So Lush, So Deadly

by Brett Halliday

  “I already did!”

  Lyon was looking at Shayne suspiciously. “Who’s been murdered?” The motors caught. Shayne reversed and began to back into open water.

  “Sit down, Mr. Lyon. What business are you in?”

  “I’m a retailer. What’s that got to do with anything?” He was sputtering. His hands opened and closed, but Shayne loomed over him, a bloody, menacing figure, and he did nothing more than breathe fiercely through his nose. “You’re hijacking this boat. By God, the first thing the Coast Guard is going to hear—”

  “Sally says you’re from Baltimore. This is going to be a pretty big story. You’ll make the Baltimore papers.”

  Sally ran in. “Dad, are you being pleasant or unpleasant?”

  “He’s about to call the Coast Guard for me,” Shayne told her, swinging around the first buoy that marked the channel under the Broad Causeway to the Bay Harbor Islands and Bal Harbour.

  “Sally, go below and get some clothes on,” Mr. Lyon said sharply. “You can see right through that nightgown.”

  Sally groaned. “Dad, you’re so far behind the times you’re prehistoric! Well, it’s probably better to have him snapping at me than at you, Mike. I’m more used to it.”

  When she left them Lyon hesitated, then picked up the transmitter. “What am I going to get in the Baltimore papers for? Not for being a hero, I hope.”

  “They have a gun aboard, but if they use it they’ll be shooting at me,” Shayne said.

  “They could miss.” He signaled the marine operator. “I’m thinking about the women as well as myself. Of course,” he added, “they’re probably too potted to find the gun, let alone shoot it. I’ve been known to take a drink myself, but those two on the Nefertiti—they give alcohol a bad name.”

  “That’s an impression they’ve been trying to give,” Shayne said. “As a matter of fact, they’ve been sober most of the time.”

  “Sober? Mrs. De Rham? She hasn’t drawn a sober breath since she got to Miami.”

  “It was part of the con. Tell the operator you want the Coast Guard air station at Opa Locka Airport.”

  The operator was slow to answer. Lyon signaled again. When he had a connection he asked urgently for the Coast Guard. “Shayne, they’ve been moored about six feet from me for the last two weeks. I saw the empty bottles.”

  Shayne let him listen to how that sounded. Lyon said slowly, “I guess she could have emptied them down the drain, but Beefeater gin—do you know what it costs?”

  Sally came in, dressed in brief shorts and a respectable top. “Mother’s sleeping like a baby. What about Beefeater? That’s Mrs. De Rham’s brand.”

  The Coast Guard operator’s voice came from the amplifier. Shayne picked up the small mike.

  “May Day, May Day.”

  The channel was open, and they heard an abrupt clanging of bells.

  “Right,” the operator said tersely. “Where are you?”

  “North Biscayne Bay. This is Michael Shayne. I’m on a boat named—”

  “Panther,” Lyon supplied.

  “Panther. A boat’s been stolen. The Nefertiti, fifty, fifty-five foot, a black cruiser.”

  “Motor yacht,” Lyon corrected him, leaning forward to speak into the mike. “A deck and a half, open deck aft. Pacemaker.”

  “Check. Can you give me a location?”

  “We think they went out through Haulover,” Shayne said. “They have half an hour’s start. Two people aboard, a man and a woman. Tell the pilot they’re armed.”

  “Roger.”

  Sally’s eyes shone with excitement. “Stolen, Mike? Were you making that up?”

  “Do you know what he claims?” her father said before Shayne could answer. “He says they’ve only been pretending to be drunk. I’ll be the first to admit I never cottoned to Mrs. De Rham. Very hoity-toity and unsociable. But a non-drinker? I don’t go along with you there, Shayne. I observed her carefully.”

  “Maybe Mike knows more about it than you do, Dad,” Sally said.

  “Do you think so?” Lyon said stiffly. “I’m inclined to doubt it.”

  The sky was lighter in the east. Shayne looked at his watch and cut the lights. In a few more minutes they were approaching the Cut. They went under the highway bridge without slackening speed. Sally called out, pointing to the big Sikorsky helicopter coming up last behind them, white with a bright orange stripe.

