_Ybor City_
New York had been icy cold and covered with a blanket of snow. Now, as
Captain March banked his big airplane into the landing pattern over
Tampa, it was as though Vicki were on some kind of futuristic spaceship
coming down into a completely different world. Funny, she thought, this
morning it was winter, this afternoon it’s summer.
When the ship rolled to a standstill in front of the unloading gate and
the big door was swung open, Vicki breathed in a deep breath of the
thick, sweet-scented air and sighed contentedly. “Golly,” she thought,
“I’m falling in love with Florida! Me! A girl from Illinois!”
She quickly went through the routine of checking in at flight’s end,
and then once more found herself face to face with the problem of what
to do about Joey. She knew that she had to talk with him, but again she
decided against going to the warehouse to see him. It would be better
to get his address from Personnel and call him at his boardinghouse.
Just as she was making this decision, she heard a cheerful, familiar
voice:
“Hi there, Miss Vicki!” Joey’s eager face certainly didn’t look like
that of a suspected criminal. “I saw your plane come in, and I asked
the boss for a few minutes off to come over and say hello.”
“You’re just the person I wanted to see, Joey,” Vicki told him. “Come
over to the snack bar and I’ll buy you a coke.”
“Nothing doing!” The boy grinned. “I’ll come with you, but the cokes
are on me.”
Vicki led the way to one of the booths, and when they had ordered, she
said seriously, “Look here, Joey. You may be in trouble.”
Joey frowned, then his face brightened in his infectious grin.
“If you mean about that flashlight they found the night the gold
shipment was stolen, forget it.”
“Forget it?”
“Sure. It was my flashlight all right. But either it was stolen from my
locker, or I had left it around and somebody picked it up. The FBI men
quizzed me about it, but I proved that I couldn’t have been anywhere
near the airfield that night. I room with a fellow by the name of Pete
Saunders. He works in the terminal checkroom. Well, that particular
night, Thursday, I met Pete after work and we ate supper at Cicco’s
Italian restaurant down by the docks. Then we went to a movie and got
home a little after twelve. I told all this to the FBI man, and Pete
told him too.”
“What I was thinking about,” Vicki said, “was the job offer that man
made you in here the same afternoon--the man who promised you a hundred
dollars to do a job for him and offered to give you twenty-five of it
in advance.”
Joey’s eyes widened.
“How--how in the world did you know about that, Miss Vicki? I haven’t
mentioned it to a soul. Not even Pete.”
“It just so happened, Joey, that I was sitting in the next booth--this
very one we’re in now--and I couldn’t help overhearing.”
All Joey could say was an astonished: “Gee!”
“Have you seen him again? Mr. Duke? Wasn’t that his name?”
Joey finally found his voice. “Gosh, no! I figured he was nutty or
something. Offering me all that money out of a clear sky. I wouldn’t
have touched it for anything. It sounded either crazy or crooked, and I
didn’t want any part of it.”
Vicki breathed a deep sigh of genuine relief. She’d been pretty sure
that Joey wouldn’t get himself mixed up in something wrong.
“If I were you, Joey,” Vicki said, “I’d go to Mr. Quayle, the FBI
investigator, and tell him about your conversation with Mr. Duke.”
“Gee, Vicki!” Joey was so startled by the suggestion that he neglected
to add the usual “Miss” which he automatically put in front of her
name. “Do you think Mr. Duke might have had something to do with the
stolen gold?”
Vicki thought for a swift moment. Her vague, unformed suspicions
wouldn’t make any sense to the boy. She said: “Not necessarily. But
some mighty peculiar things have been going on around this airport.
And even though you proved that you weren’t in the warehouse Thursday
night, it _was_ your flashlight the prowler dropped, and up to now
you’re the only person who has come under suspicion. I think you ought
to go to Mr. Quayle, if, for no other reason, than to show that you
want to do everything you can to help him. Besides, sometimes little
odd, unrelated facts can be the key that opens up the whole mystery.
I’m not saying this one is,” she added hastily, “I’m just saying that
it could be.”
