Blood on Biscayne Bay

by Brett Halliday

  “Not so fast,” Painter snarled. “I’ve got a few questions first. How does Browne figure in this?”

  Shayne said, “I don’t know—yet. Give me a couple of hours and I’ll find out for you?”

  “Where were you between ten-thirty and eleven last night?”

  “Riding home from the Play-Mor Club,” Shayne told him wearily.

  “We’ve got a taxi driver who swears you took the dead girl with you in your cab—”

  “I never take dead girls out in taxis,” Shayne interrupted solemnly.

  Painter’s face grew livid with rage. “By God, Shayne, I’ll slam you behind bars if it’s the last thing I ever do.”

  “All right,” Shayne said easily. “But if you want this case solved—”

  “What about you taking Natalie Briggs home last night and going in after her? The taxi driver said—”

  “The same driver you just said you haven’t been able to locate?” Shayne interrupted him again.

  Painter brushed his mustache gently, his black eyes glittering up at Shayne. “The driver’s testimony will cinch what we already know,” he asserted.

  “Maybe. If he doesn’t tell you we put the girl out of the cab after we’d gone two blocks from the Play-Mor,” said Shayne.

  “Is that what you’re going to claim?” snapped Painter.

  “Ask the taxi driver,” Shayne told him and waved a big hand negligently.

  “I intend to as soon as we pick him up. In the meantime I want to know more about your innocent little joy ride on the bay. If you weren’t looking for Browne’s body, what was your purpose?”

  “It’s just a new hobby I’ve taken up,” said Shayne. “It’s relaxing and restful. Try it some time. Good for the nerves.”

  “You weren’t wasting time just going for a boat ride when you knew I was getting ready to hang a murder rap on you.”

  Shayne said, “That’s my story.” He again started to the boat.

  “Wait a minute,” Painter called sharply. “Where’d you get that boat?”

  “They have them for rent in Miami,” Shayne reminded him.

  “Who did you rent it from? When?”

  Shayne shook his head. “That’s in the nature of a leading question and shouldn’t be put except in the presence of counsel. If I had counsel, I’d be advised not to answer.”

  “I can get the dope, all right,” Painter barked. “Every boat on this bay is registered.” He peered at the name painted on the catboat. “The Tarzan, eh? All I need is proof that you started out on your joy ride with Angus Browne aboard.”

  “When you get that,” Shayne agreed, “you’ll have something. In the meantime I’ve got a couple of murders to solve.” He strode past the canvas on which Browne’s body lay. The attendants were waiting for Painter’s order to take the body in. Shayne glanced at the two men and saw an expression of faint amusement on their faces which quickly changed to solemnity.

  Shayne lifted his hand slightly in farewell, got in the boat and shoved off. He started the motor and cut directly across the bay toward the Morrison dock.

  Chapter Seventeen: S O S FOR BARBIZON

  THERE WAS NO ONE in sight when he docked the boat. He tied it up and went across the lawn and onto the street. He slid under the steering wheel of Ira Wilson’s taxi and drove to Biscayne Boulevard, turning north to 79th Street and crossed the Causeway there, striking Ocean Drive not far south of the Play-Mor Club.

  Shayne’s eyes were bleak when he got out of the cab and walked the short distance to the club.

  The uniformed doorman at the top of the stairway was the same one who had been on duty the preceding night. He turned and pressed a signal button in the door jamb—two shorts and then a very long one. The button presently lighted with a signal glow, and the doorman, his back turned to Shayne, said, “I’m sorry, sir,” coldly, “but I have orders not to admit you.”

  He was an exceedingly tall man of about 60. He turned slowly to the redheaded detective and folded his long arms beneath his chest with an air of quiet finality.

  Shayne grinned and said, “Are you going to keep me out, dad?”

  “I have to obey orders, sir,” he answered, apologetically.

  “I’ve got business with your boss,” Shayne said. He turned slightly and hunched his left shoulder against the elderly doorman, shoving him aside.

  A gruff voice spoke from behind the doorman in a tone of pleased surprise. “Damned if it ain’t the redhead again. He givin’ you trouble. Pop?”

