_The Third Man_
John Quayle met their plane at the Tampa airport the next morning. He
took the little gold ship that Vicki had been carrying in her handbag.
“Better not let this go through Customs,” he said. “We don’t want
anybody, even the Customs people, to know about it at this stage. If
you will come with me, Miss Barr, I’m sure your friends won’t mind
taking care of your luggage.”
When the two of them were alone in his office, Mr. Quayle looked at
Vicki for a long moment with a big smile on his face.
“The last time you were here, Miss Barr, I said that you were a good
detective. Now I want to repeat it--doubled. Of course you were lucky,
too, when the peddler offered to sell you the gold ship and when you
saw the coin in the jeweler’s shop. But a good detective is one who is
smart enough to take advantage of such breaks. And on the basis of the
information you gave me yesterday over the phone, we’ve broken this
case wide open. All but one or two small details, and we’ll soon know
all about those too.”
A dozen questions popped into Vicki’s mind, but she contained her
curiosity and let the FBI man go on.
“We found out all about Raymond Duke and his business connection in
Havana as Ramon Garcia, his real name by the way. We searched his
house from top to bottom and found nothing. He, of course, was gone.
Then we made a search of F. R. Eaton-Smith’s place, and that time we
hit the jackpot. Most of those old-fashioned Spanish houses had their
kitchens in the basement with big brick ovens for baking bread built
into the wall. But the oven in Eaton-Smith’s house was extra special.
It had been lined with modern firebrick, fitted with high-intensity gas
burners and converted into a kiln. It was in this kiln that the gold
coins were melted down and recast in the form of the souvenir ships. We
found a handful of the antique coins that had been overlooked in the
thieves’ haste to get the job done, and they’ve been identified. We
also found all the metal-casting equipment, including the molds that
had been made from the cheap souvenirs. Needless to say, we didn’t find
Eaton-Smith. He, too, had flown the coop.”
“And poor old Mr. Tytell ... he just _couldn’t_ have been one of the
gang. Did you find _him_?”
“We haven’t yet found him, but we did find out all about him. He was an
expert goldsmith, and ...”
At the word “goldsmith” Vicki gasped. Then he was one of the thieves!
It just didn’t seem possible!
“... until a few years ago was regularly employed,” Mr. Quayle went on.
“Then, apparently, his health broke down and he couldn’t hold a regular
job. Our New York people went to work investigating him the day you
reported him missing from your flight for which he had picked up his
reservations. We’ll know more about him soon.”
“It hardly seems possible,” Vicki mused, “that all those preparations
in Mr. Eaton-Smith’s house could have been made after the coins were
stolen.”
“That’s right. They couldn’t have been. Somehow, Eaton-Smith knew that
the gold was coming to Tampa, and when. So he made his preparations
well in advance. Our New York people are working on that angle too. But
when we find him and Raymond Duke--and I assure you that the FBI will
find them--we’ll learn about that, and a lot of other things too.”
“There was that third man,” Vicki said. “The masked pirate I followed
in Ybor City.”
“When we get the others,” Mr. Quayle said, “we’ll find out about your
pirate friend too, never fear.”
“The curious thing to me,” Vicki said, “is how the coins were stolen in
the first place. According to Mr. Curtin--you remember he was on the
committee that arranged for the exhibition--the packing case didn’t
show any signs of having been tampered with at all.”
“That puzzled me, too. But because it was so puzzling it gave me an
idea that we’re working on.”
“An idea?”
Mr. Quayle smiled. “Don’t worry. I’ll tell you all about it at the
proper time. You’ve been our Number One operative on this case, and
I’ll certainly tell you everything after I’ve found out whether or not
I’m right.”
Mr. Quayle patted the gold ship which he had put on his desk.
“It’s amazing,” he said “what people will do to get this pretty yellow
stuff. Now you go on and enjoy the rest of your vacation. I’ll call you
if I need you.”
