So Lush, So Deadly

by Brett Halliday

  The cognac had begun to circulate, burning away the fog in Shayne’s brain.

  “That’s what everybody tells me,” he said. “First Mrs. Brady, then Brady, now De Rham. Wait till breakfast. I’ve been tied up and fed a Mickey and faked into a wrong part of town and slugged and knifed. It begins to dawn on me that something’s about to happen and nobody wants me around.”

  “Just the same—”

  “Do something for me,” Shayne said brusquely. “Two cars in front of the VW you’ll see a catch basin. I skipped a tape into it earlier. A flat package wrapped in cloth. I know you’ll be glad to climb in and get it for me. You’re in better shape than I am.”

  Rourke didn’t move. “I haven’t fooled around in catch basins since I was a small boy, Mike. That’s a job for the Sanitation Department.”

  Shayne took another drink, keeping his eyes on his friend. After a moment Rourke sighed.

  “You probably figure I owe you. I got some good eyewitness stuff on the riot, and if I’m patient you may tell me what else has been happening. I’d better keep you happy.” He got out. “Don’t you want to watch?”

  “I’m comfortable here.”

  “Yeah. Why am I the one who always has to do the dirty work? And in this case dirty is the right word.”

  Shayne heard the grating clang. Rourke mumbled to himself.

  “Goddamn Shayne. Gets me out of bed at all hours. I have to climb down into the goddamn sewer—”

  There was a faint splash. His voice continued, echoing hollowly. The monologue quickly became more obscene.

  “Got it!” he cried. “Didn’t think I would, did you, you lazy bastard? Sitting up there on your butt, swilling cognac—”

  He scrambled out and reappeared between the cars, walking squishily. “I suppose you want me to unwrap it for you.”

  “Please,” Shayne said, grinning. “No reason why both of us should get muddy.”

  Rourke tore off the wrappings and handed his friend a reel of tape. Then he took off his shoes, smelled one, and tossed them over his shoulder.

  “I needed a new pair anyway.”

  “Get the recorder. I’ve got an outlet on my dashboard, if it works.”

  Rourke watched critically as he opened the door and got out. “Hell, you’re in great shape. You could have done your own diving.”

  The Buick’s front seat had been slashed repeatedly. Shayne found his key and turned the ignition switch, and was rewarded by a quick glow of the generator light. Rourke plugged in the recorder and set it on the shelf over the dashboard. When he pressed a button the reels began to revolve.

  “What do you know?”

  He clapped the tape into place. There was a soft whirr, and a man’s voice began to speak. It was thin and faltering, and at times fell off to a whisper.

  “My name is Dennis O’Toole. I live at 2909 Waverly Street in this city. Employed at Winslow Mills, twenty-one years on the looms, last five years watchman in main plant.”

  Another voice—Shayne recognized De Rham—said quietly, “Can you tell me how the fire started?”

  “All my fault. I take the entire blame.”

  “Your fault in what way, Dennis? Did you set it?”

  “Mother of God! Why would I do such a terrible thing? No, I was intoxicated. Too drunk to pull the alarm.”

  “You were drunk and didn’t turn in an alarm.”

  “A pint of whiskey in my locker.”

  A long pause followed, and De Rham prompted, “You’re saying that a pint of whiskey appeared in your locker? Are you sure you didn’t bring it in yourself?”

  “Never. Because I know my weakness. I never leave a drop of whiskey in a bottle. But there it was, and I swear by the Blessed Virgin I don’t know how it got there. I drank it and went to sleep.”

  “Where, Dennis?”

  “Sleep overtook me in the office.”

  “I see. Now what we’re trying to establish is the origin of the fire. You understand that. What woke you?”

  “Dreams. I smelled—”

  “You smelled smoke?”

  “Smoke, chemical stink. All around. There was smoke on the stairs. I couldn’t get my breath. Broke window. Saw—”

  “What did you see? Tell me what you saw. You say you broke the window and you looked out—”

  “Man running.”

  “A man?” The voice sounded disappointed. “Think, Dennis. Are you sure it was a man?”

  A long pause.

