Blood on the Stars

Chapter Sixteen

“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 180 °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.

Turning back toward the bedroom door, he was met by Miss Naylor who came out and closed the door gently but firmly. “Miss Hamilton has gone to sleep again. Rest and quiet is all she needs now.”

“Will you be able to stay here with her?”

“Dr. Price will be looking in soon. If he can’t get a relief nurse, I can rest here on the couch with the door open so I’ll hear her if she calls. Get along with your detecting if that’s what you want to do,” she ended with a bright smile.

“Do you know how to shoot a revolver?” Shayne asked.

Miss Naylor went over to the table and picked up the heavy weapon, released the cylinder and swung it out, revealing six cartridges. She snapped the cylinder back and lifted it with one hand. “Nice balance,” she said. “Most of these double-actions don’t carry enough weight in the muzzle.”

“Amazing,” said Shayne. “Do all trained nurses like to play gin rummy and know the fine points of firearms?”

“Probably not. I was an army nurse.”

“You’re marvelous,” said Shayne fervently. “I don’t know why I bothered to ask for a police guard last night.”

Miss Naylor chuckled. “I won a few bucks from him,” she reminded Shayne, her eyes twinkling.

“I’ll leave you on guard this time. Don’t let anyone in except the doctor or me. No one,” he went on with emphasis. “Whoever attacked Miss Hamilton last night must realize she is alive and capable of identifying him. He may come back.”

Outside the hotel, he got in his car and drove across the Venetian Causeway to Miami Beach. Walter Voorland lived in a large apartment near the bay and a little south of the Causeway. He was a bachelor, and had maintained the apartment for years, and Shayne had visited him on occasion in the past.

Voorland’s colored man met him at the door when he rang the bell. If he was surprised to see the detective at this early hour his face didn’t show it. He said, “Come right in, Mistuh Shayne. Mistuh Voorland is taking a shower right now.”

He led the detective into a big square living-room where two good paintings were hung on the wall and a few carefully selected objets d’art were tastefully displayed. The furnishings were masculine and luxurious. Shayne went across to long French doors leading out onto an iron-railed balcony and stood there thoughtfully smoking a cigarette while the Negro went to inform the jeweler that he had an early visitor.

He smoked two cigarettes before Voorland showed up in a gray bathrobe and sandals, his ruddy face shining with good health and the effects of a cold shower.

“Shayne!” he exclaimed. “I suppose it’s something about the bracelet. Have you recovered it?”

“Not quite.” Shayne walked over to a table and crushed out the cigarette. “Sorry to bother you so early, but I need a little dope.”

“Not at all. Glad to help any way at all. What sort of information do you want?”

“Two or three things,” said Shayne. “First, do you remember the stones you sold to a couple of men named King and Kendrick? A few years ago.”

“Certainly. Here, have a seat.” He indicated two chairs companionably close together and sat down. Shayne sat down and stretched his long legs out. “Two of the finest star rubies that have ever passed through my hands,” Voorland resumed. “King purchased a ring and Kendrick a pendant. Truly remarkable stones.”

“Do you know that both of those were stolen shortly after you sold them-and never recovered?”

“I believe you’re right. Yes, I do recall that. You begin to interest me.”

“Is there the slightest possibility that either of those stones were fakes?”

“Not the slightest.” Voorland seemed neither surprised nor angry, merely certain of his judgment.

“I’d like to know how you can be so sure,” Shayne persisted. “I recall hearing you tell Mr. and Mrs. Dustin that synthetic stones will stand practically every chemical test.”

“Practically every test,” Voorland agreed. “But there are certain tests no synthetic stone can meet.”

“But suppose those tests weren’t applied,” Shayne argued. “Suppose, for instance, you bought a stone from a reputable dealer. You’d take his word for its being genuine. Suppose he, in turn, had taken another man’s word for the stone-and so on down the line-with no one bothering to make those tests.”

Voorland smiled whimsically. “As a matter of fact, exactly that thing has happened. It is a well-known yarn in the trade. An Amsterdam dealer bought a large ruby from an exiled Russian Grand Duchess whom he knew personally. It was consigned to a firm in Paris, who in turn passed it on to a London expert, and he sold it to an American retailer. All honest men. Yet, the ruby was synthetic. Each expert along the line had trusted the other to have applied the necessary tests.”

Shayne spread out his hands. “There you are. How can you be so sure-?”

“That a star ruby must be genuine? Because they cannot be manufactured, Mike. The synthetic process makes such a thing an impossibility.”

“Explain that to me. Just what is the process?”

Walter Voorland fished in the pocket of his robe for a stick of gum. He peeled the paper off and thrust the gum in his mouth, made a few smacking sounds, then placed both hands precisely on his knees.

“The present successful process is known as the Verneuil Process and was perfected by Professor Verneuil in nineteen hundred and two. He had been working on it with others for many years. Ebelman, Fremy and Feil, Eisner and Debray. The making of artificial rubies attracted more scientists than other gems because rubies have the peculiar property of losing color under great heat, only to regain it when they cool. Other gems do not regain their natural color after excessive heat.

“The first successful method was to take small, inferior Burma gems and grind them into a fine powder. By subjecting this powder to terrific heat and pressure, the powdered stones were fused into one large one. Actually, a real ruby. With every chemical property still intact. Nothing added and nothing taken away.” Voorland paused and chewed his gum while Shayne waited for him to continue.

“A ruby is actually nothing more than crystallized corundum. Alumina, basically, with a small amount of chromium oxide to give it the characteristic color. So Verneuil went back to nature and used powdered alumina itself, adding enough chromium oxide to produce the exact color desired. These are fused at intense heat in a complicated furnace apparatus and a mass is formed which is called a boule or birne.

“I could go on like this for hours,” the expert said with a slight show of impatience, “but I’m sure you get the important point. It is simply a physical impossibility to produce synthetically a stone which has the natural faults we call asterism. The star ruby. This may surprise you, but a star ruby is actually a faulty stone. Crystallization under natural conditions has not been perfect. The conditions producing asterism simply cannot be reproduced in the laboratory.”

Shayne drew his legs up and crossed one knobby knee over the other. “I’m convinced,” he said. “It was a nebulous theory at best. Just happened to fit one set of facts. What I’d like to know is this: How do you account for the fact that neither the King ring nor the Kendrick pendant were ever recovered by the insurance companies-and have never turned up in any of the gem markets of the world?”

“There’s only one logical answer. They somehow made their way into the hands of private collectors who knew they were stolen and glory in possession of them. The worship of precious gems is a curious thing, Mike, and sometimes an unhealthy one. Many of the best known stones in history have disappeared from human sight for hundreds of years, only to reappear again centuries later with no record having been kept of their peregrinations. Collecting gems becomes a mania with some men. Possessing them utterly. Destroying their moral senses and all responsibility toward society.”

“Men like the Rajah of Hindupoor?” Shayne suggested.

Walter Voorland’s big jaws suddenly ceased their regular masticatory process. A mask seemed to drop into position over his big features.

“What about the Rajah of Hindupoor?”

“I’d like to know what you and he talked about at midnight,” Shayne said quietly.