Blood on Biscayne Bay (3 page)

Shayne played EVEN half a dozen rolls, and was down to his last chip. He placed it on Number 14 and waited.

The ball rolled into the 24 slot. Shayne put a cigarette between his lips and struck a match to it, turning his head away slightly while the croupier raked in and paid off. He waited until the ball was lifted from its resting place before simulating a start of surprise and exclaiming angrily, “How about paying me off? I was on Number 14.”

“But 24 was the winning number,” the croupier assured him softly.

“The hell it was,” raged Shayne. “What sort of game are you running here? Can’t you win sucker money fast enough on your crooked wheel without pulling a gyp like that?”

There was a murmur of polite protest from the other players, and Timothy Rourke complained thickly, “For crissakes, Mike—” but Shayne continued his angry protests, leaning forward to shake his finger in the croupier’s face.

A bulky man came up behind him and placed a firm hand on his shoulder. A harsh and grating voice said, “Maybe you’d like to take your kick to the boss.”

“I sure as hell would,” Shayne told him violently, turning about to meet a pair of cold eyes level with his own. “If he’s running this sort of gyp game I intend to call his hand.”

“Take it easy, pal,” the burly man muttered, tightening his fingers on Shayne’s shoulder and putting 220 pounds into a pull that moved Shayne away from the table.

Shayne shoved the big hand off angrily and stalked behind the man while the other gamblers looked on in disapproving silence. They stopped at a steel door down the hall marked
Private,
and cleverly painted and grained to look like oak. The man knuckled the door and turned the knob.

Shayne pushed past him into a brightly lighted office. The bouncer stuck his head in and growled, “This guy has got a wrong beef, boss, and—”

He didn’t get any further with his explanation. Shayne hit the inner edge of the door with his shoulder and the bouncer jerked his head back to avoid being struck.

Shayne slammed the door shut and slid a heavy steel bolt on the inside. He turned to look into the muzzle of a .45 in the hand of Arnold Barbizon, who was standing in a half-crouch behind a shining mahogany desk in the center of the room.

THE MANAGER OF THE PLAY-MOR CLUB straightened quickly from his crouched position. His breathing was rapid and audible, but he managed to say with some dignity, “Shayne—what’s all this fuss about?”

At the instant Barbizon spoke the doorknob rattled on the outside and the bouncer’s gruff voice dimly penetrated the steel door. “What goes, boss? Should I bust in?”

Shayne shook his red head gravely at Arnold Barbizon. “You’d better talk with me privately,” he said. His eyes darted around the room. There was one other door to the left, an ordinary door with a Yale lock. He had no way of knowing whether it would open from the outside or not.

Barbizon moved forward, the gun steady in his hand and pointed at Shayne’s belly. He lifted his voice and said, “It’s all right, Smithy. Just an old friend pulling a gag on me.”

The gambler was a slim man of medium height with an olive complexion. His full lips were red, as though delicately rouged; his eyes were startlingly pale in color. He wore a carefully tailored Palm Beach suit, a tan shirt, and a four-in-hand tie to match. His cold pale eyes regarded Shayne steadily, but the fear had gone away from them. He said, “Well, Shamus?” His lips scarcely moved.

“Put down the rod and we’ll have a talk,” Shayne snapped.

Barbizon moved his head negatively and almost imperceptibly. “I like it better this way. What’s your gripe?” His voice was low and harsh.

Shayne took a deliberate step toward him. “I’ve got a couple of friends outside waiting for me. They know I’m here with you.” He kept moving forward, circling around the desk.

Barbizon’s red lips tightened against his teeth. He hunched forward a trifle more, then slowly sank into his chair. He laid the .45 carefully on the desk and said, “So, we’ll talk.”

Shayne stopped and eased his right hip onto a corner of the desk. He said, “I just donated forty bucks to your crooked wheel.” He took out a pack of cigarettes, shook one loose and offered it to Barbizon.

The gambler accepted it with a murmur of thanks, produced a lighter from his pocket, lit Shayne’s cigarette and then his own. He leaned back and exhaled smoke through his nostrils and said in a tone of dry amusement, “You’re supposed to be dry behind the ears.”

