“You didn’t notice what kind of watch he was wearing?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I did. It was an oversized thing with a lot of gingerbread on it. Chronograph, I think they call it. You know, little windows with the day of the month and day of the week, and a sweep second hand.”
Schmidt removed a watch from the pocket of his coat and set it on the table. “Like this?”
Ingram glanced at it in surprise. “Yes. That looks just like it. Same type of filigree gold case, and everything. Where’d you get it?”
Schmidt lighted the cigarette he had stuck in the side of his mouth. “It was picked up at sea.”
Ingram stared. “How’s that again?”
“Couple of men in a fishing boat brought it in. The Dorado—one of those fifty-thousand-dollar deals you use for marlin—”
“Sport fisherman.”
“Yeah. Anyway, they were bringing this Dorado back to Miami from the Virgin Islands. And yesterday afternoon a little before sunset they sighted a rowboat—a dinghy, I think you call it. Nobody in it; just drifting around in the ocean by itself. They went over and picked it up. There was an outboard motor clamped on the back, and some man’s clothes in the bottom—sneakers and a pair of dungarees and a shirt. The watch was in one of the pockets of the dungarees. They got into Miami early this morning and turned the whole thing over to the Coast Guard. The Coast Guard figured there might be a chance it was the Dragoon’s, and called us. We went out and got a description, and called Mrs. Osborne to see if she could identify it. She wasn’t sure—she’s not too familiar with the Dragoon—but Quinn brought old Tango up from Key West, and he identified it.”
“Where did they pick it up?” Ingram asked.
“South of here somewhere. The Coast Guard told me, but I’m no navigator.”
Schmidt went out, leaving him in the custody of a uniformed patrolman who chewed a pencil stub and scowled at a crossword puzzle. When he returned, some ten minutes later, Quinn was with him.
“We’re not going to hold you,” Schmidt said curtly. “But before you go, we want you to look at some pictures.”
Ingram sighed with relief. “Then you located my letter to Mrs. Osborne?”
“Yes. She called her maid at home. The letter apparently came this morning after she’d left for Miami. The maid read it to her, and it checks with what you told us. We also got hold of one of the officers working late at the bank, and he dug out that check Hollister gave you. It was the same phony account he stabbed the hotel with. It bounced, of course, but they hadn’t got the notice out to you yet.”
“Then you’re convinced?”
“Let’s put it this way—you helped steal that boat, but there’s no proof you did it with intent. I don’t know whether you were just a sucker, or smart enough to make yourself look like one, but either way we can’t hold you.”
“You die hard, don’t you?”
“You learn to, in this business.” Schmidt jerked his head. “Let’s go see if you can pick Hollister out of some mug shots.”
They went downstairs to another room that was harshly lighted and hot. The two detectives sat watching while he scanned hundreds of photographs—hopefully, and then with increasing anger as the hope faded—trying to find the man who’d called himself Hollister. He knew he was still suspect, and failure to turn up Hollister’s picture would certainly do nothing to lessen their suspicion. There was anger at himself for having been taken in, and a burning desire to get his hands on the man who’d done it.
“I think this is a waste of time,” Quinn said, after an hour.
“Haven’t you got any more?” he asked.
“No. That’ll do.” There was curt dismissal in the tone.
Ingram stood up. “Where is Mrs. Osborne staying?”
“I don’t think I’d bother Mrs. Osborne, under the circumstances,” Schmidt said. “That might have been the last fifty-thousand-dollar yacht she had.”
“What about the Dorado? Do you know where she’s tied up?”
“No. And what difference does it make?”
“I want to find out where they picked up that dinghy.’
“Why?”
“Just say I’m curious. There’s something damned funny about it.”
“You were never more right,” Quinn said coldly. “So why don’t you just get out while you’re ahead?”
When he emerged on the street the rain had stopped and it was dusk. Neon flamed hotly beneath the darkening blue bowl of the sky, and tires hissed on wet pavement in the ceaseless river of traffic. He walked back to the hotel, feeling his shirt stick to his back with perspiration. The desk clerk looked up with a nervous smile. “Uh—I hope everything’s all right.”
“Yes,” he said.
“I hope you don’t think—I mean, there wasn’t anything I could do. They told me to call them if you checked back in—”
“It’s all right. The key, please.”
“Yes, sir.” The clerk whirled and snatched it from the pigeonhole. There was a slip of paper with it. “Oh. You had a phone call. It was about a half hour ago.”
Ingram read the scribbled message. Call Mrs. Osborne. Columbus Hotel.
That was strange. But maybe she wanted to unburden herself of a few remarks on the subject of meat-heads who helped steal her boat. Probably an imperious old dowager with a voice like a Western Ocean bosun. Well, he intended to call her, but she could wait a few minutes; right now the important thing was to find the Dorado before her crew left for the night. The chances were that he was too late already. He strode to the telephone booth in the corner of the lobby, looked up the number of the Coast Guard base, and was just starting to dial when someone rapped on the glass panel of the door. It was the clerk.
He pushed it open. “Yes?”
“She’s on the line now, sir. She just called back. You can take it on the house phone.”
“Oh.” He retrieved his dime and walked over to the desk. He might as well get it over with. The clerk patched him through on the small switchboard and disappeared into his room in back.
“Hello,” he said. “Ingram speaking.”
“This is Mrs. Osborne.” The voice was rather husky, and sounded much younger than he’d expected. “Would you come over to the Columbus right away? There is something very important I’d like to discuss with you.”
“What?” he asked.
“Just say that it has to do with the Dragoon, and that it’s quite urgent. I think you could help me.”
This appeared to make very little sense, but he realized asking questions would only waste more time. “All right,” he said, “I’ll be there as soon as I can make it. But first I want to try to get hold of the captain of the Dorado—”
“That won’t be necessary,” she broke in. “I’ve already talked to him.”
“Did he tell you where they picked up the dinghy?”
“Yes. I have the whole story.”
“I’m on my way. Where shall I meet you?”
“Just come up to my room.”
It was less than ten minutes later when he stepped out of the elevator at the Columbus and strode down the carpeted and air-conditioned quietness of the corridor looking at the numbers. When he knocked, she answered almost immediately, and for a second he thought he must have the wrong room. Even hearing her voice over the telephone hadn’t entirely prepared him for this.
Somehow, a woman who owned a seventy-foot yacht in her own name figured to be a graying and wealthy widow on the far side of fifty, at least, but this statuesque blonde with the flamboyant mop of hair couldn’t be much over thirty. She wore a green knit dress that did her figure no harm at all, and he had a quick impression of a well-tended and slightly arrogant face with a bright red mouth, high cheekbones, sea-green eyes, and a good tan. “Come in, Captain,” she said. “I’m Rae Osborne.”