  “In a funny hat. In the car, a woman.”

  “You saw a woman?” De Rham’s voice said quickly. “Can you describe her for me?”

  “A red dress. Dark glasses.”

  “She was wearing a red dress. Dark glasses. What kind of car?”

  “White convertible. I think an Olds.”

  “Where was the man running from?”

  “The side gate.”

  “You said he was wearing a funny hat. What do you mean by that?”

  “Well—a striped band.”

  “Can we come back to the woman again, Dennis? What color hair did she have?”

  Silence.

  “Dennis, I have a photograph here. Can you tell me if this is the woman you saw in the car?—Dennis, if you’ll just look at this picture for a minute I’ll call the Sister. Dennis.”

  From that point on the tape whirred softly until Rourke turned it off.

  “And that’s what I pawed through the mud to get? A pint of whiskey in a locker, a funny hat, a woman in a red dress—” The expression on Shayne’s face stopped him. “What’s the matter?”

  “Everything’s the goddamn matter,” Shayne said through set teeth. “And I’m supposed to be a hard man to fool!” He bit off a savage obscenity. “It’s so obvious I ought to have my license revoked.”

  “Mike, you’re grinding your teeth. That can’t be good for you. Remember you’ve just been unconscious.”

  “I’ve been unconscious most of the day,” Shayne snapped. “There still may be time if we hurry.”

  “Don’t bother to explain, I’m only the chauffeur. Just give me directions.”

  Shayne got out of the car too fast, and realized abruptly that he was still a long way from normal. The street tilted and shifted and almost threw him. His ears rang. He steadied himself against the Buick, and a moment passed before he understood that the ringing sound he heard came from somewhere in the wrecked interior of his car.

  He hesitated, but there was no time to waste.

  “Want me to answer it?” Rourke asked.

  “No. I’m lying in a hallway with my skull cracked. Let’s leave it at that.”

  Rourke grabbed the tape recorder and beat Shayne to the Ford. He had the motor running by the time the detective climbed in.

  “Which way?”

  “The Beach,” Shayne growled. “When are you going to get a decent car?”

  “There’s nothing wrong with this car.” The transmission howled. He shot across a stop street without slowing down. “Fasten your seat belt. I’ll give you a ride you’ll remember.”

  There was no seat belt to fasten. Shayne was scraping his chin, watching the speedometer. When the needle hit fifty Rourke came down into high.

  “You know me, Mike. I hardly ever complain. We’re the only news outfit in town that had live coverage of the hippy riot, so thanks, pal. I wish I knew how it started.” He glanced across at Shayne. “People said some big ugly redhead thought the music was too loud and started throwing guitarists off the platform. Don’t tell me where we’re going. One story every twenty-four hours is all I deserve.”

  Shayne’s face was bleak and hard. The muscles knotted and unknotted at the hinge of his jaws.

  “You know talking’s supposed to relieve the mind,” Rourke said.

  Shayne shook his head shortly. He still had too many connections to work out. He rapped his fist against his injured knee. The pain helped.

  A cab appeared in front of them and Rourke touched his brake. The brakes grabbed,
throwing the Ford into a hard swerve. He yanked at the wheel and managed to avoid both the cab and the parked cars.

  “I’ve been meaning to get a brake job.”

  “Pick it up, pick it up. You can go faster than this.”

  Even at slower speeds, Rourke always drove as though he thought he was competing for the Grand Prix. He sawed at the wheel, his ungainly body jackknifed forward in a tense crouch, eyes flickering from the road ahead to the dials.

  “Only one trouble,” he said. “Above sixty she gets this shimmy. At sixty-two we’re O.K. At sixty-three you get the feeling the front wheels are about to fly off. I’d hate to have that happen.”

  The Ford rocked violently as he whirled onto Eighth Street. If there had been any traffic coming the opposite way he would have contributed several fatalities to the highway statistics for that day.

  “Of course I could get sulky and drop you at a cab stand,” he said. “Everybody thinks I like staying up all night. When I was younger I thought it was romantic, but not any more. I’m human. That’s what people tend to forget.”

