Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 209 - Crime Over Miami

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CRIME OVER MIAMI
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. CRIME'S TWO ACES
? CHAPTER II. THE LAW INQUIRES
? CHAPTER III. ACROSS THE CAUSEWAY
? CHAPTER IV. MIAMI MADNESS
? CHAPTER V. THE LAW WAITS
? CHAPTER VI. THE NEW ARMY GAME
? CHAPTER VII. THE PAYOFF
? CHAPTER VIII. THE PERFECT ALIBI
? CHAPTER IX. CRANSTON MEETS CRANSTON
? CHAPTER X. CRIME'S SECOND BARREL
? CHAPTER XI. DOUBLE DOUBLE
? CHAPTER XII. CRIME TAKES A HOLIDAY
? CHAPTER XIII. NIGHT OF BATTLE
? CHAPTER XIV. BATTERED CRIME
? CHAPTER XV. DEPARTURE FROM MIAMI
? CHAPTER XVI. THE TROPICAL ISLE
? CHAPTER XVII. CARNIVAL IN TAMPA
? CHAPTER XVIII. CRIME'S WATERLOO
? CHAPTER XIX. SOUTH OF TAMPA
? CHAPTER XX. MASTER OF CRIME
CHAPTER I. CRIME'S TWO ACES
THERE was no moon over Miami.
Instead, the city itself provided a mass of glow against the January twilight. Seemingly, Miami was afloat
upon the sapphire waters of Biscayne Bay. The Magic City provided illusion, along with grandeur.
In atmosphere, as well as appearance, Miami was deceptive. Some regarded it the hub of a tropical
paradise, where care was forgotten and gaiety ruled. To others, Miami was a happy hunting ground
wherein they could swoop, like vultures, upon hapless prey, then wing back to hidden nests.
Among the throngs that teemed the hotel-lined boulevard, millionaires rubbed shoulders with marauders.
In bars, they sat elbow to elbow, and it was difficult to tell which was which. Talk was cheap during the
winter season, but it carried importance when backed by a heavy bank roll. Such money was plentiful;
where it came from, was the question.
The big spenders of tonight might be the four-flushers of tomorrow. One lucky afternoon at the Hialeah
racetrack could turn a comparative pauper into a temporary plutocrat. On the contrary, men of actual
wealth were apt to tighten their purses after a bad day. Weeding the real from the false was something
that bothered no one, except the Miami police.
Spotting crooks in Miami was always more difficult than in other cities. Shady characters came from all
parts of the land, and usually failed to announce themselves. In addition, hoodlums and racketeers always
had an alibi for their presence. Miami was a place where people came for a vacation. A man might
choose to take time off from a crooked vocation, as well as a straight one.
On this particular evening, two men chanced to meet on a side street just off Biscayne Boulevard. One
was sleek and smooth-faced; his olive complexion seemed unusually sallow, in contrast to his white
gabardine suit and Panama hat. The other, heavier of build, had a broad face, topped by a high forehead.
His head was hatless; he was wearing a light summer suit of dark gray.
Their eyes met in mutual recognition, but neither showed a change of expression. Almost by accident, it
seemed, they strolled in the same direction, toward a convenient arcade that was well lighted, but not
thronged. Being casual was part of their act; they were a pair of crooks who knew how to cover their
identities.
The sallow man, in white, was Lee Clesson, ace of swindlers, who handled all big con games in town.
The broad-faced, gray-clad individual was Hawk Silvey, who pulled the strings in every major robbery
that occurred in Greater Miami. Each was an important cog in the criminal machine that was active during
the current season.
Crime had taken a new turn in Miami. Behind it was a brain who worked through lieutenants like Clesson
and Silvey. Yet, like the devilfish of tropical climes, that brain was hidden. On the surface, all was much
as usual. Con men, stick-up specialists were active, as always, but this year they were taking orders.
