Blood on Biscayne Bay

by Brett Halliday

  He gathered up his clothing and got out, crossed the sidewalk and went in the side entrance and climbed the rear stairs to the floor above. He padded down the hall to the door of Timothy Rourke’s apartment and knocked.

  Rourke opened the door and looked at him with twitching lips. He was stooped and pitiably thin, and his face was that of a sick man. His eyes looked dead and his voice sounded dead. “Oh. It’s you?”

  Shayne asked, “Can I come in, Tim?”

  “I suppose so. Been swimming?”

  “Yeh.”

  Rourke closed the door and asked politely but without any real interest or concern, “How’d you hurt your face?”

  “I cut myself shaving.” He turned slowly and looked evenly into Rourke’s eyes and said, “I’m sorry, Tim.”

  “It’s done now.”

  “No it isn’t. We’ve been friends for ten years.”

  “That’s why it’s over now,” said Timothy Rourke remotely.

  Shayne said, “A man says things sometimes—when he knows he shouldn’t.”

  “To hell with it.”

  Shayne moved closer to him. “Things were the other way around once,” he reminded the reporter. “About four years ago. A girl got herself strangled in my bedroom.”

  Rourke was silent. He didn’t look up.

  “You and Gentry walked in on me,” Shayne went on. “Two of the best friends I ever had. Gentry walked out after telling me to get down on my belly and shake hands with the next skunk I met. You read me a sermon and started to walk out on me.”

  Rourke looked up at him. “What the hell was I supposed to believe? You put yourself on the spot that time—pretending you were drunk with a girl in your bed the minute Phyllis turned her back.”

  “You hated me for it because we were friends. Otherwise you wouldn’t have given a damn.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Okay,” said Shayne wearily. “That’s why I jumped you about those photostats today. That other time, I didn’t let you walk out when a word was all that was needed to clear it up.”

  “So?” Rourke’s dark eyes no longer looked as though they belonged to a dead man.

  “I know you’re not a blackmailer, Tim. I knew it all along.”

  Rourke stood up and thrust out a bony hand and admitted, “I tried to call you about an hour ago.”

  Shayne took his hand. “It’d help a lot if I knew who stole your photostats.”

  “They weren’t stolen. After you left I went through every drawer in the damned place. They were in the linen closet under some towels.”

  “Then how in hell—” He paused, clawing at his damp hair. “I’m sticky with salt water. Mind if I use your shower?”

  “Go ahead.” Rourke grinned sheepishly. “I’ll go out and get us a bottle. I’ve been on the wagon ever since you left here a few hours ago.”

  Shayne started to say something, hesitated, his eyes going over Timothy Rourke’s body, then said, “Better go easy for a while, Tim. You need to get some meat on your bones. You can’t do it drinking your meals.” He grinned and turned toward the bathroom.

  Inspecting himself in the mirror, he decided there had been times when he looked worse, but he couldn’t remember when. He loosened the ends of the adhesive tape, jerked off the bandage with one swift movement.

  He grimaced at his reflection, stripped off the bathing trunks and stepped under the shower.

  Rourke reclined on the couch when Shayne came from the bathroom fully dressed. He sat down beside the reporter and said, “Now we know there were two sets of photostats. But Hampstead swears only one set was made—for you. How about that?” he went on sharply. “Hampstead also says you got a set as payment for your help in locating the letters—that you demanded them from Browne as your price for putting him wise.”

  “Hampstead lies,” Rourke told him calmly. “I didn’t put Browne wise. I’d never heard of the deal until he invited me to go along. Of course I wanted copies if I could get them.”

  Shayne tugged thoughtfully at his ear lobe. “There’s something screwy about this. Hampstead isn’t the sort of guy to abet blackmail. Yet he swears they made only one set of stats. Let’s see the ones you’ve got,” he added sharply.

  Rourke got up and went into the bedroom. He returned in a moment with four photostatic sheets and handed them to Shayne.

  The detective glanced at them and stiffened. “These are negatives,” he pointed out. “White on black.”