  “Will you cork it for a minute, Tim? I’ll tell you about it as soon as I can check a few things. I could be wrong.”

  “I’m not complaining. Anything you want me to do, Mike, go down in a catch basin, break my neck in an automobile—”

  He shot across the bridge over the Miami River and made the quick jog east to Biscayne Boulevard. He slowed enough for a quick glance in both directions, and ran through a red light.

  “That’s better,” Shayne grunted.

  “Except if I get stopped and we have to spend fifteen minutes arguing it may not look too smart. Where on the Beach?”

  “The St. Albans.”

  Shayne uncapped the cognac bottle, waited till Rourke had the Ford on the smooth concrete of the causeway, and drank deeply. He had been faked out of position, but he was almost beginning to persuade himself that he had recovered in time.

  “If you’re going in a hotel, Mike—well, I don’t want to put you down. Take a look in the mirror.”

  Shayne switched on the overhead light and turned the mirror. He ripped a piece off his shirttail. Using the cognac, he cleaned the worst of the blood off his face. The pattern of the bicycle chain remained clearly imprinted along his jaw.

  “It’s O.K. They know me there.”

  “Yeah, but you have to consider the tone of the place, too. You’re going to lower it, pal.”

  “Too damn bad.”

  He had another quick drink and put the cognac away. Rourke crossed the Beach on Arthur Godfrey Road and turned north on Collins. There was more traffic here, but he had decided to show Shayne he could drive recklessly when he wanted to, and he didn’t slow down until he used his brakes again for the curving approach to the great wedding-cake hotel.

  Shayne jumped out and thrust a bill at the doorman. “Be back in a minute. Don’t move it.”

  “Right, Mike,” the doorman said.

  The clerk at the front desk, who didn’t know Shayne, looked at him oddly when he asked for Tom Moseley’s room number. Then, leaning forward, he made a point of noticing Rourke’s muddy pants and bare feet.

  “That’s 1421,” he said, making a discreet sign to summon the night security man. “Will you use the house phone, please?”

  “Tim,” Shayne snapped. “Call him and tell him I’m on the way. I’ll explain while he’s getting dressed.”

  “Why don’t I come too,” Rourke suggested, “and then you won’t have to explain twice?”

  Shayne waved him away. The security man, Reuben Kaufman, looked out of his little office.

  “Anything you want me to do, Shayne?”

  “Just picking up somebody.”

  He shut himself in an automatic elevator, which took him rapidly to the fourteenth floor. He found 1421 and buzzed. He could hear the phone ringing inside.

  When the phone continued to ring he whipped out his picks, already knowing what he would find. Using only a hard celluloid strip, he forced the latch and entered the room.

  The lights were on. “Yeah,” Shayne said softly.

  There was a dead man on the floor.

  He looked down at the body for only an instant. He had been clubbed from behind with a gin bottle. The bottle, three-quarters full, lay a foot or so from the dead man’s head, which amid the blood and clotted hair clearly showed the triangular indentation. The man had been wearing his glasses when he was struck, horn-rims with straight earpieces. He was fully dressed, in a business suit.

  The phone went on ringing. Shayne pulled a Kleenex from a box on the bureau and picked it up carefully.

  “Tim?”

  “Yeah. What’s wrong?”

  “What do you think is wrong? He’s been murdered.”

  CHAPTER 16

  Shayne bent over the body and smelled the blood. Then he looked around. The television picture was coming in without sound. There were various small signs that a fight had taken place. A loaded ashtray had been knocked over. When Shayne returned to the body he saw something on the floor beside the right hand. At first he thought it was fur. Using the point of a pencil, he turned it over. It was a patch of human hair, blonde and curling. Each individual hair had been sewn to a piece of silk.

  Shayne left it there. The buzzer sounded.

  “Open it from outside,” he called. “I don’t want to smear the knob.”

  The security man used his keys. Tim Rourke entered with him.

  “Jolly,” Rourke commented, looking down. “Single occupancy. Not really supposed to have guests.”

  “Tim, you have to handle this for me. He’s been dead a couple of hours, so I doubt if Painter will try to lay it on me. Tell him I’ll call in.”