“Gee!” Joey said again. “If you think I should, I’ll certainly do it.”
“And do it right now,” Vicki advised, “before you report back to work.”
Joey looked anxiously at the clock over the lunch counter.
“I’m supposed to be back on the job in five minutes. Van’s a good guy,
but he gets sore when people are late.”
“Just tell him the FBI sent for you again. I know it’s a sort of fib,
but under the circumstances I think it will be all right. And it ought
to satisfy your boss.”
As the two were about to get up from their seats, a tall, dark-haired
young man in a leather windbreaker loomed over the booth.
“Hello there, Joey!” His browned face smiled at Vicki. “Hello,” he said.
Joey jumped to his feet. “Hi, Steve! Miss Vicki, this is Steve Miller,
the pilot I was telling you about the other day.”
“Hello, Steve.” Vicki returned his smile. “Do you think you can make a
pilot out of this fellow?”
“I think so. At least, I give him ‘A’ for eagerness.”
“But you’ve got to admit that I took over the controls for a while
yesterday.” Joey beamed.
“That’s right. And almost flipped us over on our back. You’re a pilot,
Miss Barr--oh, Joey’s told me all about you--so you tell him that
you’ve got to learn to fly level before you can do nip-ups and bells.
Just as you have to learn to sit on a horse while he’s walking, before
you can keep your seat when he’s going at a gallop.”
“That’s true, Joey.” Vicki smiled. “You do exactly as Mr. Miller tells
you, and we’ll pin a pair of wings on you yet.”
“It’s been a pleasure, Miss Barr,” Steve Miller said as he turned to
go. “Maybe some afternoon when we’re both free you’d like to take my
ship up for a spin.”
“Thanks awfully. I might just take you up on that one of these days.”
She turned to Joey. “Now you do what I suggested before you go back to
work.”
“Sure thing, Miss Vicki,” Joey said.
* * * * *
Vicki came downstairs late on Monday morning. Except for Mrs. Tucker
puttering around somewhere back in the kitchen area, the big Curtin
house was quiet as a church. At the sound of Vicki’s footsteps on the
stairs, the housekeeper popped her head out the dining-room door.
“’Morning, Miss Vicki. I’ll have some breakfast on the table for you
in a jiffy. You don’t want to miss the big goings-on downtown this
morning. This is the day the pirates land.”
Vicki sat down at the big dining table and Mrs. Tucker brought her a
glass of orange juice.
“You can’t live in Florida without having orange juice for breakfast,”
she remarked. “And the girls left you this note.”
Vicki opened it and read:
“Dear Vic: Had some errands to do, so Nina and I have gone on
ahead. Wanted to let you get your beauty sleep. Don’t miss the
big pirate invasion. The ship comes in about noon. I’ll manage
to find you in the crowd--I hope. Love, Louise.”
Vicki looked at her watch. Ten-thirty. She’d have plenty of time. She
ate her breakfast and read the morning paper. It was devoted almost
entirely to the coming visit of the _José Gasparilla_ and the pirate
crew that was expected to land and conquer the city shortly after noon.
Headlines in the New York papers yesterday had been devoted to the
United States new satellite. Here a small story about it was almost
lost at the bottom of page one. Vicki giggled. This week Tampa turned
back the clock and the calendar a hundred and fifty years!
There was one story on an inside page that caught her eye. It was a
follow-up on the theft of the gold coins. The carefully worded account
contained no new facts, simply stated that the local police and the
FBI were pressing their investigation and that Mr. John Quayle, chief
of the Federal Bureau of Investigation in the Tampa district, was
confident that the case would be broken soon. There was no mention of
Joey Watson or the flashlight clue.
The part of the story that most interested Vicki was a spread of
pictures of the antique coins that had been forwarded from the museum
in New York. Even in the black-and-white newspaper reproduction, she
could see that the coins were of exotic design and extraordinarily
beautiful. One showed a huge bird in flight. Another bore the likeness
of a sea nymph, her hair blowing above the waves. A third showed the
profile of a forgotten queen wearing a tall, many-pointed crown. Her
face was encircled by laurel branches and the entire coin was rimmed
with stars. On a hunch, Vicki tore the picture out of the paper and
slipped it into her purse.
