add to this information--information which, such as it was, had been shared with F. B. I. and the Coast Guard.
Bedelia and Professor Burke had no notion of such facts. If they had been less ardent and more sophisticated--and particularly if he had not clung to his theory of the essential stupidity of criminals--they would have reported their suspicions to the police and let it go at that.
"What we know," he said chattily, as he drove his reupholstered coupe onto the first of the Keys--connecting bridges, "is, basically, that a car belonging to the Maroon Gang had marl on its wheels--"
"--and had some ferns caught in its hinges that Alice Beardsley says grows only on DeWitt Key, Little Tango, Key Dent, and Lower Beacon Key."
Bedelia was fully prepared for the adventure. She was wearing riding breeches and boots, and carrying a bee-hat, in case the insects became unbearable. She went on enthusiastically, "We have Mr. Sanders' hint that these Maroon people are engaged in the--business--"
"--and I will be able to recognize the tire-marks of that big sedan, if we find them.
In marl of that sort, with no rains since, they should he very plain."
It was little enough to go on, in a sense. Little enough, but the multitudes of officials searching for the smugglers would have given much to know that little. It was for such small facts that they searched coast and border.
They drove to Lower Beacon Key, as a starting place. It was farthest from Miami, and the smallest of the four. They reached it before noon--an islet of twenty or thirty acres, without a tree. The ferns with the lopsided fronds covered about half of it. There was not a byroad on it--nothing but the main highway with its crescendo-diminuendo of Sunday traffic.
"We can rule this out immediately," Bedelia said with--assurance. "No cover. No lane. No wharf. Nothing. A swimmer wouldn't try to smuggle pearls ashore here."
Key Dent was bigger, and wooded. After lunch, they explored. There were three side roads on Key Dent. Two led to fishing camps, over dry coral. One led to a lobsterman's cabin, through a certain amount of damp, whitish marl. But there were no tire tracks of any sort in the marl.
They returned to their car. With no diminution of enthusiasm, they drove back to Little Tango which was the largest of the suspect four, in spite of its name. It boasted of a half-dozen homes, another fishing camp, and a combination filling station and marine curio store. There were many side roads and they spent the best part of the afternoon exploring them--without success. Some were a few hundred feet in length and some were several hundred yards. None even passed through the lopsided ferns, although many were rutted deeply in marl.
Before they continued on to DeWitt Key, the professor decided to fill up his gasoline tank. He drove in at the single pump of the filling station and curio shop. He blew his horn. An old man with a limp, a quid of tobacco, faded trousers and no shoes finally appeared and began to crank the gasoline by hand.
Bedelia liked shells and corals. She got out to inspect the collection in the shop.
She returned disdainfully.
"Just junk," she said, "and most of it broken up. Poorly collected. But"--and she lowered her voice--"there's a road on the other side of the building that goes to a ramshackle garage-and also beyond it, toward the sea."
Professor Burke paid. "Do you mind," he enquired mildly, "if we go down your road? We're fern collectors--"
"Private property," the old man said. "I realize that. I'd be glad to pay a dollar or two, however. We are hunting for a particular fern. It has been reported on four keys, only. This is one."
"It is lopsided," Bedelia said brightly. "I hope you won't object to our just looking."
"Sure do! Anyhow--place is full of mosquitoes."
"We're accustomed to that!" Bedelia popped the bee-hat over her head.
The old man was startled. He spat.
"Come, Martin," she said, "I'm certain he won't
Bedelia and Professor Burke had no notion of such facts. If they had been less ardent and more sophisticated--and particularly if he had not clung to his theory of the essential stupidity of criminals--they would have reported their suspicions to the police and let it go at that.
"What we know," he said chattily, as he drove his reupholstered coupe onto the first of the Keys--connecting bridges, "is, basically, that a car belonging to the Maroon Gang had marl on its wheels--"
"--and had some ferns caught in its hinges that Alice Beardsley says grows only on DeWitt Key, Little Tango, Key Dent, and Lower Beacon Key."
Bedelia was fully prepared for the adventure. She was wearing riding breeches and boots, and carrying a bee-hat, in case the insects became unbearable. She went on enthusiastically, "We have Mr. Sanders' hint that these Maroon people are engaged in the--business--"
"--and I will be able to recognize the tire-marks of that big sedan, if we find them.
In marl of that sort, with no rains since, they should he very plain."
It was little enough to go on, in a sense. Little enough, but the multitudes of officials searching for the smugglers would have given much to know that little. It was for such small facts that they searched coast and border.
They drove to Lower Beacon Key, as a starting place. It was farthest from Miami, and the smallest of the four. They reached it before noon--an islet of twenty or thirty acres, without a tree. The ferns with the lopsided fronds covered about half of it. There was not a byroad on it--nothing but the main highway with its crescendo-diminuendo of Sunday traffic.
"We can rule this out immediately," Bedelia said with--assurance. "No cover. No lane. No wharf. Nothing. A swimmer wouldn't try to smuggle pearls ashore here."
Key Dent was bigger, and wooded. After lunch, they explored. There were three side roads on Key Dent. Two led to fishing camps, over dry coral. One led to a lobsterman's cabin, through a certain amount of damp, whitish marl. But there were no tire tracks of any sort in the marl.
They returned to their car. With no diminution of enthusiasm, they drove back to Little Tango which was the largest of the suspect four, in spite of its name. It boasted of a half-dozen homes, another fishing camp, and a combination filling station and marine curio store. There were many side roads and they spent the best part of the afternoon exploring them--without success. Some were a few hundred feet in length and some were several hundred yards. None even passed through the lopsided ferns, although many were rutted deeply in marl.
Before they continued on to DeWitt Key, the professor decided to fill up his gasoline tank. He drove in at the single pump of the filling station and curio shop. He blew his horn. An old man with a limp, a quid of tobacco, faded trousers and no shoes finally appeared and began to crank the gasoline by hand.
Bedelia liked shells and corals. She got out to inspect the collection in the shop.
She returned disdainfully.
"Just junk," she said, "and most of it broken up. Poorly collected. But"--and she lowered her voice--"there's a road on the other side of the building that goes to a ramshackle garage-and also beyond it, toward the sea."
Professor Burke paid. "Do you mind," he enquired mildly, "if we go down your road? We're fern collectors--"
"Private property," the old man said. "I realize that. I'd be glad to pay a dollar or two, however. We are hunting for a particular fern. It has been reported on four keys, only. This is one."
"It is lopsided," Bedelia said brightly. "I hope you won't object to our just looking."
"Sure do! Anyhow--place is full of mosquitoes."
"We're accustomed to that!" Bedelia popped the bee-hat over her head.
The old man was startled. He spat.
"Come, Martin," she said, "I'm certain he won't
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