Blood on the Stars (6 page)

PETER PAINTER MAKES A PROMISE

CELIA DUSTIN OPENED THE DOOR of the hotel suite for Michael Shayne. Beyond her he saw Peter Painter and Walter
Voorland
conferring together. Mark Dustin reclined on a couch, his right cheek and hand heavily bandaged.

Celia’s eyes widened when she saw the tall, redheaded detective. “You’re Mr. Shayne,” she said.

“That’s right, Mrs. Dustin. I heard about the robbery. Is your husband badly injured?”

“Mark’s so impetuous. He didn’t have a chance against all three of them—and they had guns.” She stood aside to let him enter.

Voorland
looked up, worried and disturbed, and gave Shayne a friendly nod of greeting. Painter strutted forward like a fighting cock and stopped in front of Shayne with his small feet planted widely apart, his hands clasped behind his back. “All right, Shayne,” he snapped. “What do you know about this?”

“Damned little,” Shayne confessed. He looked over the detective chief’s head at the jeweler.

Voorland
wasn’t chewing gum and he looked grave as he met the question in Shayne’s gray eyes. “It’s bad, Mike. First time Mrs. Dustin wore her new bracelet, and it’s gone—like that.” He snapped his fleshy fingers resoundingly.

“A perfectly planned and beautifully executed job,” Painter put in aggressively.
“By someone who knew exactly what he wanted and where it was going to be at a certain time.”

Shayne disregarded him and continued to look over his head at
Voorland
. “I’m surprised that you were able to deliver the bracelet today,” he said. “Not much time for a check to have cleared through a Denver Bank.”

Voorland
nodded in response to the unspoken question in the detective’s voice. “My bank rushed it through by airmail. The full purchase price was paid before the bracelet left my store.”

Shayne shrugged and moved around Painter to ask Dustin, “Mind telling me how it happened?”

“See here,” Painter exploded, following Shayne across the carpeted floor. “You’re here to answer questions, not to ask them. I’d like to know—”

“You’d always like to know lots of things,” Shayne said over his shoulder.
“Looks like they really cracked you up, Dustin.”

The westerner nodded. “I went crazy mad and stuck my neck out a mile. Your boys down here play for keeps.”

“Now look here, Shayne.” Painter moved around in front of him again. “That bracelet was delivered to Mr. Dustin late this evening. No one else knew the value of it or that his wife planned to wear it tonight except you and that girl—”

Shayne put the palm of his hand in Painter’s face and pushed. Painter rocked back on his heels and swung up a furious hand to knock Shayne’s palm aside. “By God, I’ll—”

“You’ll keep your damned yap shut,” Shayne told him with cold anger, “if you expect any help from me.”

“But you certainly can’t deny—”

“I’m not going to waste time denying anything,” Shayne broke in harshly. “How did it happen, Dustin?”

Painter stepped back, bristling with fury, while Mark Dustin gave the detective a brief account of the robbery. “I didn’t see the license number
nor
any of their faces,” he ended helplessly.

“There were three of them, you say.”

“I’m not even certain whether a fourth man stayed in the car behind the wheel or not. But they knew exactly what they wanted. They told Celia to stick her arm out the very first thing.”

“But they did take your money, too,” Shayne pointed out. “That looks as though they were just out for anything they could pick up.”

Dustin picked up a highball in his left hand. “You cops are the ones to figure things out. You know the way your mobs work down here better than I.”

“I’ve been trying to tell Painter,” said
Voorland
, “how unique this particular bracelet is. The sort of jewel mobs who operate in a resort city like Miami necessarily employ finger men who are experts in their line. One glance at those star rubies would have been enough to send them after the bracelet in a hurry.”

“But I still maintain it is preposterous,” said Painter angrily, “to presume that a gang would be waiting right here at the hotel on the mere chance that a finger man would see something of value. Remember, Mrs. Dustin insists she didn’t show the bracelet in public except when she walked across the hotel lobby to the door.”