  “That’s right,” Rourke said easily. “I remember now. Browne asked me if I minded having negatives rather than positives and I told him it didn’t matter to me either way.”

  “The photostats used by the blackmailer were positive prints,” Shayne explained. “I should have thought about that as soon as I saw them. There had to be a set of negatives before the positives could be made. Some shops keep the negatives in their possession when you order a set of positives, and others give both sets to the customer.”

  “Do you think Browne got the other set? That he’s the blackmailer, Mike?”

  “Could be. He probably does a lot of business with the photostat firm and could have gone back later for the second set without Hampstead’s knowledge.”

  “Or someone in the shop could have got hep and knocked out another set for his own use,” Rourke pointed out.

  Shayne drummed blunt fingertips on the table, then lifted the receiver and called his hotel. The operator told him she had not yet received the long distance call for Angus Browne. Shayne had her connect him with the clerk.

  “Mike Shayne,” he said to the clerk. “Do you remember the woman who was waiting for me when I came in this afternoon?”

  “I’ll say I do. She sailed out through the lobby half an hour ago looking mad enough to bust a gut.”

  “What about the taxi driver you sent up? Have you seen him?”

  “He followed her out five minutes later. Acted drunk and he was all scratched up. He claims somebody stole his cab that was parked outside.”

  “Thanks,” Shayne said. He got to his feet and began to pace back and forth across the room, telling Rourke, “Things are beginning to shape up. Keep a tight hold on your set of photostats. I think they’ll be the basis of a hotter story than you think before many more hours.”

  “What’s it all about, Mike?”

  Shayne shook his red head indecisively, still striding up and down. “I won’t know all the answers until I get a call from New York.” He looked at his watch and sighed. “I haven’t got too much time. I’ve got to catch that midnight plane for New Orleans or I won’t have any secretary.” He dropped into a chair and rubbed his chin. “Do you remember the man who was with Natalie Briggs at the roulette table last night before she made up to you?”

  Rourke frowned thoughtfully. “I didn’t pay much attention. Short and dark and ugly, wasn’t he? Seems to me I picked him for one I wouldn’t want my kid sister to run around with—if I had a kid sister.”

  “He’s the one. Did you notice him around after she left?”

  “I don’t think so. Seems to me I saw him whispering with that big bouncer—the one you went out with after you made your beef—and then I didn’t notice him any more.”

  “He and Browne both seem to have disappeared about the same time. Someone was at the Play-Mor last night waiting for Christine Hudson to show up with ten thousand dollars. After my interview with Barbizon it wasn’t necessary for that person to wait any longer.”

  Shayne was frowning and tugging at his ear lobe again. “Let’s take a ride over to Miami. I’m damned interested in what time Victor Morrison went out fishing last night.”

  Rourke said, “Okay, I’ll get my crate.”

  “No need for that. I’ve got a cab waiting by the side entrance.”

  “You’ll go broke paying taxi fares,” Rourke protested as they went outside and down the back stairway.

  “I came to that conclusion this afternoon, so I made other arrangements.” He waved toward the pa
rked cab as they emerged through the doorway. “I’m driving my own now, so you’ll get cheap rates.”

  Rourke said, “I’ll be damned. How’d you make the raise?”

  “I paid a good price for the use of it,” Shayne assured him.

  They reached the mainland and Shayne was turning north on Biscayne Boulevard when a police siren sighed softly behind them and a prowl car nosed up and edged them over to the curb.

  A policeman jumped out and said harshly, “Okay, boys. This is the end of the buggy ride.” He opened the back door and jumped in, directing Shayne to follow the prowl car. “We’re going to Headquarters.”

  Chapter Nineteen: SHAYNE BARGAINS

  TIMOTHY ROURKE GRINNED and settled back as Shayne wheeled the taxi to follow the police car back down the boulevard. “Just like old times. Have you got a couple of bodies concealed in the trunk of this thing?”

  “Could be,” said Shayne. “Though I’m inclined to think it’s nothing more serious than a stolen car charge.”

  “Just that?” Rourke snapped his fingers airily and turned to the officer in the back seat. “Is that what all this fuss is about? Just because my friend stole a hack?”

