“They were in a specially built compartment in the upholstery of the rumble seat. Scarlett, of the auto squad, found it. Maybe they mean something to you—they’re Greek to me. Look.”
He laid the twelve sheets side by side on the desk. On the first one was typed four lines in German:
Eins mehr wie zehn
Weniger wie ein Bauer
Zeige deine Hand
Bekomme das Paket
The other sheets contained a single line each. Stan listed them one under the other on a pad. He and LeRoy stared curiously at the result:
Stan picked up a pencil from the desk. His hand was palsied as he totaled the figures—424,000. “God in Heaven, LeRoy,” he said in a weak voice. “I don’t think it was dope came ashore in that milk bottle. This was Fowler’s big game hunt, Vince. The words mean Vaal, Fauresmith, Jagersfontein, and Kimberly. The first figures are carats. The last figures are pounds sterling. Four hundred and twenty-four thousand pounds approximately. The two men killed, Vince, died because they knew too much about two million dollars worth of uncut diamonds!”
LeRoy stared at the sheet granite-faced. “The German, Stan?”
“One more than a ten, but less than a Jack. Show your hand to get the pack. The answer is right in front of you, Vince. Count the lines I’ve written on the sheet.”
“Eleven.”
“Sure,” said Stan. “The eleven of diamonds!”
Chapter XXIV
The office was still for a long time. Shallow furrows showed on LeRoy’s forehead, growing deeper as he concentrated on the paper before him. Stan shoved himself higher up on the desk until one foot cleared the floor. He became so engrossed in a problem, which had dimly taken possession of his mind, that he started when the Captain broke the silence with a question.
“Vaal—and these other names you mentioned—what are they?”
“Diamond mines in Africa. Rhombic dodecahedron diamonds have twelve faces—the hexakis-octahedrons have forty-eight. The BW and the YEL at the end describe the color—blue-white and yellow. That’s a choice collection of unusual stones, Vince. I can think of only one world event which might possibly have brought them together—the coronation of England’s new King, Edward VIII.”
LeRoy picked up the phone. “Get me Milton Perry.” He covered the transmitter with one hand. “You think those diamonds were stolen?”
Stan nodded. “Without a doubt. Haven’t you a description on file in the department?”
“Probably. It wouldn’t come to my department. If anybody in this country knows about them—Perry will.”
“The lapidary?”
LeRoy nodded and spoke into the phone. “Milt? LeRoy. What do you know about eleven uncut diamonds all over fifty carats? Have you had anything from the jeweler’s protective?”
Stan sat for five minutes as Perry’s voice clicked over the phone, growing in intensity. Then LeRoy said: “Hell, I wouldn’t be asking about them if I knew where they were. Thanks, Milt!”
“Mr. Perry seemed to be interested,” Stan remarked.
“I don’t wonder. There’s a reward of twenty-five thousand pounds been offered for those stones. That’s some wad, Stan, a hundred and twenty-five grand.”
“What’s the story?”
“They were collected by experts to fill an order from eleven Indian princes—‘Nazims’ or something like that—who wanted them as a token of friendship to Edward VIII. That was right after the death of the late King. The stones were shipped under heavy guard to Amsterdam, Holland, for cutting. When they arrived in Amsterdam—they had turned into pebbles—a clean job of substitution. Right now they’re hot as Havana on the fourth of July.”
“A couple of men have died from that heat prostration, Vince. It took a jewel thief full of cunning and courage to lift those stones. Suppose you had taken them—where would you try to sell them?”
The Captain took a large handkerchief from his pocket, unfolded it, and absently replaced it. “The buyer would have to have the money—first. Even hot ice like that should bring half a million.”
“Check.”
“Then I’d have to know that the buyer was crooked and safe—”
“And had an organization big enough to dispose of the stones after they were bought, and cut. Otherwise your buyer wouldn’t be interested. Do you know anyone with all those qualifications?”
“I think I do,” LeRoy said slowly, “and he didn’t come back to Miami, against my warning, just to watch the bangtails run.”
Fred Fawcett came into the office carrying the milk bottle Stan had left in the morning. “A good set of prints,” he said tersely. “They check with those we have of Toby Munroe.” He placed the bottle on LeRoy’s desk.
“No others, Fred?” the Captain asked.
“Smears,” said Fawcett, and went out.
The Captain regarded the bottle with the same look he might have given a ticking bomb. “What the hell would Toby be doing with that bottle?”
Stan slid off the desk and grinned. “We’ll find out tonight. Maybe he was drinking milk. I’ll see you on the Swampfire at eleven.”
“And leave your LaFrance at home,” LeRoy suggested sourly. “Where did she dig up a name like that?”
“She took it from a fire engine, Vince. She’s dedicated her life to quenching the eternal masculine flames!”
“Quenching hell.” The Captain turned to his desk. “She’s a platinum pyromaniac!”
The Swampfire’s powerful twin engines were turning over easily when Stan went on board shortly before eleven. Four other cruisers were berthed at the Royal Palm Dock, but only one of them showed a light to indicate anyone might be on board.
Stan stepped quietly on the deck, and turned around. The slip was lighted with a few overhead bulbs, dark shaded, and strung along on wires. The illumination fell in hard flat circles, battling against an atmosphere soaked to the point of saturation until every shadow was enhanced. From somewhere along the dock he had heard the sound of a small boat scraping against one of the darkened cruisers.
He listened intently, but there was no repetition. It was impossible to see beyond the flat piepans of light. With a feeling that his nerves were becoming temperamental, he dismissed a strong inclination to investigate, and walked aft.
A tight strung awning of brown canvas roofed a cockpit at the
