Murder Takes No Holiday (3 page)

“Come and sit down. You must be tired.”

He took her to the bed. She kicked off her shoes and sat back against the stacked pillows. “You can be so sweet, Paul. What did I do with my cigarette?”

He retrieved it and looked for a match.

“You really are getting absent-minded,” she said gaily. “You let another cigarette go out on the table. Before we go looking for your philanthropist, I’m going to break you of the habit of putting a cigarette down wherever you happen to be.”

He muttered something. She leaned forward for the light, holding the cigarette between two fingers. Her nostrils flared slightly.

“Aren’t you using a new after-shaving lotion, darling?” She sniffed again and said judiciously, “I don’t know if I approve or not. It’s pretty strong for a man.”

“Just trying it out,” Slater said, leaning forward so she couldn’t see his face. His hands felt damp, and he wiped them on his shorts.

She put the tip of one finger against a mark on his neck, inside the open collar of the sports shirt. There were several slightly irregular indentations there, that might have been made by teeth. Again her nostrils flared. She was frowning slightly.

Airplane engines were throbbing high in the sky. Slater looked nervously at his watch.

“That must be the plane from Miami,” he said. “It’s late.”

Getting down from the horse-drawn carriage that had brought him from the airport, Michael Shayne was greeted by a small English lady who could have been any age between thirty and fifty. She wore a long-sleeved print dress, buttoned to the neck.

“You will be Mr. Shayne,” she said firmly. “How d’you do? I am Miss Trivers, your hostess. Welcome to Hibiscus Lodge.”

She put her small hand briefly in Shayne’s. He found her grip surprisingly strong.

“I’m delighted you decided to come to us, Mr. Shayne,” she continued, “and I do hope we can make your stay pleasant. If you will come with me I’ll show you your cottage.”

She took him through a well-kept garden, along a path that led to the pink stucco cottage Lucy had picked out from a portfolio of pictures in the Miami Beach travel agency. It was pleasantly situated on a rise overlooking a crescent of beach. There were other cottages near it, each with its own patch of lawn and its own garden screening it from the others. The sand below was very white, dotted with clumps of low-growing palms.

The Englishwoman showed him around the cottage, ending where they had begun, in the living room.

“Fine, fine,” Shayne told her. “All as advertised.”

The carriage driver had put the redhead’s battered suitcase in the bedroom. Shayne pulled out a handful of the British coins he had been given at the airport and held them out to Miss Trivers, who sorted out the proper amount for the fare. The driver was dissatisfied with the size of the tip, but Miss Trivers gave him a crisp nod and he went back down the path, grumbling.

“Now let me see,” she said. “What else should I tell you? Dinner’s at seven. After you get settled in, why don’t you come up to the Lodge and let me give you tea?”

Shayne grinned. “Tea’s never been my favorite drink. I think I’ll skip it, thanks. I may want to go out fishing in the morning. Wouldn’t your local paper have a list of charter outfits?”

“Right here, Mr. Shayne.”

The current issue of the
Island Times
was laid out on the coffee table, alongside fresh copies of the popular U. S. weeklies. Miss Trivers, picking it up, glanced at the front-page headline and made a clicking sound with her tongue. She turned the pages until she found the charter-boat ads.

“These are all quite reliable, I believe,” she said. “I am not a sportswoman myself.”

Shayne took the paper. “I see you people have had a murder.”

“Well,” she said grudgingly, “yes, we have. But I hope you won’t think such a thing is an everyday occurrence with us. It’s anything but.”

“That’s all right,” Shayne said, the corners of his mouth twitching. “People get murdered now and then in Miami. I’ll feel more at home.”

She shot him a sharp look and said severely, “Now Mr. Shayne. You’re pulling my leg. It isn’t a joking matter for us, I can assure you. I wish there was some way it could have been kept out of the papers, but I suppose—freedom of the press and so on. Our economic health is so dependent on tourists that something like this can have an extremely deleterious effect. There’s been a terrific falling-off in the nightclub business. People are reluctant to go into the Old Town after dark, which is just plain ridiculous, in my opinion. You’re as safe there as in your own sitting room. I know
you
won’t have any such hesitation, Mr. Shayne,” she said, glancing at his rangy, powerfully built frame.

“I came down for a rest,” Shayne said, “but I suppose I can always rest in the daytime. I hear you’ve got some night-spots that are well worth seeing.”

“Oh, we do!” she assured him. She touched her back hair. “Not that I frequent them myself. My dancing days are long since over. But if I took it into my head to go dancing, I’d go, murder or no murder.”

