He said, “By God! I wonder—” and picked up the letter in both hands to study it intently.
In a choked voice, he demanded of the two other men: “Is there a Saltair Street in Miami?”
Chief Gentry shook his head doubtfully, but Tim Rourke showed alert interest.
“Yes. I’m sure there is, Mike. One of those streets far out in the Northeast section that cross Biscayne Boulevard and dead-end against the bay.”
Shayne whirled on Gentry. “The Northeast section! From Hugh Allerdice’s story, that’s about where Switzer ditched Arlene Bristow this evening. That’s it, Will! Get on the phone.” He snatched up the telephone and shoved it at the Chief of Police.
“Get men out there. Saltair Street and the bay. They’ll find a deserted house — and Lucy Hamilton.”
He grabbed his hat and long-legged it toward the door with Timothy Rourke trotting behind him while Gentry was getting headquarters to relay the information to them.
Though Rourke had never experienced a faster ride out the Boulevard than he had in Shayne’s black Hudson that night, there were already three radio cars clustered together in front of the boarded mansion on Saltair Street where it came to a dead end against Biscayne Bay when they arrived.
Searchlights were turned on the isolated house, and as Shayne pulled up behind the police cars, two uniformed men came around from the bay side of the house each supporting a slender feminine figure.
Shayne leaped out and ran forward to catch Lucy Hamilton in his arms away from her uniformed rescuer. Her face was streaked with dirt and tears, and she was sobbing with happiness and relief, and Shayne held her tight and kissed her lips gently and assured her.
“It’s all over, angel. Relax. You’re okay.”
“I knew you’d find me, Michael! I knew you would. I kept thinking — when he reads my letter — as soon as he reads my letter — he’ll know. But it was so long, Michael! I didn’t know when he’d show you the letter. I didn’t know how long we’d have to wait. And the air was getting worse all the time.”
“It’s all right,” Shayne reassured her gruffly. “It’s ended. I did get the letter, and I finally did figure it out. Nothing else matters now. It was damned clever of you, angel.”
“Too clever for me to figure out yet,” said Rourke aggrievedly, trotting along beside them with the letter in his hands. “Give me the dope on it fast, Mike. I got maybe twenty minutes to get a story in the early edition. How in the name of God did Lucy put it in? And how did you figure Saltair Street on the bay from this note?”
Shayne grinned down at Lucy and said, “It must have been plenty tough figuring out the right words on the spur of the moment while Switzer was watching you. I told you and Will,” he went on blandly to Rourke, “that a dozen things in the letter made me realize Lucy was trying to point the way for me.
“The payoff was her phrase. ‘last love letter.’ And at the end, the two significant phrases, ‘As you read these lines,’ and ‘to the very end.’ Add those up to the other curious words I pointed out that Lucy wouldn’t normally use: ‘Boss — my sweet — mazuma.’ All of them phony words or expressions for Lucy to use.”
“You said all that back in your apartment,” Rourke reminded him impatiently. “But how in the name of God do they add up to tell where we found her?”
“The last letter of each line,” said Shayne. “Beginning with the s on Boss and reading down. Last letter,” he repeated. “These lines. The very end.
“Read the last letter of each line, of course,” Shayne ended briskly. “Any moron should have figured that out in a minute, and if I hadn’t been so damned sober I might have done better. Go write your story, Tim. I’m taking Lucy home.”