by Unknown
“And meanwhile whoever killed him has plenty of time to cover his tracks.” McMain snorted.
“But the young officer killed himself,” the sergeant insisted.
“Skip it,” McMain retorted. “See here! I need your help in finding a Cad touring car. It’s painted black and the radiator is probably caved in. Know anything about it?”
“Certainly. Such a car has been found, just as you describe. It was deserted. There was blood on the front seat. It is at the entrance of Pier 4.”
McMain caught Dean by the arm and dashed into the street. “Clark keeps his yawl at Pier 4. There may be time yet to intercept them.”
“His yawl!”
“The Thelma. The boat he uses to cruise the San Blas Islands. I should have thought of it before, but I never figured he was set for such a fast getaway.”
They found the damaged car at the entrance of Pier 4. The Thelma, Clark’s trim white fifty-footer, was gone.
“He must have had her all ready to shove off,” McMain said helplessly.
“And that trip we made back to the sick bay gave him the time he needed to get away.”
The two men turned and, heavy-footed, walked slowly back to the car. Misery and bewilderment had acted like a poison on McMain’s brain. He had stopped thinking, but he couldn’t stop the round of questions that kept turning over and over in his mind.
What was the meaning of all this insanity? Why had old Pete been murdered? Why had Tommy Glade been killed? What was in the black bottle? Why did Clark shoot his chauffeur? Where did Billie tie into the picture?
“It’s a hell of a puzzle,” he remarked finally, with a slow and regretful shake of his head. “And I’m afraid the end, Chuck, won’t be pleasant. A woman, you know, doesn’t go kiting around the country with a man, burglarizing rooms for him—unless—”
“Yes,” Chuck prompted dully.
“Unless she wants to do those things,” McMain finished with an effort. “When you consider the foray those two have been on, you’ve got to admit coercion was out of the question.”
Chuck’s lips were twisted; sad-eyed, he nodded in silence.
V
huck Dean and McMain drove back to the submarine base in the drenching rain.
“Clark’s chauffeur may be able to tell us something,” Larry remarked after a while, and added hopelessly: “If he ever regains consciousness.”
“But not even he, prob’ly, will be able to tell us why Billie is messed up in it.”
McMain slowed for the turn at the entrance of the military reservation. He began quietly: “If she’s in love with Clark—”
“But she’s not in love with Clark,” Chuck declared.
“She’s told you?” McMain asked.
“A dozen times. She doesn’t love Clark. She didn’t love Tommy Glade. She loves you! And if you hadn’t been such a sap, you’d have known it and asked her to marry you months ago.… Oh, don’t start makin’ excuses. I understand your position. You were afraid she’d turn you down, and because of your silly pride, you wouldn’t give her a chance.”
McMain drew up before the sick bay and Dean ran inside. He came back in a moment, reporting that Doc Lucas had finished there and gone to the wardroom. They drove to the bachelor quarters and found Doc in his room getting ready for bed.
“Is that fellow going to live?” McMain asked without preamble.
Doc, a bit ludicrous in undershirt and shorts, nodded and said: “Without a doubt.”
“With a bullet through his brain?”
“The bullet didn’t touch the brain. It passed through the retrobulbar space, which is an area of fatty tissue behind the eyeballs. If a bullet goes through it, without touching the optic nerves, the patient usually suffers no permanent ill effects.”
“Has this fellow regained consciousness yet?”
“More or less. He’s still groggy.”
“Can he talk?”
“He can, but I won’t let you two men put him through any third degree. He’s lost a lot of blood and must have absolute rest. Who the devil is he, anyway?”
“Benson Clark’s chauffeur,” McMain replied.
“H-m.” Doc Lucas regarded the two men with narrowed eyes. “What’s happened?”
“Plenty. Tommy Glade killed himself—or was murdered—at the Strangers’ Club.”
Doc looked at Chuck Dean. “Not over—”
Chuck said unhappily: “I reckon Billie is mixed up in it. Tell him, Larry.”
McMain sketched briefly the night’s happenings.
