Blood on the Stars

Chapter Twenty-One

At one-thirty that afternoon, Michael Shayne and Timothy Rourke were in Rourke’s office in the News Tower. For the last half-hour they had been going over the telegraphic and telephoned reports from three operatives of the Worldwide Detective Agency in New York, Ohio, and Colorado.

Shayne shoved the mass of data aside and scowled angrily across the desk at the reporter. “It all adds up to nothing,” he growled. “Not a lead worth a damn on any of the three. I can’t get over King and Kendrick completely vanishing from sight almost immediately after collecting their insurance money. No trace of their bodies, even. And it doesn’t appear that anyone made any effort to trace them.”

“That’s not too extraordinary,” Rourke pointed out. “Take James T. King. He broke all his home ties with friends and relatives after inheriting that unexpected wad of dough. He simply shook the dust of Ohio off his feet and started out to have himself a hell of a time. He and his wife went high-hat and deliberately cut themselves off from their old life. They could be right here in Miami today and we wouldn’t know it.”

“All right for Mr. and Mrs. King,” Shayne agreed. “Roland Kendrick wasn’t a poor man suddenly made rich. All these reports from New York indicate that he had plenty of jack and was used to spending it. Men like that don’t deliberately cut themselves off from everything just because they collect on an insurance policy. Neither one of them made any profit on the ruby deals.”

“There are some explanatory angles in the Kendrick case, too,” Rourke insisted. “Don’t forget that Mrs. Kendrick was murdered in the hold-up. And all those people contacted in New York and Westchester County appear to have been more casual acquaintances than real friends. None of them knew the Kendricks more than two years. If we could find out where they came from, what their past history was, I imagine we could put our hands on Kendrick without any difficulty.”

“If,” Shayne echoed morosely. “They seem to have popped up suddenly as though they’d both crawled, full-grown, from under a flat rock.”

“When people have as much money to spend as they did, no one bothers much about their antecedents,” Rourke observed sagely. “Like the Dustins.”

“I was thinking about those reports from Denver,” Shayne said. “If he were to disappear today, we’d be up the same tree we are in trying to trace Kendrick. None of their friends in Denver seem to know much about their past, either. Why? It’s one more odd coincidence that doesn’t hook up.”

“Not so odd about a mining operator like Dustin,” Rourke soothed him. “They move around a lot. Foreign countries and all that.”

Shayne shuffled the papers on Rourke’s desk and glared at them. “It’s almost as if both Kendrick and Dustin were intentionally hiding their pasts. That could be more than mere coincidence.”

“Still, I don’t see what it gets us. Mark Dustin hasn’t disappeared yet, and King, who did disappear, certainly led a blameless life until his lucky break in inheriting money.”

“If we can trace the California lawyer who handled the estate of his uncle, we might get a line on King,” Shayne grumbled. He looked at his watch. “It’s time Mathews called in from Los Angeles.”

The telephone rang as he finished speaking. Shayne said, when the operator reported, “Put him on,” and nodded to Rourke. He settled back in his chair. “Mike Shayne at this end, Mathews. Had any luck tracing King’s attorney or the uncle who died?”

A frown gathered between his rugged red brows as he listened to the West Coast operative give his report. After a time, he said curtly, “Keep on trying there. I’ll make one more attempt to pick up something at the other end and call you back if I get a lead.”

He hung up and said to Rourke, “Mathews isn’t having any luck at all. Nothing in the nineteen forty-three newspapers and nothing in the Los Angeles court records.”

“We’re not sure it was Los Angeles,” Rourke reminded him. “That was just the impression of some of his Massillon friends, and you know how people are. Mention California and they immediately think of Los Angeles. It ain’t necessarily so.”