When Mrs. Tucker came in to clear the table, Vicki asked, “Aren’t you
going downtown to see the fun?”
The housekeeper smiled a motherly smile. “I haven’t missed one yet.”
Outside, the sun was shining down out of a cloudless and brilliantly
blue sky. A gentle breeze blew in from the Gulf of Mexico, ruffling the
fronds of the tall palms that lined the streets and serving to make
the heat bearable. As she approached the downtown part of Tampa, the
traffic grew heavier and the crowds thicker until, by the time she had
made her way to the waterfront, the throng was so jammed that she could
hardly push her way through. Golly, Vicki thought, she’d never seen so
many people in one place in all her life! Not even in New York. The
paper had said that more than half a million people were expected to
jam the streets today, and Vicki estimated that the figure couldn’t be
far wrong. This was more than four times the normal population of the
city. She wondered how all of them had managed to find places to stay.
She elbowed her way to the front of the crowd just in time to see a
big drawbridge swing up to allow a big sailing ship to enter the upper
Bay. It was an authentic-looking pirate ship, a full-rigged sailing
vessel. Hundreds of colorful pennants flew from lines rigged all over
its superstructure, and its decks and yardarms were jammed with men in
fierce-looking pirate costumes, waving cutlasses and shooting pistols
into the air. The ship’s sails were furled and a pair of tugboats, tiny
by comparison, were pushing the big ship through the water.
Dozens of cruisers, sailboats, outboards, and skiffs were clustered all
around her, like chicks around a mother hen. Everybody was shouting
and yelling. People in the crowd that milled around Vicki were craning
their heads to see over other people’s heads, and fathers were holding
little children on their shoulders to let them see the fun. Peddlers
circulated through the crowd carrying trays of souvenirs--pirate flags,
Confederate flags, tiny brass figures of pirates, pistols, cutlasses,
and model ships.
Caught up helplessly in the surging throng, Vicki was pushed this way
and that. But she found that she too was cheering and shouting with the
rest of them and having the time of her life.
Then the pirates landed, amid a wild chorus of cheering and yelling and
firing of blank pistol shots. The costumed members of Ye Mystic Krewe
clambered onto gaily decorated floats, and amid the strident music of
half a dozen bands, the parade began to move slowly up the street away
from the docks.
[Illustration]
On one of the floats, wearing a huge black beard, an eye patch, and
brandishing a revolver in the air, Vicki saw a figure that looked
vaguely familiar. She blinked and stared a second time. It was Mr.
Curtin! He wore a striped red-and-white sash around his waist, and on
his head was perched a tricornered hat with a huge skull and crossbones
painted on its front.
Carried along by the tide of the crowd, Vicki waved frantically and
yelled at the top of her voice: “Hi, Mr. Curtin! Hi, Mr. Curtin!”
Finally he saw her and waved back. “Yo-ho-ho, Vicki, and a bottle of
rum! Where are the girls?”
“I don’t know!” Vicki shouted. But by this time the crowd had swept her
away, and in an instant she lost sight of Mr. Curtin and his float.
The whole city was enjoying itself. When she finally wormed her way
out of the middle of the huge throng, Vicki could see couples dancing
in the streets under the waving palms to the music of the bands.
Children were running around everywhere, carrying balloons and little
toy models of ships and pirate swords. Over at the wharf, now securely
tied up and deserted by its crew, the _José Gasparilla_, its pennants
flapping in the gentle breeze, rocked to the motion of the water and
squeaked as its sides rubbed against the rubber-tire fenders that lined
the dock.
Free at last from the thickest part of the crowd of swarming people,
Vicki stopped to catch her breath. There wasn’t a chance in a million,
she thought, that she would find Nina and Louise. Well, it was a
pleasant day, so why not walk around and see the sights! She hadn’t had
a chance to do much sight-seeing since she had been in Tampa.
