Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 75, No. 4, April 15, 1933

The Deadly Orchid by T. T. Flynn

Detective Harris Sighed Dreamily as Gloria Whitney Pressed Her Delicate Body Close to Him — But He Had Been Warned She Was as Dangerous as a Cobra

Thompson, eastern manager of the Blaine Agency, said to me in the hotel room in Jacksonville, “Do dames fall for towheads like you, Mike?”

“Dames fall for anyone with a good line,” I said, and waited. Six years’ sleuthing with the Blaine agency had taught me that a fellow never knew what was coming next.

“You’ll need a good line,” Thompson grinned, fishing an old cigar stub out of his vest pocket. “There’s a dame in Palm Beach who’s responsible for the deaths of two men that we know of. And she’s about ready to put a third scalp in her belt. I want you to meet her.”

“Says you,” I told him. “Figuring me for the third corpse, I suppose?”

“You never can tell.” Thompson scraped a match under the edge of his chair and sucked on the cigar, rolling an eye at me as sober as a deacon.

“Who is this female execution squad — and where do I come in?” I asked him.

“She was baptized Gloria Whitney and has a string of aliases. Her nickname is the Orchid. Her specialty is blackmail. When she hooks a man he may as well pay up, take it on the front page, or write his own ticket. They fished one of her boy friends out of the river below New Orleans, and found another in his Park Avenue apartment with a bullet through his head. Not a bit of proof to connect the Orchid with either, of course. But there’s no law against guessing.”

“They should call her Aconite, the poison flower,” I wisecracked. “And what do I do with this hothouse assassin?”

Thompson rolled the cigar to the corner of his mouth and grinned at me. “I’m counting on that well known sex appeal of yours I’ve been hearing about from Trixie Meehan.”

I damned Trixie Meehan for spreading those yarns. She panned me every chance she got.

Thompson grinned again, and then became serious.

“The Orchid is one of the smoothest crooks in the country, Mike. She makes big money and makes it easy. As near as we can find out, she’s got a partner or so who don’t show often. She’s been in Palm Beach for a month, and made a killing — all but the collecting.”

“Or the suicide,” I suggested.

“Exactly!” Thompson snapped. “I talked to the poor devil this morning. It won’t take much to make him reach for a gun. He’s Waldo Maxwell of the State Trust.”

“Not the Waldo Maxwell?”

“None other,” Thompson assured me. “No fool like an old widower, and he took it hook, line and sinker, and put it on paper. He won’t stand a chance in court. And it will cost him a cool quarter of a million to buy back the evidence.”

“Holy catfish!” I gasped. “What a haul! Why doesn’t he take the publicity and save the dough?”

“Be yourself!” Thompson said. “He’d be the laughing stock of the country. Men who formerly trusted his judgment would think him doddering and senile. No telling what it would do to his financial strength. Not to speak of winding up a distinguished career as the country’s prize clown. He’ll pay if we can’t settle it some other way.”

Thompson was right. Waldo Maxwell had been a national figure for forty years. His bank was a Gibraltar of finance; he was the ultimate in conservative respectability. He’d be finished, out, if the scandal sheets got a thing like this.

“Maxwell retained the Blaine Agency,” Thompson continued. “The sky is the limit on expense. And we’re giving it to you. The Orchid is at the Palm Beach Palo Verde, registered as Miss Gloria Dean and maid. We don’t know anything about the maid. It’s a cinch she’s crooked too. Got any ideas?”

“Plenty,” I said, thinking fast. “First, make good on that expense account. And I’ll want a good looking woman with brains. Got one this side of New York?”

“Trixie Meehan is due here in the morning from Chicago. She’ll work with you.”

I groaned, knowing Trixie.

Next morning I bought luggage, evening clothes, dress shirts, shoes, hats, all the clutter an oil millionaire from west Texas would be likely to have.

Trixie Meehan blew in, had a conference with Thompson before he left town, did some whirlwind shopping herself. We made the train together with enough luggage to do a theatrical troupe.

An hour before dinner that evening we rolled into Palm Beach in two taxis, one packed with luggage. The Palo Verde was four stories high, with sprawling wings, acres of velvet lawns and a golf course; shrubbery, flower beds, palms, and the blue surf of the open Atlantic creaming in on the white sand beach before it. We wheeled up a wide shell driveway and stopped before a long marquee. Four uniformed bellboys ran out to meet us.

