Blood on Biscayne Bay (12 page)

It was only about 200 yards north of the point toward which he was headed. However, it wouldn’t make a great deal of difference in his calculations so he kept on as he was, directly toward land.

He cut the motor as he approached, turned the rudder to make a wide circle that would start him back in the other direction. He checked his watch and found to his surprise that he had been on the water almost half an hour. It had seemed much less than that, but his watch said 5:29.

It was heavier going on the return trip, bucking the stiff breeze and the swells. He squinted his eyes and fought to keep the little boat on her course.

He caught a glimpse of a floating object a hundred feet to his left and studied it curiously for a moment, then twisted the rudder to carry him closer to it

Two bronzed and trunk-clad lads were tacking a sailboat from the eastern shore on a course which was bringing them directly toward Shayne, but he held on toward the floating object as his first uneasy conviction grew stronger.

It looked like a floating bather riding lazily and easily on the swell, but it wasn’t wearing a bathing suit and it was floating face downward.

When he was within 20 feet of the object, Shayne knew it was the body of a man, fully dressed and with outspread arms and legs that moved sluggishly in the water as though he propelled himself forward.

Shayne hesitated briefly, glancing over his shoulder at the approaching sailboat. It was close now, and one of the boys was standing in the bow pointing ahead and shouting excitedly. Shayne knew that they too, had seen the floating body. He couldn’t turn away now and pretend he hadn’t seen it.

He cut his outboard motor and let the little boat drift on, dropping to his knees and leaning overboard to grab the body and pull it aboard.

The lads nosed their sailboat in against him gently as he turned the man over on his back and looked into the leathery face of Angus Browne.

One of the boys leaped aboard, exclaiming, “Gee, Mister, is he dead?”

“He’s dead, all right,” said Shayne grimly. The top of Browne’s head was smashed like an eggshell and the water lapping against the side of the boat bore a faint reddish tint which faded and disappeared into the blue waters of the bay, even as he looked down at it in the gathering dusk.

“Killed, by gosh!” the boy said in an awed voice. He yelled at his companion in the sailboat. “You oughta see it, Tom. It’s a dead man.”

Shayne sank back on his haunches, his mouth tight. They were less than a quarter of a mile from the eastern shore of the bay, not more than a mile north of the County Causeway.

“Better get back in your own boat,” Shayne told the boy. “Sail back to shore and call the police. Tell them to bring an ambulance to the foot of the Causeway. I’ll take the body in there.”

“Gee! You bet. Right away, Mister.” The boy leaped back into his sailboat and Shayne shoved his small boat away, starting the motor again. He waited until a fair distance separated the two boats before cutting his motor down and lashing the tiller to hold it on course. He then went through Browne’s pockets carefully.

He found a water-soaked wallet in his breast pocket, some keys, change, and a handkerchief in his pants pockets. Nothing else. Nothing to indicate what he had taken from the special delivery envelope only a few hours ago.

Shayne put the things back and headed the catboat in toward the foot of the Causeway. The boys had already reached shore and there was no doubt they had called the police at the earliest moment they could.

He heard the scream of police car and ambulance as he nosed the prow into the soft mud alongside the Causeway. A couple of ambulance attendants and some police officers were waiting for him. He tossed the painter ashore to one of them, stood up in the bow and leaped ashore.

Chief Painter came striding down behind the others, stopped short with a malignant eye on Shayne. “I might’ve guessed it. As soon as I heard there was a body, I might’ve known it’d be you again.”

Shayne grinned and agreed, “On-the-spot Shayne. Always doing your dirty work for you.”

“You’re on the spot, all right,” Painter snapped. “Why the devil did you bring him all the way in here? The boys who telephoned said he was floating away up the bay. Just about opposite the Hudson house, I take it.”

“It wasn’t anywhere near the Hudson place,” Shayne said calmly. “I thought I’d save time by bringing him in here while the boys were phoning.”

Painter brushed past him to join the group of men lifting the body from the boat. He took one look at the dead man and grunted angrily, “Answers the description of the taxi driver we haven’t been able to locate. Okay, Shayne.” He whirled on the detective, thumbnailing his mustache. “What have you to say for yourself this time?”

