“When did he get back?” Shayne asked.
“Three or four days ago. I tried to interview him, but he wouldn’t give out anything for publication. All he wanted was to go down to his lodge on the Keys and soak up some Florida sunshine.”
Shayne said, “I want to go back to his arrest by the Feds in June, 1930.”
“We’ve got a private file on him. It won’t be hard to find.” Rourke checked a card index eagerly and swiftly, then went to a file at the back of the room. He came back with a bulging Manila envelope and emptied it. He started pawing through it, Shayne close beside him and watching.
“Here’s the trial,” said Rourke. “It was a honey. With Leland and Parker representing him and not missing a trick. Here you are: June 17, 1930. Federal agents nabbed him at Homestead on his way in from the lodge on the Keys.” He spread out a large clipping.
“I remember it now,” Rourke said. He chuckled. “They had the income tax case all set but had been holding off, hoping they could hang a real charge on him. They thought he used his lodge to receive contraband shipments from Cuba, and they raided it several times, but never found any evidence. This time they thought they had him for sure, with a red-hot tip that he was expecting a boatload of French stuff. They kept a revenue cutter patrolling that section of coastline day and night for a week.
“Here’s the story on that.” Rourke turned his burning slate-gray eyes on Shayne, then flipped the pages back to a clipping dated June 16. It was captioned: CUTTER SINKS BOOTLEG CARGO.
“I covered that story. I rode the cutter three nights and nothing happened. After I was pulled off on the night of the fifteenth they encountered a motor craft creeping along without lights just off the inlet leading to Grossman’s lodge. They tried to make a run for the open sea, and bingo! the revenue boat cut loose with everything she had. There was a heavy sea running, the aftermath of a hurricane that blew hell out of things the day before, and they never found a trace of the boat, cargo, or crew. After that fiasco they gave up and decided they might as well take Grossman on the income tax charge.”
“Wait a minute,” Shayne said. “How bad was that hurricane?”
“Plenty bad. That’s really the reason I missed the fun. The cutter had to run for anchorage on the thirteenth, and she couldn’t put out again until the fifteenth on account of the storm.”
“Then that strip of coast wasn’t being patrolled the two nights before the sinking?” Shayne mused.
“Nope. Except by the elements.”
“And that rum-runner might have been slipping out after discharging cargo, instead of being headed in.”
Rourke stared at the redheaded detective. “If the captain was crazy enough to try and hit that inlet while the hurricane was blowing everything to hell.”
Shayne said gravely, “I think I know the captain who was crazy enough to do just that — and succeeded.”
Rourke raised his brows quizzically. “You’ve got something up your sleeve,” he accused.
Shayne nodded. “It adds up. Tim, I’m willing to bet there was a boatload of 1926 Monnet unloaded at Grossman’s lodge while the hurricane was raging. And it’s still there some place. Grossman was arrested the seventeenth, before he had a chance to get rid of any of it, and he left it there while he was doing time in Atlanta.”
Timothy Rourke whistled shrilly. “It’d be worth as much now as it was during prohibition.”
“More, with the country full of people earning more money than ever before in their lives.”
“If your hunch is right—”
“It has to be right. How long do you think a man could stay alive floating around the ocean in a life preserver? “
“Couple of days, at the most.”
“That’s my hunch, too. From the fifteenth to the seventeenth might not be impossible. But the hurricane struck on the thirteenth and fourteenth. Take a look at your front page for June 17, and you’ll see what I mean.”
Rourke hurriedly brought out the News for June 17. On the front page, next to the story of Grossman’s arrest, was the story of the sensational rescue of Captain Samuels which Shayne had already read in his apartment. Rourke put his finger on the picture and exclaimed. “I remember that now. I interviewed the Captain and thought it miraculous he had stayed alive that long. Captain Thomas Anthony Samuels. Why, damn it, Mike, he’s the old coot who was found murdered tonight.”
Shayne said soberly, “After selling a case of Monnet for a hundred bucks earlier in the evening.”
“He was the only survivor of his ship,” Rourke recalled excitedly. “Then he and Grossman must have been the only ones who knew the stuff was out there.”
“And now Grossman is the only one left,” Shayne said flatly. “Keep this stuff under your hat, Tim. When it’s ready to break it’ll be your baby.” He turned and hurried out.
Chapter five
Shayne didn’t reach his apartment again until after three. He took a nightcap and went to bed, fell immediately into deep and dreamless slumber.
The ringing of his telephone awakened him. He started to yawn, and pain clawed at his facial muscles. He got into a robe and lurched to the telephone. It was a little after eight o’clock.
He lifted the receiver and said, “Shayne.”
A thick voice replied, “This is John Grossman.”
Shayne said, “I expected you to call sooner.”
There was a brief silence as though his caller were taken aback by his reply. Then: “Well, I’m calling you now.”
Shayne said, “That’s quite evident.”
“You’re horning in on things that don’t concern you.”
“Cognac always concerns me.”
“I’m wondering how much you found out from the Captain before he died last night,” Grossman went on.
Shayne said, “Nuts. You killed him and you know exactly how much talking he didn’t do.”
“You can’t prove I was near his place last night,” said Grossman gruffly.
“I think I can. If you just called up to play ring-around-the-rosy, we’re both wasting our time.”
“I’ve been wondering how much real information you’ve got.”
“I knew that would worry you,” Shayne said impatiently. “And since you know Samuels was dead before I reached him, the source of information you’re worried about is the logbook. Let’s talk straight.”
“Why should I worry about the logbook? I’ve got it now.”
“I know you have. But you don’t know how much I read about the Mermaid’s last trip before you got it.”
“The girl says you didn’t read it any.”
Shayne laughed harshly. “You’d like to believe her, wouldn’t you?”
“All right.” The voice became resigned. “Maybe you did read more than she says. How about a deal?”
“What kind of deal?”
“You’re pretty crazy about Monnet, aren’t you?”
“Plenty.”
“How does five cases sound? Delivered to your apartment tonight.”
Shayne said, “It sounds like a joke — and a poor one.”
“You’ll take it and keep your mouth shut if you’re smart.”
Shayne said disgustedly, “You’re rolling me in the aisle.” He hung up and padded across the room in his bare feet to the table, where he poured a slug of Portuguese brandy. The telephone began ringing again. He drank some of the brandy, lit a cigarette, and went to the phone carrying the glass. He lifted the receiver and asked curtly, “Got any more jokes?”
The same voice answered plaintively, “What do you want?”