“What’s your idea, Stan? You thought somebody had crawled on that matting—if you got those strands Sunday.”
“This was my idea, Vince: You have to pass that window to get to the end of the porch—and the only chance to pass that window without being seen from the bridge room is to crawl past—”
“And when you get to the end of the porch?” LeRoy inquired. “What then?”
“From the end of the porch,” Stan explained mournfully, “you can see through the end hall window and through the door of the poker room. That single chair left for Fowler in the poker room was a set-up, Vince. The knife you showed me was made for throwing—it’s balanced to a hair—”
“Killer goes on porch clutching two foot knife down pants leg. Crawls past window and throws knife with such skill and accuracy that it passes through two screens and finds the heart of victim sitting in a pitch black room—”
Stan grinned wryly. The Captain’s voice had trailed away. That hardened officer was looking musingly at the ceiling and whistling “Hearts and Flowers” between his teeth.
Chapter XIII
Stan had lunch with Captain LeRoy, but his friend was moody, and not much inclined to talk. The Captain had cabled the South African authorities the day before and was waiting for a reply. He was doubtful that it would prove of value when received.
“This is the jumping off place for queer ducks,” he told Stan over the coffee. “Fowler’s body is still in the morgue unclaimed. All the high-flyers with money enough to buy a ticket head here in the winter. I’ve tried to trace a few of them before now. Hopeless.”
“Did you cable his fingerprints?”
“No—but I sent enough for them to know him. The Department of Justice in Washington has nothing on him. I’ve been in touch with them.”
“I don’t think he was a crook,” Stan protested.
“Then why the cables? You can pay for the next ones yourself.”
Stan laughed. “Sue me. Fowler was no shrinking violet. He made his mark on Miami quick enough, and as you say, Miami has had its share of wild ones. I’m sold on the springbok—it’s as uncommon as Fowler.”
“I wish I was sold on something,” said the Captain. “Whatever Fowler was—he’s more trouble dead than alive. I’m going back to the office. And you keep out of gambling joints. I’ll bust you on the nose if you get yourself killed.”
Stan drove out to the Sunset. Dawson’s cocktail party was nearly three hours away, and he had learned many things, which he wanted to verify, since his visit to the club on Sunday. The place had a barren deserted appearance. Toby Munroe’s statement that the blot of Fowler’s death would keep players away was certainly not without foundation.
Juan Andres answered the door after a third ring. The sleek Cuban steward had a ruffled appearance, and Stan judged he had disturbed him from a stolen siesta.
“Where’s Mr. Munroe?” Stan asked.
Juan shrugged. “He left early last night, sir. He was drinking—” Juan paused and added: “Business has been bad since Saturday.” He made no move to ask Stan inside.
Stan pushed the door open and stepped in. The blinds were drawn downstairs. The place smelled musty. Juan followed him into Toby’s office, and asked inquiringly: “Is there anything I can do?”
“I’m looking for Mr. Munroe’s typewriter. I wanted to leave him a note.”
Again Juan shrugged. “The police have it—a man came from headquarters.”
“When?”
“Yesterday. Mr. Munroe’s fountain pen is in the drawer.”
“Never mind.” Stan sat down at Toby’s desk, looked searchingly at Juan, and said suddenly in Spanish: “Take a chair, Juan, I want to talk to you. Do you know the police are checking up on you?”
A quick malevolent glint flashed in Juan’s black eyes, and was gone instantly. He sat down and replied in English. “I didn’t know you spoke Spanish, Mr. Rice. It startled me.”
Stan persisted with Juan’s native tongue. “Why did you tell the police that your home was in Cuba? You might avoid English for the moment—unless you’re afraid.”
“I was born there.” He answered in Spanish, but a greenish pallor had crept up under his swarthy skin. “Why should I be afraid?”
“I’ll tell you. You stated that you had spent your life in Havana—up until three years ago. That’s a lie—and you know it. You didn’t master English the way you speak it in three years. Furthermore you don’t speak Havana Spanish. It’s as marked as Parisian French. You better tell the truth, Juan. You’re mixed up in a murder.”
“Madre de Dios!” Juan jumped to his feet, and lapsed back into English. “I know nothing of this killing, Mr. Rice. It’s true I’ve spent most of my life in the Spanish section of New York—in Harlem—”
“Why didn’t you say so?”
“I was in a little trouble there. But it was during prohibition. I was selling booze—like everybody else. I was afraid the police here would hold it against me—”
“You’ve told everything you know about Saturday night?”
“Before God, Mr. Rice. Mr. Munroe was here with me until I left—that was just after two. He counted up the receipts for the day—and checked up on my purchases. We went out together.”
“Where did you do time, Juan?”
“It was only ninety days. I served it on Welfare Island. I’ve been keeping out of trouble since. Can’t you keep that quiet, Mr. Rice?”
Stan grinned. “Well, I never caused trouble in my life lor a man who provided me with a drink. I guess it’s too late to start now.” He pushed back from the desk. “I’m going upstairs to have another look around. You wait down here. You might let me know if anyone comes. I don’t want to be disturbed.”
“I won’t forget your kindness,” Juan said with a smile.
Nothing was changed on the second floor. Stan sat down in various chairs in the card room and looked out of the side window, partially obscured by the back of the setteeswing on the porch. The back of anyone crawling past the