Trixie kicked me on the ankle.

“Out, ape!” she hissed under her breath. “Husbands always help the little woman tenderly.”

“There you go!” I snarled. “Trying to start something right off the bat!”

“Yes, darling,” cooed Trixie for the driver’s benefit as I helped her out to the sidewalk.

Trixie Meehan was a little frail slip of a thing with forget-me-not eyes, a knock ’em dead face, and a clinging vine manner that covered concentrated hell. She had a razor tongue, muscles like steel springs, a brain that made me dizzy at times, and absolutely no fear. And here she was cuddling close and cooing up into my face while the taxi driver eyed me like a sap.

I paid him and left the baggage for the bellhops.

“Lay off that googoo talk when you don’t have to use it,” I growled as we went into the lobby. “You get my goat.”

Trixie grabbed my arm and snuggled close. “You big strong he-man!” she sighed.

I couldn’t shove her there in the lobby, so I took it out on the clerk. “A suite. Two bedrooms. Best you have. Ocean exposure, on the third floor, if possible.”

“A quiet suite, dear,” Trixie trilled.

“A quiet suite!” I snapped to the clerk.

“I think we have one that will be entirely satisfactory,” he beamed at me. “And I can give it to you for only eighty dollars a day, since this is late in the season.”

“Eighty a what?” I gagged.

“Eighty dollars a day,” the clerk repeated firmly, and managed to chill me with one eye while he eyed our mountainous luggage, just coming in, with the other.

Trixie pinched my arm, and smiled brightly. “Eighty dollars a day is quite satisfactory, darling,” she cooed. “Can’t you remember that we have oil wells now?”

The clerk caught it. His face cleared instantly. He handed me a registry card and a fountain pen. I registered Mr. and Mrs. Blaine, San Antonio, Texas.

We looked like wealthy young globe trotters, for our old luggage was plastered with labels from everywhere. Undercover work for the Blaine Agency means travel. When the bellhops got their toll and left us alone in the suite, I went to the connecting door of the bedrooms and moved the key to my side.

“Verboten,” I grunted at Trixie. “None of your blasted tricks now. I want some peace on this case.”

Trixie threw her hat on the bed and made a face at me. “Be yourself, ape. Nobody’s pursuing you. What has your massive brain planned for this evening?”

“The Orchid and her maid have three rooms at the end of the hall,” I snapped. “I meet her, I make her, and then we take her.”

“Just as easy as that,” Trixie marveled. “Well, here’s hoping. But don’t forget we’re married, darling, and I get some of this Palm Beach whoopee.”

“Nix,” I grinned. “That’s for me and the Orchid. You’re the neglected wife who mopes in her room.”

“You’ll have whiskers to your ankles when I do that,” Trixie said through her teeth.

The idle rich! The wisecracker who said that never had more than a week’s pay on hand in his life. Golf, tennis, swimming, riding, dancing — and bridge thrown in whenever Trixie could scare up a game. Three days of that to put us in the public eye and get our lines out.

The unlimited expense account made it possible; oil millionaires from Texas, hicks from the sticks, lathery with money. Trixie shopped at those exclusive little Fifth Avenue branch shops. They came to the hotel collect, and we had war the first night.

“Whose little gold digger are you?” I yelped. “Look at these bills I settled today! I knew you were a tough case, but I didn’t know you had mucilage fingers. Any dumbwit you drag to the altar will be going for a cleaning instead of a honeymoon. Sixty-seven berries for a hat, and I could wear it for a felt thumb protector!”

“So!” said Trixie with a glitter in her eye. “You were snooping in my packages like a second story mug, Michael Harris?”

“When I pay sixty-seven crackers for a cardboard box and four yards of tissue paper and ribbon, I want to see what I’m stung with!” I gave her.

And Trixie moved in close for battle.

“Listen to me, you sack of wind! Nobody ever dragged you to the altar and they never will. Pull those popeyes in and get this straight! I’ll send the beach up here collect if I feel like it, and you’ll pay and thank me. Whose bank account is getting nicked? Not yours! Hand you a five dollar bill and you’d start jawing J. P. Morgan. Gold digger, am I, for providing a little atmosphere? Next time I hear a—”

I slammed the door on the rest. That acid tongue of Trixie’s could lift the skin off a cigar store Indian.