“That still doesn’t rule out coincidence,” Shayne argued. “Lots of wealthy people wander out of this hotel
every night wearing stuff
worth grabbing. A smart mob might easily be hanging around waiting for just such a tip-off as they got when Mrs. Dustin flashed her new bracelet. Had the insurance on it gone through?” he asked
Voorland
.

“Yes. That is, temporary coverage has been issued pending receipt of the approved policy from New York. Earl Randolph handled it for me, and I’ve phoned him to come over here at once.”

“Mark!” cried Celia. “Do you suppose there’ll be any trouble about the insurance? You haven’t paid the premium or anything, have you?”

“I’ve been waiting for someone to mention that,” said Dustin. “I don’t know what the legal position will be. I understood from Mr.
Voorland
that it was all arranged.”

“Don’t worry about legal quibbling,”
Voorland
said with assurance. “International Indemnity is zealous of its reputation for paying every valid claim promptly. Your temporary coverage is every bit as good as a formal policy, even though you haven’t paid a cent on it. Of course,” he added, “the first premium will be deducted from the full amount when settlement is made.”

“I wouldn’t worry too much about a cash settlement,” said Shayne. “The very uniqueness of the stones in the bracelet makes it a practical certainty that the thieves will be glad to make a deal as soon as they find out what they’ve got.”

“That sounds like prior knowledge, Shayne.” Painter pounced upon his statement. “Could it be you who is planning to make a deal?”

Shayne disregarded him. “Isn’t that right?” he asked the jeweler.

“Exactly,”
Voorland
agreed. “It will be impossible to sell rubies like that as they are. I have photographs and exact measurements by which they can be positively identified.”

“But they could be cut up,” Painter interjected.

“That is exactly what they cannot be,”
Voorland
explained to him. “Star rubies would lose nine-tenths of their value cut up into pieces. Any cutting that destroys the asterism destroys the value of the stone. Shayne is right. They’ll be offered by the thieves—at a price.”

The door buzzer sounded. Celia Dustin went to the door and admitted a portly man with a round, shining face and a broad smile that displayed two gold teeth beneath a neatly trimmed mustache.

He said, “I’m Mr. Randolph. Mrs. Dustin?”

She said, “Yes,” and offered her hand.
Voorland
came across to meet Randolph, his eyes grave and intent.

“This is bad business, Earl,” said the jeweler. “We were just discussing International’s liability if the jewels are not recovered.”

“We’ve done business together for twenty years,” Randolph reminded him. “Has any company I ever represented tried to avoid a valid commitment?”

“Just what I’ve been telling Mr. Dustin. You know Shayne and Chief Painter. And this is your client whom I believe you have not met.”

Randolph nodded
  to
  the others and went over  to Dustin. He said, solemnly, “I didn’t realize you’d been injured.
In the robbery?”

“That’s right,” said Dustin glumly. “If I’d been sure about the insurance I might not have tried to save the bracelet.”

“Mr.
Voorland
has been trying to tell us,” Painter put in, “that the gems in the bracelet are a kind that can’t be cut up and resold readily.”

“Star rubies? Only an idiot would even consider cutting one up,” Randolph confirmed. “How are you in on this, Mike?”

“Offering a reward?” Shayne countered with a slow grin.

“I haven’t had time to think about that phase,” Randolph said slowly, “but I presume—”

“Wait a minute, Randolph.” Painter spoke up swiftly and emphatically. “You know the law about stolen property. There’ll be no deals with thieves while I’m chief of detectives on the Beach.”

Earl Randolph smiled blandly and asked, “Are you intimating that Mike Shayne is a thief? It’s perfectly legal to offer a reward for the return of stolen property, and you know it.”

“But it isn’t legal to offer immunity along with it.”

“Who said anything about offering immunity? If Shayne can recover the stuff, I won’t ask him how he did it,”

“It’s a positive encouragement to lawlessness,” Painter declared angrily. “You know as well as I do how such deals are arranged, and I’m determined to stamp out the practice on the Beach.”

