“Toby Munroe owns it and runs it,” said Stan. “I’ve been there.”
“Why the devil didn’t you say so?”
“I was afraid you’d think I was interested.”
LeRoy waved a capable hand, indicating desperation. “There were two men in the Cruiser—Lamar and Springer. They had to break in. That doesn’t mean anything, though, for the front door has a Yale lock. Anyone leaving could have shut the door behind them and it would lock itself.”
“It means the murderer either had a key, or was inside before the club closed.”
“One of the patrolmen thought of that.” The Captain lowered an eyelid in the direction of Doris. Stan caved down further into his place of rest and ignored the sarcasm. “I arrived shortly after,” LeRoy continued. I had to wait a short time for Beckett—he’s the lawyer for the Homicide Squad. You know our regular set-up—Dr. Gaines, the Medical Examiner; Earle Ralphs, the photographer; and Fred Fawcett, checking fingerprints. We hardly needed Gaines. The guy was deader than hell—a knife in his heart from the back.”
“Where was he?” Stan asked.
“In the poker room. We identified him as Edward Fowler, a gambler.”
“The poker room’s to the left and down the hall as you come up the stairs?”
“Yes. There’s a door diagonally across the hall into the main bridge room.” The Captain was gratified with Stan’s first show of interest. “Fowler was seated at the poker table with his back to the door of the room. He’d been dead less than six hours according to Gaines—no signs of rigor.”
“Had he been playing poker?” Stan showed a blue eye.
“I didn’t ask him.” The Captain failed to resist the temptation. “I don’t think he had.”
“You should have asked him.” Stan closed the eye. “Were there cards and chips on the table? Any glasses? How were they arranged? How many chairs were around the table? Why don’t you think he’d been playing. I thought policemen never thought.”
“There were four packs of cards and a number of ivory chips in a mahogany rack on the table. The cards were unopened. Fred is checking the place for prints.”
“The chairs?”
“Just one—where Fowler was sitting. Another reason I doubt there was a game.”
“You think he was sitting there talking to somebody and was stabbed in the back by another person? That makes two or more guilty.”
“I rather had that in mind, Stan,” the Captain said thoughtfully. “He couldn’t have been afraid of anything. A man who’s nervous doesn’t sit with his back to a door.”
Stan swung around, sitting up, and looked at LeRoy. “What about the phone call this morning? Doc Gaines thinks this fellow had been dead several hours. Why should the murderer phone several hours after he’d killed someone?”
“Who said the murderer phoned? Do murderers make a habit of calling the police?”
“It’s an old habit—I’m quoting an official named Vincent LeRoy.”
“Ouch!” The Captain smiled apologetically. “I think I see what you mean. If it wasn’t the murderer who phoned—”
“You’re thinking fast now, Captain LeRoy.” Stan got up and walked to the window to look out on Indian Creek. “If it wasn’t the murderer—whoever it was must have been in the club between the time of Fowler’s death and the time of the phone call. If that’s the fact—someone let the phoner in—or the phoner has a key to the club-unless the phoner was in the club while the murder was committed, and stayed there until the time of the phone call.”
LeRoy scratched his head. “It sounds garbled, Stan, but you’ve opened up an interesting line of investigation. We can’t trace the call. It was dialed.”
“That’s a pity.” Indian Creek lay flat and shimmering before the house. Stan could almost feel the heave of a motor boat; the quick painful thrill of a sailfish nosing the bait before the first strong grab. LeRoy’s soft voice came Ironi behind him, monotonously insistent about some trivial matter. “What do you think, Stan?”
“I think somebody stabbed a fellow named Fowler in the back, Vince—motive: cheating at cards. I think Captain LeRoy will find the murderer without any assistance, since he has a perfectly good Homicide Squad to help him. I think Miles Standish Rice is going fishing Tuesday—on the broad, broad sea where men can eat and women get seasick—”
“It sounds delightful, Stan,” LeRoy admitted. “I told Farraday you wouldn’t give up a vacation—even for a fat fee which he’s quite willing to pay.”
Stan jerked himself away from the hypnotic qualities of Indian Creek. “And who might Farraday be, you double crossing policeman? I didn’t think the Chief was calling in a special investigator to mix into an ordinary knifing in Munroe’s bridge club. Why didn’t you mention the fee in the first place?”
“I thought you loved your work. It seems now that money has a greater appeal. Bruce Farraday should be right down your alley. He has gobs of it.”
Stan gave an incredulous whistle. “The packer? That’s his cruiser—The Swampfire—tied up to the Royal Palm Docks, isn’t it?”
LeRoy nodded, smugly. “I talked with him this morning. He wants a man of his own on this case. The Chief and I recommended you. It will probably cost him plenty of sausage.”
“I don’t get it,” Stan declared. “How the devil did old man Farraday get mixed up in this?”
“He was playing at the club last night. His son and daughter—Tolliver and Eve—were there too—”
“Why?” Stan frowned. “The Farraday family doesn’t need to patronize Toby Munroe’s to get a game of bridge.”
“They went there with Mrs. Lydia Staunton. She’s an attractive widow—wealthy too. Farraday said she heard of the place from Glen Neal the society Sherlock. Interesting people—atmosphere—and all that sort of thing—you know.”
“I doubt if I do.” Stan readjusted himself in the window. “I wish I had millions so I could see eye to eye with the detestable people who have. Their simplest actions puzzle me.” Characteristically he changed from banter