  A taxi was stopping in front of the canopied entrance. The doorman sidled away from Shayne and said softly, “Handle him quiet, Smith,” and went down the steps to greet the passengers getting out of the taxi.

  Two men moved through the doorway toward Shayne. One of them was the bulky man who had escorted him to Barbizon’s office from the roulette table. His companion weighed a hundred pounds less than the man the doorman had called Smith, but his eyes glittered in a hawklike face and he moved easily on the balls of his feet. His right hand was bunched in the side pocket of his coat.

  Shayne said, “Take it easy, boys. All I want is a word with Barbizon.”

  “Sure, we’ll take it easy,” Smith assured him. “Just step out of the way of these folks comin’ up and we’ll talk it over.”

  Shayne stepped aside and let the couple pass through the door. He said, “Call Barbizon out here. I don’t want any trouble.”

  “I thought you liked trouble.” Smith rubbed his big hands together happily. He stood one step above Shayne. His companion moved down to Shayne’s left and level with him.

  Shayne said, “I made a mistake last night. Tell Barbizon that, and—”

  “You bet you made a mistake.” Smith stepped forward and down without warning. His bulk pressed Shayne backward and off balance. As he fell, the thin man with the glittering eyes pulled a blackjack from his pocket and sapped him neatly on the side of his head.

  Shayne fell to the bottom of the short flight of stairs and lay very still. Anyone witnessing the incident from more than 20 feet away would have sworn a drunk had lost his balance, for the light was dimly red above the entrance door.

  The elderly doorman had been watching from the driveway, keeping an eye out for customers who might arrive. He said, “Get him out of here. There’s a car coming.”

  Smith and Dick got hold of Shayne’s long body. They carried him half a block away and dumped him into a narrow pit at the foot of the stone wall.

  “D’yuh think I conked him too hard?” Dick asked uneasily as they stepped back to look at Shayne’s crumpled form.

  “Naw—he got what was comin’ to him,” Smith said. “Slammin’ a steel door in my face when we went in to see the boss. Leave him lay right there.”

  “It might make a lot of trouble,” Dick said nervously.

  “Forget it,” growled Smith. “C’mon. Le’s get back.” They turned and trudged back to the club entrance.

  Shayne lay with his head against the wall for a long time. When he regained consciousness he stirred dazedly and realized he was lying face down in a pool of sticky blood. Strangely, the wound on his cheek didn’t hurt. That side of his face was numb.

  He vaguely remembered the beginning of the fight with the two men, but nothing was clear after that except the names of the men. Smith—and the man Smith called Dick.

  Leaning his head against the stone wall, Shayne sat for several minutes fighting off the pain and trying to clarify every incident which had occurred before he was blacked out. He got a handkerchief from his pocket and held it against his cheek. By the light of an approaching car he held it out and saw that the bleeding had stopped.

  He dragged himself up from the wall and went to Wilson’s taxi, swaying unsteadily. His mind cleared after he had sat under the steering wheel for a while.

  The ache in his head was more than he could endure, but he knew he had to see Barbizon—tonight. Barbizon knew the answer to a question, and he had to have that answer.

&nbs
p; He drove slowly, realizing that he had to make himself more presentable before he talked to Barbizon.

  There was a public bathing beach at 79th Street and he forced himself to remember that there was also a cluster of small business places there; a filling station and a roadside cafe.

  He turned into the filling station and got out, managing a tight-lipped grin for the attendant who hurried out and stopped with a shrill whistle when he saw the redhead’s blood-smeared face.

  “Had a little accident,” Shayne said vaguely. “I’d like to wash up and borrow some adhesive tape if you’ve got any.”

  “You bet. Washroom’s right inside. And I’ve got a first-aid kit here.”

  “That’ll be fine,” Shayne said on his way to the washroom. Inside he ran cold water in the basin and splashed it over his face and head to soften the crusted blood.

  The boy carefully covered the gash with a Band-Aid containing a sulfa drug, leaving it loose for air to filter through.

  Shayne asked, “Do they have bathing suits at the casino near here?”

