Brett Halliday

Blood on the Stars

Chapter One

ANNIVERSARY

CELIA DUSTIN SAT before the mirrored dressing-table in an elaborate corner suite on the sixth floor of the Sunlux Hotel in Miami Beach. Subconsciously she counted the strokes as the silver-mounted brush swept through her long flaxen hair—eight, nine, ten—then changed it to her left hand and began counting toward the required hundred strokes. Her sheer coral dressing-gown fell away from her shoulders, revealing the light sun-tan on her smooth throat and taut young breasts. Long dark lashes were half closed over her blue eyes that shone with an inner delight, and her full red mouth was lifted at the corners in a smile.

Celia was scarcely aware of her reflection. Her head was tilted, and she listened to the muffled sounds in the bathroom where her husband was taking a bath. They had been married two years today, and she knew exactly the progress he was making by the sounds. He was turning on the cold water now, swearing softly and contentedly as he made it colder and colder. In a moment Mark Dustin would fling back the curtain and emerge from the shower, dripping and magnificent in his nakedness, sputtering like a half-drowned bear while he groped for a towel to rub himself down.

An indefinable shiver of pure delight traversed Celia’s slender body as she transferred the brush from left to right hand for another ten strokes. Marriage was the most wonderful thing in the world. Marriage with Mark, she amended hastily to herself. She had often wondered during the past two years whether it would have been quite the same with any other man. She didn’t think so. Mark wasn’t anything wonderful. She often told herself that in order to keep her feet firmly on the ground, but he was right for her. She was serenely certain that of all the people in the world she and Mark were meant for each other.

She completed the hundred strokes and laid the hair brush on the dressing-table. All sound from the bathroom had ceased. Soon Mark would come out with his black silk robe carelessly belted around his lean stomach, his strong sun-bronzed face glowing with health and with happiness. He would come up behind her chair and put his hands on her bare shoulders and lay his cheek against her lustrous hair and smile at her reflection in the mirror and tell her she was the most beautiful girl in the world.

She would blush, as she always did, because his hands would creep downward to spread her dressing-gown farther apart, and she would catch her breath and demand whether he wanted his wife to be a wanton, and his lips would nibble at the lobe of her ear and he’d whisper that that was exactly what he was looking for when he picked her out two years ago—and then perhaps he’d remember and whisper something else in her ear and then the lovely, lovely Miami morning would be perfect indeed.

Straightening her shoulders, she leaned back a trifle and clasped both hands behind her head while she looked approvingly at the reflection Mark would see. Sunlight came through the east window and touched her head and shoulders caressingly. From far below there came the faint sound of the surf and the laughing voices of early bathers. It was one of those perfect days in early December when the season is just beginning. An interlude between the lethargy of summer and the hectic pace of winter; a period when early vacationers could live and move freely before the influx of the masses crowded the beaches and jammed traffic.

Celia did not move a muscle when she heard her husband come padding into the bedroom in cork-soled sandals. She watched her reflection in the mirror and saw him come up behind her and stop there as she had known he would. His black hair was tousled and he looked ten years younger than the forty he had admitted to when they were married. An unruly curl on either side of the part stood up, adding an impish look that matched the gleam in his gray eyes.

Something of her love and wonder and pride in him must have showed in her eyes as they met his in the glass, for Mark laughed, his hands on her bare shoulders, and said, “You look like a little girl on Christmas morning who has suddenly decided to believe in Santa Claus after all.”

“I feel like a little girl on Christmas morning, Mark.”

His fingers tightened and his head bent low until his cheek was against her hair. Her eyes still held his in the mirror and a tremor went over her body as his hands moved down and drew the sheer material farther away from her breasts.

He said, “You’re the most beautiful girl in the world,” and his voice was husky with passion.

She smiled happily and demanded, “Do you want your wife to look like a wanton, Mark Dustin?”

With his lips against her ear, he whispered, “Why else do you think I married you? Don’t you know every man secretly desires a wanton wife—but a paragon in public, mind you,” he added quickly and with mock severity. He straightened up then, and his hands drew the folds of her dressing gown together.

Celia waited for a breathless moment, then forced herself to carry on the ritual by asking, “Do they really?”

“Every man with any sense.” He turned away abruptly, now that the matutinal amenities were ended, and started for the sitting-room, saying cheerfully, “I’ll order some breakfast.”

“Mark.” The single word halted him with his hand on the doorknob.

“Yes?”

“Do you know why I particularly feel like a little girl on Christmas this morning?”

“This morning?” He turned slowly. “Because the sun is shining and the ponies are running this afternoon?”

Her tone was slightly impatient. “The sun has shone and the ponies have run every day since we’ve been here.” She studied his face anxiously in the mirror.

“So they have.” He grinned boyishly and added, “Must be you’re in love with your husband.”

“So I am, darling.” When he smiled her anxiety went away. “Order English muffins and bacon for me, and lots of coffee. I’ve forty more strokes to go on my hair.” When he went out and closed the door she picked up the brush again, but the strokes were not so even and placid as they had been before. Tears moistened her eyes and she wiped them away angrily. Mark was a darling, but damn him anyway. Why did men always have to spoil things? You’d think they could remember an important date. But all he was thinking of was food and the bets he would lay at the track. Never a thought for her and for today.

She began to grow very angry, and the brush went back and forth swiftly, glinting in the sunlight and whisking viciously through the soft strands of hair. She made a face at herself in the mirror, then decided all over again that Mark was a darling and that she was acting like a fool.

By the time she applied powder to her face and a fresh layer of rouge to her lips, Celia was humming. She got up and slid the dressing-gown from her shoulders, slid into a brassiere and panties, white slip and a powder blue sports suit.

Mark was seated on the padded window ledge, deep in the morning Herald, when she entered the big square living-room. He looked up to mumble, “Breakfast coming up. Listen, Ceil. Here’s a hot one in the fourth today. Thunderhaven at twelve to one. If I can pick out a parlay—” his voice trailed off as he went back to the day’s selections at Tropical Park.

“Oh, you!” she laughed, and again thought how like a young boy he was and how darned lucky she was to be Mrs. Mark Dustin.

The buzzer sounded and she went to admit the waiter with a wheeled breakfast table. She asked the man to place it in the angle between the two wide east and south windows, signed the check and tipped him, and he departed before Mark seemed aware of his presence. She peeked playfully over the top of the newspaper and said, “Sir, breakfast is served.”

“So?” He sprang up and helped her pull up two chairs, and enthusiastically explained his projected three-horse parlay while they breakfasted in the sun-drenched luxury of their corner suite.

When the meal was finished, Celia sat on the window seat and idly turned the pages of the morning paper while Mark dressed. She was restless and moody. Mark hadn’t mentioned any plans for the day. There would be the racetrack, of course. Mark was a reckless, inveterate, and lucky gambler. He had been like that ever since she had known him. Sometimes he lost, but always he recouped his losses a few days later. It didn’t matter how he gambled, on mining stocks, in poker games, or at the racetrack, he always won. In the early days of their marriage she had worried, but not any more. There was always plenty of money and she had gradually come to share his belief that there would always be plenty.

Laying the paper aside, she gazed out the east window and wished she might go swimming before the races. Mark usually wanted to, but he hadn’t mentioned it. Her spirits rose. Perhaps he had other plans. Perhaps he hadn’t forgotten.

Mark was dressed in fawn-colored slacks, blue sports shirt open at the neck, and a darker blue slouch jacket when he came into the living-room. The jacket had heavily padded shoulders that gave extraordinary breadth, tapering down to a lean waist and muscled hips. He was barely six feet tall, but the way he held himself gave the impression of greater height.

It wasn’t arrogance, Celia thought, just as she had a thousand times when she studied him with appraising eyes. It was self-assurance. The stance and carriage of a man who has met the world on equal terms and faced it down. From the stories he had told her of his youth, early days of prospecting for gold all over the globe, she had gained an insight into his character that fully explained his present attitude toward life. He had received no quarter from life in his youth, and now he neither asked for nor offered it. If he was ruthless in his business dealings it was because he had discovered long ago that only the ruthless survive in this modern world of rugged individualism. His movements had the smooth co-ordination of a man who keeps himself in trim, a physical sense of balance that matched his mental equilibrium.

Celia watched his approach with a swift rush of emotion that frightened her. He stopped in front of her and took a flat platinum cigarette case from his pocket, opened it and took out a cigarette, placed the cigarette between his lips, and lit it. There were three faint lines etched between his eyes as he studied the open case before returning it to his pocket.

“What would you like to do today?” There was an absent look in his gray eyes and his tone was flat.

“Whatever you’d like, Mark.” She tried to speak eagerly, but his voice, his whole expression told her he had forgotten. Then she saw his frown deepen, and she remembered he didn’t like to have her answer that way. He wanted her to have definite opinions and give a definite answer, but she waited hopefully.

He looked at his wrist watch and said, “It’s eleven-thirty. Suppose we take a ride and end up at the track in time for the first race.”

“I’d like that.” She kept her voice quiet and even, as though she meant exactly what she said. She got up and went past him into the bedroom to get her bag. She heard Mark call to order the roadster brought around, and he was waiting at the door when she came back.

Mark stopped at the bell captain’s desk. Celia stood a little back from him, scarcely looking at him when he spoke to the captain in a low voice. She wasn’t consciously listening to the conversation nor eavesdropping, but she heard the captain say, “I’d recommend Voorland, sir. On Lincoln Road near the bay.”

Mark Dustin said something in return. His low, perfectly modulated voice did not carry far, but she caught the question, “… very best in town?” spoken with a stronger inflection than the first of the sentence.

The bell-captain said emphatically, “Voorland has the highest reputation of any on the Beach.”

Mark thanked him and came back to Celia with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. He took her arm firmly and said too heartily, “I’ve been asking about a new place to try for lunch.” He moved her toward the door and they went out into the bright sunlight to wait for the sports roadster to be brought around from the garage.

Celia didn’t believe he had been inquiring about an eating-place, for neither of them ever ate lunch after a late breakfast. Despair settled over her again, and she wondered why she didn’t tell her husband what was in her heart and why men had to be such brutes.

Mark drove extremely well, as he did everything requiring muscular and mental co-ordination, his well-kept hands relaxed on the steering-wheel, handling the powerful eight-cylinder motor as deftly as Celia visioned him handling sixteen-mule teams and tons of ore in the Andes. He threaded his way easily into the stream of traffic going south on Collins Avenue, the breeze riffling the tufted curls on each side of his forehead.

Celia sat quietly beside him with her hands folded demurely in her lap. Her flaxen hair was coiled around her head in two thick braids, the sun brightening its natural luster. She was relaxed in a dreamlike acquiescence, slothfully conscious of the other sleek cars in front of them, of the rustling fronds of tall palms lining the roadway, the bright massed colors of Bougainvillaea and flamevine, the odor of tropical blossoms, and the languid sense of well being that pervades pleasure seekers who have eaten of Miami’s lotus, but her inward thoughts were on other things and other days.

She didn’t bother to rouse herself when Mark swung sharply westward onto the wide expanse of Lincoln Road with its ultra-modern shops bearing names famous the world over for smart fashions and extravagant prices. She wasn’t interested in fashions nor in shopping. There was a dull ache in her heart, and for the first time since their marriage she allowed herself to think what life would be if Mark stopped loving her.

It was too terrible to think about. Life would be only a void, empty and awful. After two years as Mrs. Mark Dustin she couldn’t go back to that other life. The intensity of her feelings frightened her and she clasped her hands together tightly to stop their trembling. She wouldn’t let herself look at her husband, though she knew that even a momentary glimpse of the debonair man beside her would reassure her. She was gripped in a nightmare of unreality which made her rigid.

The roadster came to a smooth stop, and Mark’s cheerful voice tore her away from the frightful vision of emptiness. He merely said, “Here we are,” but it was like a reprieve from some high authority when one is ascending to the gallows.

She sat erect with a start and saw that they were parked in front of a small modernistic building with lines unbroken by corners. A chaste sign over the door said W. Voorland. That was all. The curved plateglass windows were shrouded in shimmering silken drapes of royal purple.

Celia got out of the roadster and they started up the walk toward the door. A smart doorman bowed obsequiously and held the heavy glass door wide for them. They entered a thickly carpeted, air-conditioned room with subdued indirect lighting and elaborate modernistic chairs and couches grouped around small display tables.

Celia stopped just inside the door and looked at the glittering showcases lining both sides of the room. She caught her breath in an inarticulate gasp of delight. Her fingers tightened on her husband’s arm and she whispered, “You did remember, Mark. You didn’t forget!”

He smiled into her white, upturned face. “Of course I didn’t forget, Ceil. Let’s see if they’ve got anything you like.”

Chapter Two

STAR RUBIES

A TALL, GRAVE-FACED MAN came across the carpeted floor toward them. He wore a dull gray suit, a wing-collar and black bow-tie, and a few strands of black hair were carefully combed across his bald scalp. He stopped before them, inclining his head deferentially, yet managing to convey a proper impression of hauteur, and murmured, “Is there something I can do for you?”

“Oh, yes,” Celia breathed, her blue eyes sparkling.

The floorwalker inclined his head again and said, “If you’d care to be comfortable at one of these tables—He led the way down the length of the room, past half a dozen couples browsing at the showcases, to a cozily curved love seat in front of a small table holding a crystal ash tray, cigarette humidor, and a large silver table lighter. He stood aside until they seated themselves, then suggested, “If you’d care to give me an idea of what you have in mind, I will be happy to assign a clerk for further consultation.”

Mark Dustin turned to look at his wife’s eager face. “What do we have in mind, Ceil?”

Her face was radiantly flushed and her eyes were big with anticipation and interest as she surveyed the long rows of showcases discreetly lighted with individual fluorescent lights to best show off the gleaming jewels displayed inside. She laid her shining head on his shoulder and whispered, “Could we go look, Mark darling? Do we have to just sit here like dummies?”

“That’s the protocol of a dump like this,” he whispered cheerfully. “We’ll run ’em ragged bringing us things until we see something we like.” To the waiting floorwalker he explained, “This is a very particular occasion. I don’t know what my wife has in mind, but I’ve an idea she’s the type to wear rubies.”

“Rubies? Yes sir. Very good sir.”

The floorwalker went to the rear to confer with a trio of lesser employees who were waiting patiently for the jewel-gazers at the showcases to express their desires.

Celia seized the opportunity to squeeze park’s arm and whisper, “Everything in the showcases looks so beautiful, but this place frightens me. Won’t everything be horribly expensive?”

“Probably.” His manner was that of graceful nonchalance and he laid his palms open in a gesture. “But we can be sure of getting what we pay for in Voorland’s place.”

A clerk came up to their table. He was young and tall and skinny. He wore thick glasses and had a prominent Adam’s apple. It bobbed up and down as he said, “Mr. Thurston suggests you are interested in rubies.”

“It was just a thought,” said Mark. “We might end up with an emerald necklace. Trot something out for us to look at.”

“Of course. For the lady, I presume. A pendant, perhaps? Or a pin for evening wear?”

Mark scowled at him. “Do I look like a guy who would want a pendant or a pin for a wife like mine?” He turned to Celia and asked, “What do you think, dear? I had thought of a glamorous bracelet.”

“Oh, Mark, I’d love seeing everything before I make up my mind. I’m terribly confused. Everything is so beautiful—”

The clerk cleared his throat and his Adam’s apple raced up and down. “May I ask what price range you are interested in, sir? The ruby is an extremely expensive gem, particularly in the larger sizes.”

“So I’ve heard.” For the first time in her life Celia discerned a tone of sarcasm in his voice. “The sky is the limit if you’ve anything that appeals to my wife.” His arm closed around her and drew her close to him.

“Yes, indeed. I quite understand,” said the clerk nervously. He turned and went into an anteroom.

“I’ve always heard that rubies were awfully expensive, Mark darling,” Celia said, snuggling against him. “You know I don’t care whether it’s expensive or not. You’ve made me so happy just remembering our second anniversary—”

“Did you think for a moment I’d forget it, Ceil?” His arm tightened almost hurtingly around her slender waist as he drew her to him. She looked up to see his face taut with emotion that matched the husky passion in his voice. “After two thousand years maybe I’d forget, but after only two?” He laughed deep in his throat and released her, then leaned forward to uncover the humidor, took out a cigarette and lit it.

The clerk came back bearing two trays lined with white satin and displaying various pendants and brooches glittering with brilliant red stones varying in color from light crimson to the rich color of blood, and reflecting flashes of fire from their facets as he maneuvered them beneath the overhead lights.

Celia clutched Mark’s arm, a wave of passion and love flowing through her. “They’re beautiful,” she breathed. Her eyes sought Mark’s, but he was looking at the jewels, a deep frown wrinkling his forehead.

There was only one bracelet included among the assortment on both trays. It was heavy and solid, of white gold set with triple rows of rubies of less than a carat each.

Mark puffed on his cigarette for a moment, then turned his gray eyes to his wife to watch with amused tolerance while she took up each piece to examine it, holding the pendants to her smooth throat, turning the brooches this way and that to catch the red flame from the facets, putting each one back with a sigh of regret. At last she picked up the bracelet which she slipped onto her wrist and held it up for Mark to see.

“They’re all so beautiful,” she said reverently. “This bracelet—can we afford it, Mark?”

His eyes were half-closed to exclude the smoke that rose from rapid inhalations of his cigarette. He shrugged and said carelessly, “Nice, but hardly what I had in mind. Those stones are nothing but dinky little chips,” he went on, turning to the clerk. “Haven’t you a decent bracelet to show us?”

The young man’s Adam’s apple stood still in his astonishment. “The—the stones in that bracelet are each three—three-quarter carat, sir,” he gulped. “Perfectly matched and beautifully cut. I assure you it’s a collector’s item.”

“How much?” Mark Dustin leaned forward to crush the butt of his cigarette in the crystal ash tray.

“Twenty-five thousand, sir.” The clerk’s voice was steady now, muted and reverent, as though he and God had got together to set this price on so rare an accumulation of stones adorning the bracelet.

“That’s about what it looks like,” said Mark, with elaborate tolerance. He waved a smooth sun-tanned hand toward the two trays. “You’re wasting our time with junk like this. If you’ve nothing better than this to show us, we may as well go elsewhere.” He started to get up, but the flustered clerk forestalled him with rapid jerks of his Adam’s apple and an outstretched hand.

“I understand perfectly, sir,” he stammered. “Perhaps you’d like to see Mr. Voorland himself. Rubies are a personal hobby with him and I’m sure that if he hasn’t exactly what you want in stock, he’ll be happy to have it made up for you.”

Mark said, “I came in to buy something, not to order it for future delivery.” He took another cigarette from the humidor and lit it. “Tell your boss that,” he added, and took a deep draft of smoke into his lungs.

Celia sighed and her wistful eyes followed the clerk to the rear as he carried the trays away. “I thought the bracelet was perfect, Mark. Did he say twenty-five thousand dollars?”

Mark chuckled, showing strong white teeth. “Maybe he meant Mexican pesos,” he teased. “That stuff was junk, baby,” he went on tolerantly. “Why do you suppose I haven’t bought you any jewelry these past two years? I’ve been waiting until I could afford the best. When people look at you I don’t want them to feel sorry for me and whisper, ‘Dustin must have hit a streak of bad luck. Look at that cheap little bracelet his wife is wearing.’ You let me worry about the price,” he went on confidently as a tall, solid man approached them from the rear.

Walter Voorland had been designed by nature for the position he held as manager of the most exclusive and expensive jewelry shop in the most exclusive and expensive resort center in the United States. He carried his well-fleshed body with an air of dignified respectability which held none of the subservience of the common shopkeeper, yet with no trace of the insolent hauteur too often found in such an establishment. He was a big-boned man, wearing a conservative brown business suit, a soft white shirt and a subdued flowered cravat. His head was completely bald and pink, and his ruddy face glowed with health and intelligence. His heavy brows were bleached a light tan by the Miami sun, and his gaze was direct and pleasant and friendly. He had a firm handclasp for Mark Dustin, and his voice was strong and warm with only a faint touch of his native Holland accent sounding through the cultivated tones:

“I’m very pleased to meet you, sir, and will be happy to be of service to you if I may.”

“My name is Dustin,” Mark told him. He had risen to greet the manager. “Mark Dustin, from Colorado,” he added, “and this is Mrs. Dustin.”

Voorland bowed stiffly from the waist as he took Celia’s hand. “Delighted,” he said in a tone which made them believe he was, indeed, delighted. “I am at your service.” He drew up a chair to the opposite side of the table and lowered his solid bulk into it, planting his feet together in front of him and placing the palms of his hands on his knees.

“We were told,” said Mark, “that your store carries the finest stock of good jewelry in Greater Miami. That’s why we came here.”

Mr. Voorland said, “Naturally.”

Dustin spread out his hands in a half-humorous gesture. “I had rubies in mind. Perhaps a bracelet. But your clerk brought only one cheap one for us to look at.”

“Rubies?” Voorland studied Celia intently, nodding his bald head. “Perfect. With your hair, Mrs. Dustin—and your exquisite complexion. Rubies, definitely. Are you a connoisseur, Mr. Dustin?”

“Not a bit of it.” Dustin laughed. “I’m just in love with the most beautiful woman in the world and this is our anniversary and I’m looking for something very special to celebrate the occasion.”

Voorland lifted his right hand from his knee and reached inside his coat to get a pack of chewing gum from his shirt pocket. It was a new pack, and he carefully peeled the cellophane off one end, pulled two of the sticks out and offered them in turn to Celia and Mark Dustin. When they declined, he gravely slid one stick from its paper and thrust it in his mouth. His attitude was one of contemplative devotion. He had big jaws, and he munched the small piece of gum a moment before settling back contentedly.

“My only major vice,” he confided. “I find that I think better and more clearly while chewing gum. It was very trying for me during the war when gum was so scarce.”

Neither of them said anything while he munched meditatively. Mark was beginning to look bored, and Celia was losing some of her bright expectancy in disgust and irritation at his smacking.

Presently Voorland said, “Precious gems are my vocation and my avocation, Mr. Dustin. They are my life. I know them all, have studied them all, from the far places whence they come through the great markets and cutting centers of the world. It is curious that you should come to me for rubies. Or, perhaps it is not curious at all. Perhaps you came to me because you have heard I am the greatest authority in the world on rubies.” He rolled up the rumpled lids of his deepset eyes and looked at them inquiringly.

Dustin shook his head. “We just happened to drop in,” he said with a touch of asperity. “If that dinky bracelet your man showed us is the best—”

“I am about to tell you about rubies, Mr. Dustin,” Voorland interrupted, holding up a smooth beefy hand to silence him. “Rubies are the most royal of gems. Diamonds? Bah! Cold and glittering on the surface. Emeralds? They have color and brilliance, but without warmth or vitality. Green is an unpleasant color. It betokens jealousy and hatred. A dangerous color. The sapphire? Better—yes. One could stand to make friends with a true blue sapphire and live with it. It has brilliance and depth and a certain warmth. But the ruby?” His voice changed like that of a lover whose beloved suddenly appears on the scene. He munched his gum noisily, smacking his lips while a beatific expression spread over his heavy features like that of a dipsomaniac contemplating his first drink after a sodden week-end.

“The ruby is alive,” he continued, shifting his eyes from Celia to Mark. “Caught within its depths are the fires of passion, the red glow of eternal desire, the crimson hue of the rising sun. There is a strength and a fierceness and a clean burning fury in the blood-red flames that mark the true, perfect ruby. Formed by nature in the roaring cauldrons of hell itself.”

“All right, Mr. Voorland,” Dustin interrupted, “you don’t have to sell me on rubies. I’m here to buy some. If you haven’t anything in stock, we’ll go along.”

Voorland sighed deeply. He skinned another piece of gum and put it between his jaws and munched ruminatively for a moment, then said, “I’m afraid you don’t quite understand, Mr. Dustin. The true ruby is far more rare than any other stone. There are no Cullinans, no Kohinoors. Two of the largest known to history are those belonging to the King of Bishenpur in India. Fifty four and three-quarter, and seventeen and one-half carats, both of which are priceless. The bracelet you were shown is a beautiful example of selection and design.

“Each stone is perfect and uniform, the result of years of tireless seeking among the great markets of the world. The price you were asked—”

“That may all be true,” Dustin interrupted him with a careless gesture, “but it doesn’t look like much. Nobody except an expert will glance at it twice. I want Celia to have something that will make people sit up and take notice.”

Voorland sighed and got unwillingly to his feet. “I am a poor salesman,” he said apologetically. “No businessman should traffic in articles that are close to his heart. I have what you want. I hesitate to show it to you for fear you will buy it.” He smiled shamefacedly, like a small boy who had hidden a friend’s toy and was forced to admit his guilt by producing it. “I will be but a moment.” He turned away, munching his gum.

“Poor man,” said Celia. “The way he feels about rubies is the way—”

“The way what?” asked Mark, the impish curls standing up and his mouth quirked at the corners.

“Well—the way a dog-lover is about running a pet shop,” she said. “They want to keep every damned puppy that comes in.”

“He acts like a nut,” said Mark disgustedly. “How can he make any money in this business if he doesn’t want to show his stock to a customer.”

Celia wanted rubies now, above all other gems. They were her stones. They were like her love for Mark. She said, quietly, “I think he’s pathetic.”

“He’s probably honest,” Mark admitted. “The way he’s hipped on rubies I don’t think he’d gyp a man on the price. That’s one good thing about dealing with a man who tries to mix an artistic temperament with the profit motive,” he added, lowering his voice as Mr. Voorland once more approached them.

The proprietor carried a square, hand-tooled leather gem casket between his two hands, holding it carefully as though it were a tray of over-full cocktail glasses. He set it down on the table and stood for a moment looking down at the closed case while he absently popped another stick of gum into his mouth.

He then seated himself and leaned forward to press a small golden knob on the front of the leather case. The top sprang up at the touch, and a round linked bracelet of beautifully filigreed platinum was revealed against a background of blue velvet.

Six large pigeon’s-blood rubies were evenly spaced around the bracelet. They were truly impressive stones, and from the center of each ruby there radiated those six curious rays of light which mark the true asteria, the so-called star ruby, which occurs only rarely in rubies and in its sister gem, the sapphire, and in no other really precious stone.

Mr. Voorland settled back with both hands on his knees, narrowly studying Mark Dustin’s face from beneath half-lowered lids. The westerner showed neither surprise nor approval as he looked at the bracelet. His face was as devoid of expression as that of the professional gambler who picks up a pat royal flush.

Celia was not so phlegmatic. She squealed with delight and reached a hand out toward the bracelet, halted it as though frightened by her own audacity, then picked it up gently, impelled by some power beyond her strength to resist.

A tall man wearing loose gray tweeds and a dark snap-brim felt hat pushed far back on his forehead entered the store as Celia fondled the bracelet. He was broad-shouldered and lean-hipped, and had a lined face with bristling red eyebrows above keen gray ayes. His hands were big-knuckled and rough, and he carried his weight with deceptively graceful ease.

A young, brown-haired girl had her hand in the crook of his arm and stood close beside him as he stopped inside the doorway to slowly survey the interior. She wore a yellow skirt and a white blouse with a ruffled neck and pleats down the front. The crown of her shining brown head scarcely came above her companion’s shoulder. She looked gay and happy, as though it were springtime and she was in love for the first time. Her brown eyes danced with eagerness and she let her cheek gently touch the rough tweed of the man’s coat.

The floorwalker started toward the couple, but the man saw Voorland at the rear of the store and moved forward, shaking his head at the floorwalker. They came up to the seated trio without being noticed, and stopped beside the table to look down at the scene with interest.

Celia was slowly turning the bracelet around and around in her hands, her eyes riveted upon it. Her husband was watching her face, a set smile on his lips.

Mr. Voorland was observing Dustin with appraising thoughtfulness while his big jaws worked methodically on the wad of gum between his teeth.

He was the first to look up. His expression changed immediately when he saw the couple standing there. He got to his feet and held out his hand, saying heartily, “Mike Shayne! And this is—” He looked inquiringly at Shayne’s companion.

“Miss Hamilton, my secretary from New Orleans,” Shayne told him. “She has an allergy to pearls, particularly the simulated variety, and we brought along a string to trade in on something she does like.”

Chapter Three

WHAT THE VINTNER SELLS

“I’M VERY GLAD TO MEET YOU, Miss Hamilton.” Mr. Voorland made his formal bow with as great a show of pleasure as if the transaction involved a string of real pearls. “Your taste in secretaries is far better than in pearls. This little lady looks like the authentic article.”

Lucy colored slightly at the compliment, and Shayne warned her, “Mr. Voorland’s an old smoothie, Lucy. He tells that to all the girls when he wants to sell them something. You asked me to drop in at noon,” he reminded the jeweler with a glance at the seated couple. “But if you’re busy, we can come back.”

“Not at all,” Voorland said quickly. “As a matter of fact, I’d like to have you see this bracelet, Mike. You know something about gems, don’t you?”

“Superficially. Through insurance investigations and that sort of thing.” He looked down with interest at the bracelet in Celia Dustin’s hands.

Mr. Voorland said, “I’d like to introduce Miss Hamilton and Mr. Shayne. Mr. and Mrs. Dustin.”

Shayne removed his hat. Dustin arose and offered his hand to the red-headed detective, saying heartily, “Would it be the Michael Shayne we’ve read so much about in the papers?”

Shayne grinned and admitted it. “The papers are always giving me a build-up, hoping I’ll fall flat on my face. Thus far, I’ve managed to disappoint them.”

Lucy’s eyes were wide and round as she gazed at the bracelet. She gripped Shayne’s arm tightly and whispered loud enough for the others to hear, “That’s what I’d like, Mike. Do you think—”

“Wait a minute,” said Shayne. “We don’t want to come in here busting up a sale. Mrs. Dustin was here first.”

Celia looked up at them and her eyes were starred with happiness and excitement. “It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my life,” she said quietly. “Would you like to see it, Miss Hamilton?” She held the bracelet up and Lucy took it eagerly.

“It doesn’t look like so much to me,” Shayne deprecated. “What are the stones, Voorland? Garnets?”

Voorland smiled. “Rubies, Mike.”

“Rubies?” scoffed Shayne. “They don’t look like rubies to me. What are you trying to put over on Mr. Dustin?”

Voorland was unperturbed. “It’s absolutely the finest thing that’s ever been in this store—or any other store.”

“There’s no shine to them,” Shayne protested. “A real ruby has the same brilliance as a diamond with color added. And the damned things are cracked,” he added, leaning forward to scowl at the star-shaped lines of radiation from the center of each stone.

“A faceted ruby gets its brilliance, like a diamond, from the way it is cut. These gems are cut en cabochon to produce asterism which you are pleased to call cracks.” Voorland took the bracelet from Lucy and pointed out his meaning to the detective.

“You see, the top is rounded and smooth. This was the first method of cutting all gems and was in vogue until the art of faceting was discovered in the fourteenth century. It is practically obsolescent now except when we are dealing with a pronounced case of asterism.”

Though he ostensibly spoke to Shayne, the jeweler’s explanation was directed more to Mark and Celia Dustin. “These are known in the trade as true ‘phenomenal stones,’” Voorland went on authoritatively. “A really fine star ruby is the rarest of finds. Almost always, color and other perfect qualities are sacrificed for asterism. Both star sapphires and rubies are usually characterized by cloudiness. Such was the case with even the famous Star of India. In each one of these stones you have the collector’s dream. A perfect pigeon’s-blood star ruby. Six of them, Mike. Ranging from eight and a quarter to six carats. Any one of them is a collector’s item in itself. Side by side like this in a bracelet—Catherine of Russia never had a piece to approach it.”

Mark Dustin was still standing beside him, frowning at the bracelet and listening intently. “Those light streaks look like cracks to me, too,” he admitted dubiously. “I wouldn’t want people to think I couldn’t afford—”

“No one who knows anything about jewels will question your financial status,” Voorland interrupted. “A perfect star ruby is known throughout the civilized world as the rarest of gems. I’ve been forty years gathering these six stones,” he went on quietly. “For forty years I’ve followed the trail of whispered rumors, the illusive will-o-the-wisp of tantalizing hope. Through the gem markets of the world and into the depths of Ceylon and Burma. Forever seeking the unattainable. I’ve had larger star rubies than these and sold them as single pieces because they couldn’t even be cut to match the two center stones I first obtained almost forty years ago. This one I did cut from nine and a half carats.” He touched one of the smaller stones in the bracelet. “To obtain the perfect symmetry of asterism I demanded.”

Shayne took a backward step and grinned at Lucy Hamilton and patted her arm. “I don’t believe you really like that bracelet, angel. It wouldn’t suit you at all. Too blatant.”

“Would it be terribly expensive?” she asked in a small voice.

“When Voorland calls something a collector’s item, he isn’t talking about a few thousand bucks. When he’s finished here we’ll have him show us some nice synthetic zircons or something like that.”

The other three were not listening to Shayne and Lucy. Dustin thrust his hands deep in the pockets of his slacks and teetered back and forth with his narrowed gaze on Celia’s face. “Like it, honey?”

“I love it,” she breathed ecstatically. “But I’d rather you didn’t pay too much for something I’m going to wear. I think—don’t they have synthetic rubies that are just as pretty as the real ones?” she asked the dealer timidly.

Voorland nodded and carefully replaced the bracelet in its bed of blue velvet. He didn’t seem disappointed at the prospect of losing a sale, but instead appeared almost relieved at the turn the discussion was taking.

“Manufactured rubies are now called synthetic or scientific gems,” he told her. “The process is quite well established, and they are being manufactured in large quantities. I have a particularly fine stock on hand and will be glad to—”

“Wait a minute,” said Dustin sharply. “How do the synthetic ones differ from the real?”

“Hardly at all,” Voorland assured him. “Indeed, the artificial product is actually purer chemically than the natural stone. Specific gravity is practically the same, and the indices of refraction and bi-refringence show striking agreement.”

“Then how does anyone know whether a ruby is real or artificial?” demanded Dustin.

“Most people don’t,” Voorland told him smilingly. “Although careful examination by an expert will generally reveal minute differences. The method of manufacture, for instance, causes the synthetic stones to split parallel to the long axis which throws the vertical crystallographic axis in the plane of splitting. Hence, it is difficult to orient them so as to give the best color. Also, every synthetic stone shows traces of dichroism when examined through the table. Natural stones are properly oriented, and thus not dichroic.”

“But that’s all stuff for experts,” Dustin protested. “The average person won’t go around examining my wife’s rubies with a magnifying glass.”

“True enough,” agreed Voorland. “And that is one of the reasons why this bracelet I have just showed you is absolutely unique.” He pressed the top of the leather case down gently to hide the jewels from view.

“Why?” asked Shayne, who had been listening with interest. “Because the synthetic stones don’t show up with cracks like those you’re so proud of?”

Mr. Voorland popped another stick of gum in his mouth and smiled tolerantly at the detective. “I know you mean that to be funny, Mike, but the truth is, you’ve hit the nail on the head. Asterism is an accident or phenomenon which occurs only in natural stones and then very rarely. Authorities even disagree on what causes those rays of converging light. Some believe the effect due to inclusions, or to a lattice-like structure within the mineral. Others hold that there are minute tubular cavities within the stone. No one actually knows.”

“Do you mean no one has ever cut one open to find out?” Shayne asked incredulously.

“Cut open an Asteria? Would you cut your child open to find out what makes its heart beat?”

“If I follow you,” said Dustin slowly, “you claim that anyone who sees this bracelet will know the stones are genuine just because they have that star inside them?”

“Anyone who knows anything at all about precious stones,” Voorland assured him. He picked up the closed jewel case carefully. “It is one absolute test. If you’ll pardon me a moment I’ll show you what I have in synthetic stones and—”

“Not so fast,” Dustin said quietly. “A man would think you didn’t want to sell that bracelet.”

Voorland halted a few steps from him. He hesitated a moment, sighed, and returned to replace the leather case on the table. “I’m afraid that for a moment I allowed myself to hope—” he confessed ruefully.

Shayne laughed and slapped him on the shoulder. “I always wondered how you managed to stay in business. Like Omar, you don’t know what on earth to buy one half so precious as the stuff you sell.”