There were indications of the new regime. Crime was taking a more than normal toll, whereas arrests
were below par. There was other evidence, too, that criminals had banded for the season, but, so far, the
law had gained but scattered inklings of systematized crime.
Investigation had not yet disclosed lieutenants like Lee Clesson and Hawk Silvey, aces in the hand of a
hidden master criminal whose existence was scarcely suspected. Storm warnings were out; but how hard
crime's hurricane might hit, was still a matter of sheer speculation.
Two men, at least, knew certain phases of crime's strength; those two were Lee Clesson and Hawk
Silvey. As they emerged from the arcade, they continued to a common goal, a pretentious side-street
doorway that bore the sign:
PALMETTO CASINO
The place in question rated as a private club. It was open to members only, though the qualifications
were not strict. The Palmetto Casino had been nurtured through several seasons by Commodore
Denfield, long known in aristocratic gambling circles.
No one knew how far the commodore expected to get with his venture; but certain things were evident.
Unless he anticipated some lucrative future, Denfield would not have opened the casino. Once having
opened it, he had been on constant watch for any changes in local policies that might further his
enterprise.
A man of reputed wealth, experienced in the handling of gambling establishments, Commodore Denfield
had a unique reputation. Though of doubtful repute in higher social circles, he was strictly apart from the
underworld.
Similarly, though famed for his willingness to take risks, Denfield made it a policy to stay within the limits
of the law. Whenever he pushed himself into trouble, the far-sighted commodore provided himself with
means for a graceful retreat.
Admission to the Palmetto Casino was by membership card, and a stalwart doorman blocked the
entrance to the upstairs premises with stern demands for such tokens. He kept check on all arrivals; they
were listed on a register in the preserves above.
Everything at the Palmetto Casino was on the up and up. As some wiseacres translated "up and up," a
visitor went up the stairs, and then up the river— to the extent of his bank roll.
Nevertheless, Class A patrons were never lacking in the Palmetto Casino. As for persons of a Class B
status, they simply were not admitted. When Clesson and Silvey paused enviously in front of the lower
door, passers-by who knew the repute of the Palmetto Casino would have given odds that neither man
would be admitted.
The doorman eyed the pair suspiciously, as their hands drifted to their pockets. Edging closer, Clesson
and Silvey extended their fists and opened them. Neither man showed a membership card. Instead, each
displayed a small wooden ball; each sphere had a flattened surface that bore a number. Lee's number
was 16, Hawk's was 25.
Eyes toward the street, the doorman let his gaze go from one direction to the other. Hand behind his
back, he pressed a buzzer beside the door. Stepping between Lee Clesson and Hawk Silvey, the
doorman advanced a few paces to the sidewalk. The doorknob began to click; pocketing the balls that
bore the numbers, the two crooks moved into the Palmetto Casino, ignored by the doorman.
Up the stairs, through a spacious lounge, between a pair of ornate curtains that led to an inner gaming
room, the pair continued their way unchallenged. Eyes were turned the other way when they went by;
alone of all visitors to the casino, they were not requested to sign the membership book.
There was life in the gaming room. A dealer was busy at a faro table; patrons surrounded a tipping
chuck-a-luck cage. Roulette wheels were spinning merrily, while the clatter of slot machines came from
along one wall. As Clesson paused near the chuck-a-luck cage, Silvey nudged him and gestured toward
the slot machines.
"I'll waste a few bucks on the one-armed bandits," Hawk undertoned to Lee. "Meet me over at Manuel's
wheel as soon as he goes off duty."
Manuel was a croupier at one of the roulette tables. His heavy face was double-chinned, his dark eyes
thin-slitted. He paid but little notice to any of the patrons; when his shift was finished, he turned to see
two men standing by.
The arrivals were Clesson and Silvey; their fists opened, displaying the balls with the numbers. Manuel
gave the slightest of nods and stalked to a cigar counter. The pair followed.