  “Sure. They’ll rent you a bathing suit, but you aren’t going swimming now, are you?”

  “Nothing like a good swim to calm the nerves,” Shayne told him. He pressed a dollar bill into the attendant’s hand and went out to his car. He drove half a block from the filling station and parked the taxi in front of the casino.

  In the bathhouse he persuaded the owner to allow him to strip in a cubicle and put on a pair of bathing trunks under his clothes and wear them away, in exchange for a five dollar bill.

  Shayne went back to his cab and drove slowly northward until he reached the corner of the stone wall guarding the Play-Mor Club. Turning off the pavement he plowed through the sand parallel to the south wall leading to the shore and parked at the edge of a low cliff overhanging the ocean.

  He found a flashlight in the glove compartment of the cab, got out and went around to the rear of the car and opened the luggage space. He discovered a steel spring that was evidently used for a tire tool, stripped down to his bathing trunks and stuck the tool under his belt.

  A footpath angled down the cliff to the sandy shore below. Shayne followed the high stone wall to a point where it turned northward for a couple of hundred feet until he reached the club’s private bathing beach.

  He waded out until he was waist deep, then began swimming. The cool salt water refreshed him and the waves slapping in his face sent the hot blood coursing through him. He swam strongly in a wide arc that carried him a quarter mile out to sea directly opposite the floodlighted strip of the club’s beach.

  He turned then and swam shoreward. Silhouetted against the bright lights he could see the bobbing heads of swimmers who had not ventured so far out.

  Shayne avoided the larger groups as he neared the beach, selecting a comparatively vacant space to land and go striding up toward the cabanas.

  Some of them were lighted, and in front of some, family groups were enjoying picnic suppers. He picked out a row of half a dozen together that were unlighted and unhesitatingly went toward the center of the group.

  He stopped in front of the door as though fumbling for a key, glanced right and left to be sure he was unobserved, then pulled the piece of steel spring from under his belt, rammed the narrow blade of it between the door and the facing, and put pressure on it until the flimsy lock yielded.

  Inside, he closed the door and turned on a light to disclose a neat little room about twelve by fourteen feet in size, furnished with a couch and a couple of comfortable chairs. He opened a door across the room, disclosing a shower and toilet; an open archway led into a tiny kitchenette complete with gas plate and cooking utensils.

  Shayne surveyed the brightly lighted interior of the one large room. An electric button on the inside door jamb caught his eye. The brass plate said Porter. He pressed the button and opened the jimmied door to let light shine through.

  A few minutes later a hunched figure hurried down the boardwalk in front of the cabanas. He was an old man with a thatch of gray hair and a slight bump on his back. He wheezed gently as he stopped in front of Shayne.

  Shayne blocked the doorway, the bandaged side of his face turned away from the man. “This is a hell of a note,” he began angrily. “Someone has broken the lock on this door while I was swimming, and stolen my clothes. Get Barbizon down here at once.” He pointed to the mark his steel spring had made on the door facing.

  “Look here,” grunted the old man, “this here is Mr. Jamieson’s cabin and—”

  “Of course it is,” said Shayne impatiently. “I’m Jamieson’s cousin and he loaned it to me. Get the manager down here in a hurry. And I want Arnold Barbizon in person,” he added harshly. “None of his hired help.”

  The old man said, “Yessir. I’ll tell Mr. Barbizon right away. He’ll fix it right with you.” He turned and went away.

  Shayne found a small paring knife and quickly unscrewed the brass Porter plate from the wall. The electric wires were exposed when he pulled it away. He cut one of them with the knife. He replaced the plate, then strolled over to a wall cabinet and investigated its contents. His face still hurt like hell, but the ache in his head had stopped though the lump on it was tender to the touch.

  There was a bottle of Irish whisky, some gin and rye in the cabinet. Shayne had the cork out of the whisky bottle and was trickling some of it down his parched throat when footsteps sounded on the boardwalk and there was a sharp knock on the door.

  It was jerked open instantly and Barbizon stepped inside, demanding impatiently, “What’s this I hear about—?”