We buried the subject of clothes. After all it wasn’t my money. I took a flier or so in the market those three days. And the tips I ladled out everywhere disturbed my sleep nights. But they were good advertising. By the second day every flunkey in sight was bowing and scraping when I appeared. Funny how oil millions can spread. We were the gossip of the hotel. Some turned up their noses, and some fell over themselves to gladhand us.

The Orchid did neither.

I spotted her the first evening in the dining room, and the waiter cinched it. “That is Miss Dean, sir.”

“Pretty girl to be dining alone.”

“Miss Dean seldom has anyone at her table, sir. She is, if I may be so free, a retiring woman.” And the waiter rolled an expectant eye at Trixie.

“Perhaps, dear,” says Trixie sweetly, “you would like to leave me and join her?”

And the waiter went off satisfied.

The Orchid had everything Thompson had outlined. I didn’t try to guess her age. She was like an orchid, slender, graceful, dainty, fragile. She was a natural blonde — Trixie admitted that reluctantly — with a shell pink complexion and ripe red lips. Her eyelashes were long and dreamy, her makeup a bit of art, her expression tender and demure.

One look at her there in dainty solitude and I was willing to swear Thompson was a liar and Waldo Maxwell a lecherous old reprobate. A second look and I was hardboiled again. I’ve seen enough crooks to have an extra sense about them. Her eyes wandered over and caught my grin. She took me in from hair to second button on my dinner coat, and then went on eating without a change of expression. But my neck hairs stiffened. She was like a beautiful leopard, lazily lapping cream. Claws were sheathed behind that fragile daintiness.

Trixie was on tap as usual. “All right, cave man, go into your act,” she said under her breath.

“Rats to you,” I said. “This is going to take technique.”

The waiter returned and Trixie cooed: “Yes, dear.” And we had honeymoon the rest of the dinner.

I didn’t make a move for three days. But now and then when the Orchid was on the horizon I caught her studying me. The wild and woolly west, with a wagon load of money, and extra luggage in the wife, had come to Palm Beach. I spent as little time with Trixie as possible. I ogled the women when the Orchid was around. I flashed the bankroll and made a fool of myself. Anyone with half an eye could see I was ripe picking for a smart dame.

But it was Palmer, a natty customers’ man for Trenholme and Edwards’ branch brokerage office, who gave me my break. A little about oil wells and flyers in the market made him my man. He was a good looking young chap, a little too soft and polite; but he knew his Palm Beach, and the Orchid by sight when I pointed her out on the hotel veranda.

“Corker, isn’t she?” Palmer sighed. “Haven’t met her, but I hope to. See her all the time at Corey’s. Say, that’s a place you might like. Been there yet?”

“A big gambling joint, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll be glad to take you and Mrs. Blaine there any time.”

“Tonight,” I said. “Mrs. Blaine will be busy. We’ll go alone.”

I’d heard about Corey’s place; to gambling what Palm Beach was to society. With its clientele a Broadway gambler would have retired in six months. Strict cards of admission were required, and your name almost had to be in the social register to get one. Formal evening dress, of course, and once inside the old lavishly furnished frame building, set back in a tangle of trees and tropical growth, the sky was the limit. Private rooms upstairs for really high play. The drinks and food were on the house. The service was in keeping with the crowd who went there.

Palmer got a card some way. Things like that were his business. I went with a fat billfold, a boiled shirt, tails and everything — and tried to forget that in a few weeks I might be impersonating a longshoreman around the East river docks.

It was a joy to lose the first three hundred, of someone else’s money. We shifted from game to game for an hour and a half. Cool, perfumed air, beautiful women — some of them — men whose names made the newspapers, the hum and chatter of conversation, the quiet voices of the house men, now and then a black dressed automaton moving about with a tray. But no Orchid.

And then she came in, wrapped in a black coat with a roll of white around the collar. Stunning? I skipped a breath. “Palmer,” I said, “I’m going to need the rest of the evening to myself. Would you mind ordering a Rolls outside in case I need it?”

And I went to the roulette table where the Orchid had drifted. For a few minutes I watched her lose five dollar chips, and then I slipped into an empty place at her side and slapped down five hundred. I lost and raised it to a thousand. And won, and won the next time, and the next. By that time I had the Orchid and everyone else at the table with me.