“And if your cops are anything like ours,” Shayne said, his face under control, “they’re probably thick as flies in that neighborhood, so how could anything happen?”

“My point exactly!” Miss Trivers exclaimed. “I was saying precisely the same thing to some friends this afternoon. We don’t have an elaborate police establishment, never having had much call for one, but they’ve all been taken off traffic duty and put to work patrolling the native quarter. The old story of locking the barn after the pony has been stolen. But I’m standing here gabbling, and you must be dying for a wash and a change.”

“No, I’m interested,” Shayne said. “This must have given people plenty to talk about.”

“They can’t talk about anything else! It’s so unusual, you see. I think we must be one of the most peaceful spots on the face of the entire globe. Oh, I don’t say there isn’t a spot of trouble sometimes on Saturday nights, when our young people take on a bit too much rum and get to dancing those rather uninhibited native dances. But that’s a matter of sheer animal spirits, and I, for one, am all against bottling them up so they explode in other ways. Those who are complaining the most now never stop to think that the island would be a pretty tame place without our black people. I’ve heard some pretty drastic proposals in the past week, including a nine o’clock curfew, if you please. Well, do tourists come down here solely to enjoy our sun and our scenery? I beg leave to doubt it! They would leave us in droves.”

“You think he was killed by the natives?”

“There’s not much doubt about that, I’m afraid. But here is the question, if you really are interested—”

Shayne assured her that he was, and she went on, “Some of the Britishers are saying that we must look on this senseless murder as the first outbreak of nationalist feeling, because why on earth would any native in his senses murder poor Albert Watts except inasmuch as he was a symbol of the ruling race? And if you knew Albert, incidentally, you’d realize that they picked themselves a pretty poor symbol.”

“You knew him?”

“Yes indeed. The Wattses live almost across the way, and we British tend to be somewhat clannish on foreign soil, I’m afraid. Daphne Watts, with all her faults, is a great friend of mine. Well, there’s talk in certain quarters that we ought to organize a citizens’ militia, and strap pistols around our waists, a la Kenya, when the Mau-Maus were on the rampage, otherwise we’ll all have our throats cut while we sleep. I say nonsense. Let’s keep our heads. Leave the matter to the police, and first and foremost, the native police. I’ve been on this earth long enough to know that the truth about people will sometimes surprise you. It’s true that Albert Watts seemed the most ordinary man alive, but I say that somebody, I don’t know who and I don’t know why, had a good reason for wanting him dead.”

“I see you’ve given it considerable thought,” Shayne said.

“Indeed I have. Unless you develop a personal theory about this murder, you might as well withdraw entirely from social intercourse. I’m a great reader of mystery stories, actually. It’s more or less my vice. If you run out of reading matter while you’re here, I have quite an extensive collection at the Lodge. Of course my taste inclines to the Agatha Christie school, and I know you Americans are likely to want a little more raw meat in your diet.”

Shayne grinned down at her, which flustered her a little.

“Well, don’t you?” she said. “Did I say something wrong?” She looked at her wristwatch. “Good grief, as late as that? I have a thousand things to do before dinner. Now if you want for anything, don’t hesitate to ask. We want to make your stay comfortable.”

Shayne saw her to the door, then set about making his stay as comfortable as he could by himself. He threw his coat at one chair, his tie at another. He took off his shoes and socks, and sent them in four different directions. By this time the room had begun to look as though someone was living in it. Padding into the bedroom, he opened his suitcase and looked dubiously at the colorful sportswear which Lucy Hamilton had considered suitable for a tropical vacation. Most men Shayne had seen so far on the island had been wearing shorts, but he decided to put that off as long as possible. He pulled out the bottle of cognac he had bought at the airport (the low price in dollars had been a pleasant surprise), and took it to the kitchenette. He slid an ice-tray out of the little refrigerator unit, found two glasses and filled one with ice water.

He took the bottle and the glasses to the terrace on the ocean side of the cottage, picking up the
Island Times
on the way. He sank into one of the long outdoor chairs and poured himself a drink. He tasted the cognac, sipped at the ice water and looked out at the palms, the white sand and the sparkling blue water. A sailboat tacked across the entrance to the bay. A half dozen fishing boats were coming in. An American family, two grown-ups and two children, had a little encampment at the end of the beach belonging to the cottage colony. The children were digging madly. There was activity beyond, in the sand in front of a resort hotel. Brilliant flowers grew amid the palms.

The chair was comfortable, and Shayne felt himself beginning to relax. He sat up straight with an effort, drank some cognac and reached for the
Island Times.

