“Night before last, Juan took them from the apartment to the old mill, and hooked onto our boat intending to get Dawson out of the picture entirely. The nigger janitor followed him and phoned Millie—”
“And you cooked up the brilliant plan that would have put you out of the picture—if Millie hadn’t followed you and saved your neck.”
“I had nothing on him, Vince—except suspicion, and a certainty of my own that he was guilty. You can’t burn a man with that. I might have waited and investigated his record, and turned him over to the Feds for drawing his brother’s retired pay, but unless we jailed him on nothing—he’d have knocked off Juan—”
“A small loss,” LeRoy grumbled.
“I wanted those diamonds,” Stan assured him with a smile. “And I did have fun accepting his story about the smuggling and the non-existent retreat on the keys. Failing to kill me with the aid of Fowler’s car—he tried so hard to sell me the idea that he’d been fishing the day before that he stubbed his toe. I accepted his offer to take me there. He probably knew some shack on the keys. We’d have ended there—if Farraday hadn’t been shot!” Stan gnawed at the knuckle of his left hand. “There was always a fair chance that I was on the wrong track. I didn’t dare pass it up. He actually had me going, Vince, when we started out on the Swampfire—and on the way home you nearly sold me a bill of goods on Button.”
“Nearly!” The Captain rose. “I’m always so near and you’re so far. Maybe you know in which pocket he kept that Hispano-Suiza of Fowler’s.”
“There are twelve garages in back of the apartment house. I think it was in one of those belonging to an un-rented apartment. He undoubtedly kept it to search—but didn’t find the stuff hidden in the rumble seat.” Stan hesitated, and scratched his head. “Do you think that bus could be bought, Vince? I might take a tour this summer. I’ve never owned a car as fast as that—”
“Anything can be bought,” said LeRoy at the door. “Including blonde drivers for men with broken arms. By the way,” he added, sheepishly, “the doctor said a mild stimulant wouldn’t hurt you—so I’ve ordered hall a case of Scotch to last you out the week.” He left, with a wink to Millie, who was waiting outside.
“Close the door,” Stan said mysteriously, when she came in the room. “Now look in the bottom of the closet. Under my bathrobe you will find a large box—a very large box. It contains two whole roast chickens with trimmings—smuggled in by that woman whose name is Doris. In a bucket of ice in the box are four bottles of Chateau d’Yquem—smuggled in by her husband.”
“Let’s get fried,” Millie suggested, hopefully.
“First I have a talk to perform,” Stan told her. “Afterwards I will join you gladly. The nurse said too much food would make me ill. They have fed me nothing—and I’m getting ill. I intend to demolish an entire chicken and throw the bones down in my bed. Will you join me, Millie LaFrance?”
“In the bed?”
“In the bag,” said Stan. “I’m Miles Standish Rice—The Hungry!”
Turn the page to continue reading from the Miles Standish Rice Mysteries
Chapter I
A crowd of discouraged men was huddled against the side of the building on Sixth Avenue, when O’Shanigan came downstairs and tacked a notice on the bulletin board. It was a rainy Wednesday, a few days before Christmas. The men had long since given up hope of finding work to brighten the holidays, but the sight of O’Shanigan, in person, always created a stir in the waiting crowd.
O’Shanigan’s Employment Agency had a reputation a trifle above the average. The waiting men knew that a job was worth trying for when the big Irishman hauled his bulk down the dark stairs and posted the notice himself. Minor jobs, such as second-cook, waiter, or dishwasher, were invariably put up by O’Shanigan’s assistant, a spindling man whose name was much of a mystery to the job-seekers.
Out of the entire crowd there was only one who had a glimmer of encouragement. The paper announcement read:
WANTED: Well educated man to take charge of private electric plant in Florida. Must also act as companion to elderly invalid. Three months, beginning January 1st. May be permanent.
A young man, whose shabby overcoat could not conceal the play of muscles across his broad shoulders, pushed his way into the uninviting entrance and slowly ascended the stairs.
It was late in the afternoon. O’Shanigan was alone, seated at his well-worn oak desk, gazing out of the large dirty window at the dripping structure of the elevated railway. Without taking his pipe from his mouth, or bothering to turn his head, he said: “Nothing doing today. Come in after Christmas.”
The young man was not to be put off so easily. “It’s Don Buchanan, Mr. O’Shanigan. What about that electric plant job in Florida?”
The Irishman became more interested. He effectually disguised a kindly and generous nature with the battered face of an ex-pugilist, and the studied coldness of a man who is brought into daily contact with the tragedies of a hundred or more of his fellow men. He had succeeded in getting a couple of temporary jobs for Donald Buchanan, and really liked the boy.
He pulled out an old wooden file box and thumbed through the cards, searching for the Buchanan record. Donald took a seat beside the desk and watched him.
“What do you know about electric plants?” O’Shanigan asked, after he had read everything on both sides of the record.
“I’m a graduate electrical engineer—M. I. T.—although I may not look it You have it all down on there—”
“You’re a waiter and a soda jerker—going by the jobs you’ve had from me.