There, the wooden balls dropped into Manuel's pudgy hand. From a pocket he produced two other
spheres, with the identical numbers 16 and 25, slipping them to Lee and Hawk, respectively. Then, in a
low, oily voice, Manuel informed:
"Coppers coming up soon. The rear route is open, if you need it."
EXCHANGING glances, Clesson and Silvey shook their heads. They decided that they wouldn't have
to use the rear way that Manuel had mentioned.
"We'll mix with the customers," remarked Lee in a smooth, confident tone. "Why should any dumb
copper figure us as different from them?"
"Yeah, why?" queried Hawk, his voice harsher. "Besides, what chance has any copper of taking a
look-see in this part of the joint? The commodore is strict, ain't he?"
Even Manuel grinned at Hawk's last comment; the croupier went his way, and the two crime aces
remained by the cigar counter, which had no attendant. Turned away from the rest of the patrons, Lee
and Hawk were examining the spheres that Manuel had exchanged for theirs. Each ball was a trick one.
The center unscrewed when twisted along a left-hand thread.
From the cavities within, the crooks obtained thin-wadded papers. Each screwed his hollow ball tight
shut again, dropped it in his pocket. Individually, each examined the message that had reached him
through Manuel.
"Get a line on this," undertoned Lee. "I'm to dig up a couple of the boys and put the heat on a stiff named
Harvey Brenbright. That's him, the fat guy playing over at the faro board. From the piker bets he's
making, you wouldn't figure he carried a big roll."
Hawk threw a sideward squint.
"Thought you had your schedule all mapped out, Lee."
"This won't be a trim," returned Lee, smoothly. "It's to be a stick-up, after Brenbright leaves here. Kind
of away from my line, but the boss knows best. It will get the coppers after a lot of smart guys who
haven't lined up with the racket."
Hawk nodded. He seemed pleased by the instructions that he had received.
"It's a double," he told Lee. "Mine's a society dame named Marcia Tyrone, and her boy-friend Georgie
Agnew. There's the dame, over by Manuel's wheel. She's the one that looks like a jewelry-store
window. The glamour boy with the marcel and the stack of fifty-dollar chips is Georgie."
Turning to view the persons mentioned, Lee saw a stir beyond the curtains that led to the outer lounge.
He nudged Hawk and the pair parted, to make themselves inconspicuous.
Word had been flashed to the manager of the gaming room that unwanted visitors, representing the law,
were on their way up to see Commodore Denfield. Neither Lee Clesson nor Hawk Silvey had forgotten
the admonition of Manuel, the croupier.
Lee slid his thin frame among the chuck-a-luck players, while Hawk disposed of his bulkier figure near a
corner slot machine, where he was practically out of sight. Both aces were anxious to escape
surveillance, and they were luckier than they supposed.
In another corner was the concealed door of the rear passage that Manuel had mentioned, a portal
concealed by a portrait of a Spanish grandee, that Commodore Denfield had brought from Cuba. The
center jewel of the painted grandee's belt was a peephole, through which an eye was viewing the scene in
the gaming room.
The eye was keen, its probing gaze the sort that could ferret out rats, no matter how they disguised
themselves. Fortunately for two such unworthies, Lee and Hawk, the probing eye was attracted away
from their direction.
Between the double curtains that hung across the entrance to the gaming room, a steel door was slithering
shut, to block off the gambling preserves from the outer lounge.
The eye moved from behind the loophole. A black-cloaked form shifted in the deep rear passage that
formed the emergency exit from the Palmetto Casino. There was a swish in the darkness, the whisper of
a low, repressed laugh.
The intruder who had found his way through the secret passage into the Palmetto Casino was none other
than The Shadow, archfoe of crime. Intent upon rendering service to the law, The Shadow had chosen
the hottest of Miami's hot spots as the place to begin his operations!
