After he had hung up, he sat for some minutes, his fat face tight with concentration, then he reached out and rang for Lucille.
“Get me a copy of the Miami Herald for yesterday.” he said as she poked her head around the door. “Fast, honey.”
When she had brought him the paper, he waved her away. He flicked through the pages until he came to the Society Gossip column where he read that Charles Travers, the tenth richest man in America had flown out from New York to spend a couple of days with his daughter and son-in-law, Chris Burnett. Further down the column, he learned that Mrs. Burnett’s christian name was Valerie. He also learned the young couple were staying at the Spanish Bay hotel. He then called for this morning’s edition of the Miami Herald. He learned of Chris’s disappearance and re-appearance, but the information was so slight he was unable to form an opinion of what had actually happened to Burnett. He put a call through to the Spanish Bay hotel and asked to speak to Henry Trasse, the hotel detective who was on Hare’s payroll. He listened to what Trasse had to tell him about the Burnetts, grunted and hung up.
He then lit a cigar and sat slumped into his chair for some time while his evil, fertile mind was busy. It was only when Karsh telephoned that he came alive.
“Sammy, I think we are on to something very, very interesting. The lighter belongs to Chris Burnett, the son-in-law of Chris Travers... yeah... that’s the one. Trasse tells me Burnett is a nut. A couple of days ago, he took off from his hotel and was absent for twenty-four hours or so. He was picked up by the cops. He didn’t know what he had been doing or where he had been. He’s in Gustave’s squirrel farm right now. Now look, Sammy, this could be a very profitable deal if we play our hand right. Here’s what I want you to do. I want you to drive from the Park Motel towards the North Miami Beach highway. All along the route, taking your time, I want you to keep your eyes skinned. Check all the dirt roads. Burnett must have had a car. He was also wearing a sports jacket when he left the hotel. It was missing when the cops found him. If you could find the jacket, we would be sitting very pretty. Work at it, Sammy. Pull out all the stops in your organ. I want the full bloodhound treatment.”
Karsh cursed under his breath as he sweated in the hotel telephone booth.
“You want me to turn the lighter over to Terrell?” he asked.
“No more than I want you to cut my heart out and drop it in the harbour,” Hare returned.
“Who said you had a heart?” Karsh snarled and hung up.
Leaving the booth, he got into his car. He lit a cigarette, tipped his hat over his eyes and sat for some moments, thinking. When Hare had said he wanted the bloodhound treatment he was referring to Karsh’s uncanny knack of discovering the undiscoverable. It was almost as if Karsh was psychic. Time after time he had been able to solve a case simply because he had this odd feeling that he would find the necessary clue if he looked in a particular place. He looked and he found it.
While he sat smoking, he completely relaxed, his eyes closed, his ferrety face in repose, then after some minutes, he straightened his hat, started the car and drove rapidly back to the Park Motel. At the entrance of the motel, he U-turned and then started to drive towards the North Miami Beach highway, some fifty miles ahead of him.
He drove at a steady thirty miles an hour and his mind was like an antenna, groping for something that would home him on to the thing he sought.
It was growing dusk when he was within three miles of where Burnett had been found. He had explored every side road, reversing when he had found nothing and returning to the highway. Now, he suddenly became alert. A dirt track to his right led off the highway and into dense woodland. It was more of a cart track than a road and Karsh had no hesitation in turning his car up the track, and as the car bumped over the uneven surface, he began to whistle under his breath. He had this sudden strong feeling that he was about to find what he was looking for.
Halfway up the track he came to a small clearing in heavy forestland. On the clearing stood a white and blue Ford Lincoln. It had a deserted appearance and he stopped his car, got out and walked over to the Lincoln.
He wandered around the car, inspecting it closely, then he took from his hip pocket a pair of well-used pigskin gloves which he put on. Then he opened the driver’s door and slid under the wheel. He examined the licence tag hanging from the steering column. He learned the car was owned by U-Drive Car Hire Service, Miami. He turned around and looked on the back seat. On the seat, neatly folded, inside out, was a man’s sports jacket. Still whistling, Karsh lifted the jacket and laid it across his knees. In the inside pocket was a slim, expensive-looking wallet. This he examined. It contained two fifty dollar bills and three one hundred dollar bills, a driving licence made out in the name of Chris Burnett of New York, and a snapshot of a nice-looking girl in a smart swimsuit. On the back of the snapshot, scrawled in pencil was the one word: “Val”.
When Karsh unfolded the coat he got a shock that abruptly stopped his whistling. The front of the coat was heavily encrusted with dried blood. Karsh was too old a hand not to recognise the rust-like stains. He sat for some moments staring at the coat, feeling sweat gathering on his low forehead, then he hurriedly refolded the coat and getting out of the car, he went over to his car and locked the jacket in his boot. He returned to the Lincoln and although he spent twenty minutes going carefully over every inch of the car, he found nothing else. By now it was seven-twenty-five o’clock and getting dark. He returned to his car, lit a cigarette, brooded for about three minutes, then U-turned and drove back to the highway. He reached Miami a little after eight-thirty, having driven fast and carefully, his mind busy.
He decided to call on the U-Drive Car Hire Service before contacting Hare. From long experience, he knew Hare never thanked him for coming up with only half the information necessary to swing into action.
The Manager of the U-Drive Hire Service was a willowy blond man with heavy bags under his eyes and a frown of perpetual worry creasing his forehead.
Karsh gave him his business card and then draped his small frame into a chair.
“Came across one of your cars.” he said. “Seems abandoned. Licence No. Mean anything to you?”
The Manager, whose name was Morphy, frowned at him.
“Abandoned... what do you mean?”
“Up a dirt road off the North Miami Beach highway,” Karsh explained. “Dumped in a wood clearing... no driver no nothing. I thought you might be glad to know.”
Morphy reached for his register. He thumbed through the pages, found an entry, read it, frowned some more and then sat back.
“I don’t understand. We hired the car to Miss Ann Lucas for five days. Maybe she was taking a walk in the woods or something.”
“You got a map of the district?” Karsh asked.
Morphy produced a map from his desk drawer. Karsh examined it, then marked the map with a pen.
“That’s where the car is. If after five days you don’t get it back... that’s where you’ll find it.”
Morphy seemed to be getting uneasy.
“You don’t think she was talking a walk or something?”
“I wouldn’t know. I get hunches. I got the idea the car’s been dumped. Who is Ann Lucas anyway?”
Morphy consulted his register.
“She lives at 237, Coral Avenue. Never seen her before. I checked her driving licence. She paid the usual deposit. I even checked her in the phone book.”
“You remember what she looked like?”