“There’s a great deal of truth in that quatrain,” said Walter Voorland sadly. He turned his attention to Dustin, who had reopened the case and was seated beside his wife fitting the linked bracelet over her slim wrist.

It fitted perfectly, and when he closed the safety clasp she lifted her arm and turned it slowly to strike crimson flashes of reflected fire from the red stones.

Mark Dustin nodded and said, “I think it looks right nice, Ceil. Good enough for your second wedding anniversary?”

“Oh, Mark!” She flung her arms around his neck and sobbed happily. Shayne felt Lucy’s fingers tighten on his arm. He looked down at her and was surprised to see two tears rolling down her cheeks as she gazed at the embracing couple.

He got out his handkerchief and wiped her face and asked, “What the devil are you crying about?”

She said, “They’re so darned sweet. And after being married two whole years.”

Dustin untangled himself from his wife’s arms and told Voorland cheerfully, “She seems to like the gadget, so I guess that settles it. How much?”

“A hundred and eighty thousand dollars,” said Mr. Voorland, and munched on his wad of gum contentedly.

Mark Dustin sat very still and wrinkled his sun-bronzed forehead. “I guess I don’t hear very well.”

Mr. Voorland appeared to be enjoying himself completely. He repeated, “One hundred and eighty thousand dollars is the price of the bracelet. Plus tax, of course.”

“Now I know star rubies wouldn’t look good on you,” Shayne said to Lucy with a broad grin.

Celia Dustin’s face had gone white. She murmured, “That’s ridiculous, Mark. That’s a fortune.” She began nervously picking at the safety catch on the bracelet about her wrist.

He said, “Maybe it isn’t ridiculous, honey. Let’s don’t go off half-cocked.” He asked Voorland, “Is that an asking price or a selling price?”

Voorland seated himself in his favorite attitude, with both hands on his knees. “It is a selling price—as of today. I assure you that if the gem market were not at low ebb the price would be above two hundred thousand.”

“Six stones?” asked Dustin suspiciously. “The largest one eight carats?”

“Eight and a quarter,” Voorland corrected him.

“But diamonds aren’t worth—”

“Diamonds,” said Voorland with a smile, “are worth only what the buyer will pay for them. Rubies are appraised exactly the same way. An eight-carat diamond is not at all unusual. An eight-carat star ruby is an act of God. You know something about prices, Mike. Tell Mr. Dustin I’m not out of line.”

“I don’t know.” Shayne scowled. “I’m not stooging to help you make a sale. A hundred and eighty grand took my breath away just as it did his. But I don’t know.” His scowl deepened. “I remember something Randolph, the insurance appraiser, once told me about rubies. That a perfect four-carat ruby was worth at least four times as much as a diamond of the same size.”

“And he wasn’t talking about a star ruby either, Mike. Just a good pigeon’s-blood gem. You don’t have to make up your mind at once, Mr. Dustin. If you wish to take a little time to think it over—”

Dustin drew in a long breath. “Today is our anniversary. Not tomorrow or next week. I’ll tell you, Shayne’s mention of an insurance appraiser gives me an idea. You realize I’m not questioning your honesty, Voorland, but I know nothing about such things and—”

“I understand perfectly, Mr. Dustin. You’d like to request a disinterested appraisal before making up your mind.”

“Yes. Someone like an insurance appraiser. That’s a splendid idea. I’ll have to have it insured if I do buy. What portion of the appraised value do those people generally write coverage on?” he asked Shayne.

“Up to eighty percent. Sometimes more. Depending on the reputation of the dealer, the current market, things like that.”

Voorland nodded approvingly. “In general cases, you are quite correct, Mike. But this isn’t a general case. This bracelet is unique and therefore practically priceless. I’m ready to stake my professional reputation that any reputable insurance company will be glad to issue you a policy covering the full purchase price.”

“That’s good enough for me. You’ve made a sale if you can fix up a policy on that basis.”

Mr. Voorland chuckled and smacked over his gum. “Is Earl Randolph in town, Mike?”

“I saw him a couple of days ago.”

“Mr. Randolph is one of the shrewdest appraisers in the business,” Voorland told Dustin. “I showed him this bracelet two months ago when I was holding it at two hundred thousand, and he asked for a chance to write a policy on it when I sold it. I’ll get hold of him at once and I’m sure we’ll have no difficulty.”

“In that case, I presume you’d like to have a little cash on the line.” Mark Dustin’s voice was strained, as though he realized for the first time what he was letting himself in for. He reached in a side pocket of his slacks, adding, “Naturally, I don’t carry that kind of cash around with me.”

“Naturally not, Mr. Dustin.” Voorland’s voice was soothing and understanding.

“But the bangtails have been coming in for me,” Dustin explained as he withdrew a thick clip of bills. “Suppose I give you ten thousand down to bind the sale, and a check for the balance.”

“Perfectly all right, Mr. Dustin.”

“It will have to be a check on my bank in Denver. I’m just here for a short time.”

“I quite understand,” Voorland purred. “Of course you won’t expect to take possession until your check has cleared through my local bank.”

“Of course not. Wait a minute.” Dustin turned to his wife. “When is that shindig in Miami? That fancy concert at the White Temple.”

“Next Friday, Mark. But it doesn’t matter—”

“The hell it doesn’t. The Crowthers will be there, and the Buckleys. And old lady Bastrop with all her diamonds. Do you think I can have it for my wife to wear Friday night?” he asked Voorland.

“This is Monday.” Voorland pursed his lips and looked doubtful. “I’m sure I can have the insurance coverage arranged by that time, but the check on Denver will scarcely have time to get back.”

“Nonsense,” said Dustin. “Give your bank instructions to send it through special. By airmail. And have the Denver bank wire when it clears. Shouldn’t take more than two days.” His manner evidenced the westerner’s contempt for the conservative pace of easterners, and it brought an indulgent smile to Voorland’s lips.

He nodded and said, “Very well. If you’ll step back to the office, Mr. Dustin, we’ll take care of it right away. Wander around and see what you’d like,” he added over his shoulder to Shayne as the three of them went toward his private office. “This will take only a few minutes.”

“Who is he?” Lucy exclaimed when they were out of hearing. “He looks like a cowboy—or something. I could live in luxury the rest of my life on the money he’s throwing away on that trinket.”

Shayne grinned and tweaked her ear. “You thought it was pretty in the beginning.”

“I still do, but a hundred and eighty thousand dollars! It’s criminal to spend money that way. Think how many loaves of bread that would buy for starving children all over the world.”

“Let’s not think about it.” Shayne led her toward the long row of showcases. “Start looking around, but don’t stop if you come to any star rubies.”

Chapter Four

A WELL-PLANNED CRIME

MARK DUSTIN’S SPORTS ROADSTER was one of an unending parade of cars rolling across the Venetian Causeway toward Miami Beach. The last race of the day had been run at Tropical Park, and Dustin was content to relax while the procession crawled at a snail’s pace. He had hit a freak daily double at 420 to 1 with a ten-spot, and his four grand winnings made a comfortable wad in his pocket.

Celia was supremely happy beside her husband, pressing close against his shoulder and dreamily contemplating the shifting mass of fleecy clouds above the palm-fringed shore eastward. She was always happy when Mark won at the races. It gave her a deep-rooted sense of security to know that Mark was one of those people who are almost invariably lucky. She no longer worried when he gambled, and that part of her past when she was poverty-stricken had gradually become an unreality. Mark had snatched her away from it after a whirlwind courtship lasting exactly five days.

Tonight they would attend the society concert in Miami and she would wear the ruby bracelet. She, little Celia Hicks, would wear a piece of jewelry worth almost two hundred thousand dollars. She would make herself so beautiful for the occasion that Mark would never forget it, never be sorry he had paid so much for the bracelet.

A shiver of delight pulsed through her. She asked excitedly, “Will it come, Mark? Do you think it will be at the hotel when we get there?” A queer sense of dread suddenly mingled with her happiness.

Mark grinned tolerantly and chided, “Say star ruby bracelet when you mention your anniversary gift, Mrs. Dustin. The idea—calling it it.”

They laughed together and she said, “Didn’t Mr. Voorland tell you this morning?”

“He promised to deliver the bracelet by evening.” Mark’s voice was quietly emphatic. “His bank had a wire from Denver yesterday saying the check had cleared.”

“But didn’t he say he would rather have the actual money back here in his account first?”

“Naturally. In a transaction like this where I’m completely unknown to him he wants to take all the precautions possible. He hopes the money will be credited to his account before his bank closes this afternoon, but even if it isn’t, he said over the phone that the telegraphic assurance would be enough. Don’t worry, darling, you’ll knock everybody’s eyes out with that bracelet tonight.”

“You should never have bought it, Mark,” she said earnestly. “I’ll be frightened to death every moment I have it on—just thinking about how much it cost.”

“You’ll get used to it,” he told her cheerfully. “Just remember it’s insured.”

“Some people keep expensive things like that locked up in a safe and never wear them,” she told him.

“I know. They have cheap replicas made and wear those instead. Of all the damn fool ideas I ever heard of,” said Mark explosively, “that’s the damnedest.”

They reached the end of the causeway and some of the cars ahead of them turned off to the right or left onto winding, palm-lined drives threading through the length of the peninsula. With the congestion eased, Mark Dustin sat up straight and darted expertly past laggard cars, gauging his speed and distances superbly to gain a couple of minutes in the short distance to the hotel.

In the hotel lobby Celia stood back and waited breathlessly while Mark went to the desk to inquire about the delivery of the package from the jeweler. Her heart sank when she saw the clerk shake his head emphatically, and saw the taut anger come into Mark’s face.

He strode back toward her and she made herself smile as she hurried to meet him. “Don’t you mind, darling. It really doesn’t matter whether I have it tonight or not.”

“The hell it doesn’t,” he said furiously. “That Dutchman promised to have it here, and by God he’s going to.” He hurried her to the elevator and up to their suite, strode to the telephone, and brusquely asked for a number.

When a voice replied at the other end, Dustin asked for Mr. Voorland. In a moment he said curtly, “Voorland? Dustin. Where the devil is that bracelet you promised to deliver this afternoon?”

He listened a moment, and the lines of anger gradually smoothed out of his face. “I see. Then we’ll expect it right away. Have him bring it straight up to our suite.” He hung up and said, “It’s all right, Ceil. Everything is fine. The check cleared through his bank this afternoon and he held up delivery until we were here to sign for it.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful, Mark,” she cried, and rushed into his arms.

Mark put her away from him, saying, “I’ll take a quick shower and be ready to sign when the bracelet comes,” and went into the bathroom. He returned to the living-room in a few minutes clothed in formal evening attire.

The buzzer sounded while Celia was in the tub. She listened to a mumble of voices in the outer room when Dustin answered it. She heard the door close firmly, and Mark came into the bathroom with the jewel case open.

The bracelet was more beautiful than Celia remembered. Tears of joy filled her blue eyes and spilled out to join the trickle of water on her face. Mark bent down to kiss her damp and flushed cheek before leaving the bathroom.

Celia dressed carefully in a new ice-blue evening gown she had chosen especially to wear with the bracelet—a clinging, lustrous gown, its strapless bodice supported only by her breasts, molding itself daringly about her hips. Her braids were a bright crown around her small head, her lips as red as the rubies themselves. She arose from the dressing-table and went over to the full-length mirror to clasp the bracelet on her wrist, then moved sedately into the living-room for Mark’s approval.

Mark was sitting in a deep chair, his head back, staring at the ceiling. Celia cleared her throat delicately. He looked at her, then sprang up and came to her to take both her outstretched hands. “You’re beautiful. The bracelet was made just for you.”

He wanted her to wear it to dinner, but Celia flatly refused. “I’m going to be sensible about wearing it, even if you aren’t,” she declared. Her tone was mature. She removed the jewel lingeringly and they went into the bedroom together to place it in the case. “I’m even afraid to leave it here while we go out to dinner,” she told him in a small, dismayed voice.

Mark Dustin laughed indulgently and took the tooled leather casket from her hands. “We’re going to put it right here in the top drawer of your dressing-table and forget about it. Good Lord, Ceil, you act as though you think a gang of international jewel thieves is lurking in the corridors outside just waiting for a chance to snatch it.”

“You don’t know but what they are,” she defended. “I don’t care how rich you are, we can’t afford to be careless with the bracelet. I think we should lock it in the hotel safe while we’re out to dinner.”

“Nonsense. Get your wrap. Doing a thing like that would only draw attention to its value. We’ll put it in the safe after we come home tonight if that will make you happier.”

Celia had to be content with that promise, though the pleasure of having dinner at a table beside the ocean with Mark was spoiled. Neither the stars nor the faint moonlight nor the gay chatter all around her on the boardwalk cafe could dispel her fierce desire to get back upstairs and assure herself that her beautiful bracelet was safe in the drawer.

When they returned to the hotel suite, she ran swiftly to her dressing-table and breathed a long sigh of relief when she snapped the box open and saw the jewel inside the chest, just as Mark had placed it there.

Mark stood in the doorway grinning at her, but she knew he was secretly pleased that she cared so much for her anniversary gift. He said, “Well, put it on. It’s time we started to the concert.” He crossed over to her and took the bracelet from the case and fastened it around her arm.

She looked up and smiled and said, “Thanks for putting it on for me the very first time I wear it.” She picked up her white velvet evening wrap and put it around her shoulders. The shirred collar stood up around the back of her head, tapering down to form lapels in front. Celia looked in the mirror, her arm extended slightly, and decided she looked the prettiest she had ever looked in all her life. A joyous thrill ran through her when she saw Mark’s admiring eyes reflected in the mirror. He was proud of her proud to walk beside her and have her recognized as Mrs. Mark Dustin.

As they passed through the main lobby downstairs, people turned their heads to watch them. Celia walked slowly and sedately beside her husband, her right hand lightly touching his arm, the evening wrap open in front to display the bracelet on her left wrist. In the car, she relaxed with a happy little sigh, and could scarcely wait until they were beyond earshot of the doorman to say ecstatically, “Mr. Voorland was certainly right, darling. Did you see the way they stared at the bracelet as though they had never seen a star ruby before?”

“They were looking at you,” he told her with an indulgent chuckle as he swung onto Collins Avenue.

There was little southbound traffic, and a round moon hung low in the sky, shedding its silvery sheen over the ocean and the tropical verdure lining both sides of the avenue.

An automobile came up behind them swiftly. Dustin was driving far over in the right-hand lane, loafing along at twenty miles an hour, his left hand loosely on the steering-wheel and his right arm around Celia.

The oncoming car came abreast of them, much closer than was necessary on the almost deserted avenue, then swerved abruptly as though out of control to crash into the left front wheel of Dustin’s roadster.

The impact of the heavy limousine drove the roadster off the pavement to smash head-on into the trunk of a royal palm on the edge of the right-of-way.

Celia screamed and Mark Dustin cursed angrily as the steering-wheel spun out of his lax hand.

The limousine ground to a stop beyond them and both doors, swung open to disgorge three men who raced back to the roadster before either occupant could open a door to get out.

The three men were masked with handkerchiefs, and all three held pistols in their hands. The first to reach Dustin’s side jerked the door open and rammed a muzzle against his side. “Take it easy,” he said, “and you won’t get hurt.”

Dustin sat where he was, immobile but not unvocal. The other two men circled the car to Celia’s side. One of them opened the door and said, “Stick out your arm, lady.”

“Don’t do it, Ceil.” Dustin’s voice was thick with anger. “There’ll be someone along. They won’t dare—”

The man who had spoken to Celia leaned past her and smashed the barrel of his gun down the westerner’s face. The front sight had been filed to sharpness and it laid his cheek open from temple to jaw.

“Good going,” the man beside Dustin muttered as the victim slumped back with blood streaming from the gash. “Get the stuff off the girl fast.”

Celia was screaming hysterically and kicking. The two men jerked her out of the car and one of them used a pair of snippers on the linked platinum. It parted easily, and they threw her aside to the ground. The third man had been going through Dustin’s pockets. He found the wad of bills in a side pocket, held together with a silver clip. He extracted them as the others raced around to join him. They all leaped for the open doors of the limousine as Dustin half fell from the roadster and staggered after them, cursing incoherently. He was half-blinded with pain and with shock, but the life he had led had not fitted him to accept such an outrage without fighting back.

He stumbled forward as the three men jumped in and slammed the doors shut. The limousine jerked forward just as he reached it and caught the rear door handle. It turned in his hand and the latch released, but the door didn’t open and the car was picking up speed.

The man in the rear seat rolled down the glass and leaned out. He cursed and smashed his pistol barrel down on the hand clutching the door handle. Mark Dustin stumbled back and the limousine roared away toward downtown Miami Beach.

Celia ran to him, sobbing, as he swayed drunkenly in the headlights of the roadster. When she saw the blood streaming down his face and the crushed hand he was holding out stiffly, she cried out, “Oh, Mark, what have they done to you,” in an agonized voice.

He put her aside with his other hand. His face was stony and his voice harsh as he grated, “We’ve got to notify the police. Get under the wheel and see if you can back out.”

“But your face! And your hand! You’ve got to get to a hospital!”

“Get in and drive to a phone.” He shoved her toward the roadster and walked around to get in the other side.

Celia didn’t waste time arguing. She had the car in gear, and as he slumped beside her she gunned the motor and let the clutch out with a jerk. The rear wheels spun momentarily, then took hold, and the roadster lurched backward onto the pavement. She put it in low and spun the steering-wheel. The left fender was crushed against the wheel and rubber screeched protestingly against steel as she swung in a short circle and headed toward the hotel.

Dustin started to protest that they could reach help faster by driving on to Fifth Street, but a look at the set of her jaw stopped him in mid-sentence.

The steering mechanism had evidently been injured, for the roadster wobbled drunkenly as she gained speed, but Celia kept the accelerator down and herded it down the pavement with grim concentration.

Mark Dustin held a handkerchief to his cut face. His injured hand lay on his knee. When they drove up to the hotel entrance the doorman opened the door and Dustin snapped, “Get the police. We’ve been robbed of a couple of hundred thousand dollars.”

“Send the doctor up to our suite. Please hurry.” She was out of the car and going around to open the door on Mark’s side. She put her arm around him and led him in through the lobby and on to an elevator.

The resident doctor had Dustin’s cheek bandaged and was putting a temporary splint on his injured hand when the first contingent of the law arrived, two city detectives and the chief of the Miami Beach detective bureau.

Peter Painter aggressively took the lead in snapping questions at the victims, getting a brief outline of the occurrence and sending his two subordinates scooting away with routine instructions to establish a road-block across the bay and put out a radio alarm for the limousine.

By that time the doctor had Dustin’s broken hand swathed in bandages which he assured the suffering man would take care of it until he could get it X-rayed and properly set. Three fingers were broken, and two smaller bones in the hand itself, he explained, and as soon as the first shock wore off he should go to a hospital for a thorough examination.

He picked up his bag and went out. Celia went to the telephone and ordered three Scotch and sodas sent up. Then she reseated herself beside her husband while Peter Painter stood in the center of the room and regarded the couple disapprovingly.

He had reason for this attitude. In his opinion, any tourist who ventured out in Miami wearing a fortune in jewelry was a congenital fool and deserved whatever happened to him. Moreover, they were a great nuisance to him and his department and were always kicking up a stink in the newspapers if their stolen property was not recovered within a few hours, which it seldom was. Such robberies made bad publicity, and were frowned upon by the city fathers to whom Painter owed his job.

The detective chief was small and slender, with a thread-like black mustache. His taste in clothes was fastidious, and now he thrust both hands deep in the patch pockets of a gray suede jacket and said, “You say tonight is the first time you’ve worn the bracelet, Mrs. Dustin?”

“Yes. We just bought it today.”

“It wasn’t delivered until today,” Mark corrected her. “We actually bought it last Monday, but I didn’t take possession until the insurance was fixed up and my check cleared through my bank.”

“How many people knew you were going to wear it tonight?”

“No one. No one could possibly have known.” Celia threw a frightened glance at her husband. “I hadn’t told anyone, Mark. I swear I hadn’t. It was to be a complete surprise at the concert tonight. Those men must have seen me wear it when I went through the hotel lobby,” she went on rapidly, “and followed us when we drove away.”

“From your story of the hold-up it sounds like a well-planned crime—by an organized gang.” Painter lifted his right hand from his pocket and thumbnailed his mustache. His black eyes flashed from Celia to Mark. “Hardly the sort of thing to be got up on the spur of the moment. Besides, how would any crook know how valuable the bracelet was—with just one look at it as you went through the lobby?”

“But they could tell,” said Celia spiritedly. “Mr. Voorland said that anyone could instantly recognize a star ruby as the real thing—and professional jewel thieves certainly must know about prices—and all that.”

“Chief Painter is right,” Mark told her wearily. “That job has all the earmarks of careful planning. Voorland knew you planned to wear it tonight,” he went on slowly. “I told him on Monday when we bought it and then reminded him a couple of times afterward. He knows how much it’s worth, too.”

Peter Painter bristled. The detective chief appeared to strut while standing perfectly still in his polished shoes. He shook his head emphatically. “Not Walter Voorland. He wouldn’t be mixed up in anything like this. He has run that store for twenty years and has the most exclusive clientele on the Beach.”

“Mark—” Celia timidly plucked at his sleeve and lowered her voice. “There was somebody else. Remember that friend of Mr. Voorland’s who was in the store Monday? He knew how much it cost, and he heard us say I wanted to wear it to the concert tonight.”

“Nonsense,” said Dustin impatiently. “He’s a detective, not a jewel thief.”

“What’s that?” Painter stepped closer, inclining his head. “A detective? Who?”

“Celia just remembered there was another couple in the store when we bought the bracelet and told Mr. Voorland she wanted to wear it tonight,” Dustin explained. “But the man was a private detective. The girl was his secretary. Beside, he was a good friend of Mr. Voorland’s.”

“A private detective.” Painter’s voice was sharp. “What was his name?”

“Michael Shayne. I imagine you’ve heard of him around town.”

“Shayne? Heard of him?” Painter whirled and strutted to the telephone.

Chapter Five

A SHOCK FOR AUNT MINNIE

MICHAEL SHAYNE AND HIS BROWN-HAIRED SECRETARY were playing a childish game. At least, Lucy Hamilton was playing a game, and Shayne guessed what it was. He abetted it by pretending he didn’t know what Lucy was pretending.

It was evening, and they were together in the downtown apartment on the bank of the Miami River which had been home to Shayne during his bachelor years. He had turned it into an office during the period when he was married to Phyllis. Returning to Miami after two years in New Orleans he had been fortunate enough to secure his old apartment again.

It was in New Orleans that he met Lucy Hamilton, hired her as his secretary, and eventually found himself making a confidante of her. Lucy was more like Phyllis than any girl he had ever met, and during the months in New Orleans he sensed that there was growing between them a feeling more intimate than that of employer and confidential secretary. He had gone to New Orleans thinking that getting away from the apartment might ease the sorrow of losing Phyllis. Six months ago he had returned to Miami, feeling that in fairness to Lucy and himself a separation would give them a chance to consider objectively what their future relations should be.

Lucy had a single room down the hall, and this afternoon she had come in with a bag of groceries, competently taken over the kitchenette in his apartment, and cooked a dinner for two which she served charmingly on a small table in the living-room.

She proved to be a splendid cook. She concocted what she called “Poor-girl steak,” consisting of beef ground twice with a small piece of bacon. To complete the meal she served baked yams, and biscuits of her own devising, with garlic-flavored gravy and black coffee. She wore a frilly blue and white apron over a white skirt and blue blouse, and was very domestic and matter-of-fact as she cleared the table and washed the dishes while Shayne settled himself comfortably with a noggin of cognac and a cigarette in the shabbily furnished living-room.

Shayne had a curious feeling deep inside him that the episode was more than a game. He had a fair idea of the way Lucy felt, and he respected her for it. Tonight for the first time since Phyllis’s death it didn’t seem wrong to have a woman in his apartment. He had tried to run away from Lucy but it hadn’t worked; and she had tried to run away from him by quitting her job and closing the New Orleans office in a fit of rage, but that hadn’t worked either. He had persuaded her, by long-distance telephone, to come to Miami for a vacation, and now they were here together.

Shayne took a sip of cognac and reflected upon the situation. A feeling of contentment and inertia possessed him. He had no cases on hand because he hadn’t yet decided whether to re-establish himself in Miami or return to New Orleans. He was thinking of calling to Lucy and telling her to hurry up and finish the dishes and come in to sit beside him when the phone rang. It was an old-fashioned wall phone, and its ringing had disrupted his plans so often in the past that he decided not to answer it. He slumped deeper in his chair, his angular face relaxed, his eyes half-closed, meditatively sipping Monnet and consigning all telephones to hell.

He wasn’t conscious of Lucy’s presence in the room until the phone stopped ringing. He looked up to see her putting the receiver to her ear. She said, crisply, “Michael Shayne’s office.”

She listened for a moment, turning her head sideways to look at Shayne. He looked back at her and tried not to scowl. She was still playing the game and getting such a kick out of it he hadn’t the heart to scold her.

“Yes,” she said, “he’s right here.” She held out the receiver. “He says it’s Chief Will Gentry.”

Shayne growled, got up and lounged across the room, took the receiver from her, and said, “Hello, Will.”

“Did I interrupt something important?” Gentry’s voice betrayed a lively and friendly interest in the feminine voice that had answered the telephone.

“Oh, no,” Shayne assured him. “That was just my maiden aunt from Peoria. You’ve heard me speak of Aunt Minnie.”

“Oh.” Chief Gentry hesitated a moment, then added, “Yeh. Rourke was telling me a couple of days ago about that pretty secretary of yours who just blew in from New Orleans.”

“Tim probably has her out tonight trying to seduce her,” Shayne said cheerfully. “The heel. What’s on your mind, Will?”

“What have you been doing all evening?” asked Gentry cautiously.

“Eating dinner right here. Aunt Minnie’s a hell of a cook. Get her liquored up on a fifth of gin and she can do the damnedest things with a dozen eggs, tomato ketchup, and a couple of bottles of beer.”

“For God’s sake, keep the recipe to yourself,” groaned Gentry. “I just finished dinner and it isn’t setting too well as it is. Sure you’ve been in all evening, Mike?”

“You can ask Aunt Minnie. I’ll call her to the phone and she’ll tell you—”

“That’s okay,” Gentry said hastily. “Then you haven’t been on the Beach lifting a couple of hundred grand in rubies?”

“Rubies?” Shayne scowled at the wall. “What’s up?”

“Some bird got beaten up and robbed of a bracelet about an hour ago. Painter just called up and he thinks you engineered the deal.”

“A ruby bracelet? Wait a minute, Will. Is the name—? Lucy,” he called, “what was the name of that cowherder we met in Voorland’s place buying a ruby bracelet last Monday?”

“Dustin?” Lucy appeared in the kitchen doorway with a plate and dishcloth in her hands.

“I thought,” said Gentry over the wire, “you said her name was Aunt Minnie.”

“Dustin,” Shayne growled. “Mark Dustin. Is that the bird?”

“So you do know about it,” said Gentry gravely. “Painter figures you’re the only one who knew about the bracelet and that Mrs. Dustin planned to wear it for the first time tonight.”

“So he puts the finger on me for snatching it?”

“You know Petey Painter,” Gentry said. “Even if he doesn’t actually think you pulled the job, you’ll do for a suspect until a better one comes along.”

“What does he want with me?”

“I think he’d appreciate it if you’d return the bracelet. I think you could make a deal with him if you played nice.”

Shayne said, “Nuts.”

“Sure it’s nuts,” Gentry agreed pleasantly, “but you’d better go over to the Sunlux and let Painter shake you down.”

“Let him come over here if he wants to ask me fool questions.”

“Wait a minute, Mike. He’s ready to swear out a warrant for you if you don’t lope over there pronto.”

“The hell he is.”

“I told him you were always glad to co-operate and I didn’t believe that would be necessary.” Gentry chuckled and added, “Is Aunt Minnie afraid to stay alone at night? Tim Rourke is hanging around the press room and I’ll get hold of him if you like and—”

“Leave Tim out of this,” said Shayne shortly. “I’ll go over and tell the twerp I gave up snatching rocks last week. The Sunlux?”

“Mark Dustin’s suite. Is there a bracelet worth a hundred and eighty grand, Mike?”

“That’s what Walter Voorland charged the sucker for it. It looked like junk to me, but if Earl Randolph okayed a policy on it, I could be wrong.”

Gentry said, “Give my regards to Aunt Minnie,” and hung up.

Shayne replaced the receiver and walked back to his chair, rubbing his angular chin thoughtfully. He poured a couple of ounces of cognac in his glass and held it up to the light.

Lucy came in from the kitchen. “What was it about the ruby bracelet, Michael?”

“It’s been snatched.”

“Stolen? Already?”

“About an hour ago.” Shayne scowled and let an ounce of cognac trickle down his throat.

“This must be the first time she’s worn it,” Lucy exclaimed. “Remember that day they were buying it? Mr. Dustin wanted it delivered by Friday for his wife to wear to a concert.”

Shayne nodded. “And this is Friday.”

“So they want you to recover it for them,” said Lucy happily. “That’s nice. You always feel better when you’re working. And there should be a big reward. Goodness! A hundred and eighty thousand dollars!”

“It isn’t quite as simple as that. Painter thinks I stole it.”

“Painter?”

“Peter Painter,” Shayne told her. “On the Beach. You’ve heard me speak of the little bastard often enough.”

“Oh, yes. But how on earth could he get such a crazy idea, Michael?”

“It isn’t difficult—not for Painter,” Shayne said morosely. “In this case it wasn’t difficult at all,” he added explosively. He held up his left hand with the five fingers extended and turned down one big-knuckled finger as he made each point:

“Here’s what he’s got: You wanted the bracelet for yourself. You said so right out loud and I admitted out loud I couldn’t afford it. We were there and heard Voorland’s sales talk and the price. We heard Dustin say his wife wanted it to wear tonight. Added to that, I’m an unscrupulous son-of-a-bitch who has been getting in Petey Painter’s hair for the past seven years, and it’s his theory that if you throw enough mud some of it is bound to stick.”

“But everyone knows you here in Miami.” Lucy looked at him, her brown eyes aghast.

“That’s the hell of it.”

“But—I don’t understand.”

“Stick around, darling, and you will.” Shayne grinned suddenly, got up and pinched her cheek. “Wait until you read this story the way Painter hands it out to the papers. You’ll discover you’re a kept woman, and that we’ve discovered some sort of lecherous orgy that requires star rubies dissolved in the blood of an unborn mulatto baby with which we drink a toast at the stroke of midnight under a full moon when Jupiter is in the ascendency.”

Lucy’s full red mouth quivered, uncertain whether to laugh or cry. “Michael! You’re just—teasing.” She moved closer to him. “They won’t dare say things like that.”

“They’ll hint them.” He put his arms around her. “Wait until I offer our cozy little home-cooked dinner in my apartment as an alibi. Painter can do a lot with that.”

“But it wasn’t anything. I just—cooked dinner for you.”

“That’s what you think,” he countered cheerfully. He was suddenly grave, holding her away from him with his hands on her shoulders. “You can still stay clear of it, Lucy. Pack your stuff and move to another hotel. Then buy a ticket and get out of town.”

“You know I won’t do anything of the kind.” Her eyes were moist and shining. “I’m not afraid.”

He shook his red head somberly. “It won’t be nice. You really don’t know what you’re walking into in Miami.” His voice became harsh. “I’ve deliberately built up a reputation over the years that lays me wide open for a charge like this. I can take it, but I wonder if you can.”

“Of course I can,” she said stoutly.

Shayne chuckled and his hands tightened on her shoulders, then he opened them slowly, placed his palms on her cheeks and pulled her to him and kissed her lips. He said, “You’re swell, Lucy.” He turned to stride across the room to get his hat from a rack.

Lucy stood where she was and watched him.

“You’d better go back to your own room. God knows when I’ll get back,” he said when he reached the door.

“I’ll be here waiting for you,” she said, “when you do come.”

He nodded and went out, closing the door gently.

Chapter Six

PETER PAINTER MAKES A PROMISE

CELIA DUSTIN OPENED THE DOOR of the hotel suite for Michael Shayne. Beyond her he saw Peter Painter and Walter Voorland conferring together. Mark Dustin reclined on a couch, his right cheek and hand heavily bandaged.

Celia’s eyes widened when she saw the tall, redheaded detective. “You’re Mr. Shayne,” she said.

“That’s right, Mrs. Dustin. I heard about the robbery. Is your husband badly injured?”

“Mark’s so impetuous. He didn’t have a chance against all three of them—and they had guns.” She stood aside to let him enter.

Voorland looked up, worried and disturbed, and gave Shayne a friendly nod of greeting. Painter strutted forward like a fighting cock and stopped in front of Shayne with his small feet planted widely apart, his hands clasped behind his back. “All right, Shayne,” he snapped. “What do you know about this?”

“Damned little,” Shayne confessed. He looked over the detective chief’s head at the jeweler.

Voorland wasn’t chewing gum and he looked grave as he met the question in Shayne’s gray eyes. “It’s bad, Mike. First time Mrs. Dustin wore her new bracelet, and it’s gone—like that.” He snapped his fleshy fingers resoundingly.

“A perfectly planned and beautifully executed job,” Painter put in aggressively. “By someone who knew exactly what he wanted and where it was going to be at a certain time.”

Shayne disregarded him and continued to look over his head at Voorland. “I’m surprised that you were able to deliver the bracelet today,” he said. “Not much time for a check to have cleared through a Denver Bank.”

Voorland nodded in response to the unspoken question in the detective’s voice. “My bank rushed it through by airmail. The full purchase price was paid before the bracelet left my store.”

Shayne shrugged and moved around Painter to ask Dustin, “Mind telling me how it happened?”

“See here,” Painter exploded, following Shayne across the carpeted floor. “You’re here to answer questions, not to ask them. I’d like to know—”

“You’d always like to know lots of things,” Shayne said over his shoulder. “Looks like they really cracked you up, Dustin.”

The westerner nodded. “I went crazy mad and stuck my neck out a mile. Your boys down here play for keeps.”

“Now look here, Shayne.” Painter moved around in front of him again. “That bracelet was delivered to Mr. Dustin late this evening. No one else knew the value of it or that his wife planned to wear it tonight except you and that girl—”

Shayne put the palm of his hand in Painter’s face and pushed. Painter rocked back on his heels and swung up a furious hand to knock Shayne’s palm aside. “By God, I’ll—”

“You’ll keep your damned yap shut,” Shayne told him with cold anger, “if you expect any help from me.”

“But you certainly can’t deny—”

“I’m not going to waste time denying anything,” Shayne broke in harshly. “How did it happen, Dustin?”

Painter stepped back, bristling with fury, while Mark Dustin gave the detective a brief account of the robbery. “I didn’t see the license number nor any of their faces,” he ended helplessly.

“There were three of them, you say.”

“I’m not even certain whether a fourth man stayed in the car behind the wheel or not. But they knew exactly what they wanted. They told Celia to stick her arm out the very first thing.”

“But they did take your money, too,” Shayne pointed out. “That looks as though they were just out for anything they could pick up.”

Dustin picked up a highball in his left hand. “You cops are the ones to figure things out. You know the way your mobs work down here better than I.”

“I’ve been trying to tell Painter,” said Voorland, “how unique this particular bracelet is. The sort of jewel mobs who operate in a resort city like Miami necessarily employ finger men who are experts in their line. One glance at those star rubies would have been enough to send them after the bracelet in a hurry.”

“But I still maintain it is preposterous,” said Painter angrily, “to presume that a gang would be waiting right here at the hotel on the mere chance that a finger man would see something of value. Remember, Mrs. Dustin insists she didn’t show the bracelet in public except when she walked across the hotel lobby to the door.”

“That still doesn’t rule out coincidence,” Shayne argued. “Lots of wealthy people wander out of this hotel every night wearing stuff worth grabbing. A smart mob might easily be hanging around waiting for just such a tip-off as they got when Mrs. Dustin flashed her new bracelet. Had the insurance on it gone through?” he asked Voorland.