  “Just keep on driving,” grunted the officer. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

  They passed Flagler Street and turned on S. E. 1st, heading westward. Rourke straightened back in his seat and sighed. “Only thing I wish is that this had happened on the Beach where Peter Painter could get his claws on you. I haven’t seen you tangle with him for years.”

  “You’re likely to see it tonight,” Shayne said sourly. He and Rourke got out and the officer joined them, saying briskly, “Right inside to the chief’s office.”

  They went down a long corridor to Chief Will Gentry’s private office. Shayne pushed the door open and walked in without knocking. The cop pressed in behind him to report, “I picked these two up on the boulevard driving that stolen cab, Chief. The redhead was behind the wheel and this other one—”

  “All right,” Gentry interrupted him. “Wait outside.”

  “You could have borrowed a car from the Department,” Gentry told Shayne, “if you couldn’t afford taxi fares.”

  Shayne grinned and eased one hip down on a corner of Gentry’s desk. “Did Wilson put up a squawk?”

  “He’s been yelling his head off. Claims you fed him a mickey and stole his cab.”

  Shayne’s grin widened. “Is he around?”

  Gentry nodded He took the cigar from his mouth and rumbled, “You! Porter,” at the partially closed door.

  It opened wider and the arresting officer stuck his head in.

  “Bring in that cab driver. He’s waiting in front.” When the officer withdrew, Gentry asked Shayne fretfully, “Why didn’t you use your head when Wilson came to see you? I’ll have to give you to Painter now.”

  Shayne nodded to Rourke. “That’s what you wanted isn’t it?” Turning back to Gentry, he said, “I gave Wilson my best liquor and tucked him in bed with a platinum blonde when I went out. What the hell else could I do to make him feel at home?”

  The door opened and Ira Wilson came in. He was bareheaded and his clothing was badly rumpled. There were two long streaks of dried blood down his right cheek and his left eye was beginning to turn a liverish yellow. He stopped and glared at Shayne and said, “That’s him. He fed me knockout drops and stole my keys and my hack and cap.”

  “Just a mild mixture of Cointreau and cognac,” Shayne assured him easily. “How’d you and the dame get along?”

  “That hellcat!” raged Wilson. “I didn’t make no passes at her. Gawd! She acted like I was to blame for it all when I didn’t even know she was there till I woke up. Did she get at you, too?” he ended, staring at Shayne’s swollen and cut face.

  “What’s this about a woman?” asked Gentry wearily. “Am I going to have to charge you with procuring, too?”

  Shayne said, “You’d have as much chance of making it stick as car theft. I paid you plenty for the use of your cab,” he reminded Wilson sharply. “Were you too drunk to remember our agreement? I slipped you a hundred and twenty-five before you passed out. You didn’t raise any howl then about my using your cab.”

  “You didn’t either,” blustered Wilson. “You gimme that money to—” He paused and glanced at Gentry, wetting his thick lips.

  “He’s already spilled the whole story to us, Mike. He claims you tried to bribe him to keep quiet about last night. And after he passed out you slid the money in his pocket to incriminate him.”

  Shayne said bleakly, “So that puts me on the spot.”

  “Plenty,” Gentry agreed with a sigh. “He saw you go around the back of the Hudson house with the girl, and gives you ten minutes back there with her just about the time she was getting herself killed. Then you came running out looking scared and told him to drive like hell to Miami.”

  Shayne looked at Wilson with deep disgust. “You really fixed things up.”

  “Did you expect me to cover for you after puttin’ me in bed with that crazy dame and stealin’ my cab? What in hell’ll I tell my wife about these here scratches she gimme?”

  “I’ll be worrying about you and your wife,” Shayne told him sardonically, “while I’m rotting in jail on a murder charge.” He turned back to Gentry. “Do you want my side of it?”

  “What’s the use? It isn’t my case, Mike.”

  “So, you’re throwing me to Painter?”

  Gentry spread out his pudgy hands and said nothing.

  Shayne got up slowly. He turned on Wilson and said, “I’ll take that dough.”

