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Clue of the Gold Coin

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<h2>CHAPTER VIII Mr. Quayle Again</h2> <hr class="divider2" /> “COME IN, MISS BARR.” The FBI man greeted Vicki with a tired smile and offered her a chair. He looked as though he hadn’t had too many hours of restful sleep during the past few nights. “I had a talk with your young friend, Watson, yesterday. I suppose that’s why you’re here.” Vicki nodded. “It was wise of you to have the lad come and see me. I certainly agree that Mr. Duke’s proposal to him was a most unusual one. As soon as the boy left I tried to contact Duke, but discovered that he was in Cuba and was expected back today.” “Yes, I know,” Vicki said. Mr. Quayle looked at her sharply for a moment and then went on: “However, I did make some discreet inquiries about him. It appears that he is in the import-export98 business, engaged in trade between the United States and Cuba. So far as I can tell, his trading is thoroughly respectable and legitimate, being principally concerned with sugar, although he also deals in laces, perfumes, antiques, and other luxury items. He seems to be fairly well known here at the airport, since a great many of his shipments come in by air express and air freight.” The FBI investigator grinned and reflectively stroked the stubble on his square jaw. “You remarked a moment ago that you knew Mr. Duke had been in Cuba. Do I gather that you have been doing some sleuthing on your own?” “A few things were worrying me,” Vicki said seriously, “and I didn’t want to bother you with them until I had a little more to go on. The other day—” She paused and then started over again. “You may remember that when you questioned our crew the other day I mentioned an old man on the flight who seemed to be behaving in a peculiar manner? At the time you didn’t attach much importance to it.” Mr. Quayle nodded his head slowly as he thought back over the Friday meeting. “Uh-huh,” he said. “Well,” Vicki went on, “I saw him again today.” As Vicki told her story, the FBI agent listened99 in attentive silence. Vicki repeated her experience with Mr. Tytell on the plane; how Mr. Eaton-Smith had helped to keep the old man calm; how Mr. Tytell had been so anxious to talk at first, but had lapsed into silence after she had served his lunch; and how she had found the travel folder that seemed to direct her to the Granada Restaurant in Ybor City. She told the story in more detail than she had on Friday, so that Mr. Quayle would get all the background that led up to her present vague suspicions and feeling of unrest. Then she told about overhearing Raymond Duke’s conversation with Joey Watson in the snack bar and her surprise when Duke directed the taxi driver to take him to the same restaurant that was named on the travel folder Mr. Tytell had left in his seat. “And so this afternoon, after the pirate crew had landed, I decided to go out to Ybor City and see this restaurant for myself. I thought that maybe Mr. Tytell might be playing his violin in the orchestra.” Mr. Quayle remained silent, puffing on an old smoke-blackened briar pipe and nodding now and then and muttering “Yes. ... Yes. ... Uh-huh. ... I see.” Vicki went on with her story. She told about seeing Mr. Eaton-Smith again at his office; of seeing Raymond Duke at the Granada; and finally,100 of finding old Mr. Tytell apparently working as an errand boy for Duke. “He seemed frightened half to death, Mr. Quayle,” she continued. “He clutched my hand like a little boy and kept saying, ‘I have to talk to you.’ I don’t know what it all adds up to, if anything. But I can’t help having a strange feeling about it.” “Yes,” Mr. Quayle said, “I can see what you mean.” “In the first place,” Vicki said, “if Mr. Tytell is so poor that he hadn’t eaten the day I saw him on the plane, and if he has to make a living by running errands, why was he flying to Florida on a luxury airplane? Why didn’t he come by bus, or at least on an economy coach flight?” “That’s an interesting question,” Mr. Quayle agreed. “Maybe I’m imagining things, Mr. Quayle. But it was Raymond Duke who made that strange proposition to Joey. It was Joey’s flashlight that was found at the scene of the robbery. It was old Mr. Tytell who tried to direct me to Ybor City—and who I found today at Raymond Duke’s house so scared he could hardly talk. All of these odd coincidences, somehow, seem to tie together. Anyway, I thought it was time to talk to you.” “You are a very wise young lady, Miss Barr,” Quayle said, knocking out the ashes of his pipe into a tray on his desk. “And you’re a good detective101 too. You have good instincts. And good hunches.” He got up from his chair. “Let’s keep this meeting a secret between you and me. You’ve given me some ideas that I’m going to look into. Meanwhile, continue to keep your eyes open. And don’t hesitate to come straight to me with any other notions that may occur to you.” He smiled his quiet, friendly smile. “As I said, you’re a pretty good detective.” <hr class="tb" /> Curiously enough, Vicki was back in Ybor City that night, having dinner with the Curtins. This time they ate in a restaurant called the Spanish Park. It was very much like the Granada, Vicki thought, with archways, tiled floors and walls, potted palms and tinkling fountain. Dinner began with an assortment of fruits and a spicy Spanish bean soup called Sopa de Garbanzo. Mr. Curtin told her that this soup was the speciality of Ybor City and that it was served free at street booths all during Festival Week. She remembered seeing the soup booths on the sidewalks that afternoon. The dinner continued with Cuban bread baked in a banana leaf; then chicken cooked with yellow rice and a whole assortment of spicy vegetables. It was topped off by coconut ice cream served in a coconut shell. As she ate, Vicki looked around at the people in the restaurant. They seemed to represent102 about the same cross-section of Americans and Spanish-Americans she had seen in the Granada at noon. A small orchestra played soft Spanish music. It had a violinist, but he was a short, fat man wearing Spanish clothes. She wondered what Mr. Tytell was doing. Then she shook these thoughts out of her head. She had told her suspicions to the FBI. That was all she could do at the moment. Mr. Curtin was telling a joke, and she joined in the laughter. When they left the restaurant, the air of Ybor City was full of the Pirate Festival. A peddler offered a tray of the souvenirs Vicki had seen that afternoon—small pirate ships, pistols, cutlasses, and pirate figurines, all made of bright coppery-gold metal. Mr. Curtin bought one of each. “For little Ed Ernest, the boy next door,” he explained. “You will be back in Tampa for the torchlight parade on Thursday night, won’t you, Vicki?” Louise asked. “I certainly will,” Vicki replied. “From your description of it, I couldn’t miss it for the world.” As they were driving home through streets crowded with merrymakers, Vicki asked: “Have there been any developments in the gold coin mystery, Mr. Curtin?” Louise’s father shook his head. “The FBI hasn’t a single clue to go on. It is103 as though some ancient alchemist reversed himself and muttered a few magic words that changed a chest of gold into a chest of nuts and bolts.” Vicki remembered that Pete Carmody had said exactly the same thing the other night in New York. <hr class="divider" /> 104</div> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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