Brett Halliday
Blood on Biscayne Bay
Chapter One: $10,000 BY MIDNIGHT
IT WAS LATE IN THE AFTERNOON of a day in late November when Michael Shayne sauntered into the lobby of a downtown apartment hotel in Miami, Florida. An indefinable feeling of restlessness possessed him. He recognized the symptom, and he welcomed it.
Very simply and very definitely he knew it was time he was moving on. His vacation had been a long and lazy one, and he had enjoyed every moment of it. But now it was over.
With the end of summer, the Magic City’s tempo was quickening. This was the first “Season” since peace had come to a war-weary world, and already tourists were crowding in, eager to spend their inflated money and clamoring for the frenzied gaiety which Miami knows so well how to offer.
Shayne was suddenly very tired of the tourist-filled city, and bored with inaction. He wanted to get back into the harness. Thinking of Lucy Hamilton, his attractive secretary in New Orleans, trying to keep his office intact while he was away, gave him a feeling of nostalgia which had never touched him before. He wondered about Lucy a lot. In a sense, he realized that this protracted vacation in Miami had been an inward protest against his growing fondness for her. He had felt after the Timothy Rourke affair had been cleared up that he needed to stay away from his New Orleans office for a time to gain perspective, and to examine impersonally his feelings toward the dark-haired and brown-eyed girl who was so much like Phyllis.
There were a few people seated in the lobby as Shayne crossed to the desk. The clerk, a small neat man with harassed blue eyes, saw him coming and swung around to get a telegram from Shayne’s pigeonhole. He smiled and laid the yellow envelope before the tall red-headed detective and said, “This came while you were out, Mr. Shayne.”
Shayne said, “Thanks,” and tore the envelope open. He had no sensation of surprise. The message seemed to answer some of the disturbances he had experienced within the past few days almost telepathically, for it was signed, Lucy Hamilton. The message read:
Have accepted thousand dollar retainer for you to investigate Belton murder contingent your arrival prior tomorrow noon. Have reserved space National Airlines plane leaving Miami midnight. Please confirm your departure.
He leaned against the counter and tugged at his ear lobe with his right thumb and forefinger, his gray eyes blank and expressionless, staring at the telegram.
Shayne was standing like that when he sensed movement behind him and felt a hand touch him lightly on the arm. He turned his head and looked downward into the girl’s face. Big, slatish-gray eyes gazed appealingly into his. Long and very black eyelashes curled against her brow. She was a slender girl, about twenty-five, wearing a light blue linen suit that looked expensively simple, and a blue flower peeked above her high, dark pompadour. Her cheeks were softly rounded, her lips full and vividly rouged and slightly parted.
She said breathlessly, “Mr. Shayne. You don’t remember me, of course.” There was disappointment in her eyes and her pointed chin grew taut.
Shayne shook his head slowly, his gray eyes studying her face. He stopped tugging at his ear lobe, straightened up and lifted his hat, crumpled Lucy’s telegram and put it in his pocket.
“I’m afraid I don’t.”
“I’m Christine Teilhet.” She waited a moment, still breathlessly hopeful, but when Shayne continued to stare at her and shake his red head slowly she went on hurriedly:
“That is, I used to be Christine Teilhet. I’m married now. I’m Mrs. Leslie Hudson.” Her voice took on a tone of dignity and pride as she pronounced the name.
Shayne said, “I’m sorry, Mrs. Hudson. You see, I’ve been away from Miami for a long time.”
“I know. In New Orleans and El Paso. I’ve kept up with you through the newspapers.” She caught her lower lip between even white teeth and a frown of annoyance came between her arched brows. Her hand had remained lightly on his arm, and now her fingers tightened. She smiled and the tautness went out of her chin and throat “Of course—you must remember. I went to college with Phyllis, and I visited here one fall—just before Phyl died. I was in your apartment a couple of times when you were there. Remember?”
Shayne grinned suddenly and sheepishly. “You’re Christine,” he said. “I don’t think I ever knew your last name. You were just a kid back in 1942.”
