Blood on the Stars (15 page)

“Until I returned and took over,” said Shayne cheerfully. “You’re off duty as of this moment.” He brought out the cognac and three glasses.

“I suppose your return does relieve me, but I couldn’t take a drink this time of morning.” Edmund turned to Miss Naylor and said, “We’d better settle up our gin rummy accounts and then I’ll be getting along.”

“I’ve added it,” she told him.
“Three dollars and twenty-eight cents.”

While Edmund was settling his debt, Shayne poured two drinks and handed one to Blackie, then moved across the room and sank into a chair with the bottle on the floor beside him.

“Well, I’ll be going,” the young officer said. “I hope the young lady will be all right.”

Shayne nodded. “Thanks for sticking around.” He frowned and said, “Wait a minute, Edmund.
About that phone call.
The one asking about the bracelet.
Think you would recognize the voice if you heard it again?”

“Why—I’m not sure. Over a telephone I might. It wasn’t particularly distinctive.”

“Anything like mine?”
Shayne asked.
“Or more in line with Mr.
Diffingham’s
voice.”
He nodded to Blackie.

Edmund’s smooth brow rumpled. “I don’t believe I’ve heard Mr.
Diffington
say anything.”

“
Diffingham
,” Shayne corrected. “Say something for him,
Diffy
,” he urged.

Blackie said gruffly, “Looks like a nice morning.”

Edmund thought for a moment,
then
said, “It was more like his—but not exactly. It would be easier to judge over a telephone.”

“Maybe I can arrange that for you.”

“Any time,” said Edmund. “And thanks for the game, Miss Naylor,” he added with a whimsical grin. He went out and closed the door softly.

Shayne turned to the nurse. “How soon will it be safe to waken Miss Hamilton?”

“She’s not to be wakened,” Miss Naylor said crisply. She got up and went into the bedroom, returned after half a minute and reported, “I think she’ll rouse in a couple of hours. There’s really no hurry, is there?”

“None at all,” Shayne said quickly and heartily. He yawned expansively, clutching at his sore stomach muscles. His eyes were heavy and he had difficulty keeping his gaze on his prisoner across the room.

Blackie had the advantage of him, for he had evidently slept several hours before Shayne’s foray into the garage. Shayne thrust himself erect after a time and said, “Let’s whip up a pot of coffee.” He jerked his head toward the kitchen and waited for Blackie to precede him, then followed him out and put on a
dripolator
of coffee. He put a frying-pan over a lighted gas jet, fried bacon, and when it was crisp took it out and poured in six eggs lightly beaten in a bowl.

A few minutes later he placed three plates of bacon, eggs, and untoasted bread on the table which Miss Naylor had cleared of playing-cards. He announced, “Breakfast is served.”

“I’m starved,” Miss Naylor declared. “Sit down and I’ll bring the coffee.”

When she brought his cup, Shayne laced it liberally with cognac. After he had eaten his breakfast leisurely, he felt wide awake. He smoked a couple of cigarettes while the nurse cleared the table, keeping a keen eye on Blackie as he did so.

Miss Naylor came in after washing the dishes and said, “I’d better take a look at our patient,” and went into the bedroom. After several minutes she returned. “She’s beginning to move restlessly. I believe she’ll be fully awake presently. It might reassure her to see you, Mr. Shayne. Would you like to come in?”

Shayne glanced curiously at Blackie’s face as he got up and went to the bedroom door. Blackie appeared to have superb self-control. Not a muscle on his stolid face betrayed anxiety.

Stopping in the doorway where he could keep an eye on his prisoner, Shayne looked at Lucy. Her features were calm and peaceful in the morning light. A curl of brown hair had detached itself and lay across her forehead.

Shayne set his teeth and felt sweat on the palms of his clenched hands as he gazed at her. It was the first time he had consciously allowed himself to consider how much her recovery meant to him. His gaunt face twitched angrily as he switched his eyes to the man whom he was practically certain was responsible for her condition. Blackie met his angry gaze with indifference.

Lucy’s brown and bandaged head moved on the pillow and her long brown lashes rolled slowly upward. She looked at Shayne and a little smile curved her lips. She said, “Hi,” and the syllable sent a rush of emotion through him.

