“Well,” the delegate mumbled, “I never did like to stick my neck out, as a matter of policy, I figured somebody else must have seen it. Let them put themselves in the limelight. After all, right there in the open elevator—”
“Please tell us exactly what happened, Mr. Petruccio.”
“Petrucci. Joe Petrucci from Mason City, Iowa. I was looking at the elevators, but I wasn’t exactly seeing them, if you catch my meaning. I don’t mean I was looped. I wasn’t paying any attention, the way you don’t when it’s just something ordinary. Well.”
He moistened his lips and went on, “I saw a kind of glint. That riveted my attention. There was this one elevator, see, the third or fourth, I’d say, and the door was open. There was this one guy inside. And he had gloves on—that was what I noticed. He had one hand between the doors, to interrupt the circuit so they wouldn’t close on him, you know those rat-trap kind of elevators. And I saw right away that his hand had a glove on it. How many times a day do you see anybody down here in Miami Beach in this sultry weather wearing a pair of gloves?”
“Not often, Mr. Petrucci,” Painter said. “You’ve made your point. Go on.”
“That’s about all, except that he lifted his other hand and that one not only had a glove on it, because of the fingerprints, I’d say, but it had a gun. There was a little popping sound, like the cork coming out of a bottle of near-beer. The recoil jumped the gun back so it didn’t break the connection any more, and the door closed. I didn’t think much about it. Well, I thought about it, but then I decided, what the hell, let somebody else get his name in the paper and then the murderer won’t come to Mason City, Iowa, looking for Joe Petrucci in case I could identify him.”
“You knew you’d just seen a murder?”
The delegate smiled knowingly. “Well, after all. Sure I knew it was murder. What gave me the idea chiefly was the gloves. Fingerprints came into my mind right away. Then I looked around and saw that old party hanging from the funny statue, and I put two and two together.”
“Will you describe the man you saw with the gun?” Painter said patiently.
Joe Petrucci looked puzzled. “But that’s just it. I mean, it was over in one instant. He looked out and bang, he let the guy have it. I couldn’t tell what he looked like to save my soul. But would the murderer like the idea that I saw him do it? It might come to me in the middle of the night sometime, and he wouldn’t want to risk that. So I’m going to ask you to keep my name out of it, if you don’t mind.”
“Now think, Mr. Petrucci, please. Can’t you remember anything about him at all? How was he built?”
“Sort of medium. I can’t even recall if he had on a jacket or not. But I think he did. Medium build, medium height.”
“Will you look around the room and see if any of these gentlemen resemble in any way the man you saw?”
Petrucci turned slowly, as though on a revolving pedestal. He looked at every face in sequence—the detectives, Harry Mann, Sammy, Rourke. His gaze halted for an instant when it reached Shayne, and the redhead had a very bad moment. He thought he was going to be identified as a killer in front of his old adversary Peter Painter. But apparently Petrucci remembered that he had seen Shayne after the killing, not before, and his eyes moved on.
“Jeez, I’m sorry,” he said finally. “I wish I could be of more assistance. This fellow looks the most like him”—he indicated one of the Homicide detectives—“but that’s because of the glasses.”
“The murderer wore glasses?” Painter exclaimed.
“Yeh. I just remembered. When the light flashed on them, that was what made me look that way in the first place.”
“What kind of glasses?”
“Well, thick. I don’t remember the material of the rims, it made no impression on me. But they were that very thick kind of glass, and they made his eyes big. Now that I think of it, I don’t know why I didn’t remember right away. Those fish-eyes, and the gloves, the gun—it was a scary thing. Give me time, maybe the rest will come back to me.”
Painter made a disappointed mouth, and turned to confer with the detective who was making notes. Petrucci waited for more questions.
Suddenly, at Shayne’s elbow, Tim Rourke said, “I told you I’d break it for you, Petey. I can give you the killer’s name.”
CHAPTER 20
Everybody looked his way. The reporter swayed out from the wall and gave a high-pitched laugh.
“Well, Mr. Sherlock Holmes the Second, this surprises even me. Thick glasses, eh?”
