“I’d like to wring your neck, Stan. You’re such pleasant company today—and so helpful.”
“I’m a sensitive soul who has been deeply wounded by crude assertions concerning my life and loves—and my head still hurts!”
LeRoy put his thoughts into a couple of words which caused Stan to shudder. “I heard from South Africa, he added venomously. “Try to be of some help. Edward Fowler answers the description of Major Edward Flint, ex-Intelligence Officer, soldier of fortune, prospector, and big game hunter.”
“Prospector for what?”
“They didn’t say. Gold, I presume. Isn’t there gold in Africa?”
“Plenty of it.” Stan had interlaced his strong fingers and was wiggling them with enjoyment. “I was damn close, Vince. Yesterday I got the answer. This clinches it. Edward Fowler was a detective.” He outlined for the Captain the reasons which had brought him to such a conclusion the day before, and finished by saying: “He was big game hunting here, Vince! The big game got him!”
LeRoy kept pursing his lips, an unfailing sign he was excited. “That’s the real dope, Stan,—the first real dope!”
“There may be realer dope than that before we get through—opium! Listen to this.” He repeated the Commander’s story. “I’m going to take a look at that key tonight. Farraday has agreed to let us use the Swamp-fire. I want you to go along. If we’re bucking a powerful narcotic ring, Vince, we don’t dare waste time—nor overlook a bet. Somebody else may discover too much for their own good and be put out of the way any minute,”
“I’ll go, Stan.” The Captain secured his folder out of the desk drawer and opened it before him. “I’ve run up a dead end road on information. Get this: I’ve used every available means to get information about those present at the Sunset Saturday night. The Farradays are wealthy people. Outside of the boy’s tendency to be a bit wild—they’re O.K. Lydia Staunton was a show girl who married into dough. She came of a good family—decent respectable people. Her husband was A. V. Staunton, a merchant. He died in 1928 and left her plenty—part of which she dropped on the market in 1929. I think she plans to marry Farraday.”
“And how,” said Stan.
“You know more about Millie LaFrance than I do.” LeRoy turned over the sheet of paper. “Ben Eckhardt’s dead—a small-timer gone where he belongs. Eric Dawson’s a graduate of Annapolis, retired in 1930 with a Commander’s pay—respectable as my great-aunt’s antimacassar. Served in the war and the far east. They’re the sheep.”
“Glen Neal?”
“Pink tea newshawk who makes a good living dancing with debutantes’ mamas. Brainless and harmless. I’ve known him for five years.”
“All right,” said Stan. “Don’t get mad about it. Feed me the goats.”
“Dave Button. His publishers say he has been writing books about bridge for ten years. His story about the killing on the Cragmoor Castle is true—verified by Scotland Yard. He was acquitted on a self-defense plea, due to Fowler’s testimony.”
“The Major was using the name of ‘Edward Fowler’ at the time?”
“Evidently. That’s what the yard called him in their report. They have no additional information about Button, and they checked his record from soup to nuts at the time of the killing. He’s been all over the world. I don’t like card-sharpers, Stan.”
“Nor wild young lads with too much money.”
“Nor wild young lads with too much money,” LeRoy repeated emphatically, “and the drunken detectives their fathers employ to help confuse the police—”
“As though a score of drunken detectives could add to such perfect baraúnda.”
“My Spanish is faulty, amigo Arroz, but I can guess that baraúnda refers to already existing confusion. Well, you’ve added to it!”
“Umm! I like that,” said Stan. “I think I’ll change my name to Miles Standish Arroz—”
“The chile king!” added LeRoy. “Do you want to hear about the Bessingers?” He lifted a fresh sheet from the folder. “They’re an interesting pair. We photographed a number of letters found in their rooms at the Pescador Hotel. Some of them were from a firm in Kansas City—brokers called Crass & Bremen. The police report that the firm consists of two men and a one room office. Mr. Durlyn Bessinger is an old and valued customer—a retired grain merchant who has made much money gambling on futures. There were other letters from dealers in grain in various parts of the country. They turned out to be mailing addresses—and here’s one for the book—all the letters were written on the same machine.”
“You’ve located it?”
The Captain shook his head. “It may be the one in the office of Crass & Bremen—but what of it? “There’s to law against that. Where does that pair fit in, Stan? We’ve sweated six pounds off that pill-box, Carew, who you shipped in last night, and learned just what he told you at the Inn—no more.”
“That’s all he knows, Vince.” Stan left his chair to sit on the edge of LeRoy’s desk. “We’re getting close to the place where we can make that tub Bessinger and his fat wife loosen up with some information. The trouble is—I’m afraid it won’t do us much good.”
“Why? If your girl friend told you the truth last night—Bessinger certainly has all the dope on the eleven of diamonds.”
“Not all the truth. That’s the rub. He doesn’t know much more about it than Fowler did. If we force him to talk now—unless we jail him—he and his wife will be in the morgue with Fowler the next day. You’ve skipped a couple on your list—Toby and the spick. Give them to me—and I’ll tell you where I think we stand.”
“Toby Munroe has been under my nose for years. His worst crime seems to be carelessness where the gambling laws are concerned. Juan told you the truth about his stretch on Welfare Island. We know damn well he didn’t shoot at you on the roof. He was in the kitchen with a cracked head.”
Stan picked up the papers from the desk. “These