Blood on the Stars (5 page)

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.

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-flavored 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.”

Shayne growled, got up and lounged across the room, took the receiver from her, and said, “Hello, Will.”

“Did I interrupt something important?” Gentry’s voice betrayed a lively and friendly interest in the feminine voice that had answered the telephone.

“Oh, no,” Shayne assured him. “That was just my maiden aunt from Peoria. You’ve heard me speak of Aunt Minnie.”

“Oh.” Chief Gentry hesitated a moment, then added, “
Yeh
.
Rourke
was telling me a couple of days ago about that pretty secretary of yours who just blew in from New Orleans.”

“Tim probably has her out tonight trying to seduce her,” Shayne said cheerfully.
“The heel.
What’s on your mind, Will?”

“What have you been doing all evening?” asked Gentry cautiously.

“Eating dinner right here.
Aunt Minnie’s a hell of a cook. Get her liquored up on a fifth of gin and she can do the damnedest things with a dozen eggs, tomato ketchup, and a couple of bottles of beer.”

“For God’s sake, keep the recipe to
yourself
,” groaned Gentry. “I just finished dinner and it isn’t setting too well as it is. Sure you’ve been in all evening, Mike?”

“You can ask Aunt Minnie. I’ll call her to the phone and she’ll tell you—”

“That’s okay,” Gentry said hastily. “Then you haven’t been on the Beach lifting a couple of hundred grand in rubies?”

“Rubies?”
Shayne scowled at the wall. “What’s up?”

“Some bird got beaten up and robbed of a bracelet about an hour ago. Painter just called up and he thinks you engineered the deal.”

“A ruby bracelet?
Wait a minute, Will. Is the name—? Lucy,” he called, “what was the name of that
cowherder
we met in
Voorland’s
place buying a ruby bracelet last Monday?”

“Dustin?” Lucy appeared in the kitchen doorway with a plate and dishcloth in her hands.

“I thought,” said Gentry over the wire, “you said her name was Aunt Minnie.”

“Dustin,” Shayne growled. “Mark Dustin. Is that the bird?”

“So you do know about it,” said Gentry gravely. “Painter figures you’re the only one who knew about the bracelet and that Mrs. Dustin planned to wear it for the first time tonight.”

“So he puts the finger on me for snatching it?”

“You know
Petey
Painter,” Gentry said. “Even if he doesn’t actually think you pulled the job, you’ll do for a suspect until a better one comes along.”

“What does he want with me?”

“I think he’d appreciate it if you’d return the bracelet. I think you could make a deal with him if you played nice.”

Shayne said, “Nuts.”

“Sure it’s nuts,” Gentry agreed pleasantly, “but you’d better go over to the
Sunlux
and let Painter shake you down.”

“Let him come over here if he wants to ask me fool questions.”

“Wait a minute, Mike. He’s ready to swear out a warrant for you if you don’t lope over there pronto.”

“The hell he is.”

“I told him you were always glad to co-operate and I didn’t believe that would be necessary.” Gentry chuckled and added, “Is Aunt Minnie afraid to stay alone at night? Tim
Rourke
is hanging around the press room and I’ll get hold of him if you like and—”

“Leave Tim out of this,” said Shayne shortly. “I’ll go over and tell the twerp I gave up snatching rocks last week.
The
Sunlux
?”

“Mark Dustin’s suite.
Is there a bracelet worth a hundred and eighty grand, Mike?”

“That’s what Walter
Voorland
charged the sucker for it. It looked like junk to me, but if Earl Randolph
okayed
a policy on it, I could be wrong.”

Gentry said, “Give my regards to Aunt Minnie,” and hung up.

Shayne replaced the receiver and walked back to his chair, rubbing his angular chin thoughtfully. He poured a couple of ounces of cognac in his glass and held it up to the light.

Lucy came in from the kitchen. “What was it about the ruby bracelet, Michael?”

“It’s been snatched.”

“Stolen?
Already?”

“About an hour ago.”
Shayne scowled and let an ounce of cognac trickle down his throat.

“This must be the first time she’s worn it,” Lucy exclaimed. “Remember that day they were buying it? Mr. Dustin wanted it delivered by Friday for his wife to wear to a concert.”

Shayne nodded. “And this is Friday.”

“So they want you to recover it for them,” said Lucy happily. “That’s nice. You always feel better when you’re working. And there should be a big reward. Goodness!
A hundred and eighty thousand dollars!”

“It isn’t quite as simple as that. Painter thinks I stole it.”

“Painter?”

“Peter Painter,” Shayne told her.
“On the Beach.
You’ve heard me speak of the little bastard often enough.”

“Oh, yes. But how on earth could he get such a crazy idea, Michael?”

“It isn’t difficult—not for Painter,” Shayne said morosely. “In this case it wasn’t difficult at all,” he added explosively. He held up his left hand with the five fingers extended and turned down one big-knuckled finger as he made each point:

“Here’s what he’s got: You wanted the bracelet for yourself. You said so right out loud and I admitted out loud I couldn’t afford it. We were there and heard
Voorland’s
sales talk and the price. We heard Dustin say his wife wanted it to wear tonight. Added to that, I’m an unscrupulous son-of-a-bitch who has been getting in
Petey
Painter’s hair for the past seven years, and it’s his theory that if you throw enough mud some of it is bound to stick.”

“But everyone knows you here in Miami.” Lucy looked at him, her brown eyes aghast.

“That’s the hell of it.”

“But—I don’t understand.”

“Stick around, darling, and you will.” Shayne grinned suddenly, got up and pinched her cheek. “Wait until you read this story the way Painter hands it out to the papers. You’ll discover you’re a kept woman, and that we’ve discovered some sort of lecherous orgy that requires star rubies dissolved in the blood of an unborn mulatto baby with which we drink a toast at the stroke of midnight under a full moon when Jupiter is in the ascendency.”

Lucy’s full red mouth quivered, uncertain whether to laugh or cry. “Michael! You’re just—teasing.” She moved closer to him. “They won’t dare say things like that.”

“They’ll hint them.” He put his arms around her. “Wait until I offer our cozy little home-cooked dinner in my apartment as an alibi. Painter can do a lot with that.”

“But it wasn’t anything. I just—cooked dinner for you.”

“That’s what you think,” he countered cheerfully. He was suddenly grave, holding her away from him with his hands on her shoulders. “You can still stay clear of it, Lucy. Pack your stuff and move to another hotel. Then buy a ticket and get out of town.”

“You know I won’t do anything of the kind.” Her eyes were moist and shining. “I’m not afraid.”

He shook his red head somberly. “It won’t be nice. You really don’t know what you’re walking into in Miami.” His voice became harsh. “I’ve deliberately built up a reputation over the
years that lays
me wide open for a charge like this. I can take it, but I wonder if you can.”

“Of course I can,” she said stoutly.

Shayne chuckled and his hands tightened on her shoulders, then he opened them slowly, placed his palms on her cheeks and pulled her to him and kissed her lips. He said, “You’re
swell
, Lucy.” He turned to stride across the room to get his hat from a rack.

Lucy stood where she was and watched him.

“You’d better go back to your own room. God knows when I’ll get back,” he said when he reached the door.

“I’ll be here waiting for you,” she said, “when you do come.”

He nodded and went out, closing the door gently.