“How did he get back in?” Painter said, annoyed. “Do you wobble out of here on your own pins, Rourke, or do we toss you out?”
“Toss me out!” Rourke cried indignantly. “When I’m going to break his goddam case!”
“I’ll break something else if I listen to one more syllable,” Painter said. “Smitty, Brennan, pick him up by the pants and drop him someplace.”
Shayne stepped into the path of the two Homicide men as they advanced on Rourke. “Why not listen to him, Chief? You may not know that he just got back from a trip to Central America. He knows more about this than the rest of us.”
“And we have the manpower to handle you, too, if necessary, Shayne,” painter remarked, glowering.
“Renzullo!” Rourke shouted, almost dancing. “Lieutenant Renzullo! Do you want me to spell it for you?”
The Homicide men paused, looking uncertainly at Painter. The detective chief smoothed his mustache with a moistened fingertip.
“All right, Rourke. Make it fast.”
The reporter smiled. “It’s a different story now, isn’t it? Now you decide to cooperate. It was those thick glasses brought it back. Would Harry Mann knock off somebody just because they didn’t kick through with some dough? Harry, the angle guy? Don’t be silly. He’s been up in a two-by-four cell. He knows what it’s like. Harry’s a business man. He’d pocket the down payment and look for another customer.”
“Thanks for the testimonial,” Mann said dryly.
“You’re welcome,” Rourke said. “And who else would want to put a slug in the professor? He’s the nicest old guy who ever gave a thirsty reporter a belt of rye whiskey.”
“I said to make it fast,” Painter said.
“There’s only one son of a bitch who would want him out of the way. That’s a certain Marshal Gonzalez.”
Painter looked confused, and Shayne supplied, “The military dictator who—”
“I read the newspapers,” Painter snapped. “Do you mean to stand there and assert that a Latin American dictator is sending agents into the United States to—”
“That’s the way the ball bounces,” Rourke said cheerfully, “and don’t give me the old Alice in Wonderland routine, Petey. If the killer got caught they’d pretend they didn’t know him. Natch. The opposition to Gonzalez is split a dozen ways against the middle, and Quesada was the one man who could hold it together. So why not send a guy up to bump him off?”
“You’re guessing, Rourke,” Painter said. “I’m interested in facts.”
Rourke flourished his cast. “Take a look at this broken arm. There’s a fact for you. I was working on a story, not making any trouble for anybody, and I come home early and find a pair of toughs leafing through my suitcase. Four-Eyes introduces himself. He’s Lieutenant Renzullo of the special police, and he says Rourke, you’re making yourself obnoxious down here, so make the next plane back to the States or you can spend the rest of your vacation in the hospital. Being a free American citizen who doesn’t like to be ordered around, I chose the hospital.”
“I can see their point,” Painter observed. “Many’s the time I’ve felt like beating you up myself. And is that all you have to go on, that the two guys both wear glasses?”
“Thick glasses,” argued Rourke. “Renzullo’s the man they use for special assignments. He speaks good English. And he’s a smooth customer, Petey, I guarantee you that. You can bet money on it—he’s the guy.”
Painter pushed back hi
s chair. He looked at Harry Mann.
“You and your cheap punk seem to be in the clear on the killing, but we haven’t straightened out this machine gun business yet. Until we do, I want you to be my guest. Book them for concealed weapons and resisting arrest,” he told a lieutenant. “Give the .45 to ballistics for a complete rundown. I want every outgoing train, bus and plane checked for a man wearing thick glasses, and let’s hope he doesn’t disguise himself by taking them off. That’s it for the time being. Rourke, Shayne, I want to see you two.”
The detectives filtered out of the room, taking Harry Mann and Sammy with them. Painter drank some of his lukewarm coffee, standing. When he was alone with the two friends he forced a smile, an evident effort.
“Tim,” he said cordially, “we’ve had our little differences on occasion, but now I want you to do something for me. Will you keep this man in the glasses out of the paper?”
“Why?”
