The Eleven of Diamonds
A Miles Standish Rice Mystery
Baynard Kendrick
TO
RALPH AND KAY COONEY
who know all the answers!
Chapter I
Washed in the friendly light of a Miami moon, the yellow walls of the Hotel Pescador bore a touch of deceitful beauty. One honest architect had dubbed the Pescador—“hash-Spanish-rococo”—as kindly friends led him weeping through its falsely pretentious interior, bristling with unexpected courts, nooks, and small semi-concealed stair ways. Whatever its appearance, it was located close enough to the lapping waves of Miami Beach so that guests gasped but weakly when presented with first class charges for second class accommodations. The stairways had their uses, too, since no elevator was considered necessary to serve a three story building.
On the night the moonlight was playing its pleasing tricks on the hotel walls, Mr. Durlyn Bessinger, and his portly wife, occupants of suite #4, stayed out late. Mr. Bessinger was gambling at the exclusive Gulf Club, several miles north of Miami Beach, and more to the point was winning. Earthquakes and hurricanes could not dislodge Durlyn Bessinger from a game of Chemin de Fer when the cards were running his way.
Seated at the roulette table, in the adjoining room, Edward Fowler, tall and broad-shouldered in his loose cut English clothes, was watching the Bessingers through the communicating door. Utterly expressionless, as the sweep of the croupier’s rake claimed the last of his hundred dollar stack, Fowler left his seat and strolled into the next room. He touched Bessinger on the shoulder.
“I’m going to run along home. You seem to be making out better than I did. Good luck!”
Bessinger turned shortly, prepared to be annoyed at the interruption. When he saw Fowler his scowl melted into a smile, but his gaze returned instantly to the cards. Fowler was an acquaintance of a week’s standing, and Fowler had brought a run of luck to the Bessinger family. In addition, the quiet, slow-moving man, with his slight trace of English accent was a useful guide. He had introduced the Bessingers to more clubs in a week than they had found in two previous months of Miami.
The gregariousness of habitual gamblers had thrown them together on a few occasions before they spoke. Then Bessinger, after an untoward run of luck in one of the small clubs, had tendered his check for additional chips. The proprietor was skeptical, and Edward Fowler had courteously offered to indorse the check. Later he took his new acquaintances to another plate.
By dint of indirect questioning the Bessingers learned that Fowler was a wealthy Canadian, with interests in a metal mine near Sudbury, Ontario. The garrulous Mrs. Bessinger made no attempt to conceal the information that Durlyn’s income rolled in steadily from wholesale grain in the middle west. She assured anyone, who cared to listen, that except for the vagaries of the New Deal, Mr. Bessinger had been cursed with few worries for the past ten years.
As Fowler left the gambling house by a side door, available to a few regular patrons, he was wondering just how much of Mrs. Bessinger’s eagerly conveyed information was true. He paused a moment outside, before leaving the shelter of the doorway, savoring the richness of moonlit ocean to his left, and the delicacy of pin-point lights marking Miami Beach to the south.
Across the court his roadster was parked, shielded from view by fronded palms. When he left the doorway, he traversed the small courtyard with a noiselessness and speed which would have surprised Mr. Bessinger. He backed out the roadster, and headed south heedless of traffic regulations. The car was doing seventy when he reached Collins Avenue and slowed clown. A few blocks farther along he stopped.
The street was deserted, except for an occasional passing motorist. He climbed out and opened the rumble seat in back of the car. Under the seat, his groping fingers found the head of a polished nickel bolt. It moved to one side. The cushion of the rumble seat rose to his touch, disclosing a recess cleverly built into the upholstery.
In the recess lay a bundle of papers held together with a rubber band; a leather key-case, a blackjack; and a formidable Browning automatic in a spring-clip armpit holster. He left the gun where it was, but slipped the blackjack into his coat pocket, and the key-case into the side pocket of his trousers. Back in the car, he drove to a place a few blocks from the Hotel Pescador, and parked.
A cruising police car passed slowly. He waited until it was out of sight before he switched off the roadster’s lights. Then he climbed out, and on foot took an alleyway which led him to the rear of the hotel.
The kitchen was on the ground floor, guarded only by an unlocked screen door. A single electric bulb shone dimly on hung-up pots and scrubbed tables. Outside of the kitchen door six empty garbage containers, piled two deep, served as a temporary screen. He stepped behind them and consulted his wrist watch. It was nearly one o’clock. A night watchman was his gravest hazard, and that he must risk.
Without further hesitation he went inside. Moving with the surety of carefully gleaned information, he sought a door close by the kitchen range. It opened into a servants’ dining-room. Beyond, in a fire-proof stairwell were iron service stairs leading to the floors above.
Durlyn Bessinger’s suite was on the second floor. Fowler reached the door without encountering anyone in the hall, selected a key from the leather key-case, and entered. His left hand pocket yielded a pair of thin pink rubber gloves, which he slipped on. Moonlight from outside guided him through the sitting-room to the bedroom. He closed the door between the two rooms, and switched on a reading lamp between the twin beds. The door from the bedroom to the hall was locked. He opened it with another key from the case, to provide an additional exit if