For a moment his eye lingered on the fishing ads. These were illustrated with eloquent photographs of unimpressive-looking fishermen holding up some really impressive fish. Because of the state of his ribs, the game-fish had nothing to fear from Shayne on this trip, but he promised himself that he would get in some light-line bone-fishing if it killed him. He would have a full day before the Wanted fliers arrived.

He reluctantly turned back to the first page, to the account of the murder. In an instant he was completely absorbed.

Fifteen minutes later he laid the paper aside and poured himself more cognac. He sampled it thoughtfully, his red brows close together. He looked in the paper again to check an address. Then he took another look around at the pleasant scene, tossed off his drink and swung his feet down from the long chair. It cost him a considerable effort. Turning his back on the beach, he went into the cottage and gathered up his shoes and socks. He put them on. He changed into the least colorful of the sports shirts; perhaps, he thought, it was just barely flamboyant enough so he wouldn’t be conspicuous.

He walked out past the Lodge to Bayview Road. He was looking for 1306½, and after the second house he saw that he had started in the wrong direction. He strolled on a little farther, looked idly at the view, turned and came back. Passing the Lodge again, he walked past a succession of small suburban villas set in neat gardens. Soon he came to a sign on a picket fence that said: “Journey’s End,” and beneath that, A. Watts.”

A. Watts had indeed reached his journey’s end on St. Albans, Shayne reflected. He opened the gate, and was immediately attacked by a small, furious dog, which circled him, yapping wildly and making quick darts at his ankles, until a very fat woman appeared on the front porch and called sternly, “Georgette! Mind your manners!”

She must have weighed two hundred and fifty pounds, which she balanced on small feet in very high heels. Her features seemed almost dainty amid the rolls of fat. Her hair was up in metal curlers.

Shayne advanced up the flagstone path between neatly arranged flower beds. He raised his voice to be heard above the dog’s yapping. “Mrs. Watts? My name is Shayne. I’m—”

She looked at him petulantly out of her blue dolls’ eyes. “I can’t hear you.”

“I’d like to talk to you privately, if you don’t mind.”

“Georgette!” she said with pretended fierceness, putting her hands on her hips. “Will you hush? Get inside and be quiet.”

She shooed the dog into the house. “Now start all over,” she said to Shayne. “I didn’t hear one word you said. People have been trooping in and out all week, and that animal is a bundle of nerves. The doctor says she’ll calm down with the passing of time.”

The redhead began again. “My name is Michael Shayne. I’m from the International Police Association, and I’ve been sent down to look into your husband’s death. There are some rather odd angles, it seems to us, and frankly we aren’t at all satisfied with the way the local police are conducting the investigation.”

“Nor am I,” she snapped. “It’s obvious that—” A man passed on a bicycle, and she lowered her voice. “Come inside, Mr. Shayne. This neighborhood is full of snoops.”

She waddled into the house. The dog followed silently.

“I’m glad to see you’ve decided to behave, Georgette,” Mrs. Watts said. “That’s my darling. I was just taking a solitary cup of tea, Mr. Shayne. I hope you’ll join me?”

“I’ve already had tea, thanks,” Shayne lied.

“One more cup of good tea never hurt anybody.”

The furniture in the little living room was covered with flowered chintz, and little knickknacks of china and shell stood on every available inch of surface. Shayne moved carefully, to avoid knocking anything over. Mrs. Watts went to a shelf for another cup. The tea things were spread out on a low table in front of the sofa, the pot hidden beneath a quilted tea-cozy.

Mrs. Watts lowered herself to the sofa. This seemed to be her usual resting-place, for that end of the sofa was badly sprung. Shayne pulled up a straight chair. He refused sugar and cream, and watched his hostess take both.

“Is that the way you like it?” she inquired. “A little more water?”

Shayne took a sip, managing not to make a face. “This is just right. Mrs. Watts—”

“Try one of my little cakes,” she urged him. “I know I ought to be watching my calories, but now that Albert is gone, I’ve decided to stop torturing myself. Because what’s the use? I was sitting here feeling perfectly miserable, and all of a sudden I said to myself, ‘Daphne, old girl, fling caution to the winds. Pull up your socks and get out the cookbook.’ I feel almost sinful, and I find that a most stimulating sensation.”

She giggled and popped a small cake into her mouth. Her face worked for a moment, like a quicksand bog swallowing an unwary mouse. A drop of chocolate appeared at the corner of her mouth. Her tongue darted out and got it.

Holding the tiny cup and saucer in his large hand, Shayne patiently started over. “In the first place, Mrs. Watts, sooner or later the local police will have to know I’m here, but the longer I can work independently, the better. Don’t tell anybody you’ve talked to me.”