A fifty dollar bill was slipped into my palm, and I met a cool smile. “Will you play it?” the Orchid asked. “I think you are lucky tonight.”

We won together.

Since it wasn’t my money I didn’t get the cold chills as I pushed my luck. I played the Blaine oil wells in public that night, and had the customers hanging on the edge of the table and standing three deep behind us. No, I didn’t break the bank. They tell me no one ever does that at Corey’s. But I put on a good show, won six thousand when the plays were evened up, and broke the ice with the Orchid.

I stuffed the winnings in my pocket and grinned at the Orchid. “I always quit while I’m cool, ma’am. Would a little drive along the ocean front cap your luck?”

“It might,” the Orchid agreed as she folded her cut. “Shall we try it?”

The motor of that big Rolls purred, and so did the Orchid. Her technique would have made Delilah quit. “You were so calm over those big stakes,” she sighed.

“Shucks, ma’am, back in Texas, our stud games would make that piker play tonight.”

“You’re from Texas?”

“West Texas,” I gave her breezily. “Out in the oil country.”

“How fascinating! Have you an oil well?”

“A dozen,” I grinned. “An’ two more spudding-in this week on proved ground. I always told Susan that when I passed my first million I was coming to Palm Beach. And here I am. But I never thought I’d be riding around with a beautiful woman like you.”

“You flatter me,” said the Orchid absently. “Your wife — does she like it? I’ve noticed her. She’s a beautiful little thing.”

“Susan’s pretty enough,” I agreed without enthusiasm. “But she says she’d rather be back home where she can be a big frog in a little puddle instead of a little frog in a big puddle like she is here.”

The Orchid laughed softly.

“Perhaps she is right at that. A woman has to be used to this life before she can get the most out of it. I owe you more thanks than I can repay for making it possible for me to stay here a little longer.”

“I don’t understand,” I mumbled, and waited for her line.

“The money you won for me,” she explained. “That was almost my last fifty dollars I gave you.”

“I thought you were—”

“—rich?” She laughed shortly. What an actress! “One thinks that about everyone here. A little insurance money can create quite an effect. But when it’s gone—” She broke off on a quaver.

I put a hand over hers. “I understand.”

“I thought you would,” the Orchid murmured. “Now forget about me and tell me about Texas.”

So I spun her a few yarns about how I started as a poor kid in the oil fields and finally got in the money. When I spoke about oil field life she looked out the window, and when I mentioned big money she was all ears again.

“I want you to meet Susan,” I said finally.

“No, I don’t think I’d better,” the Orchid said sadly. “Wives don’t seem to like me. They get jealous. We’ll keep this to ourselves.”

“Perhaps we’d better,” I agreed — and wondered what her game was.

Trixie saw the powder on my coat lapel when I came in the sitting room, and said acidly, “Necking?”

“With the Orchid. I wanted her to meet my dear little wife, Susan, but she begged off. Wives don’t usually like her.”

“Susan?” Trixie had fire in her eye. “I could skin you for that, Mike Harris! Why not Abigail to that hussy?”

“Why not? Susan Abigail it is.”

I got the door locked just in time.

Thompson long distanced from Washington in the morning.

“She’s putting the screws on Maxwell,” he crabbed over the wire. “Wants her dough quick, or else. The old man’s frantic. He thought he’d have a couple of weeks yet anyway. Haven’t you done anything?”

“It looks like I’ve done too much,” I decided. “She wants Maxwell cleaned up before she cleans me.”

“Well, get some action!” Thompson yelled. “If this thing goes sour on you, you’re washed up with the Blaine Agency. It’s that important.”

“Button your lip,” I advised. “They can hear you across the hall here. Tell Maxwell to put another padlock oh his checkbook. No dame’s going to toss a quarter of a million away by getting rash. He’s safe enough as long as he stalls.”

Thompson’s groan traveled clear down from Washington. “I hope for your sake that’s right,” he warned.

And so did I. The Blaine Agency had a little trick of loading all the responsibility on the ones who drew a case, and then if they didn’t come through, heads began to fall. It worked nine times out of ten. But Waldo Maxwell’s quarter of a million and the Orchid were a big bite.

She was a wise one, dangerous as dynamite.

Trixie heard me out.

“You can’t stall any longer, loud mouth,” she decided. “Necking parties may be your forte, but you’ll have to cut them short. I’ve been watching that hussy. She never speaks to anyone who might be in the racket with her. And a dime to a promise that those letters are not in her hotel room here. She wouldn’t dare keep them so close.”