“Yes. That is, temporary coverage has been issued pending receipt of the approved policy from New York. Earl Randolph handled it for me, and I’ve phoned him to come over here at once.”

“Mark!” cried Celia. “Do you suppose there’ll be any trouble about the insurance? You haven’t paid the premium or anything, have you?”

“I’ve been waiting for someone to mention that,” said Dustin. “I don’t know what the legal position will be. I understood from Mr. Voorland that it was all arranged.”

“Don’t worry about legal quibbling,” Voorland said with assurance. “International Indemnity is zealous of its reputation for paying every valid claim promptly. Your temporary coverage is every bit as good as a formal policy, even though you haven’t paid a cent on it. Of course,” he added, “the first premium will be deducted from the full amount when settlement is made.”

“I wouldn’t worry too much about a cash settlement,” said Shayne. “The very uniqueness of the stones in the bracelet makes it a practical certainty that the thieves will be glad to make a deal as soon as they find out what they’ve got.”

“That sounds like prior knowledge, Shayne.” Painter pounced upon his statement. “Could it be you who is planning to make a deal?”

Shayne disregarded him. “Isn’t that right?” he asked the jeweler.

“Exactly,” Voorland agreed. “It will be impossible to sell rubies like that as they are. I have photographs and exact measurements by which they can be positively identified.”

“But they could be cut up,” Painter interjected.

“That is exactly what they cannot be,” Voorland explained to him. “Star rubies would lose nine-tenths of their value cut up into pieces. Any cutting that destroys the asterism destroys the value of the stone. Shayne is right. They’ll be offered by the thieves—at a price.”

The door buzzer sounded. Celia Dustin went to the door and admitted a portly man with a round, shining face and a broad smile that displayed two gold teeth beneath a neatly trimmed mustache.

He said, “I’m Mr. Randolph. Mrs. Dustin?”

She said, “Yes,” and offered her hand. Voorland came across to meet Randolph, his eyes grave and intent.

“This is bad business, Earl,” said the jeweler. “We were just discussing International’s liability if the jewels are not recovered.”

“We’ve done business together for twenty years,” Randolph reminded him. “Has any company I ever represented tried to avoid a valid commitment?”

“Just what I’ve been telling Mr. Dustin. You know Shayne and Chief Painter. And this is your client whom I believe you have not met.”

Randolph nodded  to  the others and went over  to Dustin. He said, solemnly, “I didn’t realize you’d been injured. In the robbery?”

“That’s right,” said Dustin glumly. “If I’d been sure about the insurance I might not have tried to save the bracelet.”

“Mr. Voorland has been trying to tell us,” Painter put in, “that the gems in the bracelet are a kind that can’t be cut up and resold readily.”

“Star rubies? Only an idiot would even consider cutting one up,” Randolph confirmed. “How are you in on this, Mike?”

“Offering a reward?” Shayne countered with a slow grin.

“I haven’t had time to think about that phase,” Randolph said slowly, “but I presume—”

“Wait a minute, Randolph.” Painter spoke up swiftly and emphatically. “You know the law about stolen property. There’ll be no deals with thieves while I’m chief of detectives on the Beach.”

Earl Randolph smiled blandly and asked, “Are you intimating that Mike Shayne is a thief? It’s perfectly legal to offer a reward for the return of stolen property, and you know it.”

“But it isn’t legal to offer immunity along with it.”

“Who said anything about offering immunity? If Shayne can recover the stuff, I won’t ask him how he did it,”

“It’s a positive encouragement to lawlessness,” Painter declared angrily. “You know as well as I do how such deals are arranged, and I’m determined to stamp out the practice on the Beach.”

“Just how are such deals arranged?” Shayne asked coldly.

“All the organized mobs have someone set up as a go-between—someone with the protective coloration of legality—like a private eye. Through this go-between, a deal is arranged with the insurance company for the return of stolen articles at a price, and no questions asked. I’ve no doubt that you and Randolph have arranged many such affairs in the past.” The detective chief whirled and took a sharp turn about the room, came back and stopped before them, adding angrily, “I’m sick of such flaunting of legal authorities here on the Beach and I warn you both I won’t countenance it.”

Shayne exchanged an amused glance with Randolph and said, “Painter has just got through accusing me of arranging the hold-up tonight.”

“You seem very sure you can put your hands on the bracelet as soon as a suitable reward is offered,” snapped Painter.

Shayne laughed indulgently. “That’s because I keep the right sort of company. Some day, Painter, you’re going to shed your diapers and learn that you can’t solve cases by sitting on your pratt and drawing a salary from the taxpayers.” He turned his back on the infuriated man and said to Randolph, “I’ll see you tomorrow and talk this over.”

“I promise you, Shayne,” said Painter, “that if those jewels are returned through your efforts I’ll slap you in jail as an accessory both before and after the fact and keep you there till you rot.”

“I don’t understand what all the argument is about,” said Mark Dustin, his forehead knitted. “If an insurance company wants to offer a reward, why isn’t it legal for anyone to collect it who can return the bracelet?”

“Simply because it constitutes collusion with criminals, and that’s a felony,” Painter shouted. “I tell you I suspect Shayne knows where your bracelet is cached this very minute, and he’ll keep possession of it until a large enough reward is offered. You don’t realize it, Mr. Dustin, but this sort of thing has become a regular racket here in Miami and on the Beach. Men like Shayne take advantage of insurance companies faced with a large loss and eager to settle for less than the face value of the policy.”

“If it’s illegal for you to collect a reward from the insurance company,” said Dustin to Shayne, “perhaps the chief won’t object if I hire you to recover my property. Would that be collusion, too?”

“Better ask Painter,” Shayne said with a shrug. “He’s the lad with all the answers.”

“It’s practically the same situation,” Painter snapped. “It amounts to putting a premium on successful thievery. There are duly constituted authorities to enforce the law.”

“It sounds to me,” Dustin told Shayne, “as though it’s practically illegal for you to earn a fee. How does a private dick earn a living in Miami?”

“I get along,” Shayne answered.

The telephone rang and Celia Dustin answered it. She hung up and told her husband. “The ambulance is here to take you to the hospital, dear.”

Dustin finished his highball and winced with pain as he came slowly to his feet. “I wish you’d call me tomorrow, Shayne. I’d like to keep in touch with things.” His back was turned to Painter, and his left eyelid dropped in a wink as he made the suggestion.

Shayne said, “Glad to, Dustin. Good luck with that hand.”

Celia touched her husband’s left coatsleeve lightly as they went to the door. The others followed them into the corridor.

Peter Painter edged up to Shayne and said, “I want you to understand that I’m not at all sure you didn’t engineer the hold-up tonight. I intend to check every movement you’ve made and every person you’ve contacted since you witnessed the purchase of that ruby bracelet last Monday. If it turns up in your hands, I’m going to know how it got there.”

Again Shayne ignored him, and said to Voorland, “I’ll drop in your store in the morning, Walter, and get all the dope you can give me on the bracelet. I’ve an idea there’s going to be some money in this, somehow, for me.”

Chapter Seven

BODY WORK A SPECIALTY

MICHAEL SHAYNE DROVE AWAY from the Sunlux Hotel slowly, his forehead furrowed with thought. A couple of years had elapsed since he had operated professionally in the Miami area, and a great many changes had taken place. Changes, particularly, in the organization and identity of the mobs ruling the resort city’s underworld. Two years ago, he reflected morosely, it would have been a cinch to contact the present holders of the ruby bracelet. There wasn’t any doubt in his mind that it had been a professional job, the sort of thing Ray Huggins might have planned and executed in previous days. A word dropped in any one of half a dozen saloons would soon have reached Huggins, and negotiations for the return of the stolen gems would have begun promptly.

But Ray Huggins had slipped from power eighteen months ago and there had probably been two or three uneasy successors since then, men who might not even know Mike Shayne except by reputation, and who certainly had no way of knowing he was back in business at the old stand.

Shayne’s belly muscles tightened as these vagrant thoughts drifted through his mind. Was he actually back in business in Miami? He hadn’t publicly announced any such intention, for he hadn’t made up his mind yet. But he knew, as he drove meditatively along beneath Miami’s golden moonglow that the decision had been made for him tonight—by Peter Painter.

He knew without going into involved thought processes, that he had accepted the challenge of the Miami Beach detective chief. It was Painter’s own fault for dragging him into the case. He had no intention of being told what he could or could not do. The threat of arrest on charges of complicity if he dared arrange a deal for the return of the bracelet would be laughable had it come from anyone except Painter. It was the sort of statement any cop might toss off in front of an aggrieved citizen, but from anyone else it would have been accompanied by a sly wink to take away any sting from the official warning. Everybody in the know fully understood how such matters were arranged. It was, in a sense, a kind of tribute levied by the underworld, and one played along with it whether he liked it or not.

Shayne didn’t like it himself, but he had picked up some nice fees that way in the past, and the insurance companies were glad to pay a moderate reward instead of sustain a huge loss. A case such as this, involving a fortune in gems which could not be fenced to advantage, was perfect for a fix. The important thing was to get oneself into it as a go-between who could be trusted by both parties. The thing now was to figure out a way to contact the jewel thieves in a hurry before someone else got to them with a proposition.

He turned off on one of the side streets before reaching Fifth and drove slowly, sitting erect behind the wheel and watching each side of the quiet street calculatingly.

A few blocks from the ocean he stopped in the middle of the block. The houses on both sides of the street were dark and there were no cars in sight in either direction. A gravel drive led off to the right, through stone gateposts into the landscaped grounds of a moderately large estate.

He was driving a light sedan which he had bought secondhand when he learned that Lucy Hamilton was coming to Miami. It was of pre-war vintage, but he had given it a new black paint job and it glistened now in the moonlight.

Shayne backed up a few feet, put the sedan in second gear and rolled smoothly toward the entrance of the estate, keeping close to the left-hand side of the drive. Directly opposite the stone gatepost, he wrenched the steering-wheel sharply to the left and there was a loud grating crash as the fender was crumpled against solid stone.

The sedan shivered and rocked to a halt. He calmly put it in reverse and backed out onto the macadam, then went forward and around a corner and on southward past Fifth to South Beach. He parked inconspicuously on a dimly lit side street, got out and hurried to the garish boardwalk, the Coney Island of southern Florida.

There, among hotdog stands and shooting-galleries, he hastily entered a hole-in-the-wall barroom and moved swiftly back behind the row of occupied stools, catching the proprietor’s eye as he passed the cash register and jerking his head significantly toward the rear.

The proprietor was a thin, tubercular looking man with pallid cheeks and small eyes sunk far back beneath bulging brows. He nodded his head slightly in response to Shayne’s signal, rang up a sale and made change, then slid off the stool behind the register. He said something to the nearest bartender, and strolled to the rear where Shayne awaited him.

“Haven’t seen you around much,” he began casually. Shayne seized the man’s thin arm and said, “I’m in a jam, Bert. A hell of a jam.” He paused to lick his lips and went on hoarsely, “Ran into a guy up the street a few minutes ago. I wasn’t going too fast, but it knocked him ten or fifteen feet.”

“Hurt bad?” Bert Haynes pursed his thin lips and looked concerned.

“Hell, I don’t know. Afraid so.” Shayne shrugged and went on rapidly, “I didn’t stop to find out. You know the way I stand with Painter here on the Beach.”

Bert nodded. “I know he’d like to hang something on you, all right.”

“My crate’s parked up the street. Busted fender and headlight. If they pick me up my garage will tell ’em it was all right when I took it out tonight.”

“Tough,” Bert murmured with commiseration.

Shayne’s big hand tightened on his arm. “I’ve been out of circulation a long time, Bert. There must be some place where I can get a fast job done on that fender without any questions.”

Bert Haynes blinked both eyes and tightened his bloodless lips against his teeth. “Try Mickey’s Garage. Down near the end of the beach and over a block.” He gave Shayne explicit directions. “I hear around that they know how to keep a buttoned lip on the sort of work they do.”

“Hot stuff?”

“I wouldn’t know. Wait a minute.” He caught Shayne’s sleeve as the redhead started away. “You’re not working?” he asked anxiously. “You wouldn’t work me for a tip with a phoney come-on?”

Shayne laughed shortly. “Have I ever pulled a fast one like that?”

“No. You ain’t for a fact,” he agreed.

“But I am working again,” Shayne said quietly. “You can pass that along to anyone who might be interested.” He hurried out of the small barroom and back to his damaged car, got in and drove around to a neon sign that read: Mickey’s Garage. Gen’l Repairs, Body Work a Specialty.

The wide wooden door leading into the garage was closed. Shayne turned off the street and stopped with his front wheels on the sidewalk. He got out and found a button on one side of the door with a metal plate above it that read: Night Bell.

He put his finger on the button and held it down until the door slid open enough to let a man come through. He wore grimy coveralls and a greasy mechanic’s cap. He scowled inquiringly at the man who had disturbed him, blinked in the glare of the single headlight of Shayne’s car and said, “Yeh? Whadya want?”

“Had an accident.” Shayne gestured toward his car. “I need a fast job before the cops pick me up.”

“I dunno.” The mechanic came through the aperture and went to study the damage to the fender and head light. He shook his head and said, “Rush jobs come high.”

“I don’t give a damn about the cost.” Shayne had his wallet out and began pulling out twenty-dollar bills. “How much to fix me up with a new fender and headlight?”

“Trouble is, we’re busy.” He furtively considered the bills fanned out in Shayne’s hand. “Anybody hurt bad?”

“I’m not paying for a lot of questions,” Shayne countered. He added another twenty to the four in his hand, then, more slowly, another. He closed the wallet and returned it to his pocket. “It won’t be hard to match this new paint job of mine.” He smoothed the six bills together, folded them lengthwise, and slapped them against his palm.

The mechanic nodded and reached for the money. “Drive on in. I’ll get on yours just as soon as I finish the job I’m on.” He stepped back and slid the door all the way open.

Shayne drove inside a big room with half a dozen cars parked around the wall in various stages of dismantlement. He waited just inside while the mechanic closed the door and said, “This doesn’t look too good. If the cops come around—”

The mechanic stepped on the running-board beside him and grinned widely, showing a gap in his front upper teeth. “Never you mind about the law, buddy. Drive straight ahead and turn in between them white lines on the floor.”

As Shayne drove in he neared a solid ten-foot panel that rose slowly to admit passage onto a rickety freight elevator.

The mechanic chuckled at the detective’s surprise when the panel closed soundlessly behind them when the sedan was on the elevator. He stepped from the running-board and pressed a button and the elevator descended slowly to the floor below, which was brightly lighted and resounded with the thumping sounds of a wooden mallet on sheet metal.

“Pull it off over here,” he directed Shayne. “We’ll get to you just as soon as we finish up this other one.”

Shayne drove off the elevator onto a clear space in the underground workroom and cut the ignition. The mechanic strolled over to say a few words to his fellow workman, who was pounding out dents in the right front fender that had been removed from a black limousine.

After lighting a cigarette, Shayne got out and strolled over to the workman to ask casually, “How much longer will you be on that job?”

“Quarter of an hour, maybe. All you got to do is sit tight and you can drive that hack of yours out of here fixed so nobody in God’s world’ll ever know you been in an accident.”

Shayne said, “Fair enough.” He walked around the limousine, looking at it with casual disinterest, memorized the number of the Dade County license plate, then returned to the mechanics and said enthusiastically, “That’s the kind of crate I’d like to own. I suppose a guy would have to be a millionaire to get one like it these days.”

One of them grunted some noncommittal reply, and they both went on with their work.

“I always wondered,” Shayne went on, “how it felt to sit behind the wheel of a buggy like that.”

Neither of the men said anything, but went on with their hammering as though their lives depended upon getting the job finished within a few minutes.

Shayne shrugged and dropped his cigarette to the concrete floor and ground it out with his shoe. He yawned and strolled back to the limousine and leaned inside the front window to study the rich upholstery and the gleaming dashboard.

Glancing at the mechanics, he saw that neither of them was paying any attention to him. The windshield of the big car appeared to be faintly opaque, and Shayne felt the window glass between his thumb and forefinger. It seemed extra thick, and he had a hunch it was intended to be bulletproof.

He unlatched the door and slid onto the soft cushion behind the wheel, switched on the dashlight and pretended interest in the speedometer and various other gadgets.

There was a single key in the ignition lock, and Shayne pressed a button on the glove compartment to search for some clue as to the car’s owner. It came open easily, and he was groping inside the small opening when two men appeared on a wooden stairway leading down from a room upstairs.

The men came slowly toward the limousine, halted, and glared at him. They were both neatly dressed in dark suits, and the slimmer one was quite young. He had thick lips and his eyes bulged a trifle, giving his face an expression of boyish astonishment. His companion was heavier and some twenty years older. He had a thick black mustache and looked like newspaper photographs of Molotov.

He said, “What the hell you doing in there?” and put his right hand inside his coat pocket.

Shayne straightened up and withdrew his hand from the glove compartment. “Sorry,” he said nervously. “Wasn’t anybody around and I didn’t think it’d hurt any to sit here a minute and pretend I was a big shot like the guy that owns this heap.”

The bulky man stopped beside the car and opened the right door with his left hand. He said, “Get out.” He reached inside and slammed the glove compartment shut. “So you didn’t think it’d hurt any if you snooped, huh?”

Shayne slid out from behind the wheel and closed the door on his side. The younger man came around the front of the car and looked at him intently. He said excitedly to his companion, “Listen, Blackie. Ain’t this the dick that had his pitcher in the paper last week?”

Shayne started to turn away, but Blackie caught him by the arm and peered suspiciously at his face. “By God,” he snarled, “you’re right, kid. It’s Mike Shayne. That tough shamus from across the bay. I heard he was back in town lookin’ for trouble.” His right hand was in his coat pocket. He let go of Shayne’s arm and took a backward step. “Shake ’im down, kid.”

Shayne lifted his arms to let the kid shake him down. He said mildly, “I don’t care what you do just so you don’t tell the cops I’m in here getting a busted fender fixed.”

The kid felt over him carefully and said, “It’s okay, Blackie. Do you think—?”

“I think he’s too damned curious,” Blackie said angrily.

“You can see for yourself.” Shayne nodded toward his sedan. “I can’t go out on the street till that’s fixed.”

“Had an accident?”

“Little bust-up on Collins Avenue. You know I don’t stand in with the Beach police, and I’d just as leave not have Painter ask me any questions about that fender and headlight.”

Blackie’s eyes were narrowed and suspicious. “I’ll just check on that, shamus. Watch him, kid.” He turned aside to a pay telephone against the wall, put in a nickel, and called police headquarters.

He got the traffic bureau and said, “I’m checking on an accident this evening. Anything reported in the last couple of hours?”

He listened a moment, hung up, came back with an ugly scowl on his heavy features and both hands planted deep in his pockets.

“You’re lying, Shayne. What’s the big idea?”

Shayne shrugged and said, “It could have something to do with a ruby bracelet.”

The kid’s eyes widened with anxiety. Blackie’s scowl grew deeper yet. He muttered, “Wise guy, huh?”

“I’m just trying to tell you that I’m back in business and I’ve got the same in with the insurance people that I always had. If you know anybody that’s got a ruby bracelet for sale, I’m ready to make an offer. Just pass the word around. That Mike Shayne is in the market and can be reached at the same old place.”

“Jeez, Blackie,” said the kid uneasily. “I don’t think—”

Blackie said, “Keep your trap shut and watch him.” He went back to the telephone and dialed another number. This time he put his mouth close to the mouthpiece and talked in a low mumble which Shayne could not hear.

He hung up after a time and came back to the detective with a pleased smile on his dark features, pushing his Panama hat up on his forehead.

Shayne said, “No hard feeling. I don’t blame you—”

Blackie’s left hand came out of his pocket in a swinging arc. Light was momentarily reflected from a pair of brass knucks before they connected solidly with the side of Shayne’s chin. He went down and out under the smashing impact.

Chapter Eight

WHAT IN HELL GOES ON?

A HEAVY HAND ON SHAYNE’S SHOULDER shook him back to consciousness. He was slumped over the steering-wheel of his own car and moonlight was shining in the window. There was a heavy stench of cheap whisky inside the car.

The side of his jaw felt as though it had been kicked by a mule, and his belly was sore. He straightened up groggily and turned to look into the broad face of a uniformed policeman leaning in through the open window.

“H’lo, officer,” he muttered. “Where am I? What—?”

“Mike Shayne!” the cop said with incredulity. “Passed out, by God, like a high-school kid. You feel all right?”

“I feel like hell.” Shayne lifted his hand to tentatively waggle his jaw. “Did a house fall on me?”

“You must of got that lick on the jaw when you ran off the road and hit this culvert.” The policeman turned on a flashlight and sent the beam forward to show Shayne the front end of his sedan crashed against the concrete abutment of a culvert. “Probably would of broke your neck if you hadn’t been drunk as a coot when it happened.”

Shayne shook his aching head and groaned and moved cautiously from behind the wheel to step out. The uniformed man supported him with a hand under his elbow as he swayed dizzily. The night air was cool and it drove the fumes of the whisky away. The front of his clothing was still damp where the liquor had been poured over him. He turned slowly, staring round him, and again asked, “Where am I? You’re Jim Rawson, aren’t you?”

“Yeh. I’m Rawson. You’re on Delaware Road close to the Bay. Do you remember crashing into the culvert?”

Shayne shook his red head slowly from side to side.

He reached in his shirt pocket for a cigarette, but his pack was soggy with whisky. Rawson offered his pack, and struck a light when Shayne put a cigarette between his lips. “Lucky I happened to drive by this way,” Rawson said. “I didn’t know there was enough liquor in the world to pass you out cold like that.”

Shayne laughed shortly and blew his breath in the officer’s face. Rawson put his hand on his shoulder and said, “Hell, you haven’t been drinking. What the devil—?”

“I got myself slugged—but good.” Shayne made a savage gesture with his big right hand. “Somebody planted me there in my car while I was out, and poured whisky all over me.”

“Where’d it happen? Who did it?”

Shayne’s brain was clearing. Slowly he began remembering everything. He decided the boys had taken turns kicking him in the stomach while he was knocked out on the concrete floor of the garage. He said, “I’ve always buried my own dead, Rawson. Do you have to make a report on this?”

“Well, I guess I don’t have to,” the policeman answered uncertainly. “If you don’t want to sign a complaint—”

“We’ll skip the whole thing.” Shayne stood erect and drew in a deep breath, wincing with pain as his bruised body muscles protested. “Let’s see how bad the damage to the car is.”

Officer Rawson switched on his flashlight again and they went to inspect the condition of the car. It looked about the same as it had back in Mickey’s garage. “Axle may be knocked out of line, but I don’t believe the steering rods are bent,” Rawson said after a cursory examination. “Looks like it’d drive okay.”

“What time is it?”

“Little past midnight.”

“Know any all-night garage where I might get it fixed?”

“There’s one down on South Beach stays open at night. Mickey’s Garage. Only one I know of on the Beach. It’s at—”

“I know where it is,” Shayne growled. “In fact I’ve got a cash deposit up there I might as well use.” He turned and stalked back to the open door of his car.

The patrolman followed him, shaking his head dubiously. “You sure you can drive?”

Shayne said, “No.” He set his teeth together hard against the pain as he folded his long legs behind the wheel. His key was in the ignition. He turned it on and started the motor. The officer closed the door and stepped back. “Back it out easy and take it slow,” he advised. “I’ll follow along to see it goes all right.”

Shayne said, “Thanks. You’re a pal. I won’t forget this, Rawson.” He backed away from the concrete abutment, drove forward, and took the first turn to the left toward South Beach.

The neon sign in front of Mickey’s Garage was dark when he reached it. He parked in front of the entrance, clambered out and crossed to the night bell which he held down for several minutes without getting any response. He then tried to slide the wooden door open, but it was locked.

Returning to his car, he got in and drove north until he reached an all-night bar. He went in and slid onto a leather cushioned stool and asked, “Have you got any decent cognac?” when the bartender approached.

The man looked curiously at the ugly cut and lump on the side of Shayne’s jaw, but the expression on the detective’s face didn’t invite comment, so the man looked discreetly away and said they had Courvoisier and Mon-net.

Shayne said, “Three fingers of Monnet—in a water glass.”

The bartender brought him a water glass a third full of cognac. Shayne drank it down in three avid gulps and immediately felt better. He laid a five-dollar bill on the counter and told the bartender to repeat the dosage, then went back to look in the classified telephone book and found a number for Mickey’s Garage. He dialed the number and listened to the garage telephone ring ten times before hanging up.

He went back to his stool and found a dollar bill beside the water glass, which was nearly half full this time. He pushed the bill aside, rested both elbows on the bar and sipped the French liquor gratefully while his thoughts went around in circles and always came back to the one wholly inexplicable event of the evening.

Why had Blackie slugged him? After talking on the phone, presumably to his boss. It was to be inferred, of course, that he had received orders to slug him. But why?

Shayne scowled and sipped the cognac, and always came back to that baffling question. If he wasn’t on the right track, if the limousine hadn’t been the one used in the jewel robbery, why would they bother to slug him and get him out of the garage?

No. Shayne didn’t believe he had been mistaken about the limousine. That far, his hunch had been right. Then why in the name of God had Blackie received orders to put him out of the way? Shayne was the contact they needed. Their only chance to make a decent profit from the stolen bracelet—if Voorland was right in stating that the star rubies would be almost worthless if cut into smaller stones so they could be safely disposed of.

In retrospect, he went over and over the brief dialogue in the garage, seeking a clue to the irrational denouement. He had certainly made his own position clear enough. Blackie couldn’t possibly have misconstrued his words sufficiently to get the impression that Shayne was threatening the safety of the mob. There was a definite way in which such matters were always handled, and Shayne’s reputation certainly assured them that they need have no fear of a double cross from him.

He hadn’t, of course, expected a definite and outright offer over the telephone. Such delicate negotiations were never carried on baldly and openly. The go-between didn’t expect nor wish to know the identity of the person with whom arrangements were made. That way, there was never any proof of collusion. A device that Shayne had used in the past was to park his car, unlocked, at a prearranged spot and time with an envelope thrust down behind the seat containing the agreed upon sum in large bills. After conscientiously leaving it unwatched for fifteen minutes, one expected to return and find the envelope gone, mysteriously replaced by the stolen gems. A particularly wise precaution to observe in a case like that was to have a witness present when the jewels were found in the car, thus defeating any suggestion of prearrangement. Once, Shayne recalled, he had had the pleasure of using Peter Painter himself as the witness to prove that Shayne had been inside a bar a block away when the stolen property was being returned.

It was because of this very definitely understood procedure that Shayne was now so puzzled by Blackie’s reaction to his telephone call tonight. Even if the mob planned to use some other intermediary for collecting an insurance reward there was no good reason to get sore at a man merely because he offered his services. The more he puzzled over it, the angrier he became. It could only be construed as a clear warning for him to keep his nose out of the affair. The second such warning he had received in the course of a few hours, he reminded himself sourly. First, Painter. Then the man whom Blackie had designated as the Boss.

Shayne didn’t like warnings. He didn’t react to them very well. He drained his glass and set it down, carefully touched the livid swelling on his jaw with rough finger tips, then got up and left the bar.

He drove across the County Causeway swiftly, turned south on Biscayne Boulevard, and parked his damaged sedan a few minutes later in the hotel garage.

Only the night clerk was on duty when Shayne crossed to the elevator. The man blinked sleepily at the uninjured side of the detective’s face and muttered, “G’night, Mr. Shayne,” and settled back in his chair.

The elevator boy widened his eyes and rolled them sideways until only the whites showed when he saw the lump on Shayne’s jaw, but swallowed his questions and took him up to the third floor.

The door was unlatched, and Shayne was surprised to find his living-room light on when he went in. He had forgotten Lucy’s promise to wait there for him no matter how late he was, but he remembered it when he saw a pair of pink mules on the living-room floor.

Closing the door quietly, he stood tugging at his ear-lobe for a moment. He pursed his lips in a soundless whistle, went quietly across to the bedroom door and bent his head to listen attentively. He could hear no sound from the closed room. She had probably grown sleepy and weary of waiting, and had decided to take a nap.

He turned away and removed his hat and coat, went into the bathroom and grimaced at the reflection that looked back at him from the mirror.

Cold water took all the blood away, but it didn’t help the puffed bruise much. He then went into the kitchen and filled a tall glass with ice and water, carried it into the living-room with a smaller empty glass. After filling the smaller glass with Monnet, he lit a cigarette on which he puffed slowly between alternate sips of water and cognac.

Except for his throbbing chin, he had never felt better and more at peace with the world. His gaze kept straying to the pair of pink mules on the floor. Lucy had probably become discouraged over the little game she had been playing all evening, and he thought of her curled up on the big double bed, asleep.

The cognac glass was half empty and he was working on his second cigarette when a rap sounded on the outer door.

Shayne sat very still. The knock was repeated. It wasn’t loud, yet it didn’t have a furtive sound. It was a light, casual rap yet persistent, indicating that his caller knew he was at home and expected him to answer the summons.

He got up quietly, picked up the bedroom slippers, and tiptoed into the kitchen where he slipped them into a drawer. There were two more raps on the door as he finished taking this precaution. He went to the door and opened it blocking the entrance with his body for a moment, then took a backward step when he recognized his visitor.

Timothy Rourke strolled over the threshold with a quizzical look at Shayne’s bruised and cut jaw. “I saw the light under your door and knew you must be home. Painter hang that one on you?” He crossed to the center table and nodded approvingly at the cognac bottle, went to a wall cupboard and got out a tall, thin-stemmed glass without waiting for an invitation.

The reporter was tall and loosely put together. He had regained some weight and a great deal of his former buoyancy since his long period of hospitalization, though his face was still thin and his eyes were deeply sunken in his face.

Shayne closed the door and came back to resume his seat while Rourke poured himself a drink of cognac. He said, “Make yourself right at home, Tim. I can only think of a few thousand people in Miami I’d rather see right now than you.”

Rourke took a sip of cognac and studied Shayne’s face over the rim of his glass. “Expecting someone else?”

Shayne said, “No. I was thinking about bed.”

“You’ve still got a half drink left in your glass. I had an interview with Painter after he left the Sunlux tonight.”

“And?”

Rourke shrugged his thin shoulders and slumped deeper in his chair. “He doesn’t outright accuse you of fixing the ruby snatch. Just lays it on the line that you’re the only guy with motive and opportunity.”

“Did you come here to get a statement from me?”

Rourke grinned and waved a  thin,  tobacco-stained hand in the air. “I thought I’d follow up some angles. Thus far,” he complained, “I haven’t got anything. Dustin is back from the hospital but he isn’t seeing reporters. I’ve called Walter Voorland’s house half a dozen times, but he isn’t in. Earl Randolph’s telephone doesn’t answer at all. What’s doing?”

Shayne shook his head wearily. “I don’t know, Tim.”

Rourke’s eyes studied the lump on his jaw again, bright and probing. “Painter says you’ve been warned to stay out of it. He says that if you try to collect a reward he’ll throw the book at you. He says for once he’s got you where the hair is short and you won’t dare make a deal with Randolph.”

Shayne lit a fresh cigarette and took a sip of cognac. He grinned amiably and said, “What are you doing here if Painter says all that?” He leaned back comfortably and looked across at the bedroom door. It was decidedly pleasant to think of Lucy sleeping in there.

“Because I know nothing on God’s earth will keep you out of it now,” Rourke explained. “And it looks like you’ve been leading with your chin, as usual.”

“Knucks,” Shayne told him. He hesitated, then added, “I’ve been out of circulation too long, Tim. Who could have pulled that job on Dustin?”

“I haven’t the ins I once had, either,” Rourke confessed. “You know how it’s always been here. They drift in and out from the north. Earl Randolph should know more about it than anyone else.”

“Ever hear of a couple of local boys called Blackie and the Kid?” Shayne described the two men he had encountered in Mickey’s Garage.

“I don’t think so. They the ones that worked you over?”

Shayne nodded, his eyes bleak. “I left myself wide open,” he confessed. “I figured all I had to do was to make contact and sit back and wait for the approach. Things have changed since the old days. What in hell goes on? Both Voorland and Randolph say the rubies can’t possibly be cut up and fenced. How come I get slugged when I suggest a deal?” His tone was morose and aggrieved, like that of a lobbyist who unexpectedly encounters an honest congressman in Washington.

“Things must be getting tough,” was Rourke’s pleasant comment.  “Those  lads you propositioned—how’d you get a line on them?”

“I followed a hunch.”

“Sure it was a right hunch? Maybe they didn’t savvy the sort of fix you offered.”

“They understood, all right. There’s something damned screwy going on, Tim. Something I can’t put my finger on.”

Rourke sat up straighter but masked his eagerness with a casual tone, though his eyes glowed brightly in their sockets and his nostrils twitched like a blood hound’s on the scent. “Something phony about the heist itself? Inside angles?”

“I don’t know. I’d take Walter Voorland’s word any time and any place on the value of the stuff. And Earl Randolph issued a policy on the full purchase price.” Shayne frowned deeply and drew on his cigarette.

“Dustin’s the only unknown factor,” Rourke pointed out. “From the west, isn’t he?”

“The west sticks out all over him. But he did get smashed up in the heist, and there’s no angle in it for him,” Shayne exploded. “He can’t recover more than he paid for the bracelet.”

“Sometimes a guy figures it’s nice to have the stones and the insurance money, too.”

“Only if the damned things will bring a fair sum under the counter,” Shayne reminded him. “That’s what makes this thing so crazy. Star rubies can’t be fenced like other stuff. And if there’s anything wrong about Dustin, he must know it’ll come out in the investigation that’s certain to be made. No insurance company is going to pay out a wad of dough like that without checking back on him closely, no matter where he lives. No, as near as I can see, Dustin is out.”

“Who does that leave?”

“No one.”

Rourke emptied his glass and got up. He went across to the bathroom and inside, leaving the door ajar. From beyond the door he said, “I can ask around about the two boys who worked on you. Might pick up a line on them some way.”

“I’ve got a lead of my own,” Shayne said, “but I can’t start on it until tomorrow.”

Rourke came out of the bathroom, and watching him from beneath lowered lids, Shayne said, “Well, guess I’ll turn in.” He started to yawn, but his sore chin stopped it.

“I can take a hint,” said Rourke with a grin. He went out and closed the door.

Shayne stood for a long moment before the bedroom door before going in to get his pajamas. When he finally opened it, he stood with his hand on the knob staring at the bed. Moonlight came through the window and lay softly upon the form of the girl curled up under the sheet.

Lucy Hamilton lay on her side. Her dark hair was fluffed out on the pillow and her right arm was outside the covering, her fingers seemingly clutching the edge of the mattress.

Shayne closed the door and drew the sheet from the other side of the bed back a little to slide his body underneath. Lucy did not stir, and her breathing was so even and faint he could not hear a sound as he lowered his head to the pillow beside hers.

He lay like that for a moment, stiffly embarrassed and suddenly angry with her for going on sleeping.

His left hand touched her brown hair gently. He sat up quickly and looked at his fingers in the bright moonlight. Something thick and sticky clung to them. He dropped his other hand on her shoulder and called to her urgently. Her body was wholly lax under his touch like the body of a jointless rag doll.

Chapter Nine

TWO MINUTES FOR QUESTIONS

SHAYNE SPRANG FROM THE BED and switched on the light, caught Lucy’s limp wrist to feel for her pulse. He first thought there wasn’t any, and his blunt finger tip moved frenziedly around the spot where it had to be. He cursed himself for sitting outside drinking cognac and talking with Rourke while Lucy lay on the bed possibly with the life ebbing out of her.

Then he felt a faint beat, regular and reassuring, but scarcely discernible under his touch.

Racing to the telephone, he called the switchboard and asked for the house physician’s apartment. It seemed hours before the doctor in 482 answered.

“Mike Shayne—in three-oh-six,” he said rapidly. “I need you fast. Don’t bother to dress. An accident-emergency.”

“I’m already dressed,” said Dr. Price peevishly. “I’ll be right down.”

