“I believe you, but that damn card clouds the issue. What about Caprilli?”
“If he’s still in town, I’ll see him tonight.”
“You want a man to go with you? There may be trouble.”
“I’m just paying him a friendly call. I think I better go alone.”
“Have it your own way—but keep in touch.”
Another call put Stan in touch with Weems at the Royal Palms. Mr. Farraday was not in his suite. Weems had instructions to communicate with Mr. Rice as soon as Tolliver and Eve returned. Stan said he would call later, and left the restaurant to kill time in a picture show.
It was after eleven when he came out. He drove down to the waterfront, near the foot of Sixth Street, parked his car, and made his way past a number of charter boats out to end of a dock. A trim speedboat, manned by two uniformed men, was bumping gently against the offside of a small cruiser.
Stan crossed the deck of the cruiser, and stepped down into the speedboat. One of the men recognized him and nodded. “Do you mind waiting?” the man asked. “We’re expecting another party.”
“The boss is expecting me.” Stan spoke with an assurance which carried weight. He was far from feeling such assurance himself. He was taking a chance on a basis of much hearsay, and very little actual knowledge. “I want to go to the private landing. It might be better if I went alone.”
The other man, at the wheel of the speedboat, turned. “Mr. Keefe didn’t say anything about picking you up.”
“And I said nothing about seeing Joe Keefe.” Stan made a move as if to leave the speedboat. “Maybe I better hire a boat of my own.”
“Maybe you had, friend,” the second man said shortly. “But I wouldn’t try to land it at the Four Leaf Clover’s private dock. That’s reserved for our boats. If you’re going there—sit down and we’ll take you.”
The first man cast loose and pushed off. Water bubbled noisily at the stern. Stan leaned back and relaxed, giving way entirely to the soothing quality of speed on the water, and the brush of soft night wind against his face. Key Biscayne had loomed on the left, and the boat was answering to the first gentle heave of the open sea, before it slackened speed. Stan stirred in his seat, and opened his eyes. The lights of the Four Leaf Clover were close ahead.
The big three-storied barge was doing a rushing Sunday night business. Dedicated to amusement, it offered dancing in a Venetian atmosphere on the screened top deck, and a choice selection of food and drink on the second floor. But the real income was derived from the cloistered salon in the stern, where the click of the tiny ball and the riffle of cards drew a favored few admitted by invitation.
The speedboat passed the regular landing, brightly illuminated with Japanese lanterns, and circled toward the stern. There a narrow runway of floats extended twenty feet into the water, marked only with two red lanterns at the end. The stern quarter of the barge was doubly dark, due to the brightness and gayety of the forward section. As the boat touched the end of the runway an overhead floodlight was turned on by some unseen watcher. The speedboat pulled away, leaving Stan bathed in the hard radiance of the spotlight.
The light went out as unexpectedly as it had been turned on. Before Stan’s eyes could adjust themselves to the change, a man was standing less than a foot away, blocking the runway to the barge.
“This is not for visitors. Your boatman must have made a mistake, mister. I’ll row you around to the main landing.”
“I asked to come here. I want to see the boss.”
“Joe Keefe is the boss. His office is off the bar on the second floor. I’ll row you around.”
Stan turned his back to the man and watched the hypnotizing revolutions of an air beacon on the shore. “I’m Miles Standish Rice. Once Moneta Caprilli was accused of one thing he didn’t do. He wouldn’t be on this boat now—except for the fact that I found the man who committed that crime.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, mister. You better see Mr. Keefe.”
“I could have tipped off LeRoy.” Stan was stiff watching the beacon. “Even with Moneta’s private speedboat concealed under the Four Leaf Clover—he won’t want to try a getaway when there’s nothing against him. LeRoy’s mad that he came back to Miami. I can save trouble—for both sides.”
“Wait here.”
The man merged into the blackness of the barge. Stan favored the beacon with a grin. It was like putting two dollars on a horse picked because you liked its name—and seeing it win at thirty to one. Five minutes later the man returned and said: “Come on.”
The Italian was stretched on a bed in a stateroom reached through a small office. Stan’s guide closed the door and stood inside until Caprilli dismissed him with a nod. Stan took a comfortable wicker chair, crossed his long legs, and enviously regarded Caprilli’s forty dollar blue silk pajamas. Representatives of law and lawlessness, each waited for the other to speak. At last Caprilli raised finely pencilled brows.
“There’s plenty to drink—but you didn’t come here for a drink.”
“A man was knifed at the Sunset last night, Caprilli.”
“Ho! So that’s eet?” Caprilli’s accent cropped out delicately under stress. Mostly he had it under good control. He pursed thin lips. “And without delay you have news of me from Toby Munroe. Good. Give the horse-faced LeRoy my regards. Twenty people can prove I was not off this boat last night.”
Stan smiled amiably. “LeRoy doesn’t know where you are. I’m working privately on the case. In return for information—”
Caprilli sat up on the side of the bed. “Strangely enough—I’ve heard a different story. It might be wiser if you went ashore. You can tell your friend LeRoy that I’m leaving town tonight. I don’t stab men in