He said, “Hi, angel. Take it easy and don’t try to move. You’ve had a pretty rough time of it.”

“It seems—like a nightmare,” she faltered.
“So—hazy.
I did—talk to you after it happened, didn’t I? Or did I dream that?”

“You didn’t dream it. You told us everything we needed. I’ve got a guy here I want you to meet. Feel up to it?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Don’t be frightened, now. Just tell me if you’ve ever seen him.” Shayne flipped back his coat and drew the .45, gestured toward Blackie and said, “Come here and let the lady look at you.”

Miss Naylor gasped audibly at the sight of the gun. Lucy’s eyes were wide and questioning, but the faint smile stayed on her lips as she stared at the doorway.

Blackie got up and lumbered across the room. He stopped just inside the door and looked down at Lucy.

A frown creased her forehead as she studied the man, then she said slowly, “I never—saw him—in my life—before.”

BLIND ALLEY

“WAIT A MINUTE,” Shayne said swiftly. “Take it slow and easy, Lucy. Think back over last night.”

Her unblinking gaze was fixed on Blackie’s face. “I’m sorry, Mike. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him, and I’m certain he isn’t the man who came in last night.”

“She’s right,” Blackie said. “Like I told you, I
never been
in this place before.”

“Close your eyes a moment,” Shayne said quietly. “Go back to last night, Lucy.
The man with the mustache.”

She closed her eyes and lay quietly, then opened them and said in a small and despondent voice, “No, Michael. It wasn’t this man.”

“If he were wearing a gray suit and a Panama hat,” Shayne argued. “Clothes make a lot of difference.”

“I got you for a
witness,
” Blackie broke in to the nurse, “that the young lady’s done said it wasn’t me. He’s egging her on—trying to make her say it was me.”

Miss Naylor said crisply, “It certainly seems to me, Mr. Shayne, that you’re using what a lawyer would call undue influence.”

“It doesn’t help—thinking back,” Lucy told Shayne. “It doesn’t help a single bit. He’s not a bit like that other man.”

“You said a moment ago that it was like a nightmare,” Shayne reminded her. “That last night was hazy and indistinct. If you close your eyes and rest a while—”

“Oh, no.
You don’t understand, Michael.
That
part of it isn’t hazy at all. I can see him now as he hung up the phone and saw me and jumped at me. The other part
is
like a nightmare. Afterward—when I came to for a moment and saw you—and some other men.”

“All right,” Shayne conceded dispiritedly. “So this isn’t the guy. Can you describe him any better than you did last night?”

“Just—that he was heavy-set and had a sort of round face, I think.
Not nearly as dark as this man.
His mustache was kind of grayish. I only got one good look at him, but I’d know him again anywhere.”

Shayne moved close to the bed and leaned over her. He touched her cheek gently with rough finger tips and said, “Don’t look so worried, angel. You know I don’t want you to make a false identification, even though I was positive Blackie was the man I wanted.”

He nodded to Blackie and followed him out into the living-room. Blackie started for the door, saying, “That’s all, huh? You don’t want me any more.”

“I want you plenty more,” Shayne growled when the bedroom door was closed. “Sit down over there and start talking.”

Blackie sat down and muttered sulkily, “I got nothing to talk about.”

“Do you deny that you and the Kid and some other gimp rammed an automobile on Collins Avenue last night and snatched a roll and a ruby bracelet from the couple in it?”

“I sure do deny that. I can prove where I was at eight o’clock.”

“How do you know it was done at eight o’clock?”

“Look—you’re talking about the Dustin job,
ain’t
you? It’s in all the papers about the gang grabbing a bracelet.”

“Where were you at eight o’clock?”

“Me and the Kid was up to Sunny Isles with a couple of broads,” Blackie told him readily. “Driving back was when we scraped the fender I was
gettin
’ fixed in Mickey’s Garage so the boss wouldn’t know we’d been joyriding.”

“I don’t believe a damned word of it, but you can probably prove it by witnesses.
All right.
We’ll skip that until Dustin has a crack at identifying you.
Whom
do you and the Kid work for?”

“You mean the boss? Mr. Bankhead?”

“What’s Bankhead’s business?”