Shayne was still barefooted, but he had got into his underwear and pants when he heard the elevator stop down the hall and brisk footsteps coming toward his door. He had the door open before the doctor reached it, caught him urgently by the arm and pulled him toward the bedroom, explaining swiftly:

“It’s my secretary. Back of her head is smashed, but I felt a pulse.” He held up his bloody finger that had touched Lucy’s hair. “I don’t know how long ago. I’ve been out all evening. She was here alone.”

Dr. Price was a bald-headed, dried-up little man with gentle blue eyes and a white goatee. He was fully dressed, except for coat and tie. He took in Shayne’s condition of partial undress and his explanation of the emergency with an expression of complete disinterest as he examined the patient.

“Hot water,” Dr. Price said. “A large container. Be sure it boils.”

Shayne whirled and trotted to the kitchen. He ran water from the faucet into a half-gallon boiler, the largest vessel the small kitchenette afforded, set it on the gas flame, then went back to stand in the bedroom doorway again.

Dr. Price had the blood wiped away and the brown hair parted to reveal an ugly wound just at the base of Lucy’s skull when Shayne returned. He was probing carefully, and without lifting his head said, “Concussion. Not dangerous, but quite serious.”

“How long ago, Doc?”

“Half an hour, maybe. Watch that kettle and bring it in as soon as it boils. You can’t help by standing there gawking. And call my nurse in six-seventeen. I’ll need her in a few minutes.”

Shayne stopped at the telephone and called the nurse. She answered sleepily, but promised to come down at once. The kettle was boiling when he went back into the kitchen. He carried it into the bedroom and asked the doctor whether there was anything else he could do.

“A clean towel and washrag,” the doctor ordered.

Shayne sprinted into the bathroom and took a wash-rag, three linen face towels, and a large bath towel from the cabinet and raced to the bedroom with them, then went into the living-room with his shoes and shirt in his hand and put them on.

Pacing the room and tugging at his earlobe, he worried his mind for some clue as to what could have happened to Lucy. She was wearing a nightgown and a robe. Why were her bedroom slippers lying on the living-room floor instead of beside the bed, which would be the normal place for them to be? She had promised to wait in his apartment until he returned. Evidently she had gone to her room, undressed and made herself comfortable in the gown and robe and slippers, then returned to his living-room to wait for him. When he was so late coming home, maybe she had become anxious and decided to rest on his bed instead of going back to her own room so that she would know the minute he returned and find out whether anything had happened to him.

Miss Naylor’s knock on the door interrupted his thoughts. She was tall and austere-appearing without any make-up and with night cream still smeared on her face. Her hair was done up in metal curlers, but she wore a clean starched uniform and seemed completely self-possessed, competent, and unaware of her personal appearance.

Shayne took her to the bedroom. She went in and firmly closed the door. For a moment he glared at the door, then resumed his pacing.

Half an hour ago, Dr. Price had said. He himself had been in the apartment almost that long before going into the bedroom. He didn’t let himself think that things might have been different if he had gone directly to the bedroom when he saw her slippers on the floor. It was a sign he was getting old. Ten years ago he wouldn’t have fooled around with cigarettes and a drink under such conditions.

The door to the apartment had been unlocked, he recalled. Perhaps she had thought of something she wanted to get from her own room while she waited for him, had gone out and left the door on the latch. She didn’t have a key to the door. But why would she have gone into the bedroom, gone to bed, without locking the door?

The agony of trying to think without anything to begin with, with absolutely nothing that could give him any intimation of what had happened, was exhausting. He sank into a chair by the table. He poured half a water-glass of cognac and began sipping it slowly. He looked around the apartment with narrowed and speculative eyes. He knew every inch of it, every article of furniture and the exact position occupied by each one. He couldn’t see anything out of place—nothing whatsoever to indicate where the attack on Lucy had occurred.

Anger rolled over him like a tidal wave as he began to realize the actual import of what had occurred. Someone had come here, brutally slugged an innocent girl, and then walked calmly out again. And he, by God, was sitting around like a fool, straining his ears for a sound, a significant word, from the closed bedroom, and not doing one damned thing about what had happened.

He got up and stalked to the telephone, got police headquarters, and asked for Sergeant Harvey, who was in charge of the homicide squad.

“Speaking,” Sergeant Harvey said.

“Mike Shayne. There’s been an attempted murder in my apartment. Murder—maybe.”

“Which was it? Make up your mind.”

“The doctor will have to tell us that.” Shayne’s voice was edged with anger. “You got anybody around there sober enough to come over and dust for fingerprints—or is that too much trouble?”

“Keep your pants on,” said the sergeant wearily. “We’ll be right over. Who is it?”

“My secretary,” said Shayne shortly. “Miss Lucy Hamilton. I wish you’d bring Robertson if he’s on duty.” He hung up and again let his eyes roam slowly over every inch of the room, then strode out to the kitchen and tried the door leading onto the fire escape. It was locked, and the key hung in its accustomed place.

Back in the living-room, he got the night clerk on the wire. The man asked anxiously, “What’s the trouble, Mr. Shayne? Someone hurt up there?”

“My secretary. I’m afraid she’s pretty badly hurt, Jim. Was there anyone asking to see me this evening?”

“Not a soul, Mr. Shayne. I haven’t seen Miss Hamilton go out or come in, either.”

“She didn’t,” Shayne told him. “We had dinner here, and she waited for me when I went out. Notice anything particular about anyone coming in or out of the hotel while I was gone?”

After a brief silence, the night clerk said, “Not a thing, Mr. Shayne. Mostly just the regulars. I’ll ask the elevator boy if you want.”

“I’ll talk to him myself. The cops are on their way over, Jim. Send them right up, will you?” He hung up and went to the closed bedroom door and bent his head to listen through the keyhole. He could hear the low murmuring of voices, but could distinguish no words.

He left the entrance door open when he went down the corridor to the elevator. When it stopped in response to his ring the door opened, the Negro boy asked excitedly,

“What’s up, Mist’ Shayne? You all right? When I brung Doctor Price down—”

“I’m all right. It’s Miss Hamilton. She was slugged in my apartment while I was out. Did you bring any strangers up here tonight? Anybody who asked for my room?”

“Nobody that ast for you. No-suh. Coupla strangers, maybe. Nobody I noticed a-tall.”

“Any friends of mine, then,” said Shayne sharply. “Anybody you may have seen around here with me before.”

“Nobody ’cept that newspaper man. The long thin un—”

“He came after I was back.”

“Thass right. He sho did.” The elevator buzzer sounded. “I’se got somebody waitin’ at the bottom,” the boy said.

Shayne nodded and went slowly back to his open door. The elevator returned to the third floor and stopped before he had entered. He turned to see Sergeant Harvey and two of his men get off and come toward him. They greeted Shayne with grave cordiality when he invited them in.

“Well—let’s have it,” said Sergeant Harvey.

Shayne explained briefly what had happened to Lucy Hamilton, ending with: “Doctor Price and his nurse are in there with her now. I hope she’ll be able to tell us what happened.”

“You say she was dressed for bed?” the sergeant asked delicately.

“It looks as though she had gone to her room and gotten ready for bed and then came back here for something—perhaps a book to read, or a magazine,” Shayne explained. “Or maybe she saw someone coming in my door and suddenly remembered she had left it unlatched, and hurried down here to put him out.”

“You think she was attacked in here—or in the bedroom?”

“We’ll have to get that from the doctor. I didn’t waste any time looking around the bedroom after I found her like that. It’s my impression, though, that there’d be blood on the floor if she was attacked in here.”

“Might as well go over the whole place for fingerprints, Richardson,” the sergeant said to the younger member of the trio. “What’ll be legitimate besides yours, Mike?”

“Lucy’s—she cooked dinner in here, as I told you. And Tim Rourke’s. No one else has been here the last few days except the maid who cleaned thoroughly yesterday.”

The sergeant nodded thoughtfully. “Sure you’re not leaving anything out, Mike? Sure you didn’t know she’d be waiting for you like that when you got here?”

“Slugged?” Shayne’s tone was outraged. “You think I knew she was lying in there slugged and didn’t call the doctor for half an hour?”

“Don’t get sore, Mike. I’m figuring all the angles. Seems funny your horsing around in here with Rourke when maybe calling the doc earlier would have—”

Shayne got to his feet slowly, his big hands flexed. “Go on. Say it out loud, you liver-hearted bastard.”

“What the sarge means,” said Richardson, “is that you must’ve known she wasn’t in good shape or you’d have been in there a lot faster.”

Shayne whirled on the fingerprint man, but Harvey’s voice brought him back to a sense of proportion. “Don’t be like a kid, Shayne. You’ve ribbed enough other guys in your time to take a little of it yourself.”

“One more crack about my secretary and I’ll tear you limb from limb,” Shayne growled.

“You got to admit that lump on your jaw isn’t more than a few hours old,” Sergeant Harvey said. “You’re not leveling with us, Mike.”

Shayne stood very still and his hands slowly unclenched. “Yeh,” he muttered. “I know the whole thing sounds screwy as hell. But I gave you the story straight.” He sank back and lit a cigarette.

Since finding Lucy on the bed slugged, he had wholly forgot his own disfigurement. Now he realized how things must look to the police.

“I got tight over on the Beach,” Shayne resumed, “and rammed a concrete culvert on Delaware Road about midnight and got this. You can check that with a Beach cop named Rawson. He found me passed out under the wheel, and my car’s in the hotel garage banged up right now.”

“What’re you working on now?” Harvey asked.

“I’m not. I haven’t decided whether to settle down in Miami again or not. I’m sort of on vacation.”

“For a guy who’s on vacation,” said the homicide man who stood beside the sergeant, “you’ve been sticking your nose into plenty of stuff the last few months. There was that deal Rourke was mixed in, and then the two stiffs in the Bay, and then just last week the Deland kidnap mess. And I heard down at headquarters that Painter was pulling you in tonight on the jewel theft at the Sunlux.”

“He’d like to tie me in on that,” Shayne snorted.

“There’ll be a nice reward for the man who gets his hands on those rubies,” Harvey commented placidly.

Shayne nodded. “I’m not saying I wouldn’t turn a deal if they dropped in my lap.” He sprang to his feet as the bedroom door opened and Dr. Price came out.

“She’ll pull through, I trust.” The doctor closed the door. “Concussion, all right. She’s still unconscious, but her pulse is stronger and I anticipate she’ll come out of it in fifteen or twenty minutes now.”

“Enough to be questioned?” asked the sergeant.

The physician frowned. “I don’t advise it. She must have absolute quiet. Recovery depends on mental as well as physical calm. Miss Naylor is preparing a hypodermic and watching her condition closely. I’ve instructed her to inject a strong sedative the moment she shows signs of returning consciousness.”

“If you want Lucy Hamilton to feel mentally at ease, you’ll let her answer a couple of questions before you put her out again, Doc,” Shayne told him strongly.

Dr. Price tugged at his goatee and studied the detective thoughtfully. They had known and respected each other a long time, though there were no close bonds between them. “It might not upset her so much if you asked her a couple of questions in strict privacy,” he offered after a moment. “But I wouldn’t advise—”

“You don’t quite get it, Doc,” Shayne said. “These cops think maybe I conked her. If they don’t hear the words from her, they’ll never believe I didn’t.”

The doctor’s expression cleared. “I see. You mean to say you don’t mind them hearing anything she may say?”

Shayne tugged at his earlobe and said softly, “I’ll be damned, Doc. I believe you were trying to cover up for me. Do you think I slugged her?”

“I confess the possibility did enter my mind,” said the doctor with dignity. “I find a young lady in night clothes in your bed, a pistol on the floor where she appears to have dropped it, and every indication that she was pushed or slapped and tripped on the carpet, falling backward and striking her head on the radiator.”

“Wait a minute.” Shayne advanced on him, his gray eyes glinting. “You say there’s a gun on the bedroom floor? And Lucy fell against the radiator after being shoved or slapped?”

“I am not a detective,” said the doctor dryly, “but that is what I infer from the nature of her wound and the bloodstains on the radiator. Naturally, I assumed you either knew what had taken place or had drawn the same obvious deduction as I.”

Shayne said, “I didn’t take time to look at anything in the bedroom. You got here so fast I didn’t even have time to go back in there to do any deducing.”

“Lucky I was dressed and could come at once. Another ten minutes might have been too late. If it hadn’t been for some practical joker, the young lady might have been dead by now.”

“What’s this about a practical joker,” asked Sergeant Harvey.

“Some fool who called me about twelve-thirty and got me out of bed and a sound sleep. He insisted there was an emergency in apartment six-oh-three, and I got dressed and hurried up there. I confess I was annoyed when I found the place dark and rang the bell several times before I got an answer. Though not so annoyed,” he went on with a faint chuckle, “as the man who finally answered the door bell. He insisted there was no emergency in that apartment and that he definitely had not telephoned for a physician. He was quite rude about refusing me entrance, and finally suggested we were both the victims of a practical joker. He gave the impression,” the doctor concluded sedately, “that it would be distinctly embarrassing for the lady occupying the apartment with him if I were to enter.”

“What kind of a joint is this?” demanded Sergeant Harvey of Shayne.

Shayne disregarded the sergeant’s coarse humor. He asked Dr. Price, “Do you honestly believe it might injure Miss Hamilton to answer just a couple of questions?”

“Probably not,” said the doctor frankly. “But I warn you she must talk very little and must not be excited. If she regains consciousness shortly, as I anticipate, I will withhold the injection until the moment she is able to talk. It will take possibly two minutes to take effect, and during those two minutes you may ask her any questions necessary.”

Miss Naylor appeared in the doorway as he finished speaking and said quietly, “She’s on the verge of consciousness, Doctor. Shall I give her the injection now?”

Chapter Ten

A SPECIAL SORT OF CASE

“I WANT TO ALLOW HER ABOUT TWO MINUTES of full consciousness, Miss Naylor,” Dr. Price told his nurse. “Give her the injection the moment she is able to talk.”

The nurse went back into the bedroom and Shayne hurried to the door, followed by two of the police officers. Miss Naylor was seated beside the bed with Lucy’s wrist in one hand, the hypodermic ready on a tray beside her. Lucy’s head was bandaged and her eyes were closed. Her face was waxen white, but her features were composed and she appeared to be breathing normally.

Shayne moved inside the room to make way for Sergeant Harvey and Wentworth, his fellow police officer, and pointed to the corrugated wooden grip of an automatic showing from beneath the bed.

“There’s the pistol the doctor mentioned. It looks like a Colt .38 and is probably mine. I keep it in the top drawer of the dresser in here.” He was walking to the bureau as he spoke, opened the drawer and turned back with a nod. “My gun isn’t here.”

Harvey was kneeling beside the bed. He slipped a pencil through the trigger-guard of the pistol and got up with it dangling by the guard. He sniffed at the muzzle and said, “It’s a Colt .38. Hasn’t been fired. Did you or the nurse touch it, Doc?”

“I was very careful not to touch it,” said the doctor. “It was lying right there when I first came in.”

Lucy moved her head slightly and moaned. Faint color was beginning to show in her cheeks. Miss Naylor said, “Her pulse is much stronger, Doctor. I think she’s reacting perfectly.”

Harvey turned the gun over to Wentworth and said, “Have Richardson go over it.” He turned back to Shayne, who was now on his knees beside the wall radiator examining the dried bloodstains on the corner nearest the door.

“We can almost reconstruct it from this,” he said to Harvey. “Lucy knew I kept my gun in that drawer. I showed it to her a couple of days ago. If someone frightened her and she ran in here to get it, she could have turned back to meet him in the doorway. Standing about where Doctor Price is now would bring the back of her head against the radiator if she was shoved violently. How about this, Doctor? Could she possibly have gotten up and onto the bed under her own steam after falling?”

“No. It would have been utterly impossible. Someone picked her up and laid her on the bed and pulled the sheet up over her.”

Lucy moaned again and her arm jumped convulsively in the nurse’s hand. Dr. Price leaned forward to observe her carefully, and Shayne pushed forward to look down at her. Her eyes opened and his face was the first one she saw.

“Michael,” she said weakly. “What—?”

“Now, Miss Naylor,” the doctor said quietly, then bent closer to Lucy and said, “You’ve had an accident, Miss Hamilton. Don’t let yourself become excited. Mr. Shayne is going to ask you a few questions and I want you to answer them as briefly as possible. You must try to be calm and not become frightened.”

“I understand,” Lucy whispered. Her wide brown eyes were fixed on Shayne’s face, and she appeared not to notice the injection being administered by the nurse.

Shayne said softly, “Everything is all right, Lucy. Dr. Price is giving me two minutes to ask you questions. Do you remember everything clearly?”

“Yes.”

“You had undressed in your room and came back here for something,” he went on swiftly. “Leaving the door on the latch. Did someone come in?”

“I thought it was you. I stepped in here to—surprise you, just as the door opened. The telephone rang. The man called ‘Shayne,’ and I knew it wasn’t you and I was frightened. The phone kept ringing and he looked in the kitchen and bathroom and then came—in here. I was hidden behind the door. Then he answered the phone. He said, ‘This is Mr. Shayne,’ and then I got angry and remembered your pistol.

“I got it while he listened on the phone, just saying a word now and then. He hung up as I tiptoed back to the door after saying, ‘I’ll be there right away, Mrs. Dustin.’ I—guess—he was more—frightened than I was when he saw me standing there—with your pistol. He jumped at me before I could—”

Her voice trailed off and she closed her eyes. The color was ebbing out of her face again.

Shayne said urgently, “We know about what happened, Lucy. You fell and struck your head. Did you know the man?”

“No.” She roused herself with visible effort. Shayne and Sergeant Harvey bent close to hear her murmured words: “Heavy—set. Gray suit and Panama hat—mustache. About fifty years—old. I tried—to shoot—but he—I—couldn’t—” Her lips stopped moving.

“Pulse still strong,” Miss Naylor reported crisply.

“How long will that stuff keep her out?” Shayne asked, wiping sweat from his face.

“Six or eight hours if she isn’t disturbed. And she must not be disturbed. If she is allowed to waken normally tomorrow morning we have nothing to fear. I’ll have Miss Naylor remain with her tonight.”

“And I’ll get Sergeant Harvey to leave a man here on guard,” said Shayne as they went into the living-room and closed the bedroom door.

“What does it mean, Mike?” Harvey asked, then to his fingerprint man: “Get anything Richardson? From what we just learned, the doorknobs and telephone are your best bets.”

“Nothing doing on any of them. The guy who drank out of that extra glass, Mike—?”

“Tim Rourke.”

“I thought that’d be Tim.”

“Try the bedroom,” Harvey directed, “and keep it quiet. Now then, Mike, who was it and what did he want?”

Shayne had turned away and was opening a fresh bottle of cognac. He said over his shoulder, “You heard exactly as much as I did.”

“Well, I’ll be going along,” Dr. Price said. “Miss Naylor has full instructions and will call me if there’s any change.”

Shayne turned about with the full bottle in his hands. “Wait and have a nightcap with us, Doctor. Monnet. Or, I’ve some Scotch if you’d prefer.”

“Not tonight, thanks.” He started out and Shayne set the bottle down and hurried to open the door and say earnestly, “You don’t know how much I appreciate this. If ever I can—”

“If ever I require your particular brand of services, Mr. Shayne, I won’t hesitate to call on you. Good night.”

Shayne was worrying his earlobe and there was a seeking look in his gray eyes when he re-entered the room. “Know the Sunlux telephone number by any chance?” he asked Harvey.

Harvey said he didn’t. Shayne looked it up in the directory and called the number and asked for the Mark Dustin suite. After half a minute, the operator at the hotel said, “Sorry. They do not answer.”

“Connect me with Harry Jessup, the house detective,” Shayne said. His face was furrowed with worry and his eyes low-lidded as he waited an interval of about two minutes before he spoke again.

“Harry? Mike Shayne. I’m worried about the Mark Dustins. That’s right. He got conked in a jewel heist. They don’t answer their phone but they’re supposed to be in. Maybe they’re asleep, but Mrs. Dustin has been trying to get in touch with me and I don’t like it a damned bit. Check for me, and have her call me at my apartment at once if everything’s all right—and you call me fast if it isn’t.” He gave his telephone number, hung up, and stalked across the room to pour himself a drink. He shoved the bottle toward the sergeant. “Pour yourself a drink in this glass,” indicating the one Tim Rourke had used.

Sergeant Harvey helped himself to the rye. He waited until Shayne was comfortably seated, then said, “What’s this about Mark Dustin at the Sunlux, Mike?”

“I’ll give you everything I’ve got, which is damned little. We know someone walked in here tonight and answered my phone, impersonating me. He promised Mrs. Dustin he’d be over immediately and hung up. That was about an hour ago.

“Dustin was banged up pretty badly, and went to a hospital to get patched up. He and his wife returned to the hotel about midnight. They don’t answer their telephone, and I’m pretty sure Dustin is in no condition to go out. Maybe they doped him up at the hospital and he’s sleeping too soundly to hear the phone, but Mrs. Dustin should be there. Judging from her actions when I saw them, I don’t think she’d go out and leave him alone.”

“You working on the stick-up for them?”

“Not exactly.” Shayne warmed his glass of liquor between his palms. “Dustin did mention something about wanting to see me tomorrow—after Painter had shot off his mouth about me staying out of the deal. He gave the impression he might hire me to recover the bracelet. Damned if I know why his wife would call me tonight.” He shook his red head angrily and took a sip of cognac.

“Who was the man your secretary described?”

Shayne kept on shaking his head and protested. “How would I know? You heard Lucy. Heavy-set. Gray suit and Panama hat. Mustache. About fifty years old. Good God, ten thousand people in Miami answer that description.”

“Not very many of that number know you well enough to walk into your apartment at midnight when they find the door unlocked.”

“Lots of people know me. Lots more know where I hang out.”

“Nice friends you’ve got,” said Harvey dryly. “What man who answers that description and knows your apartment number would feel free to walk in, answer your telephone, and then impersonate you and make a date with a dame who’s just lost a fortune in jewelry?”

“If it happened to be someone who knows me well, he might start out thinking it was funny. You know—midnight and a woman asking for me—”

“Then tries to kill your secretary, and did actually walk out leaving her to die. That won’t do, Mike. You know who it was.”

Shayne said, “Maybe I do.”

“Give.”

“I’ve got to figure this Dustin angle. There’s a wad of reward money to be picked up from that if a man plays his cards right. Maybe this guy was somebody looking for an angle to cut himself in.”

“Goddamn it, Mike, are you going to cover up for a murderer in hopes of getting a cut on some lousy reward money?”

Shayne quirked a bushy red brow at the homicide sergeant and shrugged. “The way I read that stuff in the bedroom it was more an accident than attempted murder. I doubt whether Mr. X meant for her to crack her head on the radiator.”

“Hold on, Mike. It became attempted murder as soon as he saw how badly she was hurt and walked off and left her like that. Dr. Price himself said a few minutes more delay might have been fatal.”

“The guy might not have realized how badly she was hurt,” said Shayne.

“Nuts,” exploded Harvey. “He took the pains to pick her up and put her on the bed. She must have bled a lot, and he’d have known she was unconscious. First time I ever knew you to stick up for a murderer.”

Shayne’s eyes were bleak. He leaned back and crossed his long legs and lit a cigarette. He kept his gaze on the telephone and didn’t reply.

Harvey sighed and finished his drink as Richardson came in from the bedroom. “Nothing in there,” he reported.

“You boys report back to headquarters. I’ll be along later.”

“How about sending a flatfoot up to keep Miss Naylor company and see that Mr. X doesn’t pay a return visit?” Shayne asked.

“What’s the matter with you?” demanded Harvey. “Afraid you can’t handle him alone?”

“I’ve got a hunch I won’t be in much the rest of the night. If you don’t want to assign a man here, I’ll call Will Gentry at home and get him to send somebody.”

Harvey turned to Richardson and said, “When you get down to headquarters tell Jerico to send one of the reserve squad over.” He waited until his two subordinates had gone out, then poured himself another small drink of rye. “You got a late date?” he asked Shayne casually.

“I’m hoping Mrs. Dustin still wants to see me.”

“Good looker?”

Shayne said, “U-m-m,” as though he hadn’t really heard the question. He stood up and began restlessly pacing up and down the room in front of the telephone, tugging at his earlobe and glaring at the silent instrument each time he passed it.

Sergeant Harvey watched him and said nothing. He knew the redhead’s moods, knew it was useless to argue with him further. He hadn’t been fooled by Shayne’s apparent indifference to the plight of the wounded girl. He shrewdly suspected that Shayne either knew or could guess the identity of her attacker and that he wasn’t giving out information which might help the authorities get to him first.

When the telephone rang both men started as though the sound was the last thing in the world they expected to hear. Shayne whirled to grab the receiver. He said, “Shayne speaking,” and listened for a long time without interrupting the flow of words coming over the wire.

His voice was grim and urgent when he finally said, “I get the picture, Harry. Keep a man in the room with him. Get hold of Peter Painter and start turning the Beach upside down until they find her. Check every phone call to and from their suite since the robbery, fine-tooth the hotel for anything you can find out. I’ll be over quick.”

He hung up and turned to report succinctly, “Mrs. Dustin has disappeared. Mr. Dustin is alone in bed, passed out from an overdose of sleeping-tablets. They can’t rouse him. We’ve got to find her and we’ve got to find Mr. X. Will you stay here until your man comes?” He was striding toward the bedroom as he spoke. He went in, and emerged a few moments later with the Colt automatic in one hand and a tie in the other. He dropped the gun on top of his coat, swiftly knotted the tie around his throat.

Sergeant Harvey said, “Sure. I’ll stick around, Mike. I thought you never packed a rod when you’re working,” he added with a curious glance at the gun.

Shayne shrugged into his coat and dropped the .38 in a side pocket. “This is a special sort of case. Be seeing you.” He grabbed his hat on the way out and closed the door gently.

Chapter Eleven

A LADY IS MISSING

MICHAEL SHAYNE FOUND CHIEF PAINTER interrogating one of the elevator operators when he reached the Dustin suite at the Sunlux Hotel. Painter looked worried and his black eyes flashed angrily as he disposed of the man with a scathing: “If you birds had eyes to see with or minds to remember with, a police officer’s job would be easier. Go on back to your elevator.”

Harry Jessup was seated comfortably in a deep chair across the room. He was a paunchy man with gray hair and a placid face. He rolled out his thick lips in a grimace at Shayne as Painter whirled on the Miami detective and demanded, “What’s all this about?”

Shayne said, “Suppose you bring me up-to-date. Have you found Mrs. Dustin?”

“Not a trace of her. She’s vanished completely. Flown out the window as near as I can make out from what I can learn around here.” He gestured savagely toward one of the wide-open windows. “Jessup says you sent him up here to investigate. Why? How did you know anything about it?”

“You should realize by this time that I generally know quite a lot about what’s going on.” Shayne looked over Painter’s head and asked Jessup, “Has her husband had anything to say yet?”

“The doctor’s in there trying to bring him out of it,” snapped Painter. He thrust himself forward aggressively as Shayne walked over toward Jessup.

“According to Jessup,” Painter went on, “you suspected something was wrong because Mrs. Dustin had tried to get in touch with you earlier and then didn’t answer her phone when you called back.”

“I didn’t waste time telling Jessup the whole story. Some bird entered my apartment while I was out, tried to kill my secretary, and answered the telephone, impersonating me and promising Mrs. Dustin he would see her at once.”

Shayne went on to give both men a swift résumé of Lucy Hamilton’s condition and the fragmentary story she had told. He left out all reference to his encounter with the two men in Mickey’s Garage basement, and spread out his big hands when he added, “That’s everything I’ve got. I don’t know any more than you do why Mrs. Dustin called me. I don’t know who knocked Lucy out and answered my phone.”

“Where did you go after you left here earlier?” Painter demanded, eyeing the bruise on Shayne’s face. “Who did you tangle with?”

“Too much liquor,” Shayne said ruefully. “I dropped in a couple of bars and overestimated my capacity. Ended up ramming a culvert on Delaware Road and knocking myself out. What have you found out about Dustin tonight?” he asked Jessup.

“Nothing that’s worth a damn. They went to the hospital to get his hand X-rayed and bandaged. They returned a little before twelve and came right up. A few minutes later Mrs. Dustin phoned for the house physician who had temporarily bandaged her husband’s hand and asked for some sleeping-tablets. Said Dustin was suffering considerably. The doctor himself came up and gave her a vial with six tablets, prescribing one tablet immediately and another within half an hour if necessary, but she was positively instructed to call him again if two of the tablets didn’t give him relief. She and her husband were together in the bedroom when he gave the instructions, and he is sure both had understood. Yet when I entered the room with a passkey after you called, Mike, I found Dustin alone in bed in a deep sleep from which he couldn’t be roused. Half a glass of water stood on the bedside table, and four of the six tablets were gone. In the doctor’s opinion, four of the tablets were sufficient to produce Dustin’s present stupor, though the wounded man is in no danger, and in all probability will be able to tell his story soon.

“The only other telephone call from this apartment,” Jessup continued, “was about fifteen or twenty minutes after the doctor was here. To your number, Mike. Unfortunately, the operator didn’t listen in. That’s all. The rest is a blank. No one saw Mrs. Dustin go out—nor anyone visit her here. Their car is still parked where the doorman left it after the hold-up this evening.”

“Any back stairs where she could go without being noticed?”

“Sure. Right down the hall there’s an exit stairway for bathers. It leads down to the foot of the bathing-pier and anyone might go up or down it at night without being seen by any of the hotel attendants.”

“It’s quite evident that’s the way she left the hotel,” said Painter. “It’s also quite evident that she slipped her husband four of the pills, or induced him to take the overdose before she called you—or before she went out. Presumably to be sure he didn’t waken and catch her at it. Why?” He pounded a small fist in his palm for emphasis.

Shayne said, “You heard every word that passed between us tonight. I haven’t the faintest idea why she called me. As for doping her husband, that doesn’t necessarily carry all the implications you suggest. He was in bad shape and she wouldn’t want to worry him if she had discovered some lead she wanted to follow up on the robbery. It’d be just like a woman to decide to go out detecting on her own and slip her husband a Mickey so he wouldn’t worry.”

“It could also easily mean she had an inside track on the robbery which she had concealed from her husband,” Painter broke in. “He seemed a very decent sort to me. Just the sort of fool to be taken for a ride by a woman who soft-talked him into buying a bracelet worth a fortune which she then arranged to have stolen from him.”

“Why would she call me if she was in on the robbery?”

“Why wouldn’t she? Maybe—things were getting out of hand. Maybe her accomplices decided to keep the stuff and tell her to go fly a kite. She couldn’t turn to her husband for help. You’d be the logical one to call on.”

Shayne shrugged and said, “Maybe.”

“The whole thing seems rather clear now,” Painter insisted. “It all ties together. The careful way the robbery was planned—Dustin’s resistance, which shows he had no foreknowledge of it—the man who answered your phone and immediately pretended to be you when he recognized Mrs. Dustin’s voice.”

“Mr. X,” mused Shayne. “Who is he and how does he fit in the picture?”

“It’s as plain as the lump on your jaw,” scoffed Painter. “He was her accomplice. The guy who actually snatched the bracelet. He was coming to you to arrange a fix. Maybe she’d decided to double-cross him. As soon as he heard her voice on the telephone, he knew what was tip and arranged to meet her outside somewhere.”

Shayne said again, “Maybe.” He rubbed the uninjured side of his jaw, wandered across the living-room to look out the window at the layout two floors below. At his left was the white strip of beach and the lazy rolling whitecaps of the Atlantic Ocean, shimmering and phosphorescent beneath the tropical moon. Like a long finger projecting seaward lay the long wooden bathing-pier for the convenience of hotel guests. Directly beneath the window a concrete walk led along the back of the hotel from the street to the pier. All the lights, normally turned out this late at night, had been turned on again, and Shayne could see two men, presumably from the police force, strolling about aimlessly as though they were searching for clues and didn’t know where to begin looking.

The inner door of the suite opened as Shayne turned back from the window. The resident physician at the Sunlux announced with professional solemnity, “You may come in now. When you question the patient, try not to excite him with news of his wife’s disappearance,” after closing the door.

“How much have you told him?” Painter asked.

“Nothing except that I feared the sedative had been too strong for him and that I would cut the prescription in the future.” He opened the door and stood aside for the three men to enter the bedroom.

Mark Dustin was propped up in bed on two pillows. His normally ruddy face was sallow and had the drawn look of violent nausea. His injured hand was in a plaster cast and lay stiffly extended on the coverlet. He wet his lips nervously when he recognized Painter and Shayne, and burst out:

“What’s all this rumpus about? Where’s Celia? Has something happened to her?”

“What makes you think anything like that, Mr. Dustin?” Painter asked.

“You’re concealing something from me. That doctor’s been giving me a lot of double-talk. If Celia’s all right, where is she?”

“We thought you might be able to tell us that.” Painter’s voice was silky.

“So something has happened! What, in the name of God?” Dustin panted. “What time is it? How long have I been passed out? What did that damned sawbones put in that pill he gave me?”

“It’s almost two o’clock in the morning, Mr. Dustin,” Painter told him. “What time did you take the—sleeping-tablet?”

“A little after midnight. As soon as the doctor left. Celia fixed it for me.”

“And you took only one tablet, Mr. Dustin?”

“Of course I took only one. He said to take one—and then another in half an hour if that didn’t put me to sleep. You’ve got to tell me—”

“We want you to tell us,” Painter interrupted. “How do you explain the fact that four tablets are missing?”

“Four? But I only took the one. Do you mean Celia took the others? She didn’t—she isn’t—?”

“So far as we know, your wife is perfectly all right. Did she say anything about going out later?”

“Of course not. She said she’d stay right here to dissolve another tablet for me if I needed it.”

“Ah. Dissolve it, eh?” Painter pounced on the word happily. “Did she dissolve the first tablet for you?”

“Of course. I can’t take the stuff in tablet form. Look here,” the westerner went on, turning a strained face to Shayne, “won’t you tell me what this is all about? Where is Celia?”

“We don’t know, frankly. It appears that she may have dissolved four tablets for you instead of one—to make sure you didn’t wake up while she was gone.”

“Gone? Where?” Dustin appeared weary and dazed.

“We had hoped you could tell us,” Painter cut in. “Did she say anything to give you an inkling of such a plan? Did you hear her telephone anyone?”

“You’re crazy. She wouldn’t dope me like that and then slip out to meet someone secretly. We—we’re in love, damn it.” His strong features were now twisted in anger.

“None of us are intimating that your wife is keeping an assignation,” said Shayne quietly. “We believe she did give you an overdose of sleeping-tablets and then went out to meet a man, but we think she had some plan or idea of tracing the bracelet. Did she say anything about that? Any hint that she was holding any information back from you?”

“No,” Dustin said slowly. “Not a thing. I don’t—it isn’t like Ceil to keep anything from me.”

“Not even under these conditions?” Shayne asked swiftly, gesturing toward Dustin’s bandaged hand and head. “She knew you were in no shape to take any action, and she wouldn’t want to worry you. Don’t you suppose she thought it best to leave you here safely asleep while she went out on her own?”

“I see. I—don’t know. She might do that. She was always trying to mother me—keep me out of trouble. But what clue did she have? There couldn’t have been anything—” He paused and made a helpless gesture with his left hand.

“Shayne has advanced one possible theory, but I have another,” said Painter pompously. “One which I believe fits the known facts better. Was your wife a wealthy woman, Mr. Dustin?”

“No. She was teaching school when I met her. We were married a few days after we met. But I had plenty. She always had everything she wanted.”

“Are you sure of that, Dustin?” Painter thrust his hands in his pockets and rocked back and forth on his heels, assuming the indulgent air and tone of a professor about to explain the facts of life to a group of adolescents:

“There are many women married to wealthy husbands who yearn for money of their own. Don’t misunderstand me. You may have been very lenient with her, even extravagant. I have no doubt that Mrs. Dustin lived in luxury. But did she have her own bank account? Did she have economic freedom?”

“I never refused her money,” Dustin said angrily. “She had only to ask me when she wanted anything.”

“That’s just the point. She had to ask you, and believe me, Mr. Dustin, we run into situations identical with this quite often. Wives who have to ask for every dollar they ever have. Wives who—”

“Goddamn it,” Dustin broke in angrily, “what are you trying to say?”

