“I live with her.”
“Oh! She said her name was Buchanan. Why don’t you do the decent thing and marry her?”
“She’s married—”
“That makes it tough!”
“You’re confusing me, Millie.” Stan rubbed a hand gingerly over his forehead. “They’re friends of mine, and she loves her husband. I live in the house with them. He’s an engineer who almost went in for professional fighting. I got him his job here in Miami. Is that clear?”
“Perfectly.” Millie brought in a breakfast tray and set it on the table before him. “It means you have to watch your step. Now eat your breakfast and take a shower. There’s a razor in the bathroom if you want to shave. You’ll feel better when I tell you Hogue drove over to Miami Beach and brought you back a fresh suit of clothes, a clean shirt, and a change of underwear—also your toothbrush.”
Stan held a piece of toast half way to his mouth. “Whose idea was that?”
“Your fighting engineer, Donald Buchanan. I could go for a man as thoughtful as that myself.”
Doris had a message for him from Commander Dawson, asking Stan to get in touch with him as soon as possible. Stan called the Commander’s apartment.
“Is it too much trouble to run up here?” Dawson asked. “I have something of interest to show you. After what happened Tuesday afternoon I don’t like to talk over the phone. I hardly feel that I have any privacy in my own place.”
“I’ll be there in half an hour,” Stan promised.
He was puzzled at Dawson’s tone of suppressed excitement. The Commander was inclined to be phlegmatic, verging on stolidity, yet his voice had trembled noticeably over the phone. Either his day of rough weather fishing had upset him, or he had discovered something most disconcerting upon his return to the apartment Stan had searched the day before.
“My head’s gone entirely,” Stan chided himself. “He’s discovered that somebody went through his place while he was away. Now he’s going to tell me about it and I’ll have to look dumb—or admit I’m the guy!”
“Good-bye, Ella Boole,” he said to Millie as he left. “Don’t get into trouble until you hear from me.”
“If I missed out last night with three men sleeping in my apartment—I guess I can last out the day. You’re leaving your clothes here.”
“It’s just a start. The day I crack this murder—I’m moving in with a case of wine.”
“Bring LeRoy,” Millie advised. “I adore those strong silent homiciders. He can help me put you to bed!”
“The right bed?”
Millie shook her curls. “I doubt it if you move in with a case of wine. You muffed it last night after four bottles!”
“I’ll be back, girl,” said Stan, “but don’t expect LeRoy. I’m bringing Gunga Din.”
Dawson opened the apartment door himself in answer to Stan’s ring, and gave a shrewd glance at Stan’s face. “You must have been up early this morning. I tried to reach you at your home. They told me you had gone out. Scotch?”
“I think I will,” Stan was casual. Inwardly he knew there was nothing in the world he wanted more than the soothing coolness of a highball. The weather was also afflicted with a hangover from the previous day, and the drive from Millie’s to Dawson’s under low hung clouds had failed to cheer him. During his search, the day before, he was buoyed up by stimulating excitement. The heavy naval austereness of the Commander’s furniture had made no impression. In the bleak light of the gloomy morning, it suddenly reminded Stan of the railroad station at Bridgeport, Connecticut. Tremors attacked his legs, and he offered a fervent prayer that Dawson would hurry with the drink.
He was striding back and forth when the Commander placed the highball in his hand and said “You look upset, Rice. Sit down and take a shot. I think you need one.”
“I’m not upset.” Stan spread himself out in a chair which proved much more comfortable than he had expected. “I’m just sick of violence and killings. What’s on your mind?”
Fine lines showed on Dawson’s tanned face. “How well do you know the coast off the keys?”
“I’ve fished it to death.”
“Do you know Harold Macomber?”
“Never heard of him.”
“He’s a friend of mine. He has a fishing boat here—or did have until this morning. He left in it for Boston a few hours ago. We made a farewell fishing trip together yesterday.”
Stan choked down his desire to say: “I know it,” with a swallow of Scotch, and substituted: “Some weather!”
“It was worse outside than on land. When we left in the morning it looked pretty good, but two hours out a so wester hit us and we had to run for shelter in Card Sound.”
“South ot Old Rhodes Key.”
“I’ll say you know the coast.” Dawson paused to light a worn pipe. “The engine went bad.”
Stan gave a low whistle. “You’re lucky to be here. Were you inside Carysfort Reef?”
“Luckily. But our anchor wouldn’t hold. We blew into a sheltered cove between a couple of small keys and grounded. I managed to get ashore on one of them in the tender. I knew we would have to kedge off when the wind dropped, and I wanted to find a tree where we could make fast with a line. I think I’ve found the answer to a lot of things which have been puzzling the Miami police.”
Stan’s weariness had vanished. He swished the ice around in his glass and finished his drink. “I’m beginning to get it, Commander. Let’s hear the rest. You bumped into a hangout?”
“There was a shack on the key—recently used. I found this.”
He reached into a table drawer beside him and took out a paper bag. From the bag he removed a dirty pint milk bottle and handed it to Stan. It looked like any other milk bottle, except for a coating of wax around the edge near the mouth.
“It’s been
