When a voice replied at the other end, Dustin asked for Mr. Voorland. In a moment he said curtly, “Voorland? Dustin. Where the devil is that bracelet you promised to deliver this afternoon?”
He listened a moment, and the lines of anger gradually smoothed out of his face. “I see. Then we’ll expect it right away. Have him bring it straight up to our suite.” He hung up and said, “It’s all right, Ceil. Everything is fine. The check cleared through his bank this afternoon and he held up delivery until we were here to sign for it.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful, Mark,” she cried, and rushed into his arms.
Mark put her away from him, saying, “I’ll take a quick shower and be ready to sign when the bracelet comes,” and went into the bathroom. He returned to the living-room in a few minutes clothed in formal evening attire.
The buzzer sounded while Celia was in the tub. She listened to a mumble of voices in the outer room when Dustin answered it. She heard the door close firmly, and Mark came into the bathroom with the jewel case open.
The bracelet was more beautiful than Celia remembered. Tears of joy filled her blue eyes and spilled out to join the trickle of water on her face. Mark bent down to kiss her damp and flushed cheek before leaving the bathroom.
Celia dressed carefully in a new ice-blue evening gown she had chosen especially to wear with the bracelet-a clinging, lustrous gown, its strapless bodice supported only by her breasts, molding itself daringly about her hips. Her braids were a bright crown around her small head, her lips as red as the rubies themselves. She arose from the dressing-table and went over to the full-length mirror to clasp the bracelet on her wrist, then moved sedately into the living-room for Mark’s approval.
Mark was sitting in a deep chair, his head back, staring at the ceiling. Celia cleared her throat delicately. He looked at her, then sprang up and came to her to take both her outstretched hands. “You’re beautiful. The bracelet was made just for you.”
He wanted her to wear it to dinner, but Celia flatly refused. “I’m going to be sensible about wearing it, even if you aren’t,” she declared. Her tone was mature. She removed the jewel lingeringly and they went into the bedroom together to place it in the case. “I’m even afraid to leave it here while we go out to dinner,” she told him in a small, dismayed voice.
Mark Dustin laughed indulgently and took the tooled leather casket from her hands. “We’re going to put it right here in the top drawer of your dressing-table and forget about it. Good Lord, Ceil, you act as though you think a gang of international jewel thieves is lurking in the corridors outside just waiting for a chance to snatch it.”
“You don’t know but what they are,” she defended. “I don’t care how rich you are, we can’t afford to be careless with the bracelet. I think we should lock it in the hotel safe while we’re out to dinner.”
“Nonsense. Get your wrap. Doing a thing like that would only draw attention to its value. We’ll put it in the safe after we come home tonight if that will make you happier.”
Celia had to be content with that promise, though the pleasure of having dinner at a table beside the ocean with Mark was spoiled. Neither the stars nor the faint moonlight nor the gay chatter all around her on the boardwalk cafe could dispel her fierce desire to get back upstairs and assure herself that her beautiful bracelet was safe in the drawer.
When they returned to the hotel suite, she ran swiftly to her dressing-table and breathed a long sigh of relief when she snapped the box open and saw the jewel inside the chest, just as Mark had placed it there.
Mark stood in the doorway grinning at her, but she knew he was secretly pleased that she cared so much for her anniversary gift. He said, “Well, put it on. It’s time we started to the concert.” He crossed over to her and took the bracelet from the case and fastened it around her arm.
She looked up and smiled and said, “Thanks for putting it on for me the very first time I wear it.” She picked up her white velvet evening wrap and put it around her shoulders. The shirred collar stood up around the back of her head, tapering down to form lapels in front. Celia looked in the mirror, her arm extended slightly, and decided she looked the prettiest she had ever looked in all her life. A joyous thrill ran through her when she saw Mark’s admiring eyes reflected in the mirror. He was proud of her proud to walk beside her and have her recognized as Mrs. Mark Dustin.