“Just this. You bought your wife a ruby bracelet for one hundred and eighty thousand dollars. She knew it was insured,” Painter continued profoundly, “for the full amount. Do you realize how a woman might feel—wearing a fortune in jewelry and yet without a dollar she can call her own?”

“I think,” said Dustin thickly, “I begin to see what you’re driving at. If it’s what I think, I don’t like it. If I were able to get off this bed, I’d—” His left hand doubled into a white-knuckled fist.

“Don’t get upset, Mr. Dustin.” Painter took a backward step. “I’m forced to speak plainly. Remember, the bracelet was stolen the very first time it was worn. The job had every appearance of being carefully planned. Yet you and your wife were the only ones who knew its value and that she planned to wear it tonight.”

“The jeweler knew it—Voorland. And Shayne knew it,” Dustin said, turning his head on the pillow to look at Shayne. “Your pipsqueak of a Dick Tracy here pointed that out earlier this evening. He was accusing you of the job, by God. Now he’s got around to accusing Ceil. Why not me?” He turned back to Painter.

“Because the theft wouldn’t benefit you,” Painter said indignantly. “Have you forgotten that your wife deliberately drugged you and slipped out to keep an appointment with a man whom she thought was Mike Shayne—after telephoning him she wanted to see him about the bracelet?”

“Wait a minute,” Shayne cautioned. “We don’t know what Mrs. Dustin said over the phone to Mr. X. We don’t know but what she wanted to see me about something else entirely.”

“Every bit of it is a pack of nonsense,” said Mark Dustin wearily. “I would trust Ceil with every dime I’ve got—any time and anywhere.”

“We’ve had plenty of cases where wealthy men trusted their wives and—”

Dustin let out a snarl of rage and painfully lifted himself to a sitting position, turned about, and slowly swung his legs from the bed. “I won’t lie here and listen to such insults. None of this is helping find Celia. She may be in danger. We’re wasting time here when we should be out searching for her.”

“Take it easy.” Shayne moved over, caught up his legs and put them back on the bed, then went to the door and called the doctor. He said, “Painter has done his worst, and your patient still survives.” He brushed past the doctor and went across the room to the telephone, looked up a number, called it, and stood with the receiver to his ear while Painter and Jessup filed out of the sick room.

Painter came over and stood behind him and asked fretfully, “Who are you calling now?”

“Walter Voorland. But he doesn’t answer.” He cradled the receiver and looked up another number, called it, and waited until the phone rang three times before there was a click and Randolph’s voice said, “Yes?”

Shayne hung up without answering. He said grimly, “If I were chief of detectives on Miami Beach I’d get every man on my force out to search for Mrs. Dustin.”

“Whom did you call that last time?” Painter demanded.

“Randolph, the insurance agent.”

“Voorland and Randolph,” Painter muttered. “What can they possibly know about this?”

“That’s what I’d like to find out.” Shayne picked up his hat and started toward the door.

“Where are you going?” snapped Painter.

Shayne said, “Out,” and kept on going.

Chapter Twelve

A HOT ANGLE

EARL RANDOLPH lived in a modern, four-story apartment building in Miami’s northeast section. There was a small foyer with brass mailboxes indicating the names and apartment numbers of the occupants. Randolph’s name was over 3-D. Shayne pushed the 4-A button and waited. When the electric latch on the inside door clicked, he entered, went down a narrow hallway to the self-service elevator, and went up to the third floor.

He found apartment 3-D and pressed the button. Randolph opened the door. He wore a white shirt open at the neck, the sleeves rolled up above his elbows. He blinked at Shayne, and an expression of complete surprise came over his round face.

“Mike—I didn’t expect you.”

“I’ve been visiting a couple here in the building,” he lied. “Thought I’d drop in to talk over the Dustin case. Mind if I come in?”

“Of course not.” Randolph quickly regained his poise and stepped back. The detective removed his hat and hung it on a hatrack beside Randolph’s wide-brimmed Panama.

The living-room was filled with smoke, and a card table drawn up in front of the day-bed was littered with papers and newspaper clippings from two cardboard files. The ash tray was piled high with cigarette butts, and an almost empty tall glass stood beside it.

Randolph said apologetically, “I’m afraid it’s rather close in here. Got to working and forgot to open a window.” He went across to open one, then asked, “Have a drink?”

“Not now. I had too much earlier this evening.” He ruefully indicated the bruise on his jaw. “Cracked up my car and got this clip on the jaw.” He moved to a deep chair and sank into it. “What have you been doing all evening?”

“Working.” Randolph sat down behind the littered table. “I came straight home from the Sunlux and began going through my old files. I—” He paused, rubbing a blunt forefinger thoughtfully across his mustache. “I think I may have turned up something interesting, Mike.”

Shayne said carelessly, “Tim Rourke said he’d been trying to get you all evening, but you didn’t answer the phone.”

“My phone has been acting up. Just a little while ago it rang and no one answered when I took up the receiver.”

Shayne nodded and said, “Maybe that’s the reason Tim couldn’t get you. Do you mean you’ve turned up something on the ruby bracelet?”

“I don’t know. There could be some connection. At least, there are some interesting angles.” The insurance agent leaned back and carefully placed the tips of thick fingers together. “About star rubies in general—and Walter Voorland’s connection with them in particular,” he ended quietly.

“I’d like to hear the angles.”

“Are you working on it, Mike?”

“Not officially. But Painter accused me of planning the snatch. You heard what Dustin said in the hotel. I’ve a hunch I may be called in by him. I had another talk with him about half an hour ago.”

Sweat glistened on Randolph’s round face. He separated his finger tips and took out a handkerchief to wipe it away. “How is he feeling? Any serious complications?”

“They fixed him up at the hospital.” Shayne lit a cigarette and broke the matchstick between his fingers and frowned at it. “Mrs. Dustin is a mighty pretty woman. Do you think either of them has a tie-in with the heist?”

“What makes you say that?” Randolph sounded surprised, almost startled.

Shayne dropped the broken matchstick into the ash tray and spread out his hands. “Painter and you agreed that the job must have been carefully planned. Someone must have tipped off the gang.”

“I don’t think I said that—” Randolph protested. “I said it had all the earmarks of a professional job. But it could easily have been as you suggested. If they had a lookout in the Sunlux lobby and he spotted Mrs. Dustin going out wearing the bracelet—” Again he let his words trail off speculatively.

“What angles have you dug up?”

Earl Randolph seemed eager to drop the other subject. He leaned forward and rustled the papers on the table. “A couple of other cases involving expensive star rubies, Mike. Both of them sold by Voorland and insured for large sums. Both stolen in hold-ups somewhat similar to the one tonight, and never recovered. The policies were paid in full in both cases.”

“I thought you and Voorland both stated tonight that the star ruby cannot be cut up and resold—and because of that fact we would almost surely have an offer from the gang.”

“Theoretically that’s true, Mike. That’s why I began to check my old records as soon as I came back from the hotel. I discovered a couple of damned queer coincidences. Listen to this:

“October twelfth, nineteen forty-three,” he continued, reading from a typewritten sheet. “Policy issued to James T. King at the Tropical Towers Apartment, Miami, Florida, for eighty thousand dollars on a perfect eight-and-one-half carat star ruby ring. Purchased from Voorland for one hundred grand. It was stolen less than a week after the policy was issued. Never recovered. We paid the policy in full in December.”

“Wasn’t that a lot of money for one ruby that size?”

“Not in nineteen forty-three. I appraised the stone myself and recommended the policy.”

“Anything fishy about the loss?”

Randolph frowned and picked up another typed sheet. “No—and yes. It happened right inside the apartment building. King was in the habit of leaving the ring in the hotel safe at night. He called down at eight o’clock this particular evening and asked to have it sent to his room. He and his wife were going out unexpectedly to a swanky party. The fact that the party was gotten up on the spur of the moment was later established.

“The clerk got the box out and gave it to a bellboy to take up. He got out of the elevator and started down the corridor to the King suite. As he passed an alcove he was sapped on the back of the head and knocked out cold. When they found him ten minutes later the ring had vanished. It hasn’t turned up since.”

Shayne was tugging at his earlobe and listening intently. “King?” he suggested.

Randolph shrugged. “Naturally, we made a very thorough investigation before allowing the claim. There wasn’t a particle of evidence. He lost twenty thousand on the deal.”

“If the ruby could be fenced for fifty percent he’d have made thirty grand,” Shayne pointed out.

“If,” Randolph agreed. “But that’s the big if, Mike. Look—you might cut it down to say six carats. A six-carat ruby might bring fifty thousand in the open market. But those things are distinctive. There aren’t many six-carat stones like that around. We have records of every unique stone like that. If it had turned up later, we’d know it. It hasn’t.”

Shayne crushed out his cigarette and nodded thoughtfully. “But you have to admit it looks like an inside job. Who else but King could have known the bellboy was going to bring the ring up just then?”

“Only the clerk, but he actually had no time to notify a confederate to get up there in time to waylay the boy. If we’d had anything else to hang suspicion on, we might have tried to make a case out of it. But we went through King’s background with a fine-tooth comb. He was absolutely legitimate. From a small town in Ohio where he and his wife had lived all their lives. He was an engineer, graduate of Purdue, who’d worked on a small salary all his life until he fell into a fortune a couple of months previously.

“He inherited the estate of a wealthy uncle in California, estimated at between two and three hundred thousand. He and his wife sold their home and went west to collect the money, then started out to have some fun for the first time in their lives. They hit Miami the first of October, spent money lavishly, and ended up by splurging on the ring. I remember King and his wife,” Randolph went on reflectively, leaning back and closing his eyes.

“They were nice people, a little bewildered by sudden wealth. He was about forty. Thin and stooped, as though he’d worked too hard all his life without quite enough to eat. His wife always managed to look dowdy, even when she was wearing a Paris original. There wasn’t one single thing to hang anything on, Mike. We sent a man to Ohio to check their background, and they were exactly what they claimed to be.”

Shayne said, “That doesn’t sound like very much,” his eyes bleak and staring into space.

“By itself, it isn’t,” said Randolph. He shuffled the papers until he found the one he wanted. “The next case is another star ruby sold by Walter Voorland. I was in New York at the time and the policy on this one was issued by Provident Casualty. To Roland Kendrick of Westchester County, New York, a wealthy sportsman and playboy. That was in October of forty-five. He bought an eleven-carat star ruby pendant for his wife. Stanley Ellsworth made the appraisal at one hundred and ten thousand. Purchase price was one twenty-five. It lasted longer than the first one. Almost a month. The Kendricks went from here to New Orleans and were held up by two armed men late at night when they were returning home from a night club. Kendrick was knocked cold as he stepped out of his car to open his garage door, and when he came to, his wife was dead. Shot through the head. The ruby pendant was gone. It has never turned up, either. That claim was paid promptly, after the New Orleans police reported it absolutely straight.”

“I was in New Orleans at the time,” Shayne broke in. He lit another cigarette and continued: “I wasn’t in on that one, but I don’t recall a whisper of suspicion attaching to the widowed husband. The couple were apparently happy together, and she had been flashing the pendant around at night clubs. I don’t see much in any of this,” he ended soberly.

“Except that both were star rubies—both were sold by Voorland—and both have disappeared as completely as though they had disintegrated. Now it happens again. There’s a pattern, Mike. A definite pattern, but a completely illogical one. Who could profit if the stolen stones aren’t resold?”

“I suppose you didn’t meet this second victim, Kendrick.”

“No. As I said, my company didn’t handle that one. But Kendrick’s background was just as thoroughly checked as King’s had been. He was rather a well-known sportsman around New York, and a heavy gambler. Had a piece of two or three fighters and was reputedly very wealthy.”

Shayne said slowly, “The one thing that sticks in my craw about all these cases is the way Voorland always has these big star rubies for sale. You and he both say the value of them lies in the scarcity of such stones. Yet one dealer seems to have got hold of a lot of them in the last few years.”

“I know.” Randolph’s round and slightly distended eyes looked troubled. “It is a remarkable coincidence, but I can’t believe it’s more than that. Voorland has an unimpeachable reputation throughout the world. And it isn’t quite so remarkable when you realize that star rubies are his personal passion. They have been for the last forty years. He is known throughout the gem markets to pay well for every good one that turns up. That Dustin bracelet, for instance. I’ve known for years that he has been searching for the perfect stones to match up in it.”

Shayne asked moodily, “Couldn’t those two stones—the eight-and-a-half—and eleven-carat stones—have been cut down to make two of the rubies in the Dustin bracelet?”

Randolph pursed his lips and looked doubtful. “It’s possible, but certainly not probable. Remember, Voorland sold the stones originally. It would be mighty hard to cut them so he wouldn’t still recognize them in reduced size.”

“Is there any way to check the sources from which he acquired the stones in the bracelet?”

“I’m afraid not. That sort of information is regarded as a trade secret. In some cases a particular stone can be traced to its original source, but most dealers don’t keep a record of such transactions.”

“Why not?”

“For various reasons.” Randolph again pressed the finger tips of his hands together, and continued thoughtfully: “Customs duties are high. Suppose Voorland announced in Burma that he had acquired a perfect star ruby for a large price. He would then have to declare it to get it into this country where it could be sold.”

“Do you mean to say Voorland smuggles such stuff in?”

“Not necessarily. Someone else may smuggle them in. Let’s say, rather, that Voorland is a business man. His store is one of the most successful in the world, I imagine. He does what every business man does these days—meets competition.”

Shayne grinned suddenly and said, “I guess a private dick doesn’t have so much to complain about, after all.”

“Right,” said Randolph with an answering smile. “But what Voorland does is considered no less ethical than for a stock market manipulator to beat down the price of a stock so he can buy low. Voorland is responsible to a board of directors who look only at the profit sheet each year. No matter what his personal ethics may be, to remain manager of that store he has to play the game according to the rules made by others. It’s a competitive and cut throat business.”

“But you still don’t think he’s capable of engineering a hold-up like that one tonight?”

“Walter Voorland?” Randolph’s voice was frankly incredulous. “Certainly not. Besides, what would it profit him? He, more than anyone else, knows how impossible it would be to realize a tenth of their value from the stolen rubies. He wouldn’t abet any finagling like that. Not with a star ruby. He takes personal pride in them. He would no more have a hand in anything like that than a father would arrange to have his own child kidnaped.”

“That has been done,” Shayne argued.

“For a profit, maybe. If a man were dead broke. Voorland is a rich man and there would be no profit in it for him. I don’t think you understand fully the way he feels about a star ruby. He hates to sell one.”

Shayne nodded and there was a wry grin on his gaunt face. “I noticed that he wasn’t putting any pressure on Dustin to buy last Monday when I happened to be in the store. In fact, he kept trying to slip the bracelet back into the vault and sell him something else.”

“That’s the way he is. He picks his buyers for a piece like that bracelet. I happen to know he refused to even show the piece to another prospective buyer less than a month ago.”

“Why?”

Randolph chuckled. “Because he has certain theories about the way gems should be regarded and treated. He wants them to be respected and enjoyed, worn and admired. He turned an Indian Rajah down cold when the poor devil had made a trip all the way from India just to bid on the bracelet. Voorland could have gotten a cool two hundred thousand if he’d been willing to let it go.”

“What did he have against the Rajah?” Shayne straightened in his chair and leaned forward, his eyes keen with interest.

“This one is reputed to be a jewel miser,” Randolph explained. “He has a huge collection in his palace which has never been seen by anyone. Voorland was actually rude to him and refused to show the bracelet to him because he didn’t want it buried in a private collection. The Rajah was naturally furious about the whole affair, but Voorland was adamant.”

“That,” said Shayne suddenly, “could explain where the other star rubies went—why they never turned up in legitimate channels again.”

“The Rajah?” Randolph asked dubiously. “I don’t see the connection.”

“This one, or any other private collector who hoards gems for his private pleasure,” said Shayne impatiently, “would be in the market for a star ruby whether it was stolen or not. He wouldn’t have to cut it up. He’d keep it whole and gloat over it.”

“That’s true. But there aren’t many collectors like that. Not many with a bankroll big enough and a conscience elastic enough to finance wholesale robberies—and murders.”

Shayne got up and paced excitedly up and down the room. “It’s an angle,” he argued. “Take this Rajah, for instance. No wonder he was sore that Voorland refused to sell to him. If he had kept track of the bracelet, knew when it was sold and to whom—”

“I wonder,” Randolph interrupted, as though he was beginning to get Shayne’s idea. “I wonder if he’s still in town.”

“He wouldn’t have to be,” Shayne pointed out. “All he would need to do is pass the word around that he was in the market for the bracelet when or if it went out of the store and became available. That would explain the planning and the swiftness of the snatch tonight.”

“How would they know who bought it?”

“Easy enough. How much do you think those store clerks earn in a year? A bribe could be easily managed.”

“By God, I believe you’ve got something, Mike.” Randolph was sitting erect, staring at Shayne as he paced the floor. “If we don’t hear from the thieves in a few days—”

“You won’t,” Shayne said strongly. “They’re not out for any lousy insurance reward of a few grand.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“I can take a hint,” Shayne said grimly, fingering the bruise on his jaw where it contacted Blackie’s knucks. “What’s this Rajah’s name?”

“The Rajah of Hindupoor. He was at the Miami Waldorf a couple of weeks ago. I don’t know—”

“Why don’t you check up those other two thefts of star rubies and find out if the Rajah was hanging around when they were committed?”

Shayne was on his way to the door. He took his hat from the rack and Randolph asked, “Where are you going, Mike?”

“To the Miami Waldorf.” He jammed his hat on his head and pulled the brim low on his forehead. His eyes glinted hotly when he turned back to say, “I’ll let you know what I find out,” then went out the door.

Chapter Thirteen

TWO TELEGRAMS AND A CORPSE

BENJAMIN COREY, one of the assistant managers of the Miami Waldorf Hotel in Coral Gables, greeted Shayne cordially and took him into a private office. After the exchange of brief social formalities, Shayne asked, “How’s the traffic in visiting royalty these days?”

“We’ve got a Rajah right now.”

“Of Hindupoor?”

“That’s right.” Corey was a thin, immaculate young man with very bright blue eyes. They rested on the detective with alert interest.

“Nice guy?”

“He spends plenty of money.”

“Is he in now?”

“I can find out.” Corey reached for the telephone on his desk, but Shayne stopped him.

“Find out some other things while you’re about it, Ben. Whether he has been in all evening—any visitors—phone calls in and out. The works.”

Ben Corey hesitated. “Care to tell me why you’re interested, Mike?”

“I’d rather not.”

Corey nodded and got up. “This will take a little time.” He went out and Shayne leaned back to mentally check over a raft of hazy ideas he had accumulated while with Earl Randolph. They were all extremely hazy. That was the hell of it. Haziest of all was the motivation that had induced Mrs. Dustin to drug her husband at midnight and then call his apartment to arrange a secret meeting with Mr. X who impersonated him. That didn’t tie in at all with any of the other ideas he was beginning to formulate. It was the added unknown that made the equation unsolvable.

He had finished two cigarettes and reached no definite conclusion when Corey re-entered the office. He carried a slip of paper in his hand, and he glanced at the penciled notation when he sat down.

“The Rajah had dinner served in his suite and hasn’t been out all evening,” he reported. “The operator believes there were two or three incoming calls earlier in the evening. Only two calls went out. Both to Miami Beach. At eleven o’clock and eleven-thirty.” He read off the telephone numbers.

As Shayne jotted them down, he recognized the second number. He had looked it up in Dustin’s suite at the Sunlux under Voorland’s name. The first number meant nothing to him.

“Two visitors were announced and went up,” Corey continued, consulting his slip of paper. “At ten o’clock a man giving the name of Hays, and a little after twelve, a Mr. Smith.”

“Any descriptions of them?”

“Only vague. Hays was tall, carried a briefcase, and looked like a lawyer. Smith was a big, solid man, with a broad face, and he spoke with a very faint accent. German, maybe.”

“How long did they stay?”

“No one happened to notice Hays leave. He may even be up there yet. Smith stayed about half an hour—and looked quite perturbed when he went down in the elevator.”

Shayne said, “Thanks, Ben.” He picked up the telephone and asked for the first Miami Beach number Corey had given him. He let it ring for a long time without getting an answer, then got the Beach operator and asked for the address of the number.

It was a residence on Sunset Drive. He wrote the address down and sat tugging at his earlobe, staring across the room moodily.

Corey said, “The Rajah is checking out tomorrow. Okay?”

“When did he decide to do that?”

“A couple of days ago. That is, it was a tentative arrangement. Confirmed a little after ten o’clock by phone from his suite.”

Shayne said, “I’ll let you know if there’s any reason why he shouldn’t. Will you put a check on his line, Ben? Get me everything you can.”

“I’d like to know what I’m getting into,” Corey protested. “He’s a rather important guest.”

“Would you rather have me swear out a warrant for his arrest as accessory in a jewel theft?”

“Good Lord, no! Is he?”

“I think so. But I doubt if I can prove it and I’d rather not be forced to try.”

“You’ll get your tap,” Corey assured him.

Shayne thanked him and said he would keep in touch. He started out of the office, then turned back to use the telephone again. He called his own apartment. A man’s voice said, “Patrolman Edmund speaking.”

“This is Mike Shayne. Everything all right?”

“Everything’s fine except this nurse is too good at gin rummy for me. There was a phone call about one o’clock. Some cluck wanted to know if there was a reward offered for the ruby bracelet lifted on the Beach tonight and said he’d call you back tomorrow morning. Traced the call to a phone booth in the lobby of the Sunlux Hotel and tipped the Beach cops off on it.”

Shayne said dryly, “That’s what I call a real pal,” and hung up. He stood with his hand on the phone, undecided for a moment, then quirked a rugged red brow at Corey as though in apology, lifted the handset again and called Timothy Rourke’s number.

When the reporter’s sleepy voice finally came over the wire, he said incisively, “Tim, get some clothes on and meet me at the News Tower right away.”

“Whassat?” muttered Rourke. “Who the devil is this?”

“Mike Shayne. Did you hear me?”

“I heard you but it didn’t take,” he protested. “What the hell time is it, anyway?”

“About three o’clock.”

“When I left your apartment I thought you were set for the night, Mike.” The reporter sounded wide awake now, and worried. “I thought—”

“You always get mixed up when you think,” Shayne snapped. “Meet me at the News Tower in twenty minutes.” He dropped the phone on the hook and grinned at Corey. “Send me a bill for these calls, Ben.” With an airy wave of his hand he went out, crossed the lobby to the outside where his car was parked in the driveway.

Twenty minutes later he parked on the Boulevard opposite the News Tower on Sixth Street. The elevator boy on duty said, “Mister Rourke just went up. Didn’t act like he was in too good a humor.”

Shayne grinned and said, “Tim’s getting old and needs his sleep.”

Rourke was lounging just inside the door of the city room when Shayne entered. He stifled a yawn and began querulously, “What the devil’s the matter with you, waking a guy up—?”

Shayne took one of his thin arms and led him down the corridor toward the newspaper morgue. “Things are beginning to break. You know these files better than anyone else, and I need some fast action.”

Rourke opened the door and switched on the lights as he went in. “What’s happened?”

“That jewel robbery is breaking fast. I want you to dig out the dope on a couple of other big ruby thefts. First, a man named King. James T. King. October of forty-three. An eighty thousand dollar star ruby ring. Remember it?”

“Sure.” Rourke’s nostrils twitched and his eyes were suddenly very bright in their cavernous sockets as he went confidently toward the files. “At the Tropical Towers Hotel. Bell-boy got sapped.” He ran a thin index finger down a file of bound copies of newspapers, selected one and pulled it out. “What do you want on it?”

“The man’s background. Did you cover the story?”

“Yeh. Interviewed him that night. Didn’t like the guy much, but his wife was nice. All that stuff will be in my first story,” he went on as he turned the pages swiftly. “Here’s my story—first page of the second section. Fix and everything.” He spread it open for Shayne to read.

“Good,” said Shayne. “I’ll get what I want here while you dig up one a little more difficult. This was a robbery in New Orleans a couple of years later. Probably October of forty-five. Will there be anything on it here?”

“Was it big?”

“A star ruby pendant. I think the insurance was a hundred grand—maybe a hundred and ten. The wife got killed.”

“I remember that one,” said Rourke eagerly. “Sure, I interviewed Voorland and gave it a local twist because the ruby was bought here. I tied it in with the King case. Man’s name was Kendrick.” Rourke was digging into the files again.

Shayne gave his attention to the feature story on the King robbery. There was a blurred picture of King and his wife, the man tall and thin, stooped and worried-looking, just as Earl Randolph had described him. His wife was a few years younger and had a pleasantly placid expression, though she appeared a little dazed in the picture.

Taking out his notebook, he ran his eyes swiftly down the printed column, copying the relevant material on King’s background in Massillon, Ohio.

Rourke was standing by with the story he had written on the Kendrick murder-robbery when Shayne finished. He laid the first story aside and concentrated on the New Orleans case, gleaned from the facts Rourke had learned from Walter Voorland. There were no pictures, and the background material was somewhat sketchy, but he found enough for his purpose, and quickly jotted it down.

He waited impatiently for Rourke to replace the files, then suggested, “Let’s go in your office and charge a couple of telegrams to the Daily News.”

“What are you onto, Mike? What’s the tie-up?”

“I’m not sure. There may not be one.” Shayne sat down at Rourke’s desk with his notebook before him. He said, “Massillon, Ohio, should be big enough to have a Worldwide Agency.” He lifted the telephone and called Western Union, then dictated the following message:

MANAGER,

WORLDWIDE DETECTIVE AGENCY

MASSILLON, OHIO.

MUST HAVE PRESENT WHEREABOUTS JAMES T. KING FORMERLY ONE THREE EIGHT BIRCH STREET MASSILLON. INHERITED FORTUNE IN NINETEEN FORTY THREE AND SOLD HOME THERE. SPARE NO EXPENSE AND WIRE ME IMMEDIATELY CARE MIAMI DAILY NEWS.

TIMOTHY  ROURKE

After the message was read back to him, he said, “Here’s another one.” He dictated a similar message to the New York manager of Worldwide, substituting the name of Roland Kendrick for that of King, and an address in Bedford.

He hung up, sat back, and grinned at Rourke. “Don’t look so worried. Your paper can afford the price of a couple of telegrams for the story you’re going to get—if my hunch is right.”

“Why do you want to locate those two guys?” Rourke demanded.

“To ask them if they ever heard of the Rajah of Hindupoor, and certain circumstances regarding the purchase and insurance on the rubies they lost.”

“What the hell has the Rajah of thing-a-ma-jig got to do with it?”

“That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

A shirt-sleeved man wearing a green eyeshade came to the open door and said, “Saw your light in here, Tim. Since you’re around you might as well cover an assignment over on the Beach.”

“I might, huh? What do you think I am? A damned slave? I’m headed for the hay right now.”

“Okay, okay,” said the man soothingly. “I’ve known the time you’d jump out of bed to cover a sweet one like this.” He turned to go away.

“Wait a minute,” Rourke called. “What’s sweet about it?”

“Just a little murder—maybe with a sex angle, and a couple hundred thousand dollars worth of rubies for a side dish.”

Shayne was on his feet. “What are you trying to tell us?”

“They just found Mrs. Mark Dustin’s body at the foot of the bathing-pier at the Sunlux. If you don’t want to cover it, Tim—”

Both men were on their way out before he could finish the sentence.

Chapter Fourteen

LOOKING FOR MORE TROUBLE

AS THEY PULLED AWAY FROM THE CURB in Shayne’s car, Rourke settled back in the seat beside the detective and said, “What’s this Mrs. Dustin like? What’s been going on, Mike? Those wires you sent back to the office—and the Rajah of something or other.”

Shayne said, “Celia Dustin was a beautiful gal. I’d better fill in some background, since it’ll all have to come into the open now.”

He guided the car around the traffic circle at 13th Street and headed across the Causeway to Miami Beach. “It won’t make me sore if you forget what I tell you about my secretary. Right after you left my apartment I went in the bedroom and found Lucy in there. She was on my bed dressed in a nightgown and robe, and she was unconscious. Dangerous brain concussion. She was unconscious—blood oozing from her scalp. I called Doc Price. He came and dressed the wound—”

Shayne hesitated a moment and Rourke said, “Go on. If you and your secretary want to play rough, it’s none of my affair.”

Shayne swiftly gave his friend a résumé of what Lucy had been able to tell them during her brief period of consciousness, then added, “I called Mrs. Dustin at the Sunlux and her phone didn’t answer. Harry Jessup is the house dick there. He went up to check the suite for me. Found her missing and Dustin knocked cold with an overdose of sleeping-tablets. I got over there fast.”

He told Rourke what he had learned upon his arrival, and the story Dustin told after the doctor succeeded in arousing him.

Rourke said, “So Painter thinks she arranged the holdup.”

“I don’t know what Painter thinks by this time. Maybe her murder changes that—maybe not.”

“It could still add up the same way,” Rourke suggested. “If Mr. X was her accomplice and he got the idea she was calling you to double-cross him, she was practically inviting him to murder her.”

“Same way if he wasn’t her accomplice and guessed from what she said over the phone that she had a line on his identity,” Shayne argued.

“You’re sold on Mrs. Dustin?”

“I liked her.” Shayne hesitated, then went on slowly, “Remember telling me in my apartment that you’d been trying to reach both Randolph and Voorland without success?”

“Sure. I wanted some inside dope on the fabulous bracelet.”

“Earl Randolph claims he has been in all evening,” said Shayne quietly.

“I tried his phone half a dozen times. There was never any answer,” Rourke complained.

“Maybe it’s out of order. I found him in about an hour ago—going over old records and digging up the King and Kendrick thefts.”

“What connection is there?”

“From where I sit the only connection between the three men is Walter Voorland. He made all three star ruby deals.”

“And—?”

“And I think the Rajah of Hindupoor called him from the Miami Waldorf tonight and Voorland hurried out to see him using the name of Smith.”

They had reached the east end of the Causeway. Fifth Street was bare of traffic at this early hour before dawn, and Shayne sped on toward the ocean.

“All this Rajah stuff and the dope from Randolph is strictly under the hat,” he warned the reporter. “I’m playing it right down the line with you, as I always have.”

“Yeh, just as you always have,” said Rourke suspiciously. “What are you holding out this time?”

“Not a damned thing, Tim.” He swung left on Collins Avenue and sped northward past Lummus Park.

“Those boys who gave you the brass knucks—the ones called Blackie and the Kid. Didn’t you say Blackie was heavy-set and had a mustache? What kind of suit and hat did you say he was wearing?”

“I don’t think I said.” Shayne’s voice was deceptively mild.

“Maybe not. You seemed pretty sure they were in on the robbery.”

“Did I?”

“This Blackie, now. If he changed his mind and came around to apologize for slugging you—” Rourke left the sentence dangling.

Shayne said, “It seems practically certain that Mr. X was on the inside of the robbery, if that’s what you’re trying to say. Here we are.” He slowed as they approached the Sunlux Hotel, pulled off the pavement, and parked behind a police car at the south end of the building.

There were several police cars parked on both sides of the street, and all the floodlights were on at the ocean side, brightly illuminating the bathing-beach and pier.

A policeman guarded the street end of the concrete walk leading back, but he stepped aside to let them pass when he recognized the detective and reporter.

A group of men were gathered on the beach where the wooden pier jutted out into the water. They didn’t see Painter at once. Shayne accosted a homicide man who stood back on the fringe of the group. “What’s going on, Dirk?”

“It’s a dame named Mrs. Mark Dustin. She’s been missing since—”

“I know about that. Who found her body?”

“Petrillo and Johnny Miles. They were stationed here and just wandering around when suddenly they saw a foot sticking out from under the end of the pier. A dozen guys’d been all over every inch of it before and didn’t see anything.”

“What’s the story?” Rourke had a wad of copy paper out and was making notes.

“She’s dead. Busted on the back of the head, left side, with a baseball bat or bottle. Doc figures between twelve and twelve-thirty. Some fancy medical stuff gives him the idea she fell on the dry beach at the edge of the water and lay there ten or fifteen minutes before the tide came in and floated her down under the end of the pier where she lodged. That’s why nobody saw her at first.”

The group of detectives and policemen at the foot of the pier parted to let two ambulance attendants pass through bearing a stretcher with a sheet-covered body on it. Peter Painter followed the corpse, but stopped when he saw Shayne and Rourke.

“How do you explain this?” he asked Shayne aggressively.

“How about a statement from you?” Rourke asked eagerly.

“You can say I’m not at all satisfied with Shayne’s absurd story of somebody impersonating him over the telephone in his apartment and luring Mrs. Dustin down here to her death. I suspect him of prior knowledge of the murder and of giving out that yarn as a smoke-screen to cover himself when her body was discovered.”

“In other words,” said Shayne, “you’re publicly accusing me of murder as well as stealing the bracelet.”

“I’m accusing you of nothing—yet,” snapped the detective chief. “But I’m also not swallowing your hog-wash.” He turned and strutted through the sand toward the concrete walk.

A faint glow of dawn lighted the eastern horizon above the gray ocean. Rourke asked, as they followed Painter toward the hotel, “Want to come up with me and have a talk with Dustin?”

“Do your own ghouling,” said Shayne. “I’ve heard everything he has to say. I’ll be pushing along.”

Rourke gave him a quick, suspicious glance and asked, “Where to? If you’ve got some other angles—”

“Sleep appeals to me right now,” he said casually. “There’ll be plenty to keep us busy tomorrow morning.”

“You’re nuts. It’s tomorrow already.” Suspicion edged his voice. “Don’t run out on me, Mike. I’ve got a feeling things are going to break fast.”

“Go on and intrude on Mark Dustin’s private grief,” Shayne told him good-naturedly. “There’s nothing much we can do until we get answers to those telegrams.”

Shayne went on to his car and drove northward. He took it slow, making very certain that Painter had not put a tail on him, turning off Collins after a few blocks and winding around the palm-lined streets until he reached Sunset Drive. There was enough daylight now for him to see the house numbers, and he loitered along until he found the address the telephone operator had given him in Ben Corey’s office.

He drove past the house on the silent, deserted street, turned the corner and parked halfway down the block, got out and walked back. There was no sign of life in any of the dwellings on either side of the street, and the only sound to break the silence of dawn was a milk truck coming down the street, stopping in front of most of the houses while the driver hurried up the walk to deposit his full bottles on front porches and pick up the empties.

Shayne stopped in the deep shadows on the sidewalk opposite the big house he sought. He lit a cigarette and watched the driver stop across the street, get out and run up the walk.

Moving out of the shadows, he crossed the street to intercept the whitecoated deliveryman as he returned to the truck. His sudden and unexpected appearance startled the driver.

“What yuh wanta scare a guy like that for?” he demanded truculently. “If this is a stick-up—”

“It’s police business,” Shayne told him. “I’m interested in the house you just delivered to.”

“Police business? You don’t look like no cop to me. You tight?”

Shayne took a badge from his pocket and showed it to him. “Who lives there?”

“This house right here?” The driver scratched his head. “Bankhead. Feller by the name of Bankhead. That’s it. J. Donald Bankhead. I been deliverin’ here most a year now. What’s wrong? What you want—”

“Know anything about Bankhead?” Shayne interrupted. “What’s his business? How big a family?”

“Tell you the truth, I dunno much. You know how it is. These days a man hardly gets to know even his steady customers. I collect onct a week. Good pay. There’s a housekeeper pays off. I dunno ’bout any family. Six quarts a day regular an’ cream twict a week. Look—I got to cover my route and if I don’t get goin’ there’ll be complaints.”

Shayne said, “Go ahead. And keep your mouth buttoned up. This is a Secret Service investigation.”

“Secret Service? Jeez. Is he one of them communist spies or somethin’?”

“Something like that.” Shayne stepped back and waited until the milk truck had made one more stop, then turned the corner. When it was out of sight, he strolled forward and followed a wide gravel drive leading into a double garage about thirty feet to the right and at the rear of the house.

The double doors of the garage were padlocked. Shayne studied the locks in the reddening light of dawn, got out his keyring, and went to work on the simplest lock. It opened after a few trials, and he slid the door back enough to squeeze through. The door creaked on the metal runway, and he stepped inside the dark interior, stood there without moving for a full three minutes and listened intently.