“She has a maid.”

“I’ve seen the maid!” Trixie snapped.

And so had I. A beauty, and a crook, if I knew my way around. “We’ve got to pull a fast one,” I decided.

“He thinks,” Trixie marveled. “Well, produce before we both get fired.”

“I’m going swimming,” I told her.

I met the Orchid on the beach, where she had said the night before she’d be. She wore black beach pajamas trimmed with white, and against her creamy skin they were enough to stop the breath and scuttle good resolutions. She gave me a smile to go, with them. “Where is your wife?”

“Reading. No sunburn wanted.”

“You poor neglected boy. It must be lonesome at times.”

I held my breath until my face got red, and stuttered, “N-not when I’m with you.” And we got along famously.

All the time I was wondering where she kept those letters of Maxwell’s. Trixie was right. Not in her room. That would be the first place private dicks would look. And despite the fact that Trixie had seen no one with her, Thompson’s hint that she did not work alone kept pricking at my mind.

So I admired the big diamond ring on her finger and told her about the jewels I had bought the little woman since the oil wells came in. Three hundred grand worth, diamonds, pearls, emeralds and what not.

The Orchid swallowed the hook. “What a fortunate woman your wife is,” she sighed. “I haven’t seen her wearing any.”

I grinned. “She’s afraid to. Jewel thieves. So she keeps them in the bottom of her trunk.”

The Orchid lay there on the sand like a lazy cat. Her pink finger nails dug in gently when I said that. I saw her leg muscles stiffen slightly. But she didn’t bat an eye.

“How dangerous,” she warned abruptly. “She should keep them in a safety deposit box.”

“Susan doesn’t think so,” I yawned. “She likes to take them out and play with them. She’s like a kid. Always wanted a diamond ring — and then got a lapful. And she’s convinced no one would ever think of looking in the false bottom she had built into her trunk.”

“I suppose she’s right,” the Orchid nodded lazily. “But just the same if they were mine I wouldn’t take chances.”

“Not you,” I thought. Aloud I said: “Let’s forget ’em. If she is robbed, I’ll buy her some more. And how about taking a ride with me this evening? The wife is going to be downstairs playing bridge until late. I may have to leave tomorrow. Got a wire from my partner.”

She looked at me through her lashes, smiling, mysterious, inscrutable. “Do you really want to?” she murmured.

“Try me,” I dared.

“At eight,” she said.

And I wondered whether I was being a fool after all. She looked soft and inviting as honey — and I knew she was dangerous as a cobra.

Waldo Maxwell said harshly, “You are a fool!”

“I know I am,” I agreed. “We all act the fool now and then.”

He winced, said something savagely under his breath and prowled back and forth. I had run him down in one of those fantastic villas that huddled up little narrow drives just off the beach. Simplicity by the hundred thousand dollars’ worth. Handkerchief sized lawns, tile roofs, and luxury inside that would dim the Arabian nights.

It was indiscreet, I knew. I shouldn’t have gone near him. But I needed action quick, and he was the only one who could give it to me. And there he prowled around the room like an enraged old bear, his dewlaps shaking, his white hair mussed where he had shoved his fingers through it, a scowl deepening the wrinkles over his rimless eyeglasses.

Waldo Maxwell might have been able to tame a multimillionaire board of directors, but he had never tried Michael Harris of the Blaine Agency before. “Do I get it?” I demanded.

“It is an insane request!” he blurted violently.

“I know. I’ve thought it all over. If something isn’t done quick, you’re going to be splashed on the front pages, or out a quarter of a million,” I reminded. “You haven’t a thing on that dame. She’s got you by your reputation and you can’t even yip. Unless I’m wrong about the contents of those letters.”

“No... no! I was out of my mind when I wrote them. Don’t mention them! Are you certain you can control this insane — this plan of yours?”

I would have felt sorry for him, if I hadn’t remembered he could sign his name to a check for five millions, and still have plenty left in the sock. “What would you give to have her come begging for mercy?” I asked.

Waldo Maxwell showed his teeth in a smile, gentle as a wolf’s. “It would be some consolation for the humiliation I have been put to,” he confessed.

“Then come through with what I need.”