CHAPTER II. THE LAW INQUIRES
As the slithering door of steel sealed the hidden gaming room, cutting off all sight and sound, two men
reached the lounge of the Palmetto Casino through its main entrance. One man was rangy, tanned of
face, and solemn in expression. Mere sight of him brought polite bows from attendants in the lounge.
The rangy man was Detective Steve Galden, of the Miami force. His companion, stocky of build,
swarthy of complexion, was easily labeled as a visiting official from some other city, particularly when
seen with Steve. It was Galden's habit to show such visitors around the town, and the tour often included
the Palmetto Casino.
Galden gave a steady eye to the overpolite head waiter who sought to bow the new guests to a table.
"Cut the courtesy, Tony," snapped Galden. "We want to talk to the commodore. Tell him we're here."
Tony did better than Galden requested. He bowed the visitors across the lounge to a door that he
opened without ceremony. They stepped into an office, where a baldish man with a smooth face and
high-bridged nose was dictating letters from behind a desk.
Looking up, the baldish man adjusted a pair of pince-nez glasses and smiled a greeting.
"Hello, Galden!" he said, in a pleasant tone. "Close the door and have a chair. Glad to see you."
"Glad to see you, commodore," returned Galden, in a terse tone. "Meet Inspector Joe Cardona, from
New York."
Commodore Denfield extended a long arm across the desk and gave the visitor a firm handclasp.
Sweeping a box of cigars from a drawer, he pushed them across the desk and continued with his
dictating, which he finished promptly. Dismissing his secretary, the commodore folded his arms and
settled back in his chair.
"What can I do for you, Galden?"
Professionally, Galden let his gaze sweep the room. He noted a portrait of a musketeer behind the
commodore's desk and fancied that it led to a passage that would give access to the hidden gaming
room, as well as exit from the Palmetto Casino. But those factors did not concern Galden for the present.
What the detective failed to notice was an eye that peered through a button on the portrait's shoulder.
The Shadow had found a new scene to interest him: Denfield's office.
"No favors wanted, commodore," informed Galden. "I just dropped in to do you one, gratis. You're
through in Miami, and it's about time you knew it. A few days more and we're going to crack down, if
you're still here."
"But I thought -"
"You thought you had a private club," interrupted Galden, "and that you could get an injunction restraining
us from interfering with you while the season lasted. It won't work, commodore. We're ready to give you
both barrels!"
Commodore Denfield arose; for the first time, Cardona noted the gambling czar's stoop-shouldered
posture, which had not been evident while the man was seated. Wearily, the commodore shook his head.
"I thought I was entitled to a better break," said Denfield, in a disappointed tone. "I've been rendering
you fellows an important service by running the Palmetto Casino."
"I know what you mean," rejoined Galden. "But it isn't working out. We weren't sorry when you opened,
because we wanted to keep winter visitors away from the jook joints out in the sticks, where
sharpshooters were spotting them. Business has been falling off in the jooks, but things are as bad as
ever. Swindles, robberies -"
"You've had better luck stopping them," broke in the commodore. "You can't deny it, Galden."
"Only because they've been more concentrated," argued the detective. "But the spotting is going on just
the same as before. For all we know"—he eyed Denfield coldly—"it may be happening right here in the
Palmetto Casino."
"Not a chance in the world," returned Denfield. "It might be"—he tilted his head as he spoke—"that those
jobs originate over at the Beach."
CARDONA recognized that Denfield had scored a hit. Joe had been learning things during this vacation
in Miami. He knew that "jook joints" were the Florida equivalent of Northern roadhouse: dives located
outside the city limits, hence beyond the reach of the metropolitan police.
Also, Cardona knew that Miami and Miami Beach, though part of the same resort area, were under
different police jurisdiction. When crime shifted back and forth across the Bay, each bailiwick blamed the
other.
Cardona was inclined to favor Miami rather than the Beach, not just because he knew Detective Galden,
but because Miami was the more important area and therefore entitled to consideration.