“It’s too flimsy a thing to make a big international incident out of. Seriously. Ten minutes later the federal boys will be getting in my hair. Hold up for a day or so. See if we catch anybody first.”
There was a mock-serious expression on Rourke’s face, a mischievous light in his eye. “I’ll put it up to the paper, Petey. I sort of doubt if they’ll go along with suppressing evidence so you can build up your reputation.”
The little man had been trying to suppress his feelings. Now they exploded.
“Damn it, you cheap two-bit hack, get out of here before I hit a cripple. And watch your step. I’m warning you.”
He made a threatening gesture with the coffee cup. Rourke pretended to cower back.
“Don’t do it, Petey! You’ll be sorry afterwards. Say,” he said suddenly, seeing the little .25 on the desk as he turned to go, “that looks like my automatic. What’s it doing here?”
“Shayne had it,” Painter said with disgust. “If you’ve got a permit, take it. Otherwise you’ll be around bothering me about it, and I don’t want to see you again for a few days.”
Rourke put the automatic into the pocket of his coat. “You express things so nicely, Chief.”
His grin faded as he and the redheaded private detective went out through the outer office. He looked as though he was about to be sick.
“God, Mike,” he moaned, “I’m seeing space satellites, in full color.”
“Get yourself a cup of coffee,” Shayne told him. “I’ll pick you up at the coffee shop later.”
“Will you stop talking about coffee?” the reporter complained. “Do you want me to vomit on the St. Albans carpet? Where do you think you’re going?”
“The airport.”
Rourke shot him a startled glance. “And what’s the big attraction at the airport?”
“Renzullo may be trying to get a plane. I’d like to ask him some questions when they pick him up.”
“Oh,” Rourke said. “Well, I’ll come along. I’m the guy who can identify him.”
Outside the revolving door, the detective turned him toward the parking lot. Shayne handed the attendant his check, and Rourke sat down on the attendant’s chair while they waited.
“How much of that story you told Painter was true?” Shayne said unkindly.
Rourke looked up. “All of it. I didn’t have to see a picture of the guy to know he did it. This is going to make a big wonderful stink. The State Department’s going to have things to say, and His Excellency Marshal Gonzalez won’t find it quite so easy raising dough in this country from now on.”
Shayne looked down on him, tugging at his ear lobe. When the sedan skidded to a stop in front of the weather shack, he had to help his friend to his feet.
“Legs are shot for some reason,” Rourke said apologetically. “I’ll just catch a little shut-eye on the way out.”
Shayne deposited him in the front seat, got behind the wheel and spunt the heavy car around, coming down hard on the gas. Rourke’s head was resting against the back of the seat, his eyes already closed.
Shayne said grimly, “You begin to get sleepy every time you think I’m about to ask you any questions. Now listen to me. Listen carefully.”
The sedan shifted smoothly into high.
“For the time being,” Shayne said, “the hell with the diamonds. You remember you gave me your typewriter. I put it in a taxi and forgot about it. Carla was with me when the driver brought it back. She was very surprised and displeased to find that there wasn’t any package in it. She was so sure there would be that she was pointing your gun at me at the time. I had to take it away from her.”
He saw that Rourke’s eyes were open. “That must been exciting for you.”
Shayne grinned. “Carla hasn’t gone out of our life. Until the diamonds turn up, she’ll be around. How did you meet her, Tim? Start with the beating.”
“Okay, Mike,” Rourke said quietly. “I suppose I’d better get it organized, so I can turn in a decent story on it.”
Shayne leaned forward over the wheel and drove by memory, as fast as it was safe, occasionally faster. Rourke told about the phone call from the underground messenger who had pretended to be a tout for nightclubs, and described the murder of the student leader by police, one of who had been the suave plug-ugly with the thick glasses. Then came the two cops’ visit to Rourke, the beating, the night with Carla and his assistance in putting her on the Miami plane.
Shayne interrupted only once. “You actually did the shopping for her? All of it?”
“Don’t you believe it? I’ve still got the list she gave me. I’m keeping it as a souvenir.”