“Just how are such deals arranged?” Shayne asked coldly.

“All the organized mobs have someone set up as a go-between—someone with the protective coloration of legality—
like
a private eye. Through this go-between, a deal is arranged with the insurance company for the return of stolen articles at a price, and no questions asked. I’ve no doubt that you and Randolph
have
arranged many such affairs in the past.” The detective chief whirled and took a sharp turn about the room, came back and stopped before them, adding angrily, “I’m sick of such flaunting of legal authorities here on the Beach and I warn you both I won’t countenance it.”

Shayne exchanged an amused glance with Randolph and said, “Painter has just got through accusing me of arranging the hold-up tonight.”

“You seem very sure you can put your hands on the bracelet as soon as a suitable reward is offered,” snapped Painter.

Shayne laughed indulgently. “That’s because I keep the right sort of company. Some day, Painter, you’re going to shed your diapers and learn that you can’t solve cases by sitting on your
pratt
and drawing a salary from the taxpayers.” He turned his back on the infuriated man and said to Randolph, “I’ll see you tomorrow and talk this over.”

“I promise you, Shayne,” said Painter, “that if those jewels are returned through your efforts I’ll slap you in jail as an accessory both before and after the fact and keep you there till you rot.”

“I don’t understand what all the argument is about,” said Mark Dustin, his forehead knitted. “If an insurance company wants to offer a reward, why isn’t it legal for anyone to collect it who can return the bracelet?”

“Simply because it constitutes collusion with criminals, and that’s a felony,” Painter shouted. “I tell you I suspect Shayne knows where your bracelet is cached this very minute, and he’ll keep possession of it until a large enough reward is offered. You don’t realize it, Mr. Dustin, but this sort of thing has become a regular racket here in Miami and on the Beach. Men like Shayne take advantage of insurance companies faced with a large loss and eager to settle for less than the face value of the policy.”

“If it’s illegal for you to collect a reward from the insurance company,” said Dustin to Shayne, “perhaps the chief won’t object if I hire you to recover my property. Would that be collusion, too?”

“Better ask Painter,” Shayne said with a shrug. “He’s the lad with all the answers.”

“It’s practically the same situation,” Painter snapped. “It amounts to putting a premium on successful thievery. There are duly constituted authorities to enforce the law.”

“It sounds to me,” Dustin told Shayne, “as though it’s practically illegal for you to earn a fee. How does a private dick earn a living in Miami?”

“I get along,” Shayne answered.

The telephone rang and Celia Dustin answered it. She hung up and told her husband. “The ambulance is here to take you to the hospital, dear.”

Dustin finished his highball and winced with pain as he came slowly to his feet. “I wish you’d call me tomorrow, Shayne. I’d like to keep in touch with things.” His back was turned to Painter, and his left eyelid dropped in a wink as he made the suggestion.

Shayne said, “Glad to, Dustin. Good luck with that hand.”

Celia touched her husband’s left
coatsleeve
lightly as they went to the door. The others followed them into the corridor.

Peter Painter edged up to Shayne and said, “I want you to understand that I’m not at all sure you didn’t engineer the hold-up tonight. I intend to check every movement you’ve made and every person you’ve contacted since you witnessed the purchase of that ruby bracelet last Monday. If it turns up in your hands, I’m going to know how it got there.”

Again Shayne ignored him, and said to
Voorland
, “I’ll drop in your store in the morning, Walter, and get all the dope you can give me on the bracelet. I’ve an idea there’s going to be some money in this, somehow, for me.”

BODY WORK A SPECIALTY

MICHAEL SHAYNE DROVE AWAY from the
Sunlux
Hotel slowly, his forehead furrowed with thought. A couple of years had elapsed since he had operated professionally in the Miami area, and a great many changes had taken place.
Changes, particularly, in the organization and identity of the mobs ruling the resort city’s underworld.
Two years ago, he reflected morosely, it would have been a cinch to contact the present holders of the ruby bracelet. There wasn’t any doubt in his mind that it had been a professional job, the sort of thing Ray Huggins might have planned and executed in previous days. A word dropped in any one of half a dozen saloons would soon have reached Huggins, and negotiations for the return of the stolen gems would have begun promptly.

