At quarter past four a figure detached itself from the security of the scattered orange trees in back of the house and noiselessly ascended the steps onto the back porch.
A pencil flashlight revealed the lock of the back door. An instant later the door was opened and closed. The late caller had disappeared inside.
The pencil flash swept quickly around the downstairs cardroom, then lighted the way upstairs. It investigated the high stakes room, the kitchen, and the regular bridge room where three tables had been in session a short time before.
There was one more room on the second floor—the poker room. The door, directly across the hall from the regular bridge room was closed. The bearer of the flashlight stood in darkness for a moment, then opened the door and stepped inside.
A single large round table occupied the center of the room. Around the edge of the table were receptacles for poker chips and drinks. The bearer of the flashlight knew exactly where the poker table stood.
A gloved hand reached out in the darkness, contacted the softness of fine cloth, and felt it with nervous fingers. Again the pencil flash shone out, throwing giant grotes-queries on the opposite wall. First the shadow of sprawled black and white legs, then the shadow of the heavy black and white checked coat, and the thing like a nose which was the handle of the heavy knife stuck in Edward Fowler’s broad back.
“I thought so,” said the bearer of the flashlight half-aloud. “Just what I figured. Dollars to horse-collars they’ve bumped off the wrong guy!”
Chapter III
“I’m in love with another man’s wife.”
Miles Standish Rice punctuated his declaration of illicit affection with a contented grunt. He had just finished a third helping of grilled kidneys and creamed scrambled eggs. The world was bright as the Sunday morning sun reflected from the waters of Indian Creek, which flowed in front of the bungalow on Miami Beach.
Doris Buchanan, charmingly domestic in a green print apron, removed the empty plate from the table and smiled. Her husband, Donald, lit a cigarette and watched the speaker stand up. It was always a matter of interest to an onlooker when Stan Rice stood up. He came out of a chair in sections, towering gracefully into the surprised air. “No wonder he has a craze for expensive, deep-sea fishing rods,” Donald reflected. “He looks like one himself.” The simile rather appealed to him. He decided to put it into words.
“You look like a deep-sea fishing rod,” he told Stan. “You’re long and slender, and you keep yourself so sunburned you look like you’re varnished. Besides that—you’re expensive.”
Stan fitted himself into a settee and mussed his wavy yellow hair with a thin brown hand. “I wish you understood Spanish. I’d call you ‘una personilla.’ It means—”
“Don’t bother to explain, Stan,” Doris interrupted. “You are expensive—to feed. And don’t tell me the lack of food keeps you down to sixteen ounces.”
“It’s unrequited love. Your burnished glittering pulchritude, coupled with your unusual lack of sophistication, snared me a year ago on Broken Heart Key.* You lured me on—and married an electrical engineer.” He pointed at Donald. “The truth has been finally wrung rom me—I’m pining away.”
“You’re in love with my kidneys,” Doris told him. “That’s why you came to board with us.”
Stan reluctantly unfolded himself again, and walked to the window. A car pulled up to the curb and stopped, discharging a passenger. “You were a nice girl once, Doris. Living with Donald Buchanan has tinged you with illiterate vulgarity, It grieves me multum in parvo.”
“Multum in peanuts,” said Donald. “What about her living in the same house with you for a year?”
“Alone—I might have saved her. Might have kept her the sweet demure miss with whom you and I fell in love. As it is—the police are here now. Captain Vincent LeRoy is already coming up the front steps—ready to take her away!”
“To take you away.” Doris opened the front door and greeted the Captain. “I suppose you and Stan are going to desecrate another Sabbath bass fishing in the canals?”
“Hardly.” LeRoy brazenly encircled her waist. “I try to shed my uniform when I go fishing.” He stepped inside and shook hands with the two men. His voice had the gentle softness of the native Floridian. Beside Stan Rice he looked small, just a trille weary, a deceptiveness which had more than annoyed many undesirable visitors to Miami. He sat down, fanning himself with his hat, stirring curly black hair streaked with gray.
“Go on, Dark Nemesis.” Stan adjusted himself into an incredible position in an open window. “You are wearing the retributive harness of justice. You have uncovered a plot to make all entries in the next beauty contest wear cotton stockings. I refuse to help you stop it. I’m going sail-fishing on Tuesday—”
“I’ve a new murder, Stan.” LeRoy’s fanning hat moved faster. “A man’s been killed in the Sunset Bridge Club. Do you know the place?”
“You can’t pin it on me, Vince. I never kill my bridge partners on Sunday. Now Donald—”
“Please, Stan!” The Captain’s voice was no louder than normal, but Donald and Doris both felt the urgency he had put into the two words. “The Chief wants you to help. You’ve had some swell results on screwy cases. This one seems to fall into that class. Will you listen until I’m through?”
“I am listening.” Stan left the window for the settee and settled himself with his eyes tight shut. His flannel clad legs, hanging over one arm of the couch, nearly touched the floor. “Shoot,” he commanded, “and by the fins of a dead tarpon—it better be good.”
“A phone call came direct to the Radio Room at five this morning stating that a man had been murdered in the Sunset Bridge Club—”
“Anonymous?”
The Captain nodded, but Stan’s blue eyes were still closed. “The nearest Cruiser on West Flagler Street went immediately to the house. It’s the