The gaunt contours of his face tightened perceptibly as he remembered. Christine had been Phyllis’s best friend. He now recalled vaguely that she had done secretarial work in New York, and had taken a couple of months’ vacation in Miami between jobs.
Watching his face, she saw his eyes grow bleak and a muscle twitch in his cheek. The smile faded from her lips and she said, “I’m sorry, Michael. Phyl would have so loved having—the baby.”
Shayne jerked his body around and said harshly, “What is it you want with me?”
She took her hand from his arm and stepped back. “Sorry,” she murmured again. Turning her eyes from the fierce expression on his face, she went on soberly, “I’m in terrible trouble, Mr. Shayne. I thought—perhaps you would help me.”
“Of course.” He glanced around the lobby and lifted his ragged red brows. “Shall we go upstairs where we can talk?”
She turned toward the elevator with him. They went up two flights, and as they walked down the corridor to the right, Shayne said easily, “I was lucky enough to get my old apartment back when I landed here a few months ago.” He had his key ring out, and he unlocked a door opening into a large square living-room with east windows looking out over Biscayne Bay. There was a studio couch against one wall, a narrow center table, and three comfortable chairs. An open door revealed a kitchenette, the bedroom door was closed. Shayne stood aside to let Mrs. Leslie Hudson enter before him.
She stopped a couple of feet inside and looked around the room, a tiny frown between her eyes. “I don’t remember this apartment. I thought it was much larger—a corner apartment.”
“You’re thinking about the one upstairs one flight where we were living when you were here.” Shayne closed the door and went across the room, moved one of the chairs closer to the table and said, “Have a seat.”
“Oh,” she breathed, and sat down.
“This apartment was my hangout before I married Phyl,” he explained. “I kept it for an office after we were married.” He offered her a cigarette.
She shook her head. She carried a small blue handbag with a turquoise clasp and her fingers trembled as she gripped it tightly. “Not just now. You see, Mr. Shayne—”
“You called me Michael,” he reminded her, “three years ago.” His big mouth widened in a grin and his voice was gentle. “Just relax now. You know I’ll do whatever I can for you.”
“Thank you, Michael,” she murmured.
Shayne turned to a wall cupboard and lifted down a bottle of Three Star Hennessy. He set it on the table and went into the kitchen, where he put ice cubes and water in two tall glasses and carried them into the living-room. He took two wineglasses from the cupboard, filled one to the brim, and poured about three ounces into the other.
Christine was sitting stiffly erect, her feet close together and flat on the floor, watching him with impatient restraint. He set the partially filled glass and a glass of ice water on an end table beside her chair, moved another chair around to face hers, and sat down. She made no move to touch her drink.
Shayne said quietly, “Relax, Christine. That’s real cognac at your elbow.” A reassuring smile accompanied his words. He lifted his own glass and took a long drink. “Now, let’s have your story.”
“First—I want to tell you one thing, Michael. It’s about Phyllis—the time I visited her.” She looked levelly into his eyes and sp
oke with determination.
When his pleasant expression did not change, she went on rapidly, “I want you to know how happy she was, married to you. That fall when she was expecting the baby she made me feel that marriage could be wonderful. Seeing her so happy changed a lot of my ideas. I guess I was pretty cynical about men and marriage. I honestly don’t believe I’d be Mrs. Leslie Hudson right now if it hadn’t been for Phyllis—and you.” She slumped back in her chair when she finished, and her hand groped toward the glass of cognac.
“I hope you’ll be as happy,” he told her soberly.
“We are. That is, I am sure we will be.”
“How long have you been married?”
“Only a month. That’s why this is so dreadful—and why I’ve come to you for help.” Her hand shook when she set her glass down and picked up the glass of ice water.
Shayne leaned back and crossed his long legs. “Why don’t you bring me up to date from ’42? Weren’t you changing jobs when you visited here?”
