“Toby’s fingers must have been covered with glue. That’s a tenacious bunch of prints, Vince, nothing stems to disturb them—washing in the ocean—handling by Button’s confederates—”
“What confederaies?”
“Oh! Button put the diamonds in bottles, then took them out to sea and dropped them overboard so he could run around in a fast boat and pick them up again.”
“Caprilli helped him. He’s not shy on boats.”
“Button’s lawyer will cut holes in that and button it around Mumford’s neck. Don’t try to tell a jury that Dave is trying to sell those to Caprilli—and that he turned them over to Caprilli’s mob to get them ashore for him. You talk like Dave Button was dealing with Tiffany’s.”
The Captain doubtfully chewed the end of his pencil, and made a notation in his book. “I’ll sweat the truth out of him about that, too.”
“You might ask him several things for me.” Stan inhaled with enjoyment. “What did he do with the Detecto-Dictograph that he took out of Ben Eckhardt’s car the night Ben was killed? Ben had it in the apartment over Dawson’s that afternoon—dropped the transmitter down by Dawson’s window and overheard Farraday’s offer of the reward. It wasn’t on Ben, nor in his rooms. I think it was taken from his car when he parked it near the dog track.”
“How big are those things?” LeRoy asked.
“I phoned the company in New York about them. They’re small enough to go in a man’s pocket—battery, headphones, and a transmitter on a long wire. They’ll pick up any sound within a radius of twenty feet—”
“How do you know Eckhardt was in the apartment over you?”
“Insulation, Vince. He worked on one of the wires in the bedroom. I have the threads at home. That isn’t the important thing. I want to know how he picked Ben out of that crowd of people in the dark. I want to know how he threw that knife into Fowler from the porch. I want to know how he knew Fowler was coming to the club on Saturday night—”
“He didn’t know Fowler was coming,” the Captain said convincingly.
“What about the preparations on the screens?”
“They were made, all right,—but never used. I don’t see how you overlooked that.”
“I overlook a lot of things.” Stan took a last drag from his cigarette and snuffed it in a tray. “Go on with the sad story.”
The Captain grunted. “The preparations were made to kill Fowler and set for almost any night. Saturday night looked good. He was playing at the table with Button, so Button took him to one side and told him to go into the poker room and wait. Great danger, understand, no lights. Fowler trusted him—remember that story about the Cragmoor Castle is true. Then Button went out onto the porch and got the knife from where he had it concealed—under the mattress of the swing settee. That’s when Dawson saw him—and Mrs. Staunton saw him return to the room. Up to that point, Stan, you’re right.”
“You’re over-generous, Captain LeRoy—proceed.”
“There was a hitch,—the hitch you’ve mentioned half a dozen times. He found he couldn’t see Fowler in the dark poker room.”
“But he’d told him to sit in the dark.”
“He was afraid of the poker room light and the light in the hall. Together they would light up that dark end of the porch. It was too much of a risk. He concealed the knife on him—”
“Down his pants leg,” Stan suggested quietly.
LeRoy ignored him. “—and came back into the card room. Then just before he left for the Alligator Inn he went to Toby’s typewriter, using the postcard as an excuse, and wrote the note. He was wearing rubber soled sport shoes. When he went upstairs to the bathroom—he sneaked down the hall and threw the knife into Fowler’s back from the doorway. That’s why he had no blood on him.”
“And he signed the note with his own initials?”
“Exactly, Stan,—and shoved it into Fowler’s pocket where Eckhardt found it. You admitted yourself that of all the things that removed suspicion from Dave—that note signed with his own initials was most in his favor. We’ve got an open and shut case—and Mumford agrees with me.”
“It’s a good circumstantial case, Vince. But you’ll never prove that Button murdered Eckhardt—until you find out how Fowler was killed from the porch in the dark.”
“Boloney!” exclaimed LeRoy.
Sian’s face took on an odd expression as though the Captain had struck him between the eyes. “Boloney?” he repeated low and surprised, and then louder. “Boloney!” He jerked from the bed as if the Captain had wielded strings. “By God, Vince, why didn’t I think of that before. You’ve busted this case wide open with a single word.”
Chapter XXVII
A bell sounded from the engine room. The steady throb of the Swampfire became more gentle. The Captain closed his notebook, slipped it in an inside pocket, and stood up. “We’re coming in, Stan. Making a landing without the searchlight is apt to be tough. I guess we’ll have to help. Coming?”
“Yes.” Stan spoke shortly, his quick burst of animation sapped by the Captain’s stolid dismissal. Piqued, he overcame a strong impulse to jolt his friend out of a fixed idea, by revealing the information that ‘boloney’ was not necessarily a sausage. Lips set in uncompromising lines, he followed LeRoy on deck to watch an uncanny demonstration of skill as Dawson eased the Sawmpfire into her berth.
The Captain leaped ashore before the boat was made fast and sprinted for a phone in the hotel. It seemed less than ten minutes later when a clanging ambulance from the Jackson Memorial Hospital discharged an efficient crew at the dock, to remove Bruce Farraday from the boat.
“Will you see to the boat, Mr. Rice?” Eve asked him piteously, as the still form of her father was carried to the waiting ambulance. “Lydia, Tolly and I are going with him.”
“I’ll leave