“I found him floating in the water like that. The two boys in the sailboat saw him about the same time, and they arrived at the spot at the same time I did.”

“You just happened to, I suppose. Like that?” Painter snapped his fingers with a sharp
plop.
“What were you doing out on the bay in a boat?”

“Taking a ride.”

“You weren’t looking for a body, I suppose? Or getting rid of one.”

“I didn’t get rid of this one,” Shayne said calmly. “I found him for you.”

“After making sure there were witnesses to see you find it,” said Painter with heavy sarcasm. “How did you know where to look?”

“I smelled him,” Shayne said disgustedly. “Didn’t I ever tell you my mother was frightened by a bloodhound before I was born?”

One of the policemen standing by chuckled. Painter snorted and glared at him with his sharp black eyes. He turned back to Shayne and snapped, “The way we got it over the phone the boys say you headed right toward the body as though you knew exactly where it’d be.
After
coming across the bay fast to that very spot a few minutes before where you probably tossed him out.”

Shayne shrugged and said, “Nuts.”

“If it’s that taxi driver, I’ll sure as hell—”

The officer who had chuckled redeemed himself by stepping forward and saying, “The stiff is Angus Browne, Chief. There’s a lot of stuff to identify him, and one of the boys knows him.”

“Browne?” Painter turned on them. “The private eye from Miami? Then why the devil didn’t you say before—”

“Browne was a sort of punk. Divorce stuff mostly,” the man who knew Browne said.

Painter turned back to Shayne and asked sharply, “What do you know about that?”

“I’d say he’s had it coming to him a long time. I’ll be going along now.” He started toward the beached catboat.

“Not so fast,” Painter snarled. “I’ve got a few questions first. How does Browne figure in this?”

Shayne said, “I don’t know—yet. Give me a couple of hours and I’ll find out for you?”

“Where were you between ten-thirty and eleven last night?”

“Riding home from the Play-Mor Club,” Shayne told him wearily.

“We’ve got a taxi driver who swears you took the dead girl with you in your cab—”

“I never take dead girls out in taxis,” Shayne interrupted solemnly.

Painter’s face grew livid with rage. “By God, Shayne, I’ll slam you behind bars if it’s the last thing I ever do.”

“All right,” Shayne said easily. “But if you want this case solved—”

“What about you taking Natalie Briggs home last night and going in after her? The taxi driver said—”

“The same driver you just said you haven’t been able to locate?” Shayne interrupted him again.

Painter brushed his mustache gently, his black eyes glittering up at Shayne. “The driver’s testimony will cinch what we already know,” he asserted.

“Maybe. If he doesn’t tell you we put the girl out of the cab after we’d gone two blocks from the Play-Mor,” said Shayne.

“Is that what you’re going to claim?” snapped Painter.

“Ask the taxi driver,” Shayne told him and waved a big hand negligently.

“I intend to as soon as we pick him up. In the meantime I want to know more about your innocent little joy ride on the bay. If you weren’t looking for Browne’s body, what was your purpose?”

“It’s just a new hobby I’ve taken up,” said Shayne. “It’s relaxing and restful. Try it some time. Good for the nerves.”

“You weren’t wasting time just going for a boat ride when you knew I was getting ready to hang a murder rap on you.”

Shayne said, “That’s my story.” He again started to the boat.

“Wait a minute,” Painter called sharply. “Where’d you get that boat?”

“They have them for rent in Miami,” Shayne reminded him.

“Who did you rent it from? When?”

Shayne shook his head. “That’s in the nature of a leading question and shouldn’t be put except in the presence of counsel. If I had counsel, I’d be advised not to answer.”

“I can get the dope, all right,” Painter barked. “Every boat on this bay is registered.” He peered at the name painted on the catboat.
“The Tarzan,
eh? All I need is proof that you started out on your joy ride with Angus Browne aboard.”

“When you get that,” Shayne agreed, “you’ll have something. In the meantime I’ve got a couple of murders to solve.” He strode past the canvas on which Browne’s body lay. The attendants were waiting for Painter’s order to take the body in. Shayne glanced at the two men and saw an expression of faint amusement on their faces which quickly changed to solemnity.

Shayne lifted his hand slightly in farewell, got in the boat and shoved off. He started the motor and cut directly across the bay toward the Morrison dock.