  Taking the bottle from his lips, Shayne asked, “What is it you’ve been hearing?”

  “So it’s you,” Barbizon said curtly after his amazement vanished. “Smithy said—”

  “Smithy didn’t lie to you,” said Shayne coldly. “He did a job on me but it wasn’t quite good enough. And I’ll crown you,” he warned swiftly, “with this bottle if you try to duck out that door or call anyone.”

  The club manager moved aside and leaned his shoulder blades against the door jamb and asked, “What do you want?” He wriggled against the brass plate.

  “I want to know who you were holding Mrs. Hudson’s IOU for.”

  “Why does that matter now?” Barbizon hedged. “You’ve got it.”

  “I want to know who was going to get the pay-off.”

  Barbizon moved his shoulders back and forth as though he itched. “What do you mean by that? When someone loses money at my tables I generally do the collecting.”

  Shayne walked over to him, the whisky bottle dangling from his left hand, and slapped Barbizon’s swarthy face. He kept his palm open but the force of his blow slammed the manager half off balance and made an angry red mark on his olive cheek. As he staggered erect, showing sharp white teeth in a snarl, Shayne told him flatly, “You’re going to talk. The longer it takes to get the truth out of you the better I’m going to like it.” He tilted the bottle and took another drink.

  Barbizon’s eyes were blazing but he kept his voice steady. “You’ll pay for that. Nobody hits me—”

  Shayne laughed and drove his right fist into Barbizon’s mouth. It smashed his full lips, which had the appearance of being rouged, back against his teeth, and blood trickled down his chin.

  Barbizon staggered back, reached for a handkerchief, and held it against his mouth.

  Shayne tilted the bottle again. He was beginning to feel lightheaded and happy. His gashed cheek didn’t hurt so much any more and he enjoyed the sight of blood seeping through Barbizon’s handkerchief.

  The manager was crowded back in a corner and his eyes were like those of a crazed animal. He crouched suddenly and dropped his right hand into his coat pocket. It flashed out with a clasp knife, the long blade leaped open from the pressure of a spring, and he twisted sideways to drive the blade at Shayne’s belly.

  Shayne twisted at the same instant and smashed the whisky bottle down on Barbizon’s forearm. The knife cl
attered to the floor and a shrill scream of pain was partially smothered by the handkerchief pressed against his mouth. His right hand dangled limply from a broken wrist.

  “That’s just the beginning,” Shayne told him in the same flat, impersonal tone he’d used before.

  “I don’t know. I’d tell you if I did. God help me, Shayne, don’t you see I’d tell you?”

  Shayne took a step forward, swinging the bottle.

  “I tell you I don’t know,” he moaned. “I get a phone call. I don’t know who from. It says I’ll get a ten grand marker from this dame and to hang onto it for a twenty-eighty split when she buys it back. I don’t see why not. So I hang onto it. Till last night. That’s all I know. I swear it is. God in heaven, I got to have a doctor for this wrist.”

  “You didn’t bother to get a doctor for me when your men dumped me a while ago,” snarled Shayne. He stood over the cowering man for a moment, considering his reply. It could be, he reluctantly conceded. Whoever was blackmailing Christine wouldn’t necessarily tip his hand to a go-between. It had to be someone who knew Barbizon. Someone who trusted him to make the twenty-eighty split when she paid off. But until the pay-off, it wouldn’t do him any good to come out in the open.

  Shayne said, “I ought to kick your teeth in. Tell Smithy I’ll save that for him next time we meet.” He took another drink of whisky, put the bottle back in the cabinet and strode to the door and out onto the beach.

  Shayne trotted down the beach and into the water. He swam easily and strongly toward the corner of the club grounds where Ira Wilson’s taxi awaited him.

  Chapter Eighteen: BLACKMAIL CLUE

  SHAYNE DIDN’T WASTE TIME putting his clothes on. He was dripping wet and he didn’t know how long it would be before Barbizon could get his men out to look for him. He backed around and headed out to the pavement, drove back toward the business section of Miami Beach as fast as he dared.

  He was pretty well dried out by the time he parked in front of the side entrance to the Blackstone.