridge and see if everything’s all right.”

  “And alarm the kidnaper?”

  “Hell! He’s either alarmed right now, or he’s waiting until dark.”

  Osborn said, “We can’t stand here all day.”

  “All right.” The heat had paled Wilson’s face. “Block, you stay here with the radio man.” He started for the ladder.

  The radio man said, “It’s O.K. to go down, Mark.”

  Block was evidently the sheriff’s man. He didn’t like being left behind. He scowled at Wilson’s back, but he didn’t say anything. The others followed Wilson down the ladder.

  They took the convertible rather than the police car. Essex sat in back, between Osborn and Wilson. O’Malley drove and Crane sat beside him. “This is the hottest place in the world next to Death Valley,” said Crane.

  Osborn said, “Miami has a very even summer temperature.”

  “Even unto Death Valley,” said Crane.

  “You’re quite a wit, aren’t you, Crane?” said Wilson. His voice was sharp.

  “I think so,” said Crane.

  “My God! I wish this were over with,” said Essex.

  They swung out onto the road leading to the bridge. Crane thought Essex looked ill. Certainly the last two days had taken most of the vitality out of him. His eyes were dull; his skin unhealthy; his manner listless. He almost seemed, Crane thought, to have abandoned hope of having Camelia returned.

  The bridge was ahead of them. “Which side?” asked O’Malley.

  “Cross it,” said Wilson.

  O’Malley pulled the convertible to a smooth stop just past the bridge. Wilson opened his door and stepped out onto the pavement. “You can come with me, Crane.”

  The tide was barely coming in, but the water in the canal was blue and clear. A few pieces of seaweed, brown and covered with red berries the size of peas, floated near the edge of the bank. They went down the slope together, being careful to keep their weight on their heels. Near the bottom Wilson started to slip, but Crane steadied him.

  “Thanks,” Wilson said.

  They inclined their bodies and peered under the bridge. It took them a moment to adjust their eyes to the gloom. The air was damp, cool. The tide made a gurgling noise.

  “It’s gone!” Wilson exclaimed. “Gone!”

  “Box and all,” said Crane.

  Chapter XVIII

  EVERYBODY AGREED it certainly was a mystery. It was a very great mystery. Captain Enright, who had been hiding five miles up the road with a squad of his Miami detectives, came the closest to summing it up when he said: “It don’t hardly seem possible.”

  It didn’t, but the money was gone.

  Nearly fifty detectives, deputies and other law-enforcement officers stood around on the bridge while Osborn and Wilson questioned Essex. It was now one o’clock.

  “But you saw everything I did,” Essex said. “I simply put the box on that flat place under the bridge and came out.”

  “And you’re sure it couldn’t have slipped off into the water?” asked Osborn.

  “I’m certain. The only thing that could have moved it was wind and there wasn’t any.”

  “And there was nobody waiting under there?”

  “I should say not.”

  Two of the detectives came up from under the bridge and reported to Captain Enright that there was no hiding place within the cement structure. “It’s solid as rock,” one said.

  Crane and O’Malley were examining the canal bank for the seventh time. The tide was almost completely full now, and the seaweed hardly moved at all. Two gars, small, thin, green fish with bill-like mouths, were harassing a school of minnows.

  “It looks like he did use a submarine,” O’Malley said.

  “Maybe he’s got a cloak that makes him invisible.” Crane moved along the bank, further from the bridge. “If there were any footprints these cops have tramped over them all.”

  “Elephants and cops are a lot alike.” O’Malley bent over a small recess in the bank. “Hello! What’s this?”

  There was almost a bay where the bank had crumbled away. The tide, coming into this bay, sent the water into a slow spiral. On the back edge of the bay was a soggy piece of brown paper. O’Malley picked it up.

  “It looks like a piece of paper,” said Crane.

  “It’s cardboard.”

  “So.” Crane took it from O’Malley. “There’s printing on it.”

  On the damp piece of cardboard, about the size of a business envelope, was printed:

  lifo

  “What the hell does that mean?” asked O’Malley.

  Crane lifted his shoulders.

  “Is it a clue?” asked O’Malley.

  “How do I know?” Crane pressed the water out of the cardboard, put it in his pocket. “I’m a stranger here.”

  They moved back toward the bridge. Osborn was staring at Essex, was saying:

  “You’re sure you didn’t throw the box into the canal instead of putting it on the bank?”