“Strange about that perfume,” the doctor mused when McMain had finished. “Tommy Glade bought one of those square black bottles this afternoon to take to his sister up North. And he happened to mention to me that old Pete Adams had given him a bottle of the same perfume to mail, when he got to New York, to Pete’s daughter in Harlem.”
McMain sat down on the edge of the bed and lit a cigarette. “I’m beginning to see a few things,” he said thoughtfully. “You know, the good-hearted naval officer who smuggles dutiable goods into the States, in order to do some friend a favor, is pretty much of a damned fool … See here, Doc. This chauffeur’s got to talk and he’s got to talk quick.”
“Tell you what I’ll do,” Doc offered. “I’ll go over to the sick bay and ask him a few questions. I know the situation pretty well from what you’ve told me and I may be able to get something out of him.”
“Good!” McMain said. “You don’t have to endanger the man’s life, but make him talk if you can. Chuck, let’s see what we can find in Tommy Glade’s quarters.”
Tommy Glade’s room still smelled of perfume.
“Where in the Lawd’s name does it come from?” Chuck muttered. “If Billie took the bottle—”
McMain gave the room and its scanty furnishings a swift survey. Then he grunted and pointed to a large irregular stain on the bare floor beside the heavy trunk.
“Never noticed it when I was in here before. Doc told us there were two bottles. And that’s where one of ’em went.”
McMain strode briskly to the metal waste-basket beside the small bare desk and hauled out a crumpled roll of damp paper. He smelled it, made a face and said:
“Whew! Here’s the wrapper. Tommy evidently broke the bottle.”
He spread the paper on the desk and smoothed out the wrinkles. He turned it over and found an address. The ink had run badly but he and Dean could decipher a box number, a station number and “New York, N.Y.”
“The bottle which Pete Adams gave Tommy,” McMain asserted, “was wrapped in this paper. You note, Chuck, there is no ‘U.S.A.’ in the address. That means Pete expected Tommy to mail it after he got up North—without the formality of a customs examination. Mailing it in the States would have saved Pete four or five dollars’ duty.”
Chuck took off his cap and scratched his head. He looked tired and baffled and disheartened. “But where are the pieces of the bottle?”
McMain started through the chiffonier. From the back of the bottom drawer he dragged forth a small parcel wrapped carelessly in newspaper. He took it to the desk and opened it, revealing a double handful of broken black glass.
“The pieces of the bottle!” Dean exclaimed. “Now why did he save pieces of—”
“Good Lord! Look!” McMain gasped.
He pointed a shaking finger at a gleaming object that, plainly, was not glass.
“A diamond!” Chuck Dean said in a dazed whisper.
McMain cried: “Why, there’s dozens of ’em!” He pawed through the pile of glass, spreading it over the newspaper. “And look at that. A ruby!”
“And that green one there! It’s an emerald!”
For the space of half a minute the two officers pawed over the jumble of glass and precious stones.
“See here, Chuck,” McMain said at last. “These stones represent a small fortune.”
“Yes, I reckon they do. And Tommy Glade was supposed to smuggle ’em into the States.… Damn it, Larry. I cain’t unde
rstand how a fine young man like Tommy Glade could have been messin’ in a smugglin’ plot.”
McMain groaned. “Oh, you damned fool, don’t be so dumb!” he raged. “Don’t you get the picture? Tommy was the innocent go-between.”
“We-e-ell,” Chuck stammered. “I—I cain’t see—”
McMain caught him by the shoulder, shook him angrily. “Tommy, I tell you, was not in on this plot. Pete Adams gave him the bottle of perfume and asked him, as a favor, to take it into the States for him.”
“I get that part of it.” Chuck Dean nodded morosely.
“And somebody,” McMain rushed on, “has been using us to smuggle gems into the States. Pete Adams was their agent. Loyal, obliging old Pete, whom nobody would ever suspect and for whom everybody was willing to do a favor.”
“And that somebody you just mentioned—”
“One guess, Chuck,” McMain snarled.
“Benson Clark.”