  “That didn’t take long.”

  Shayne called Opa Locka. “He’s overhead now. Can I talk to him?”

  “No, you have to relay through me. He’ll search to the south first. You’d better head due east. He’s computed a half-hour cruising radius for a fast boat. After he checks the north-south line he’ll come back along the arc and intersect you. Visibility’s good. We’re sending another helicopter on a line over North Miami Beach. Do you want the cutters alerted?”

  “No, they couldn’t get here in time. Tell him not to bother about the Keys. These people are heading for deep water.”

  Shayne hung the mike on its hook and took out his pint of cognac. “I don’t know about anybody else. I’m going to have a drink.”

  “I’ll have a small one, thanks,” Sally said promptly.

  “You will not,” her father said. “Not before breakfast.” He accepted the bottle when Shayne held it out to him. Shayne drank and put it away.

  “How much did you see of Mrs. De Rham?”

  “Just glimpses,” Lyon admitted, “but I do know a drunk when I see one. That was no act.”

  But he already sounded less certain. He rubbed his mouth doubtfully. “I suppose if they had some reason—”

  “Do you think they’re imposters, Mike?” Sally said. “That they’re only pretending to be Mrs. De Rham and Brady?”

  “Somebody’s pretending,” he said briefly. “How are we for gas?”

  “Right up snug.”

  Shayne asked for binoculars, and when Sally supplied a pair he began combing the horizon. The air was still, with a light haze over the water. The sun was almost up.

  “Mike thinks we might get our pictures in the papers,” Lyon said.

  She looked at Shayne and laughed. “That explains the transformation. How did you know he was a publicity hound?”

  “Publicity hound? I have to protest that,” Lyon said. “I’m thinking about the store. That kind of publicity translates into dollars and cents.”

  The helicopter, gaining altitude, passed out of sight to the south. Suddenly the sun burst over the horizon, huge and orange, the static cut out abruptly and the Coast Guardsman called, “He’s spotted them, Shayne.”

  Shayne pulled the wheel down and the boat swung.

  The voice continued, “A mile off Government Cut. A bit over a mile. They’re circling—They’re on fire! They’re on fire!”

  Shayne’s eyes narrowed.

  “They’re heading north. Wheelhouse seems to be empty.”

  Holding the wheel steady with his chest, Shayne raked the binoculars back and forth in a long arc. He picked up something that might be a smudge of smoke. He corrected his course slightly.

  “I see the chopper,” Lyon said excitedly. “I’ll take the wheel, Shayne. Head for the smoke, right?”

  The Coast Guardsman, after his brief loss of composure, was speaking again in his unemotional professional voice. “Nefertiti still proceeding north under full power. The fire’s out of control. No one at the wheel. I say again: No one at the wheel.”

  His next words were lost in an electronic babble. Shayne brought the dial up a hair and picked up a raucous taxi dispatcher, probably somewhere in Miami Beach. The Coast Guardsman for the moment was lost.

  Sally, her youthful face alive with excitement, prowled behind him, her eyes going from the smoke to the helicopter and back to Shayne.

  “Why don’t they jump?”

  The Panther roared through the water, at maximum speed. A black dot took shape at the base of the column of smoke, and grew rapidly larger. The helicopter wa
s slightly ahead of the Nefertiti, a hundred feet above the water. Its hatch was open.

  The gap between the two boats closed rapidly. Shayne was holding the binoculars on the burning boat. Details showed up clearly. The entire after section was hidden. The smoke shifted as the boat swung, and he saw the flames.

  “But what the hell are you going to do?” Lyon said. “You don’t think you can board her, do you?”

  Suddenly the Nefertiti veered sharply. Through the binoculars Shayne saw two figures, a man and a woman, struggling on the forward sun deck. The man staggered and struck the low rail. The woman fell away into the water. He looked around in confusion, waved toward the helicopter and dived after her.

  Shayne handed the binoculars to Sally. “There are two people in the water,” he said quietly. “Never mind the man, I want the woman. Don’t run her down, but get as close to her as you can.”

