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 on158 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 just159 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.”

160 “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. Since161 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.

162 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............