The limousine ground to a stop beyond them and both doors, swung open to disgorge three men who raced back to the roadster before either occupant could open a door to get out.
The three men were masked with handkerchiefs, and all three held pistols in their hands. The first to reach Dustin’s side jerked the door open and rammed a muzzle against his side. “Take it easy,” he said, “and you won’t get hurt.”
Dustin sat where he was, immobile but not unvocal. The other two men circled the car to Celia’s side. One of them opened the door and said, “Stick out your arm, lady.”
“Don’t do it, Ceil.” Dustin’s voice was thick with anger. “There’ll be someone along. They won’t dare-”
The man who had spoken to Celia leaned past her and smashed the barrel of his gun down the westerner’s face. The front sight had been filed to sharpness and it laid his cheek open from temple to jaw.
“Good going,” the man beside Dustin muttered as the victim slumped back with blood streaming from the gash. “Get the stuff off the girl fast.”
Celia was screaming hysterically and kicking. The two men jerked her out of the car and one of them used a pair of snippers on the linked platinum. It parted easily, and they threw her aside to the ground. The third man had been going through Dustin’s pockets. He found the wad of bills in a side pocket, held together with a silver clip. He extracted them as the others raced around to join him. They all leaped for the open doors of the limousine as Dustin half fell from the roadster and staggered after them, cursing incoherently. He was half-blinded with pain and with shock, but the life he had led had not fitted him to accept such an outrage without fighting back.
He stumbled forward as the three men jumped in and slammed the doors shut. The limousine jerked forward just as he reached it and caught the rear door handle. It turned in his hand and the latch released, but the door didn’t open and the car was picking up speed.
The man in the rear seat rolled down the glass and leaned out. He cursed and smashed his pistol barrel down on the hand clutching the door handle. Mark Dustin stumbled back and the limousine roared away toward downtown Miami Beach.
Celia ran to him, sobbing, as he swayed drunkenly in the headlights of the roadster. When she saw the blood streaming down his face and the crushed hand he was holding out stiffly, she cried out, “Oh, Mark, what have they done to you,” in an agonized voice.
He put her aside with his other hand. His face was stony and his voice harsh as he grated, “We’ve got to notify the police. Get under the wheel and see if you can back out.”
“But your face! And your hand! You’ve got to get to a hospital!”
“Get in and drive to a phone.” He shoved her toward the roadster and walked around to get in the other side.
Celia didn’t waste time arguing. She had the car in gear, and as he slumped beside her she gunned the motor and let the clutch out with a jerk. The rear wheels spun momentarily, then took hold, and the roadster lurched backward onto the pavement. She put it in low and spun the steering-wheel. The left fender was crushed against the wheel and rubber screeched protestingly against steel as she swung in a short circle and headed toward the hotel.
Dustin started to protest that they could reach help faster by driving on to Fifth Street, but a look at the set of her jaw stopped him in mid-sentence.
The steering mechanism had evidently been injured, for the roadster wobbled drunkenly as she gained speed, but Celia kept the accelerator down and herded it down the pavement with grim concentration.
Mark Dustin held a handkerchief to his cut face. His injured hand lay on his knee. When they drove up to the hotel entrance the doorman opened the door and Dustin snapped, “Get the police. We’ve been robbed of a couple of hundred thousand dollars.”
“Send the doctor up to our suite. Please hurry.” She was out of the car and going around to open the door on Mark’s side. She put her arm around him and led him in through the lobby and on to an elevator.
The resident doctor had Dustin’s cheek bandaged and was putting a temporary splint on his injured hand when the first contingent of the law arrived, two city detectives and the chief of the Miami Beach detective bureau.
Peter Painter aggressively took the lead in snapping questions at the victims, getting a brief outline of the occurrence and sending his two subordinates scooting away with routine instructions to establish a road-block across the bay and put out a radio alarm for the limousine.
By that time the doctor had Dustin’s broken hand swathed in bandages which he assured the suffering man would take care of it until he could get it X-rayed and properly set. Three fingers were broken, and two smaller bones in the hand itself, he explained, and as soon as the first shock wore off he should go to a hospital for a thorough examination.
He picked up his bag and went out. Celia went to the telephone and ordered three Scotch and sodas sent up. Then she reseated herself beside her husband while Peter Painter stood in the center of the room and regarded the couple disapprovingly.
He had reason for this attitude. In his opinion, any tourist who ventured out in Miami wearing a fortune in jewelry was a congenital fool and deserved whatever happened to him. Moreover, they were a great nuisance to him and his department and were always kicking up a stink in the newspapers if their stolen property was not recovered within a few hours, which it seldom was. Such robberies made bad publicity, and were frowned upon by the city fathers to whom Painter owed his job.
The detective chief was small and slender, with a thread-like black mustache. His taste in clothes was fastidious, and now he thrust both hands deep in the patch pockets of a gray suede jacket and said, “You say tonight is the first time you’ve worn the bracelet, Mrs. Dustin?”
“Yes. We just bought it today.”
“It wasn’t delivered until today,” Mark corrected her. “We actually bought it last Monday, but I didn’t take possession until the insurance was fixed up and my check cleared through my bank.”
“How many people knew you were going to wear it tonight?”
“No one. No one could possibly have known.” Celia threw a frightened glance at her husband. “I hadn’t told anyone, Mark. I swear I hadn’t. It was to be a complete surprise at the concert tonight. Those men must have seen me wear it when I went through the hotel lobby,” she went on rapidly, “and followed us when we drove away.”
“From your story of the hold-up it sounds like a well-planned crime-by an organized gang.” Painter lifted his right hand from his pocket and thumbnailed his mustache. His black eyes flashed from Celia to Mark. “Hardly the sort of thing to be got up on the spur of the moment. Besides, how would any crook know how valuable the bracelet was-with just one look at it as you went through the lobby?”
“But they could tell,” said Celia spiritedly. “Mr. Voorland said that anyone could instantly recognize a star ruby as the real thing-and professional jewel thieves certainly must know about prices-and all that.”
“Chief Painter is right,” Mark told her wearily. “That job has all the earmarks of careful planning. Voorland knew you planned to wear it tonight,” he went on slowly. “I told him on Monday when we bought it and then reminded him a couple of times afterward. He knows how much it’s worth, too.”
Peter Painter bristled. The detective chief appeared to strut while standing perfectly still in his polished shoes. He shook his head emphatically. “Not Walter Voorland. He wouldn’t be mixed up in anything like this. He has run that store for twenty years and has the most exclusive clientele on the Beach.”
“Mark-” Celia timidly plucked at his sleeve and lowered her voice. “There was somebody else. Remember that friend of Mr. Voorland’s who was in the store Monday? He knew how much it cost, and he heard us say I wanted to wear it to the concert tonight.”
“Nonsense,” said Dustin impatiently. “He’s a detective, not a jewel thief.”
“What’s that?” Painter stepped closer, inclining his head. “A detective? Who?”
“Celia just remembered there was another couple in the store when we bought the bracelet and told Mr. Voorland she wanted to wear it tonight,” Dustin explained. “But the man was a private detective. The girl was his secretary. Beside, he was a good friend of Mr. Voorland’s.”
“A private detective.” Painter’s voice was sharp. “What was his name?”
“Michael Shayne. I imagine you’ve heard of him around town.”
“Shayne? Heard of him?” Painter whirled and strutted to the telephone.
