His entire theory rested on that flimsy basis. He couldn’t hand it to Painter that way. He had to know.
He got up and went out, his face grimly set. It was the showdown. He couldn’t put it off any longer.
The cool night air felt good as he walked down the street to his parked car. It was where he had left it before receiving Gordon’s message earlier in the day. It seemed as though he had parked it there weeks ago.
He got in and drove slowly toward the causeway, stopping at an all-night garage where he was known and borrowing a spade and a slender steel rod with a sharpened point.
There was a pale arc of moon low in the west, and fleecy clouds overhead. A light breeze rippled the surface of Biscayne Bay as he drove over the causeway. It was past midnight and there was little traffic to bother him. By the time he reached the ocean drive and turned north, the breeze was freshening, whipping in whitecaps from the Atlantic. He drove more slowly, taking deep breaths of the salt-tanged air, subconsciously delaying as much as possible.
He stopped his car beneath a palm tree a quarter of a mile south of the Brighton estate, took his steel rod and spade and made his way between two palatial residences to the water’s edge. There he turned and plodded along on the hard-packed sand. The tide was out, leaving a wide expanse of sloping wet sand which glistened in the faint starlight. He mentally checked each narrow strip of private beach as he passed until he knew, suddenly, that he was approaching the south boundary of the Brighton estate.
A low stone wall ran down to a point some twenty feet away from the water’s edge at low tide. Shayne stopped at the wall and leaned his spade against the rocks. Through the wind-whipped fronds of tall palms the house could be faintly seen. One upstairs window showed a dim light. That, he reasoned, was the sickroom.
Beyond the house, the garage and its upstairs apartment was dark. He took the pointed steel rod in his good hand and went to work, probing down through the beach sand at two-foot intervals, following along the upper tide-line to the north wall of the estate and then coming back with his probing a couple of feet east of his first row.
The heavy rod sank easily into the sand, and Shayne didn’t try to force it down more than a foot. There was no need to bury it very deeply. He thought of Oscar as the type who would not dig a deeper hole than was necessary. He began to wonder if he had guessed wrong as he probed back and forth without striking anything except yielding sand. Yet, he knew he couldn’t have reached a false conclusion. It had to be this way. It was the only reasonable answer to the whole complicated puzzle. And every puzzle has to have a reasonable answer. Still, a little practical proof of his own rightness would help.
He had worked down to within six feet of low waterline when his probe struck something hard less than six inches beneath the surface. Shayne leaned on the steel rod, panting, with a strange glint in his eyes. Miniature waves rolled in, wetting his feet as he stood there. He looked toward the silent house and garage again, then carefully probed around, outlining a rough rectangle about two feet by four.
Leaving his rod sticking thereto mark the spot, he went back for the spade and awkwardly began the one-handed job of turning back a six-inch layer of beach sand on top of something which appeared to be a steel-banded trunk when he laid the spade aside and turned the light of his flash upon it. He turned the light off at once, dropped to his knees, and dug the sand away from the lock with his hands. It was locked, but his steel rod made quick work of the flimsy clasp, and he knelt down again to lift the lid.
A thick nauseating stench rolled up and struck him sickeningly in the face when he threw the lid back. He closed his eyes against it, turned his head to cough and spit the vile taste out of his mouth. Then he picked up his flashlight and turned its beam into the open trunk.
He stared at the naked corpse of a man he had never seen before, cramped grotesquely into the small space and in a remarkable state of preservation which indicated the rude use of some embalming fluid or pickling process. Perhaps, he thought, the sea water when the tide was in. Shayne didn’t linger with his discovery very long. He dropped the lid back, hastily shoveled most of the sand back over the trunk, knowing the inflowing tide would hide all trace of his work by morning.
He went back to his car the same way he had come, drove back to Miami and to his newly-rented hotel room where he called the clerk at his apartment hotel and asked if an answer to his cable had come. It had, and the clerk read it to him.
DON’T UNDERSTAND REFERENCE TO MURDER BUT HAVE NOTHING TO CONCEAL STOP TRIP WAS PAID FOR BY A MISS GORDON WHO WANTED MY PLACE ON TOP OF NURSING REGISTRY LIST TO BE CALLED ON SOME CASE FOR PERSONAL REASONS WHICH WERE NOT DIVULGED TO ME STOP AM FRANTIC WITH WORRY PLEASE EXPLAIN FULLY OR SHALL I COME BACK
MYRTLE GODSPEED
Shayne told the clerk to cable her not to worry but to hold herself in readiness to return as a witness when she was required.
Then he went to bed and to immediate sleep. He had more than a theory, now. He had the case sewed up and ready to dump into Painter’s lap- after he had collected a couple of debts.
CHAPTER 15
Shayne woke early the next morning. He was stiff and sore, but most of the swelling had gone out of his face. A painful examination of his right side and arm convinced him that he would not require the attention of a doctor for a few more hours at least. He phoned down for a barber to come and shave him, for breakfast to be sent up, and the morning paper.
The barber came with the boy who brought the paper, and Shayne submitted to lathering and scraping while he snatched glances at the headlines. The majority of the front page was given over to the tremendous story of the stolen masterpiece. It was prominently mentioned that Henderson, at the time he acquired the painting, had been acting as Brighton’s agent, and lurid questions were asked by the newspaper concerning the possible connection between the missing masterpiece and the three mysterious deaths at the Brighton estate.
The barber did his best with Shayne’s bruised and lacerated face, and departed just as a hearty breakfast was brought up. Shayne continued to read the news columns between bites of food and gulps of coffee. Dr. Pedique’s suicide was gravely discussed. There was a lengthy and somewhat frantic statement by Peter Painter. The governor of Florida was continuing his vigorous threats of an investigation and had doubled the reward offered for the clearing up of the mystery. Painter’s offer remained the same. In his statement he gave his word of honor that the entire mystery would be cleared up at noon today.
Shayne lay down and smoked a cigarette after he had finished with the paper and with breakfast. It was nine-thirty. His eyes narrowed as he blew smoke toward the ceiling and went over every detail of his plans and action. There was one phase that depended a great deal upon chance and quick talking. He frowned as he tried to judge what the reactions of the various actors would be, and to plan how to meet any contingency. Finally he was satisfied.
He got up and went to the phone after he finished the cigarette. Brighton’s telephone number wasn’t listed, and he asked Information for it. She gave it to him, and he called.
A feminine voice answered the phone. He asked for Mr. Montrose. There was a short wait. Then Mr. Montrose’s weedy voice came over the wire.
“This is Shayne.”
Mr. Montrose said, “Yes?” doubtfully, as though struggling against a desire to add, “What of it?”