As they passed through the main lobby downstairs, people turned their heads to watch them. Celia walked slowly and sedately beside her husband, her right hand lightly touching his arm, the evening wrap open in front to display the bracelet on her left wrist. In the car, she relaxed with a happy little sigh, and could scarcely wait until they were beyond earshot of the doorman to say ecstatically, “Mr. Voorland was certainly right, darling. Did you see the way they stared at the bracelet as though they had never seen a star ruby before?”
“They were looking at you,” he told her with an indulgent chuckle as he swung onto Collins Avenue.
There was little southbound traffic, and a round moon hung low in the sky, shedding its silvery sheen over the ocean and the tropical verdure lining both sides of the avenue.
An automobile came up behind them swiftly. Dustin was driving far over in the right-hand lane, loafing along at twenty miles an hour, his left hand loosely on the steering-wheel and his right arm around Celia.
The oncoming car came abreast of them, much closer than was necessary on the almost deserted avenue, then swerved abruptly as though out of control to crash into the left front wheel of Dustin’s roadster.
The impact of the heavy limousine drove the roadster off the pavement to smash head-on into the trunk of a royal palm on the edge of the right-of-way.
Celia screamed and Mark Dustin cursed angrily as the steering-wheel spun out of his lax hand.
The limousine ground to a stop beyond them and both doors, swung open to disgorge three men who raced back to the roadster before either occupant could open a door to get out.
The three men were masked with handkerchiefs, and all three held pistols in their hands. The first to reach Dustin’s side jerked the door open and rammed a muzzle against his side. “Take it easy,” he said, “and you won’t get hurt.”
Dustin sat where he was, immobile but not unvocal. The other two men circled the car to Celia’s side. One of them opened the door and said, “Stick out your arm, lady.”
“Don’t do it, Ceil.” Dustin’s voice was thick with anger. “There’ll be someone along. They won’t dare-”
The man who had spoken to Celia leaned past her and smashed the barrel of his gun down the westerner’s face. The front sight had been filed to sharpness and it laid his cheek open from temple to jaw.
“Good going,” the man beside Dustin muttered as the victim slumped back with blood streaming from the gash. “Get the stuff off the girl fast.”
Celia was screaming hysterically and kicking. The two men jerked her out of the car and one of them used a pair of snippers on the linked platinum. It parted easily, and they threw her aside to the ground. The third man had been going through Dustin’s pockets. He found the wad of bills in a side pocket, held together with a silver clip. He extracted them as the others raced around to join him. They all leaped for the open doors of the limousine as Dustin half fell from the roadster and staggered after them, cursing incoherently. He was half-blinded with pain and with shock, but the life he had led had not fitted him to accept such an outrage without fighting back.
He stumbled forward as the three men jumped in and slammed the doors shut. The limousine jerked forward just as he reached it and caught the rear door handle. It turned in his hand and the latch released, but the door didn’t open and the car was picking up speed.
The man in the rear seat rolled down the glass and leaned out. He cursed and smashed his pistol barrel down on the hand clutching the door handle. Mark Dustin stumbled back and the limousine roared away toward downtown Miami Beach.
Celia ran to him, sobbing, as he sw
ayed drunkenly in the headlights of the roadster. When she saw the blood streaming down his face and the crushed hand he was holding out stiffly, she cried out, “Oh, Mark, what have they done to you,” in an agonized voice.
He put her aside with his other hand. His face was stony and his voice harsh as he grated, “We’ve got to notify the police. Get under the wheel and see if you can back out.”
“But your face! And your hand! You’ve got to get to a hospital!”
“Get in and drive to a phone.” He shoved her toward the roadster and walked around to get in the other side.
Celia didn’t waste time arguing. She had the car in gear, and as he slumped beside her she gunned the motor and let the clutch out with a jerk. The rear wheels spun momentarily, then took hold, and the roadster lurched backward onto the pavement. She put it in low and spun the steering-wheel. The left fender was crushed against the wheel and rubber screeched protestingly against steel as she swung in a short circle and headed toward the hotel.