  “Right, Mike,” Lyon said.

  Shayne ran out on deck, shedding clothes. The helicopter was hanging above the rapidly moving boat, which had begun to swing in a long arc to the east. The sun was directly in Shayne’s eyes. He signaled with both hands and saw an answering wave from the open hatch.

  The helicopter began to turn to come back. Shading his eyes, Shayne picked up two black dots in the water. They were together, and floundering. They disappeared briefly. Then he saw a splash, a frantically waving arm.

  He motioned to Lyon in the wheelhouse, and waited tensely. As the wheel came down Shayne dived, slicing into the water cleanly. He drove powerfully toward where he had seen the heads. When he rose to the surface Brady appeared to be alone and in trouble. Fifteen yards separated them. Shayne ate up the distance in a smooth crawl. Ignoring Brady, he filled his lungs, snapped his body forward and dived.

  He had only one chance. He was down ten feet when he saw her, slanting rapidly downward. He stroked hard, feeling the beat behind his eyes. With flippers and an air tank he could have reached her, but she was falling too fast.

  Her body turned in the water. Shayne took two more strokes, his lungs bursting, and his fingers closed on her hair.

  It came loose in his hand, a wig. The little contact changed the angle of her descent. Stabbing out desperately, Shayne managed to clutch her short cotton jacket. Her face had been terribly burned; it was only a charred mask.

  She spun away, her arms rising against the pull. He yanked hard, kicking upward. She slid away, leaving the jacket in his hand.

  He shot to the surface, gulping in air the instant he broke water.

  The helicopter hovered above him, its rotors beating the water around him into froth. A life preserver attached by a line to the hatch lay on the water between Shayne and Brady.

  Brady was thrashing convulsively, making no effort to reach the life preserver. Shayne swam to him. His face was blackened, almost unrecognizable. Shayne yelled, and Brady twisted and swam toward the sound. Shayne guided him to the life preserver. He groped for it helplessly. His eyelids were torn and raw. Shayne realized then that he was unable to see.

  He signaled. The helicopter put down a two-man lift. Shayne worked the straps under Brady’s arms and about his legs. Then he fastened himself in, waved to the Coast Guardsman and they were hoisted aboard.

  CHAPTER 17

  Before the hatch closed Shayne leaned out and pointed to tell Sally and her father that the excitement was over and to go home. Brady was moaning on the floor. Shayne found that he had held onto the wig and the jacket. He threw them down.

  A young Coast Guardsman was examining Brady’s face. “Funny kind of burn.”

  Another Coast Guardsman entered the compartment. “Mike Shayne?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Ensign Gray.” They shook hands briefly. “Wasn’t there a woman in the water?”

  “Yeah, but I lost her.”

  “Any point in dropping a buoy?”

  Shayne shook his head, looking down at Brady’s face. The eyelids were partially gone, showing the whites of his eyes, startlingly white in the blackened face.

  “Give him a shot,” Gray said.

  The enlisted man dragged out a first-aid box. The officer stooped to look down at the burning boat.

  “We ought to get this guy back. Can we be sure there were only two of them aboard?”

  “That’s all,” Shayne said. “Can you loan me a pair of binoculars?”

  The Nefertiti’s engines had stopped and she was dead in the water, on fire along her entire length. The pilot wheeled the big bird around, hovering near the edge of the cloud of smoke. Shayne leaned out. The heat was intense. He focused the binoculars on the top of the wheelhouse. The planking had burned through. He waited for a shift in the smoke, then returned the binoculars to their case and nodded to the officer.

  A little fireboat from Fisher Island was on its way, coming fast.

  “Not a hell of a lot they can do at this point,” Gray said.

  “Can I get a phone connection through your radio?”

  “They can’t hook you in. They can pass along a message.”

  They went up to the cockpit, where the pilot was completing a transmission. “Hold it,” Gray said, and handed Shayne the mike.

  “This is Mike Shayne,” Shayne said. “I want to call Peter Painter, Chief of Detectives on the Beach. It’s urgent. You’ll find him at the St. Albans Hotel, room 1421.”

  The radioman chuckled. “Since when have you been on speaking terms with Painter?”