  Essex, very pale, said, “You don’t suspect that I’d jeopardize my sister’s life by not following instructions, do you?”

  Captain Enright said, “You could’ve had some other instructions from the kidnaper. Secret ones. He could’ve told you to throw it in the water.”

  Crane said to O’Malley: “Not so dumb.”

  “Don’t you see?” Captain Enright turned to Wilson. “The tide’s been going in. The box could’ve floated to somebody hiding in those bushes inland.”

  Everyone looked at the green clump of palms, palmetto, sugar cane and scrub pine a quarter of a mile inland. The canal disappeared in the center of this oasis on the gray-green tundra of the Everglades, its water cloaked by marsh grass and hanging trees.

  “Let’s take a look,” said Wilson.

  “But it’s no use,” said Essex. “I didn’t throw the box in the water.”

  “Let’s look anyway,” said Wilson.

  Crane touched O’Malley’s arm. “I got an idea. While I go with those guys you find out a couple of things for me. Find out if cyanide of potassium is used for anything in the Essex house. Find out what the gardener, Fritz, uses to trim the trees with.”

  “I know one answer now.” O’Malley’s eyes followed the police moving along the bank toward the oasis. “They use cyanide to clean the silver.” He glanced at Crane. “What’s your idea?”

  “I’m getting tired of this case.” Crane mopped his face with a handkerchief. “I think I’ll wrap it up. It’s too hot here.”

  “You really got something?”

  “I got an idea. Where’d you hear about the cyanide?”

  “I heard the cops asking Craig.”

  “Then anybody could have got hold of some?”

  “Yeah.” O’Malley’s face was alert. “You think Essex did float the box along the canal?”

  “No.”

  “Then what do you think?”

  “I’ve just got an idea.”

  “All right, wise guy. Keep it a secret.”

  Osborn, Wilson, Essex and Captain Enright were a hundred yards inland. They were walking slowly along the canal bank, keeping their eyes on the water, on the edge of the bank. Even at that distance Essex’ face was gray.

  “I’d better go with them,” said Crane. “
You find the gardener.”

  “I’ll miss our pal, Wilson.”

  “You go with them then. I’ll talk to the gardener.”

  “No, thanks. It looks like snake country up there.”

  “My God! It does. And I haven’t any whisky.”

  “Hell.” O’Malley grinned at Crane. “Whisky doesn’t help you with snakes.”

  “It does before they bite you,” said Crane.

  He hurried and caught up with the group around Essex. On both sides of the canal policemen had strung out, were examining the brush. They were nearing the clump of trees. Beside the pine the thick growth of sugar cane was luxuriant. The leaves were a lovely combination of pale green and silver. A crane, flying heavily, came out of the marsh grass, flapped inland. Its cries echoed in their ears.

  Essex pointed at the marsh. “A floating box wouldn’t get past here,” he said.

  Captain Enright’s voice was unfriendly. “How do we know?”

  Wilson was a little ahead of them. “Someone must have lived here once,” he said. “I see banana trees.”

  “I see a shack,” said Osborn.

  The banana trees were an emerald green and they leaned against the side of a frame shanty, their trunks arched. The heavy leaves looked like folded elephant ears. There was a cut through trees and palmetto bushes to the shack. Sunlight through the branches made a zebra effect on the ground. The shanty’s door stood open; the windows had been blown out; one side of the roof had collapsed.

  “Deserted,” said Wilson.

  They went around the shack toward the canal. They could hear the policeman talking on the other side, the rustle of leaves. “Look,” said Osborn.

  He was pointing at a place twenty yards up the canal. There, on a rectangular sandy beach, just in the water, was a diver’s suit. In the filtered light the suit’s wet rubber was slick, the glass panel in the helmet diamond bright. A hose led from the helmet to a self-contained air outfit, the straps of which, meant to be fastened over the diver’s shoulders, trailed in the water.

  “So that’s how he got under the bridge,” said Osborn.

  Wilson’s thin lips were compressed, his sharp face angry. “Clever,” he said.

  “Damn clever,” said Crane.

  Captain Enright turned to Essex. “I want to apologize for doubting your word, Mr Essex.” He rubbed the back of his neck with a dirty palm. “It was just that I couldn’t figure out any way to get rid of that box besides having you throw it in the water.” He laughed. “I guess I’m plain dumb.”