THERE WAS NO ONE in sight when he docked the boat. He tied it up and went across the lawn and onto the street. He slid under the steering wheel of Ira Wilson’s taxi and drove to Biscayne Boulevard, turning north to 79th Street and crossed the Causeway there, striking Ocean Drive not far south of the Play-Mor Club.

Shayne’s eyes were bleak when he got out of the cab and walked the short distance to the club.

The uniformed doorman at the top of the stairway was the same one who had been on duty the preceding night. He turned and pressed a signal button in the door jamb—two shorts and then a very long one. The button presently lighted with a signal glow, and the doorman, his back turned to Shayne, said, “I’m sorry, sir,” coldly, “but I have orders not to admit you.”

He was an exceedingly tall man of about 60. He turned slowly to the redheaded detective and folded his long arms beneath his chest with an air of quiet finality.

Shayne grinned and said, “Are you going to keep me out, dad?”

“I have to obey orders, sir,” he answered, apologetically.

“I’ve got business with your boss,” Shayne said. He turned slightly and hunched his left shoulder against the elderly doorman, shoving him aside.

A gruff voice spoke from behind the doorman in a tone of pleased surprise. “Damned if it ain’t the redhead again. He givin’ you trouble. Pop?”

A taxi was stopping in front of the canopied entrance. The doorman sidled away from Shayne and said softly, “Handle him quiet, Smith,” and went down the steps to greet the passengers getting out of the taxi.

Two men moved through the doorway toward Shayne. One of them was the bulky man who had escorted him to Barbizon’s office from the roulette table. His companion weighed a hundred pounds less than the man the doorman had called Smith, but his eyes glittered in a hawklike face and he moved easily on the balls of his feet. His right hand was bunched in the side pocket of his coat.

Shayne said, “Take it easy, boys. All I want is a word with Barbizon.”

“Sure, we’ll take it easy,” Smith assured him. “Just step out of the way of these folks comin’ up and we’ll talk it over.”

Shayne stepped aside and let the couple pass through the door. He said, “Call Barbizon out here. I don’t want any trouble.”

“I thought you liked trouble.” Smith rubbed his big hands together happily. He stood one step above Shayne. His companion moved down to Shayne’s left and level with him.

Shayne said, “I made a mistake last night. Tell Barbizon that, and—”

“You bet you made a mistake.” Smith stepped forward and down without warning. His bulk pressed Shayne backward and off balance. As he fell, the thin man with the glittering eyes pulled a blackjack from his pocket and sapped him neatly on the side of his head.

Shayne fell to the bottom of the short flight of stairs and lay very still. Anyone witnessing the incident from more than 20 feet away would have sworn a drunk had lost his balance, for the light was dimly red above the entrance door.

The elderly doorman had been watching from the driveway, keeping an eye out for customers who might arrive. He said, “Get him out of here. There’s a car coming.”

Smith and Dick got hold of Shayne’s long body. They carried him half a block away and dumped him into a narrow pit at the foot of the stone wall.

“D’yuh think I conked him too hard?” Dick asked uneasily as they stepped back to look at Shayne’s crumpled form.

“Naw—he got what was comin’ to him,” Smith said. “Slammin’ a steel door in my face when we went in to see the boss. Leave him lay right there.”

“It might make a lot of trouble,” Dick said nervously.

“Forget it,” growled Smith. “C’mon. Le’s get back.” They turned and trudged back to the club entrance.

Shayne lay with his head against the wall for a long time. When he regained consciousness he stirred dazedly and realized he was lying face down in a pool of sticky blood. Strangely, the wound on his cheek didn’t hurt. That side of his face was numb.

He vaguely remembered the beginning of the fight with the two men, but nothing was clear after that except the names of the men. Smith—and the man Smith called Dick.

Leaning his head against the stone wall, Shayne sat for several minutes fighting off the pain and trying to clarify every incident which had occurred before he was blacked out. He got a handkerchief from his pocket and held it against his cheek. By the light of an approaching car he held it out and saw that the bleeding had stopped.

He dragged himself up from the wall and went to Wilson’s taxi, swaying unsteadily. His mind cleared after he had sat under the steering wheel for a while.