At that moment her eye was attracted to a painted sign atop one of the
dockside buildings:
VISIT GLAMOROUS YBOR CITY--
_Enchanted Land of Fiesta and Romance_
Ybor City! The Granada Restaurant! The little old man on the plane had
appeared to be trying to direct her attention to it. The mysterious
Mr. Duke had gone there after his peculiar talk with Joey. She hadn’t
been able to rid her mind of the nagging thought that these two events
might be connected. So why not go and see the place for herself? She
walked for some time through the crowded streets before she could find
an empty taxi.
Ybor City was quite different from the modern section of Tampa. Here
the streets were narrow and ancient buildings of brick and stucco sat
flush with the sidewalk. Unlike the broad, palm-lined boulevards of
modern Tampa, there were few trees in evidence in Ybor City. Some of
the buildings had doorways of intricate iron grillwork, and on some,
balconies overhung the sidewalks to make sheltered arcades. This Latin
Quarter of Tampa, Vicki thought, was indeed a city within a city, a bit
of old Spain dropped down in the middle of a modern American metropolis.
She saw signs in some of the store windows printed in Spanish, and
most of the people in the streets, aside from those whose clothes and
bearing marked them as tourists, had a dark-haired, dark-complexioned
Latin look. Flags, small gold-colored ships, and other souvenirs of the
Gasparilla Festival filled the shopwindows and were hawked by peddlers
on the street.
Attracted by the old-world charm of the Quarter, Vicki stopped the
taxi, paid her fare, and stepped out onto the sidewalk. She was in
no hurry and decided to walk around and see the sights and visit the
Granada Restaurant when she came to it! She walked leisurely down the
street.
As she passed an old brick house with an iron grill around its doorway,
she noticed a sign: F. R. EATON-SMITH--TRAVEL AGENCY.
Now why was that name so familiar? Suddenly she remembered. Of course!
That was the name of the man on the plane the other day--the day the
gold was stolen--the man who had told her he was a world traveler and
lecturer and operated a travel agency in Tampa. It struck her as a
little odd that he should have his office out here in the Latin Quarter
instead of downtown Tampa. The windows were filled with attractive
travel posters from all over the world.
She halted momentarily to look at them, and at that moment a truck
pulled up to the curb and stopped. The driver stepped up to Mr.
Eaton-Smith’s door and rang the bell while two other men wrestled
a large crate out of the back of the truck and deposited it on the
sidewalk. The crate was marked _Air Express_ in large letters, and
Vicki noticed casually that it was securely wrapped around with metal
bands.
Just then Mr. Eaton-Smith answered the bell and stepped out onto the
sidewalk.
“Crate for you, sir,” the truckman said.
“Just carry it into the front hallway, boys,” he said.
His glance went to Vicki, whose progress along the sidewalk had been
momentarily blocked by the truckmen and their burden. As he stared at
her, he looked exactly as he had on the plane when he had given her a
hand with old Mr. Tytell--dignified, slightly portly, slightly bald,
and with his eyes scarcely visible behind the highly polished, rimless
glasses.
He smiled, stepped up to Vicki, and offered his hand.
“Well, well,” he said, “aren’t you the little hostess from the airplane
the other day?”
“Hello, Mr. Eaton-Smith,” Vicki said, accepting his hand. “It isn’t
often that I run into my passengers after they have left the plane.”
“And it’s a real pleasure to see you again, Miss--”
“Miss Barr,” Vicki said.
“Oh, yes, of course. Miss Barr. This is a pleasant time to be visiting
Tampa, with the Festival in full swing.” He glanced over his shoulder.
“If you’ll excuse me, Miss Barr, I’d better attend to this express
shipment.”
Nodding his head politely, he disappeared into the house.
Vicki strolled on, and turning a corner, saw a sign that read: GRANADA
RESTAURANT. It was on a street with the un-Spanish name of Fifth Avenue.
The Granada was a colorful restaurant, and judging by the number of
people seated at the tables, a popular one. The foyer just inside the
door was floored with bright mosaic tile as were the walls of the room.
A tiny fountain in the middle of the hall was surrounded by small
potted palms and brightly colored flowers. A huge archway provided the
entrance to the restaurant proper.
