Brett Halliday - Blood on the Stars

Shayne said again, “Maybe.” He rubbed the uninjured side of his jaw, wandered across the living-room to look out the window at the layout two floors below. At his left was the white strip of beach and the lazy rolling whitecaps of the Atlantic Ocean, shimmering and phosphorescent beneath the tropical moon. Like a long finger projecting seaward lay the long wooden bathing-pier for the convenience of hotel guests. Directly beneath the window a concrete walk led along the back of the hotel from the street to the pier. All the lights, normally turned out this late at night, had been turned on again, and Shayne could see two men, presumably from the police force, strolling about aimlessly as though they were searching for clues and didn’t know where to begin looking.

The inner door of the suite opened as Shayne turned back from the window. The resident physician at the Sunlux announced with professional solemnity, “You may come in now. When you question the patient, try not to excite him with news of his wife’s disappearance,” after closing the door.

“How much have you told him?” Painter asked.

“Nothing except that I feared the sedative had been too strong for him and that I would cut the prescription in the future.” He opened the door and stood aside for the three men to enter the bedroom.

Mark Dustin was propped up in bed on two pillows. His normally ruddy face was sallow and had the drawn look of violent nausea. His injured hand was in a plaster cast and lay stiffly extended on the coverlet. He wet his lips nervously when he recognized Painter and Shayne, and burst out:

“What’s all this rumpus about? Where’s Celia? Has something happened to her?”

“What makes you think anything like that, Mr. Dustin?” Painter asked.

“You’re concealing something from me. That doctor’s been giving me a lot of double-talk. If Celia’s all right, where is she?”

“We thought you might be able to tell us that.” Painter’s voice was silky.

“So something has happened! What, in the name of God?” Dustin panted. “What time is it? How long have I been passed out? What did that damned sawbones put in that pill he gave me?”

“It’s almost two o’clock in the morning, Mr. Dustin,” Painter told him. “What time did you take the-sleeping-tablet?”

“A little after midnight. As soon as the doctor left. Celia fixed it for me.”

“And you took only one tablet, Mr. Dustin?”

“Of course I took only one. He said to take one-and then another in half an hour if that didn’t put me to sleep. You’ve got to tell me-”

“We want you to tell us,” Painter interrupted. “How do you explain the fact that four tablets are missing?”

“Four? But I only took the one. Do you mean Celia took the others? She didn’t-she isn’t-?”

“So far as we know, your wife is perfectly all right. Did she say anything about going out later?”

“Of course not. She said she’d stay right here to dissolve another tablet for me if I needed it.”

“Ah. Dissolve it, eh?” Painter pounced on the word happily. “Did she dissolve the first tablet for you?”

“Of course. I can’t take the stuff in tablet form. Look here,” the westerner went on, turning a strained face to Shayne, “won’t you tell me what this is all about? Where is Celia?”

“We don’t know, frankly. It appears that she may have dissolved four tablets for you instead of one-to make sure you didn’t wake up while she was gone.”

“Gone? Where?” Dustin appeared weary and dazed.

“We had hoped you could tell us,” Painter cut in. “Did she say anything to give you an inkling of such a plan? Did you hear her telephone anyone?”

“You’re crazy. She wouldn’t dope me like that and then slip out to meet someone secretly. We-we’re in love, damn it.” His strong features were now twisted in anger.

“None of us are intimating that your wife is keeping an assignation,” said Shayne quietly. “We believe she did give you an overdose of sleeping-tablets and then went out to meet a man, but we think she had some plan or idea of tracing the bracelet. Did she say anything about that? Any hint that she was holding any information back from you?”

“No,” Dustin said slowly. “Not a thing. I don’t-it isn’t like Ceil to keep anything from me.”

“Not even under these conditions?” Shayne asked swiftly, gesturing toward Dustin’s bandaged hand and head. “She knew you were in no shape to take any action, and she wouldn’t want to worry you. Don’t you suppose she thought it best to leave you here safely asleep while she went out on her own?”

“I see. I-don’t know. She might do that. She was always trying to mother me-keep me out of trouble. But what clue did she have? There couldn’t have been anything-” He paused and made a helpless gesture with his left hand.

“Shayne has advanced one possible theory, but I have another,” said Painter pompously. “One which I believe fits the known facts better. Was your wife a wealthy woman, Mr. Dustin?”

“No. She was teaching school when I met her. We were married a few days after we met. But I had plenty. She always had everything she wanted.”

“Are you sure of that, Dustin?” Painter thrust his hands in his pockets and rocked back and forth on his heels, assuming the indulgent air and tone of a professor about to explain the facts of life to a group of adolescents:

“There are many women married to wealthy husbands who yearn for money of their own. Don’t misunderstand me. You may have been very lenient with her, even extravagant. I have no doubt that Mrs. Dustin lived in luxury. But did she have her own bank account? Did she have economic freedom?”

“I never refused her money,” Dustin said angrily. “She had only to ask me when she wanted anything.”

“That’s just the point. She had to ask you, and believe me, Mr. Dustin, we run into situations identical with this quite often. Wives who have to ask for every dollar they ever have. Wives who-”

“Goddamn it,” Dustin broke in angrily, “what are you trying to say?”

“Just this. You bought your wife a ruby bracelet for one hundred and eighty thousand dollars. She knew it was insured,” Painter continued profoundly, “for the full amount. Do you realize how a woman might feel-wearing a fortune in jewelry and yet without a dollar she can call her own?”

“I think,” said Dustin thickly, “I begin to see what you’re driving at. If it’s what I think, I don’t like it. If I were able to get off this bed, I’d-” His left hand doubled into a white-knuckled fist.

“Don’t get upset, Mr. Dustin.” Painter took a backward step. “I’m forced to speak plainly. Remember, the bracelet was stolen the very first time it was worn. The job had every appearance of being carefully planned. Yet you and your wife were the only ones who knew its value and that she planned to wear it tonight.”

“The jeweler knew it-Voorland. And Shayne knew it,” Dustin said, turning his head on the pillow to look at Shayne. “Your pipsqueak of a Dick Tracy here pointed that out earlier this evening. He was accusing you of the job, by God. Now he’s got around to accusing Ceil. Why not me?” He turned back to Painter.

“Because the theft wouldn’t benefit you,” Painter said indignantly. “Have you forgotten that your wife deliberately drugged you and slipped out to keep an appointment with a man whom she thought was Mike Shayne-after telephoning him she wanted to see him about the bracelet?”

“Wait a minute,” Shayne cautioned. “We don’t know what Mrs. Dustin said over the phone to Mr. X. We don’t know but what she wanted to see me about something else entirely.”

“Every bit of it is a pack of nonsense,” said Mark Dustin wearily. “I would trust Ceil with every dime I’ve got-any time and anywhere.”