“I’m supposed to be,” Shayne agreed.

Barbizon sighed heavily. There was a short silence between them, smoke rolling from the nostrils of each. Then the gambler slid his hand inside his coat pocket and brought out a billfold. He extracted four bills—a twenty, a ten, and two fives—shoved them toward Shayne and asked, “That fix it?”

Shayne said, “That’s generous of you.” He picked up the bills, creased them thoughtfully, flipped one five back. “I had a couple of cheap drinks and a swell dinner on you,” he explained.

Barbizon nodded pleasantly and put the five back in the billfold. “Are we through talking?”

“We haven’t started yet. I’ll take the ten-grand marker you’re holding on Christine Hudson.”

The suave gambler’s cigarette stopped a couple of inches from his parted lips. His hand was steady. A slight widening of his strangely pale eyes was his only indication of surprise. He said, “Come again.”

“Mrs. Hudson’s IOU for ten thousand. I want it.”

“The hell you do.” His lips smiled in faint amusement as he placed the cigarette between them.

“Make it easy on yourself,” said Shayne casually. His hand darted out and caught up the .45. It was a double-action Colt. He broke it and pressed the plunger that dropped six cartridges into his palm. He pocketed the cartridges and laid the empty gun back on the desk.

Barbizon, leaning back comfortably in his chair, did not move, but murderous rage glittered in his eyes. He said, “You’ve got a way of making yourself at home.”

“I’ll take that marker,” Shayne growled.

“Is this a pay-off?”

“It’s a brush-off,” Shayne told him easily. He held out a broad palm. “Give.”

The gambler’s hand trembled when he tried to put the cigarette to his lips again. He ground it savagely in an ash tray.

“You can’t get away with this,” he said in a low and furious voice.

“My friends who are waiting for me,” Shayne told him quietly, “are an ex-cop and a newspaper reporter. We’ll do a job on this place if you want it that way.”

Barbizon drew in a long breath and exhaled slowly. “How do you figure in it?”

“Christine Hudson is a friend of mine,” Shayne told him. “She’s in a jam and I’m getting her out of it.”

Barbizon’s eyes narrowed a trifle. “What makes you think I’ve got a thing like that here?”

“The pay-off was set for tonight. Here.”

The gambler shrugged his padded shoulders, leaned forward and opened a drawer on the right-hand side of his desk. He took a key ring from his pocket and inserted a flat key in the lock of a long steel box. The top jumped open. He reached inside and drew out a doubled sheet of heavy note paper. His only expression was complete boredom as he pushed the paper toward Shayne.

Shayne unfolded it. Engraved across the top was “Mrs. Leslie Hudson, 139 Magnolia Lane, Miami Beach, Florida.” Below, written in blue ink, in a firm and clear handwriting, was “IOU $10,000.” It was signed, “Mrs. Leslie Hudson.”

Shayne studied it for a moment, then ripped it into thin shreds and dropped them into his coat pocket. He stood up and said, “Thanks.” Turning his back on Barbizon he went to the door, unbolted it, and walked out into the empty corridor.

He returned to the gaming room and stopped just inside the door to look around.

Business had picked up since be left. Two blackjack games had started, and another crap table was going strong. At the roulette table, he saw Timothy Rourke standing beside the frizzled blonde with the expensive perfume and the dress that did not fit her. He didn’t see the stocky man who had come in with her.

The blonde was pressed close to Rourke and talking earnestly to him.

After studying the crowd carefully and not seeing Angus Browne, Shayne stalked across to the door leading into the cocktail lounge. The lounge was filled with people and with cigarette smoke and loud talk. He strolled slowly along the bar, but neither Angus Browne nor the blonde’s earlier companion were present.

In the checkroom he got his hat, went down the stone steps to the curb where the doorman was assisting a couple from a chauffeured limousine. When the big car pulled away, Shayne asked the doorman, “Any chance of getting a cab?”

“As soon as one comes in with a load, sir. There’s one turning in now.”

Shayne stepped back when the taxi pulled up. A young sailor and a very young girl got out. They were both quite drunk. They refused the doorman’s assistance, and staggered away arm in arm. The doorman nodded to Shayne, who started toward the empty cab.