As Vicki paused under the archway and looked around the room, a
dark-haired waiter, wearing a short white jacket, stepped up and
greeted her with typical Spanish politeness.
“You’re meeting someone, señorita?” He spoke with a soft Spanish accent.
“No. I’m alone.”
“Then here’s a nice table for you.” The waiter led the way to a small
table in a corner. “Will this be comfortable?”
For Vicki’s purpose, the corner table was perfect. Sitting here, she
could view the entire room and the entrance as well. She herself was
half shielded by a cluster of palms growing out of a blue-and-white urn.
In the opposite corner of the room, a musician in a Spanish costume was
softly playing Spanish tunes on an accordion.
To the waiter who was standing by, she said, “Do you have other
musicians here, possibly at night?” She indicated a piano beside which
the accordionist was standing as he played.
“_Sí, sí!_ At dinner we have also the piano and a violin.”
Vicki’s heart quickened. A violin! Maybe she was on the right track
after all!
“Your violinist?” she asked. “Is he a tall, thin, elderly man with gray
hair?”
The waiter laughed and slapped his expansive stomach as though Vicki
had made a funny joke.
“You do not know Pedro, señorita. He is big like me. Even fatter.” He
put his fingers to his lips and blew a kiss into the air. “But his
violin--it is the sweetest in Ybor City.”
“Then you don’t know a violin player named Mr. Tytell?”
The waiter wrinkled his brows and slowly shook his head. “Tytell-a?”
He put a soft vowel sound on the end of the name. “No, señorita. Only
Pedro plays the violin at the Granada.”
Vicki’s heart fell as quickly as it had leaped up a moment before. To
cover her disappointment, she gave her attention to the menu the waiter
had handed her. She wasn’t hungry, having eaten a big breakfast only
a short time before, but she felt that she had to order something to
justify her presence. She ordered a sandwich with an unpronounceable
Spanish name.
The sandwich fascinated Vicki. It contained sausage, cheese, sliced
tomato, sliced olives, pimento, and capers. And it was so huge that
it would have made a complete meal by itself. Along with it, the
waiter brought a silver pot of coffee, which, when he poured it into
a delicately made demitasse cup, proved to be as thick and sweet as
hot chocolate. Vicki looked around the room as she nibbled at the
sandwich’s ample contents.
Most of the patrons were Americans, tourists in town for the Festival,
she guessed, by looking at their pale, untanned faces. Scattered among
them were people with distinctly Spanish faces, many of them dressed in
colorful Spanish costumes. These, she knew, must be the natives of the
Quarter. The air was filled with a cheerful babble of conversation that
was a mixture of English and Spanish.
Suddenly a loud, cheerful Spanish-accented voice made Vicki turn her
head sharply. Raymond Duke was coming through the arched doorway.
“Arturo!” he hailed the waiter who had served Vicki’s lunch. “_Cómo
está?_ How goes it?”
“_Bueno_, Señor Duke!” The waiter’s dark eyes and broad smile beamed a
hearty welcome. It was plain that Raymond Duke was a regular patron of
the Granada.
“Hello, Duke!” a group at a nearby table called. “Come over and sit
with us.”
Duke stepped briskly to their table, shook hands all around, and sat
down in an empty chair.
“Was it hot in Havana?” one of the men asked.
“Not on Veradero Beach.” Duke flashed a white-toothed smile.
A few more words and Duke excused himself. He sat down alone at a small
table with his back toward Vicki. After ordering his lunch from the
ubiquitous Arturo, he took some papers out of his pocket and settled
down to read them.
Every minute or so, as Duke was eating his lunch, various people
stopped by his table to say hello. “How’s the Duke?” “That was a mighty
fast trip to Havana!” “What’s the good word, Duke?” He certainly was a
popular man in Ybor City, Vicki could see that plainly.
Duke took his time finishing lunch. Vicki sipped at her coffee and
finally ordered another pot which she didn’t want. At last, Duke called
for his check, paid it, and got to his feet. Vicki called for her own
check at the same time, and by the time Arturo had taken her money and
returned with her change, and she had stepped out once again into Fifth
Avenue, she saw Duke’s tall, broad-shouldered figure down at the end of
the block.