But Ray Huggins had slipped from power eighteen months ago and there had probably been two or three uneasy successors since then, men who might not even know Mike Shayne except by reputation, and who certainly had no way of knowing he was back in business at the old stand.

Shayne’s belly muscles tightened as these vagrant thoughts drifted through his mind. Was he actually back in business in Miami? He hadn’t publicly announced any such intention, for he hadn’t made up his mind yet. But he knew, as he drove meditatively along beneath Miami’s golden
moonglow
that the decision had been made for him tonight—by Peter Painter.

He knew without going into involved thought processes, that he had accepted the challenge of the Miami Beach detective chief. It was Painter’s own fault for dragging him into the case. He had no intention of being told what he could or could not do. The threat of arrest on charges of complicity if he dared arrange a deal for the return of the bracelet would be laughable had it come from anyone except Painter. It was the sort of statement any cop might toss off in front of an aggrieved citizen, but from anyone else it would have been accompanied by a sly wink to take away any sting from the official warning. Everybody in the know fully understood how such matters were arranged. It was, in a sense, a kind of tribute levied by the underworld, and one played along with it whether he liked it or not.

Shayne didn’t like it himself, but he had picked up some nice fees that way in the past, and the insurance companies were glad to pay a moderate reward instead of sustain a huge loss. A case such as this, involving a fortune in gems which could not be fenced to advantage, was perfect for a fix. The important thing was to get oneself into it as a go-between who could be trusted by both parties. The thing now was to figure out a way to contact the jewel thieves in a hurry before someone else got to them with a proposition.

He turned off on one of the side streets before reaching Fifth and drove slowly, sitting erect behind the wheel and watching each side of the quiet street calculatingly.

A few blocks from the ocean he stopped in the middle of the block. The houses on both sides of the street were dark and there were no cars in sight in either direction. A gravel drive led off to the right, through stone gateposts into the landscaped grounds of a moderately large estate.

He was driving a light sedan which he had bought secondhand when he learned that Lucy Hamilton was coming to Miami. It was of pre-war vintage, but he had given it a new black paint job and it glistened now in the moonlight.

Shayne backed up a few feet, put the sedan in second gear and rolled smoothly toward the entrance of the estate, keeping close to the left-hand side of the drive. Directly opposite the stone gatepost, he wrenched the steering-wheel sharply to the left and there was a loud grating crash as the fender was crumpled against solid stone.

The sedan shivered and rocked to a halt. He calmly put it in reverse and backed out onto the macadam, then went forward and around a corner and on southward past Fifth to South Beach. He parked inconspicuously on a dimly lit side street, got out and hurried to the garish boardwalk, the Coney Island of southern Florida.

There, among hotdog stands and shooting-galleries, he hastily entered a hole-in-the-wall barroom and moved swiftly back behind the row of occupied stools, catching the proprietor’s eye as he passed the cash register and jerking his head significantly toward the rear.

The proprietor was a thin, tubercular looking man with pallid cheeks and small eyes sunk far back beneath bulging brows. He nodded his head slightly in response to Shayne’s signal, rang up a sale and made change, then slid off the stool behind the register. He said something to the nearest bartender, and strolled to the rear where Shayne awaited him.

“Haven’t seen you around much,” he began casually. Shayne seized the man’s thin arm and said, “I’m in a jam, Bert.
A hell of a jam.”
He paused to lick his lips and went on hoarsely, “Ran into a guy up the street a few minutes ago. I wasn’t going too fast, but it knocked him ten or fifteen feet.”

“Hurt
bad
?” Bert Haynes pursed his thin lips and looked concerned.