He glanced at a platinum cased watch and made up his mind abruptly. “They will be delivered to your hotel some time before six,” he promised.

“Can I count on that?”

“Young man, you heard me. Sometime before six.”

So I left, satisfied.

And he came through.

I opened the sealed brown paper package and poured the contents on the sitting room table. Trixie took one look and squealed: “Mike, where did you get these?”

“Kris Kringle,” I grinned. “Now do you believe in fairies?”

“I’ve never seen such good looking imitations.”

“I’ll bet you never have,” I agreed. “Not a phony among them. Every stone and setting is the real McCoy.”

And I didn’t blame Trixie for going pale and sick when she looked at me. That mess of diamond rings, bracelets, necklaces and whatnots needed a lot of explaining. Trixie picked up a pearl necklace and ran it through her fingers. “Tell me, Mike,” she commanded.

“Waldo Maxwell,” I admitted. “It was like pulling eye teeth, but I got him to buy the lot on consignment. If they’re returned, he gets his money back. If not — he’ll probably have a heart seizure.”

Trixie put her little hands on her little hips and looked me up and down with her lips pressed tightly together. “Have you gone insane, Mike Harris?”

“That has a familiar ring,” I recalled. “Maxwell wanted to know the same thing.”

“I think you have! What are you going to do with all this jewelry? Why, it... it must be worth a fortune.”

“It is,” I agreed. “And we’re going to put it all in that little false bottom in your trunk, and you’re going downstairs this evening and play bridge, and I’m sneaking off for an automobile ride with the Orchid.”

“And leave all this up here?”

“Exactly.”

Trixie bristled. “Now I know you’re out of your mind! We’ll do nothing of the sort! You can waste another evening making sheep’s eyes at that cat if you care to, but I’m staying in and sit on this jewelry, or take it down to the hotel safe.”

“Jealous?”

Trixie tossed her head. “Of you, big mouth?”

“We’ll do as I say.”

“If we do,” Trixie snapped, “something tells me we are in for grief. I think that massive brain of yours is cracking under the strain.”

“Don’t think,” I advised. “It’s dangerous.”

If I had stopped to think I would have gone shaky myself. For I knew what Waldo Maxwell and Trixie did not — that lot of jewelry was in greater danger than if I had tossed it on the lobby floor and walked off. It might have been returned from there. And I didn’t dare use phonies. A slick crook would have spotted them the first look. So I shut my eyes and walked into the manager’s office and asked for four young bellhops who could ride bicycles, keep their mouths shut and stay honest for a twenty dollar bill.

He looked at me as if I were addled. “Of course, Mr. Blaine — I mean to say, we strive to furnish every service, but—”

“Then service me,” I cut him off. “I’m serious and in a hurry.”

Grant the Palm Beach Palo Verde service. They delivered. I chased the manager out of his office, talked turkey to those bellhops, and hung a hundred dollar prize up to sweeten their twenties. All four of them could out-think the average guest they roomed. In five minutes I drilled them letter perfect, and they scattered with expense money.

The Orchid sighed dreamily. “Isn’t the surf lovely?”

“Great,” I agreed, and held her hand tighter while I looked over to the beach.

Sure enough, there was a surf frothing in through the moonlight. Pretty, too, if a fellow had time to look at it. I didn’t. My mind was on Trixie back there in the hotel playing bridge. And on my five bellhops, and the Orchid beside me on the front seat of the big rented sedan. No chauffeur this time. I didn’t want to be bothered in case quick action was needed.

But for the time being we had no action as we loafed south in the moonlight with the open sea on the left. Some night. Some scenery. Some girl. I forgot the times I had called myself a fool for throwing in with the Blaine Agency. Nights when the rain ran down my neck, and guns barked out of the blackness. Days when nerves were worn to a frazzle matching wits with the smartest crooks in the country. A dog’s life, until I met the moon and the sea, and the Orchid went limp inside my arms as we loafed along through the miles. She was concentrated forgetfulness in a gorgeous shell.

Only I didn’t forget. When I wrap my arm around a snake I watch it. I tested her out. “We’d better be getting back, beautiful.”

“Not yet,” she sighed, and came over another inch. “It’s so lovely out here tonight. I could drive until morning.”

“You won’t, sister,” I thought — and gave her three miles more before I turned and stepped on the gas.

“You are driving too fast,” the Orchid protested.

I patted her knee. “I’m a fast chap.”