“Yes. I went to work for a brokerage house when I returned to New York—Morrison and Disdale. I was Mr. Morrison’s private secretary. It was a good position and I enjoyed the work. I met Leslie six months ago when he was in New York on a business trip. He manufactures plane parts here in Miami.” She paused expectantly.
Shayne nodded. It was evident that she expected him to know something about her husband and his business.
“We fell in love almost at once,” Christine went on dreamily, as though for a moment she forgot the urgency of her call. “It was like living through the pages of a love story. I resigned my position a couple of months ago and closed my apartment and came down here. Leslie and I were married four weeks ago.” A flush came into her unrouged cheeks and the long fringe of her lashes lowered over her shining eyes.
“And?” Shayne prompted.
“Leslie is wonderful. Marriage is what I had hoped it would be. He has a beautiful home on the Beach and I have—everything any woman could want to make her happy.” Her voice broke on the final word. She closed her eyes over a sheen of tears and emptied the cognac glass.
“I’m in a hell of a jam,” she told him, straightening her body and leaning toward him. “If Leslie finds out about it our marriage will be ruined.” Her mouth and chin were taut.
“What sort of a jam?” Shayne asked mildly.
“I—owe a great deal of money,” Her voice was listless, almost dead-sounding.
“A debt contracted before your marriage?”
“No. I want you to understand about Leslie. He’s quite wealthy and terribly generous. I have charge accounts at all the stores and an extravagant allowance for household expenses, but I have no money of my own. That is, no actual cash. I had saved some money from my salary, but I spent every bit of that on my trousseau before I came to Miami. I wanted everything to be—just right.”
“And now you owe a great deal of money? A month after your marriage?” Shayne’s ragged brows contracted in a deep scowl. He watched her narrowly as she fumbled with the turquoise catch on her purse. “I’m afraid I couldn’t help you very much if you owe a lot—”
“Oh—no,” she cried out, “you don’t think that I—” She dug frantically in the purse and brought out a string of pearls. The glow of tropical twilight streaming through the windows touched the pearls with shimmering iridescence. She held them out to him and said, “I haven’t any money, Michael, but I have these. I’m sure they’re worth a great deal—at least ten thousand dollars, don’t you think?”
Shayne extended a big hand with his open palm up. She dropped the pearls into it. His gray eyes brooded upon them for a moment. He remembered another scene so much like this that it seemed an impossible coincidence. Phyllis Brighton had come to him for help on that other occasion. She, too, had brought a matched string of pearls and had offered them in payment for his help.
He said, “At least ten thousand,” and put them on the table beside his chair. “Do they belong to you?”
“Certainly.” Anger flared briefly in her eyes and her cheeks flamed. “Leslie gave them to me for a wedding present,” she explained in a stifled voice. “They were his mother’s.”
“And you want me to hock them for you?” he asked harshly.
She lifted her head quickly as though to protest, but instead she said slowly, “Yes. I suppose that’s what I want. I have to have ten thousand dollars—and I must have it tonight.”
Shayne leaned back and lit a cigarette. “I suppose you want it handled without your husband’s knowledge?”
“Yes. It has to be that way. If he ever found out—” She shuddered and her face was suddenly deathly pale. “That’s why I thought of you,” she went on resolutely. “I know there are places where you can get the money for them and they won’t ask any questions.”
“Tonight?”
“It has to be tonight—before midnight.” Her voice was agonized now. She drew in a sharp, frightened breath. “Everything depends on it.”
Shayne picked up the pearls again and let them dribble back and forth in his palm. They were worth several times ten thousand dollars. He muttered, “I presume they’re insured.”
“Oh, yes, for quite a large sum—I think.”
Shayne shook his red head stonily. “I don’t play that sort of game. Not even for an old friend of Phyl’s. Hooking an insurance company is one racket I want no part in.”
She stared at him with surprise and amazement. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said angrily. “I have no intention of trying to pretend they’re lost or stolen and collect insurance on them. And I don’t want you to do anything dishonest. I’ve got to have ten thousand dollars on them tonight. After that, I’ll have to get the money somehow to redeem them,” she ended in a tone of utter despair.