“Cab! Cab!” A shrill voice called from the top of the stone steps. The blonde was running toward the taxi, her face white in the dim light, holding the long skirt of her dinner gown up to make more speed.

“I’m sorry, Miss,” the doorman said. “This gentleman has already—”

The girl rushed on, crying, “I must have this cab,” and started to climb in.

Shayne stepped up to the driver and asked, “Any reason why you shouldn’t earn a double fare?”

“Okay by me,” the driver told him with a wide grin.

Shayne put a quarter into the doorman’s hand and got in beside the girl who was huddled in the far corner of the seat. “If you don’t mind sharing the cab with me,” he told her cheerfully, “I’ll be glad to drop you first.”

“But—hurry,” she said in a shaky voice.

The taxi wheeled around in a circle and went out under the archway. The driver asked over his shoulder, “Where to?”

“You first,” Shayne said to the girl.

She was sitting erect now, stiffly alert. “One thirty-nine Magnolia Lane,” she said. “Please hurry.” Her voice broke on the last words.

Shayne repeated the address aloud, “One thirty-nine Magnolia Lane,” frowning at the sound of it on his lips. The address engraved on the shreds of note paper in his pocket. The blonde was going to Leslie Hudson’s house.

He settled back in his corner and lit a cigarette, shielding the match in his big cupped palms to hide his face. The odor of her perfume had worn off somewhat and was not too strong inside the cab. The girl shrank back in her corner and did not look at him. He wondered why she had been in such frantic haste to leave the Play-Mor Club. He wondered who her earlier companion had been, and what connection, if any, there was between her and Timothy Rourke. She was not the type to attract Rourke, yet he felt sure that it had been Rourke and not himself she had stared at across the roulette table.

The taxi sped south past the Roney Plaza a short distance, then turned west toward the bay. There was a half-moon and brilliant stars twinkled in the dark blue sky. The taxi followed a winding course westward along palm-lined streets, finally turning south again on a street paralleling the east shore of Biscayne Bay. The driver slowed and pulled up in front of a tall hibiscus hedge that concealed the lower story of the house, but there were lighted windows in the upper story.

The girl was fumbling in her handbag when Shayne opened his door next to the hedge and stepped out. He held the door open and said, “I’ll be glad to take care of the fare, Miss.”

She moved over on the seat and slid out the door, breathing a tense, “Thank you very much.”

For an instant he caught a glimpse of her broad face in the moonlight. Her features were strained and tight, and she seemed to shrink away from him. She opened a wooden gate, left it ajar, and he could hear her heels clicking rapidly up the concrete walk.

Shayne said quickly, “Hold it here for me just a minute,” and went quietly and swiftly after her. He saw her swerve from the path and disappear around the side of the house toward the rear.

He stopped for a moment and listened, then went up the front walk to the porch where a night light burned, and pressed the electric button.

There was a brief wait. The door was opened cautiously by a middle-aged woman with a pleasant face and well-cushioned body clad in a simple print dress.

Shayne removed his hat and said, “I’d like to see Mrs. Hudson, I’m an old friend, and it’s rather urgent—”

“I’m sorry. Mrs. Hudson is not in.”

“Mr. Hudson, then?”

“Mr. Hudson isn’t in either. If you’d care to come in and wait—” She opened the door wide.

Shayne said, “Thanks. I’ll try tomorrow morning.” He went down the walk to the waiting cab, got in, and gave the name of his hotel in Miami.

The driver grinned as he pulled away. “That dame didn’t seem very friendly—you letting her ride in the cab, and all. I figured you and her didn’t know each other when you got in back there.”

Shayne said, “We didn’t,” shortly, discouraging further probing by the driver.

It was eleven o’clock when he reached his apartment. He glared at the half-packed Gladstone on the table, poured a slug of cognac, drank it neat, and went into the bedroom. Fifteen minutes later he was sound asleep.

SHAYNE AWOKE AT EIGHT O’CLOCK the next morning. He lay blinking at the ceiling for a moment, then tossed the covers back and padded into the living-room in his pajamas. A stiff breeze blowing in the two open windows had a late November chill so early in the morning, and he stopped to close them on his way to the kitchen.