Vicki had come to Ybor City on the off-chance that she might again
see the little old man from the plane. Instead, she had run into the
mysterious Mr. Duke, the man who had offered Joey some kind of “job”
on the afternoon before the gold robbery. Could there possibly be a
connection somewhere? She didn’t see how, but since she’d come this
far, her detective instincts were too keen to let her stop now.
She sauntered in Duke’s direction.
It was well that she walked slowly. Duke was stopped half a dozen times
in two blocks by people who loudly addressed him as “The Duke” and
exchanged pleasantries with him. Finally he turned into the hallway
of a house, pressed the buzzer, and when it was answered, disappeared
through the door. Clearly this was neither his house nor his office
or he would have gone in without ringing the bell. Vicki waited on
the street for fifteen minutes, looking in the shopwindows and trying
her best to act like a tourist. But Mr. Duke did not reappear. On an
impulse, she retraced her steps to the Granada Restaurant.
The big room was now more than half empty, settling down as do all
restaurants into the mid-afternoon doldrums. Arturo, the waiter, was
sitting at a table writing out the evening menus in Spanish, in purple
ink, on large sheets of yellow paper. He looked up as Vicki approached.
“Yes, señorita?”
“It’s about Mr. Duke. I have some business with him. Unfortunately I
don’t have his address. I thought possibly you might help me.” She took
a dollar bill from her purse and placed it on the table. “This is for
your trouble.”
The waiter took the bill and slipped it into his pocket. “Ah, yes,” he
said. “But weren’t you here at lunch when Mr. Duke was here?”
“Yes--” Vicki hesitated. “But he was speaking to so many people--”
“_Sí, sí!_ I understand. And you wish to know where he lives?”
“That’s right. Or the address of his office.”
Arturo shrugged. “To find the Duke is like putting your finger on
quicksilver. But his home is on Columbus Drive at the corner of
Thirteenth Street. A red-brick house with a balcony. Perhaps you can
find him there.”
Vicki inquired the way to Columbus Drive, and when the waiter told her
that it was two streets up, she thanked him and left the cool interior
of the restaurant.
Walking along the street, fascinated by the colorful costumes of the
people and by the open-air stands where white-capped chefs were serving
steaming hot bowls of bean soup to any passer-by that wanted one, Vicki
took stock of the situation.
She knew that Mr. Raymond Duke was a regular patron of the Granada
Restaurant. But since, on Thursday, she had heard him direct a taxi
to take him there, this was not startling news. From the snatches of
his various conversations with people in the restaurant that she had
overheard, she knew that he had many and varied business connections.
But he had told this to Joey, so again she had learned nothing new.
Old Mr. Tytell was _not_ playing in the Granada’s orchestra. She had
leaped blindly to a conclusion that he was employed there when she had
found the marked travel folder on the seat the elderly man had occupied.
What she had expected to discover in Ybor City, Vicki didn’t know.
But what she had actually found was absolutely nothing. There really
didn’t seem to be much sense in going on to Mr. Duke’s house. But since
an impulse had made her inquire about his address, and since she was
within a block of the house, there was no reason why she shouldn’t go
on.
When she turned the corner into Columbus Drive, she saw that it was no
different from any other street in Ybor City. The same curio shops,
the same restaurants, the same crowds of festive people, the same
sidewalk peddlers. She found the house with no difficulty. A balcony of
wrought-iron grillwork overhung the front door.
She stood before the house for several minutes, looking at the
intricate, old-fashioned grillwork over the door, peering at the
heavily curtained windows. She was about to move on when the door
opened and a man stepped out.
It was old Mr. Tytell! He still looked as shabby and harassed as he
had on the plane. His sparse gray hair was still as badly in need of
trimming. There was the same bewildered, hunted look in his eyes.
When he looked up and saw Vicki, he recognized her immediately. He
clasped her hand, almost desperately, she thought.
“Miss Barr!” he whispered. “Do you remember me?”