“It’s a cinch! Look here!” McMain’s voice was brusque. “Tommy in some way broke that bottle. He was always awkward. He was always stumbling around and knocking things over. There’s his trunk. I know it’s half full of books and weighs a ton. It would have been just like him, in the rush of packing and getting ready for the dance tonight, to tip it over on the package Pete gave him.
“In cleaning up the mess, he discovered the bottle contained more than perfume. What would he do about it? Knowing Tommy, what would you say he’d do?”
Chuck smiled wryly. “I reckon you could count on the poor devil doin’ the wrong thing.”
“Of course you could. Would he come to me, or to the Old Man? Not Tommy! He went to Pete Adams. He forced Pete to tell him where the bottle came from. And then Tommy, full of the romance of adventure, went out to do some sleuthing on his own hook. Thought it would be a grand idea to run down, single-handed, a gang of gem smugglers.”
“And Clark got wind—” Dean began.
“More likely,” McMain broke in, “Pete Adams warned Clark by telephone. And Clark was all set to handle Tommy when Tommy got to the dance. He slipped something in his drink. He murdered him.”
Chuck Dean gave vent to his futile rage with a string of good Carolinian profanity. Then he asked: “But who, do you reckon, murdered Pete?”
“Pete wasn’t murdered,” McMain declared shortly. “Think a minute, Chuck. Pete was sixty years old and not too strong. Have you ever seen the inside of the Panama prison?”
Chuck slowly nodded. “I reckon I get it. Knowing Pete, it’s easy enough to see how the poor fellow felt. He thought he was trapped. He didn’t see any way out. He was an old man. So he cut his throat rather than face a term in prison.”
There was a brief and pregnant silence. And then Chuck, avoiding McMain’s eyes, said slowly:
“There’s only one thing I cain’t see.”
McMain took a deep, sighing breath. “I know, Chuck. Where does Billie fit into the picture?”
VI
he wind now was steady and high, moaning dismally around the building. Rain pounded on the roof in a relentless deluge. Tommy’s little room was like a steam bath and sweat dripped from McMain’s face as he gathered up the gems and pieces of glass. He rolled them tightly in the newspaper and went out, with Dean, to the wardroom. There they met Doc Lucas coming back from the sick bay.
“Would he talk?” McMain asked quickly.
“Yes, he talked. What have you there, Larry?”
“A small fortune in unset gems.”
Doc Lucas showed no surprise. “Cabrillo will be glad to hear you recovered them.”
“Cabrillo? Who the devil’s Cabrillo?”
“Clark’s chauffeur. United States Department of Justice operative.”
McMain blinked. “Department of Justice! Are you sure you don’t mean—”
“I mean Department of Justice. There is more to this than a mere smuggling job. It seems that Benson Clark is the head of a gang of jewel thieves who have been working the coast-to-coast cruise ships operating through the canal. It was their custom to steal the jewels on the night before the ship reached Panama. On that night there is usually a masquerade or some other damned foolishness and the dowagers drag their jimcracks out of the purser’s safe for the occasion.”
“But how did the thieves get the jewels into Panama?” McMain asked.
“They were slipped to one of the crowd of bumboat men that surrounds every ship as soon as she drops anchor in the harbor. Then they were smuggled ashore. With the jewels once in Clark’s hands, the stones were removed from their settings and concealed in bottles of perfume. The perfume was sent to a New York fence through old Pete Adams and the kindly co-operation of various naval officers going back to the States.
“Cabrillo tells me his department has broken up the gang that worked the ships and can pick up the New York fence whenever it pleases. Clark, he says, knew the jig was up, though he didn’t know the fence was being shadowed. He was risking everything to get that one last shipment through.”
“Yeah,” Chuck Dean said, “but that doesn’t explain—”
“Let’s skip that, Chuck, for a while,” McMain broke in. “Doc, how come this Cabrillo got himself shot?”
“Cabrillo realizes now that Clark has been onto him for some time. Tonight, after Cabrillo had driven through the gates with a gun at his back, Clark waited until they had gone a mile or so and then ordered him to stop. As he pulled up at the side of the road, Clark let him have it. By the grace of God, Cabrillo’s head was turned sidewise and, with the odds a million to one against him, he came through alive.”