Shayne nodded weary acquiescence. He lifted the phone, got long distance, and asked for a number in Massillon, Ohio. When he was connected, he said, “Mike Shayne in Miami again, Perkins. This is the last time I’ll come back at you, but we’re still unable to trace that California inheritance of King’s. I wonder if-”

He stopped talking, and as he listened, his expression slowly relaxed. “Good!” he exclaimed after a time. “Good work. I certainly would like to speak to him personally.” He waited, covering the mouthpiece with his hand and told Rourke, “This is our first real break. Perkins has dug up a next-door neighbor who met the lawyer and heard him discussing the estate with King in forty-three.”

Shayne jerked his hand from the mouthpiece. “Hello. Mr. Klinger? I see. Hank Klinger. I guess you know what we want, Klinger. That’s right. You think his name was either Norwood or Northcott. The lawyer? Right. The name of the uncle? I see. But you’re fairly positive it was Los Angeles. Not San Francisco or Sacramento or San Diego. That’s something. What sort of a man was the lawyer? Could you describe him-I mean how did he impress you at the time? A shyster or-?”

Shayne’s voice fell. “I understand, Mr. Klinger. I think you may have been a great help and I certainly appreciate your co-operation.” He hung up and was moodily silent for a time.

Rourke said, “For God’s sake, Mike,” impatiently.

Shayne shook his head. “He’s not positive of very much except to swear it was Los Angeles. He remembers the Kings getting ready for the trip out there to claim the estate. The attorney advanced them cash to make the trip-and he and his wife distinctly remember Mrs. King being excited about seeing Hollywood and all the movie stars.

“The lawyer, Norwood or Northcott or something like that, made quite an impression on Klinger. He remembers him well. Nothing of the shyster about him. A big, quiet, conservative man. The kind to inspire confidence. German extraction, perhaps. Spoke with a trace of an accent, but says he spoke impeccable English.”

“Are you going to call Mathews again?” asked Rourke eagerly, “and have him start checking every law office in Los Angeles with that description.”

Shayne shook his head. “I think I’d better call Mathews and tell him not to waste any more time or money out there.” He looked at his watch again, pushed back his chair and got up decisively. “And call the rest of them off, too. I’m becoming more and more convinced the answer to this thing lies right here in Miami and not in New York, Ohio, or California.”

“Where you going?” Rourke demanded.

“I’ve got a date with a couple of guys who may put me on the right track.”

Shayne got as far as the door before turning back to say, “Why don’t you and Voorland meet me in Dustin’s suite at the Sunlux at three o’clock. Invite Peter Painter to come, too. That’ll make quite a quorum to wind this thing up-if I’m lucky.”

“What about Randolph?” Rourke protested. “I’ve had a feeling all along-”

“Don’t worry about Earl Randolph,” Shayne told him grimly. “He’ll be there with me for the kill.”

He went down to his car and drove hurriedly to his hotel. It was just two o’clock when he went down the corridor to his apartment. Randolph was waiting outside the door, and greeted him nervously. “You said you’d be here at two o’clock to meet me,” Randolph complained. “That nurse wouldn’t let me in.”

“It’s exactly two o’clock,” said Shayne cheerfully, holding out his watch. He unlocked the door and went in humming to himself.

Miss Naylor stood just inside the door with the gun in her hand. She said, “Oh, it’s you, Mr. Shayne.” There were dark circles around her eyes, but her eyes were bright with interest and excitement.

“I thought you were to be relieved at noon,” said Shayne.

“The nurse Dr. Price found-the only one available-was too young,” she explained crisply. “I was afraid she wouldn’t know how to use a gun.” She smiled and added, “Besides, I heard you say you’d be back at two.” Then she chuckled. “A nurse doesn’t often have the chance to get in on-well, this detecting business.”

Shayne grinned and asked, “How’s our patient?”

“Sound asleep. Coming along fine.” Miss Naylor looked from Shayne to Randolph, hesitated, then went back to the bedroom.

Shayne noticed that the door was left open a crack. He went over and closed it quietly and firmly. He said to Randolph, “All set?”

