The Ford slipped eastward through deserted wetness, and at Twenty-seventh Avenue swung north as Dawson answered Stan’s touch on his arm. The Commander spoke for the first time.
“I think you had better inform the police, Mr. Rice. In my opinion you’re subjecting yourself to an unnecessary risk.”
“I was afraid you would think that.” Stan lit a cigarette before he continued. “I’m playing for a fortune, Commander. I’ve taken much more risk than this—for much less money—”
“You’re not sure those diamonds are there.”
“Im certain they are there. Those diamonds were frozen in ice in the Sunset Bridge Club—and Fowler found it out. He was killed before he could do anything about it. But the diamonds were stolen from the Sunset by the man who rented the apartment over yours for the purpose of hiding them there—the man who listened to Farraday’s offer at your party with a detecto-dictograph hung by your window. He was killed for his clumsiness—Ben Eckhardt. Those diamonds are for sale—to Moneta Caprilli. But the man who froze them in the Sunset’s refrigerator got scared. Tonight he learned that I had been in that apartment over yours—a close shave from losing the stones. But it gave him a hint where they were. That’s why he took them to where we’re going now—”
“There are only a few people,” Dawson said thoughtfully, “who could have used that icebox at the Sunset.”
“Just a few. I’ve played this game to the limit. The man I want will be at the Old Dutch Mill when I get there—but he won’t be within a hundred miles of the place if Hialeah is crawling with police cars. There’s no way in the world of approaching that tower without being seen—except one man on foot in the dark. That’s why I’m asking you to let me out to cross the flats toward it alone—while you go for the police. Give me thirty minutes before you phone them. The radio cars will be there in less than ten after that—and I’ll have the diamonds and the man!”
“I don’t quite get your idea. How do you know this man will be there? He certainly doesn’t know you’re on your way.”
“I’ve made sure of that.” Stan was grim and cold. “He’s already had the information by phone—”
“But nobody knew our plans—”
“Just one woman, Commander. The one who has played with him for a fortune from the start,—the one who has double crossed every man she ever spoke to—”
“My God,” breathed Dawson. “Millie LaFrance!”
The vast unbuilt area of Hialeah is a desolate checkerboard of roads and drainage canals in the daytime. At night the banked up lines of the roads disappear, merged into blank flatness with the lower mud and clay of the squares. The whole becomes a dreary waste of black, occasionally pierced by the speeding lights of a distant motorist.
For more than fifteen minutes the Ford had not passed a house or another car. Stan was crouched on the running board, his head close by Dawson’s elbow which protruded slightly from the window, when the Commander slowed down and said: “Here!”
Stan dropped lightly to the road, heedless of his clothes, and lay flat, watching the red dot of the taillight grow smaller. Finally the Ford turned right toward north Miami, but Stan did not move until its lights had disappeared.
When he stood up he found he had underestimated the hazards of making a way through the dark. The drizzle of rain smarted in his eyes, and only by bending forward was he able to distinguish the white lime-rock which marked the road. Stepping with caution, he bore to his right, gingerly tested the drop of a steep bank with one foot, and at last located the rough narrow road he was seeking. On such a night he knew it was impossible for him to be seen, so still treading with care he started slowly down the road to the mill.
When he found the road had ended by stepping into thick clay, which sloped down into murkiness below, he knew he had passed the mill. Cursing softly, he sat down and eased himself down the left bank of the road until his foot was soaked in, water. There was nothing left to do but brave the waters of the canal.
It was not as deep as he expected. Holding his gun high, in case he slipped, he waded across, offering up a prayer that the night was too bad for snakes, which were more than plentiful around the Hialeah canals.
Intent on following the bank of the canal, he was close to the base of the building before he saw it. Then it was only a looming bulk, to be negotiated entirely by a sense of touch, which failed dismally to locate the door Millie had mentioned. Desperate, he finally struck a match, and found he was standing close to a gaping hole which had once been a window.
He stamped the tiny flame in the mud, and climbed in. If Millie had told the truth, the stairs would be on the east side. He followed the damp wall around until his foot struck an obstruction, then he paused and listened.
Outside a chorus of frogs began a chant, and quit on a signal as though conscious they were overheard. A quick mushy thud sounded startlingly from the other side of the mill, but it was followed by the patter of scurrying feet as a rat ran for cover. Keeping close to the wall to avoid a squeak, Stan mounted the stairs.
He was halted at the top by a trapdoor leading into the room where the bar had been. The blue .38 was in his hand as he pushed it upward and slid through, keeping himself close to the grimy floor.
For minutes he lay without moving before he eased himself to his feet. He had come up nearer the center of the room than he figured, and for the first time