* * * * *
When Vicki went back downstairs to the main terminal waiting room, a
light rain was falling outside, one of those sudden showers so peculiar
to southern Florida that seem to come out of nowhere and stop as
suddenly as they start. Since she didn’t have a raincoat, she decided
to wait it out.
She strolled over to the big plate-glass observation window that looked
out on the airfield. Then she saw something that made her heart pound,
and a cold hand seemed to clutch her throat.
A short, stocky man, wearing a long black raincoat and a black hat,
was striding across the concrete apron in the direction of the freight
warehouse. He carried a valise in his hand. Vicki would have known that
hurried walk anywhere, and the long black coat, and the fact that she
was looking at his back, made it all the more recognizable.
It was the masked pirate of the torchlight parade!
She hesitated for a second, debating whether or not she should call
John Quayle. Then she decided against it. In the time it would take to
make a phone call or to run upstairs to his office, the man would be
gone. She dashed out into the rain.
The man strode on, not looking back. He passed the open warehouse door
and walked on in the direction of a twin-engine Cessna that stood on
the apron beyond it. Roy Olsen, ignoring the light rain, was standing
beside his plane, fiddling with the door handle. Steve Miller’s
Beechcraft stood some distance away.
As the man passed the warehouse, Joey Watson appeared from out of the
interior.
“Hi, Van!” he called. “Going somewhere?”
Van! Van Lasher! The warehouse foreman! So he had been the masked
pirate!
Vicki ducked into the open door, and dragged the surprised boy with her.
“Look, Joey,” she said breathlessly. “I haven’t time to explain, so
just do as I say. Call Mr. Quayle. He’s in his office. Tell him that
Van Lasher is the third man. Have you got that, Joey? Tell Mr. Quayle
that Van Lasher is the _third man_!”
“But--but--” the boy stammered.
“Joey!” Vicki snapped. “This is important! Tell Quayle that Van is
here and it looks as if he has chartered Roy Olsen’s plane to take him
somewhere. I’ll do what I can to stall him. Now hurry, Joey! Hurry! And
you’d better use the phone in the office.”
When she reappeared at the open door, Vicki could hear Roy Olsen
arguing with Van.
“But look, mister! I have to have clearance for a flight to Cuba. I
just can’t pick up and go on the spur of the moment.”
“All right,” Van said, “I’ll double my offer. Five hundred dollars!”
“Sorry, mister. If I did a thing like that I’d lose my license for
sure.”
“Look here,” Van said. “I’m in a tremendous hurry. I missed my plane,
and if I’m not in Havana by two o’clock I’ll lose a lot of money. I’ll
make it a thousand. How’s that?”
“Gee, mister, I’d like to take you,” Roy said, “but I just can’t do it
for any price unless I have legal clearance.”
“All right,” Vicki heard Van say, “how long will it take you?”
“Twenty minutes maybe. A half hour at the most.”
“Okay,” Van said. “But hurry it up.”
Vicki breathed a deep sigh of relief. The delay would give Quayle and
the airport police plenty of time to get here!
Just at that moment Joey rushed out of the interior of the warehouse.
“Miss Vicki,” he shouted excitedly, “I got Mr. Quayle!”
At the sound of Joey’s voice Van wheeled around. When he saw Vicki, his
face contorted in a horrible expression of anger. He whipped a pistol
from his coat pocket and stuck it in Roy Olsen’s ribs.
“All right,” he snarled, “I’m tired of all this stalling! Get in that
airplane or I’ll blow you apart!”
Roy, shock at the sudden turn of events showing in his white face,
opened the door and climbed into the ship. Van followed at his heels.
Vicki almost panicked. Van was getting away--and he had to be stopped!
She looked in the direction of the terminal. There was no sign of
Quayle and his men. She looked inside the warehouse. By the time she
called any of the other workmen and explained the situation to them,
Roy’s plane would be air-borne. And there would be nothing they could
do, anyway, against a desperate man armed with a gun.
These thoughts flashed through her mind in a split second. Then she saw
Steve Miller’s plane. She made a dash for it.
