Blood on the Stars ms-15

by Brett Halliday

  “They were nice people, a little bewildered by sudden wealth. He was about forty. Thin and stooped, as though he’d worked too hard all his life without quite enough to eat. His wife always managed to look dowdy, even when she was wearing a Paris original. There wasn’t one single thing to hang anything on, Mike. We sent a man to Ohio to check their background, and they were exactly what they claimed to be.”

  Shayne said, “That doesn’t sound like very much,” his eyes bleak and staring into space.

  “By itself, it isn’t,” said Randolph. He shuffled the papers until he found the one he wanted. “The next case is another star ruby sold by Walter Voorland. I was in New York at the time and the policy on this one was issued by Provident Casualty. To Roland Kendrick of Westchester County, New York, a wealthy sportsman and playboy. That was in October of forty-five. He bought an eleven-carat star ruby pendant for his wife. Stanley Ellsworth made the appraisal at one hundred and ten thousand. Purchase price was one twenty-five. It lasted longer than the first one. Almost a month. The Kendricks went from here to New Orleans and were held up by two armed men late at night when they were returning home from a night club. Kendrick was knocked cold as he stepped out of his car to open his garage door, and when he came to, his wife was dead. Shot through the head. The ruby pendant was gone. It has never turned up, either. That claim was paid promptly, after the New Orleans police reported it absolutely straight.”

  “I was in New Orleans at the time,” Shayne broke in. He lit another cigarette and continued: “I wasn’t in on that one, but I don’t recall a whisper of suspicion attaching to the widowed husband. The couple were apparently happy together, and she had been flashing the pendant around at night clubs. I don’t see much in any of this,” he ended soberly.

  “Except that both were star rubies- both were sold by Voorland-and both have disappeared as completely as though they had disintegrated. Now it happens again. There’s a pattern, Mike. A definite pattern, but a completely illogical one. Who could profit if the stolen stones aren’t resold?”

  “I suppose you didn’t meet this second victim, Kendrick.”

  “No. As I said, my company didn’t handle that one. But Kendrick’s background was just as thoroughly checked as King’s had been. He was rather a well-known sportsman around New York, and a heavy gambler. Had a piece of two or three fighters and was reputedly very wealthy.”

  Shayne said slowly, “The one thing that sticks in my craw about all these cases is the way Voorland always has these big star rubies for sale. You and he both say the value of them lies in the scarcity of such stones. Yet one dealer seems to have got hold of a lot of them in the last few years.”

  “I know.” Randolph’s round and slightly distended eyes looked troubled. “It is a remarkable coincidence, but I can’t believe it’s more than that. Voorland has an unimpeachable reputation throughout the world. And it isn’t quite so remarkable when you realize that star rubies are his personal passion. They have been for the last forty years. He is known throughout the gem markets to pay well for every good one that turns up. That Dustin bracelet, for instance. I’ve known for years that he has been searching for the perfect stones to match up in it.”

  Shayne asked moodily, “Couldn’t those two stones-the eight-and-a-half-and eleven-carat stones-have been cut down to make two of the rubies in the Dustin bracelet?”

  Randolph pursed his lips and looked doubtful. “It’s possible, but certainly not probable. Remember, Voorland sold the stones originally. It would be mighty hard to cut them so he wouldn’t still recognize them in reduced size.”

  “Is there any way to check the sources from which he acquired the stones in the bracelet?”

  “I’m afraid not. That sort of information is regarded as a trade secret. In some cases a particular stone can be traced to its original source, but most dealers don’t keep a record of such transactions.”

  “Why not?”

  “For various reasons.” Randolph again pressed the finger tips of his hands together, and continued thoughtfully: “Customs duties are high. Suppose Voorland announced in Burma that he had acquired a perfect star ruby for a large price. He would then have to declare it to get it into this country where it could be sold.”

  “Do you mean to say Voorland smuggles such stuff in?”

  “Not necessarily. Someone else may smuggle them in. Let’s say, rather, that Voorland is a business man. His store is one of the most successful in the world, I imagine. He does what every business man does these days-meets competition.”

