Blood on the Stars

Chapter Seventeen

“I’ve no idea what you are talking about,” said Voorland coolly.

“Your visit to the Rajah’s suite at the Waldorf Hotel last night.”

“What makes you think I did that?”

“He telephoned you from the hotel and you went right out to see him, using the name of Smith. What did he want?”

“Really, Shayne, this prying into my private affairs-is that quite ethical?”

“Anything is ethical in a murder case.”

“Murder? You don’t mean-Mr. Dustin’s injuries didn’t appear serious last evening.” Voorland began slowly chewing his gum again.

“It was Mrs. Dustin who got it,” Shayne told him. “Haven’t you seen the morning paper?”

“No. This is shocking news. Is there any connection with the bracelet?”

“Definitely. I’m the only one who knows about your midnight visit to the Rajah. You can tell me about it if you like. Otherwise you can tell the police.”

“Really, Shayne, I’m afraid I don’t see why my visit to the Rajah has any connection with Mrs. Dustin’s murder.”

“Perhaps it doesn’t. On the other hand, there may be a very definite connection.”

“What gives you that idea? Am I under surveillance? Is the Rajah?”

“Not exactly. I’ve been digging into a lot of angles.”

“I demand that you tell me why you feel the Rajah is involved,” said Voorland sternly.

“I’ll lay it on the line,” Shayne agreed. “The Rajah of Hindupoor is just the sort of unscrupulous collector you mentioned as being the probable recipient of the King and Kendrick rubies. In fact, his reputation as a gem miser is such that you refused to even let him look at the ruby bracelet in your shop a couple of weeks ago.”

“That’s quite true. You do have a way of picking up odd bits of information,” Voorland said with reluctant admiration tingeing his voice. “He is the sort of private collector whom I detest with all my soul. Once let him get his grasping hands on a fine gem and it disappears into his vaults and is never seen again. Precious stones were made to bring happiness and pleasure to people. They deserve to be displayed and admired.”

“Yet you hurried out to see him last night as soon as he telephoned you.”

Voorland hesitated, munching slowly and quietly on his gum. “I had a very good reason.”

“What reason?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“Would you rather tell the police?” Shayne asked harshly.

Voorland lifted his hands from his knees in a gesture of helplessness. “I assure you our conversation was confidential and had nothing whatever to do with Mrs. Dustin’s death.”

“But it did have something to do with the ruby bracelet?”

Voorland’s large mouth tightened obstinately. “I can’t tell you what we discussed.”

Shayne said, “I can have you both arrested and locked up until you decide to talk.”

Beads of perspiration stood out on Voorland’s face. His eyes and tone were cold when he said, “That’s absurd. You can’t possibly suspect either of us of complicity in murder.”

Shayne sighed. “I make a point of suspecting everyone and everything. I see it this way: I believe the gang had a buyer for the bracelet when they snatched it-and the Rajah is a logical candidate. At ten o’clock last night they had no intention of dickering with the insurance company for a reward. Something happened during the next few hours that caused them to change their minds. Why did they decide not to deal with the Rajah? Did you get to them first, Walter? And did the Rajah find it out? Is that why he sent for you suddenly?”

“Is the insurance company offering a reward?” countered the jeweler.

“I don’t know.” Shayne brushed the question aside. “The way things are shaping up now, I don’t believe we’ll have to pay a reward. I think I can put my hands on the bracelet right now without paying anybody off.”

“That’s wonderful,” Voorland said. “How did you manage it so quickly?”

“I’m asking the questions,” Shayne told him angrily. “This is your last chance to tell me what the Rajah wanted. Without that information I’m going to bull this thing through on a hunch-and God help anyone who stands in my way.”

“Give me time to think this over, Mike,” begged Voorland. “If I decide that any information I have has the slightest bearing on Mrs. Dustin’s death, I give you my word of honor I won’t withhold it. In order to decide that, you must explain how she died.”

Shayne studied the jeweler’s face for a full sixty seconds. The man was badly shaken and he was frightened, but Shayne believed he was telling the truth. He didn’t believe Voorland had realized that murder was involved until he, himself, had informed him. Despite his fanatical desire to recover the bracelet, Shayne decided that Voorland would draw the line at protecting a murderer.

He nodded and gave a brief account of the manner in which Celia Dustin had met her death. Voorland listened attentively, and when Shayne finished, he got up to stride across the room and back.

“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.