When he heard no sound, he turned to the two cars inside the garage. On the right was a shiny Cadillac coupé. The other car was a black limousine. He struck a match to look at the license plate on the limousine, and wasn’t surprised to see a different set of numbers than those he had memorized in Mickey’s Garage. They would have been fools not to take the precaution of using stolen license plates for the job they had done the previous evening. He bent over and examined the bolts and nuts holding the plate. They were clean and not rusted, though the metal bar to which they were attached was streaked with mud.

He struck another match to examine the right front fender. It showed no sign of damage. The workmen in Mickey’s Garage knew their business.

He dropped the match on the concrete floor and stepped on it. Overhead lights flared, and an unpleasantly familiar voice said, “Looking for more trouble, shamus?”

Blackie was standing in the open portion of the doorway. He was bareheaded and his dark hair was tousled as though he had just awakened. He wore a sleeveless polo shirt, white trousers, and canvas sneakers. His bare arms were furred with thick black hair. He held a .45 caliber revolver in his right hand and it was pointed at the exact center of Shayne’s belly.

Shayne said, “I didn’t mean to wake you up.” He stood very still beside the right front fender of the limousine.

“There’s a buzzer in my room upstairs.” Blackie scowled and took a step forward. “What you doing in here?”

“I heard you’d been trying to get in touch with me. I wasn’t sure I had the right address and was checking the car to make sure before I woke you.”

“I’ve been wanting to see you, for a fact.” Blackie’s scowl lightened, but the muzzle of his gun remained steady. “That was sort of a mistake tonight when I slugged you.”

“A bad mistake,” Shayne told him. He was relaxed, his right hand resting on the fender, inches from the automatic weighting his coat pocket.

“Yeh. No hard feelings, huh?”

“Is the bracelet for sale?”

“Look here—I didn’t say anything about a bracelet.” His scowl was replaced by a look of cunning. “You in the market for one?”

Shayne said, “I could be.” He kept his voice pleasant, and moved forward between the two cars toward Blackie. “That’s what you wanted to see me about, wasn’t it?”

“Maybe I did and maybe I didn’t. How’d you know to come snooping here?”

“Followed my nose.” Shayne was close to him now, ten feet away. The barrel of the .45 was wavering. “You don’t have to keep that thing pointed at me. I don’t talk business over a gun barrel.”

Blackie looked down at the heavy weapon as though surprised to see it in his hand. Shayne’s thumbs were hooked inside his coat pockets. “I don’t figure you,” Blackie said in a worried tone. “If I’d got slugged like you did—”

“I never let a slugging interfere with profits.” Shayne was closer now. Six feet away. “Why did the Rajah change his mind about the bracelet after it was offered to him?”

Blackie looked up, surprised. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he muttered. “I think you better go in the house—”

“Let’s settle this right here. Just between you and me.” Shayne’s right hand crept deeper into his pocket. He stood poised on the balls of his feet. He asked, “Why did you have to kill Mrs. Dustin?”

The .45 was a double-action, uncocked, but Blackie’s forefinger was tight on the trigger. At Shayne’s words, he swung it up with an oath, but the detective leaped forward and closed his big hand over the top of the firing-chamber as the hammer came back. It snapped forward harmlessly on the soft flesh between his thumb and forefinger at the same instant his right hand came out of his pocket and described a sweeping arc upward.

The flat side of Shayne’s automatic slammed against Blackie’s head and his knees gave way. The .45 fell from his hand as he slid to the concrete floor.

Chapter Fifteen

A FRIEND IS A STRANGER

BLACKIE WAS TOUGH. He stayed on his knees with both hands planted on the floor to support his weight. He breathed heavily through his open mouth and shook his head like a wounded and dazed animal.

Shayne dropped his automatic into his coat pocket and cocked the hammer of the double-action .45 with his right hand.

Blackie began to push his torso laboriously upward. His eyes were fixed on the cocked gun in the detective’s left hand. Shayne said, “I like you better on the floor.” He put the sole of his big shoe in Blackie’s face and shoved. Blackie sprawled backward and lay there for a moment.

When he pulled himself slowly to a sitting position, he grunted, “Evens us up. Who’d you say was killed?”

“Mrs. Mark Dustin.”

“I don’t know any Mrs. Dustin. I ain’t killed nobody. Not recently,” he amended, clearing his throat and turning his head to spit.

“Did you send someone over to keep your date with her?”

“What date you talking about?”

“The one you made by telephone,” said Shayne irritably. “After you tried to kill my secretary and pretended it was me talking over the phone.”

“Look, shamus, I don’t know what in hell you’re talking about. So I slugged you tonight—by mistake. So, all right. Now you slugged me. So we’re even. I don’t know about this other stuff.”

“I suppose,” said Shayne angrily, “you don’t know anything about a ruby bracelet.”

“That’s right.” Blackie folded his bare arms across his chest and sighed. “I got to sit here all day?”

Shayne said, “What about a busted fender on the limousine?”

“Sure. I got a busted fender fixed up at Mickey’s.” He ran a thick tongue over his thick lips. “Me an’ the Kid took the big job out without the boss knowing about it and scraped some paint off. I was getting it patched up when you barged in.”

“How do you mean you slugged me by mistake?”

“I must of got mixed up on the phone,” Blackie explained readily. “I thought you was sticking your nose in my business and trying to shake me down by threatening to tell the boss about the busted fender.”

“So you called him up to find out what to do?” Shayne jeered.

“I just pretended to call up,” Blackie explained swiftly. “To see what you’d do. You fell for that gag, huh?”

His story, Shayne realized, had been well rehearsed. When the boss had changed his mind, for some unknown reason, about dealing with the insurance company on a reward for the return of the rubies, he had realized it had been a tactical error to have Shayne slugged. So, he had evidently ordered Blackie to shoulder the full responsibility for that error.

“I know you’re lying right down the line,” Shayne told him dispassionately. “As you say, we’re even on the slugging, but we’re still not even on a couple of other things. I don’t like mugs who come in my apartment and answer my phone—and slap my dolls around.”

“Honest to God,” Blackie protested, “I’ve never been inside your apartment.”

“That’s easily checked. Get up.”

“I sort of like it here on the floor.”

Shayne said, “You’ll have a chance to stay there forever if you don’t start moving.” He gestured toward the door with the cocked .45.

His tone convinced Blackie that the discussion was ended. He lumbered to his feet and Shayne said, “Walk out that door and straight down the drive to the street. Then turn to the right to the corner and then to the left. My car is parked halfway down the block. We’re going for a ride together, and if you make one goddamned move or sound I don’t like I’ll blast your guts with your own gun. The cops would thank me for doing it because I’ve got you framed right in the middle of a murder rap, and they can use a fall guy. Get going.”

Blackie got going. Shayne followed him out the door and down the drive to the street. The sun hung like a red ball of fire behind the misty clouds above the rim of the ocean. Birds were singing in the shrubbery, and the new day held a clean warmth that promised muggy heat within a few hours.

They encountered no one on their walk to the corner and to the detective’s car. “Get under the wheel and drive,” Shayne ordered. “To the County Causeway and then turn left on Biscayne Boulevard. I’ll be resting easy in the back seat with a gun on you.”

Blackie opened the front door and got in. Shayne eased himself into the back seat and tossed the keys across to the driver.

Blackie drove carefully and expertly, and at slow speed. Shayne kept his eyes on the back of his head and let his mind wander into the unknown equations that were beginning to unravel. Blackie would talk soon enough. He was grimly sure of that. As soon as Lucy identified him as her attacker and he realized the spot he was in. His denial of Mrs. Dustin’s murder had sounded genuine enough, and he might have been telling the truth.

It was plausible to presume that Blackie had made contact with his employer after the telephone call and sent him to keep the appointment with Mrs. Dustin which had resulted in her death. In that case, Blackie might well have been honestly surprised to learn that she had been murdered.

That was all the more reason why he would talk when he realized how neatly he had been framed for the job. If he were guilty, he might continue to deny obstinately any knowledge of the telephone call, but if innocent, he would be a fool if he didn’t spill everything he knew.

One thing troubled Shayne as they turned down Biscayne Boulevard. He felt positive he held the key to recovery of the bracelet, but if he let the policeman on guard at his apartment hear Blackie’s confession, the secret would no longer be his and any possible reward would slip out of his hands like hot butter.

He had an angle figured by the time they reached the foot of Flagler Street. He said to Blackie, “Swing over to Second Avenue and then toward the river. I’ll show you where to pull up just this side of the drawbridge.”

When the car was parked, Shayne took the keys and said casually, “We’re going in through the hotel lobby and up to the third floor. There’s a Miami cop in my apartment. Figure things out for yourself. If you’d rather keep this whole thing private, just between you and me, use your head and I’ll tell him you’re a friend. We’ll get rid of the cop and talk it over after he’s gone. If you want to make it tough I’ll take you in with a gun on you and hand you over to him on two charges: Murder and attempted murder.”

Blackie turned a swollen and frightened face toward Shayne and said hoarsely, “Honest to God, I’m not hunting no trouble. I don’t know what all this stuff is about murder, but I’d rather do my talking outside bars than behind them.”

“Fair enough, but don’t forget I’ve got two guns on me. Let’s go.” He thrust the revolver inside his trousers waistband and buttoned his coat over it, then led the way around to the front entrance and they entered the lobby.

The night clerk was still on duty. He yawned and watched the two men approach with red-rimmed eyes. Shayne stopped by the desk and said, “You know my friend don’t you, Jim? He was up to see me last night when I was out.”

The clerk studied Blackie’s face intently. He said, “I don’t believe I do, Mr. Shayne. Is Miss Hamilton going to be all right?”

“I’m on my way up there now. Dr. Price thought she was okay when I left a few hours ago.”

The elevator was waiting, and when they got in, Shayne said to the operator, “Take a good look at this man. Ever see him before?”

“Listen—” Blackie began to protest, but Shayne silenced him with a look.

“I don’t know as I have or not,” the boy said reflectively. “I might could remember better, Mist’ Shayne, was you to tell me jest when I saw ’im.”

Shayne said, “We’ll skip that for the moment.” They got out of the elevator and started for his apartment.

“I’m telling you,” said Blackie doggedly, “I never been inside this building before. You can see neither one of them identified me.”

“There’s a side entrance and stairs,” Shayne said shortly. He stopped in front of his door and knocked. It was opened by a tall young man wearing the natty uniform of the Miami police force. He had his service revolver in his hand, and he peered out suspiciously until he recognized the redhead.

“It’s you, Mr. Shayne. I’m Edmund. I had orders to admit no one but you.” He stood aside and the two men entered.

Miss Naylor sat in front of the card-littered center table. She looked as prim and efficient and wide-awake as when Shayne left. She said, “The patient has been quiet all night, Mr. Shayne. I’m sure she’s going to make a splendid recovery.”

“That’s fine.” To Blackie he said, “Pull up a chair and I’ll pour some drinks. Will you have one, Edmund? Miss Naylor?”

“No thanks,” said Miss Naylor. “I’m not allowed to drink on duty.”

Blackie sat down in the middle of the couch, holding himself erect, his hands folded in his lap. Shayne went to the liquor cabinet and asked, “Cognac or whisky?”

“I really can’t take anything,” Edmund told him. “I was ordered to stay on guard here until—”

“Until I returned and took over,” said Shayne cheerfully. “You’re off duty as of this moment.” He brought out the cognac and three glasses.

“I suppose your return does relieve me, but I couldn’t take a drink this time of morning.” Edmund turned to Miss Naylor and said, “We’d better settle up our gin rummy accounts and then I’ll be getting along.”

“I’ve added it,” she told him. “Three dollars and twenty-eight cents.”

While Edmund was settling his debt, Shayne poured two drinks and handed one to Blackie, then moved across the room and sank into a chair with the bottle on the floor beside him.

“Well, I’ll be going,” the young officer said. “I hope the young lady will be all right.”

Shayne nodded. “Thanks for sticking around.” He frowned and said, “Wait a minute, Edmund. About that phone call. The one asking about the bracelet. Think you would recognize the voice if you heard it again?”

“Why—I’m not sure. Over a telephone I might. It wasn’t particularly distinctive.”

“Anything like mine?” Shayne asked. “Or more in line with Mr. Diffingham’s voice.” He nodded to Blackie.

Edmund’s smooth brow rumpled. “I don’t believe I’ve heard Mr. Diffington say anything.”

“Diffingham,” Shayne corrected. “Say something for him, Diffy,” he urged.

Blackie said gruffly, “Looks like a nice morning.”

Edmund thought for a moment, then said, “It was more like his—but not exactly. It would be easier to judge over a telephone.”

“Maybe I can arrange that for you.”

“Any time,” said Edmund. “And thanks for the game, Miss Naylor,” he added with a whimsical grin. He went out and closed the door softly.

Shayne turned to the nurse. “How soon will it be safe to waken Miss Hamilton?”

“She’s not to be wakened,” Miss Naylor said crisply. She got up and went into the bedroom, returned after half a minute and reported, “I think she’ll rouse in a couple of hours. There’s really no hurry, is there?”

“None at all,” Shayne said quickly and heartily. He yawned expansively, clutching at his sore stomach muscles. His eyes were heavy and he had difficulty keeping his gaze on his prisoner across the room.

Blackie had the advantage of him, for he had evidently slept several hours before Shayne’s foray into the garage. Shayne thrust himself erect after a time and said, “Let’s whip up a pot of coffee.” He jerked his head toward the kitchen and waited for Blackie to precede him, then followed him out and put on a dripolator of coffee. He put a frying-pan over a lighted gas jet, fried bacon, and when it was crisp took it out and poured in six eggs lightly beaten in a bowl.

A few minutes later he placed three plates of bacon, eggs, and untoasted bread on the table which Miss Naylor had cleared of playing-cards. He announced, “Breakfast is served.”

“I’m starved,” Miss Naylor declared. “Sit down and I’ll bring the coffee.”

When she brought his cup, Shayne laced it liberally with cognac. After he had eaten his breakfast leisurely, he felt wide awake. He smoked a couple of cigarettes while the nurse cleared the table, keeping a keen eye on Blackie as he did so.

Miss Naylor came in after washing the dishes and said, “I’d better take a look at our patient,” and went into the bedroom. After several minutes she returned. “She’s beginning to move restlessly. I believe she’ll be fully awake presently. It might reassure her to see you, Mr. Shayne. Would you like to come in?”

Shayne glanced curiously at Blackie’s face as he got up and went to the bedroom door. Blackie appeared to have superb self-control. Not a muscle on his stolid face betrayed anxiety.

Stopping in the doorway where he could keep an eye on his prisoner, Shayne looked at Lucy. Her features were calm and peaceful in the morning light. A curl of brown hair had detached itself and lay across her forehead.

Shayne set his teeth and felt sweat on the palms of his clenched hands as he gazed at her. It was the first time he had consciously allowed himself to consider how much her recovery meant to him. His gaunt face twitched angrily as he switched his eyes to the man whom he was practically certain was responsible for her condition. Blackie met his angry gaze with indifference.

Lucy’s brown and bandaged head moved on the pillow and her long brown lashes rolled slowly upward. She looked at Shayne and a little smile curved her lips. She said, “Hi,” and the syllable sent a rush of emotion through him.

He said, “Hi, angel. Take it easy and don’t try to move. You’ve had a pretty rough time of it.”

“It seems—like a nightmare,” she faltered. “So—hazy. I did—talk to you after it happened, didn’t I? Or did I dream that?”

“You didn’t dream it. You told us everything we needed. I’ve got a guy here I want you to meet. Feel up to it?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Don’t be frightened, now. Just tell me if you’ve ever seen him.” Shayne flipped back his coat and drew the .45, gestured toward Blackie and said, “Come here and let the lady look at you.”

Miss Naylor gasped audibly at the sight of the gun. Lucy’s eyes were wide and questioning, but the faint smile stayed on her lips as she stared at the doorway.

Blackie got up and lumbered across the room. He stopped just inside the door and looked down at Lucy.

A frown creased her forehead as she studied the man, then she said slowly, “I never—saw him—in my life—before.”

Chapter Sixteen

BLIND ALLEY

“WAIT A MINUTE,” Shayne said swiftly. “Take it slow and easy, Lucy. Think back over last night.”

Her unblinking gaze was fixed on Blackie’s face. “I’m sorry, Mike. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him, and I’m certain he isn’t the man who came in last night.”

“She’s right,” Blackie said. “Like I told you, I never been in this place before.”

“Close your eyes a moment,” Shayne said quietly. “Go back to last night, Lucy. The man with the mustache.”

She closed her eyes and lay quietly, then opened them and said in a small and despondent voice, “No, Michael. It wasn’t this man.”

“If he were wearing a gray suit and a Panama hat,” Shayne argued. “Clothes make a lot of difference.”

“I got you for a witness,” Blackie broke in to the nurse, “that the young lady’s done said it wasn’t me. He’s egging her on—trying to make her say it was me.”

Miss Naylor said crisply, “It certainly seems to me, Mr. Shayne, that you’re using what a lawyer would call undue influence.”

“It doesn’t help—thinking back,” Lucy told Shayne. “It doesn’t help a single bit. He’s not a bit like that other man.”

“You said a moment ago that it was like a nightmare,” Shayne reminded her. “That last night was hazy and indistinct. If you close your eyes and rest a while—”

“Oh, no. You don’t understand, Michael. That part of it isn’t hazy at all. I can see him now as he hung up the phone and saw me and jumped at me. The other part is like a nightmare. Afterward—when I came to for a moment and saw you—and some other men.”

“All right,” Shayne conceded dispiritedly. “So this isn’t the guy. Can you describe him any better than you did last night?”

“Just—that he was heavy-set and had a sort of round face, I think. Not nearly as dark as this man. His mustache was kind of grayish. I only got one good look at him, but I’d know him again anywhere.”

Shayne moved close to the bed and leaned over her. He touched her cheek gently with rough finger tips and said, “Don’t look so worried, angel. You know I don’t want you to make a false identification, even though I was positive Blackie was the man I wanted.”

He nodded to Blackie and followed him out into the living-room. Blackie started for the door, saying, “That’s all, huh? You don’t want me any more.”

“I want you plenty more,” Shayne growled when the bedroom door was closed. “Sit down over there and start talking.”

Blackie sat down and muttered sulkily, “I got nothing to talk about.”

“Do you deny that you and the Kid and some other gimp rammed an automobile on Collins Avenue last night and snatched a roll and a ruby bracelet from the couple in it?”

“I sure do deny that. I can prove where I was at eight o’clock.”

“How do you know it was done at eight o’clock?”

“Look—you’re talking about the Dustin job, ain’t you? It’s in all the papers about the gang grabbing a bracelet.”

“Where were you at eight o’clock?”

“Me and the Kid was up to Sunny Isles with a couple of broads,” Blackie told him readily. “Driving back was when we scraped the fender I was gettin’ fixed in Mickey’s Garage so the boss wouldn’t know we’d been joyriding.”

“I don’t believe a damned word of it, but you can probably prove it by witnesses. All right. We’ll skip that until Dustin has a crack at identifying you. Whom do you and the Kid work for?”

“You mean the boss? Mr. Bankhead?”

“What’s Bankhead’s business?”

“He imports stuff. Got an antique and curio shop on the Beach.”

“What does he import?”

“All sorts of stuff. Pitchers and statues and stuff like that.”

“Jewels?”

“I dunno. Maybe, sometimes. I don’t have nothing to do with the shop.”

“What’s your job?”

“I’m the gardener,” Blackie said with dignity.

“Do you use brass knucks to knock out insect pests?”

“I just happened to have ’em in my pocket,” Blackie muttered. Sweat was popping out on his swarthy face.

“Is the Kid a gardener too?” Shayne asked sarcastically.

“No. He’s the chauffeur.”

“Why did you telephone me last night from the Sunlux Hotel to ask if I wanted to buy the ruby bracelet?”

“Me? Telephone you?” Blackie looked blandly innocent. “You’ve got me wrong.”

“You were going to call me back this morning,” Shayne insisted. “We can talk it over right now and save the price of a call.”

“I sure don’t know what you’re trying to get at.”

“Did you ever hear of the Rajah of Hindupoor?”

“Not as I recollect.”

“Is Bankhead a heavy-set man with a grayish mustache?”

“He sure ain’t,” Blackie answered earnestly. “He’s tall and clean-shaved.”

Shayne made a gesture of disgust, sank into a chair and poured himself a small drink. “Go back and tell your boss Mike Shayne says there’s not going to be any payoff on the bracelet. Tell him to wrap it around his neck and wear it for a dog collar. Now get out. I’m sick of looking at you.”

“Sure,” said Blackie placatingly. He sidled toward the door, looking at the .45 in Shayne’s lap. “You gonna let me have my gat back?”

“I’ll keep it for a souvenir,” Shayne growled, “and see whether the front sight matches the cut on Dustin’s face and whether the police chemist can find traces of blood on it.”

Blackie said, “Go ahead. I swear it ain’t been out of my bureau drawer for six months.” He scuttled out the door and down the hall.

Shayne looked distastefully at the gun, sighed, and got up to lay it on the table. He looked at his watch and decided it was much too early to go calling on anyone. He prowled around the room immersed in thought, and stopped in front of a book case at the end of the room. It still held the books he had accumulated years ago, just as he’d left it when he gave up the apartment to go to New Orleans. The hotel management had left it there, and successive occupants had evidently accepted it as part of the furniture.

There was an old set of encyclopedias on the bottom shelf. He leaned down and ran his eyes along the backs until he found the R volume, took it out and carried it over to the couch and thumbed through it until he found Ruby.

He glanced through the data without much interest until he reached a subheading, Artificial or Synthetic. He read this passage carefully:

The earliest recorded attempt to manufacture synthetic rubies was in 1837 by a German chemist. His process consisted of fusing together chips of the natural stones into one larger gem, and the resulting rubies were called reconstructed gems.

Much later, Michaud improved the process with somewhat better success by placing several large fragments of natural rubies in a revolving platinum crucible and heating them to about 1800 C. He obtained fairly large stones by this method, though the product was likely to burst asunder from interior stresses. Reconstructed rubies have now been replaced in the market by synthetic gems manufactured by a process developed by Professor Verneuil in France. In the beginning, Verneuil used small, inferior Burma stones which he crushed into powder, fusing them into one large stone under terrific heat.

Later, he discarded the use of crushed stones and used corundum, a form of alumina, and this process is in use at the present time to produce synthetic gems commercially.

Purified and finely divided alumina is placed in a receptacle…

A complicated and technical description of the Verneuil apparatus and process followed. Shayne skimmed over it until he reached the final summation, which described how difficult it is for the untrained observer to distinguish the artificial from the natural stone. He read this carefully, and made a grimace of disgust when he came to the final line:

As it has not been possible to produce asterism in synthetic rubies, it follows that any star ruby must have been cut from the natural mineral.

Shayne snapped the encyclopedia shut. There it was again! Every time he began formulating a theory, he got hit in the face with the fact that star rubies cannot be produced artificially.

He got up and replaced the offending volume, reminding himself that it was quite an old set and might not contain the newest scientific information available. Walter Voorland was the man to talk to. He probably knew as much about the subject as any man living.

Turning back toward the bedroom door, he was met by Miss Naylor who came out and closed the door gently but firmly. “Miss Hamilton has gone to sleep again. Rest and quiet is all she needs now.”

“Will you be able to stay here with her?”

“Dr. Price will be looking in soon. If he can’t get a relief nurse, I can rest here on the couch with the door open so I’ll hear her if she calls. Get along with your detecting if that’s what you want to do,” she ended with a bright smile.

“Do you know how to shoot a revolver?” Shayne asked.

Miss Naylor went over to the table and picked up the heavy weapon, released the cylinder and swung it out, revealing six cartridges. She snapped the cylinder back and lifted it with one hand. “Nice balance,” she said. “Most of these double-actions don’t carry enough weight in the muzzle.”

“Amazing,” said Shayne. “Do all trained nurses like to play gin rummy and know the fine points of firearms?”

“Probably not. I was an army nurse.”

“You’re marvelous,” said Shayne fervently. “I don’t know why I bothered to ask for a police guard last night.”

Miss Naylor chuckled. “I won a few bucks from him,” she reminded Shayne, her eyes twinkling.

“I’ll leave you on guard this time. Don’t let anyone in except the doctor or me. No one,” he went on with emphasis. “Whoever attacked Miss Hamilton last night must realize she is alive and capable of identifying him. He may come back.”

Outside the hotel, he got in his car and drove across the Venetian Causeway to Miami Beach. Walter Voorland lived in a large apartment near the bay and a little south of the Causeway. He was a bachelor, and had maintained the apartment for years, and Shayne had visited him on occasion in the past.

Voorland’s colored man met him at the door when he rang the bell. If he was surprised to see the detective at this early hour his face didn’t show it. He said, “Come right in, Mistuh Shayne. Mistuh Voorland is taking a shower right now.”

He led the detective into a big square living-room where two good paintings were hung on the wall and a few carefully selected objets d’art were tastefully displayed. The furnishings were masculine and luxurious. Shayne went across to long French doors leading out onto an iron-railed balcony and stood there thoughtfully smoking a cigarette while the Negro went to inform the jeweler that he had an early visitor.

He smoked two cigarettes before Voorland showed up in a gray bathrobe and sandals, his ruddy face shining with good health and the effects of a cold shower.

“Shayne!” he exclaimed. “I suppose it’s something about the bracelet. Have you recovered it?”

“Not quite.” Shayne walked over to a table and crushed out the cigarette. “Sorry to bother you so early, but I need a little dope.”

“Not at all. Glad to help any way at all. What sort of information do you want?”

“Two or three things,” said Shayne. “First, do you remember the stones you sold to a couple of men named King and Kendrick? A few years ago.”

“Certainly. Here, have a seat.” He indicated two chairs companionably close together and sat down. Shayne sat down and stretched his long legs out. “Two of the finest star rubies that have ever passed through my hands,” Voorland resumed. “King purchased a ring and Kendrick a pendant. Truly remarkable stones.”

“Do you know that both of those were stolen shortly after you sold them—and never recovered?”

“I believe you’re right. Yes, I do recall that. You begin to interest me.”

“Is there the slightest possibility that either of those stones were fakes?”

“Not the slightest.” Voorland seemed neither surprised nor angry, merely certain of his judgment.

“I’d like to know how you can be so sure,” Shayne persisted. “I recall hearing you tell Mr. and Mrs. Dustin that synthetic stones will stand practically every chemical test.”

“Practically every test,” Voorland agreed. “But there are certain tests no synthetic stone can meet.”

“But suppose those tests weren’t applied,” Shayne argued. “Suppose, for instance, you bought a stone from a reputable dealer. You’d take his word for its being genuine. Suppose he, in turn, had taken another man’s word for the stone—and so on down the line—with no one bothering to make those tests.”

Voorland smiled whimsically. “As a matter of fact, exactly that thing has happened. It is a well-known yarn in the trade. An Amsterdam dealer bought a large ruby from an exiled Russian Grand Duchess whom he knew personally. It was consigned to a firm in Paris, who in turn passed it on to a London expert, and he sold it to an American retailer. All honest men. Yet, the ruby was synthetic. Each expert along the line had trusted the other to have applied the necessary tests.”

Shayne spread out his hands. “There you are. How can you be so sure—?”

“That a star ruby must be genuine? Because they cannot be manufactured, Mike. The synthetic process makes such a thing an impossibility.”

“Explain that to me. Just what is the process?”

Walter Voorland fished in the pocket of his robe for a stick of gum. He peeled the paper off and thrust the gum in his mouth, made a few smacking sounds, then placed both hands precisely on his knees.

“The present successful process is known as the Verneuil Process and was perfected by Professor Verneuil in nineteen hundred and two. He had been working on it with others for many years. Ebelman, Fremy and Feil, Eisner and Debray. The making of artificial rubies attracted more scientists than other gems because rubies have the peculiar property of losing color under great heat, only to regain it when they cool. Other gems do not regain their natural color after excessive heat.

“The first successful method was to take small, inferior Burma gems and grind them into a fine powder. By subjecting this powder to terrific heat and pressure, the powdered stones were fused into one large one. Actually, a real ruby. With every chemical property still intact. Nothing added and nothing taken away.” Voorland paused and chewed his gum while Shayne waited for him to continue.

“A ruby is actually nothing more than crystallized corundum. Alumina, basically, with a small amount of chromium oxide to give it the characteristic color. So Verneuil went back to nature and used powdered alumina itself, adding enough chromium oxide to produce the exact color desired. These are fused at intense heat in a complicated furnace apparatus and a mass is formed which is called a boule or birne.

“I could go on like this for hours,” the expert said with a slight show of impatience, “but I’m sure you get the important point. It is simply a physical impossibility to produce synthetically a stone which has the natural faults we call asterism. The star ruby. This may surprise you, but a star ruby is actually a faulty stone. Crystallization under natural conditions has not been perfect. The conditions producing asterism simply cannot be reproduced in the laboratory.”

Shayne drew his legs up and crossed one knobby knee over the other. “I’m convinced,” he said. “It was a nebulous theory at best. Just happened to fit one set of facts. What I’d like to know is this: How do you account for the fact that neither the King ring nor the Kendrick pendant were ever recovered by the insurance companies—and have never turned up in any of the gem markets of the world?”

“There’s only one logical answer. They somehow made their way into the hands of private collectors who knew they were stolen and glory in possession of them. The worship of precious gems is a curious thing, Mike, and sometimes an unhealthy one. Many of the best known stones in history have disappeared from human sight for hundreds of years, only to reappear again centuries later with no record having been kept of their peregrinations. Collecting gems becomes a mania with some men. Possessing them utterly. Destroying their moral senses and all responsibility toward society.”

“Men like the Rajah of Hindupoor?” Shayne suggested.

Walter Voorland’s big jaws suddenly ceased their regular masticatory process. A mask seemed to drop into position over his big features.

“What about the Rajah of Hindupoor?”

“I’d like to know what you and he talked about at midnight,” Shayne said quietly.

Chapter Seventeen

DIRTY NOSES

“I’VE NO IDEA WHAT YOU ARE TALKING ABOUT,” said Voorland coolly.

“Your visit to the Rajah’s suite at the Waldorf Hotel last night.”

“What makes you think I did that?”

“He telephoned you from the hotel and you went right out to see him, using the name of Smith. What did he want?”

“Really, Shayne, this prying into my private affairs—is that quite ethical?”

“Anything is ethical in a murder case.”

“Murder? You don’t mean—Mr. Dustin’s injuries didn’t appear serious last evening.” Voorland began slowly chewing his gum again.

“It was Mrs. Dustin who got it,” Shayne told him. “Haven’t you seen the morning paper?”

“No. This is shocking news. Is there any connection with the bracelet?”

“Definitely. I’m the only one who knows about your midnight visit to the Rajah. You can tell me about it if you like. Otherwise you can tell the police.”

“Really, Shayne, I’m afraid I don’t see why my visit to the Rajah has any connection with Mrs. Dustin’s murder.”

“Perhaps it doesn’t. On the other hand, there may be a very definite connection.”

“What gives you that idea? Am I under surveillance? Is the Rajah?”

“Not exactly. I’ve been digging into a lot of angles.”

“I demand that you tell me why you feel the Rajah is involved,” said Voorland sternly.

“I’ll lay it on the line,” Shayne agreed. “The Rajah of Hindupoor is just the sort of unscrupulous collector you mentioned as being the probable recipient of the King and Kendrick rubies. In fact, his reputation as a gem miser is such that you refused to even let him look at the ruby bracelet in your shop a couple of weeks ago.”

“That’s quite true. You do have a way of picking up odd bits of information,” Voorland said with reluctant admiration tingeing his voice. “He is the sort of private collector whom I detest with all my soul. Once let him get his grasping hands on a fine gem and it disappears into his vaults and is never seen again. Precious stones were made to bring happiness and pleasure to people. They deserve to be displayed and admired.”

“Yet you hurried out to see him last night as soon as he telephoned you.”

Voorland hesitated, munching slowly and quietly on his gum. “I had a very good reason.”

“What reason?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“Would you rather tell the police?” Shayne asked harshly.

Voorland lifted his hands from his knees in a gesture of helplessness. “I assure you our conversation was confidential and had nothing whatever to do with Mrs. Dustin’s death.”

“But it did have something to do with the ruby bracelet?”

Voorland’s large mouth tightened obstinately. “I can’t tell you what we discussed.”

Shayne said, “I can have you both arrested and locked up until you decide to talk.”

Beads of perspiration stood out on Voorland’s face. His eyes and tone were cold when he said, “That’s absurd. You can’t possibly suspect either of us of complicity in murder.”

Shayne sighed. “I make a point of suspecting everyone and everything. I see it this way: I believe the gang had a buyer for the bracelet when they snatched it—and the Rajah is a logical candidate. At ten o’clock last night they had no intention of dickering with the insurance company for a reward. Something happened during the next few hours that caused them to change their minds. Why did they decide not to deal with the Rajah? Did you get to them first, Walter? And did the Rajah find it out? Is that why he sent for you suddenly?”

“Is the insurance company offering a reward?” countered the jeweler.

“I don’t know.” Shayne brushed the question aside. “The way things are shaping up now, I don’t believe we’ll have to pay a reward. I think I can put my hands on the bracelet right now without paying anybody off.”

“That’s wonderful,” Voorland said. “How did you manage it so quickly?”

“I’m asking the questions,” Shayne told him angrily. “This is your last chance to tell me what the Rajah wanted. Without that information I’m going to bull this thing through on a hunch—and God help anyone who stands in my way.”

“Give me time to think this over, Mike,” begged Voorland. “If I decide that any information I have has the slightest bearing on Mrs. Dustin’s death, I give you my word of honor I won’t withhold it. In order to decide that, you must explain how she died.”

Shayne studied the jeweler’s face for a full sixty seconds. The man was badly shaken and he was frightened, but Shayne believed he was telling the truth. He didn’t believe Voorland had realized that murder was involved until he, himself, had informed him. Despite his fanatical desire to recover the bracelet, Shayne decided that Voorland would draw the line at protecting a murderer.

He nodded and gave a brief account of the manner in which Celia Dustin had met her death. Voorland listened attentively, and when Shayne finished, he got up to stride across the room and back.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” he confessed. “I don’t yet see how my information can help you. I’ll tell you one thing, though. I’m morally certain Mrs. Dustin wasn’t in on the attack on her husband.”

Shayne nodded agreement. “I don’t go for that theory myself. But she must have known something. Something that was dangerous to someone who saw to it that she would never tell anyone.”

“Perhaps it was some detail about the hold-up that she forgot in the first confusion and worry. Something that she remembered later and felt you should know.”

“That’s quite possible. Are you in the market for the bracelet?” Shayne asked suddenly.

“I?” faltered Voorland. “It belongs to Mr. Dustin, you know. It’s legally his property.”

“I don’t imagine he cares too much. He’s fully protected by the insurance, and with his wife gone—”

“I am willing to refund the full purchase price if it is recovered and he doesn’t wish to keep it,” said Voorland with dignity.

Shayne stood up and said shortly, “Start thinking things over, Walter. I’m waiting for some information from New York and Ohio. I’ll be ready to move when I receive it, and maybe by that time you’ll decide your scruples are ill-advised and be ready to tell me where the Rajah fits in. Don’t try to contact him,” he advised casually as he neared the door. “I’ve got his telephone tapped and a tail on him.”

He went out to his car with the glum thought that he hadn’t accomplished much, but if he could get enough people stirred up there was bound to be a break somewhere along the line.

Timothy Rourke’s apartment wasn’t far from Voorland’s, though in a far less swanky neighborhood. The elevator man told him the reporter was in, and he went up and pounded on the door. Rourke finally opened it, yawning. His rumpled pajamas hung on his thin frame like the misfitting garments on a scarecrow. He let Shayne enter the living-room and offered him a drink and poured a snort for himself.

“You’re determined a guy shan’t have any sleep, so I guess I’d better have an eye-opener,” he complained.

Shayne grinned and said, “You should complain after all the scoops I’ve given you.”