Beneath his breath, Galden muttered some reference to the Beach, and Cardona saw Denfield smile. But
the detective wasn't going to let the commodore's argument stand.
"If you're right, commodore," declared Galden, "it's your hard luck, just like it's ours. If we accuse the
Beach of harboring scum, they'll pass the compliment right back to us. We need to show a clean slate,
first."
"Wait here," suggested Denfield. "I shall be right back."
Commodore Denfield left by the main door of his office. Galden and Cardona puffed their cigars under
the watchful eye of The Shadow. Soon, Denfield returned with the registration book.
"Tonight's patrons," he stated. "I should say members. Look over the names, Galden. You will find that
all are reputable persons. Probably Inspector Cardona can identify many from New York."
Saying that he would have to return the register to the door, to check the leaving times of patron's,
Denfield pressed a buzzer for his secretary.
Galden said he would like a copy of the list, so the commodore ordered the arriving secretary to type
one. Then, from behind his desk, Denfield queried:
"Tell me, Galden—why should you or anyone else presume that crime spotters are working in this
casino?"
There was a tense lull, while the clatter of the typewriter dominated.
Then abruptly, Galden came to his feet. One hand clamped to the desk, he thrust the other in his pocket.
Cardona thought that Galden was reaching for a gun, until he saw that his friend's fist was tight-clenched.
"Crime is organized, commodore," spoke Galden, meeting Denfield eye to eye. "If you don't believe that
mobsters are working together"— there was sarcasm in the detective's tone—"take a look at these!"
Galden spread his hand wide. In his palm lay three wooden balls; each small sphere had a flattened
surface that bore a number. They were tokens of the solid type that Lee Clesson and Hawk Silvey had
so recently handed to Manuel, the croupier. But these did not bear the numbers of crime's two aces.
"Bolita balls." Denfield gave a shrug as he spoke. "What have they to do with crime, Galden?"
"We've taken them from crooks," returned the detective. "Men who said they were carrying them for
luck. We think different. It could be that thugs flash these to one another to prove they belong to the
organization."
"An excellent theory, Galden." Denfield seemed impressed. "But what has it to do with me?"
"Just this. Bolita is the biggest gambling racket in the South. It also happens that gambling is your trade,
commodore."
Rising from the desk, Denfield delivered a chuckling laugh. He clapped an affable hand on Galden's
shoulder, and reached to receive the list that the secretary was drawing from the typewriter.
Denfield suggested that Galden check the list with the membership register, which the detective did.
Then, as he ushered his visitors out through the door, Denfield said:
"If I could organize bolita, Galden, I wouldn't be bothering with the Palmetto Casino. But no one ever has
controlled bolita, and never can. It's a type of gambling that is entirely out of my line -"
THE door closed, cutting off the rest of Denfield's speech. The secretary was following the commodore,
and both had forgotten an important article: the membership register.
Since Galden and Cardona had also left, the office was open to The Shadow. He found a catch behind
the musketeer portrait; pressed it.
With The Shadow, it wasn't a case of comparing the register with a duplicate sheet that he could examine
at later leisure. He had to make the most of a brief opportunity, mentally tabulating the names he saw.
The glint of keen eyes showed that the cloaked visitor was doing so, in remarkable style.
Few of the names were unfamiliar to The Shadow. He had looked into matters concerning the Palmetto
Casino before paying this visit.
Knowing the "membership" of the gambling club, The Shadow was able to check the register. The names
were bona fide; as Denfield claimed, the list consisted of reputable persons only. No known crooks
carried admittance cards to the commodore's preserves.
The Shadow's keen ears caught hurried footsteps beyond the door. With a swish, the cloaked
investigator was gone beyond the panel, when the secretary entered the office to reclaim the registration
book that the commodore had forgotten.
The fellow was putting check marks beside some names, as he went out; evidently they were those of
persons who had left the gaming room while Denfield was entertaining Galden and Cardona.
