Dawson’s face was haggard as he said: “That might have been me! Strangely enough I was certain something was wrong from the start. I must have felt the additional pull of that extra boat in back. I was a fool to go on with the wires on the searchlight cut.”
“You were no more to blame than any of us,” Stan protested. “You told. LeRoy about the wires—and I thought up the trip in the first place. I’m the bird who should be looked over by two doctors and a layman. I’m going to place myself under close observation.”
Silently they set to work to turn out the lights and put the cruiser in order. On the dock, under the flat round liglus, with the darkened boat behind them, they paused momentarily relishing the feel of solid ground. Then Dawson asked: “Where’s your car?”
“It’s in the garage,” Stan said. “Last night I nearly met the same fate as Mr. Farraday. I had to get a new rear glass put in. I’m going to leave these keys at the hotel and take a taxi home.”
“I’ll drive you gladly,” the Commander offered. “My Ford’s parked three blocks up beyond the hotel.”
“I wouldn’t think of it. I’m not going to take you over to Miami Beach at this time of night. It’s past three—”
“And I’m past sleep,” Dawson interrupted. “I’d honestly enjoy the drive. Or you can come out to my place and stay with me. The most pleasant thing I can think of right now is a companion and a bottle. I have the bottle.”
“You have the companion, too,” Stan agreed quickly. “I’ll get sandwiches on the way out. I’ll have to phone from the hotel—for some strange reason kindly friends worry about my health.”
The Commander sat in the spacious deserted lobby while Stan left the keys at the desk, and went into a booth to make his call. It took him longer than Dawson expected, and he had just stifled a yawn when Stan returned, showing obvious signs of agitation.
“I’ll have to change our plans.” Stan was upset and apologetic. “They had an urgent message for me at the house to call another number. I have to go to North East 22nd Street. I can’t tell how long I’ll be.”
“I can drop you there without any trouble, if you like.”
Stan hesitated, regarding Dawson with a speculative air. Then deciding it might be a good plan to take the efficient, unflurried ex-seaman into his confidence, he asked: “Do you know Millie LaFrance?”
“By sight.” Dawson concealed mild amusement.
“I’m going to her apartment. She was pretty close to Eckhardt and she’s been giving me a hand on these murders.” He looked beyond Dawson to the door of the lobby and said: “Damn! There’s Glen Neal. He’s had a tip-off from the hospital already.”
The society reporter saw them instantly and crossed the lobby at full speed. He had on a light raincoat over sports clothes, and appeared to have been summarily routed from a comfortable bed. “What a break!” Gold flecks of emotion were dancing in his deep eyes. He nodded to Dawson, but his words were for Stan. “Are you here or the Farraday shooting, Stan? A nurse in the Jackson gave me a ring. She says he’s bad but not hopeless. Where die it happen? I’ve got to have that story. I can’t get to first base with the hospital.”
“And you’ve struck out with me. I didn’t even know he’d been shot—until you told me.”
He put a hand pleadingly on Stan’s back. “Don’t be that way, Stan. I’ve got a living to make as well as you I’ll dog you all over town if you don’t come clean!”
Stan glanced at the clock over the office desk. “If you’ll print just what I say and not ask me another question—I’ll give you enough in two minutes to scoop the coun try. It’s vital that I leave here right now.”
“The truth?”
“Absolutely—not all of it, but most of it. Are you on?”
Neal whipped out his notebook and tiny pencil. “Shoot!” Stan launched into a terse story of the trip, and the shooting from the unseen boat tied to the Swampfire, while Neal filled the book with hooks and dashes. “That’s all,” he finished.
“It’s enough!” Glen Neal rushed for the phone to put a story on the wires that would smother the country with paper.
The Scotch mist had turned to soft rain when they left the hotel, and walked under the giant palms toward the street to find Dawson’s Ford. Once inside the snug sedan, they drove in silence for several blocks before Stan spoke, then he said: “That wasn’t dope that came ashore in those milk bottles, Commander,—it was diamonds. They were landed on that key to get them by the customs. We found a description of them in Fowler’s car.”
The Commander took his eyes from the glistening streets long enough to look at Stan. “Dope or diamonds,” he said, gravely. “They’ve cost two lives—perhaps three. Your friend, Captain LeRoy, is a capable man but he seems to be at a loss to stop these killings.”
“I think they’ve stopped,” Stan told him resolutely. “The Captain has already made an arrest—or intends to before morning. But I’m going to the real seat of the trouble: I think I know where to find those stones.”
“They’re valuable?”
“They’re more than that. They’re fabulous—a two million dollar gift for England’s new King—stolen between Africa and Holland, and brought here to sell to a gangster. They carry a hundred and twenty-five thousand dolla: reward along with them. I’m going to get them tonight—if I’m not wrong. Could you use some of that money? I need help.”
“A retired Commander’s pay isn’t much,” Dawson said alter a short silence, “but I get it as long as I’m alive,”
“You’re sensible. I don’t blame