“You’re a fresh one,” she said, and tried to steer me over to Lake Worth and down through West Palm Beach, stalling for time.

“Little girls shouldn’t be out so late,” I stalled back. “I have a headache, and I’m going to turn in. I’ll stay over another day and we’ll take this up tomorrow night.”

“But I will not be free tomorrow night.”

“My loss,” I mourned, and rolled her back to the hotel far faster than she had gone away from it.

The Orchid said good night without much graciousness and went in the front entrance. When I parked the car one of the four bellhops popped out of the night. His eyes were wide with suppressed excitement.

“Your room was entered, Mr. Blaine!” he said breathlessly. “A thin man with a black mustache. About twenty minutes ago.”

“Any trouble? Where are the others?”

“They haven’t come back yet. I’ve been waiting here for you.”

“Be back in a few minutes,” I told him, and hurried inside, lifted Trixie from her bridge game and took her up to the suite.

“Powder on your coat again,” Trixie sniffed while I unlocked the door. “I’m getting sick of a half baked Romeo underfoot all the time.”

“It’s my charm,” I grinned.

“It’s your oil wells!” Trixie snapped as she marched into the room.

She beat me to the trunk while I was closing the door. And a moment later pulled her hand out of the hidden compartment in the bottom and whirled on me.

“They’re gone! Every stone and setting; while you played the fool and I play bridge like you ordered! Oh, why did Thompson ever put an idiot like you on this?” She stamped her foot, grabbed my arm and shook it. “Say something! Don’t stand there grinning like an idiot! They’re gone, I tell you!”

“That’s great,” I said heartily. And Trixie almost swooned.

While she was getting her breath back I came out of my room sliding a clip into my automatic. “Hat and coat,” I directed. “We’re going out.”

“Where?”

“Ask me something I know. It’s a great night.”

And Trixie almost swooned again. But she was ready in sixty seconds, slipping a small edition of my automatic in her purse. Tucked away somewhere, too, was a fountain pen gas gun. Trixie never went without it.

A second bellhop was waiting when we got outside, his bicycle tipped on the grass. “What luck?” I asked him, and held my breath for the answer. It might mean the end of Waldo Maxwell’s diamonds and pearls. If it did, it was my finish.

“Over in West Palm Beach,” he said quickly. “Two of the boys are watching.”

“Get in the back,” I ordered. “We’ll talk as we drive.”

“Who are they?” Trixie demanded as we all tumbled in.

“Bellhops.”

“It doesn’t make sense.”

“Nothing does.” And as I drove, the boys in the back seat talked fast. One of them had been in an empty room where he could watch the door of our suite; another outside covering the windows; and the other two had been downstairs near a telephone.

There had been no second story work. A well dressed man had walked down the hall, fitted a key into the door of our suite, stepped inside, remained a few minutes, and stepped out again, natural and easy. He had walked out of the hotel into a waiting car — and three bellhops had jumped on waiting bicycles and followed. Simple as that.

“And you didn’t tell them to call the house detective?” Trixie asked thinly.

“Think of the publicity, my dear.”

“I think you are a reckless idiot!” Trixie flared.

“You’ve called me that before,” I reminded. “He who steals and runs away will surely pay some other day.”

“Mad!” Trixie muttered despairingly. “Stark, raving mad!”

Cross west on the brightly lighted bridge over Lake Worth and you come into another world. The coast highway runs through West Palm Beach, and now and then a tourist stops off and settles. Apartment buildings, cottages, cozy houses — it was like getting home from phantasy land. We found the other two bellhops beside their bikes at a corner in the residential section.

Their dope was short and sweet. The car they had followed had turned into a driveway in the middle of the block, and was still in there.

“Stay here with the car,” I said to Trixie.

And she said: “Never again. You need someone with sense to watch you.”

“Meaning a woman,” I said sarcastically. “Nevertheless, you stay here. This isn’t a tea party.”

So she stayed, and two of the bellhops walked down one side of the street and the other guided me to the one story stucco cottage where Waldo Maxwell’s jewels had flitted. One side room was lighted. The window shades were down.

I sent the kid across the street and walked to the back of the house. A big car was standing in the driveway, heading toward the street.

No one was worried inside — and why should they be, after strolling out of the Palo Verde so easily? A radio was playing jazz. The screen door on the back porch was unlocked, and so was the kitchen door. I pulled my automatic as I stepped inside.