  Wilson took a backward step. “You been usin’ my hack all this time. I’ll drop the complaint and we’ll call it square, huh?”

  “We’ll square it this way,” Shayne said softly. He moved in on the driver and drove a short jolting uppercut to the point of his jaw before Wilson got his hands up to defend himself.

  Shayne turned about and resumed his position on the corner of Gentry’s desk. “Give me a little more time, Will. I don’t need much. Just long enough to get a call through from New York. Then I’ll have a bill of goods to sell Painter.”

  Gentry said, “You’ve had almost twenty-four hours.”

  “Yeah. I’ve been fooling around all day,” Shayne conceded. “But I’m still waiting for that phone call.”

  Gentry shook his head slowly from side to side. “I can’t do it, Mike. Your pickup is already on the record. You’ll have to do your talking to Painter.” He reached for the telephone.

  “Don’t do it.” Shayne’s face was deeply trenched and sweat dripped from his chin. “There have been two murders already. Painter doesn’t know a single damned thing about either one of them. If I’m locked up now they’ll never be solved.”

  “He’ll figure they’re solved when you are locked up.”

  “And he’ll come pretty close to making it stick. You’ve known me a long time, Will. I’ve never given you a bum steer.”

  Gentry took the soggy cigar butt from his mouth and looked at it angrily. He threw it in the wastebasket and said, “I’ve got to turn you over to Painter.”

  “All right. But do it this way. Give me half a chance.”

  “What way?”

  “Call him and tell him you’ll deliver me in person—to the residence of Leslie Hudson on the Beach.” Shayne’s eyes gleamed and his voice was hoarse with sincerity. “Have him round up Mr. and Mrs. Hudson and the brother, Floyd, and have them there.”

  “Painter will never agree to that.”

  “He’ll do it if you tell him you’ve got information that will solve both murders.”

  “If you’ve got the information, give it to me.”

  “I haven’t. I’m stalling,” Shayne admitted. “I won’t have it until I get that call from New York. It’s got to come through shortly.”

  Gentry folded his hands across his stomach and was thoughtfully silent for a moment, then said, “All right. But if you don’t get the hell out of
town in a hurry you’ll make an old man out of me.”

  “I’m getting out on the midnight plane,” Shayne told him. “There are a couple of other things—”

  Ira Wilson stirred on the floor and sat up, holding his jaw in both hands and waggling it from side to side.

  Gentry looked at him and called, “Porter!”

  The patrolman came in and said, “Yes, sir.”

  “Help this man out” Gentry pointed a fresh stogie at Wilson. “He stumbled and hurt himself. I believe he’s withdrawing his car theft complaint, but have him sign an affidavit about last night before you let him go.”

  Porter said, “Yes, sir.” He stooped and helped Wilson to his feet and led him out.

  “What are the other things?” Gentry asked Shayne.

  “They’re easy. Call Victor Morrison and tell him you’re cleaning up a murder case and want him to bring his wife over to the Hudsons’. I’ve got the telephone number right here.” He fished a slip of paper out of his pocket and laid it before the chief.

  “Who’s Morrison?”

  “A New York millionaire with a yen for private secretaries. His wife is a platinum blonde with a yen for taxi drivers.”

  Gentry grunted and picked up the slip of paper.

  “And to make a quorum, we’ll need a local lawyer by the name of B. J. Hampstead. His name must be in the book.”

  Gentry frowned and said, “Hampstead is one of the most important attorneys in the city. How does he come into the picture?”

  “He’s representing Mrs. Morrison in a divorce action. When you get him on the phone tell him it has to do with that—and with the murder of Angus Browne.”

  Gentry asked, “Is that all you want? No governors? Not even the mayor?”

  Shayne grinned and lifted the telephone receiver. He said, “Just a minute, Will, before you start issuing invitations,” and got his hotel on the wire.

  Again the switchboard operator told him no call had come through for Angus Browne.

  He said, “I’ll be on the move for the next half hour. After that I can be reached at this number.” He consulted a notebook in his pocket and gave her the Hudsons’ telephone number. “Switch the call to me there, and for God’s sake don’t slip up on it.”