Blood on the Stars (17 page)

“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” he confessed. “I don’t yet see how my information can help you. I’ll tell you one thing, though. I’m morally certain Mrs. Dustin wasn’t in on the attack on her husband.”

Shayne nodded agreement. “I don’t go for that theory myself. But she must have known something. Something that was dangerous to someone who saw to it that she would never tell anyone.”

“Perhaps it was some detail about the hold-up that she forgot in the first confusion and worry. Something that she remembered later and felt you should know.”

“That’s quite possible. Are you in the market for the bracelet?” Shayne asked suddenly.

“I?” faltered
Voorland
. “It belongs to Mr. Dustin, you know. It’s legally his property.”

“I don’t imagine he cares too much. He’s fully protected by the
insurance,
and with his wife gone—”

“I am willing to refund the full purchase price if it is recovered and he doesn’t wish to keep it,” said
Voorland
with dignity.

Shayne stood up and said shortly, “Start thinking things over, Walter. I’m waiting for some information from New York and Ohio. I’ll be ready to move when I receive it, and maybe by that time you’ll decide your scruples are ill-advised and be ready to tell me where the Rajah fits in. Don’t try to contact him,” he advised casually as he neared the door. “I’ve got his telephone tapped and a tail on him.”

He went out to his car with the glum thought that he hadn’t accomplished much, but if he could get enough people stirred up there was bound to be a break somewhere along the line.

Timothy
Rourke’s
apartment wasn’t far from
Voorland’s
, though in a far less swanky neighborhood. The elevator man told him the reporter was in, and he went up and pounded on the door.
Rourke
finally opened it, yawning. His rumpled pajamas hung on his thin frame like the
misfitting
garments on a scarecrow. He let Shayne enter the living-room and offered him a drink and poured a snort for himself.

“You’re determined a guy shan’t have any sleep, so I guess I’d better have an eye-opener,” he complained.

Shayne grinned and said, “You should complain after all the scoops I’ve given you.”

“Sit down and bring me up-to-date on things.”
Rourke
toed a chair up beside the couch and sat down. Shayne sank down on the sofa and placed his drink on the table.

“Things may be breaking,” he confided, and after a few irrelevant remarks he brought the conversation around to Mark and Celia Dustin.

“I liked Dustin,”
Rourke
declared, after half the drink had warmed his stomach. “Thirty years of newspaper work and I still get a sick feeling in my belly when I break the news to a husband or wife—or a mother and father,” he added, “like in the Kathleen Deland
kidnaping
case. The
Dustins
had only been married two years, Mike.”

Shayne chuckled. “You’re a romanticist at heart, Tim. That’s why one of these days you’ll write a great American novel.
Yeh
.
The bracelet was an anniversary present to Celia Dustin. How did Dustin take her death?”

Rourke
was moodily silent for a moment,
then
he said, “Without breaking down. A tough westerner like Dustin wouldn’t. But he is convinced his wife didn’t have anything to do with the theft, no matter what sort of case Painter tries to make out. He’ll fight any man who does believe it, broken right hand and all.”

“Then he doesn’t believe she doped him intentionally?”

Rourke
shifted his position in the chair and said, “He doesn’t see how to get around that. He figures she decided to take a hand in it and didn’t want to waken him. He thinks she remembered some clue that she wanted to tell you.”

“Sounds reasonable,” said Shayne moodily. “Do you know a fellow named Bankhead here on the beach?”

“J. Donald Bankhead?”
Rourke’s
torso came forward and his eyes glowed. “What about him?”

“That’s what I’m asking you.”

Rourke
settled back. “He has a curio shop down on South Beach. Mostly junk for tourists, but I’ve seen some expensive Oriental stuff mixed in with the rest. Nice enough guy, I’d say.”

“Rich?”

“All those junk shops do a big business during the tourist season. You know how it is. So far as I know, his nose is clean.”

“It’s dirty as hell right now,” Shayne told him sharply. “His so-called gardener and chauffeur and some third party pulled the Dustin job last night in Bankhead’s limousine.”

“Is that straight?”
Rourke
jumped up and started pulling off his pajama jacket.