  Shayne grinned suddenly and said, “I guess a private dick doesn’t have so much to complain about, after all.”

  “Right,” said Randolph with an answering smile. “But what Voorland does is considered no less ethical than for a stock market manipulator to beat down the price of a stock so he can buy low. Voorland is responsible to a board of directors who look only at the profit sheet each year. No matter what his personal ethics may be, to remain manager of that store he has to play the game according to the rules made by others. It’s a competitive and cut throat business.”

  “But you still don’t think he’s capable of engineering a hold-up like that one tonight?”

  “Walter Voorland?” Randolph’s voice was frankly incredulous. “Certainly not. Besides, what would it profit him? He, more than anyone else, knows how impossible it would be to realize a tenth of their value from the stolen rubies. He wouldn’t abet any finagling like that. Not with a star ruby. He takes personal pride in them. He would no more have a hand in anything like that than a father would arrange to have his own child kidnaped.”

  “That has been done,” Shayne argued.

  “For a profit, maybe. If a man were dead broke. Voorland is a rich man and there would be no profit in it for him. I don’t think you understand fully the way he feels about a star ruby. He hates to sell one.”

  Shayne nodded and there was a wry grin on his gaunt face. “I noticed that he wasn’t putting any pressure on Dustin to buy last Monday when I happened to be in the store. In fact, he kept trying to slip the bracelet back into the vault and sell him something else.”

  “That’s the way he is. He picks his buyers for a piece like that bracelet. I happen to know he refused to even show the piece to another prospective buyer less than a month ago.”

  “Why?”

  Randolph chuckled. “Because he has certain theories about the way gems should be regarded and treated. He wants them to be respected and enjoyed, worn and admired. He turned an Indian Rajah down cold when the poor devil had made a trip all the way from India just to bid on the bracelet. Voorland could have gotten a cool two hundred thousand if he’d been willing to let it go.”

  “What did he have against the Rajah?” Shayne straightened in his chair and leaned forward, his eyes keen with interest.

  “This one is reputed to be a jewel miser,” Randolph explained. “He has a huge collection in his palace which has never been seen by anyone. Voorland was actually rude to him and refused to show the bracelet to him because he didn’t want it buried in a private collection. The Rajah was naturally furious about the whole affair, but Voorland was adamant.”

  “That,” said Shayne suddenly, “could explain where the other star rubies went-why they never turned up in legitimate channels again.”

  “The Rajah?” Randolph asked dubiously. “I don’t see the connection.”

  “This one, or any other private collector who hoards gems for his private pleasure,” said Shayne impatiently, “would be in the market for a star ruby whether it was stolen or not. He wouldn’t have to cut it up. He’d keep it whole and gloat over it.”

  “That’s true. But there aren’t many collectors like that. Not many with a bankroll big enough and a conscience elastic enough to finance wholesale robberies-and murders.”

  Shayne got up and paced excitedly up and down the room. “It’s an angle,” he argued. “Take this Rajah, for instance. No wonder he was sore that Voorland refused t
o sell to him. If he had kept track of the bracelet, knew when it was sold and to whom-”

  “I wonder,” Randolph interrupted, as though he was beginning to get Shayne’s idea. “I wonder if he’s still in town.”

  “He wouldn’t have to be,” Shayne pointed out. “All he would need to do is pass the word around that he was in the market for the bracelet when or if it went out of the store and became available. That would explain the planning and the swiftness of the snatch tonight.”

  “How would they know who bought it?”

  “Easy enough. How much do you think those store clerks earn in a year? A bribe could be easily managed.”

  “By God, I believe you’ve got something, Mike.” Randolph was sitting erect, staring at Shayne as he paced the floor. “If we don’t hear from the thieves in a few days-”

  “You won’t,” Shayne said strongly. “They’re not out for any lousy insurance reward of a few grand.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “I can take a hint,” Shayne said grimly, fingering the bruise on his jaw where it contacted Blackie’s knucks. “What’s this Rajah’s name?”