“Sit down and bring me up-to-date on things.” Rourke toed a chair up beside the couch and sat down. Shayne sank down on the sofa and placed his drink on the table.

“Things may be breaking,” he confided, and after a few irrelevant remarks he brought the conversation around to Mark and Celia Dustin.

“I liked Dustin,” Rourke declared, after half the drink had warmed his stomach. “Thirty years of newspaper work and I still get a sick feeling in my belly when I break the news to a husband or wife—or a mother and father,” he added, “like in the Kathleen Deland kidnaping case. The Dustins had only been married two years, Mike.”

Shayne chuckled. “You’re a romanticist at heart, Tim. That’s why one of these days you’ll write a great American novel. Yeh. The bracelet was an anniversary present to Celia Dustin. How did Dustin take her death?”

Rourke was moodily silent for a moment, then he said, “Without breaking down. A tough westerner like Dustin wouldn’t. But he is convinced his wife didn’t have anything to do with the theft, no matter what sort of case Painter tries to make out. He’ll fight any man who does believe it, broken right hand and all.”

“Then he doesn’t believe she doped him intentionally?”

Rourke shifted his position in the chair and said, “He doesn’t see how to get around that. He figures she decided to take a hand in it and didn’t want to waken him. He thinks she remembered some clue that she wanted to tell you.”

“Sounds reasonable,” said Shayne moodily. “Do you know a fellow named Bankhead here on the beach?”

“J. Donald Bankhead?” Rourke’s torso came forward and his eyes glowed. “What about him?”

“That’s what I’m asking you.”

Rourke settled back. “He has a curio shop down on South Beach. Mostly junk for tourists, but I’ve seen some expensive Oriental stuff mixed in with the rest. Nice enough guy, I’d say.”

“Rich?”

“All those junk shops do a big business during the tourist season. You know how it is. So far as I know, his nose is clean.”

“It’s dirty as hell right now,” Shayne told him sharply. “His so-called gardener and chauffeur and some third party pulled the Dustin job last night in Bankhead’s limousine.”

“Is that straight?” Rourke jumped up and started pulling off his pajama jacket.

“Off the record and for your information only,” Shayne said swiftly and harshly. “He knows I’m on to him, but I haven’t any proof yet. He may try to brazen it out. I think he’ll try to get rid of the bracelet if he hasn’t already unloaded it. You’ve still got a little drag with the Beach force, haven’t you?”

“A little,” Rourke agreed, and put his skinny arms back into the pajama sleeves. “Tagging along with you hasn’t raised my stock with Painter’s men.” He sat down dejectedly.

Shayne took his drink in one long swallow, and with his eyes half-closed, looking at the glass said, “Could you pass along enough of a hint to get Bankhead tailed and a check on his movements last night?”

“That shouldn’t be too hard.”

Shayne put the glass down, got up, and said, “I’ll see you in your office later—to pick up replies to those telegrams we sent.” He stalked out to his car and drove across the bay to the mainland.

When he entered the small foyer of Earl Randolph’s apartment building he pushed the button beneath Randolph’s name and held it down for a long time. There was no answer.

Under a card which read 1-A Superintendent the name of E. Palinimo was written in small letters. Shayne pressed the button and got an answering click of the door immediately. He went in. A door at the right opened and a gray-haired man came out. He wore slippers and trousers and an undershirt, and his suspenders hung down from his waist. He held a lathered shaving-brush in his hand and asked gruffly, “Can I help you?”

“Do you know whether Mr. Randolph is in?”

“Three D? Did you try his button?”

“I did. He doesn’t answer.”

“Then he is not in,” the man said.

“I’m a little worried about him,” said Shayne. “I think we’d better go up and see if he’s all right.”

The man’s black eyes widened. “You mean he is sick? I saw him in the hall yesterday and he was all right.”

“I mean,” Shayne said harshly, “there’s been one murder and I don’t want another one.”

“Mur-r-der?”

“Or suicide. I’m a detective. Get your master key and let’s go up.”

The superintendent’s jaw fell open. “Sure. If you think—” He scurried away and returned with a key-ring.

“Mr. Randolph is a good tenant,” he said worriedly as they got in the small elevator and he pressed the 3 button. “A ver-ry friendly gentleman. What you say about mur-r-der?”

“One of his clients. Insurance.” They reached the third floor and he followed the superintendent, his suspenders still dangling, to Earl Randolph’s room.

The door opened easily and the gray-haired man stood back, frightened and cringing, to let the tall detective enter first.

Shayne saw Randolph’s Panama hat on the rack where it had been when he visited the insurance man last night. He pointed it out to the little man and said grimly, “His hat is here, all right,” and stalked on toward the day-bed behind the littered card table.

Earl Randolph, dressed as he had been when Shayne saw him last, lay on the day-bed, halfway on his side, face downward, with one leg trailing off. The overhead lights were still burning and an empty glass lay on the floor where it had dropped from his fingers when he collapsed.

Chapter Eighteen

NO TIME FOR KIDDING

SHAYNE CAUGHT RANDOLPH’S SHOULDER and turned him over, lifting the dangling leg with his left hand and putting it on the day-bed. The insurance man’s mouth was open and he was breathing heavily. Where his face had lain there was a slobber of vomit, and his breath reeked of whisky.

“Is he—dead?” the superintendent asked anxiously.

“Yeh. Dead drunk,” said Shayne angrily. “Help me get him into the bathroom.”

The superintendent eagerly grabbed Randolph’s legs while Shayne lifted his shoulders. They carried the heavy man into the bathroom and propped him in the tub at an angle where the spray of the shower would strike him on the head and torso. The superintendent held his body erect while Shayne drew the curtain and turned the shower on.

Randolph stirred under the impact of cold water and tried drunkenly to move his head out of the way.

Shayne said, “I’ll get him straightened out. Thanks for helping me. You can go and shave now.”

The superintendent backed away uncertainly, then turned and ran from the bathroom muttering to himself.

Shayne heard the door close. He stood back from the shower, but drew the curtain aside a little to grimly watch the drunken man struggle to emerge from the alcoholic coma that held him.

Randolph was opening and closing his mouth, twisting his head to escape the stream of cold water, inching his way back dazedly in the tub, but Shayne kept moving the swiveled head of the shower to keep the full force on his head and face.

Presently Randolph opened his eyes. “Shut it off—for God’s sake,” he muttered thickly. “I’m drowning.”

Shayne shut off the water and said, “Stand up and we’ll get your clothes off.” He reached in and supported the drenched man, unbuckled his belt and shirt, and helped him to get out of the soggy clothes, leaving them in the bathtub.

Randolph clung to Shayne as he stepped naked from the tub and staggered to the toilet seat, where he collapsed again, his head hanging in his quivering hands.

Shayne said, “Take it easy. Try to rub yourself down while I make some coffee.”

He left the sagging man and went through the living-room to a tiny kitchenette and found the necessary things to make coffee. While it was brewing, he went into the living-room and scrubbed the vomit from the day-bed.

Randolph swayed from the bathroom as he finished. His naked body was flabby and wet, and he held one hand pressed to his forehead. He groaned and said, “Get me a robe, will you? Hell of a hang-over.” He groped his way into the bedroom and Shayne followed, found his robe, and got his arms into it as one would dress a rag doll.

“Come out here and sit up,” Shayne demanded, leading Randolph by the arm to a chair in the living-room.

Shayne went back to the kitchenette and found a can of tomato juice in the refrigerator. He opened it and poured out a large glassful, added a couple of teaspoonfuls of Worcestershire sauce, and sprinkled it with Cayenne pepper. He carried the glass into the living-room, where Randolph was slumped low in a chair.

“Here—drink this down. If it stays, we’ll follow it with black coffee.” He held the glass to Randolph’s lips.

Randolph brought both his hands up to grasp the glass. Shayne let go, and the insurance man’s hands trembled violently, spilling the juice over his black silk robe. Shayne took the glass and held it to his lips and Randolph emptied it in a dozen quivering gulps, then slumped back in the chair, his body inert.

“Hold on,” Shayne said. “The coffee is ready.” He hurried to the kitchen and brought a steaming cup of coffee. “Here, sit up and drink this.”

Randolph pulled himself up slowly. “God, I hope you don’t think I meant to get this way,” he said thickly, “Passing out like a school kid. God, I can’t remember when I ever did that before.”

“I think,” said Shayne soothingly, “you were under a terrific mental strain after I left here last night. You just poured the stuff down faster than you realized.”

Randolph sighed, holding himself erect with an effort “I was tired and worked up over that jewel loss.”

“And a hell of a lot more than that,” said Shayne.

Randolph’s glazed and half-drunken eyes lifted to meet Shayne’s. “What’d you mean by that?”

Shayne sat down opposite him and lit a cigarette. “Finish your coffee and I’ll get you another cup. We’ve got a lot to talk about.”

Randolph looked at him with a worried frown, then took the cup firmly in both hands and lifted it nervously to his mouth. Some of it spilled, but he kept on sipping until it cooled enough to drink.

Shayne got up and went into the kitchenette and brought the coffee pot back. He refilled Randolph’s cup and took the pot back. When he returned he resumed his seat, crossed his knees, and sat bent forward studying the toes of his big shoes abstractedly while the insurance agent drank most of his second cup of coffee.

Randolph raised his eyes to Shayne’s and asked, “Why you looking at me like that? Ish it the brashlet?”

Shayne’s gray eyes narrowed. Randolph’s sudden drunken slurring of words made him suspicious. He said, “A lot of things have happened, and I wasn’t looking at you.”

“But you wash thinkin’ about me, an’ I don’ like it,” said Randolph.

“Cut it, Earl,” said Shayne sharply. “A lot of things have happened that don’t make sense. Unless—you seriously consider the possibility that those rubies were fakes.”

Randolph gulped down the last of his second cup of coffee and straightened up. “Star rubies! Impossible. There are tests that definitely—”

“Did you apply them at any time?” Shayne cut in sharply.

Randolph put his elbows on his knees and rested his chin wearily in his palms. “It wasn’t necessary. Star rubies can’t be made synthetically. Walter Voorland is one of the world’s greatest experts.”

Shayne brought his long torso up stiffly. “We keep coming back to that. Just for the sake of argument, let’s suppose the damned things were synthetic and Voorland knew it. Suppose the ones he sold King and Kendrick and Mark Dustin were all synthetic. Would that explain the curious string of coincidences? The theft of each one soon after it was purchased?”

“I don’t see,” said Randolph dazedly, “how the fact that they were synthetic would change anything.”

“It might explain why none of the rubies were ever recovered,” Shayne retorted. “Suppose the thieves discovered they were synthetic?”

“All the more reason why they would have been returned to the insurance company for a reward,” said Randolph.

Shayne considered for a moment, then asked, “Would the insurance company pay a reward for fake gems?” A deep frown creased his forehead and a muscle quivered in his gaunt face.

“Why not?” Randolph rolled his puffy eyelids up and looked at Shayne with eyes glazed and half-drunken. “We’d turn them over to the original owner and save the amount of the policy.”

Shayne frowned and formulated his words slowly. “We were going on the hypothesis that Voorland knew they were synthetic when he sold them.”

“A crazy hypothesis,” said Randolph weakly. His head bent forward to rest in his palms.

“In which case,” said Shayne, “he might have arranged to have them stolen.”

Randolph groaned and ran his hands over his forehead. “In the name of God, why? He’d collected his full price in each case, which was plenty. Why would he bother to steal the damned things back? I’ve already explained why he can’t resell them at a profit.” His head came down to rest in his palms again.

“How about another cup of coffee?” Shayne asked anxiously. He stood up and went toward the kitchenette. “I’ll be right back.”

Shayne returned with a cup in his hand and urged Randolph to drink it, holding it to his mouth and letting him sip until it was cool enough to drink. Randolph caught the cup in shaky hands and said, “Thanks. I’ll take over.”

Shayne reseated himself and said, “Getting back to the rubies, suppose the purchaser discovered that he’d been gypped. So, he pretends to have them stolen, and then collects the full insurance.”

“It’s stretching coincidence pretty far to think a purchaser would immediately become aware they were synthetic after buying them. If he did, the natural thing would be to accuse Voorland of fraud and demand restitution. And it’s difficult to believe the Kendrick robbery in New Orleans was faked. Mrs. Kendrick was murdered. God knows how you think Dustin could have discovered the rubies were fakes when they’d been in his possession only a few hours. If he arranged the robbery, he certainly went to great lengths to make it look like a real job.”

After a moment of silence, Shayne said, “Looks like you’ve knocked the props from under my synthetic theory. It’s funny how many coincidences pop up in these cases,” he went on casually. “After all the ones you mentioned last night, Mrs. Dustin adds another one by getting herself murdered just as Mrs. Kendrick was.”

Earl Randolph drank the last of the coffee and set the cup down. He stared at Shayne with dazed eyes, then exclaimed, “Mrs. Dustin murdered? When? How?”

“I think you know as much about it as I do. Maybe a lot more,” said Shayne coldly.

“I don’t. I swear I don’t. I didn’t have the radio on last night. I haven’t seen a newspaper. I passed out soon after you left here this morning. In the name of God, Mike, tell me what happened to her.”

“She got herself bopped over the head by someone who was afraid she knew too much for his own safety.”

“Don’t look at me like that,” Randolph panted. “I didn’t do it.”

“Didn’t you?”

Randolph ran his tongue around his dry lips and laughed nervously. “Damned if I didn’t think you were serious for a moment. I’m in no shape for kidding.”

“I’m not,” said Shayne harshly, “kidding.”

The nervous smile slowly faded from Randolph’s face. He sat up a little straighter and said in a strained voice, “I think I can use a drink.”

Shayne didn’t say anything. He lit a fresh cigarette and watched Randolph cross the room to a whisky decanter, pick it up and carry it into the kitchenette. He came back a moment later with a brimming two-ounce jigger in his hand. “You’ve been acting queerly ever since you found me passed out here. I think you’d better tell me what’s gnawing at you.”

“Several things.” Shayne ticked them off on his fingers. “I keep remembering that you appraised the rubies for a whopping big policy—and that the stolen gems never turned up again.”

“Not the Kendrick pendant,” he protested. “I was out of town when it was insured.”

“You and Stanley Ellsworth could have been in cahoots to defraud your companies—”

“How, Shayne? How in the name of God do you figure that?” Sweat was streaming from Randolph’s face.

“I don’t know,” Shayne admitted readily. “That’s the only angle I can’t get straight in my mind. Unless you over-appraised the rubies,” he went on meditatively, “in order to help Voorland hook a sucker—and then split the profit with him.”

Randolph’s ruddy face was flushed an angry red. “That’s the first time in my career I’ve been accused of anything like that.” He kept his voice calm with visible effort. “Suppose I did arrange a deal like that with Voorland—what in hell would be gained by having the rubies stolen later?”

“That’s the point I don’t get. Unless you were conscience stricken and preferred to have your company lose instead of the individual purchaser.”

Randolph tipped the liquor glass up and emptied it. He threw it across the room and said violently, “I never knew you to go haywire like this before, Shayne. Do you honestly believe any of this stuff you’re saying?”

“I’m afraid I honestly believe you murdered Mrs. Mark Dustin.”

Randolph’s pudgy body became flaccid. His mouth dropped open and his eyes became glassy. “What gives you that idea?” he asked in a strangled voice. He put both hands on the day-bed and pushed himself erect.

Shayne took the automatic from his pocket and rested it on his crossed knee. “Don’t get up,” he said dispassionately. “I can take the murder of Mrs. Dustin in my stride, but I’d love to shoot the guts out of the man who tried to kill my secretary last night.”

Chapter Nineteen

SHAYNE MEANS BUSINESS

AMAZEMENT AND DISBELIEF shone in Randolph’s eyes as he looked at the gun in Shayne’s hand. He sank back on the day-bed, muttering, “You don’t mean me, Shayne. You can’t mean me. I haven’t tried to kill anybody.”

“I think you have. First my secretary, and Mrs. Dustin later. You didn’t quite succeed with Miss Hamilton, and that’s your tough luck. She can identify the man who came into my apartment and took Mrs. Dustin’s message over the telephone—the man who left her lying on my bed to die.”

“This is all utterly impossible, Shayne. I can’t believe you’re serious. Why would I do any of those things? How can you possibly suspect me?”

“I don’t know why,” Shayne admitted. “Your motive is the only thing I lack. But Lucy described her attacker, Randolph. She saw him clearly, and her description fits you like a glove. And she heard you talking over the phone, and can recognize your voice. Why did you pretend you’d been here in your apartment all evening when I came up here?”

“I had,” panted Randolph. “I swear—”

“Swearing won’t do you any good,” Shayne told him angrily. “Tim Rourke will testify you didn’t answer your phone all evening. Your one mistake,” he went on viciously, “was in not polishing Lucy off while you had the chance.”

“I—don’t know—what to say, Mike,” he stammered.

“A full confession would do very well.”

Earl Randolph shook his head dispiritedly and moaned. He said, “We’ve been friends a long time. How can you possibly—”

“Talking is no good. Get on some clothes and we’ll go over to my apartment. You’ll know the jig’s up when Lucy identifies you.”

Randolph compressed his lips and his eyes roamed around the room as though searching for some means of escape. “I’m not going on any such absurd mission. You have no right—”

The trenches in Shayne’s gaunt cheeks deepened. He got up and moved toward the insurance man, saying implacably, “You’re going to my apartment if I have to carry you on a stretcher. Make up your mind. Fast.” He stood in front of the seated man with the automatic swinging loosely in his hand.

Randolph wet his lips again and said despairingly, “I can’t get over the idea that this is one of your jokes.”

“I don’t joke with a murderer. Get your clothes on.”

Randolph’s murky and slightly distended eyes showed fright. He got up slowly, went hesitantly toward the bedroom, glancing over his shoulder at Shayne, who followed him to the doorway.

The detective kept his cold gaze on him every moment as he dressed hastily and silently. His gray suit was rumpled, but with a clean shirt and colorful tie, Randolph was fairly presentable when they went out into the living-room. Shayne took his hat from the hatrack and put it on, picked up Randolph’s Panama and handed it to him when they were outside the door. “You’d better wear this. I wouldn’t want you to catch cold.”

Randolph accepted the Panama apathetically and put it on. He appeared dazed and speechless. They went down in the self-service elevator and out into the bright sunlight to Shayne’s car. The detective had put the gun in his coat pocket, and neither of them said anything as they got in the car and drove away.

During the short drive to his hotel, Shayne was aware that Randolph kept glancing aside at him, furtively and speculatively, as though trying to nerve himself for further argument, but was evidently repulsed by the grim set of Shayne’s jaw. Not a word passed between them when Shayne parked beside the hotel and they got out, went through the lobby together, and straight to the elevator without stopping.

The night clerk was no longer on duty, and the elevator boy, too, was different from the one who had been on duty the previous night. He had seen Randolph visiting the detective on previous occasions, and now he looked at the two men curiously as they got into the elevator. He appeared to sense that something was wrong, and discreetly refrained from making any casual remarks, as was his custom, as he took them to the third floor.

They went down the hall together and Shayne knocked on the door. Miss Naylor’s crisp voice called, “Who is it?”

“Mike Shayne. It’s all right, Miss Naylor.”

She opened the door and smiled at him, competently holding  Blackie’s  heavy  .45   by  her  side.   “Dr.   Price phoned that he would be down in a few minutes. Miss Hamilton hasn’t stirred since you left.”

Shayne nodded and motioned Randolph inside. He told the nurse quietly, “This is the man who left her to die last night. Don’t let him get close enough to that cannon to grab it.”

Miss Naylor flashed Randolph a keen and scrutinizing look. “Of all things! He doesn’t look like that kind.”

Shayne said, “Murderers seldom do.”

“Stop it, Shayne. For God’s sake, stop it!” Randolph’s self-control  suddenly  broke  and  his  voice  was  thinly shrill. “I can’t stand any more of this. I tell you—”

“Shut up and sit down over there.” Shayne pointed to the couch. He asked Miss Naylor, “Do you think it would harm Lucy to waken her long enough to make an identification?”

“Probably not. But I’d have to have Dr. Price’s permission. He should be here any moment.”

Randolph slumped down on the couch and buried his face in his hands for a brief time, then raised his head to cast a wretched glance around the room.

There was a knock on the door and Shayne opened it to admit Dr. Price. He came in briskly, nodded to Shayne, and said, “Miss Naylor tells me our patient is reacting splendidly.” He looked from the gun in the nurse’s hand to Randolph, and raised his brows inquiringly.

Shayne said, “I’m pretty sure this is the man who attacked Miss Hamilton. If you think it’s safe to arouse her, we’ll try to get a definite identification.”

“I see. Of course. I’ll have a look at the patient and let you know at once.” The doctor and Miss Naylor went into the bedroom and closed the door.

Randolph sat with his head lolling against the back of the couch. He looked straight across the room, avoiding Shayne’s eyes. “I simply can’t believe this is happening to me,” he said in a flat, dead voice. “I do believe you’re serious about this.”

“I was never more serious in my life,” Shayne assured him.

“I’ve read about things like this happening to other men,” Randolph said. “Being caught up in a net of circumstances. Innocent men, like myself. Going along and minding their own business. Suddenly accused of murder.”

“Innocent men can generally prove their innocence.”

“But sometimes they can’t,” Randolph exclaimed, throwing out his hands wildly. “Suppose this girl does think she recognizes me. Suppose I do resemble the man you say attacked her. I can’t prove it wasn’t I. You know how faulty such identifications can be. If she only caught one glimpse of the man—”

“How do you know she caught only a glimpse of him?”

“Why—you said so,” faltered Randolph. “Over at my place.”

Shayne shook his red head grimly. “I didn’t say anything of the kind. The only way you could possibly have known that is by having been here last night.”

“You implied it. Something you said gave me the impression—”

“I didn’t even imply it. I said that Miss Hamilton had a good look at the man who attacked her,” Shayne said flatly.

His telephone rang. He went over and took the receiver down, keeping his gaze on Randolph. “Hello. Oh, Tim… that’s fine. Fast work. Read ’em to me.” He listened, and a frown began to crease his forehead. A worried frown of disbelief. He caught his earlobe between thumb and forefinger and tugged at it.

“Both of them?” he exclaimed after a time. “That should mean something, but I’m not sure just what. Listen, Tim. Get both those men on long distance and tell them it’s vitally important to dig up every bit of information available on both King and Kendrick. As far back as they can dig in a hurry.

“Sure it’ll cost money,” he continued impatiently. “I’ll take care of the expense if your miserly paper won’t pay out a few bucks for the inside dope on one of the biggest stories of the year.

“Lucy’s doing fine, but I’ll be tied up here for a while. When you get those men on long distance, ask particularly for any information that connects either King or Kendrick with Walter Voorland or Earl Randolph.”

Again he listened, then said, “That’s right. Voorland or Randolph. Outside of the known connection here in Miami, of course. And Tim—after you do that, call Worldwide in Denver and get the same dope on Dustin. Find out everything you can about him, his background, and so forth.” He hung up and turned to Randolph, his face bleak and his eyes morose.

“Both King and Kendrick seem to have disappeared completely.”

“You don’t think they were—murdered?”

“They seem to have been very efficiently disposed of,” Shayne grated. “Do you suppose Mark Dustin is in any danger, Randolph?”

“How would I know? About this background stuff,” Randolph went on. “I’ve got all the dope on King available in my file. You know we checked back on him thoroughly before we paid the claim. And I’m sure Stanley Ellsworth has the same stuff on Kendrick.”

“No doubt,” Shayne assented dryly. “But Worldwide might dig up something you folks missed.”

“I don’t understand why you suspect any connection between those two men and Voorland and me.”

Shayne shook his head slowly. “I don’t know what I hope to dredge up. It becomes clearer and clearer that there’s a pattern to these three sales of star rubies that were stolen immediately afterward—and that never reappeared. It’s still vague as hell, and I haven’t put my finger on the motivation behind it. When I do that, the whole complicated plot will emerge clearly. And I think you can do that for me,” he added.

“I know nothing,” Randolph disclaimed violently. “Absolutely nothing.”

The bedroom door opened and Miss Naylor said, “It’s all right to come in now, Mr. Shayne.”

Shayne stood up. “This is it, Randolph. Put on that Panama and walk in that door in front of me.”

Earl Randolph’s hands shook as he put the hat on and adjusted the brim. He got up shakily and went slowly toward the bedroom door, hesitated like a swimmer pausing on the brink before diving into an icy stream, then stepped inside.

Shayne was close behind him. Dr. Price and Miss Naylor stood back near the window and watched the scene with intense interest.

Lucy looked up at Randolph with wide eyes. Her gaze stayed on his face for a full thirty seconds, then shifted to Shayne.

“That’s the man, Michael.” Her voice was weary, betraying no emotion whatsoever. “I told you I’d know him anywhere.”

Shayne asked savagely, “Do you still deny it, Randolph?”

“No. Let’s go in the other room and I’ll tell you the whole thing.”

Chapter Twenty

THE CUSTOMARY TWENTY PERCENT

RANDOLPH APPEARED to have completely regained his normal poise and self-assurance. Without an invitation, he walked firmly across to the liquor cabinet and poured himself a drink of rye, seated himself in a chair, and began in a low, steady voice:

“I did come up here last night. I got to thinking about the King and Kendrick cases, and wanted to talk them over with you. The door to your apartment was ajar and light showed through the crack. I pushed it open and called your, name, but there was no answer. I looked in the other rooms and saw no one. Then your phone started ringing.”

He paused to take a sip of whisky. Shayne sat across from him and listened without interruption as he continued:

“I supposed you’d just stepped down the hall for a moment, and I answered the phone, intending to take a message for you. The woman at the other end of the line said, ‘This is Celia Dustin, Mr. Shayne. I’ve got to see you at once—to tell you something I’m afraid to tell anyone but you.’

“So, there it was. Right in my lap.” Randolph spread out his pudgy hands pleadingly. “What would you have done in my position? I was afraid she’d hang up if I told her it wasn’t you. I supposed at once that it had something to do with the bracelet. A bracelet, mind you, that my company had insured for one hundred and eighty thousand dollars. In the beginning I simply hoped I could keep her talking until you returned. I turned my head aside slightly, in the hope that she wouldn’t recognize that it wasn’t you talking, and asked her what the information was.

“She spoke in a hurried and frantic voice. Said she couldn’t tell me over the phone and that she’d slip out and meet me at the foot of the hotel bathing-pier in half an hour. I promised her I would, Mike. I didn’t know what else to do. I remember even having the fleeting thought that you’d want me to handle it that way. She sounded frightened and distraught, and I didn’t know what she might do if I gave the truth away then. So I told her I’d come, and hung up the receiver.”

Randolph stopped to mop sweat from his face and take another sip of rye.

Shayne said curtly. “Go on.”

“This is the bad part,” Randolph confessed, glancing at the closed bedroom door. “When I turned away from the phone I saw a girl standing there with a pistol in her hand, threatening me. For God’s sake, Mike, try to see this my way,” he pleaded. “I didn’t know who she was or how she got there. I’m afraid I didn’t stop to think. First, the telephone call with hints of danger, then suddenly I was confronted with a gun-moll in a negligee.

“I acted instinctively, that’s all. I jumped toward her to grab the gun before the damned thing went off. She jumped back and tripped over the rug, I guess. I swear to God I didn’t touch her, Mike. It was an accident. She struck her head on the radiator and the pistol fell out of her hand on the floor. She was bleeding when I got to her. I laid her on the bed and tried to think what to do. Remember, I still didn’t know who she was, but I presumed she was one of the jewel mob. And I’d promised Mrs. Dustin to be at the Beach in half an hour. I couldn’t afford to stay here and answer all sorts of questions. I tell you Mrs. Dustin sounded beside herself with fear. I felt I had to get to her.”

“So you calmly walked out of here not knowing whether Lucy was dead or alive.”

“She was breathing when I left her. I couldn’t tell how badly she was hurt. Remember, I thought she was lurking here to ambush you. In the, excitement and the pressure of time, I thought it best to get away fast. So that’s what I did.”

“Leaving a girl to die without medical attention. Doc Price said if he’d been ten minutes later getting to her she probably would have died. It may have been an accident as you say, but going off and leaving her like that without medical attention turns it into attempted murder.”

“It couldn’t have made more than a few minutes difference,” Randolph stated, “if I’d called at once from your phone. I stopped at the drugstore on the corner and phoned the clerk here in the apartment and asked him to get the house doctor on the phone for me. I didn’t know his name, but—”

“Wait a minute.” Shayne’s forehead was knitted in a frown. “You claim you called the doctor? What did you tell him?”

“That there’d been an accident here and he was needed right away. See here, Mike,” demanded Randolph hoarsely, “why are you looking at me like that? As though you don’t believe me.”

“Do you know the number of my apartment?”

“Of course. It’s three-oh-six.”

Shayne got up and opened the bedroom door. “Doctor Price, will you step in here a moment?”

The doctor came in and Shayne said, “This man claims he called you from a drugstore immediately after Miss Hamilton’s accident.”

“He lies,” Dr. Price said readily. “The only call I had last night was some practical joker sending me up to six-oh-three.”

“Six-oh-three?” said Randolph, puzzled for a moment, then he exclaimed, “Six-oh-three! Good Lord. Don’t you see what must have happened? In my hurry and excitement I transposed the numbers. Six-oh-three instead of three-oh-six.”

“It’s possible,” Shayne agreed, “and it’s also possible that you did it intentionally—just to give yourself an alibi for going off and leaving Lucy to die. You could always claim you got the numbers transposed.”

“I don’t see how you can believe a thing like that of me,” Randolph said, genuinely hurt. “Every word I’ve told you is the truth.”

“Maybe. I’m not sure there’s a word of truth in any of it,” growled Shayne. “You’ve had plenty of time to fix up a plausible story. If you are telling the truth and didn’t have any reason for feeling guilty about Lucy, why did you deny it so vehemently until she identified you?”

Randolph shuddered and said in a low voice, “Because of Mrs. Dustin. I didn’t know how much of the telephone conversation this girl had overheard. If she knew it was I who went over to meet Mrs. Dustin outside the hotel—” He lost control of his voice for a moment.

Dr. Price returned to the sick room and came back with his bag. “I’ve arranged for a relief for Miss Naylor at noon. Miss Hamilton is going to be all right with rest and the proper attention.”

Shayne thanked him, and he went out. Randolph nervously resumed his story:

“You see, I did keep that appointment with Mrs. Dustin. But it was too late, Mike. Someone else had kept the appointment before me. She was dead. Lying on the sand at the edge of the water right beside the bathing-pier.”

“So you left her like that, too. Without giving an alarm.”

“She was dead. I took time to make sure of that. An alarm wouldn’t do her any good. Look at my position again,” pleaded Randolph. Sweat popped out on his face anew and ran in little rivulets down his chin. “She’d been killed very recently. The blood was still fresh. I supposed the doctor was with Miss Hamilton already. I didn’t know but what she had revived and told her story. The police might already be on their way to the Sunlux to intercept me. And there I was with a corpse at my feet. Would anyone have believed my story?”

“Probably not. No more than I believe it now.”

“There you are. My one thought was to get away from there fast. Put yourself in my place, Mike. It might have been you who kept that appointment with Mrs. Dustin if you’d been here to answer your phone. As I said, I wasn’t sure how much the girl here had heard. I wasn’t sure she got a good enough look to identify me. Don’t you see how I was caught in a net of circumstantial evidence? I couldn’t help Mrs. Dustin any by letting myself be arrested. I hurried home and dug out those papers from my files and spread them around to give the impression that I’d been working on them all evening in case anyone dropped in—as you did.”

Shayne nodded. “Leaving the windows closed so the room would fill up fast with smoke.” He got up and poured himself a drink of cognac. “Now that you’ve got that off your chest, suppose you tell me the truth,” he added casually.

“Don’t you believe me?” Randolph asked in alarm.

“It’s too pat. Everything fits too damned well.”

“I can’t help that. It’s what happened.” Randolph’s tone was flat and final.

“Maybe,” said Shayne unemotionally, “and maybe not. It leaves too many things unanswered. If you didn’t kill her, who in the name of God did?”

“One of the jewel thieves,” suggested Randolph. “They knew she’d called you and was going down to meet you. They got there first to keep her from telling whatever it was she knew.”

Shayne shook his head. “The big trouble with your story is that you have no witness to verify what you claim Mrs. Dustin said over the telephone. So far as we know, she may have said, ‘Mr. Shayne, I’ve found proof that the insurance man was behind that hold-up. I’m afraid to tell my husband because of what he might do in his present condition, but I’ll slip down and give you what proof I have while he’s asleep.’ Something like that would explain your desperate haste to get over there to silence her.”

“Do you seriously suspect me of complicity in those thefts, Shayne?”

“I don’t know. There’s some common denominator tying them all up in one bundle. Can you think of any good reason why I shouldn’t suspect you?”

“I’m afraid I can’t,” Randolph confessed wearily. “I’ve thought about it until I’m going crazy. You can understand now why I was afraid to stay over there with Mrs. Dustin’s corpse and tell my story.”

“If you’d killed her, your reason for keeping your mouth shut is even more apparent.”

“That’s true,” said Randolph hopelessly. Shayne got up and began to pace the floor. Randolph rested his head on the back of the couch and closed his eyes against the grim features of the tall figure pacing the floor.

After a long silence, Randolph asked, “What are you going to do, Mike? If you turn me over to the police, I’m sunk. They’ll tie Mrs. Dustin’s murder around my neck in a knot I’ll never get untied.”

“And if I don’t turn you in,” said Shayne harshly, “I’ll be handing you a chance to make a clean getaway.”

“Let me make a deal with you,” begged Randolph.

“I don’t make deals with a murderer—or anyone who may be a murderer.”

“Let me say what I was going to. You’ve indicated that you think you know where to put your hands on the bracelet. That’s damned important to me—and to my company. Do you want to throw away a fat fee?”

“No one ever accused me of not wanting money,” Shayne retorted.

“Here’s your chance to grab some, then. Give me an opportunity to contact my company and get authorization to offer the customary twenty percent. That’ll amount to thirty-six thousand. Pay what you have to for return of the bracelet. I don’t care how much. The rest of the thirty-six grand goes into your pocket. Is that fair enough?”

“What do you want from me if I agree?”

“Your promise not to turn me in. At least not right away. You’re the only one who knows this horrible net of circumstances I got mixed up in. If you have me arrested now, I’ll never be able to fix up a reward deal—not from behind bars while I’m accused of murder.”

The telephone rang. Shayne stalked to it and lifted the receiver, said, “Mike Shayne.”

A voice said, “This is last call for bids on a ruby bracelet.”

Shayne tugged at his earlobe. He glanced aside at Earl Randolph, grimaced, and said, “Twenty grand.”

A chuckle came over the wire. “Get wise, shamus. We know twenty percent is regular.”

“There’s got to be something in it for me.”

“Why not? Say six grand to you. That’s good pocket money.” The voice became harsher. “Thirty grand. In cash on the line. Today.”

“Wait a minute. I’ll check and see—”

“If you can trace this call?” the voice broke in sarcastically. “Don’t waste your time. I’ll call back in fifteen minutes. Have an answer ready then.” There was a click at the other end of the wire.

Shayne hung up and told Randolph flatly, “That was it. We can deal for thirty thousand.”

“That leaves six for you.” Randolph’s voice was trembling. “If you leave me free to make the arrangements. That’s not much, I know, but I’ll add ten grand of my own. Give me a break, Mike. I swear I’m not guilty, but I can’t afford such a charge against me. Even if I do beat the rap, my reputation will be shot to hell.”

Shayne crossed the room and poured himself a small drink. He sipped it reflectively, then went into the bedroom, leaving the door open. Lucy Hamilton was asleep again, and Miss Naylor was playing solitaire with the cards spread out on the empty side of the bed.

Shayne stood looking down at the injured girl with a queer expression on his gaunt features. A look of tortured indecision. Miss Naylor glanced up at him and said quietly, “Doctor says she is out of danger. I imagine she can be moved to a hospital tonight.”

“Why can’t she stay here?”

Miss Naylor slapped a red queen on a black king. “I thought it would be a lot of bother to you.”

