“With the help of the Commies?”
Timothy Rourke looked at him shrewdly. “You don’t swallow too much of that propaganda, Mike. Hell, of course the Commies are exploiting the revolution to the limit. And Mr. Julio Peralta may even be one, secretly. You know how it is in Miami right now,” he went on disgustedly. “The city is full of refugees and rife with rumors of plots and counterplots. No one knows for sure whose side anyone is on. I’ll lay you ten to one that at least half the arms ostensibly being smuggled over to Castro end up in the hands of counter-revolutionaries. Julio Peralta isn’t the only rich Cuban who moved his money out before the crash, and most of them are eager to spend a hunk of it to get the old way of life back.”
“But not Peralta?” mused Shayne.
“I don’t know. I do know he doesn’t like newspaper reporters snooping into his affairs, and I’m surprised he’s called in a private detective. As I say, I got a strong impression from Barker, from Painter, and from Peralta himself that the loss of the bracelet was chicken-feed and was sort of being glossed over. That’s why I’m surprised he wants you in on it.”
“Hell, it may not be the jewel thing at all,” said Shayne impatiently. “Maybe he wants to hire a bottle-guard for his wife.”
“That could be a pleasant assignment.” Rourke yawned and propped his feet up on his desk again. “Let me know, huh? What cyanide tastes like, and whether that governess looks as good under her clothes as I’m guessing she does.”
Shayne said, “I’ll let you know.” He made his way out of the City Room and got into his parked car.
Ten minutes later he entered a sixth floor office on Flagler Street. There was a medium-sized, pleasantly cool reception room presided over by a pleasantly cool blonde at a desk near the door. She was medium-sized in some respects and somewhat more than that in others. She gave the redhead an aloof glance and said, “Yes?” with her nose tilted a little higher than was necessary.
Shayne took off his hat and tugged at a red forelock bashfully. “It’s this here humidity, Ma’am. Makes a man sweat right through his flannel underwear. And, when I sweat, I stink, as the girl told her momma, and, when I stink, the boys won’t dance with me. That must be what you smell, Ma’am.”
The nice nose tilted higher and beautifully arched platinum brows became more severely arched. “Is there something I can do for you?”
“Not what I first thought about when I peeked in,” Shayne told her cheerfully, “so you might as well let me see Mr. Barker.”
“Have you an appointment?”
He said, “Shayne. And how the hell do you know I haven’t dropped in to buy a million bucks worth of insurance?”
She said, “Mr. Barker is not a broker. He is an adjuster.” But there was the faintest tinge of warmth in the cool depths of greenish eyes as she lowered them from his face and lifted an inter-office phone.
As she spoke into it, Shayne moved past her toward the single door opening off the reception room. It was closed and marked PRIVATE. He opened it and went in.
Hamilton Barker was alone in his neat office, just replacing the handset in its holder. He was a slender, stony-eyed man in his early forties, and he greeted the detective without undue cordiality.
“Shayne. I just told my secretary you’d have to wait a few minutes.”
“I’ll wait in here,” suggested Shayne easily, closing the door behind him and lounging forward to sink into a comfortable chair by the insurance adjuster’s desk. “A couple more of my witticisms just might cause the blonde to break down and smile, and I have a feeling that would be fatal.”
Barker was obviously not amused. “Now that you’re in here, what is it, Shayne?”
Shayne tensed and his gray eyes studied the other man with alert interest. After a moment, he said slowly, “Maybe I do smell bad. I was just kidding with your secretary, but…”
“Please, Shayne.” Barker held up his right palm and looked pained. “I’m extremely busy. If you have any business with me, please get to it.”
Shayne hesitated only a second. Then he shrugged and said, flatly, “You’re handling the insurance on the Peralta bracelet?”
“Julio Peralta? Yes.”
“Satisfied with it and ready to pay off?”
Barker’s eyes narrowed. “What is your interest?”
“Are you?” pressed Shayne.
“It’s not a matter I care to discuss with an outsider.”
“You mean you’re not interested in a deal?” demanded Shayne, incredulously.
“What sort of deal are you referring to?”
“For God’s sake!” said Shayne angrily. “What is this, Ham? You’ve made some nice pay-offs in the past to recover stolen stuff. You know damned well the sort of deal I mean. Twenty per cent for the bracelet and no questions asked.”
The insurance adjuster leaned back, shaking his head vigorously, making a tent out of the tips of his fingers pressed together. “That sort of thing is strictly against the public interest, Shayne. If you bring us the bracelet and the thief, naturally we’ll be glad to pay for your services. Say twenty per cent of the insurance. But we certainly can’t promise immunity as part of the pay-off. Actually, Shayne, such an arrangement would make us liable to a charge as accessory after the fact.”
Shayne shook his head helplessly. “You know it’s being done all the time. Your company won’t be happy paying off the full amount.”
“Let’s hope we won’t have to,” said Barker, thinly. “If that’s all you have to say…” He pushed back his chair and half rose to indicate the discussion was ended.
The detective shrugged and rose with him. “What all this adds up to,” he guessed, “is that Painter has sold you a bill of goods that he’s on the trail of the bracelet, and you hope to recover it without any payoff at all. Am I right?”
“Why don’t you ask Painter?”
Shayne said equably, “I don’t have to ask him now, Ham. Thanks for the information.” He turned and went out with his brow wrinkled thoughtfully, passed the blonde in the outer office without seeing her and went down to the street and his parked car.
TWO
Alton Road on Miami Beach runs north from 5th Street, skirting Flamingo Park and across Lincoln Road to wind circuitously along the eastern shore of Biscayne Bay between the large estates of wealthy landholders which crowd in on either side.
Michael Shayne drove north along the road at a moderate pace, relaxed behind the wheel and deep in thought. There was little afternoon traffic along the winding, palm-lined street, little to be seen beyond the high hedges hiding twenty- and thirty-room mansions set well back from the road.
Searching for street numbers on the widely separated gateposts, he paid no attention to the car that idled up behind him and followed closely on his rear bumper for a couple of blocks, noticed it only when it speeded up suddenly and swung around abreast of him. It slowed in that position and honked commandingly.
Shayne glanced aside to see two men in the front seat, wearing the uniforms of Miami Beach police. The one nearest Shayne was waving him down while the driver stayed abreast, and after a brief moment of indecision, Shayne took his foot off the gas and put it on the brake.
The police car slowed and pulled in behind him, and Shayne sat fuming behind the wheel of his car while the officer got lazily out of the right side and strolled forward to lean his elbows on the door at Shayne’s right. He had a big paunch, and a seamed, weather beaten face, and he was chewing a big wad of gum as rhythmically and placidly as a contented cow working on her cud. As he leaned on the door, Shayne demanded impatiently, “What the hell is it, Officer? I’m in a hurry to keep an appointment.”
“Noticed you was in a hurry all right. Wondered right away where at was the fire.”
“For God’s sake,” said Shayne, wonderingly. “I wasn’t doing over twenty-five.”
The policeman nodded gravely. “We clocked you the last two blocks. Forty-two you was making by our speedometer.”