Хал Эллсон: Mink Is for a Minx

Then he got back into the car and drove on toward New York. He wanted to find out how Corelli had come to the United States, and, if possible, where the Partisan leader had been for nineteen years. It might be a help.

Michael Shayne reached New York in the afternoon and went to the Italian Consulate. The Consul was helpful. He did not know anything about Corelli, but he cabled Rome immediately.

Shayne left to pick up the picture of Pietro Corelli at New York Police headquarters. Masters had sent it by messenger. With the picture in his hand, Shayne walked out into the shadows of the tall buildings.

He walked through the city for the rest of the day, into the night, and all morning of the next day. He took five hours sleep in the Algonquin Hotel. By noon of the second day Shayne had checked every steamship that had arrived in the last month, every airline between New York and Rome, every terminal and pier. He had talked to crews and sailors.

He learned absolutely nothing. No one had seen a man named Corelli, or one who looked like the picture of the dead man.

The Consul had received prompt service from Rome. Nothing. As far as the Italian authorities in Rome knew, Corelli had died in the war. There was no record of Corelli’s reappearance.

Shayne left the city and drove back to Westhampton. He had called Lucy Hamilton to tell her he did not know when he would return to Miami. It looked like a long case. Lucy said she would send his mail. Shayne drove fast to Westhampton.

At State Police Headquarters, Masters was waiting. The Captain listened sourly as Shayne told him of his search for Corelli.

“We checked that out two days ago,” Masters said. “All of it.”

“Now you tell me,” Shayne said.

“You didn’t ask,” Masters said, and grinned.

“And the Connecticut cops forgot to ask Olney about Corelli,” Shayne said. He told Masters all he had learned from Olney.

“I think he knew more,” Shayne said. “And I think the killer thought he did too. But what?” Shayne told Masters about the death of Olney. “What about our suspects? Did any of them take a long drive yesterday?”

“All of them did,” Masters said, frowning. “When we checked we found that Finch went into New York to talk to his lawyer. Helpman says he drove out to Montauk just for a drive. Macadam drove up to Port Jefferson to take a sail on his yacht; he sailed alone. Myrna Mix claims she went to New York to talk to her agent. He says she showed up okay, but four hours late and drunk. Sally Helpman drove up to Wildwood State Park and swam alone all day. None of them drove a grey coupe.”

“Fine,” Shayne said.

“We got a report from Bonn on Berger,” Masters said. “Seems they were mighty interested. They’ve been watching Berger for years. Something about a little stealing back at the end of the war.”

“Stealing what?” Shayne said.

“Some German war secrets. They wouldn’t say what, because they have to clear it with Washington first. Otherwise, Berger’s record seems aboveboard. He was a Hauptman in the Signal Corps in all the places he says. He got around so much because he had friends in high places.”

“That’s what he’d use as a cover if he was Gestapo,” Shayne said. He told Masters about the mysterious Steiner. Masters was interested.

“I’ll get after Bonn again,” the State Police Captain said.

“What about Corelli?” Shayne said. “He seems to have moved around a lot also, completely unnoticed.”

“All we know is a man who looked like him took a flight to Chicago about six days ago. I figure he visited Maltz.”

“Anyone see him in Westhampton?”

“No one,” Masters said.

“That sounds peculiar. It’s a small town. He didn’t just fly to Finch’s lawn.”

“It’s mighty peculiar, all right,” Masters agreed. “Suppose you tell me.”

Shayne tugged at his earlobe. A small fact was going around in his mind. Corelli’s clothes — Italian made and smelling of salt water. Shayne stood up.

“I’ve got an idea, see you later,” he said.

Shayne drove from the station back across the small bridge to Westhampton Beach and Finch’s house. The two men who had tried to kill him still did not fit. They had looked Italian. Shayne decided to set a trap, with himself as bait.

Stealthily, Shayne left the house. Stealthily, but so that everyone in the house — and they were all there now — would see him. He carried a shovel and a large metal box. He walked quickly to the high sand dunes above the sea.

The surf was calm and breaking lazily on the beach. Far out three boats, trawlers of good size, were fishing. Two of them were obviously bunker boats fishing for menhaden. The third was of a type Shayne did not recognize.

Smiling grimly to himself, Shayne picked a spot that was hidden from the house but was in partial view from the sea. He began to dig. He dug for a half an hour, slowly. Then he buried the metal box and returned to the house. He made sure anyone could see that he no longer had the tin box.

In the house Shayne played casino with Alistair Finch until just before dark. He had seated himself so that he could watch the spot where he had buried the metal box. He was sure nothing would happen until dark, but he sat at the window just to be sure. Nothing happened. Finch went to dress for dinner. The others were all in their rooms.

Shayne went to his room, got his pistol, put it into his pocket, and left the big house. He crouched low behind the dunes and hurried to where he had buried the box. Behind a dune, from where he could observe both the spot where he had buried the box, and the sea and beach, Shayne lay down and held his pistol in his hand.

Far out Shayne could see the important something he had been counting on. The moon was just rising, and the detective could make out the vague shadow of a distant boat. One boat now. It was very late for a fishing boat to be at work.

They seemed to rise up like ancient monsters from the sea. Shayne had been staring at the empty ocean, the lazily breaking waves, and then they rose from nowhere. They came straight out of the sea.

There were two of them. In the pale moonlight they were indistinct. They could have been real monsters. But actually they were two men with heavy air-tanks on their backs, rubber suits, fins on their feet, and what looked like spear guns in their hands.

Shayne held his breath and waited. The two men took off their fins, looked carefully around, and started up the beach toward where Shayne had buried the metal box. Both of them had flipped down their rubber head hoods. They walked steadily but carefully to the dunes and stood just above where Shayne had buried the box.

One of the men was carrying a canvas-wrapped case. He put it down and opened it. He took a shovel from the case and began to dig. The other man said something to him. The first man grunted in answer. They were speaking Italian.

Shayne stood up and leveled his pistol. “Sorry gents, the money’s not there,” he said.

The two men leaped back as if shot. One of them — he was small, and thin, and wore a dark mustache — reached for a pocket that bulged in his rubber suit.

“Hold it!” Shayne snapped.

The small thin man stopped moving. Shayne walked down with his pistol covering both men.

“I thought you’d be watching me,” he said, grinning. “Did my digging interest you?”

The thin man with the mustache swore in Italian. The other, who was short and chunky, said nothing.

“Try English,” Shayne said. “You Partisans speak English, I’m sure.”

The thin one shrugged. “Of course we speak English.”

“Bet you were surprised to see me alive,” Shayne said. “Such careless work. I hope you did better in the war.”