The insurance man nodded. He took a bulky envelope from his coat pocket and said, “Fifteen hundred twenties in here.” From his inside coat pocket he drew a thinner envelope. “And sixteen bills in here, just as you wanted it.”

Shayne took the two envelopes. “Wait for me down in the lobby while I make some final arrangements.” When Randolph hesitated, he said, “The less you know about this telephone call the better off you’ll be if Painter puts you on the witness stand.”

Randolph nodded mutely. His distended eyes were murky and weary, and his shoulders slumped as he turned and went out the door.

Shayne opened the thick envelope and counted the twenty-dollar bills swiftly and carefully. He then opened the drawer of the table in the center of the room, took out a thick sheaf of pieces of paper cut the same size as the bills. He placed the sheaf of papers and the stack of bills side by side, pressed them down to more accurately gauge their depth, then lifted off enough of the paper to make it the same thickness as the bills. He placed the paper in the envelope Randolph had given him.

He then opened the other envelope and took out sixteen crisp thousand-dollar bills. Six of them went on top of the thirty thousand in twenties on the table, the other ten he returned to the original envelope, and put them in his inside coat pocket. He stuffed the thirty-six thousand dollars of reward money carelessly in the drawer, closed it, and went out with Randolph’s envelope in his hand.

Randolph was waiting for him in the lobby. Shayne nodded and said, “Everything is fixed. We’re due on the other side of the bay in fifteen minutes.”

They went out to his car and he drove swiftly across the bay, turned sharply south at the end of the Causeway, following a winding street along the bay front for several blocks, thence left half a block, where he pulled up to the curb and cut off the ignition.

“End of the line,” he told Randolph, thrusting the bulky envelope of paper clippings down behind the seat cushion so that only one corner of it protruded.

As Randolph got out, he said doubtfully, “I’m always afraid one of these things will misfire. That’s a lot of money to leave in an unlocked car.”

Shayne shrugged, leading the way back toward the bay front and a small bar on the corner. “Honor among thieves,” he reminded Randolph ironically. “We’ve got to trust them to leave the bracelet in place of the envelope if we hope to get it back at all.” He looked at his watch as they entered the bar. It was exactly 2:28. They sat in a booth against the wall and Shayne ordered a double cognac while Randolph contented himself with a beer.

“My throat feels as though it had been dried out with an electric wire,” he explained. “The cold beer might relieve it.”

They sat in the booth for twenty-two minutes, making desultory conversation and sipping their drinks. There were a few fishermen at the bar, a scattering of tourists, and occasionally a clerk or workman from the neighborhood would slip in for a quick snort and then dart out again.

At 2:50, Shayne gulped down the last of his brandy and said, “Let’s go.”

Randolph paid the bill and they went out. Shayne’s car was just where he had left it.

They reached the car together, and Randolph jerked the door open. The envelope lay on the front seat and clippings were scattered all over the seat and the floorboard. He stared at them disbelievingly, picked up a couple and let them flutter away in the breeze. “I don’t understand this, Shayne,” he exclaimed nervously. “These slips of paper! Cut to look like bills. The bracelet isn’t here! Did you try to pull a fast one by substituting this damned paper-”

Shayne shoved Randolph aside and stuck his red head in the door. “Wait a minute,” he said roughly. “That’s what they want you to think. It looks as though they had a bundle of this stuff made up, brought it along, and left it lying here to give you the idea I’d done it. An excuse for not returning the bracelet.”

“Goddamn it to hell, Shayne!” There were tears of rage and of disappointment in Randolph’s bulging and murky eyes. “I trusted you to arrange this. I gave my personal word of honor to the main office that this wasn’t a gyp game and that we’d get the bracelet back.”

“Stop your yapping.” Shayne moved back and said, “Get in,” and went around to get under the steering-wheel. He slammed the door, started the motor, and roared away eastward.

Randolph slumped beside him, flaccid, unnerved and inert. All life seemed to have flowed out of his body.