He set a pot of coffee on the stove to brew, then went into the bathroom where he hurriedly shaved and showered. Wrapping a towel about his middle, he went back to the kitchen, pulled the percolator off the fire, and returned to the bedroom to dress.

He drank a cup of black coffee, poured another and added a generous amount of cognac, and settled himself comfortably with a cigarette. This morning routine was accomplished with a minimum of movement and of effort, and without conscious thought

Now, he frowned meditatively as he took a deep pull on his cigarette and took a stiff drink of the coffee royal. The events of the previous afternoon and evening came to him in rapid succession. His visit from Christine Hudson, the securing of her IOU from Arnold Barbizon, Angus Browne loitering in the Play-Mor bar, the girl in the taxi, her companion, and Timothy Rourke’s connection with her.

He finished his cigarette and the coffee royal, sat for a moment looking at the Gladstone, sprang up and started packing. He had kept his promise to Christine Hudson. Her IOU was safely scrapped and in his pocket He decided that he was making a mountain out of a molehill, and that the only thing left for him to do now was to deliver the IOU and her pearls. He stopped packing to go in the kitchen and get the pearls from the hydrator and put them in his pocket.

He came back and packed the last of his things, snapped the bag shut, and went down to the lobby to arrange to have it delivered to the airport by 11:30. He then went out and found a taxi, got in and directed the driver to 139 Magnolia Lane on the Beach.

The Hudson residence was an imposing structure by daylight, of Moorish and Spanish architecture in high favor during the early period of Miami Beach’s development. A vast expanse of terraced lawn spread out to the water’s edge, bordered on two sides with coco palms and Australian pines, and dotted with fern-bedecked fish ponds over which tiny decorative coral bridges were fashioned.

Shayne told the driver to wait, and went briskly up the walk to the door. The same middle-aged woman answered his ring. She smiled and told him to step inside when he asked for Mrs. Hudson. She led him into a spacious living-room and asked him to sit down. Then she went out.

Christine hurried into the room a few minutes later, her dark eyes glowing eagerly. Her hair was brushed back from her face, and except for a little blue bow tucked on one side, she looked slim and boyishly youthful in white linen slacks. She caught both his hands in hers when he got up and went to her.

“Hurry and tell me, Michael,” she implored. “I’ve been so worried. Is everything all right?”

He grinned down at her. “Everything is fine,” he assured her. He took the torn shreds of the IOU from his pocket, took one of her hands and held it palm upward, and crushed the mass into it. “You’d better burn these. But I thought you’d like to see them first, just for your own peace of mind.”

Christine sat down and spread the bits of paper out. “Oh,” she breathed, “I can’t tell you how much I thank you, Michael. I feel free again—and alive!” She looked up at him with shining eyes and a smile parting her lips. She crushed the papers into a little ball and put them in the pocket of her slacks.

Shayne said, “I’ve got something else for you.” He took the pearls from his coat pocket and dangled them before her.

She drew in a sharp breath and cried, “Oh, no!” Her face went white and one hand went to her throat. “No!” She shrank back in the chair as though he had struck her.

“What the hell!” he exclaimed. “I’m not doing anything but returning your property. Take them—and consider the whole thing a bad dream. It’s all settled.”

“But I don’t understand,” she moaned. “If you didn’t—how did you get the IOU back?”

“I persuaded Barbizon to give it to me,” Shayne said cheerfully. “It wasn’t very difficult. He didn’t—”

“Oh, God!” Christine covered her eyes with her hands and an agonized moan came from her throat. “Oh, you’ve ruined everything! Now I’ll never—”

The sharp ringing of the front doorbell interrupted her. She took her hands from her eyes and there was a frantic, hunted look in them. She sprang up and ran to the front door.

Shayne stared down at the pearls still dangling from his knobby forefinger, then quickly put them in his pocket. He turned to the door and saw Christine admit a tall, lean man with finely chiseled features. His light brown hair was thinning in front, and he was heavily tanned. A man, Shayne guessed, in his early thirties; athletically trim, and he walked with a springy step and with complete self-assurance.

He didn’t look in Shayne’s direction, but put his arm around Christine, held her close, and said gently, “You mustn’t worry, dear. It’s just that they’ve found Natalie.”

