Blood on the Stars ms-15

by Brett Halliday

  “Why wouldn’t she? Maybe-things were getting out of hand. Maybe her accomplices decided to keep the stuff and tell her to go fly a kite. She couldn’t turn to her husband for help. You’d be the logical one to call on.”

  Shayne shrugged and said, “Maybe.”

  “The whole thing seems rather clear now,” Painter insisted. “It all ties together. The careful way the robbery was planned-Dustin’s resistance, which shows he had no foreknowledge of it-the man who answered your phone and immediately pretended to be you when he recognized Mrs. Dustin’s voice.”

  “Mr. X,” mused Shayne. “Who is he and how does he fit in the picture?”

  “It’s as plain as the lump on your jaw,” scoffed Painter. “He was her accomplice. The guy who actually snatched the bracelet. He was coming to you to arrange a fix. Maybe she’d decided to double-cross him. As soon as he heard her voice on the telephone, he knew what was tip and arranged to meet her outside somewhere.”

  Shayne said again, “Maybe.” He rubbed the uninjured side of his jaw, wandered across the living-room to look out the window at the layout two floors below. At his left was the white strip of beach and the lazy rolling whitecaps of the Atlantic Ocean, shimmering and phosphorescent beneath the tropical moon. Like a long finger projecting seaward lay the long wooden bathing-pier for the convenience of hotel guests. Directly beneath the window a concrete walk led along the back of the hotel from the street to the pier. All the lights, normally turned out this late at night, had been turned on again, and Shayne could see two men, presumably from the police force, strolling about aimlessly as though they were searching for clues and didn’t know where to begin looking.

  The inner door of the suite opened as Shayne turned back from the window. The resident physician at the Sunlux announced with professional solemnity, “You may come in now. When you question the patient, try not to excite him with news of his wife’s disappearance,” after closing the door.

  “How much have you told him?” Painter asked.

  “Nothing except that I feared the sedative had been too strong for him and that I would cut the prescription in the future.” He opened the door and stood aside for the three men to enter the bedroom.

  Mark Dustin was propped up in bed on two pillows. His normally ruddy face was sallow and had the drawn look of violent nausea. His injured hand was in a plaster cast and lay stiffly extended on the coverlet. He wet his lips nervously when he recognized Painter and Shayne, and burst out:

  “What’s all this rumpus about? Where’s Celia? Has something happened to her?”

  “What makes you think anything like that, Mr. Dustin?” Painter asked.

  “You’re concealing something from me. That doctor’s been giving me a lot of double-talk. If Celia’s all right, where is she?”

  “We thought you might be able to tell us that.” Painter’s voice was silky.

  “So something has happened! What, in the name of God?” Dustin panted. “What time is it? How long have I been passed out? What did that damned sawbones put in that pill he gave me?”

  “It’s almost two o’clock in the morning, Mr. Dustin,” Painter told him. “What time did you take the-sleeping-tablet?”

  “A little after midnight. As soon as the doctor left. Celia fixed it for me.”

  “And you took only one tablet, Mr. Dustin?”

  “Of course I took only one. He said to take one-and then another in half an hour if that didn’t put me to sleep. You’ve got to tell me-”

  “We want you to tell us,” Painter interrupted. “How do you explain the fact that four tablets are missing?”

  “Four? But I only took the one. Do you mean Celia took the others? She didn’t-she isn’t-?”

  “So far as we know, your wife is perfectly all right. Did she say anything about going out later?”

  “Of course not. She said she’d stay right here to dissolve another tablet for me if I needed it.”

  “Ah. Dissolve it, eh?” Painter pounced on the word happily. “Did she dissolve the first tablet for you?”

  “Of course. I can’t take the stuff in tablet form. Look here,” the westerner went on, turning a strained face to Shayne, “won’t you tell me what this is all about? Where is Celia?”

  “We don’t know, frankly. It appears that she may have dissolved four tablets for you instead of one-to make sure you didn’t wake up while she was gone.”

  “Gone? Where?” Dustin appeared weary and dazed.