When she reached the Beechcraft, Vicki opened the door and scrambled
in. By the time she had stumbled up the narrow aisle between the
passenger seats and settled herself behind the wheel, she could hear
the grinding noise of the Cessna’s starter and see its twin propellers
slowly turning over. Quickly she flicked the ignition switch and jabbed
at the starter buttons. As she did so, the engines of Roy’s plane
caught with a tremendous roar and the propellers flashed in dazzling
disks of reflected sunlight and a wild spray of falling rain.
At that moment the motors of the Beechcraft started, and Vicki spun the
wheel to taxi the ship into Roy’s path.
With Van Lasher’s gun at his back, Roy had no choice but to try to get
his plane into the air. He swerved just in time to miss the wing of the
Beechcraft by inches and headed out crosswise over the landing field.
Vicki opened the throttle wide. The Beech was a more powerful ship
than the Cessna and it answered the throttle like a race horse hurtling
out of a starting gate. Vicki pushed the wheel forward hard to keep the
ship from taking off into the air.
Again she intercepted Roy, and again he swerved in time to avoid
a collision. Vicki said a silent prayer that no passenger plane
was coming in for a landing, with all this crazy taxiing going on.
Certainly by now the tower would have seen the two planes racing madly
across the field and warned off any ships that might already be in the
landing pattern.
Roy had straightened out now, and again was heading up the field. Van
must indeed be desperate, for he apparently was ordering Roy at gun
point to make a downwind take-off.
Vicki took a last-ditch chance and cut in front of the Cessna again. A
collision at seventy miles an hour might kill everyone in both ships.
But Vicki had only one thought--to keep the other plane from getting
into the air. Again, Roy swerved just in time, almost scraping his left
wing against the high steel-mesh fence that edged the field.
Out of the corner of her eye, Vicki saw two airport jeeps dashing
across the field in their direction. That would be Quayle and the
police getting into the chase. Just then there was a smacking sound in
front of her and a small round hole appeared in the glass window only
inches from her head. Van was using his pistol to scare her away!
Once more, Roy tried to straighten out for a take-off. And once more
Vicki managed to intercept him and make him swerve away. At the same
time, the two jeeps cut in ahead of him. Roy tried to swerve out of the
way of this new menace, and in doing so the tip of one wing caught the
wire of the fence. The Cessna pivoted in a sort of exaggerated ground
loop, fell over onto its injured wing, and came to a shuddering stop.
Roy cut the engines, and the whirring propellers slowed down and came
to a standstill.
At the same time, Vicki cut the motors of the Beech and slammed on the
wheel brakes.
[Illustration]
Instantly a swarm of uniformed policemen surrounded the Cessna. As
Vicki watched, her heart pounding wildly after the excitement of the
chase, Van Lasher came out of the plane’s door and stepped onto the
ground, his hands high in the air. In a moment Roy Olsen followed him
and walked around to survey his wrecked plane. Vicki saw Mr. Quayle
walk up to Lasher, say a few words, and wave him off in the custody of
the police.
She got up from the pilot’s seat, walked slowly back down the aisle,
all the energy drained from her in these past few harrowing minutes,
and climbed down the step to the ground.
The FBI man came up to her, smiling.
“I might have known it was you in that plane. Thanks to your keen
instincts, we’ve caught all the other people in this gold coin case, so
it just naturally figures that you’d trap Lasher. If I’m not careful,
J. Edgar Hoover will fire me and give you my job.”
Vicki was looking sorrowfully at the wreckage of Roy Olsen’s beautiful
plane. John Quayle read the thoughts that were so clearly showing in
her face.
“Don’t fret about that plane, Vicki,” he said. “I imagine the insurance
company will be glad to take care of the damage.”
Roy Olsen joined them just in time to hear Mr. Quayle’s final words. He
was still pale and shaken, but he was able to manage a smile.
“Vicki,” he said, “my hat’s off to you. I was never so glad to make a
crash landing in all my life.”