Where’d you get it?”

Schmidt lighted the cigarette he had stuck in the side of his mouth. “It was picked up at sea.”

Ingram stared. “How’s that again?”

“Couple of men in a fishing boat brought it in. The Dorado—one of those fifty-thousand-dollar deals you use for marlin—”

“Sport fisherman.”

“Yeah. Anyway, they were bringing this Dorado back to Miami from the Virgin Islands. And yesterday afternoon a little before sunset they sighted a rowboat—a dinghy, I think you call it. Nobody in it; just drifting around in the ocean by itself. They went over and picked it up. There was an outboard motor clamped on the back, and some man’s clothes in the bottom—sneakers and a pair of dungarees and a shirt. The watch was in one of the pockets of the dungarees. They got into Miami early this morning and turned the whole thing over to the Coast Guard. The Coast Guard figured there might be a chance it was the Dragoon’s, and called us. We went out and got a description, and called Mrs. Osborne to see if she could identify it. She wasn’t sure—she’s not too familiar with the Dragoon—but Quinn brought old Tango up from Key West, and he identified it.”

“Where did they pick it up?” Ingram asked.

“South of here somewhere. The Coast Guard told me, but I’m no navigator.”

Schmidt went out, leaving him in the custody of a uniformed patrolman who chewed a pencil stub and scowled at a crossword puzzle. When he returned, some ten minutes later, Quinn was with him.

“We’re not going to hold you,” Schmidt said curtly. “But before you go, we want you to look at some pictures.”

Ingram sighed with relief. “Then you located my letter to Mrs. Osborne?”

“Yes. She called her maid at home. The letter apparently came this morning after she’d left for Miami. The maid read it to her, and it checks with what you told us. We also got hold of one of the officers working late at the bank, and he dug out that check Hollister gave you. It was the same phony account he stabbed the hotel with. It bounced, of course, but they hadn’t got the notice out to you yet.”

“Then you’re convinced?”

“Let’s put it this way—you helped steal that boat, but there’s no proof you did it with intent. I don’t know whether you were just a sucker, or smart enough to make yourself look like one, but either way we can’t hold you.”

“You die hard, don’t you?”

“You learn to, in this business.” Schmidt jerked his head. “Let’s go see if you can pick Hollister out of some mug shots.”

They went downstairs to another room that was harshly lighted and hot. The two detectives sat watching while he scanned hundreds of photographs—hopefully, and then with increasing anger as the hope faded—trying to find the man who’d called himself Hollister. He knew he was still suspect, and failure to turn up Hollister’s picture would certainly do nothing to lessen their suspicion.