The Eleven of Diamonds

  The Eleven of Diamonds

  A Miles Standish Rice Mystery

  Baynard Kendrick

  TO

  RALPH AND KAY COONEY

  who know all the answers!

  Chapter I

  Washed in the friendly light of a Miami moon, the yellow walls of the Hotel Pescador bore a touch of deceitful beauty. One honest architect had dubbed the Pescador—“hash-Spanish-rococo”—as kindly friends led him weeping through its falsely pretentious interior, bristling with unexpected courts, nooks, and small semi-concealed stair ways. Whatever its appearance, it was located close enough to the lapping waves of Miami Beach so that guests gasped but weakly when presented with first class charges for second class accommodations. The stairways had their uses, too, since no elevator was considered necessary to serve a three story building.

  On the night the moonlight was playing its pleasing tricks on the hotel walls, Mr. Durlyn Bessinger, and his portly wife, occupants of suite #4, stayed out late. Mr. Bessinger was gambling at the exclusive Gulf Club, several miles north of Miami Beach, and more to the point was winning. Earthquakes and hurricanes could not dislodge Durlyn Bessinger from a game of Chemin de Fer when the cards were running his way.

  Seated at the roulette table, in the adjoining room, Edward Fowler, tall and broad-shouldered in his loose cut English clothes, was watching the Bessingers through the communicating door. Utterly expressionless, as the sweep of the croupier’s rake claimed the last of his hundred dollar stack, Fowler left his seat and strolled into the next room. He touched Bessinger on the shoulder.

  “I’m going to run along home. You seem to be making out better than I did. Good luck!”

  Bessinger turned shortly, prepared to be annoyed at the interruption. When he saw Fowler his scowl melted into a smile, but his gaze returned instantly to the cards. Fowler was an acquaintance of a week’s standing, and Fowler had brought a run of luck to the Bessinger family. In addition, the quiet, slow-moving man, with his slight trace of English accent was a useful guide. He had introduced the Bessingers to more clubs in a week than they had found in two previous months of Miami.

  The gregariousness of habitual gamblers had thrown them together on a few occasions before they spoke. Then Bessinger, after an untoward run of luck in one of the small clubs, had tendered his check for additional chips. The proprietor was skeptical, and Edward Fowler had courteously offered to indorse the check. Later he took his new acquaintances to another plate.

  By dint of indirect questioning the Bessingers learned that Fowler was a wealthy Canadian, with interests in a metal mine near Sudbury, Ontario. The garrulous Mrs. Bessinger made no attempt to conceal the information that Durlyn’s income rolled in steadily from wholesale grain in the middle west. She assured anyone, who cared to listen, that except for the vagaries of the New Deal, Mr. Bessinger had been cursed with few worries for the past ten years.

  As Fowler left the gambling house by a side door, available to a few regular patrons, he was wondering just how much of Mrs. Bessinger’s eagerly conveyed information was true. He paused a moment outside, before leaving the shelter of the doorway, savoring the richness of moonlit ocean to his left, and the delicacy of pin-point lights marking Miami Beach to the south.

  Across the court his roadster was parked, shielded from view by fronded palms. When he left the doorway, he traversed the small courtyard with a noiselessness and speed which would have surprised Mr. Bessinger. He backed out the roadster, and headed south heedless of traffic regulations. The car was doing seventy when he reached Collins Avenue and slowed clown. A few blocks farther along he stopped.

  The street was deserted, except for an occasional passing motorist. He climbed out and opened the rumble seat in back of the car. Under the seat, his groping fingers found the head of a polished nickel bolt. It moved to one side. The cushion of the rumble seat rose to his touch, disclosing a recess cleverly built into the upholstery.

  In the recess lay a bundle of papers held together with a rubber band; a leather key-case, a blackjack; and a formidable Browning automatic in a spring-clip armpit holster. He left the gun where it was, but slipped the blackjack into his coat pocket, and the key-case into the side pocket of his trousers. Back in the car, he drove to a place a few blocks from the Hotel Pescador, and parked.