“Off the record and for your information only,” Shayne said swiftly and harshly. “He knows I’m on to him, but I haven’t any proof yet. He may try to brazen it out. I think he’ll try to get rid of the bracelet if he hasn’t already unloaded it. You’ve still got a little drag with the Beach force, haven’t you?”

“A little,”
Rourke
agreed, and put his skinny arms back into the pajama sleeves. “Tagging along with you hasn’t raised my stock with Painter’s men.” He sat down dejectedly.

Shayne took his drink in one long
swallow,
and with his eyes half-closed, looking at the glass said, “Could you pass along enough of a hint to get Bankhead tailed and a check on his movements last night?”

“That shouldn’t be too hard.”

Shayne put the glass down, got up, and said, “I’ll see you in your office later—to pick up replies to those telegrams we sent.” He stalked out to his car and drove across the bay to the mainland.

When he entered the small foyer of Earl Randolph’s apartment building he pushed the button beneath Randolph’s name and held it down for a long time. There was no answer.

Under a card which read
1-A Superintendent
the name of
E.
Palinimo
was written in small letters. Shayne pressed the button and got an answering click of the door immediately. He went in. A door at the right opened and a gray-haired man came out. He wore slippers and trousers and an undershirt, and his suspenders hung down from his waist. He held a lathered shaving-brush in his hand and asked gruffly, “Can I help you?”

“Do you know whether Mr. Randolph is in?”

“Three D?
Did you try his button?”

“I did. He doesn’t answer.”

“Then he is not in,” the man said.

“I’m a little worried about him,” said Shayne. “I think we’d better go up and see if he’s all right.”

The man’s black eyes widened. “You mean he is sick? I saw him in the hall yesterday and he was all right.”

“I mean,” Shayne said harshly, “there’s been one murder and I don’t want another one.”

“Mur-r-
der
?”

“Or suicide. I’m a detective. Get your master key and let’s go up.”

The superintendent’s jaw fell open. “Sure. If you think—” He scurried away and returned with a key-ring.

“Mr. Randolph is a good tenant,” he said worriedly as they got in the small elevator and he pressed the 3 button.
“A
ver-ry
friendly gentleman.
What you say about
mur-r-der
?”

“One of his clients.
Insurance.”
They reached the third floor and he followed the superintendent, his suspenders still dangling, to Earl Randolph’s room.

The door opened easily and the gray-haired man stood back, frightened and cringing, to let the tall detective enter first.

Shayne saw Randolph’s Panama hat on the rack where it had been when he visited the insurance man last night. He pointed it out to the little man and said grimly, “His hat is here, all right,” and stalked on toward the day-bed behind the littered card table.

Earl Randolph, dressed as he had been when Shayne saw him last, lay on the day-bed, halfway on his side, face downward, with one leg trailing off. The overhead lights were still burning and an empty glass lay on the floor where it had dropped from his fingers when he collapsed.

NO TIME FOR KIDDING

SHAYNE CAUGHT RANDOLPH’S SHOULDER and turned him over, lifting the dangling leg with his left hand and putting it on the day-bed. The insurance man’s mouth was open and he was breathing heavily. Where his face had lain there was a slobber of vomit, and his breath reeked of whisky.

“Is he—dead?” the superintendent asked anxiously.

“
Yeh
.
Dead drunk,” said Shayne angrily. “Help me get him into the bathroom.”

The superintendent eagerly grabbed Randolph’s legs while Shayne lifted his shoulders. They carried the heavy man into the bathroom and propped him in the tub at an angle where the spray of the shower would strike him on the head and torso. The superintendent held his body erect while Shayne drew the curtain and turned the shower on.

Randolph stirred under the impact of cold water and tried drunkenly to move his head out of the way.

Shayne said, “I’ll get him straightened out. Thanks for helping me. You can go and shave now.”

The superintendent backed away uncertainly, then turned and ran from the bathroom muttering to
himself
.

Shayne heard the door close. He stood back from the shower, but drew the curtain aside a little to grimly watch the drunken man struggle to emerge from the alcoholic coma that held him.