A slow, sardonic smile twisted Michael Shayne’s wide mouth when he saw the man who entered the room behind Leslie Hudson.

Peter Painter, Chief of the Miami Beach Detective Bureau, strutted past Christine and Leslie Hudson. His black eyes darted around the room, and a manicured forefinger went up to caress a threadlike black mustache, but stopped in mid-air as he saw, then glared incredulously at the tall redhead who lounged against a chair. Painter drew in a sharp, audible breath and said, “Shayne! By God, if I ever walked in on a case without finding you, I’d—” He clenched his fists and took two angry steps forward.

Leslie Hudson turned with his arm around Christine. “This is Chief Painter,” he told her. “When I telephoned him from my office to report Natalie’s disappearance, he asked me to come right over.”

Shayne stepped forward and Christine said, “Leslie, this is Michael Shayne. You remember my telling you about Phyllis—”

Leslie Hudson held out his hand and said, “Of course. How do you do, Mr. Shayne.”

“I’m leaving town today,” said Shayne, taking the other’s hand, “and dropped in to say good-by and wish Christine luck.”

“You’re acquainted with Chief Painter, of course,” Hudson said.

“We’ve met.” He let go of Hudson’s hand and stepped back. “Don’t let me interrupt anything. I have to catch a plane for New Orleans at noon.” He glanced aside at Christine’s miserable face.

“We don’t want to prevent that,” said Chief Painter. “You haven’t too much time to get to the airport.”

“I’ve a taxi waiting,” Shayne assured him easily. “What’s this about someone being missing?”

“Natalie, our maid,” Hudson explained. “She didn’t come in last night and we became worried this morning. I phoned the police and Chief Painter tells me—” He broke off with an inquiring glance at the chief.

Christine stepped back from her husband, her dark eyes fearful. She caught Shayne’s eye and pressed a finger to her lips, motioning him frantically for silence.

Painter strutted to the center of the room and whirled to face the trio. “We already had her body. Found it early this morning in the bay less than three hundred yards from here.”

“Her—body?” Christine cried out sharply. “Drowned?”

“Not exactly, Mrs. Hudson,” Chief Painter said. “She’d been struck over the head—” he paused and delicately cleared his throat. “Her throat was slashed,” he ended quietly.

Christine caught her husband’s arm and began to sob. “Now, now, dear,” he comforted her. “You mustn’t take it too hard. We’ve only had her with us a short time.”

Shayne raised ragged brows, looking from the couple to Painter, then went over and sat down in a chair.

Chief Painter confronted him “I suppose you wouldn’t know a damned thing about this, Shayne? You just
happened
to drop in this morning?”

Shayne looked up at the dapper little man who stood before him, immaculately turned out in the latest style, and stiffly erect. He said, “That’s right.”

“Nuts!” The dynamic chief turned on the heel of one small shoe and snapped to Mr. and Mrs. Hudson, “Whichever one of you called Shayne in on this case, get
this
through your heads. I won’t have him interfering with police business. The woman was murdered, and I’m taking personal charge of the investigation.”

Shayne’s gray eyes shone with an angry and humid glow. “I told you I was catching the noon plane,” he said.

Painter disregarded him. He continued bitingly, “I’ve had experience with Shayne messing up cases before. I assure you that the Miami Beach officials are capable of handling this murder investigation.”

Leslie Hudson looked inquiringly at Shayne, then turned a puzzled glance on Painter. His right hand came up in a gesture of confusion and embarrassment. “I don’t quite understand,” he said, addressing Painter. “I’m sure it was a purely friendly gesture on Mr. Shayne’s part—dropping in to say good-by to Mrs. Hudson.”

Christine was still clinging to her husband’s arm. She dropped her hands to her side and stepped forward. “Of course it was,” she said, “but now that this terrible thing has come up about Natalie, I want him to find the guilty person. With
your
permission, of course, Chief Painter.” She appeared to have gained complete control of her emotions, and she flashed a smile at Painter.

Painter nervously fingered his mustache. He said, “But you heard Mr. Shayne say he was catching the noon plane.”

