Free Voyage into Violence by Frances and Richard Lockridge

useful if it could also be air-mailed to Havana. He hung up.
    â€œFolsom I understand,” Captain Cunningham said. “And Jones—Adjutant Jones—and Riggs. Buy why the Petersons, Mrs. Macklin and the Buckleys and Furstenbergs? Nice young couple, the Buckleys. Interesting accent. Why?”
    â€œMrs. Macklin makes herself felt,” Bill said. “As for the others—we have to start some place. Also, they’ve met Marsh.” He smiled at Cunningham’s expression. “Oh,” he said, “I know it’s tenuous. I know we’ll be wasting time. But—three fourths of all the motions we go through are wasted motions.” He looked at the ship’s captain, used to more orderly procedures. Captain Cunningham merely looked interested. “Before we can make a fix,” Bill said. “That’s the word, isn’t it?”
    â€œOh,” Cunningham said. “Quite, Weigand.”
    Bill got on with it. He got on first, with a suitcase which, lifted, had felt empty. It was empty. He went to the other suitcase, which had not felt empty. It was not. Marsh had been using it as a hamper for soiled clothes. He had made several changes. Either he was a man of very scrupulous cleanliness, or he had brought soiled clothing aboard. It might be, Weigand thought, that he had spent a few nights in a hotel before embarking. He rummaged in the clothing. He found a .38 caliber, police positive, revolver. He took it out. It was loaded.
    â€œI thought,” Cunningham said, “you told me that Marsh didn’t carry a gun?”
    Bill had. He admitted he had. It appeared he had been wrong. He emptied the clothing in the case onto the bed and further examined the case. He found nothing; he tossed the clothing back in. He turned to the attaché case—a smooth, rectangular box of leather. It was locked. Cunningham watched him.
    â€œHere,” Cunningham said, “let me have a go at it, what?”
    He produced a heavy knife, and opened a heavy blade. He prized at the lock. He broke the blade of the knife.
    â€œBad steel,” Cunningham said. He opened another blade and prized again, more carefully. His hands were deft; when it became necessary, they were strong. The brass tongue of the lock snapped up. “There we are,” Captain Cunningham said, pleased.
    The shallow case was only partly filled. One by one, Bill Weigand took objects from it.
    He took a square brown envelope and opened it and four glossy photographs slid out. They were photo graphs of jewelry—of a wide bracelet, heavily jeweled; of a ring, with a single large setting—again probably a diamond; of two necklaces, presumably of pearls. All these pretty things had been photographed against black cloth; Bill presumed, black velvet. He held the photographs out to the captain, who looked at them. The captain said they looked like money—like a great deal of money.
    Bill agreed to that, adding that one couldn’t tell. The diamonds might be glass, the pearls graduated beads.
    â€œSilly to photograph them if they were,” Cunningham said, reasonably. Bill agreed to that, and went on.
    There was a photograph of a heavy elderly woman with white hair. She wore a dark dress. Her eyes and her face seemed sad, and her face drooped sadly. Bill showed this to the captain, and Cunningham shook his head.
    â€œNor I,” Bill said, and turned the photograph over, and found nothing written on the back of it.
    Bill opened a black notebook and a letter fell out of it. There was no envelope. There was the discreet letterhead of The Clover Club. There was nothing to say where The Clover Club might be. The letter was dated October 3. It was addressed to “Dear Mr. Marsh.” It read:
    â€œNothing has come up to change the situation, so this will confirm our verbal agreement, terms and all. But for God’s sake, use kid gloves.”
    The note was signed. It was signed in a swirl of