Randolph was opening and closing his mouth, twisting his head to escape the stream of cold water, inching his way back dazedly in the tub, but Shayne kept moving the swiveled head of the shower to keep the full force on his head and face.

Presently Randolph opened his eyes. “Shut it off—for God’s sake,” he muttered thickly. “I’m drowning.”

Shayne shut off the water and said, “Stand up and we’ll get your clothes off.” He reached in and supported the drenched man, unbuckled his belt and shirt, and helped him to get out of the soggy clothes, leaving them in the bathtub.

Randolph clung to Shayne as he stepped naked from the tub and staggered to the toilet seat, where he collapsed again, his head hanging in his quivering hands.

Shayne said, “Take it easy. Try to rub yourself down while I make some coffee.”

He left the sagging man and went through the living-room to a tiny kitchenette and found the necessary things to make coffee. While it was brewing, he went into the living-room and scrubbed the vomit from the day-bed.

Randolph swayed from the bathroom as he finished. His naked body was flabby and wet, and he held one hand pressed to his forehead. He groaned and said, “Get me a robe, will you? Hell of a hang-over.” He groped his way into the bedroom and Shayne followed, found his robe, and got his arms into it as one would dress a rag doll.

“Come out here and sit up,” Shayne demanded, leading Randolph by the arm to a chair in the living-room.

Shayne went back to the kitchenette and found a can of tomato juice in the refrigerator. He opened it and poured out a large glassful, added a couple of teaspoonfuls of Worcestershire sauce, and sprinkled it with Cayenne pepper. He carried the glass into the living-room, where Randolph was slumped low in a chair.

“Here—drink this down. If it stays, we’ll follow it with black coffee.” He held the glass to Randolph’s lips.

Randolph brought both his hands up to grasp the glass. Shayne let go, and the insurance man’s hands trembled violently, spilling the juice over his black silk robe. Shayne took the glass and held it to his lips and Randolph emptied it in a dozen quivering gulps,
then
slumped back in the chair, his body inert.

“Hold on,” Shayne said. “The coffee is ready.” He hurried to the kitchen and brought a steaming cup of coffee. “Here, sit up and drink this.”

Randolph pulled himself up slowly. “God, I hope you don’t think I meant to get this way,” he said thickly, “Passing out like a school kid. God, I can’t remember when I ever did that before.”

“I think,” said Shayne soothingly, “you were under a terrific mental strain after I left here last night. You just poured the stuff down faster than you realized.”

Randolph sighed, holding himself erect with an effort “I was tired and worked up over that jewel loss.”

“And a hell of a lot more than that,” said Shayne.

Randolph’s glazed and half-drunken eyes lifted to meet Shayne’s. “What’d you mean by that?”

Shayne sat down opposite him and lit a cigarette. “Finish your coffee and I’ll get you another cup. We’ve got a lot to talk about.”

Randolph looked at him with a worried frown, then took the cup firmly in both hands and lifted it nervously to his mouth. Some of it spilled, but he kept on sipping until it cooled enough to drink.

Shayne got up and went into the kitchenette and brought the coffee pot back. He refilled Randolph’s cup and took the pot back. When he returned he resumed his seat, crossed his knees, and sat bent forward studying the toes of his big shoes abstractedly while the insurance agent drank most of his second cup of coffee.

Randolph raised his eyes to Shayne’s and asked, “Why you looking at me like that?
Ish
it the
brashlet
?”

Shayne’s gray eyes narrowed. Randolph’s sudden drunken slurring of words made him suspicious. He said, “A lot of things have happened, and I wasn’t looking at you.”

“But you wash
thinkin
’ about me, an’ I don’ like it,” said Randolph.

“Cut it, Earl,” said Shayne sharply. “A lot of things have happened that don’t make sense. Unless—you seriously consider the possibility that those rubies were fakes.”

Randolph gulped down the last of his second cup of coffee and straightened up. “Star rubies!
Impossible.
There are tests that definitely—”

“Did you apply them at any time?” Shayne cut in sharply.

Randolph put his elbows on his knees and rested his chin wearily in his palms. “It wasn’t necessary. Star rubies can’t be made synthetically. Walter
Voorland
is one of the world’s greatest experts.”