“Hell, I don’t know.
Afraid so.”
Shayne shrugged and went on rapidly, “I didn’t stop to find out. You know the way I stand with Painter here on the Beach.”

Bert nodded. “I know he’d like to hang something on you, all right.”

“My crate’s parked up the street.
Busted fender and headlight.
If they pick me up my garage will tell ’
em
it was all right when I took it out tonight.”

“Tough,” Bert murmured with commiseration.

Shayne’s big hand tightened on his arm. “I’ve been out of circulation a long time, Bert. There must be some place where I can get a fast job done on that fender without any questions.”

Bert Haynes blinked both eyes and tightened his bloodless lips against his teeth. “Try Mickey’s Garage. Down
near
the end of the beach and over a block.” He gave Shayne explicit directions. “I hear around that they know how to keep a buttoned lip on the sort of work they do.”

“Hot stuff?”

“I wouldn’t know. Wait a minute.” He caught Shayne’s sleeve as the redhead started away. “You’re not working?” he asked anxiously. “You wouldn’t work me for a tip with a
phoney
come-on?”

Shayne laughed shortly. “Have I ever pulled a fast one like that?”

“No. You
ain’t
for a fact,” he agreed.

“But I am working again,” Shayne said quietly. “You can pass that along to anyone who might be interested.” He hurried out of the small barroom and back to his damaged car, got in and drove around to a neon sign that read:
Mickey’s Garage.
Gen’l
Repairs, Body Work a Specialty.

The wide wooden door leading into the garage was closed. Shayne turned off the street and stopped with his front wheels on the sidewalk. He got out and found a button on one side of the door with a metal plate above it that read:
Night Bell.

He put his finger on the button and held it down until the door slid open enough to let a man come through. He wore grimy coveralls and a greasy mechanic’s cap. He scowled inquiringly at the man who had disturbed him, blinked in the glare of the single headlight of Shayne’s car and said, “
Yeh
?
Whadya
want?”

“Had an accident.”
Shayne gestured toward his car. “I need a fast job before the cops pick me up.”

“I
dunno
.” The mechanic came through the aperture and went to study the damage to the fender and head light. He shook his head and said, “Rush jobs come high.”

“I don’t give a damn about the cost.” Shayne had his wallet out and began pulling out twenty-dollar bills.
“How much to fix me up with a new fender and headlight?”

“Trouble is
,
we’re busy.” He furtively considered the bills fanned out in Shayne’s hand. “Anybody hurt
bad
?”

“I’m not paying for a lot of questions,” Shayne countered. He added another twenty to the four in his hand, then, more slowly, another. He closed the wallet and returned it to his pocket. “It won’t be hard to match this new paint job of mine.” He smoothed the six bills together, folded them lengthwise, and slapped them against his palm.

The mechanic nodded and reached for the money. “Drive on in. I’ll get on yours just as soon as I finish the job I’m on.” He stepped back and slid the door all the way open.

Shayne drove inside a big room with half a dozen cars parked around the wall in various stages of dismantlement. He waited just inside while the mechanic closed the door and said, “This doesn’t look too good. If the cops come around—”

The mechanic stepped on the running-board beside him and grinned widely, showing a gap in his front upper teeth. “Never
you mind
about the law, buddy. Drive straight ahead and turn in between them white lines on the floor.”

As Shayne drove in he neared a solid ten-foot panel that rose slowly to admit passage onto a rickety freight elevator.

The mechanic chuckled at the detective’s surprise when the panel closed soundlessly behind them when the sedan was on the elevator. He stepped from the running-board and pressed a button and the elevator descended slowly to the floor below, which was brightly lighted and resounded with the thumping sounds of a wooden mallet on sheet metal.

“Pull it off over here,” he directed Shayne. “We’ll get to you just as soon as we finish up this other one.”

Shayne drove off the elevator onto a clear space in the underground workroom and cut the ignition. The mechanic strolled over to say a few words to his fellow workman, who was pounding out dents in the right front fender that had been removed from a black limousine.