  A cruising police car passed slowly. He waited until it was out of sight before he switched off the roadster’s lights. Then he climbed out, and on foot took an alleyway which led him to the rear of the hotel.

  The kitchen was on the ground floor, guarded only by an unlocked screen door. A single electric bulb shone dimly on hung-up pots and scrubbed tables. Outside of the kitchen door six empty garbage containers, piled two deep, served as a temporary screen. He stepped behind them and consulted his wrist watch. It was nearly one o’clock. A night watchman was his gravest hazard, and that he must risk.

  Without further hesitation he went inside. Moving with the surety of carefully gleaned information, he sought a door close by the kitchen range. It opened into a servants’ dining-room. Beyond, in a fire-proof stairwell were iron service stairs leading to the floors above.

  Durlyn Bessinger’s suite was on the second floor. Fowler reached the door without encountering anyone in the hall, selected a key from the leather key-case, and entered. His left hand pocket yielded a pair of thin pink rubber gloves, which he slipped on. Moonlight from outside guided him through the sitting-room to the bedroom. He closed the door between the two rooms, and switched on a reading lamp between the twin beds. The door from the bedroom to the hall was locked. He opened it with another key from the case, to provide an additional exit if needed.

  Satisfied with his preparations, he commenced a leisurely skilful search of the bedroom, meticulously returning every article he touched to the exact place where he found it. A wardrobe trunk, ajar in the corner, took fifteen minutes of his time. Shoe trees were removed from three pairs of shoes in the bottom drawer, and carefully replaced. Two pairs of expensive white flannels were shaken out and refolded.

  Twice he snapped out the reading lamp, to stand and listen in the semi-darkness of the room. Once it was voices from a noisy party in an adjoining suite. The second time it was footsteps and laughter in the hall. He had just turned on the light for the third time when he found the letters rolled up in one of Mrs. Bessinger’s voluminous silk nightgowns.

  They were tucked away in the laundry bag of the trunk at the bottom of some soiled clothes. There were seven of them, dated within a period of four months, and postmarked from various places in the middle west. He took them to the light and studied them with interest.

  Four of them were on lettterheads of Crass & Bremen, a brokerage house in Kansas City. They acknowledged, with thanks, the courtesy of various large orders placed by Mr. Durlyn Bessinger. The other three, postmarked from Nevada, Utah, and Arkansas, respectively, came from dealers in hay, grain, and feed. They were ordinary business letters, discussing hard times, and lack of profits. Apparently Mr. Bessinger owned a share in each of the three dealers’ stores.

  Fowler’s gray eyes wrinkled at the corners, but he did not smile. He had been cleverly taken in—wasted precious minutes reading a bundle of letters planted in a nightgown as a decoy. He was about to replace them when a curious fact attracted his attention. All seven of the letters were addressed to Durlyn Bessinger, Esq.—and the usage of “Esquire” is far from common in the United States.

  He spread the letters out fanwise and scrutinized the size and form of the characters in the typing. “By jove,” he said under his breath. “They may all have come from different places—but I’m willing to wager they were all typed on the same machine. I’m afraid my friend has been going to some lengt
hs to establish himself in the grain market. What a man! Using a mailing service to get different postmarks on letters he’s written to himself!”

  He made a mental note of the name “Crass & Bremen”—determined to make an investigation. Meanwhile, it was getting late. He wrapped up the letters in their silky sheath returned them to the laundry bag, and turned out the light. The door from bedroom to corridor he left unlocked. It could be closed when he finished with the sitting-room.

  But the sitting-room proved disappointing. It contained one closet housing two light overcoats, assorted hats, and a couple of sunshades. They were non-productive.

  Almost as a matter of routine he went to the hotel writing desk in the corner and pulled out the drawer. Usually he was the most careful of men, but he was working against time. He failed to see a small black-headed pin drop to the floor under the desk when he opened the drawer. Had he seen it, the chances were ten to one that he could not have replaced it correctly. Durlyn Bessinger had made ten pin holes in the back of the drawer, and no one but Durlyn Bessinger know in which hole that black-headed pin belonged.