Shayne said, “She isn’t any bother to me.” He went back into the living-room and asked Earl Randolph gruffly, “How long will it take you to get authorization and possession of the cash?”

“A few hours,” Randolph told him eagerly. “Say two o’clock this afternoon.”

“I’ll need some cash to pay my secretary’s doctor and nurse bills. Get out of here and be back at two o’clock sharp with the thirty grand in old twenties. I’ll take my sixteen grand in thousands, if you don’t mind.”

Randolph bounded to his feet. “God, Shayne. You don’t know how I feel about this.”

“Don’t think you’re buying immunity with ten thousand lousy dollars,” Shayne said savagely, “after half-killing my secretary. All bets are off if she has a relapse.”

Chapter Twenty-One

SOMEBODY PULLS A FAST ONE

AT ONE-THIRTY THAT AFTERNOON, Michael Shayne and Timothy Rourke were in Rourke’s office in the News Tower. For the last half-hour they had been going over the telegraphic and telephoned reports from three operatives of the Worldwide Detective Agency in New York, Ohio, and Colorado.

Shayne shoved the mass of data aside and scowled angrily across the desk at the reporter. “It all adds up to nothing,” he growled. “Not a lead worth a damn on any of the three. I can’t get over King and Kendrick completely vanishing from sight almost immediately after collecting their insurance money. No trace of their bodies, even. And it doesn’t appear that anyone made any effort to trace them.”

“That’s not too extraordinary,” Rourke pointed out. “Take James T. King. He broke all his home ties with friends and relatives after inheriting that unexpected wad of dough. He simply shook the dust of Ohio off his feet and started out to have himself a hell of a time. He and his wife went high-hat and deliberately cut themselves off from their old life. They could be right here in Miami today and we wouldn’t know it.”

“All right for Mr. and Mrs. King,” Shayne agreed. “Roland Kendrick wasn’t a poor man suddenly made rich. All these reports from New York indicate that he had plenty of jack and was used to spending it. Men like that don’t deliberately cut themselves off from everything just because they collect on an insurance policy. Neither one of them made any profit on the ruby deals.”

“There are some explanatory angles in the Kendrick case, too,” Rourke insisted. “Don’t forget that Mrs. Kendrick was murdered in the hold-up. And all those people contacted in New York and Westchester County appear to have been more casual acquaintances than real friends. None of them knew the Kendricks more than two years. If we could find out where they came from, what their past history was, I imagine we could put our hands on Kendrick without any difficulty.”

“If,” Shayne echoed morosely. “They seem to have popped up suddenly as though they’d both crawled, full-grown, from under a flat rock.”

“When people have as much money to spend as they did, no one bothers much about their antecedents,” Rourke observed sagely. “Like the Dustins.”

“I was thinking about those reports from Denver,” Shayne said. “If he were to disappear today, we’d be up the same tree we are in trying to trace Kendrick. None of their friends in Denver seem to know much about their past, either. Why? It’s one more odd coincidence that doesn’t hook up.”

“Not so odd about a mining operator like Dustin,” Rourke soothed him. “They move around a lot. Foreign countries and all that.”

Shayne shuffled the papers on Rourke’s desk and glared at them. “It’s almost as if both Kendrick and Dustin were intentionally hiding their pasts. That could be more than mere coincidence.”

“Still, I don’t see what it gets us. Mark Dustin hasn’t disappeared yet, and King, who did disappear, certainly led a blameless life until his lucky break in inheriting money.”

“If we can trace the California lawyer who handled the estate of his uncle, we might get a line on King,” Shayne grumbled. He looked at his watch. “It’s time Mathews called in from Los Angeles.”

The telephone rang as he finished speaking. Shayne said, when the operator reported, “Put him on,” and nodded to Rourke. He settled back in his chair. “Mike Shayne at this end, Mathews. Had any luck tracing King’s attorney or the uncle who died?”

A frown gathered between his rugged red brows as he listened to the West Coast operative give his report. After a time, he said curtly, “Keep on trying there. I’ll make one more attempt to pick up something at the other end and call you back if I get a lead.”

He hung up and said to Rourke, “Mathews isn’t having any luck at all. Nothing in the nineteen forty-three newspapers and nothing in the Los Angeles court records.”

“We’re not sure it was Los Angeles,” Rourke reminded him. “That was just the impression of some of his Massillon friends, and you know how people are. Mention California and they immediately think of Los Angeles. It ain’t necessarily so.”

Shayne nodded weary acquiescence. He lifted the phone, got long distance, and asked for a number in Massillon, Ohio. When he was connected, he said, “Mike Shayne in Miami again, Perkins. This is the last time I’ll come back at you, but we’re still unable to trace that California inheritance of King’s. I wonder if—”

He stopped talking, and as he listened, his expression slowly relaxed. “Good!” he exclaimed after a time. “Good work. I certainly would like to speak to him personally.” He waited, covering the mouthpiece with his hand and told Rourke, “This is our first real break. Perkins has dug up a next-door neighbor who met the lawyer and heard him discussing the estate with King in forty-three.”

Shayne jerked his hand from the mouthpiece. “Hello. Mr. Klinger? I see. Hank Klinger. I guess you know what we want, Klinger. That’s right. You think his name was either Norwood or Northcott. The lawyer? Right. The name of the uncle? I see. But you’re fairly positive it was Los Angeles. Not San Francisco or Sacramento or San Diego. That’s something. What sort of a man was the lawyer? Could you describe him—I mean how did he impress you at the time? A shyster or—?”

Shayne’s voice fell. “I understand, Mr. Klinger. I think you may have been a great help and I certainly appreciate your co-operation.” He hung up and was moodily silent for a time.

Rourke said, “For God’s sake, Mike,” impatiently.

Shayne shook his head. “He’s not positive of very much except to swear it was Los Angeles. He remembers the Kings getting ready for the trip out there to claim the estate. The attorney advanced them cash to make the trip—and he and his wife distinctly remember Mrs. King being excited about seeing Hollywood and all the movie stars.

“The lawyer, Norwood or Northcott or something like that, made quite an impression on Klinger. He remembers him well. Nothing of the shyster about him. A big, quiet, conservative man. The kind to inspire confidence. German extraction, perhaps. Spoke with a trace of an accent, but says he spoke impeccable English.”

“Are you going to call Mathews again?” asked Rourke eagerly, “and have him start checking every law office in Los Angeles with that description.”

Shayne shook his head. “I think I’d better call Mathews and tell him not to waste any more time or money out there.” He looked at his watch again, pushed back his chair and got up decisively. “And call the rest of them off, too. I’m becoming more and more convinced the answer to this thing lies right here in Miami and not in New York, Ohio, or California.”

“Where you going?” Rourke demanded.

“I’ve got a date with a couple of guys who may put me on the right track.”

Shayne got as far as the door before turning back to say, “Why don’t you and Voorland meet me in Dustin’s suite at the Sunlux at three o’clock. Invite Peter Painter to come, too. That’ll make quite a quorum to wind this thing up—if I’m lucky.”

“What about Randolph?” Rourke protested. “I’ve had a feeling all along—”

“Don’t worry about Earl Randolph,” Shayne told him grimly. “He’ll be there with me for the kill.”

He went down to his car and drove hurriedly to his hotel. It was just two o’clock when he went down the corridor to his apartment. Randolph was waiting outside the door, and greeted him nervously. “You said you’d be here at two o’clock to meet me,” Randolph complained. “That nurse wouldn’t let me in.”

“It’s exactly two o’clock,” said Shayne cheerfully, holding out his watch. He unlocked the door and went in humming to himself.

Miss Naylor stood just inside the door with the gun in her hand. She said, “Oh, it’s you, Mr. Shayne.” There were dark circles around her eyes, but her eyes were bright with interest and excitement.

“I thought you were to be relieved at noon,” said Shayne.

“The nurse Dr. Price found—the only one available—was too young,” she explained crisply. “I was afraid she wouldn’t know how to use a gun.” She smiled and added, “Besides, I heard you say you’d be back at two.” Then she chuckled. “A nurse doesn’t often have the chance to get in on—well, this detecting business.”

Shayne grinned and asked, “How’s our patient?”

“Sound asleep. Coming along fine.” Miss Naylor looked from Shayne to Randolph, hesitated, then went back to the bedroom.

Shayne noticed that the door was left open a crack. He went over and closed it quietly and firmly. He said to Randolph, “All set?”

The insurance man nodded. He took a bulky envelope from his coat pocket and said, “Fifteen hundred twenties in here.” From his inside coat pocket he drew a thinner envelope. “And sixteen bills in here, just as you wanted it.”

Shayne took the two envelopes. “Wait for me down in the lobby while I make some final arrangements.” When Randolph hesitated, he said, “The less you know about this telephone call the better off you’ll be if Painter puts you on the witness stand.”

Randolph nodded mutely. His distended eyes were murky and weary, and his shoulders slumped as he turned and went out the door.

Shayne opened the thick envelope and counted the twenty-dollar bills swiftly and carefully. He then opened the drawer of the table in the center of the room, took out a thick sheaf of pieces of paper cut the same size as the bills. He placed the sheaf of papers and the stack of bills side by side, pressed them down to more accurately gauge their depth, then lifted off enough of the paper to make it the same thickness as the bills. He placed the paper in the envelope Randolph had given him.

He then opened the other envelope and took out sixteen crisp thousand-dollar bills. Six of them went on top of the thirty thousand in twenties on the table, the other ten he returned to the original envelope, and put them in his inside coat pocket. He stuffed the thirty-six thousand dollars of reward money carelessly in the drawer, closed it, and went out with Randolph’s envelope in his hand.

Randolph was waiting for him in the lobby. Shayne nodded and said, “Everything is fixed. We’re due on the other side of the bay in fifteen minutes.”

They went out to his car and he drove swiftly across the bay, turned sharply south at the end of the Causeway, following a winding street along the bay front for several blocks, thence left half a block, where he pulled up to the curb and cut off the ignition.

“End of the line,” he told Randolph, thrusting the bulky envelope of paper clippings down behind the seat cushion so that only one corner of it protruded.

As Randolph got out, he said doubtfully, “I’m always afraid one of these things will misfire. That’s a lot of money to leave in an unlocked car.”

Shayne shrugged, leading the way back toward the bay front and a small bar on the corner. “Honor among thieves,” he reminded Randolph ironically. “We’ve got to trust them to leave the bracelet in place of the envelope if we hope to get it back at all.” He looked at his watch as they entered the bar. It was exactly 2:28. They sat in a booth against the wall and Shayne ordered a double cognac while Randolph contented himself with a beer.

“My throat feels as though it had been dried out with an electric wire,” he explained. “The cold beer might relieve it.”

They sat in the booth for twenty-two minutes, making desultory conversation and sipping their drinks. There were a few fishermen at the bar, a scattering of tourists, and occasionally a clerk or workman from the neighborhood would slip in for a quick snort and then dart out again.

At 2:50, Shayne gulped down the last of his brandy and said, “Let’s go.”

Randolph paid the bill and they went out. Shayne’s car was just where he had left it.

They reached the car together, and Randolph jerked the door open. The envelope lay on the front seat and clippings were scattered all over the seat and the floorboard. He stared at them disbelievingly, picked up a couple and let them flutter away in the breeze. “I don’t understand this, Shayne,” he exclaimed nervously. “These slips of paper! Cut to look like bills. The bracelet isn’t here! Did you try to pull a fast one by substituting this damned paper—”

Shayne shoved Randolph aside and stuck his red head in the door. “Wait a minute,” he said roughly. “That’s what they want you to think. It looks as though they had a bundle of this stuff made up, brought it along, and left it lying here to give you the idea I’d done it. An excuse for not returning the bracelet.”

“Goddamn it to hell, Shayne!” There were tears of rage and of disappointment in Randolph’s bulging and murky eyes. “I trusted you to arrange this. I gave my personal word of honor to the main office that this wasn’t a gyp game and that we’d get the bracelet back.”

“Stop your yapping.” Shayne moved back and said, “Get in,” and went around to get under the steering-wheel. He slammed the door, started the motor, and roared away eastward.

Randolph slumped beside him, flaccid, unnerved and inert. All life seemed to have flowed out of his body.

Chapter Twenty-Two

SOME REMARKABLE COINCIDENCES

WHEN MICHAEL SHAYNE PUSHED THE BUTTON of the Mark Dustin suite at the Sunlux Hotel, Peter Painter opened the door at once and demanded officiously, “What’s this all about, Shayne?”

Shayne looked over the immaculate little man’s head. Mark Dustin was the only other occupant of the large living-room. He sat in a deep chair near the open east window, his face bandaged and his right hand in a plaster cast. He was hollow-eyed and wan, his torso caved-in, and it was as though the death of his beautiful young wife had been more than even his splendid physique could endure.

“Timothy Rourke said I was to meet you here at three,” Painter snapped irritably. “Where is he?”

Shayne moved past Painter, saying, “I imagine Tim will be along. Have you got anything more on the jewel theft?”

Randolph followed Shayne into the room, his shoulders slumped and his eyes bewildered.

Painter said, “Nothing definite,” strutting along beside them. “We’re following out several leads.” He touched the insurance man’s coat sleeve and asked, “Anything from your end, Randolph?”

“Not a thing,” said Shayne swiftly, forestalling an answer from Randolph.

The buzzer sounded again, and Shayne swung around, stalked to the door and opened it. “Oh, here you are, Tim—and Voorland. Come in.”

Painter whirled and went back to meet the newly arrived guests. He said, “You wanted me here, Rourke,” impatiently. “What for?”

Timothy Rourke looked around the room, his eyes burning and his nostrils twitching. “It was Mike’s idea,” he said, and grinned.

“If I’d known that—” Painter began angrily.

“You wouldn’t have come,” Shayne cut him off sharply. “That’s why I had Tim issue the invitation. Now that you’re here, you might as well stick around and make an arrest.”

The five men in the room reacted according to their instincts. Voorland fumbled in his pocket and brought out a stick of gum, unwrapped it slowly, and put it in his mouth. Mark Dustin lifted his bandaged head and let his miserable eyes roam over the men standing around him. Timothy Rourke’s eyes burned eagerly in their cavernous sockets as they roamed from one face to another. He nervously took notepaper from his pocket and fumbled for a pencil. Painter darted his black and angry eyes at Shayne, then thumb-nailed his neat black mustache as his gaze went slowly from Voorland to Dustin, and finally came to rest upon Randolph’s big round face.

Randolph stammered, “I don’t understand. Are—you—expecting someone else, Shayne?”

“No one else.” Shayne’s eyes were very bright. “I think we can settle the whole thing just between ourselves. Why don’t you all sit down and we’ll examine the remarkable coincidences I’ve discovered in connection with the sale of the fabulously expensive star rubies from Walter Voorland’s jewelry store on Lincoln Road.”

Painter’s black eyes snapped and. he took a few steps toward Shayne. “Look here, Shayne, you can’t—”

“Sit down,” Shayne said quietly.

The others moved across the carpet soundlessly and found chairs. Painter looked at Shayne’s gaunt face and set jaw, then sank into a chair close by and sat with his small feet planted on the carpet and his body erect. “You’d better make this good, Shayne,” he warned, “and quick.”

Shayne stood. He said, “First, we have the curious fact that from right here in one retail store on Miami Beach during the past five years star rubies have been sold for a price totaling four hundred and five thousand dollars—though perfect star rubies are the rarest of stones, and only happen once during many years, perhaps many ages. I know the reason for this, and I offer it only as the first of a series of remarkable coincidences.

“The second is that in each of these instances the jewels have been stolen soon after their purchase, and none of them have ever been recovered—even though star rubies are the most difficult of gems to fence to advantage.

“Add to this,” Shayne went on, “that the first two purchasers, namely, James T. King and Roland Kendrick, apparently disappeared from the face of the earth immediately after collecting insurance on their stolen rubies. There is absolutely no trace of these two men.”

Painter bristled and got to his feet. “How do you know there’s no trace of them?” he snapped. “You’re just putting on a—”

Shayne said, “Sit down. I’ve a couple more coincidences before I’m through. The second and third purchasers, Kendrick and Dustin, are curiously similar, in that neither of them has any past life that can be traced through friends or relatives. In the space of two years, each of them wandered into Walter Voorland’s exclusive jewelry store and laid large sums of money on the line for his latest in star rubies.

“Another final similarity is that the wives of both Kendrick and Dustin have been murdered.”

Mark Dustin interrupted with an angry shout. “See here, Shayne. What are you trying to get at? For God’s sake quit beating around the bush, and tell me who murdered Celia.”

Shayne’s wide mouth relaxed into a smile. “I’m pointing out a lot of coincidences,” he said equably. “Give me time, Mr. Dustin, and we’ll see if they all add up to something we can use in solving your wife’s murder.”

“None of them are so very remarkable,” Earl Randolph broke in nervously. He was sitting on the edge of his chair, and his eyes, still murky, appeared to stand out on stems. “I’ve explained to you—”

“I know,” said Shayne. “A lot of people have wasted a lot of time during the past eighteen hours giving me reasonable explanations for one or more of these coincidences,” Shayne admitted. “They all have to be added up to get anywhere.” His gray eyes were bleak as they traveled over the group.

Painter jumped up and demanded, “Where? Where does it get you?”

“To the bottom of one of the most ingenious insurance frauds ever conceived in a man’s mind. Murder was only a sideline in this business. Money was the first consideration, and murder came afterward.”

Painter was still standing. “If you know so much about Mrs. Dustin’s death, let’s have it. And quick.”

Shayne ignored him and turned back to the others. “I think most of you know,” he said, “that Celia Dustin was murdered because she telephoned my apartment and made a date to meet a man who impersonated me. I think we have all assumed that when we have discovered exactly what she meant by what she said over the phone, we would know who killed her to shut her up.”

Silence was thick in the room until Painter said doubtfully, “If you can produce the man who talked to her from your apartment—”

Shayne moved back to a chair near the door. Before he sat down he said, “I’ll let Earl Randolph take over.”

Randolph, still suffering from a hang-over, had been sitting in a deep chair, his body relaxed and his legs sprawled, his eyes sleepily half closed. He bent forward at Shayne’s words. His face contorted with fear and anger when he said, “Goddamn you, Shayne, you promised—”

“That’s right,” said Shayne glibly. “I forgot to tell you one small detail. Randolph gave me a bribe to keep his part in this quiet. Ten thousand bucks.” He took the envelope from his pocket and sailed it over to Randolph. “That squares me. Count the money and start talking.”

Randolph said thickly, “Why did you let me—”

“Because I wanted you to feel perfectly safe and stick around long enough to get the insurance reward for me.”

“You’re responsible for that money,” Randolph roared. “I intend to hold you responsible—”

“I accept the responsibility. If your company has to pay one dime on the Dustin policy I’ll refund every penny. Tell them exactly what Mrs. Dustin said when you answered the telephone in my apartment.”

Randolph gulped, swallowed his Adam’s apple, and said in a choked voice, “She said she had some information—”

Wretchedly he told the story he had told Shayne earlier. When he reached the point where he admitted hurrying to the Beach to keep the appointment, Dustin leaped to his feet with an oath. He had to be held back by Painter while Randolph stumbled on with his story.

“I swear she was dead when I reached there,” he said in an agonized voice. “I don’t know how I can prove it, but it’s God’s truth.” Shakily he raised his right hand. “I defy anybody to prove differently.” He turned his murky eyes toward Shayne and sank back in his chair.

“There you are.” Shayne stood up and said, “Sit down, Dustin. That’s only one man’s story for whatever it’s worth.” He waited until Mark Dustin sank back into his chair and Painter had resumed his stiff position on the edge of his chair.

“If we accept Randolph’s version,” he continued quietly and firmly, “we have to conclude that Celia Dustin somehow learned something of importance in connection with the ruby bracelet that she wished to tell me.”

Shayne paused and once again his gray eyes went over the group. Timothy Rourke had his notepaper on his knee, but his pencil was idle in his right hand, which hung loosely at his side. His eyes were half closed, and there was a look of extreme boredom on his thin face.

Shayne said, “I think all this brings us to you, Voorland.”

Timothy Rourke came alive with a start.

Voorland said, “To me? I do not see what—”

“To you and one more coincidence. This time, the case of the great ruby expert who gave me all the inside dope on the manufacture of synthetic gems without even mentioning the earliest experiments by a German chemist, and a man named Michaud. Remember those two gentlemen now, Voorland?”

Voorland appeared unperturbed. He fished out a stick of gum, unwrapped it, and popped it into his mouth before answering. After he methodically masticated it for a time he said, “Naturally I know about those experiments. But the Verneuil process—”

“Is the one in general use now,” Shayne said. “I know all about that. Yet, I wondered—”

Shayne suddenly turned away from Voorland and addressed the others. “You see,” he said, “we come back again to the curious fact that during the past several years Voorland has apparently succeeded in cornering the finest star rubies in the world. From the beginning, I toyed with the possibility of those gems being spurious.

“I know,” he went on wearily, as both Voorland and Randolph raised themselves partially from their chairs, “it simply can’t be done. And you, Randolph, appraised the ring purchased by King. Also, you appraised the Dustin bracelet, while another insurance man appraised the Kendrick pendant. Still—I wondered.”

Shayne hesitated for a moment. The lines of his gaunt face were drawn, his brows knitted, but his gray eyes gleamed.

“If they were artificial—if Voorland had actually discovered some secret process of manufacturing star rubies, I could see a profit in it for him. But I couldn’t see how that hooked up with their sudden theft and complete disappearance. Not until I read a few paragraphs in an old encyclopedia and found out about the earliest known process of making artificial rubies. They didn’t call those gems synthetic, but reconstructed gems. That’s because that is what they were. Reconstructed from a number of smaller stones. The reason that original process was discarded was two-fold: It was almost impossible to completely eradicate the faint lines of fissure where the smaller stones were joined, and they were very brittle and likely to burst asunder from interior pressure at any time.

“Then I began to see a possibility,” Shayne went on. He spoke rapidly, as though he wanted to get the thing over and done with, his eyes going over the group keenly. “Suppose Voorland, or someone else, took Michaud’s process of reconstructing rubies and actually utilized the lines of fissure to reproduce a star ruby? Take six small stones of uniform size and cut them in triangular shape. Then, under pressure and terrific heat fuse the six stones into one large one having the asterism that makes them so valuable, and also marks them as natural stones.”

Again Shayne paused to let his remarks sink in. “I began to see how even experts like Walter Voorland and Earl Randolph might be fooled by a job like that. Mental attitude counts for a lot in appraising jewelry. Ever since Verneuil began making synthetic rubies it has been an accepted credo in the trade that a star ruby must be cut from the natural stone.

“So, I began to see how such a manufactured or reconstructed gem might be foisted off as the real thing on some sucker like James T. King by a jeweler with Walter Voorland’s unblemished reputation.

“But think of the chance he takes. Suppose the brittle, reconstructed stone broke into pieces or blew up from internal tension. Then the truth would have to come out. Voorland would be ruined, his reputation shot to hell and gone. It didn’t seem to me that it was worth his taking such a chance, even if he had discovered such a process.”

The silence in the room was thick, the attitude of every man a study. Shayne’s eyes once again studied their faces. The atmosphere itself seemed supercharged.

“And that’s where the sudden losses come in,” he said.

“That’s the theory that explains why the rubies were stolen shortly after their purchase and never recovered. That way, Voorland could be safe from detection. All he had to do was to arrange a fast hold-up before the fraud was discovered, and have his purchaser fully covered by insurance in order that he wouldn’t lose very much, if anything. That explained a lot of things.”

“Do you honestly expect us to believe,” demanded Earl Randolph incredulously, “that all those star rubies were fakes?”

Shayne said, “I’m positive they were. The ring sold to King, the pendant bought by Kendrick, and the bracelet stolen from Dustin last night.”

“This is the most preposterous tissue of lies I ever heard,” said Voorland angrily. “There are such things as libel laws, Shayne. I’m a wealthy man. I’d be insane to attempt any such trickery.”

“I wonder if you are so wealthy,” Shayne said. “I know you don’t own much stock in the store you manage under your own name. You’re nothing more than a hired hand over there, and I’ve got a hunch you’ve eaten your heart out for years watching the huge profits go to the stockholders while you had to be content with a moderate salary.”

“Even if that were true,” the jeweler protested, “I’d be the biggest fool on earth to sell fakes like that and trust to luck to be able to arrange a successful hold-up soon enough to recover the gems before they were discovered.”

“He’s perfectly right, Shayne,” Peter Painter put in pompously. “He’d have no way of being sure a robbery would be successful. A hundred things could happen to circumvent it. The buyer might place the jewel in a safe deposit box immediately. He might leave the country the next day. Any thing at all might come up to interfere with such an absurd plan. He’d be a fool to trust to luck.”

“And Voorland is no fool,” Shayne agreed. “So, I don’t believe he trusted to luck. How much easier and surer to arrange with the buyers beforehand to pull their own fake robberies at once. Remember the King affair in Miami? It screamed ‘Fake’ through and through, but no one could pin it on King for lack of plausible motive. You told me that yourself, Randolph.”

“Sure. It stunk from the word go,” Randolph agreed. “But there wasn’t any proof and we couldn’t find any reason for him to have pulled the job.”

“Reason enough,” Shayne said, “if he knew the ring was a fake when he bought it, and had arranged to split the insurance rake-off with Voorland. Of course you couldn’t prove it, because the ring had disappeared. That’s why it disappeared.”

“This becomes more and more ridiculous all the time,” Voorland declared angrily. “I can’t believe you’re serious, Shayne. Why would wealthy men like King and the others enter into such a dangerous arrangement with me?”

“I don’t think any of them were wealthy.”

“Good heavens! A man who pays a cool hundred thousand for a ring certainly isn’t poor.”

“I don’t believe King paid you a hundred grand for the ring,” said Shayne relentlessly. “I don’t believe he paid you a damned cent. I believe you faked the sale—as you did the sales to Kendrick and Dustin each succeeding two years.”

Voorland stopped his frantic chewing to retort, “This gets more and more absurd. I realize that Mr. King had been poor until he inherited a fortune, but these others—Kendrick and Mr. Dustin—are both wealthy men. I’m positive the insurance company checked Kendrick’s background thoroughly, and I’m sure they will check Mr. Dustin’s before they allow his claim.”

“I’m quite sure they will,” Shayne agreed calmly, “and I know exactly what they’ll learn from Denver. I’ve had a detective working on that all morning. They’ll discover no one in Denver knew him or ever heard of him until he popped up there with a bride two years ago—a very short time after Mrs. Kendrick was murdered in New Orleans, and after Kendrick himself dropped out of sight.

“I haven’t yet mentioned the most remarkable coincidence,” he went on with a trace of weariness, “namely, the unnatural physical resemblance of all three ruby buyers—King, Kendrick, and Mark Dustin.

“I have descriptions of the three men here.” He took a typewritten sheet of paper from his pocket. “All are said to be between forty and fifty. All are about six feet tall. All had gray eyes. King’s hair was a faded gray at forty and he was thin and stooped from overwork and worry. Kendrick’s hair was red, and he held himself erect and was described as slender and well-knit. You can all see Dustin for yourselves.”

“But I, remember King quite well,” Earl Randolph protested. “He was worried-looking and stooped—” He paused and turned his protruding eyes on Mark Dustin.

“Four years ago,” Shayne reminded him. “Four years of wealth and good food, absence of worry, and a beautiful young bride can fill a man out and erase the wrinkles. Add some black hair dye—”

“I don’t know what kind of cock-and-bull story you’re trying to frame,” Dustin said angrily. “You started out by promising to arrest a murderer here. If you’ve got anything to say, why don’t you stop this foolishness and say it.”

“Cut it out, King,” Shayne snapped. “I’ve checked and know your story of an inheritance from a rich uncle in Los Angeles was hogwash. It was cooked up between you and Voorland when he went to Massillon, Ohio, in nineteen forty-three with this fantastic plan of his and pretended to be a lawyer named Norwood—or Northcott. He knew the insurance company would investigate your background before paying the claim, and had to fix up a legitimate excuse for you to be buying hundred-thousand-dollar rubies.”

Peter Painter came to his feet and snapped, “I don’t understand this. I don’t understand it at all. Are you saying this man is King? The James T. King who was robbed of a ruby ring in Miami four years ago?”

“And Roland Kendrick,” Shayne said grimly, “who popped up in Westchester County, New York, from nowhere soon after King collected his insurance and disappeared. He spent the next two years carefully building himself a new identity and a reputation as a wealthy playboy that would stand the closest scrutiny by an insurance company after he and Voorland pulled their second coup. His wife was killed in that New Orleans hold-up and he married a new one about a month later, after a whirlwind courtship of just five days. His second anniversary was a few days ago, and the dates check.”

“Haven’t we had enough of this nonsense?” Voorland appealed to the detective chief. “Shayne hasn’t one shred of proof for a single one of his wild theories.”

“In order to disprove it,” said Shayne cheerfully, “all you have to do is produce Mark Dustin’s canceled check. The one he is supposed to have given you for the bracelet. And the checks from King and Kendrick. The banks keep photostatic records of all important accounts these days, and there shouldn’t be any difficulty about that. If you can’t do that, you might like to confront a next-door neighbor of King’s in Massillon, Ohio. A man named Hank Klinger who clearly remembers the lawyer who called on King back in nineteen forty-three. And then you can tell us how you came to be hanging around here last night and heard Celia Dustin arrange to meet me at the foot of the bathing-pier, and how you met her there instead—”

“No. You can’t get me for murder,” Voorland shouted. “I admit—”

“Wait a minute!” Mark Dustin dragged himself up to a sitting position on the couch. He said angrily, “This entire stupid hypothesis rests on your suspicion that the jewel thefts were prearranged. Good God, do you think I arranged that affair last night? Fixed it to get myself cut up and my hand smashed, just to—?”

“No,” said Shayne, “I think that was the one accident you didn’t foresee, and it upset the applecart. All because Voorland was afraid to show his phony bracelet to a certain Rajah of Hindupoor a couple of weeks ago. He knew a star ruby with his reputation behind it would get by an Occidental expert, but the Orientals have a way of spotting fakes by merely handling them, and Walter Voorland knows that as well as any man alive. This refusal whetted the Rajah’s appetite and he let it be known that he was in the market for that bracelet with no questions asked. I’m convinced the heist last night was perfectly legitimate—the only legitimate thing about this whole damned business. I think we can get you for murder,” he added quietly to Walter Voorland. “You know your house of cards has fallen. We’ll have a hundred witnesses to prove—”

“I admit the insurance frauds,” said Voorland gutturally, “just as you describe them. But murder—no! I warned him that other time when—”

Mark Dustin came to his feet, his right hand dangling. With a strangled oath he went toward Voorland, his left hand knotted into a powerful fist. Shayne thrust him back on the couch and turned to say:

“That other time in New Orleans when he killed his first wife, Voorland? You warned him not to mix murder with fraud? You were right. That’s always a mistake.”

“So I told him.” Voorland’s voice was thick with anger. “But no! The hotheaded fool was tired of his wife. She knew too much for him to get rid of her by any other means. So, he must shoot her in the supposed robbery.”

“It gets to be a habit; doesn’t it, Dustin? Were you tired of Celia already? Wouldn’t she divorce you? You played asleep after she gave you that first sleeping-tablet, and heard her telephone me, didn’t you? And then you slipped down the stairs behind her and killed her with a left-handed blow and left her on the sand while you hurried back up here and alibied yourself by taking three more of the tablets. What was she going to tell me, King? What proof was she going to show me?”

The pseudo mining man groaned and said harshly, “I had to kill her. I didn’t want to. I’m glad it’s over. I believe I’d have confessed eventually, anyway. I don’t want to go on living without her. I loved her. Do you understand that? I loved her.”

“So you murdered her.”

“What else could I do? Like a fool, I’d once mentioned Voorland’s name to her in Denver. When we came here to Miami Beach I pretended I didn’t know him, and she remembered that after the robbery. She asked me about it after we came back from the hospital and I denied it, but I could see that she didn’t believe me. So I did pretend to go to sleep, and I heard her going through my briefcase.

“Then I remembered there was a letter in it from Voorland which I had neglected to destroy. I knew she must have found that letter when she telephoned you, and I—I went crazy, I guess. I couldn’t stand having her know the truth about me. I think that’s really why I killed her. I couldn’t stand it, I tell you.” He sank back on the couch. His face was suddenly the face of an old and tired man.

“It’s as good a motive as most husbands have,” Shayne told him sourly. He turned to Randolph and said, “Let’s get out of here and go where the air is cleaner.”

Peter Painter strutted to the telephone and called Beach headquarters. Timothy Rourke was rapidly making notes on a sheaf of papers. Walter Voorland sat erect with his hands on his knees, staring vacantly before him.

Earl Randolph got up and went out the door with Shayne. They went down in the elevator together and out to Shayne’s car. Neither of them said anything until they were headed across the causeway to the mainland. Then Randolph muttered awkwardly:

“I hope Miss Hamilton is recovering all right. As soon as she’s well enough I’d like an opportunity to apologize and explain how terribly sorry I am about her accident.”

Shayne said, “Let’s go up and see her now. I think she’d feel better knowing it was all a mistake and that you didn’t really try to murder her.”

“It’s a damned shame about losing that thirty thousand of the insurance reward,” Randolph mused. “The way everything has come out, you might just as well have had the entire thirty-six thousand. I’m sure you realize this proof of fraud on the part of the insured person relieves us of all responsibility for paying the policy—exactly the same as though the bracelet had been recovered.”

“I did take that into consideration,” Shayne said gravely, “when I planned to hang onto my six thousand. You don’t think your company will attempt to recover the missing thirty grand from me by charging negligence.”

“I’m sure they won’t attempt anything like that,” said Randolph warmly, “when I report exactly how I saw it disappear from your car after you had left it there in good faith. Actually they should consider the full sum well spent,” he continued, “because the way things have turned out now we will probably recover all or most of the money paid out on those two previous phony claims by suing Voorland and Dustin—or Kendrick—or King-whatever his real name is.”

They were nearing the lights of Biscayne Boulevard now. Shayne tooled the car along smoothly and spoke in a musing voice:

“You’re right, Earl. Thirty-six grand would really be a very moderate fee to pay for evidence on which they can sue for recovery of those other policies. Yet, knowing insurance companies as I do, I’ll bet you one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Suppose things had gone differently this afternoon and I had worked out all the angles before I tried to buy back the bracelet. Then I would have realized we didn’t need it for evidence and that whole sum of thirty-six grand might just as well be safe in my apartment right now. Just supposing that were so: I’ll bet you ten to one that your company would demand the thirty thousand back—insisting that a fee of six grand was plenty for my trouble.”

“I wouldn’t take the bet,” Randolph said, “even at odds of ten to one. They’ll forgive you for losing it as you did, but they would never agree to pay out a sum like that after the job was done.”

Shayne swung around the traffic circle and drove swiftly south on the Boulevard. “I’m glad,” he said gravely, “I had you along for a witness this afternoon when those crooks lifted the money from my car. Otherwise, there might always have been a nasty suspicion that I had just pretended it was lost.”

“That was lucky,” Randolph agreed warmly. They were swinging around Bayfront Park now, and a moment later Shayne parked in front of the side entrance to his hotel and they got out.

He knocked on the closed door of his apartment, and was surprised to hear Lucy’s voice telling them to come in.

She was seated alone in a big chair in the center of the room, wearing a coral dressing-gown and a neat bandage on her head which was almost concealed by skillfully fluffed brown hair. She smiled gaily when Shayne entered, and began breathlessly:

“Now, don’t scold me, Mike. I feel perfectly all right. I sent the nurse home—” She stopped abruptly when she saw Earl Randolph enter behind her employer.

Shayne said, “Earl has things to say to you. Don’t be too angry with him because he’s paying for all your medical attention and double your wages while you’re convalescing.” He crossed to her and touched her pale forehead caressingly with his finger tips for a moment, and then turned aside to let Randolph make his explanations.

He paused at the table to glance in the drawer and assure himself that the bulky envelope of twenty-dollar bills was still intact, and then hummed a little tune of contentment as he got down a cognac bottle and poured out two drinks.

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two