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.