Now Shayne saw the beacons of the International Airport. From above, he heard the roar of the heavy transports waiting to land. Rourke fell silent.
“Yeh,” the redhead said softly, after a moment.
Even without the help of sirens, he had probably made it from the Beach faster than Painter’s men in their squad cars. As he pulled up in front of the 20th Street terminal, he saw two Fords, Miami Police Department patrols. Apparently the Homicide lieutenant, taking no chances, had dispatched the nearest cars by radio.
Shayne glanced at Rourke. Once or twice he had suspected the reporter of being less drunk than he pretended, but now, when there was no longer any occasion for pretense, Rourke looked unmistakably ill and wretched. Disordered locks of black hair hung over his forehead. The cavernous hollows had deepened beneath his eyes, and his face was corpse-color.
“Can you make it?” Shayne said.
“Sure,” the reporter said with difficulty.
Gasping, Rourke kept up with the rangy redhead as he strode into the terminal. Shayne headed for the information board, to look at the list of departing planes.
“There she is,” Rourke said. “There’s Carla.”
CHAPTER 21
Shayne followed his pointing finger. The blonde was standing at a counter against one wall. He veered without breaking stride.
Something made her turn as they approached. Shayne saw the quick contraction around her eyes, as though a hard jolt of electric current had smashed through her body. It passed off in an instant. She smiled in a puzzled way.
“Mike? Tim? My goodness, Tim, you look terrible. Has anything—”
“People keep beating me, like a gong,” Rourke said. “I can’t say I like it. What about our date? You aren’t going to stand me up, are you?”
“Our date?” she said uncertainly. “Oh. I’ve already been at your apartment, but I couldn’t wait indefinitely.” She gave him a sidelong glance, full of meaning. “But I still have your key.”
She turned to Shayne. “Mike, that was an awful thing to do, running off and deserting you like that, just after Professor Quesada—But I knew the police would be there in a minute. You understand, don’t you?”
“I’m beginning to,” the detective said.
“Tim,” she said, abruptly serious. “Something strange and terrible has happened. Do you remember that package I put in your typewriter?”
“What about it
?”
“It’s not there! It simply is not there. Mike knows about it, incidentally, and he’s been very sympathetic.”
She gave Shayne one of her quick glances. She was gambling that Rourke still didn’t know what the package had contained, and pointing out that if he remained in ignorance, any sum she and Shayne recovered would only have to be split two ways.
She went on, “I’ve been cudgeling my brains to discover what happened to it. Mike and I went over every possibility. By the process of elimination, we narrowed down the crucial period to the ten or fifteen minutes after you left the plane. Could it have been lost? It hasn’t been turned in here at the lost and found.” She motioned at the counter behind her. “It hasn’t been checked at any of the open checkrooms. It would be horrible, Tim, really and truly the worst thing that could happen, if that package fell into the wrong hands.”
A voice at Shayne’s elbow said, “So we meet again, Miss Porter.”
Shayne, turning, saw Jack Malloy, the customs director.
“So we do,” Carla said coolly. “You know these gentlemen, Mr. Malloy?”
“From way back,” Malloy answered. “You’ve lost something?”
“Yes, but nothing important.”
She seemed cool and unruffled, but Shayne saw her long, red-tipped fingers drumming silently against her bag. She couldn’t go on talking about the diamonds in Malloy’s presence.
She shifted smoothly. “Tim, I had the weirdest sensation a moment ago. I thought I saw—but it couldn’t have been. I must have been mistaken.”
“Who did you think you saw, baby?” Rourke said.
“I could have sworn it was one of the most sadistic and unprincipled officers of the Gonzalez secret police. His name’s Renzullo, a lieutenant, I think—”
“Renzullo!” Rourke exclaimed.
“A very brutal gentleman, with convex lenses in his glasses. But—”
“Where did you see him?” Shayne demanded.
“He was going toward the ticket windows. But it’s impossible, Mike.”
Shayne checked the board. “Flight Two Sixty-Six. Leaving in eight minutes.” He took Carla’s arm. “Let’s see if you can spot him.”
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