Dustin started to protest that they could reach help faster by driving on to Fifth Street, but a look at the set of her jaw stopped him in mid-sentence.
The steering mechanism had evidently been injured, for the roadster wobbled drunkenly as she gained speed, but Celia kept the accelerator down and herded it down the pavement with grim concentration.
Mark Dustin held a handkerchief to his cut face. His injured hand lay on his knee. When they drove up to the hotel entrance the doorman opened the door and Dustin snapped, “Get the police. We’ve been robbed of a couple of hundred thousand dollars.”
“Send the doctor up to our suite. Please hurry.” She was out of the car and going around to open the door on Mark’s side. She put her arm around him and led him in through the lobby and on to an elevator.
The resident doctor had Dustin’s cheek bandaged and was putting a temporary splint on his injured hand when the first contingent of the law arrived, two city detectives and the chief of the Miami Beach detective bureau.
Peter Painter aggressively took the lead in snapping questions at the victims, getting a brief outline of the occurrence and sending his two subordinates scooting away with routine instructions to establish a road-block across the bay and put out a radio alarm for the limousine.
By that time the doctor had Dustin’s broken hand swathed in bandages which he assured the suffering man would take care of it until he could get it X-rayed and properly set. Three fingers were broken, and two smaller bones in the hand itself, he explained, and as soon as the first shock wore off he should go to a hospital for a thorough examination.
He picked up his bag and went out. Celia went to the telephone and ordered three Scotch and sodas sent up. Then she reseated herself beside her husband while Peter Painter stood in the center of the room and regarded the couple disapprovingly.
He had reason for this attitude. In his opinion, any tourist who ventured out in Miami wearing a fortune in jewelry was a congenital fool and deserved whatever happened to him. Moreover, they were a great nuisance to him and his department and were always kicking up a stink in the newspapers if their stolen property was not recovered within a few hours, which it seldom was. Such robberies made bad publicity, and were frowned upon by the city fathers to whom Painter owed his job.
The detective chief was small and slender, with a thread-like black mustache. His taste in clothes was fastidious, and now he thrust both hands deep in the patch pockets of a gray suede jacket and said, “You say tonight is the first time you’ve worn the bracelet, Mrs. Dustin?”
“Yes. We just bought it today.”
“It wasn’t delivered until today,” Mark corrected her. “We actually bought it last Monday, but I didn’t take possession until the insurance was fixed up and my check cleared through my bank.”
“How many people knew you were going to wear it tonight?”
“No one. No one could possibly have known.” Celia threw a frightened glance at her husband. “I hadn’t told anyone, Mark. I swear I hadn’t. It was to be a complete surprise at the concert tonight. Those men must have seen me wear it when I went through the hotel lobby,” she went on rapidly, “and followed us when we drove away.”
“From your story of the hold-up it sounds like a well-planned crime-by an organized gang.” Painter lifted his right hand from his pocket and thumbnailed his mustache. His black eyes flashed from Celia to Mark. “Hardly the sort of thing to be got up on the spur of the moment. Besides, how would any crook know how valuable the bracelet was-with just one look at it as you went through the lobby?”
“But they could tell,” said Celia spiritedly. “Mr. Voorland said that anyone could instantly recognize a star ruby as the real thing-and professional jewel thieves certainly must know about prices-and all that.”
“Chief Painter is right,” Mark told her wearily. “That job has all the earmarks of careful planning. Voorland knew you planned to wear it tonight,” he went on slowly. “I told him on Monday when we bought it and then reminded him a couple of times afterward. He knows how much it’s worth, too.”
Peter Painter bristled. The detective chief appeared to strut while standing perfectly still in his polished shoes. He shook his head emphatically. “Not Walter Voorland. He wouldn’t be mixed up in anything like this. He has run that store for twenty years and has the most exclusive clientele on the Beach.”
“Mark-” Celia timidly plucked at his sleeve and lowered her voice. “There was somebody else. Remember that friend of Mr. Voorland’s who was in the store Monday? He knew how much it cost, and he heard us say I wanted to wear it to the concert tonight.”