  “Mike, you found him,” Kaufman pointed out. “I’m afraid I’ll have to insist that you stay around till Painter gets here. It won’t be long.”

  “You’re well within your rights,” Shayne assured him. “Insist. Tim, did you leave the keys in the Ford?”

  “Yeah. But Mike, Kaufman has a point. Painter’s going to want to know what you wanted with him, and that’s for openers. What do I tell him?”

  Shayne allowed himself a tight grin. “Tell him you can’t say anything before you talk to a lawyer. Mention the Supreme Court.”

  “That’ll send him up the wall! Be reasonable, Mike. I’ll be glad to go down another catch basin, or anything easy. But I’m getting older. I’m losing my sense of humor. Petey doesn’t amuse me any more!”

  Shayne went out. In the doorway, Rourke called after him, “Don’t leave me out on a limb too long, Mike, or you’ll lose a friend.”

  Alone in the elevator, Shayne doubled his fist and slammed it against the wall. It relieved his feelings slightly. With Moseley’s help, the next step would have been easy. Now it might turn out to be very touchy indeed—he wasn’t sure he could pull it off.

  He crossed the lobby, ignoring the stares of the guests who were still up. In Rourke’s Ford, he found he had to baby the carburetor to keep it operating while he shifted into the upper gears. He felt the front wheels shiver, but he reached the Sunrise Shores with everything still intact.

  The guard at the gate didn’t think he looked trustworthy, and came with him to be sure he was welcome aboard the Nefertiti. Nearing the end of the dock, the guard exclaimed, “They’re gone! Nobody told me they were going!”

  Shayne’s pace quickened. He heard a girl’s cry. Sally Lyon hurried down from her father’s boat and ran into his arms.

  “Mike, I didn’t know what to do! Your car phone didn’t answer—” She pulled back and looked at his face. “You’re hurt!”

  “It looks worse than it is. When did they pull out?”

  “Do you know this man, Miss Lyon?” the guard said.

  “Isn’t that obvious? Go on back.”

  The guard turned reluctantly and Sally went on, “About half an hour ago. I thought we ought to call the police, but Dad talked me out of it. You should have seen them! They
were in no condition to—”

  She was bouncing in his arms. He took her by the shoulders and made her hold still. She was still wearing the same short nightgown.

  “Sally, tell me how it happened.”

  “They were drunk and they just took it into their heads to go for a sail. Mrs. De Rham, mostly. Paul was trying to stop her. He looked so desperate! They woke everybody up. They were disgustingly plastered—staggering around drinking out of the bottle! They went out without lights, they forgot to cast off one of the lines and pulled the cleat out of the dock—”

  “Which way did they go?”

  She waved. “North. And ever since they left I’ve been listening for sirens. He couldn’t get her away from the wheel, and she’s a menace! If they stayed in the Waterway they’re sure to smash into somebody, and good grief, if they went out through the Cut—”

  “Did your father wake up?”

  “Heavens, yes. He came up and yelled at them to come back. A lot of good that did.”

  “Let’s wake him up again,” Shayne said grimly. “I want to borrow your boat.”

  She hung onto him as he started to step aboard. “Mike, you’re not too well liked around here, you may remember. It took me an hour to get him calmed down, and I don’t think he believed what you told him about you and me—I mean about not—”

  Shayne stepped into the passageway. “Which door?”

  She pointed at one of the doors and he hammered on it. “Mr. Lyon! Wake up!”

  “Oh, dear,” Sally said. “He probably just got back to sleep for the third time. Let me go in and prepare the way.”

  Shayne let her get by. He went up to the wheelhouse. They had a good Hallicrafter radio-telephone, he was glad to see. It was still warming up when Sally’s father came boiling up from below.

  “What’s this about taking my boat?” he demanded. “Like hell! You’ll get out of here before I—”

  Shayne said mildly, “There’ve been two murders, and there’ll be a third unless we can find the Nefertiti in a hell of a hurry. We need the Coast Guard. You call them while I get underway. I know this water better than you do.” He called out the window, “Cast off, Sally.”