“And suppose you can’t get the money? As soon as your husband finds out the pearls are gone he’ll hold the insurance company liable. How would you wriggle out of that?”
“I’ve had a replica made,” she murmured. “I can scarcely tell them apart when I hold the two together. I’m sure Leslie will never dream anything like that has happened. I wear them so rarely, I’m sure he won’t notice—at least until I can get them back.”
“You’re playing with fire,” Shayne snapped. “You’d better tell your husband the whole story. If he really loves you and has plenty of money, ten grand shouldn’t make much difference to him.”
“I can’t. You don’t understand! I can’t tell him.”
“You realize, of course, that this is a lousy way to start a marriage,” he said gently.
Two spots of color burned in her cheeks. She met his gaze defiantly. “I’m the best judge of that. I’m sorry if I’ve imposed on you.” She started to get up.
Shayne wearily gestured her back. “I haven’t said I won’t help you. But I have to know more about this thing. How much is your debt?”
She sank back in her chair. “Ten thousand dollars. I thought I told you.”
“Why does it have to be paid tonight?”
“Because—tonight’s the deadline. If I don’t pay it tonight he threatens to go to my husband.”
“Who?”
“A man named Arnold Barbizon.”
“The gambler?”
“Yes. He—owns a club on the Beach.”
“And you’ve been gambling there?”
“He has my IOU for ten thousand dollars,” she told him, turning her eyes away from his intent gaze. “If it isn’t paid by midnight tonight he’ll turn it over to Leslie.”
Shayne said, “Ten grand is a pile of cash to put in a crooked game in one month. And while you’re honeymooning, at that.”
Christine Hudson spread out her slender hands and studied her bright nails. “I know I was a fool. Leslie is out a lot in the evenings and I—” She drew a deep breath and looked up at Shayne with dark, hopeless eyes. “I’m not trying to excuse myself. I admit it’s a hell of a jam. If I can just get out of it, I will have lear
ned my lesson, Michael.”
Shayne lifted the pearls again, held them up to the light. “You’ll take a big loss if I’m forced to raise ten thousand on these by midnight. If I had a little more time, I could do a lot better.”
She shook her head slowly and said in a low, strained voice, “I can’t help it. It has to be—tonight.”
Shayne took a sip of cognac and said, “I know Barbizon slightly. I might have a talk with him—stall him—”
“No!” Her voice was sharp with fear. “Don’t you see? I can’t risk that!”
“I’m catching a plane at midnight,” Shayne told her coldly. “Do you want me to handle the pay-off for you, too?”
“If you would,” she breathed. “Just pay him the money and get my IOU and tear it up. You might phone me to let me know everything is all right.”
Shayne nodded casually. It wouldn’t add to her peace of mind any to explain that after being out of touch with such matters in Miami for so long it would be utterly impossible for him to locate a fence who would put up ten grand for the necklace on such short notice. He said, “Consider the matter taken care of. Where can I reach you by telephone?”
She gave him a Miami Beach number. “It’s in the phone book. Leslie P. Hudson.”
Shayne made a note of the number. “If there’s anything left over from the amount I get, I’ll mail it to you before I leave town.”
“No!” she exclaimed. “You keep it. It’s the only way I can possibly pay you.”
Shayne said, “Okay,” carelessly.
“I feel so—relieved,” she sighed.
“I could go to your husband,” he said after a short silence between them. “He might listen to me. After all, gambling is no sin and if he has plenty of money—”
“No!” She was sitting erect again and trembling. “Promise me faithfully you won’t do that, Michael. You don’t know how he is. He’s terribly strict about gambling, and things like that. He simply wouldn’t understand. Promise me you’ll go straight to the Play-Mor Club and pay Mr. Barbizon—as soon as you get the money—and get my IOU.”
“All right,” he said. “If that’s the way you want it.” He finished his drink and stood up.
Blood on Biscayne Bay Page 1