“Just a moment.” Shayne sprang from his chair. He said, “Mr. Hudson, will you describe the maid—Natalie—to me?”

“Of course. She was something under thirty, I suppose. Quite blond, and—” he twirled a hand above his baldish head “and frizzly.” He turned to his wife and asked, “Rather nice looking, wouldn’t you say?”

Christine laughed lightly. “Any maid would look good to us, Leslie,” she said. “She had a rather pleasant face and she liked to laugh and talk. I’d given her some of my old gowns and she looked very nice in them. And,” she added, turning to her husband, “she helped herself to the lovely perfume you gave me.”

Shayne was watching Christine. Her light laughter and her smile and the glow in her eyes went away when she turned away from Painter. He said, “My trip to New Orleans isn’t really important. I can easily put it off a day or so if you really want me to look into this.” He knew, suddenly, that there was more involved than the IOU which Barbizon held against Christine, and he deliberately shoved aside the urgent telegram from Lucy Hamilton and the thousand-dollar retainer in the Belton case.

Leslie Hudson was saying, cordially, “We’d appreciate that, Shayne. Natalie was a maid who’d been with us only a short time, but we owe her that much.”

Shayne scarcely heard him. When Christine’s husband stopped speaking, Shayne said to Painter, “You’re conducting an investigation?”

The chief raised his padded shoulders a trifle straighter and warned him bitingly, “Just try pulling a fast one, Shayne. Just
one.
That’s all I ask.” He turned his back on the redhead, whipped out a notebook and demanded, “The maid’s full name?”

“Natalie Briggs,” said Hudson.

“Age?”

“About—twenty-eight,” Christine answered when her husband looked at her inquiringly.

“Height and weight?”

Leslie Hudson’s eyes were a mixture of green and gray. He drew his brows together between them, but didn’t look at his wife. “I would say about five-feet-eight or nine inches. She was tall.” He thought for a moment, turned to Christine and said, “A hundred and thirty, wouldn’t you say, dear?”

“Fifty,” Christine murmured, her long lashes half-closed. Her tousled dark head was nestled against Leslie’s arm, and she didn’t look at Shayne.

“Any relatives? Close friends?” Painter asked officiously.

Hudson didn’t answer immediately. He looked down at Christine and said, “None that I know of. She was sent to us by an employment agency a few weeks ago. You know how it is these days. But she was perfectly satisfactory,” he maintained stoutly.

Painter’s small black eyes flashed. “H-m-m. So you don’t actually know anything about her.” His tone indicated that they knew everything about her and were directly responsible for her murder. “When was she last seen by any member of your household?”

Christine lifted her head and spoke in a steady voice. “I can answer that. It was right after dinner. Leslie had gone to the plant, and she had a date. She came in to show me how a green dinner dress looked on her—one I had given her. I was reading the evening paper in the living-room. She said there was something she had forgotten to do and went upstairs. When she came down, I could smell the perfume, but I didn’t care about that. Naturally,” she ended, “I didn’t ask her where she was going.”

“Did someone call for her?”

“I’m sure I don’t know.” Christine seemed to remember all of a sudden that she was a hostess. She moved wearily toward a chair and said, “Let’s all sit down.”

She sank down on a love seat and her husband sat beside her. Painter stood in his tracks, his notebook in his hand and his pencil poised above it. Shayne dropped into a chair and crossed his legs.

“When Natalie wasn’t here this morning, I asked Mrs. Morgan if she knew anything. Mrs. Morgan was in the kitchen just before Natalie left.”

“Who is Mrs. Morgan?” Painter asked.

“Our housekeeper,” said Christine.

Painter raised his right hand which held his pencil and ran a finger over his thin mustache. “Why didn’t you report the maid missing earlier?” he demanded. “Was she in the habit of spending her nights out?”

Leslie Hudson said, “The maid’s room is in the house. We naturally gave her a key to the back door so she could come in on her night out. I suppose she stays out quite late, which is none of our business as long as she does her work the next day. We didn’t know she hadn’t come in until just before I left for the office this morning.”

“There was no wind last night,” Painter asserted, “and your maid was found floating in the bay a short distance from here. It’s my guess she was killed right here and dumped in the bay. Where were you two all evening?”