Patterson laughed shortly. “I’ll say he did. That’s the first rod I’ve ever seen glad to go to jail. You had me going for a while, Mr. Rice—and the lady here was actually crying.”
“Alligator tears,” said Stan, “or wine running out of her eyes. She got me quite enthusiastic about the possibilities—although there are times when I recognize the power of my own Thespian proclivities. I could fairly hear the crunch of Carew’s bones in the hungry reptile’s jaws. Please, little girl!” He took the tilted bottle away from Millie, and finished it himself. “You drink too much for a lady—and you have to be friendly with the blown-up Bessingers. I’ll bet he won’t buy you wine at eight dollars a bottle.”
“Don’t worry. Mr. Bessinger’s a gelmun—”
“A what?” Stan choked on the dregs of the bottle.
“A gelmun,” Millie persisted. “He works me over with feverish eyes whenever I get in range—and his wife isn’t looking. Thash it! You get the wife—I get the gelmun!”
“We’re nearly there,” Patterson remarked. “Are you sure you’re all set, Mr. Rice?”
“Slow down a minute.” Stan straightened up. “I probably wouldn’t do this if I was sober, Millie. We’re taking a long chance—but I’ve got to find out why Carew was watching the Bessingers. LeRoy has been through their stuff at the Pescador—and found nothing. We’ve found nothing anywhere—and I don’t feel like my own life is worth much until I do. The next attempt to get me off this case may be successful. Am I right, Pat?”
The detective brought the car to a stop. “I’m afraid you are, Mr. Rice. I’ve handled a lot of mugs like Carew. If he didn’t spill everything tonight I’ll turn in my shield.”
“I know the kind, too, Stan,” Millie put in, her speech more steady. “He’d have squealed on his mother when you finished with that gator act.”
“All right,” Stan banged a fist impatiently on one knee. “Here’s what we know: Carew is getting twenty-five dollars a day to report every move the Bessingers make. It’s mailed to him daily from New York, in cash to General Delivery—try to trace that! He’s been on the job ever since the Bessingers came to Miami—and mails his reports to the Hoxby Detective Agency, also in New York. They’ll be helpful I’m sure. He was employed by an unknown man who approached him in a New York saloon. I think we’ll have a swell time trying to connect Moneta Caprilli with that set-up. We damn sure can’t jail the Bessingers and charge them with being followed by Sniffer Carew.”
“Can’t the New York police get some information out of that Hoxby outfit?”
“Not a chance, Pat. They’ll be holding all Carew’s reports on file for a client named John Smith—who has paid them but neglected to call—and they won’t have an idea in the world why the Bessingers are being tailed—or who the Bessingers are. It’s a blind alley. I wish I knew the right thing to do!”
“I thought you decided that!” Millie removed her hat and shook out her curls. “Do you always get so gabby alter one or two drinks? You spent an hour telephoning to locate the big noise and his wife—after they left the Inn. Now that we’re here—the least we can do is stop in and watch them lose their money, while you buy me a drink.”
“That’s one burden,” Stan said savagely, “that’s going to fall on Durlyn Bessinger: He can pay through the nose for his feverish eyes.”
Patterson parked the Buick in the courtyard, which Edward Fowler had crossed less than two weeks before, and the police car with Hogue driving, rolled in close behind it and stopped. Two lights, on wrought-iron posts, flanked the entrance to the Gulf Club, shining spongily yellow through the rain. The windows were curtained and dark, giving no hint of the brilliance inside.
Stan had no card, but Millie assured him she could get him into any place in Miami where he could spend money, and Stan believed her. They crossed the courtyard on the run, and stood in the vestibule for a moment until the door opened to admit them. A short suave gentleman in evening clothes gave Millie a cordial welcome, and made out a card for Stan, signing it with an indistinguishable flourish.
“I leave you in good hands,” he told Stan, with an automatic smile. “Good luck!” He was gone through a door.
They passed through a reception room, sky lighted and much be-palmed, where small tables were set about a playing fountain. A girl came through swinging doors to their left, bringing with her the mumur of voices and the drone of a croupier. Millie tightened the pressure of her hand on Stan’s arm.
“They’re playing the wheel. I spotted him as that girl came out—”
“Oh, Mr. Rice!” Stan received a coquettish tap on the shoulder, and turned to face Mrs. Bessinger. “I never knew you indulged in anything so wicked as gambling. I thought it was only we weaker mortals who were so addicted. Durlyn will be so pleased to see you. You made such an impression on him at the Commander’s party—”
“Well dearie me!” Millie’s eyes squinted owlishly, and she slowly shook her head from side to side. “Ish Mrs. Beshinger—go’ol Mish Bessissger. Si’right down. Mis Rice’s ordering wine—lo’s go’ol wine. Chateau Why-queems.” She threw her arms around Mrs. Bcssinger’s large neck, and favored her with a resounding kiss. Borne down by Millie’s sluggish weight, Mrs. Bessinger found herself heavily occupying a chair.
“Gracious!” she exclaimed, gasping heavily. “Did I trip you, Miss LaFrance?”
Millie dissolved into weak laughter on Mrs. Bessinger’s shoulder. “Di’she trip me? Down we go an di’she trip me? Where’s go’ol Mister Durlyn Bessissger—darlin’ol’ Durlyn? Mus’ ashk him di’she trip me!” She freed herself from Mrs. Bessinger with an agility rather startling in one apparently so drunk, and tacked her way through the swinging doors.
Stan pulled a chair up close to Mrs. Bessinger, and
