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
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.