“Why, certainly I do, Mr. Tytell.” Vicki said, trying to keep her
voice calm and normal in tone. The unexpected sight of this old man
who had been so much in her thoughts had sent her heart to pounding.
So there _was_ some connection between Tytell and Duke and the
Granada Restaurant--and possibly with Duke’s talk with Joey, and--her
imagination took a wild leap--maybe even with the stolen gold! But she
said evenly:
“It’s nice to see you again. You look much better than you did the last
time I saw you.” This was a fib--if anything the old violinist looked
paler and more worried--but she felt that she had to say something
to keep him here until she could put the mixed-up thoughts that were
spinning around crazily in her head into some order. “A few days in
Florida seem to have done you a lot of good.”
The old man still clung to her hand.
“Miss Barr--I want--I have to talk to you--”
At that moment a voice boomed from the open doorway.
“Old man! Get going!”
Raymond Duke stood in the entryway, glowering under dark eyebrows.
“Yes, sir,” the old man muttered, and he scurried away like a
frightened rabbit.
She looked at Duke. His dark frown had magically become a white-toothed
smile. He bowed his head graciously.
“Ah,” he said, “the young lady from the restaurant.”
This observation again set Vicki’s heart to pounding. Had Duke seen her
the day she’d overheard his conversation in the airport snack bar? She
stammered a reply:
“The--the restaurant?”
“Ah, yes. It isn’t every day that a lovely young lady lunches at the
Granada alone. Raymond Duke has an eye for beauty--if you will allow me
to introduce myself--and even though you sat by yourself at a corner
table, believe me that I noticed and admired you.”
Again Vicki noticed the slight lisp in his voice as he spoke.
Relieved, Vicki smiled. This was a break she certainly hadn’t
expected--a chance to talk with this man, who like old Mr. Tytell, had
been so much in her thoughts these past few days.
“I am flattered, Mr. Duke,” she said coyly.
“I see,” Duke said casually, “that you are acquainted with our elderly
friend.” He nodded at the retreating figure of Mr. Tytell who was
hurrying down Columbus Drive, and at that instant, turned a corner and
disappeared from view.
“Not really,” Vicki replied casually. “I met him on the airplane coming
down from New York last week. My name’s Vicki Barr. I’m a stewardess on
Federal Airlines and Mr. Tytell was ill. That’s why I remembered him so
well.”
“Ah, so,” Duke said, his smile never leaving his dark-skinned face.
“Does--does he work for you?” Vicki asked hesitantly. “He told me that
he was a musician, a violinist.”
“Possibly he plays the violin. I don’t know. But here in Ybor City he
works as a handyman. Runs errands.” He shrugged. “An old man can’t do
much to earn a living.”
“I’m a little surprised,” Vicki ventured, “that, in view of his
circumstances, he came to Florida from New York by first-class air
travel.”
Again Duke’s face darkened momentarily, but the smile reappeared almost
instantly. And once more he shrugged his shoulders in the gesture that
is almost as much a part of the Spanish language as spoken words.
“_Quién sabe?_ Who knows?”
The conversation had come to a dead end. Vicki would have liked to
prolong it, but she didn’t know what to say.
“It’s been pleasant meeting you, Miss--ah--Miss Barr,” Duke said.
“Visit us in Ybor City again.” He inclined his head in a short, nodding
bow. “_Adiós._” And with that he turned and disappeared through the
doorway.
Vicki walked slowly down the street. At the corner she hailed an empty
taxi and directed the driver to the Curtin residence. Then she leaned
back wearily in the seat and attempted to put in order the scrambled
thoughts that still spun crazily in her head.
She had been right after all! She still couldn’t imagine what the
connection between Duke and old Mr. Tytell could be. But the old man
_was_ running errands for Duke, and seemed frightened half to death!
And he _had_ whispered desperately: “I have to talk to you!”
Maybe she was letting her imagination run away with her. But one thing
she was sure of. It was time to have another talk with Mr. Quayle of
the FBI!
She leaned forward in her seat.
“Driver,” she said, “I’ve changed my mind. Take me to the airport.”