  “The Rajah of Hindupoor. He was at the Miami Waldorf a couple of weeks ago. I don’t know-”

  “Why don’t you check up those other two thefts of star rubies and find out if the Rajah was hanging around when they were committed?”

  Shayne was on his way to the door. He took his hat from the rack and Randolph asked, “Where are you going, Mike?”

  “To the Miami Waldorf.” He jammed his hat on his head and pulled the brim low on his forehead. His eyes glinted hotly when he turned back to say, “I’ll let you know what I find out,” then went out the door.

  Chapter Thirteen

  TWO TELEGRAMS AND A CORPSE

  Benjamin Corey,one of the assistant managers of the Miami Waldorf Hotel in Coral Gables, greeted Shayne cordially and took him into a private office. After the exchange of brief social formalities, Shayne asked, “How’s the traffic in visiting royalty these days?”

  “We’ve got a Rajah right now.”

  “Of Hindupoor?”

  “That’s right.” Corey was a thin, immaculate young man with very bright blue eyes. They rested on the detective with alert interest.

  “Nice guy?”

  “He spends plenty of money.”

  “Is he in now?”

  “I can find out.” Corey reached for the telephone on his desk, but Shayne stopped him.

  “Find out some other things while you’re about it, Ben. Whether he has been in all evening-any visitors-phone calls in and out. The works.”

  Ben Corey hesitated. “Care to tell me why you’re interested, Mike?”

  “I’d rather not.”

  Corey nodded and got up. “This will take a little time.” He went out and Shayne leaned back to mentally check over a raft of hazy ideas he had accumulated while with Earl Randolph. They were all extremely hazy. That was the hell of it. Haziest of all was the motivation that had induced Mrs. Dustin to drug her husband at midnight and then call his apartment to arrange a secret meeting with Mr. X who impersonated him. That didn’t tie in at all with any of the other ideas he was beginning to formulate. It was the added unknown that made the equation unsolvable.

  He had finished two cigarettes and reached no definite conclusion when Corey re-entered the office. He carried a slip of paper in his hand, and he glanced at the penciled notation when he sat down.

  “The Rajah had dinner served in his suite and hasn’t been out all evening,” he reported. “The operator believes there were two or three incoming calls earlier in the evening. Only two calls went out. Both to Miami Beach. At eleven o’clock and eleven-thirty.” He read off the telephone numbers.

  As Shayne jotted them down, he recognized the second number. He had looked it up in Dustin’s suite at the Sunlux under Voorland’s name. The first number meant nothing to him.

  “Two visitors were announced and went up,” Corey continued, consulting his slip of paper. “At ten o’clock a man giving the name of Hays, and a little after twelve, a Mr. Smith.”

  “Any descriptions of them?”

  “Only vague. Hays was tall, carried a briefcase, and looked like a lawyer. Smith was a big, solid man, with a broad face, and he spoke with a very faint accent. German, maybe.”

  “How long did they stay?”

  “No one happened to notice Hays leave. He may even be up there yet. Smith stayed about half an hour-and looked quite perturbed when he went down in the elevator.”

  Shayne said, “Thanks, Ben.” He picked up the telephone and asked for the first Miami Beach number Corey had given him. He let it ring for a long time without getting an answer, then got the Beach operator and asked for the address of the number.

  It was a residence on Sunset Drive. He wrote the address down and sat tugging at his earlobe, staring across the room moodily.

  Corey said, “The Rajah is checking out tomorrow. Okay?”

  “When did he decide to do that?”

  “A couple of days ago. That is, it was a tentative arrangement. Confirmed a little after ten o’clock by phone from his suite.”

  Shayne said, “I’ll let you know if there’s any reason why he shouldn’t. Will you put a check on his line, Ben? Get me everything you can.”

  “I’d like to know what I’m getting into,” Corey protested. “He’s a rather important guest.”

  “Would you rather have me swear out a warrant for his arrest as accessory in a jewel theft?”

  “Good Lord, no! Is he?”