After lighting a cigarette, Shayne got out and strolled over to the workman to ask casually, “How much longer will you be on that job?”

“Quarter of an hour, maybe.
All you got to do is sit tight and you can drive that hack of yours out of here fixed so nobody in God’s
world’ll
ever know you been in an accident.”

Shayne said, “Fair enough.” He walked around the limousine, looking at it with casual disinterest, memorized the number of the Dade County license plate, then returned to the mechanics and said enthusiastically, “That’s the kind of crate I’d like to own. I suppose a guy would have to be a millionaire to get one like it these days.”

One of them grunted some noncommittal reply, and they both went on with their work.

“I always wondered,” Shayne went on, “how it felt to sit behind the wheel of a buggy like that.”

Neither of the men said anything, but went on with their hammering as though their lives depended upon getting the job finished within a few minutes.

Shayne shrugged and dropped his cigarette to the concrete floor and ground it out with his shoe. He yawned and strolled back to the limousine and leaned inside the front window to study the rich upholstery and the gleaming dashboard.

Glancing at the mechanics, he saw that neither of them was paying any attention to him. The windshield of the big car appeared to be faintly opaque, and Shayne felt the window glass between his thumb and forefinger. It seemed extra thick, and he had a hunch it was intended to be bulletproof.

He unlatched the door and slid onto the soft cushion behind the wheel, switched on the
dashlight
and pretended interest in the speedometer and various other gadgets.

There was a single key in the ignition lock, and Shayne pressed a button on the glove compartment to search for some clue as to the car’s owner. It came open easily, and he was groping inside the small opening when two men appeared on a wooden stairway leading down from a room upstairs.

The men came slowly toward the limousine, halted, and glared at him. They were both neatly dressed in dark suits, and the slimmer one was quite young. He had thick lips and his eyes
bulged
a trifle, giving his face an expression of boyish astonishment. His companion was heavier and some twenty years older. He had a thick black mustache and looked like newspaper photographs of Molotov.

He said, “What the hell you doing in there?” and put his right hand inside his coat pocket.

Shayne straightened up and withdrew his hand from the glove compartment. “Sorry,” he said nervously. “Wasn’t anybody around and I didn’t think it’d hurt any to sit here a minute and pretend I was a big shot like the guy that owns this heap.”

The bulky man stopped beside the car and opened the right door with his left hand. He said, “Get out.” He reached inside and slammed the glove compartment shut. “So you didn’t think it’d hurt any if you snooped, huh?”

Shayne slid out from behind the wheel and closed the door on his side. The younger man came around the front of the car and looked at him intently. He said excitedly to his companion, “Listen, Blackie.
Ain’t
this the dick that had his pitcher in the paper last week?”

Shayne started to turn away, but Blackie caught him by the arm and peered suspiciously at his face. “By God,” he snarled, “you’re right, kid. It’s Mike Shayne.
That tough shamus from across the bay.
I heard he was back in town
lookin
’ for trouble.” His right hand was in his coat pocket. He let go of Shayne’s arm and took a backward step. “Shake ’
im
down, kid.”

Shayne lifted his arms to let the kid shake him down. He said mildly, “I don’t care what you do just so you don’t tell the cops I’m in here getting a busted fender fixed.”

The kid felt over him carefully and said, “
It’s
okay, Blackie. Do you think—?”

“I think he’s too damned curious,” Blackie said angrily.

“You can see for yourself.” Shayne nodded toward his sedan. “I can’t go out on the street till that’s fixed.”

“Had an accident?”

“Little bust-up on Collins Avenue. You know I don’t stand in with the Beach police, and I’d just as leave not have Painter ask me any questions about that fender and headlight.”

Blackie’s eyes were narrowed and suspicious. “I’ll just check on that, shamus. Watch him, kid.” He turned aside to a pay telephone against the wall, put in a nickel, and called police headquarters.