beneath beetling brows. He glanced at Shayne with a brief nod as the detective rose, but spoke to the twins again, “Not this time. I’m sure Mr. Shayne will be glad to explain his methods to you later, but you’re to go in to Mother now.”
They said, “Aw, heck,” again, and started to edge away unwillingly, their round eyes fixed on Shayne. “Aren’t you gonna drink it?” demanded Eddie sotto voce, and Shayne nodded solemnly and tipped up the snifter to empty the contents down his throat.
“You go along with the children,” said Peralta to his secretary, who stood two paces behind him. “I won’t need your help with what I have to say to Shayne.”
He stood just inside the door, waiting until the trio vanished, then sighed heavily and closed the door. He passed in front of the detective with a springy step for his years and said impatiently, “Sit down. Help yourself to the brandy, if you wish. And then explain why the devil you didn’t show up this afternoon.”
Shayne said, “I was shanghaied.” He sat down and poured more brandy, asking with interest, “Why is Chief Painter so determined I shan’t see you?”
“Painter? Is he really? I had no idea… Shanghaied, eh? Exactly what do you mean by that?”
Shayne shrugged. “Your secretary tried to get rid of me by saying you made other arrangements after I failed to show up.”
“Nathaniel sometimes takes too much on himself.” Peralta sank into a deep chair near Shayne and produced a leather cigar-pouch. He started to extend it to the detective, noticed the lighted cigarette between his fingers, and selected a cigar for himself. “I was irritated when you didn’t turn up. Naturally. I spoke of the possibility of getting another detective, and, without instructions, my secretary telephoned Chief Painter for a recommendation.”
“Painter already knew you had called me in, I presume,” said Shayne easily.
“What’s that? Why, yes. He came here around three o’clock to ask if I had some idea of hiring you, and was most offensive in warning me against doing so. It appears he doesn’t think highly of your abilities or trustworthiness.”
Shayne grinned and took a long sip of warm cognac. “Why does he care if you call in outside help?”
“There was a lot of talk,” said Peralta indifferently, “about your connections among the criminal elements and your reputation for arranging deals in cases like this where the thief is offered immunity and a certain sum of money for the return of stolen goods. Chief Painter is too ethical to countenance any such arrangements and threatens to arrest you as accessory if you make any such attempt.
“But all this is beside the point, Mr. Shayne,” Peralta went on impatiently. “The bracelet was completely insured and I am not particularly interested in whether it is recovered or not. I pointed out to Painter that certainly I had no interest in paying out money for its recovery. That is entirely up to the insurance people.”
“Naturally,” agreed Shayne drily. “So, why did you want to see me?”
“Because of a letter I received this morning.” Peralta took an envelope from his inner breast pocket, studied it for a moment, then leaned forward to hand it to Shayne. “Luckily Nathaniel was otherwise occupied this morning when the mail came, and I opened this first. No one else has seen it, Mr. Shayne.”
It was a plain, stamped envelope with no return address. Julio Peralta’s name and address were neatly printed in ink on the front. It was postmarked Miami, Florida, 4:30 the preceding afternoon. Shayne set his brandy down and took a single sheet of plain letter-size paper from the envelope.
There was no heading or date at the top. It was neatly printed, like the envelope:
“Dear Mr. Peralta:
“I’ve got your so-called ‘emerald’ bracelet. I mean the one stolen from your wife recently, which they say is insured for $110,000.
“You can have it back and no one the wiser on payment of one-half the insurance. As a business man, I think you’ll agree this is a bargain.
“Put $55,000 in old, twenty-dollar bills in a plain 9x12 manila envelope, securely sealed and address to James Morgan, General Delivery, Miami, Florida, and mail to me at the main post office in Miami before 12:00 noon on Thursday, the 14th.
“If you do this and don’t try to trace the receiver of the money, your bracelet will be returned to you by registered mail within a few days. Then you can keep the imitation and go ahead and collect the insurance money.
“If you are too greedy to share equally with me, or if anything at all goes wrong, the imitation emerald bracelet will be sent to Mr. Timothy Rourke, feature writer for the Miami News, with a full explanation of your attempt to collect $110,000 insurance on an imitation worth a few hundred dollars. I know Mr. Rourke will enjoy printing the story and exposing you for the crook I, alone, now know you to be.
“This is my first and final offer. You have until noon Thursday.”
There was no signature to the letter. Shayne read it thoughtfully and in silence. When he finished and refolded it, he looked up to see the Cuban millionaire leaning forward watching him anxiously, chewing unhappily on his unlit cigar.
Shayne shrugged and shook his head. “You’ve let yourself get into a damned compromising position by letting three weeks pass before you announce the stolen bracelet was actually just a cheap imitation. Even if you do come out with a statement now, if a reporter like Rourke ever gets hold of the fact that it took a threatening letter like this to force your hand, you still won’t be in a good position. By slick maneuvering, you might avoid actual prosecution for attempted fraud, but there wouldn’t be much doubt in anyone’s mind that you did attempt it.
“Why, in the name of God,” Shayne burst out angrily, “did you show this letter to me? Far better if you’d kept your mouth shut and paid the man off. You can’t do that now that I’ve seen the letter. I’m only private and I cut corners sometimes, but I can’t go along with an insurance fraud.”
Julio Peralta’s face had slowly turned a sickly white as Shayne spoke. “But it’s not true,” he exclaimed in a horrified voice. “Good Lord, man, don’t you think I know the value of the bracelet? It was purchased at Tiffany’s in New York four years ago. Don’t you realize it was appraised by the insurance company?”
“I’m sure you bought it at Tiffany’s and it was carefully appraised,” said Shayne, wearily. “But none of that proves anything, if the one actually stolen is proved to be an imitation. Lots of rich people do a thing like that,” he went on, angrily. “Have imitations made for their wives to display in public. It’s common practice and nothing to be ashamed of. But, if the imitation is stolen, it isn’t ethical to pretend it was the original and try to collect insurance on it.”
“You’re insulting, Mr. Shayne. Some men may allow their wives to wear cheap imitations, but I consider it a tawdry thing to do.”
“All right. So it was the real thing. How do you explain this letter?”
“I don’t. I hoped you might.”
Shayne shrugged again and picked up his brandy. “If it’s a bluff and you know it’s a bluff… call it, of course. Simply tear it up and forget it. Or, better yet, fix up a decoy envelope and mail it. I’ll see that James Morgan is arrested when he calls for it at General Delivery.”
The financier from Cuba was silent for a long moment, fidgeting with the unlighted cigar in his hands and studying it as though he had never seen one before. Without raising his eyes to the detective, he asked in a low voice:
“Suppose the man has such an imitation? No matter how he got hold of it. What then?”
“Let’s understand each other,” said Shayne, slowly. “Do you suspect the bracelet may have been copied without your knowledge? And that you weren’t told of the substitution after it was stolen?”
“No. That’s impossible,” cried out Peralta. “Who could possibly have done that?”
As though in answer to his question, the door was pushed open without warning and Laura Peralta entered the library.
FIVE