  The drawer contained pen and ink, and Hotel Pescador stationery, explaining in brackets under the name that “Pescador” was Spanish for “fisherman”—and illustrating with a bad lithograph the triumphant angler homing with his catch.

  Fowler riffled through envelopes and writing paper, then ran his gloved finger over the paper lining the bottom of the drawer. A letter was tucked underneath. His hand was trembling as he looked at the envelope under the desk light.

  It was a registered letter from Amsterdam, Holland, dated six weeks before, and addressed to Bessingcr at the hotel. Inside was a single sheet of paper with four typed lines:

  Eins mehr wie zehn

  Weniger wie ein Bauer

  Zeige deine Hand

  Bekomme das Paket

  He copied it word for word on a sheet of paper taken from his pocket, then essayed a translation. He was pleased with the result:

  One more than a ten

  But less than a jack

  Show your hand

  To get the pack

  “Nursery rhymes,” he muttered, “it’s like playing with children. I’ll show them my hand before I’m through!”

  But he never did. He left the hotel without being seen, and was dead in ten days with a broad anlace through his heart.

  Chapter II

  A hint of sub-tropical thunderstorm was in the air. Moisture pressed down stickily and worked its way into the cards, making them difficult to deal. Toby Munroe, proprietor of the Sunset Bridge Club, sat on the upstairs porch, desultorily fanning himself. The porch was dark. Through the open window he watched the twelve players who made up the three tables of bridge inside.

  The winter season in Miami was closing with an early heat wave, driving the tourists prematurely north. Ordinarily there were ten tables of bridge going in the club. The card fees from three tables would hardly pay expenses. Four tables on the ground floor, reserved for small stakes players, a tenth of a cent or less, were deserted. The high stakes room, with two tables on the second floor, was dark. There was one vacant table in the room Toby was watching.

  A young man, sporting an immaculate mess-jacket, spread his hand on the table, and with a word of apology to his partner, stepped out on the porch.

  “How are you making out, Glen?” Toby spoke without rising.

  “About even. Eve Farraday’s sweeter than her game.” He flashed a cigarette lighter. Profound dark eyes absorbed some of the flame, revealing dancing gold flecks. His cigarette under way, he asked: “Who is the couple playing against us?”

  “Durlyn Bessinger and his wife.”

  “I know their name, Toby. I want to know if they’re worth any space. She smells like ninety dollars worth of black narcissus.”

  “Black narcotics to me. Why don’t you hold your nose and ask Edward Fowler about them? They’re friends of his.”

  “Thanks for the tip, Toby. Society news is scarce. Everybody’s on the way north.”

  “Business is scarce, too.” Toby sighed. “For two dollars I’ve filled the Sunset with musk and hashish.”

  Glen Neal took a small notebook from a hip pocket and made notations with a tiny pencil. The morning papers would carry comments about Mr. and Mrs. Durlyn Bessinger, if he found them worthwhile. He returned to his table where the others were waiting.

  Edward Fowler was seated just inside the window. He was a big man with prominent nose and chin, noticeable chiefly for his slowness of speech and movement. In a single winter he had built up a reputation in Miami as a splurging gambler, ready to bet heavily on dogs, horses, or cards. His clothes, speech, and type of bridge proclaimed him to be English. Direct inquiry evoked only his lingering smile, and assurance that he was a Bohemian, born and bred.

  Toby, watching him through the window, found himself fascinated with Fowler’s coat. Unmindful of the heat, the big man was wearing a heavy black and white check, adorned with conspicuous round leather buttons. It topped a pair of expensive, wide striped, black and white flannels, and equally expensive black and white sports shoes. The sight of so much heavy cloth made Toby uncomfortably warm.

  He turned away to resume his fanning, when the sound of a shrill voice, raised in heated protestation, effectually put a stop to all play in the card room. Toby jumped to his feet with a muttered curse and went hastily inside. He knew the voice immediately. There was only one voice in the world with its shrill grating shrewishness. It issued incongruously from the cupid-bow lips of Millie LaFrance, and more than one man was willing to bet that Millie was the answer to all dreams about blondes.