  The officer took the mike and said sharply, “Put that call through.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The helicopter rose, turned, and the jets cut loose. Soon the column of smoke was only a smudge on the horizon.

  The voice announced, “I’ve got Painter on the line. Shayne? He wants to know where the hell you are and why the hell you had the goddamn nerve to walk away after you found the body. Over.”

  “I’m not receiving you too well,” Shayne said. “Tell him—”

  “I say again. Chief Painter wants to know—”

  Ensign Gray grabbed the mike and snapped, “Use some intelligence. Relay Shayne’s message.”

  “Oh, I get you, sir. Go ahead.”

  Shayne said, “Tell him to pick up a woman named Katharine Brady. Katharine Brady. I think she’s registered in a Beach hotel, one of the expensive ones. Check with the airlines, and if they have her listed for an outgoing flight, get there before the plane leaves and pull her off. Don’t let her get out of town. Check the parked cars at Haulover Beach. He’ll find one with rental-agency plates and a man’s clothes in it. I want to know who rented it. Wait a minute.”

  He looked at the officer. “Where do you take your casualties?”

  “We have an aid station at the base.”

  Shayne went on, “Tell him we’ll collect at the Opa Locka aid station. As soon as possible, because I’ve been up all night.”

  “Are we still having the same transmission difficulties?”

  “Yeah, getting worse.”

  He handed the mike back. The officer grinned.

  “If you’ve been up all night, maybe you’d like a small nip. We carry brandy as part of our medical stores.”

  “If you’ll join me.”

  “Maybe I can find you some clothes.”

  A long time ago, Shayne had left his shorts on Katharine Brady’s boat, and the rest of his clothes on the Panther. He was naked, not for the first time that night.

  He dropped into the main compartment, where the enlisted man gave him a cigarette. Brady was unconscious, breathing heavily.

  Shayne picked up the tawny wig and the cotton jacket. There was a small hole in the front of the jacket, the kind made by a .25 slug. His face blank and dangerous, Shayne ran the tip of one finger into the tiny hole. He had never been fooled this badly, but he was about to start collecting some of his outstanding accounts.

  Shayne was finishing breakfast in the officers’ mess when Painter’s party arrived, in two cars, using both sirens. Shayne had bee
n given a denim coverall, a size too small for him. He finished his coffee without hurrying, postponing the moment when he would have to confront the little chief of detectives. He was in for a painful couple of hours. Shayne didn’t mind being asked questions, but one of Painter’s biggest troubles was that he rarely took time to listen to the answers.

  The wall phone rang.

  “Your call to New York, Mike,” Ensign Gray said.

  “Thanks. Would you mind telling Painter I’ll be with him in a minute?” He took the phone. “Joshua?”

  “Michael. Good news or bad news?”

  “Pretty bad. For one thing, Tom Moseley’s been murdered.”

  Loring sucked in his breath. “No!”

  “He was bludgeoned in a hotel room early this morning. I can’t give you much on it now. A cop’s waiting for me, and he burns on a very short fuse. One thing I need to know—did Moseley go to Harvard?”

  “Yes,” Loring whispered.

  “In the same class as De Rham and Brady?”

  “I think so. They’re all about the same age.”

  “Can you check it for me? The other thing is, will you find out what company wrote the insurance on Winslow’s Massachusetts plant? I want to talk to the official who okayed that claim. I’ve picked up some evidence that the fire was set. I took a bad beating getting it, and there’s no reason I shouldn’t get some compensation.”

  “You mean that Dotty—”

  “I’m sorry, but you must have known it was in the cards. Tell him to call me at this number as soon as possible.”

  “Mike—is she all right?”

  Shayne waited, considering various answers, and then depressed the bar, breaking the connection.

  Painter, told to meet Shayne in the aid station, was on his way out to look for him. The two men met in the doorway. As in every collision between Shayne and Painter, the smaller man got the worst of it. He was immaculately dressed, even now, with the points of a carefully folded handkerchief peeping from the breast pocket of an Italian silk suit. He had found time to shave, and his little hairline mustache was neatly trimmed.