“But why the devil,” McMain queried, “didn’t Cabrillo yell for help when he had Clark bottled up here on the base? There were three or four sentries within call while he waited outside the wardroom.”
“Cabrillo was under orders to get his man with the gems in his possession. Clark evidently realized the situation, because as soon as Billie came out with the black bottle, he shoved a gun against Cabrillo’s back. And from then on Cabrillo took orders.”
Chuck Dean mused: “And that black bottle, after all, wasn’t the one Clark wanted. Which, of course, is a lot of help to me in gettin’ my sistah out of this mess, Doc! What does this Secret Service fella say about Billie?”
“He didn’t say anything about Billie,” Doc replied. “Incidentally, Cabrillo had me phone his chief, man by the name of Bridges, over in Balboa. The wheels of justice—of the Department of Justice, anyway—are already turning.”
As a matter of fact, the Secret Service man was already on his way over, although McMain and Dean did not know this and spent half the night in impotent fretting.
At one o’clock that morning a plane roared in from Balboa. Ten minutes later the two officers were in the commandant’s office, where they were tersely introduced to Thomas Bridges, chief operative in the Canal Zone for the Department of Justice. The Federal man was about forty, a slight, pink-cheeked little person with graying hair and hard, direct, ice-blue eyes.
The commandant said briefly: “I have gone over the situation with Bridges, McMain, and I want to compliment you on the excellent work you have done so far. From now on, however, you and Dean will take orders from him. The Whipple has steam up and you will go aboard her immediately. She will head east, towards the San Blas coast.”
“We are almost certain,” Bridges explained in his precise, mild voice, “that Clark has headed for the San Blas Islands. He knows that country and it offers his best chance for a getaway, either into Colombia or overland through Darien.”
“Darien!” Chuck Dean exclaimed. “Surely that damnable cowa’d wouldn’t drag a woman into Darien.”
Bridges smiled gently. “That damnable coward, as you call him, is a bold and resourceful young man whose life is at stake.” His smile faded as he added: “And I don’t imagine the young woman will have to be dragged.”
Chuck’s fists clenched and his face went white as he glared at the little Federal operative. “You’re n
ot inferrin’, are you, suh, that my sistah is a member of this ring of thieves?”
“I have found no evidence pointing to that conclusion,” Bridges said, “until tonight.”
Chuck’s jaw set. “And I assure you, suh, that her actions tonight will be honorably explained in due time.”
“I sincerely hope so, Lieutenant Dean.” The Federal man’s blue eyes were coolly skeptical.
The commandant said quickly: “By daylight the Whipple should be off Parvenir, the most westerly of the islands. I doubt if Clark’s yawl, in this storm, can make half that run. You’ll probably intercept him before he gets into the islands. Weather permitting, I shall send out all available planes in the morning. They will have no difficulty in picking up the yawl and they will keep in touch with you and direct you by radio. The rest will be up to you. That will be all.”
“Very good, sir.”
McMain saluted and walked out of the office in silence. He was vaguely aware that Bridges and Chuck Dean had fallen in beside him, but he did not speak.
What if the Thelma reached Parvenir and dodged into the islands before daylight? It was a run of only seventy miles and Clark, getting away about eleven, had seven hours of darkness. The Thelma should be fast with the wind on her beam and Clark would drive her.
He thought of the San Blas Archipelago, that amazing chain of more than four thousand islands and keys stretching along a hundred and fifty miles of coast, all the way from Parvenir to the Gulf of Darien. The Whipple drew too much water to navigate even the deepest of the narrow channels which wound through the group.
And behind that long necklace of green islands, protected by myriad uncharted coral reefs—was Darien!
Not a huge area, Darien. Perhaps fifty miles wide and three times as long. And yet, for its size, one of the wildest, most unexplored, most dangerous sections of the world. A land of high mountain and bottomless swamp, of heat and venomous insects and fever. Not many white men had gone into Darien and come out alive.
McMain thought of these things, and he thought of a girl in a pale green silk dress and high-heeled sandals, plodding through the swamps behind handsome Benson Clark.
