He folded it gingerly and laid it inside Marsha’s toque, folded the felt hat down over it, and rolled the whole thing up in her jacket, putting it in his coat pocket.
His clock showed it was a quarter of twelve when he got up and poured a last drink. He stopped long enough to crumple up the practice sheets of incriminating paper and thrust them into the other coat pocket, then hurried out.
On Flagler Street, he parked in front of one of the arcades and went into a small office with a sign over the door promising: BUSINESS CARDS PRINTED WHILE YOU WAIT.
He left his order with a promise to be back for it immediately, then hurried up the street to a ten-cent store and fitted himself with a pair of hornrimmed glasses with plain lenses.
A printed business card was ready for him when he returned to the arcade.
It was a few minutes after twelve when he drove into Biscayne Boulevard and started across the County causeway.
It was twelve-twenty-eight when he parked his car inconspicuously in the background in a parking lot abutting on a Miami Beach yacht basin, put on his new glasses and walked briskly toward the dock where Eliot Thomas’s Sea Queen was moored.
Loitering under a palm near the dock, Timothy Rourke’s face brightened when he saw Shayne approaching. He went to meet him, muttering, “I was getting the heebie-jeebies. What’s the program now?”
“We’re going aboard the ‘Sea Queen.’ Got the camera?”
“Sure.” Rourke patted his hip pocket.
“Follow me and keep your trap shut.” Shayne strode toward the varnished gangplank leading from the Sea Queen’s deck to the pier.
Brass handrails glistened in the bright sunlight, and the clean white side of the yacht looked as though it had been swabbed off that morning.
A brawny sailor lounged on the deck at the top of the gangplank, and he stepped in front of them to bar their way as they walked up the incline.
He said, “No visitors allowed,” but Shayne didn’t slacken his pace, forcing the guard to give way until both he and Timothy Rourke stood on the holy-stoned deck of the trim craft.
“We don’t happen to be visitors,” Shayne told the sailor pleasantly. “We represent the Great Mutual Marine Underwriters.”
He brought out his billfold and extracted a freshly printed card which he passed over.
“Just a routine inspection,” he explained, “to see that everything’s shipshape according to the marine law.”
The sailor fingered the card, read it with puckered brow.
“I guess it’s all right, Mr. Haines. I’ll call a steward to show you around.”
“Nothing doing on that stuff,” Shayne said curtly. “We’ll make our own investigation without being led around to see what you want us to see. I’ve had that dodge worked on me before.”
The sailor shrugged and spat over the side onto the dock.
“Go ahead and try to find something wrong,” he challenged.
“That’s just what we’re going to do.” Shayne turned to Rourke. “Suppose you take the engine room, Tim. Give the boilers a quick once-over and meet me back on deck. I’ll take the cabins and saloon first, checking fire equipment and life preservers.”
Rourke nodded and went to the aft companionway leading below into the engine room.
Shayne moved slowly across the deck toward the fore-cabins and wheelhouse, frowning through his glasses at fire buckets and extinguishers, turning into a passageway between cabins and into the main dining saloon, nodding curtly to whitecoated stewards who were dusting and polishing.
Explaining his supposed business aboard the craft, Shayne ordered them to unlock all the cabin doors, and he made a quick tour of inspection through them, then rejoined Rourke on the open deck a short time later.
“Engine room seems to be okay,” Rourke reported for the benefit of a group of three sailors, an engineer officer and the third mate, who stood at the top of the gangplank watching them with veiled curiosity.
Shayne nodded. “We’ll have a look at the lifeboats.”
They turned from the nattily uniformed group, strolled back to the fantail on the side away from the dock where one of the yacht’s four gleaming white lifeboats was snugly lashed down with a canvas cover close to the side where a section of bulwark and rail had been left out to provide an opening for easy shipping of the boat.
Making a pretense of inspecting the davits and falls, with his back toward the deck, Shayne muttered:
“This is the spot, Tim. Are they watching?”
Rourke glanced back casually and said, “Nope. They seem to be pretty well satisfied we’re not going to find anything wrong.”
“Ease your camera out and get set,” Shayne told him. He walked to the rail and looked down at the placid waters of the bay lapping against the water line not far below, then eased his body forward into the triangular space between the bow of the life boat and the side. Hidden from observation, he pulled Marsha’s jacket and hat from his pocket, unrolled the jacket and let it drop to the deck, then stooped and spread out the forged message on top of it, weighted one end of it down with the toque so sunlight lay brightly upon the penciled words.
Stepping back out of the way, he nodded to Rourke who was squatting down to focus a small candid camera on the little pile of clothing and the farewell message.
“That’s goddamned near perfect,” he exulted. “You can get the name of the lifeboat in it, too. Make it snappy, before someone comes.”
He moved over in front of Rourke to shield him from any vagrant glances, and the reporter quickly shot half a dozen pictures with the powerful little camera.
Then they strolled on to glance at the other lifeboats, and were met at the bow by a burly, grizzled old sea dog wearing master’s stripes.
“I understand you men represent our insurance agents,” he rumbled. “If you’d sent for me at once-”
“Quite all right, Captain,” Shayne interrupted. “Let me congratulate you on as shipshape a craft as it’s ever been my pleasure to inspect. The ‘Sea Queen’ gets an A-one rating in our report.”
The captain looked visibly relieved. “That’s splendid. If you’d care for a drink-”
“Sorry. We’ve a couple more inspections to make and some of the others may not be as easy as this one. Thanks just the same, Captain.”
Shayne shook hands with the captain, then he and Rourke went briskly to the gangplank and back to the dock.
“Suppose they don’t find that stuff,” Rourke muttered nervously as Shayne went with him toward his parked coupe. “It might stay there for days without being seen.”
“I’ll take care of that,” Shayne promised. “The suicide evidence will be discovered not later than two o’clock. Get the hell back to your office and get those pictures developed, and make over your front page. And print that extra if you want a real scoop. Have the extras loaded in trucks and waiting at strategic points all over the city for a flash to distribute. And you meet me in Painter’s office at three for that flash. Get going.”
He gave Timothy a good-natured shove into his coupe, stood there with his hands in his pockets and watched the reporter start back toward Miami at high speed.
Alone, Shayne moved down the shore line to a spot where he could see the aft lifeboat in its davits on the Sea Queen’s deck.
He settled on the grass with his back against the shaggy bole of a coco palm and took up his vigil. He lit one cigarette from another, never for long taking his gaze from the prow of the lifeboat where he had deposited the evidence of Marsha’s suicide.
He stayed there an hour without moving, and nothing out of the ordinary happened on board the yacht.
Shayne yawned and got up to stretch wearily, then walked swiftly to a near-by beer and sandwich parlor where he went into the telephone booth and called the Miami Beach police office.
To the first voice that answered, he said in a low, whining tone, “Is this here a policeman?”