  “We had hoped you could tell us,” Painter cut in. “Did she say anything to give you an inkling of such a plan? Did you hear her telephone anyone?”

  “You’re crazy. She wouldn’t dope me like that and then slip out to meet someone secretly. We-we’re in love, damn it.” His strong features were now twisted in anger.

  “None of us are intimating that your wife is keeping an assignation,” said Shayne quietly. “We believe she did give you an overdose of sleeping-tablets and then went out to meet a man, but we think she had some plan or idea of tracing the bracelet. Did she say anything about that? Any hint that she was holding any information back from you?”

  “No,” Dustin said slowly. “Not a thing. I don’t-it isn’t like Ceil to keep anything from me.”

  “Not even under these conditions?” Shayne asked swiftly, gesturing toward Dustin’s bandaged hand and head. “She knew you were in no shape to take any action, and she wouldn’t want to worry you. Don’t you suppose she thought it best to leave you here safely asleep while she went out on her own?”

  “I see. I-don’t know. She might do that. She was always trying to mother me-keep me out of trouble. But what clue did she have? There couldn’t have been anything-” He paused and made a helpless gesture with his left hand.

  “Shayne has advanced one possible theory, but I have another,” said Painter pompously. “One which I believe fits the known facts better. Was your wife a wealthy woman, Mr. Dustin?”

  “No. She was teaching school when I met her. We were married a few days after we met. But I had plenty. She always had everything she wanted.”

  “Are you sure of that, Dustin?” Painter thrust his hands in his pockets and rocked back and forth on his heels, assuming the indulgent air and tone of a professor about to explain the facts of life to a group of adolescents:

  “There are many women married to wealthy husbands who yearn for money of their own. Don’t misunderstand me. You may have been very lenient with her, even extravagant. I have no doubt that Mrs. Dustin lived in luxury. But did she have her own bank account? Did she have economic freedom?”

  “I never refused her money,” Dustin said angrily. “She had only to ask me when she wanted anything.”

  “That’s just the point. She had to ask you, and believe me, Mr. Dustin, we run into situations identical with this quite often. Wives who have to ask for every dollar they ever have. Wives who-”

  “Goddamn it,” Dustin broke in angrily, “what are you trying to say?”

  “Just this. You bought your wife a ruby bracelet for one hundred and eighty thousand dollars. She knew it was insured,” Painter continued profoundly, “for the full amount. Do you realize how a woman might feel-wearing a fortune in jewelry and yet without a dollar she can call her own?”

  “I think,” said Dustin thickly, “I begin to see what you’re driving at. If it’s what I think, I don’t like it. If I were able to get off this bed, I’d-” His left hand doubled into a white-knuckled fist.

  “Don’t get upset, Mr. Dustin.” Painter took a backward step. “I’m forced to speak plainly. Remember, the bracelet was stolen the very first time it was worn. The job had every appearance of being carefully planned. Yet you and your wife were the only ones who knew its value and that she planned to wear it tonight.”

  “The jeweler knew it-Voorland. And Shayne knew it,” Dustin said, turning his head on the pillow to look at Shayne. “Your pipsqueak of a Dick Tracy here pointed that out earlier this evening. He was accusing you of the job, by Go
d. Now he’s got around to accusing Ceil. Why not me?” He turned back to Painter.

  “Because the theft wouldn’t benefit you,” Painter said indignantly. “Have you forgotten that your wife deliberately drugged you and slipped out to keep an appointment with a man whom she thought was Mike Shayne-after telephoning him she wanted to see him about the bracelet?”

  “Wait a minute,” Shayne cautioned. “We don’t know what Mrs. Dustin said over the phone to Mr. X. We don’t know but what she wanted to see me about something else entirely.”

  “Every bit of it is a pack of nonsense,” said Mark Dustin wearily. “I would trust Ceil with every dime I’ve got-any time and anywhere.”

  “We’ve had plenty of cases where wealthy men trusted their wives and-”

  Dustin let out a snarl of rage and painfully lifted himself to a sitting position, turned about, and slowly swung his legs from the bed. “I won’t lie here and listen to such insults. None of this is helping find Celia. She may be in danger. We’re wasting time here when we should be out searching for her.”