  “I think so. But I doubt if I can prove it and I’d rather not be forced to try.”

  “You’ll get your tap,” Corey assured him.

  Shayne thanked him and said he would keep in touch. He started out of the office, then turned back to use the telephone again. He called his own apartment. A man’s voice said, “Patrolman Edmund speaking.”

  “This is Mike Shayne. Everything all right?”

  “Everything’s fine except this nurse is too good at gin rummy for me. There was a phone call about one o’clock. Some cluck wanted to know if there was a reward offered for the ruby bracelet lifted on the Beach tonight and said he’d call you back tomorrow morning. Traced the call to a phone booth in the lobby of the Sunlux Hotel and tipped the Beach cops off on it.”

  Shayne said dryly, “That’s what I call a real pal,” and hung up. He stood with his hand on the phone, undecided for a moment, then quirked a rugged red brow at Corey as though in apology, lifted the handset again and called Timothy Rourke’s number.

  When the reporter’s sleepy voice finally came over the wire, he said incisively, “Tim, get some clothes on and meet me at the News Tower right away.”

  “Whassat?” muttered Rourke. “Who the devil is this?”

  “Mike Shayne. Did you hear me?”

  “I heard you but it didn’t take,” he protested. “What the hell time is it, anyway?”

  “About three o’clock.”

  “When I left your apartment I thought you were set for the night, Mike.” The reporter sounded wide awake now, and worried. “I thought-”

  “You always get mixed up when you think,” Shayne snapped. “Meet me at the News Tower in twenty minutes.” He dropped the phone on the hook and grinned at Corey. “Send me a bill for these calls, Ben.” With an airy wave of his hand he went out, crossed the lobby to the outside where his car was parked in the driveway.

  Twenty minutes later he parked on the Boulevard opposite the News Tower on Sixth Street. The elevator boy on duty said, “Mister Rourke just went up. Didn’t act like he was in too good a humor.”

  Shayne grinned and said, “Tim’s getting old and needs his sleep.”

  Rourke was lounging just inside the door of the city room when Shayne entered. He stifled a yawn and began querulously, “What the devil’s the matter with you, waking a guy up-?”

  Shayne took one of his thin arms and led him down the corridor toward the ne
wspaper morgue. “Things are beginning to break. You know these files better than anyone else, and I need some fast action.”

  Rourke opened the door and switched on the lights as he went in. “What’s happened?”

  “That jewel robbery is breaking fast. I want you to dig out the dope on a couple of other big ruby thefts. First, a man named King. James T. King. October of forty-three. An eighty thousand dollar star ruby ring. Remember it?”

  “Sure.” Rourke’s nostrils twitched and his eyes were suddenly very bright in their cavernous sockets as he went confidently toward the files. “At the Tropical Towers Hotel. Bell-boy got sapped.” He ran a thin index finger down a file of bound copies of newspapers, selected one and pulled it out. “What do you want on it?”

  “The man’s background. Did you cover the story?”

  “Yeh. Interviewed him that night. Didn’t like the guy much, but his wife was nice. All that stuff will be in my first story,” he went on as he turned the pages swiftly. “Here’s my story-first page of the second section. Fix and everything.” He spread it open for Shayne to read.

  “Good,” said Shayne. “I’ll get what I want here while you dig up one a little more difficult. This was a robbery in New Orleans a couple of years later. Probably October of forty-five. Will there be anything on it here?”

  “Was it big?”

  “A star ruby pendant. I think the insurance was a hundred grand-maybe a hundred and ten. The wife got killed.”

  “I remember that one,” said Rourke eagerly. “Sure, I interviewed Voorland and gave it a local twist because the ruby was bought here. I tied it in with the King case. Man’s name was Kendrick.” Rourke was digging into the files again.

  Shayne gave his attention to the feature story on the King robbery. There was a blurred picture of King and his wife, the man tall and thin, stooped and worried-looking, just as Earl Randolph had described him. His wife was a few years younger and had a pleasantly placid expression, though she appeared a little dazed in the picture.