Satisfied with his preparations, he commenced a leisurely skilful search of the bedroom, meticulously returning every article he touched to the exact place where he found it. A wardrobe trunk, ajar in the corner, took fifteen minutes of his time. Shoe trees were removed from three pairs of shoes in the bottom drawer, and carefully replaced. Two pairs of expensive white flannels were shaken out and refolded.
Twice he snapped out the reading lamp, to stand and listen in the semi-darkness of the room. Once it was voices from a noisy party in an adjoining suite. The second time it was footsteps and laughter in the hall. He had just turned on the light for the third time when he found the letters rolled up in one of Mrs. Bessinger’s voluminous silk nightgowns.
They were tucked away in the laundry bag of the trunk at the bottom of some soiled clothes. There were seven of them, dated within a period of four months, and postmarked from various places in the middle west. He took them to the light and studied them with interest.
Four of them were on lettterheads of Crass & Bremen, a brokerage house in Kansas City. They acknowledged, with thanks, the courtesy of various large orders placed by Mr. Durlyn Bessinger. The other three, postmarked from Nevada, Utah, and Arkansas, respectively, came from dealers in hay, grain, and feed. They were ordinary business letters, discussing hard times, and lack of profits. Apparently Mr. Bessinger owned a share in each of the three dealers’ stores.
Fowler’s gray eyes wrinkled at the corners, but he did not smile. He had been cleverly taken in—wasted precious minutes reading a bundle of letters planted in a nightgown as a decoy. He was about to replace them when a curious fact attracted his attention. All seven of the letters were addressed to Durlyn Bessinger, Esq.—and the usage of “Esquire” is far from common in the United States.
He spread the letters out fanwise and scrutinized the size and form of the characters in the typing. “By jove,” he said under his breath. “They may all have come from different places—but I’m willing to wager they were all typed on the same machine. I’m afraid my friend has been going to some lengths to establish himself in the grain market. What a man! Using a mailing service to get different postmarks on letters he’s written to himself!”
He made a mental note of the name “Crass & Bremen”—determined to make an investigation. Meanwhile, it was getting late. He wrapped up the letters in their silky sheath returned them to the laundry bag, and turned out the light. The door from bedroom to corridor he left unlocked. It could be closed when he finished with the sitting-room.
But the sitting-room proved disappointing. It contained one closet housing two light overcoats, assorted hats, and a couple of sunshades. They were non-productive.
Almost as a matter of routine he went to the hotel writing desk in the corner and pulled out the drawer. Usually he was the most careful of men, but he was working against time. He failed to see a small black-headed pin drop to the floor under the desk when he opened the drawer. Had he seen it, the chances were ten to one that he could not have replaced it correctly. Durlyn Bessinger had made ten pin holes in the back of the drawer, and no one but Durlyn Bessinger know in which hole that black-headed pin belonged.
The drawer contained pen and ink, and Hotel Pescador stationery, explaining in brackets under the name that “Pescador” was Spanish for “fisherman”—and illustrating with a bad lithograph the triumphant angler homing with his catch.
Fowler riffled through envelopes and writing paper, then ran his gloved finger over the paper lining the bottom of the drawer. A letter was tucked underneath. His hand was trembling as he looked at the envelope under the desk light.
It was a registered letter from Amsterdam, Holland, dated six weeks before, and addressed to Bessingcr at the hotel. Inside was a single sheet of paper with four typed lines:
Eins mehr wie zehn
Weniger wie ein Bauer
Zeige deine Hand
Bekomme das Paket
He copied it word for word on a sheet of paper taken from his pocket, then essayed a translation. He was pleased with the result:
One more than a ten
But less than a jack
Show your hand
To get the pack
“Nursery rhymes,” he muttered, “it’s like playing with children. I’ll show them my hand before I’m through!”
But he never did. He left the hotel without being seen, and was dead in ten days with a broad anlace through his heart.
Chapter II
A hint of sub-tropical thunderstorm was in the air. Moisture pressed down stickily and worked its way into the cards, making them difficult to deal. Toby Munroe, proprietor of the Sunset Bridge Club, sat on the upstairs porch, desultorily fanning himself. The porch was dark. Through the open window he watched the twelve players who made up the three tables of bridge inside.
The winter season in Miami was closing with an early heat wave, driving the tourists prematurely north. Ordinarily there were ten tables of bridge going in the club. The card fees from three tables would hardly pay expenses. Four tables on the ground floor, reserved for small stakes players, a tenth of a cent or less, were deserted. The high stakes room, with two tables on the second floor, was dark. There was one vacant table in the room Toby was watching.
A young man, sporting an immaculate mess-jacket, spread his hand on the table, and with a word of apology to his partner, stepped out on the porch.
“How are you making out, Glen?” Toby spoke without rising.
“About even. Eve Farraday’s sweeter than her game.” He flashed a cigarette lighter. Profound dark eyes absorbed some of the flame, revealing dancing gold flecks. His cigarette under way, he asked: “Who is the couple playing against us?”
“Durlyn Bessinger and his wife.”
“I know their name, Toby. I want to know if they’re worth any space. She