  “Take it easy.” Shayne moved over, caught up his legs and put them back on the bed, then went to the door and called the doctor. He said, “Painter has done his worst, and your patient still survives.” He brushed past the doctor and went across the room to the telephone, looked up a number, called it, and stood with the receiver to his ear while Painter and Jessup filed out of the sick room.

  Painter came over and stood behind him and asked fretfully, “Who are you calling now?”

  “Walter Voorland. But he doesn’t answer.” He cradled the receiver and looked up another number, called it, and waited until the phone rang three times before there was a click and Randolph’s voice said, “Yes?”

  Shayne hung up without answering. He said grimly, “If I were chief of detectives on Miami Beach I’d get every man on my force out to search for Mrs. Dustin.”

  “Whom did you call that last time?” Painter demanded.

  “Randolph, the insurance agent.”

  “Voorland and Randolph,” Painter muttered. “What can they possibly know about this?”

  “That’s what I’d like to find out.” Shayne picked up his hat and started toward the door.

  “Where are you going?” snapped Painter.

  Shayne said, “Out,” and kept on going.

  Chapter Twelve

  A HOT ANGLE

  Earl Randolph lived in a modern, four-story apartment building in Miami’s northeast section. There was a small foyer with brass mailboxes indicating the names and apartment numbers of the occupants. Randolph’s name was over 3-D. Shayne pushed the 4-A button and waited. When the electric latch on the inside door clicked, he entered, went down a narrow hallway to the self-service elevator, and went up to the third floor.

  He found apartment 3-D and pressed the button. Randolph opened the door. He wore a white shirt open at the neck, the sleeves rolled up above his elbows. He blinked at Shayne, and an expression of complete surprise came over his round face.

  “Mike-I didn’t expect you.”

  “I’ve been visiting a couple here in the building,” he lied. “Thought I’d drop in to talk over the Dustin case. Mind if I come in?”

  “Of course not.” Randolph quickly regained his poise and stepped back. The detective removed his hat and hung it on a hatrack beside Randolph’s wide-brimmed Panama.

  The living-room was filled with smoke, and a card table drawn up in front of the day-bed was littered with papers and newspaper clippings from two cardboard files. The ash tray was piled high with cigarette butts, and an almost empty tall glass stood beside it.

  Randolph said apologetically, “I’m afraid it’s rather close in here. Got to working and forgot to open a window.” He went across to open one, then asked, “Have a drink?”

  “Not now. I had too much earlier this evening.” He ruefully indicated the bruise on his jaw. “Cracked up my car and got this clip on the jaw.” He moved to a deep chair and sank into it. “What have you been doing all evening?”

  “Working.” Randolph sat down behind the littered table. “I came straight home from the Sunlux and began going through my old files. I-” He paused, rubbing a blunt forefinger thoughtfully across his mustache. “I think I may have turned up something interesting, Mike.”

  Shayne said carelessly, “Tim Rourke said he’d been trying to get you all evening, but you didn’t answer the phone.”

  “My phone has been acting up. Just a little while ago it rang and no one answered when I took up the receiver.”

  Shayne nodded and said, “Maybe that’s the reason Tim couldn’t get you. Do you mean you’ve turned up something on the ruby bracelet?”

  “I don’t know. There could be some connection. At least, there are some interesting angles.” The insurance agent leaned back and carefully placed the tips of thick fingers together. “About star rubies in general-and Walter Voorland’s connection with them in particular,” he ended quietly.

  “I’d like to hear the angles.”

  “Are you working on it, Mike?”

  “Not officially. But Painter accused me of planning the snatch. You heard what Dustin said in the hotel. I’ve a hunch I may be called in by him. I had another talk with him about half an hour ago.”

  Sweat glistened on Randolph’s round face. He separated his finger tips and took out a handkerchief to wipe it away. “How is he feeling? Any serious complications?”