A swinging door opened out of the kitchen, a hall beyond that, and to the left was an archway into a dining room. A voice said: “God, Harry, this bracelet ought to be worth five grand anyway. The emerald is good for two, and most of the diamonds will bulge a carat and a half.”

And a second voice, “Shall we split this necklace and peddle the pearls separate?”

“I wouldn’t,” I advised as I stepped in. “That’s a sucker trick.”

There were two of them, sleek, good looking young fellows. One knocked over a chair as he jumped back and reached under his coat. When he saw my gun he stood still.

Waldo Maxwell’s bait was spread over the table. They hadn’t been able to keep their hands off it. Harry had a little black mustache that jerked as he got out: “What are you doing here?”

“Don’t be so formal,” I said. “This is a pinch.”

And Harry gasped, “It’s a frame! He talks like a dick!”

“You mind reader,” I said. “He is a dick. Turn around while I collect your rods, suckers.”

Harry took a chance, dodged and grabbed for his gun. I shot him through the shoulder. The next instant the light went out as his sidekick reached the wall switch. They both cut loose as I dropped to the floor behind the table. Four shots that were almost one — and a door slammed...

I was alone with my ears ringing and the radio blaring away in the next room.

That was what slowed me up! My ears and the radio. I couldn’t hear their movements, had to go slow for fear they were waiting for me. The motor in the driveway suddenly spun. Gears whined as it rushed toward the street.

And just as I opened the front door there was a terrific crash at the street. They had run into another car in front of the driveway as they turned sharp to avoid it.

I ran out.

Two groping, stumbling figures reeled on the sidewalk, fighting at their eyes. I backed away quick from the thin drifting vapor they were trying to escape.

It was my rented car they had run into. Trixie joined me, and said coolly: “I drove up when I heard the shots, and blocked them. I let them have the gas through the open window of their car.”

“Good girl!” I yelled. “Tell those bellhops to collar ’em until the cops get here!” And I ran back into the house while the neighbors poured out into the street.

I reached the street again just as the police car slid up. We settled the rest in the station house. It took the jewels on the dining room table, the testimony of the bellhops, our credentials and a telephone call to Waldo Maxwell to clear Trixie and me enough so we could leave for the evening.

And at that we were told it was damn queer business, and there was going to be a lot of explaining before the matter was settled.

“There will be,” I promised.

Trixie was wild as a taxi took us back to the Palo Verde.

“See what you’ve done with that idiotic jewelry!” she stormed. “A man shot, two cars wrecked, serious charges plastered everywhere — with all the publicity it will bring — and Maxwell is as bad off as ever!”

“We’ll ask the Orchid about that,” I said.

Trixie was still breathing hard when I knocked on the Orchid’s door. The maid, almost as good looking as the Orchid, answered it. She took one look at Trixie and informed us that Miss Dean had retired.

“Too bad,” I regretted. “Get her up.” And I pushed on in.

The Orchid met us in a frothy negligee that was enough to stop the breath. “What does this mean?” Her voice was knife-edged.

“Harry and his sidekick are in the West Palm Beach police station,” I told her. “They were caught with the jewelry. It belonged to Waldo Maxwell.”

I saw the maid, standing in the doorway, turn pale and press a hand against her throat. But the Orchid’s eyes began to blaze past her long lashes.

“So you tricked me!” she said through her teeth.

“Gloria,” I sighed, “it broke my heart to do it. But you’ve been loose long enough.”

“Waldo Maxwell is behind this!”

“Sad — but so.”

I’ve seen a furious tigress behind the bars. But never have I been so close to one. The Orchid’s face turned marble white. Her eyes narrowed to points.

“Maxwell won’t get away with this!” she blazed. “I’ll spread his name over every paper in the country! Tell him he’d better run here and settle it quick! If those men aren’t out by tomorrow, I’ll call the reporters in and give them the story of their lives!”

“Can you back it up?”

“Certainly! I have letters!”

“You had,” I corrected. “What do you think I planted that jewelry for? I wanted to uncover your boy friends who were probably holding Maxwell’s letters. I found them in the bottom of a suitcase in their house. You might call Maxwell from the police station tonight and ask him for a little mercy. He’s got an answer all ready.”

She spat at me like a cat.

Trixie said later that gave her hope for me.