“I’m afraid you’ve misunderstood what I said, Mr. Rice. I took an oath once to defend and protect the government of this country. To my knowledge, retirement did not relieve me of that obligation.” His words came viciously and strong. “I hate all enemies of society—murdering gangsters—thieves—or pirates of any description. I’ll go to any lengths to stamp them out of existence. Rewards are for the police who earn them. I’m with you to the limit-hut I don’t want pay for doing my duty!”
“I’m sorry,” Stan assured him warmly. “Sometimes I forget I’m not dealing with chiselers. I’ll tell you what I want when I get more information from Millie LaFrance. It’s the house with the light near the corner.”
The street was dark except for a bulb at the corner, ineffectually yellowing dripping palms along the curb, and the light in Millie’s apartment. Stan searched the shadows for a sign of LeRoy’s men, but found no indication that the house was under surveillance.
He mounted the front porch alone, and waited until Millie came down from upstairs and recognized him through the glass of the door. Then he signaled the Commander to join him, offered a brief explanation of his presence to Millie, and they went upstairs together.
Millie was unusually silent. She set out whiskey and soda, which Stan and Dawson both accepted, and settled herself stiflly on the divan, apparently not knowing where to begin. Finally Stan came to her aid.
“Commander Dawson has agreed to help me tonight, Millie. We’ve already had a tough evening. I can’t go into it now—but Mr. Farraday was shot on his cruiser and badly wounded. You can give me the message you have. I haven’t much time.”
“I told you all of it over the phone. I asked you to come up because I happen to know the layout of the Dutch Mill. I’ve sketched you out a rough plan.”
“You’re certain of the facts of the message?”
“Certain, A man phoned here shortly after ten and asked for you. He said he was a Negro janitor you’d given this number, and promised twenty-five dollars if he let you know as soon as anyone entered a certain apartment. A man went in that apartment tonight between eight and nine. The dinge saw a light in the window and hot-footed it up to spy. The man came out carrying a package wrapped in paper—and the dinge happened to have his own car in front of the house and followed him to earn his money. The man headed for open country in Hialeah—and the dinge had to keep a safe distance. He’s certain where the man went—to the Old Dutch Mill. It’s a deserted octagonal tower that used to be the toughest dive in Florida during the boom. That’s the story.”
The room was silent except for the tinkle of ice against Stan’s glass.
“Did he have any idea what the man was carrying?” Stan asked.
“He knew what the man was carrying,” Millie said. “A couple of ice trays from the refrigerator. He called me up later to say they were missing when he got back and looked over the apartment.”
“Two million bucks of hot ice,” Stan remarked softly, “frozen in cold!”
Chapter XXVIII
“Once I worked in this joint.” Mille handed the sketch she had made to Stan. “We used to call it the Old Dutch Gin-mill. Were you ever in it?”
He nodded, his eyes on the paper. “I was on the first floor where they had the bar. What was upstairs?”
“Rooms.” A succinct story was in the single word. “When I found out what went on in them, I decided it was more respectable to take up with Zorrio. The place is separated from the road by a canal. It used to have a wooden drawbridge. They had a watch tower at the top and could see a car coming a mile away. You had to know the proper signal before they would lower the bridge. You remember the road is graded high there, The bridge let you in on the floor with the bar. It’s really the second story.”
“That bridge has been gone for years,” Stan informed her. “Is there another entrance?”
“On the ground level at the back. You either have to cross the canal from the road—or cover nearly a mile of mud flats from the nearest road in back of the mill. There used to be boards placed so you could get across without bogging down—but you had to know where they were even then. The road in front is narrow—and a dead end.” She turned to Dawson. “Watch yourself if you take it. It’s soft rock and full of washouts—and it runs out entirely about a hundred yards beyond the mill—”
“We’re not going to take it, Millie. I have other plans. Tell me more about the inside.”
“There’s not much to tell. Five balconies run around inside, leaving a well in the center which runs clear up to the top. They’re connected by stairs on the east side. The rooms open off those balconies—four rooms to each floor.” She paused. “I’ve heard there was another set of stairs built from room to room on the west side. I never saw them so I’m not sure.”
“What’s on the ground level?”
“Kitchen and storerooms. I was never down there. Zorrio told me they kept their hootch there—sunk in the mud under the wooden floor. You know where it is, don’t you?”
“Between 27th Avenue and the Little River Canal—south of 95th Street. I’ll find it.” He finished his drink and stood up. “Thanks, Millie. Come on Commander, let’s go!”
Millie seized his hand with soft fingers grown cold. “You’re not going out there tonight?”
Stan touched her golden curls caressingly, and smiled. “I’m afraid, Millie, tomorrow would be too late.”
From the shadow of the upstairs porch she watched Stan and the Commander get into the Ford. Choking down a lump in her throat which threatened to