Along the darkened secret passage, The Shadow stopped at the peephole which opened into the gaming
room. A brief survey told him that several persons must have left, for the crowd looked smaller. Mentally
repeating the list of names, looking for persons whose faces he knew or whose photographs he had seen,
The Shadow accounted for those who had gone out.
Obviously, Commodore Denfield had passed the word that any patrons who wished could leave while he
was entertaining Galden and Cardona. Several had taken advantage of the opportunity, but the steel door
was again closed, which meant that Cardona and Galden were still in the lounge.
This was The Shadow's opportunity to look for faces that did not belong, and he made the most of it.
Unfortunately, The Shadow was scanning the group too late. The only persons of the type he sought
were gone; two of them, Lee Clesson and Hawk Silvey. The brief opening of the steel door had enabled
them to stroll out with a small flock of legitimate customers.
As always, The Shadow made due allowance for whatever he might not have observed. He knew that if
Commodore Denfield franked crooks into the gaming room, their names certainly would not be on the
registration list.
Though, as yet, The Shadow had no trail to Lee or Hawk, he was considering men of their type as
factors in current crime. Such crooks, or spotters working for them, could have viewed the patrons of the
Palmetto Casino.
The thing was to pick the patrons most likely to be targets of crime, and The Shadow promptly chose
one man from the throng. His guess was accurate; he picked Harvey Brenbright. The Shadow happened
to know a great deal about the "fat guy" who carried the big bank roll.
Brenbright lived pretentiously at Miami Beach, and made a habit of displaying large sums around his
hotel, though he was tight when it came to spending money.
Here, at the Palmetto Casino, the portly man was more careful. He fished in his pocket, sliding small bills
into sight, one by one. But it was apparent to The Shadow that Brenbright had plenty of cash with him, in
case his luck should warrant a plunge at faro. Brenbright was one person who would need prompt
protection when he left the casino.
From the rest, The Shadow picked one through observation. Again, his choice was accurate. The
Shadow selected Marcia Tyrone, because of the jewels that she wore. Marcia was a stunning brunette
who fancied diamonds, and the sparkle of those gems gave a rainbow effect that marked them as
genuine. Crooks would regard such trophies as worth while.
With Marcia, The Shadow saw George Agnew, who was evidently in luck tonight, for he was going
heavily with the fifty-dollar chips, and his stack was sizable.
Ordinarily, Agnew might have been regarded as a protection to Marcia, but not under present
circumstances, wherein he was worthwhile prey for crime. It happened, though, that Marcia and Agnew
were with a group of friends and apparently intended to stay longer than Brenbright, who was becoming
restless.
That fact placed the brunette and her escort into the field of future reference. For the present, The
Shadow was concerned with Harvey Brenbright.
A whispered laugh passed unheard in the hidden passage behind the gaming room, as a cloaked figure
moved toward the secret exit that led from the rear of the Palmetto Casino.
CHAPTER III. ACROSS THE CAUSEWAY
SEATED in a coupe, Steve Galden and Joe Cardona were watching the main entrance of the Palmetto
Casino from a parking lot half a block away. To while away the time, Galden was explaining the game
called bolita.
"Yes, it comes from Cuba," said Galden, "but it's not the game that's something like handball. You're
thinking of jai alai"—Galden pronounced it "hi-li"—"that they play out at the Biscayne Fronton. There's
plenty of money bet on jai alai, but it's legit. Bolita is different."
Cardona was ready to hear more about bolita, so Galden delivered the intriguing details.
"Down in Havana," explained Galden, "nine old gents sit around a big cage that's filled with numbered
balls, and finally one of them yanks a gadget that sends a ball rolling down a track into a bowl, where a
blindfolded orphan picks it out. Whoever has that number wins plenty of dough, because the numbers run
up into the thousands.
"Up here, bookies take bets on the 'Cuba number,' as they call it, but they only use the last two figures.