  She was going strong when Toby entered. The object of her raucous tantrum was her partner, Edward Fowler. He made two attempts to break in quietly, but she refused to interrupt her tirade.

  “He deliberately threw me!” Millie screamed at the approaching Toby. “It’s the second time he’s done it tonight and I won’t stand for it. Down four tricks on a little slam bid—and we’re vulnerable, too! I don’t like that sort of bridge—and I don’t intend to stand for it!”

  Fowler rose to his feet. Standing, his unusual stature was marked. He towered over the two men and the girl, still seated. His face was darkly flushed. A small vein jutted out strongly on one temple, and beat visibly with an irregular pulsation.

  “You’ll have to excuse me, I’m afraid,” he said softly to Toby. “I have another engagement. I’ll be glad to settle any losses this lady has sustained tonight due to my execrable playing.”

  He turned back to the table, gave a slight formal bow from the waist to the trio he was leaving, and walked from the room into the hall. Glen Neal rose and followed him, evidently to secure more information about the imposing Bessingers.

  Toby Munroe took the chair just vacated by Fowler, and idly riffled the cards. “I’ll fill in if you want to play some more,” he told the slightly mollified Millie.

  She glanced at a jeweled wrist watch, and flashed a smile toward the cold eyes of Ben Eckhardt seated at her right. Everything about Millie was flashing except her voice. The smile had little effect upon Eckhardt, who had a reputation for flintiness when playing with cards or women.

  “It’s just after eleven. I’d like another rubber.”

  “I’ll play,” said Eckhardt. “Let’s cut, Toby.”

  Dave Button, the man on Millie’s left was absently watching the door to the hall with deepset eyes which made dark pools in his wrinkled saffron face. He liked bridge for high stakes, as high as he could get. He was a flawless player, too flawless to suit many people. He watched Glen Neal return to the room and resume his seat opposite Eve Farraday. Then he said to Toby: “Ed Fowler is trying to catch your eye, Toby. I think he wants to speak to you.”

  Dave Button cut a King of Spades and won the deal with Eckardt as his partner. Toby went to the door where Fowler was waiting, stepped into the hall and closed the door behind him. He was back shortly, followed by Juan the clu
b attendant and steward. Juan renewed ice water in the glasses, emptied the full ashtrays, and silently departed for the kitchen.

  “Fowler settled his account in full,” Toby remarked as he picked up his hand.

  “And mine?” Millie looked over her cards.

  “And yours.” Toby’s inflection was far from friendly. “He said he was leaving town.”

  “One spade,” Dave Button bid, and without changing his tone said: “When?”

  “Tomorrow,” said Toby. “I’ll double a spade.”

  From below the windows the sound of a departing automobile came clearly into the room.

  Eckhardt folded his cards into a neat pile and laid them face down on the green velvet cloth. “Pass!” He was listening to the sound of the departing car, noting the clatter of loose gravel against the fender. The gravel was very loose on Satsuma Road which led from the club to West Flagler Street.

  “I don’t think he’ll leave without seeing you, Dave. Have you bid, Millie?”

  “Two hearts.” Millie re-sorted her hand.

  “I don’t think he will,” said Dave Button. “He owes me sixty grand.”

  The Sunset Bridge Club had been dark for two hours. The last player had left before two o’clock. Just after two, Juan Andres, the steward, had locked the front door and gone home. He would return at ten the next morning to clean the club rooms for the afternoon players. The two story house was utterly devoid of life, but not of sound.

  Recurrently, from the kitchen, came the click and whirr of an electric icebox as it turned off and on. In the downstairs hall an electric clock purred with a softness which was indistinguishable during the day. Luminous hands marked ten minutes past four.

  At quarter past four a figure detached itself from the security of the scattered orange trees in back of the house and noiselessly ascended the steps onto the back porch.

  A pencil flashlight revealed the lock of the back door. An instant later the door was opened and closed. The late caller had disappeared inside.