“Nonsense,” said Dustin impatiently. “He’s a detective, not a jewel thief.”
“What’s that?” Painter stepped closer, inclining his head. “A detective? Who?”
“Celia just remembered there was another couple in the store when we bought the bracelet and told Mr. Voorland she wanted to wear it tonight,” Dustin explained. “But the man was a private detective. The girl was his secretary. Beside, he was a good friend of Mr. Voorland’s.”
“A private detective.” Painter’s voice was sharp. “What was his name?”
“Michael Shayne. I imagine you’ve heard of him around town.”
“Shayne? Heard of him?” Painter whirled and strutted to the telephone.
Chapter Five
A SHOCK FOR AUNT MINNIE
Michael Shayne and his brown-haired secretary were playing a childish game. At least, Lucy Hamilton was playing a game, and Shayne guessed what it was. He abetted it by pretending he didn’t know what Lucy was pretending.
It was evening, and they were together in the downtown apartment on the bank of the Miami River which had been home to Shayne during his bachelor years. He had turned it into an office during the period when he was married to Phyllis. Returning to Miami after two years in New Orleans he had been fortunate enough to secure his old apartment again.
It was in New Orleans that he met Lucy Hamilton, hired her as his secretary, and eventually found himself making a confidante of her. Lucy was more like Phyllis than any girl he had ever met, and during the months in New Orleans he sensed that there was growing between them a feeling more intimate than that of employer and confidential secretary. He had gone to New Orleans thinking that getting away from the apartment might ease the sorrow of losing Phyllis. Six months ago he had returned to Miami, feeling that in fairness to Lucy and himself a separation would give them a chance to consider objectively what their future relations should be.
Lucy had a single room down the hall, and this afternoon she had come in with a bag of groceries, competently taken over the kitchenette in his apartment, and cooked a dinner for two which she served charmingly on a small table in the living-room.
She proved to be a splendid cook. She concocted what she called “Poor-girl steak,” consisting of beef ground twice with a small piece of bacon. To complete the meal she served baked yams, and biscuits of her own devising, with garlic-fla
vored gravy and black coffee. She wore a frilly blue and white apron over a white skirt and blue blouse, and was very domestic and matter-of-fact as she cleared the table and washed the dishes while Shayne settled himself comfortably with a noggin of cognac and a cigarette in the shabbily furnished living-room.
Shayne had a curious feeling deep inside him that the episode was more than a game. He had a fair idea of the way Lucy felt, and he respected her for it. Tonight for the first time since Phyllis’s death it didn’t seem wrong to have a woman in his apartment. He had tried to run away from Lucy but it hadn’t worked; and she had tried to run away from him by quitting her job and closing the New Orleans office in a fit of rage, but that hadn’t worked either. He had persuaded her, by long-distance telephone, to come to Miami for a vacation, and now they were here together.
Shayne took a sip of cognac and reflected upon the situation. A feeling of contentment and inertia possessed him. He had no cases on hand because he hadn’t yet decided whether to re-establish himself in Miami or return to New Orleans. He was thinking of calling to Lucy and telling her to hurry up and finish the dishes and come in to sit beside him when the phone rang. It was an old-fashioned wall phone, and its ringing had disrupted his plans so often in the past that he decided not to answer it. He slumped deeper in his chair, his angular face relaxed, his eyes half-closed, meditatively sipping Monnet and consigning all telephones to hell.
He wasn’t conscious of Lucy’s presence in the room until the phone stopped ringing. He looked up to see her putting the receiver to her ear. She said, crisply, “Michael Shayne’s office.”
She listened for a moment, turning her head sideways to look at Shayne. He looked back at her and tried not to scowl. She was still playing the game and getting such a kick out of it he hadn’t the heart to scold her.
“Yes,” she said, “he’s right here.” She held out the receiver. “He says it’s Chief Will Gentry.”
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