Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 104, No. 4, August 22, 1936

“As for him,” I remarked, “I always thought he was a first-class crook. I always figured he cleaned up these insurance things too fast — and always collected the reward. It was my theory that he employed the heisters to lift gems so that they could all split the bonus dough. You’ll remember, he never seemed to catch the crooks, he always returned the gems.”

“Regardless of that,” the Old Man snorted, “here is your story. When Rainsford sailed last January, Mrs. Oliver Lane, widow of the late oil tycoon, commissioned Rainsford to bring her back a two hundred and fifty grand star ruby from India. Today he arrives. A photo of said ruby will be news. Also — how it was bought will be news. You cover — or else.”

I groaned and started to protest, but he held up his hand and looked sternly at me.

He said, “Daffy — the Oracle has spoken. Now take it on the lam. Jimmy Harris will carry the camera for you. And listen, you imitation pencil-pusher, I want a story this time, understand? Lately, all your yarns turned out to be unborn babes. I want news, not hopes. And so, if you will now kindly get the hell out of here, I will go back to work.”

“Yea, verily,” I said, and left.

So there I was at nine-thirty a.m. standing on the stern of the Aloha which is the hula-hula handle of the tug that takes the ship news reporters down the bay. Jimmy Harris was with me, his Graflex under his arm. And I was watching the water and beginning to feel peculiar.

But I made the Aranthic without mishap. And after a climb up the Jacob’s ladder and with the steady deck-boards under my tootsies, I felt a lot better.

We were met at the top of the ladder by a swell-looking blonde, who told us she was Julie Hilton and that she was social director of the ship and could point out all the celebrities aboard.

“We have many famous people aboard, gentlemen,” she said, “and I’m sure you’ll want to interview them all.”

“Madam,” I said, stepping forward, “we are not interested in famous people. We write only of the notorious. So if you will kindly lead us to the ménage of a former shamus by the name of Kirk Rainsford, I am sure all the boys will not neglect to say that we were greeted on the Aranthic by an angel whose only difference from Greta Garbo was that Garbo had an MGM contract. Lead on, Ariel, lead on.”

Miss Hilton led on. She was a good sport and she took the kid with a nice smile. She led us to “A” square amidships and there handed us over to the purser and said, “These gentlemen wish to interview Mr. Rainsford.”

“Fine,” the purser said. “Follow me, please.”

We followed him down the port corridor to A-61 and I noticed that another officer brought up the rear. The purser knocked on the door, it opened, and there stood Kirk Rainsford, tall, gray, his eyes as furtive as ever, his thin mouth twisting down in a crooked smile.

“Well!” Rainsford exclaimed heartily. “I’ve been expecting you boys!”

“Hello, Kirk,” I said drily. “The hell you have.”

“Daffy Dill,” he murmured, staring at me. “My word — what are you doing on the waterfront trek? Given up covering crime?”

“Who, me?” I said. “I’m covering you today, aren’t I, friend?”

Rainsford laughed. “Still the same suspicious Daffy,” he said to everyone at large. “Thought I was a phony, boys, and I think it’s broken his heart that he’s been wrong.”

“No man could be as clever as you’ve been — honestly,” I said, smiling.

He laughed again. “Well, you’re frank at least. I like you for that, Daffy. But you’re dead wrong.”

“How about the ruby?” Jimmy Harris asked. “We want to see that ruby and get our pictures.”

“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” Rainsford said, holding up his hands. “The ruby is in the purser’s safe at the moment. He will have to get it — or better still — we had all better adjourn to his office. He has told me that it will be necessary for him to stand armed while the stone is examined. You can understand that, I’m sure.”

“Sure!”

“Let’s see it!”

“Come on!”

“Just a moment,” Rainsford said, grinning. “Gentlemen, this is something in the nature of an event. I have performed my last mission for any client. Rainsford, super-sleuth, is absolutely retiring from this day on. And as a memento of this day, I want you all to have a drink. One of you pour the drinks. The makings are right there.”

“I’ll handle it,” some one said.

“Now let’s see,” said Rainsford, “there are twelve of you. I’ve brought back several souvenirs for you. Daggers — symbolic things.”

“Yeah?” I asked. “What do you mean — symbolic?”

He stared at me. “Why, Daffy, don’t you know. Because a newspaperman will never hesitate to stab you in the back. Here they are, boys, daggers from the island of Bali. One for each of you — and now one drink—”

He sat down and the drinks were passed out, rye and honey and ginger ale. “I give you a toast,” he said. “The Lane ruby, with the most perfect star in it ever to be seen here.”

We all drank.