The Captain placed the tips of his fingers together to form a tent before he replied. When he spoke his words were colored with a slight official reticence. “The department is willing to give Mr. Farraday every consideration, Stan, but a man was killed last night and we intend to find out who pulled off the job. Here’s where you come in.”
He took a capacious wallet from his pocket and removed four torn pieces of yellow paper. Fitted together on a table they formed a check on the Michigan Boulevard Bank, of Chicago. It was dated three weeks before, and called for ten thousand dollars to be paid to the order of Edward Fowler. It bore the signature of Tolliver Farraday.
“This was in Fowler’s room at the Amboy Hotel,” LeRoy explained. He took a small oblong box from the side pocket of his coat and placed it on the table beside the torn check. “The article in the box was in Fowler’s back in the poker room of the Sunset Bridge Club. See if you think there is any connection.”
Stan removed the lid. Doris and Donald, drawn with the fierce fascination of horror, leaned closer to look. In the box lay a broad flat double-edged knife, still bearing ugly russet stains. The edges were dull, but the point was ground to the sharpness of death. Shaped like an anlace, the heavy hilt disproved the name. The blade caught the streaming sunlight, throwing steely brightness into the watchers’ eyes.
“This is the screwy part of the murder, Stan,” the Captain said softly. “That knife looks like it came out of a three ring circus.”
“That’s just what it should look like,” said Stan. “That’s where it came from!”
* The Iron Spiders, CREENBERG, 1936.
Chapter IV
Mr. Bruce Farraday’s suite at the Royal Palms was quite in keeping with the luxuriousness of the hundred thousand dollar Swampfire moored to the docks below Mr. Farraday’s windows. A six fool secretary, answering dutifully to the name of Weems, admitted Stan Rice and Captain LeRoy. Stan was somewhat at a loss to picture such a pugilistic individual, as Weems, engaged in the sedentary task of transcribing Mr. Farraday’s weighty dictation.
The packer shook hands cordially, mentally estimated Stan with a glance from small, rather friendly eyes, and indicated chairs. Seated, he managed to dismiss Weems and indicate a buffet supporting bottles, ice, and soda, by half waving a well manicured hand. Stan, who admired conservation of energy, and well-stocked buffets above all things, warmed immediately to the millionaire.
“Captain LeRoy has probably told you that I’m in a difficult situation, Mr. Rice.” Farraday bit off his words, but terseness could not hide the worry and trouble in his voice. “I have nothing whatever to hide. The police have found a check, signed by my son, in the room of a man who was murdered. I have faith in my son. I want you to clear him of any complicity. I can assure you he is not involved in this in any way.”
“Is it his check?”
Farraday hesitated, glancing from Stan to LeRoy. “It’s on his bank, and the signature looks like his—but he’s just a boy, Mr. Rice—twenty-two. He has never had ten thousand dollars.”
Stan got up and walked to the buffet to study the labels on the Scotch. “Hadn’t we better have him come in?” he asked.
“He and his sister left early this morning to drive to Fort Myers with friends. There was no word of this then. They’ll return this evening.”
“Oh!” Stan selected a bottle and poured two drinks. He knew LeRoy never touched anything while on duty. He felt that some of Farraday’s natural cautiousness might be dissipated under the warmth of the golden liquor. The packer was a man well trained in dissemblance. Stan was certain of that—and equally certain that Farraday’s air of ingenuous frankness was concealing facts which he should reveal for the protection of his own son. Stan added ice and seltzer to the drinks, and asked casually: “Are you and your children on very friendly terms, Mr. Farraday?”
Farraday’s smile was almost wistful. He countered with another question as Stan set the drink on the desk before him. “Can any father answer that, Mr. Rice? My children have been motherless since Eve was born—twenty years ago. I love them devotedly. I’ve tried not to give them too much, but perhaps I have. They have been away from me—school and college.” He sank down lower in his chair, tugging the lapels of his pongee coat into place. “I trust we are on friendly terms. Tolly and Eve are all that I have.”
Stan raised his glass and waited for his host to follow suit. Farraday straightened up, and seemed to see his highball for the first time. He queried LeRoy, courteously, about his not joining them. When the Captain explained, with a grin, about duty and pleasure, Farraday turned to Stan: “I’ll drink to your assistance, Mr. Rice. I hope you will help me.”
“I’ll do my best,” Stan said. They drank together. Stan set his glass down and lit a cigarette. “Captain LeRoy tells me that you, and your son and daughter, all played at the Sunset Club last night. I was wondering if you had ever been there before.”
Again Farraday hesitated before replying. “We hadn’t. An old friend of mine—Mrs. Staunton—came down on the Swampfire with us. We started to play on the boat last night and she suggested the Sunset Club might be an agreeable change. We were all rather tired of playing with each other—shifting money around in the family.”
“You always play for money?” LeRoy put in.
“Yes—but not over a cent a point.” Farraday gave a quiet laugh. “The burden rather falls on me—although my son and daughter do insist on paying me out of their allowances when they lose.”
“And Mrs. Staunton?” Stan watched the bubbles
