“That’s most laudable.” Stan got to his feet. “I came here to exchange information. You’ve told me what I want to know. In addition I’ve found out that, like most of your kind, you’re a suspicious fool. I’ll give your message to LeRoy.”
A barely perceptible expression of fear brought out cruel lines on Caprilli’s dark face. “Once you played fair with me, perhaps I speak too quickly.” He stretched out on the bed again. “I would like to listen.”
“Good.” Stan went back to the chair. “You engaged the poker room at the Sunset for last night—paid a fifty dollar deposit, and didn’t show up. I came here to find out why—since you’ve just told me, I might as well go. Somebody was kidding you, last night, Caprilli. The ‘dillerent story’ you heard was a bunch of lies. I spoke the truth when I said LeRoy didn’t know you were in town until this morning—and doesn’t know where you are now.”
“Maybe this Munroe theenks he can double-cross feefty bucks out of Moneta Caprilli!” The Italian’s manner was almost bland. “It was our good friend, Toby, himself, who warned me that his club was being watched because LeRoy had heard I was in town.”
“You’re wrong, Moneta. Toby had prepared all the food for your party—and bought liquor. I saw it there this morning.”
“So? I’m wrong indeed.” Caprilli jumped from the bed and picked up a coat from the back of a chair. He took a folded note from the pocket and handed it to Stan. It was typewritten on plain bond paper.
LeRoy has been tipped that you are coming to the Sunset tonight. He’s watching the place and is sore as hell you’re in town. You can come if you want to take a risk but I don’t think it’s wise.
It was signed on the machine: “Toby Munroe.”
“When did you get this?” Stan asked.
“A boy gave it to Moran, who runs the speedboat, about five yesterday afternoon. It was addressed to Joe Keefe. Moran brought it out right away.”
“May I keep it? I’d like to check it against Toby’s typewriter. I don’t think Toby wrote it.”
“Keep it.” Caprilli gave a short disdainful laugh. “You’ll find he wrote it all right. It can’t do me any harm and I hope it puts that chiseling bastard in jail.”
Chapter IX
The tall urbane Joe Keefe conducted Stan Rice from Caprilli’s stateroom through a narrow passage to the gambling room. Keefe may have been proprietor of the Four Leaf Clover, but he obeyed without question when Caprilli issued orders.
As they emerged into the subdued hum of the salon, Stan drew the proprietor into the shadow of a corner and pointed out a couple seated at the roulette table.
“Is that Durlyn Bessinger and his wife?”
Keele nodded. “They’re regulars.”
“Who introduced them?”
“A man named Fowler.” There was nothing in Keefe’s statement to indicate he had heard of Fowler’s sudden death.
“What do you know about Fowler?”
Keefe wrinkled his brows. “His check’s good here for any amount.”
“His travelers’ checks, you mean?”
“Any check—if he wants to give one. He came here with the Farraday kids.”
Stan noted a ship’s clock on the wall. It was well past midnight. He patted his inside pocket to test the security of the note sent to Caprilli. “I wouldn’t accept any more of Fowler’s checks,” he advised Keefe. “He was murdered last night. Is a boat leaving for shore?”
“It’s coming out now, and will leave ten minutes after it gets here. Will you excuse me, now? I’ll be in my office. An attendant will show you to the regular landing.”
An inconspicuous man, standing near the roulette table, left his place and approached them, although Stan was unable to detect any signal given by Keefe. “Mr. Rice has the run of the place,” Keefe instructed. “Show him to the next boat ashore—if he wishes to leave.” He strode off without once betraying that he had heard Stan’s remark about Edward Fowler.
The attendant was all courtesy, yet as Stan followed him through the restaurant, and downstairs to the reception room, he could not rid himself of an impression that the man was more guard than guide. A half a dozen patrons were seated in the room waiting for the boat. The man excused himself and went back upstairs. Stan’s feeling of surveillance persisted.
A couple on a nearby settee ignored him too completely, and talked too loudly and explicitly of their own affairs. The girl was chic and pretty, but Stan gave a low rating to her acting ability. He strolled to the wide door leading to the deck. The speedboat was just circling in to land. As he watched, two men passed him in the doorway. They stopped on deck, leaning over the rail with their backs toward him.
Stan rested himself against the side of the door. One of the men was Ben Eckhardt. From a snatch of conversation which drifted back to him, and with the help of LeRoy’s description, he placed the other as Dave Button. Neither of them had been in the gambling salon a few minutes before, nor at the bar as he came downstairs. There must be another gambling room on the Four Leaf Clover, devoted to high stakes. Neither Button, nor Eckhardt, were apt to take a trip out into Biscayne Bay for the purpose of dancing.
The incoming boat had landed and was discharging a party of three, two men and a girl. As they came up the slip Stan straightened up. Fate had saved him a trip to the Royal Palms. The boy and girl were Bruce Farraday’s son and daughter. Eckhardt gave the identity of the erect, wind-tanned man who accompanied them, by calling: “Hello, Commander. I thought you and your friends were all in jail.”
Dawson stopped on the slip and looked up at the speaker. He smiled frostily, and made no effort to conceal marked distaste in his reply. “A rather poor joke, Eckhardt—to shout out in a public place. Some people might take offense.”
Eckhardt turned surly. “Maybe you