  “They fixed him up at the hospital.” Shayne lit a cigarette and broke the matchstick between his fingers and frowned at it. “Mrs. Dustin is a mighty pretty woman. Do you think either of them has a tie-in with the heist?”

  “What makes you say that?” Randolph sounded surprised, almost startled.

  Shayne dropped the broken matchstick into the ash tray and spread out his hands. “Painter and you agreed that the job must have been carefully planned. Someone must have tipped off the gang.”

  “I don’t think I said that-” Randolph protested. “I said it had all the earmarks of a professional job. But it could easily have been as you suggested. If they had a lookout in the Sunlux lobby and he spotted Mrs. Dustin going out wearing the bracelet-” Again he let his words trail off speculatively.

  “What angles have you dug up?”

  Earl Randolph seemed eager to drop the other subject. He leaned forward and rustled the papers on the table. “A couple of other cases involving expensive star rubies, Mike. Both of them sold by Voorland and insured for large sums. Both stolen in hold-ups somewhat similar to the one tonight, and never recovered. The policies were paid in full in both cases.”

  “I thought you and Voorland both stated tonight that the star ruby cannot be cut up and resold-and because of that fact we would almost surely have an offer from the gang.”

  “Theoretically that’s true, Mike. That’s why I began to check my old records as soon as I came back from the hotel. I discovered a couple of damned queer coincidences. Listen to this:

  “October twelfth, nineteen forty-three,” he continued, reading from a typewritten sheet. “Policy issued to James T. King at the Tropical Towers Apartment, Miami, Florida, for eighty thousand dollars on a perfect eight-and-one-half carat star ruby ring. Purchased from Voorland for one hundred grand. It was stolen less than a week after the policy was issued. Never recovered. We paid the policy in full in December.”

  “Wasn’t that a lot of money for one ruby that size?”

  “Not in nineteen forty-three. I appraised the stone myself and recommended the policy.”

  “Anything fishy about the loss?”

  Randolph frowned and picked up another typed sheet. “No-and yes. It happened right inside the apartment building. King was in the habit of leaving the ring in the hotel safe at night. He called down at eight o’clock this particular evening and asked to have it sent to his room. He and his wife were going out unexpectedly to a swanky party. The fact that the party was gotten up on the spur of the moment was later established.<
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  “The clerk got the box out and gave it to a bellboy to take up. He got out of the elevator and started down the corridor to the King suite. As he passed an alcove he was sapped on the back of the head and knocked out cold. When they found him ten minutes later the ring had vanished. It hasn’t turned up since.”

  Shayne was tugging at his earlobe and listening intently. “King?” he suggested.

  Randolph shrugged. “Naturally, we made a very thorough investigation before allowing the claim. There wasn’t a particle of evidence. He lost twenty thousand on the deal.”

  “If the ruby could be fenced for fifty percent he’d have made thirty grand,” Shayne pointed out.

  “If,” Randolph agreed. “But that’s the big if, Mike. Look-you might cut it down to say six carats. A six-carat ruby might bring fifty thousand in the open market. But those things are distinctive. There aren’t many six-carat stones like that around. We have records of every unique stone like that. If it had turned up later, we’d know it. It hasn’t.”

  Shayne crushed out his cigarette and nodded thoughtfully. “But you have to admit it looks like an inside job. Who else but King could have known the bellboy was going to bring the ring up just then?”

  “Only the clerk, but he actually had no time to notify a confederate to get up there in time to waylay the boy. If we’d had anything else to hang suspicion on, we might have tried to make a case out of it. But we went through King’s background with a fine-tooth comb. He was absolutely legitimate. From a small town in Ohio where he and his wife had lived all their lives. He was an engineer, graduate of Purdue, who’d worked on a small salary all his life until he fell into a fortune a couple of months previously.

  “He inherited the estate of a wealthy uncle in California, estimated at between two and three hundred thousand. He and his wife sold their home and went west to collect the money, then started out to have some fun for the first time in their lives. They hit Miami the first of October, spent money lavishly, and ended up by splurging on the ring. I remember King and his wife,” Randolph went on reflectively, leaning back and closing his eyes.