“He imports stuff. Got an antique and curio shop on the Beach.”

“What does he import?”

“All sorts of stuff.
Pitchers and statues and stuff like that.”

“Jewels?”

“I
dunno
.
Maybe, sometimes.
I don’t have
nothing
to do with the shop.”

“What’s your job?”

“I’m the gardener,” Blackie said with dignity.

“Do you use brass
knucks
to knock out insect pests?”

“I just happened to have ’
em
in my pocket,” Blackie muttered. Sweat was popping out on his swarthy face.

“Is the Kid a gardener too?” Shayne asked sarcastically.

“No. He’s the chauffeur.”

“Why did you telephone me last night from the
Sunlux
Hotel to ask if I wanted to buy the ruby bracelet?”

“Me? Telephone you?” Blackie looked blandly innocent. “You’ve got me wrong.”

“You were going to call me back this morning,” Shayne insisted. “We can talk it over right now and save the price of a call.”

“I sure don’t know what you’re trying to get at.”

“Did you ever hear of the Rajah of
Hindupoor
?”

“Not as I recollect.”

“Is Bankhead a heavy-set man with a grayish mustache?”

“He sure
ain’t
,” Blackie answered earnestly. “He’s tall and clean-shaved.”

Shayne made a gesture of disgust, sank into a chair and poured himself a small drink. “Go back and tell your boss Mike Shayne says there’s not going to be any payoff on the bracelet. Tell him to wrap it around his neck and wear it for a dog collar. Now get out. I’m sick of looking at you.”

“Sure,” said Blackie
placatingly
. He sidled toward the door, looking at the .45 in Shayne’s lap. “You
gonna
let me have my gat back?”

“I’ll keep it for a souvenir,” Shayne growled, “and see whether the front sight matches the cut on Dustin’s face and whether the police chemist can find traces of blood on it.”

Blackie said, “Go ahead. I swear it
ain’t
been out of my bureau drawer for six months.” He scuttled out the door and down the hall.

Shayne looked distastefully at the gun, sighed, and got up to lay it on the table. He looked at his watch and decided it was much too early to go calling on anyone. He prowled around the room immersed in thought, and stopped in front of a book case at the end of the room. It still held the books he had accumulated years ago, just as he’d left it when he gave up the apartment to go to New Orleans. The hotel management had left it there, and successive occupants had evidently accepted it as part of the furniture.

There was an old set of encyclopedias on the bottom shelf. He leaned down and ran his eyes along the backs until he found the R volume, took it out and carried it over to the couch and thumbed through it until he found
Ruby.

He glanced through the data without much interest until he reached a subheading,
Artificial or Synthetic.
He read this passage carefully:

The earliest recorded attempt to manufacture synthetic rubies was in 1837 by a German chemist. His process consisted of fusing together chips of the natural stones into one larger gem, and the resulting rubies were called reconstructed gems.

Much later, Michaud improved the process with somewhat better success by placing several large fragments of natural rubies in a revolving platinum crucible and heating them to about 1800 C. He obtained fairly large stones by this method, though the product was likely to burst asunder from interior stresses. Reconstructed rubies have now been replaced in the market by synthetic gems manufactured by a process developed by Professor Verneuil in France. In the beginning, Verneuil used small, inferior Burma stones which he crushed into powder, fusing them into one large stone under terrific heat.

Later, he discarded the use of crushed stones and used corundum, a form of alumina, and this process is in use at the present time to produce synthetic gems commercially.

Purified and finely divided alumina is placed in a receptacle…

A complicated and technical description of the
Verneuil
apparatus and process followed. Shayne skimmed over it until he reached the final summation, which described how difficult it is for the untrained observer to distinguish the artificial from the natural stone. He read this carefully, and made a grimace of disgust when he came to the final line:

As it has not been possible to produce asterism in synthetic rubies, it follows that any star ruby must have been cut from the natural mineral.

Shayne snapped the encyclopedia shut. There it was again! Every time he began formulating a theory, he got hit in the face with the fact that star rubies cannot be produced artificially.

He got up and replaced the offending volume, reminding himself that it was quite an old set and might not contain the newest scientific information available. Walter
Voorland
was the man to talk to. He probably knew as much about the subject as any man living.