They use the Cuba number because it can't be fixed. It comes in over the radio every Wednesday, and
then the local boys pay off."
It reminded Cardona of the numbers racket in New York. He could readily see, however, why
Commodore Denfield had disclaimed all connection with bolita. The Cuban game and the local racket
were entirely separate.
"What about those bolita balls you showed Denfield?" queried Joe, a bit puzzled. "They didn't come from
Cuba, did they?"
Galden shook his head.
"They're the kind they use in the jook joints," he said, "here in Florida. They're only numbered up to a
hundred, and they stow them in a bag and tie the neck. Then they play bean bag with the thing, all over
the place.
"Finally, one fellow grabs a ball through the cloth. Somebody unties the bag, and all the rest of the balls
drop out. The crowd looks at the one that's left, and it tells the winner. Small stuff, but if a wise bird like
the commodore could get a cut from every bolita game -"
Galden broke off. He had been interrupting himself every time someone came from the Palmetto Casino.
His eyes, at present, were on a portly man who wore a rumpled suit and was gesturing for a taxicab.
Cardona gave a grunt; it brought a query from Galden:
"Know who he is?"
"Harvey Brenbright," replied Cardona. "The worst tightwad in New York. I've seen him in the
commissioner's office raising a squawk over a two-dollar parking ticket."
"Was his name on the commodore's book?"
"Yeah. Look at your list and you'll see it. I didn't bother to mention it, because Brenbright isn't crooked,
whatever else he may be."
Brenbright was in his cab. As it pulled away, another car promptly followed it. The trailing machine bore
a Florida license, and it whisked into sight so suddenly that neither Cardona nor Galden had a chance to
glimpse the driver, who was seated deep behind the wheel. However, neither liked the look of the rakish
car.
"Here's where we go." Galden pressed the coupe's starter. "Maybe we'll get some action out of tonight."
Brenbright's cab crossed the four-lane boulevard, to swing northward on the final lane. The trailing car
did a suspicious thing; it took an in-between lane, where cars were allowed to park. Swinging over to the
far lane, Galden said:
"Watch."
After a block, the rakish car emerged, again to pick Brenbright's trail. It veered in ahead of Galden's
coupe.
"See that?" said Galden. "The fellow thinks he's smart. He acted like he was going to park, but kept on
the move. We'll stick right with him."
Two more blocks brought another car into the picture. A trim sedan shot out from the parking lane, to
move up beside Brenbright's cab. When the cab swung right, to take the Venetian Way leading to Miami
Beach, the sedan veered with it. So did the rakish vehicle that had first roused Galden's suspicions.
"We'll join the caravan," announced Galden, grimly. "I guess I'd better pay fifteen cents at the toll gate,
instead of bothering with a two-bit round-trip ticket. I usually take the County Causeway, not because
there's no toll, but because I don't want people checking on my trips over to the Beach."
Recalling the situation between the separate police forces, Cardona understood. When they reached the
toll house, Galden was looking Joe's way, to escape recognition as he dropped fifteen cents into the
gatekeeper's palm.
Then they were crossing a succession of islands, still at the rear of the caravan. A trip of a few miles
brought them to Dade Boulevard, a diagonal extension of the Venetian Way.
Flanked by a canal on the right, the cars were following a thoroughfare which had considerable traffic;
nevertheless, its parklike fringes made Cardona class it as a route where anything might happen.
Things did happen, just when Joe decided that the hazard was past.
THE cars halted for a traffic light, where a street bridged the canal and cut across the boulevard. The
fancy sedan eased up beside the cab, while Galden closed in on the rakish car, hoping to get a look at its
driver.
While Galden was stretching from his window, Cardona saw a car spurt from the cross street and take a
sudden lurch for Brenbright's cab.
"Here it comes!"
As Cardona voiced the fact, Galden sprang from his door to make for the rakish car. It was the wrong
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