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
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 resume 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.