Murder Spins the Wheel

by Brett Halliday

  “That’s your business. But if it turns out that somebody planted those drugs on Harry you won’t have to kill yourself, will you? Of course he’ll still have to answer for slugging the narcotics cop and I know you’re sorry about that. I doubt if you’re sorry enough to shoot yourself.”

  “You’re not very sentimental, are you?”

  “I hope not,” Shayne said.

  He finished the bottle. He hunted for another, but apparently that was the only one that had survived the battle between Vince Donahue’s guests and the police.

  A Coast Guard cutter came alongside, hooting. A young ensign leaped aboard to confer with Shayne. They decided to transfer Theo to the cutter, leaving a Coast Guardsman aboard the Nugget. They would return in daylight, with a diver to disentangle the rudder.

  Three young sailors swung Theo across the rail. The cutter took them into Indian Creek and put them ashore near the 63rd Street bridge on Allison Island. St. Francis Hospital was a block away.

  Shayne explained the situation to the interne on duty and helped fill out the police form required of every doctor treating a gunshot wound. While the temporary bandage he had applied to Theo’s shoulder was being replaced, he made two phone calls from a booth in the waiting room. The first was for a taxi. The second was to the Lambda Phi house at Florida Christian, where he had met the All-American quarterback, Johnny Black. It rang a long time, and finally Black himself answered. Shayne told him what he wanted.

  “I signed with the Warriors at a nice bonus,” Black said. “I’ve got their check in my wallet, but I remember what you said about how easy it is to stop payment. I guess I have to do what you say. I’ll borrow a car.”

  Theo came out, her lipstick a bright slash of color in her pale face. She had washed and brushed her hair, and even with her arm in a wrist sling she looked her usual neat, well-organized self. They had worked fast, for a hospital, but not fast enough for Shayne. His mind was racing.

  “Let’s go,” he snapped.

  She lived in a new high-rise apartment building in the low 70’s, two blocks from the ocean. As the taxi started she swayed over against Shayne.

  “My head’s going around. Mike, hang onto me for a minute.”

  He put his arm around her. “Did they give you sleeping pills?”

  “Tons. And on top of that cognac—I don’t know.”

  As the taxi turned onto Indian Creek Drive, she pivoted with it and nearly went off the seat. His hold tightened.

  “You won’t give me my gun back, will you?” she said.

  “No.”

  “I promise I won’t shoot myself with it. I couldn’t stay awake that long.”

  “You’ll have time later if you feel like it.”

  A moment passed. “I can’t stop thinking of Harry,” she said. “When they came up on both sides of him and said they were narcotics agents.”

  “When you wake up, Theo, go back over everything that’s happened. Start with the theory that somebody has been setting Harry up for this, and see if you can get it to fit.”

  “If I only could.”

  They stopped in front of her apartment house. Shayne told the driver to wait, and helped her into the lobby. “Can you make it from here?”

  “Of course. Thank you, Mike. I’m sorry I had to put you through all this.” She found her key in her bag. She gave him a shimmering smile and touched his wrist. “It’s no use wishing we’d met in a different way. That’s not how the world works. Goodnight.”

  She unlocked the door and walked toward the elevator. He waited, holding the door. After touching the elevator button she sat down on a bench and fell asleep at once.

  Sighing, Shayne went in and picked her off the bench. The elevator arrived.

  “I’m all right,” she mumbled, her head flopping against his shoulder. “Thank you for everything. I don’t mean for stopping me. For everything else.”

  “What floor?” he said.

  She smiled and murmured something, her eyes closing. He put her back on the bench and returned to the outer lobby to get her apartment number. By speaking loudly and forcefully, he penetrated the fog that was closing in around her and made her walk beside him into the elevator. She stayed on her feet, but she was nearly asleep. She lived on the ninth floor. He supported her down the hall and opened her bag to get the keys.

  She was as unresisting as a doll. He found the light inside the door. Giving up the attempt to keep her in motion, he picked her up and carried her into the bedroom. Her arm was around his neck. As he put her on the bed her grip tightened and she pulled him down with her.

  “Oh, Mike,” she said without opening her eyes. “If everything wasn’t such a mess—”

  Shayne freed himself. “Go to sleep, Theo. I’ll call in the morning.”

  “Mike—”

  It trailed off. He removed her glasses and shoes. That was all he had time for. He covered her with a light thermal blanket and left the bedroom quietly.

  Using the phone in her living room, he called Rourke. The reporter’s voice was somber.

  “More bad news, Mike. The cop Harry hit died in the hospital.”

  Shayne had an unlighted cigarette between his lips. He bit it in two, and threw it across the room. “They don’t want to give the poor bastard any breaks, do they? Is he still on the run?”

  “Yeah, and the cops’ car hasn’t turned up yet. I don’t know about on the run—he was in no shape for a long drive. They think they’ll find him conked out in it somewhere. I have Steve Bass and the girl here. She’s not my number-one pick of the three at the party, but she has her points, all of them nicely rounded. I’m rationing the booze, Mike. The wire services are bugging the paper, needless to say, and the paper’s bugging me—I’m the guy who’s supposed to be the expert on what Mike Shayne is up to, after all. Don’t you think it’s time we got together?”

  “Just about. I’m going to Harry’s house on Normandy Isle. Doc Waters was there the last I knew, and I want to see him before the cops do. Meet me there, and bring Steve and the girl.”

  “Are you still working, Mike? I thought it was out of your hands.”

  “It will be as soon as they catch up with Harry.”

  After breaking the connection, Shayne called several people Harry might get in touch with, in the unlikely event that he succeeded in making it back to Miami. He asked them to pass on a simple message to Harry: do nothing until he talked to Michael Shayne.

  He looked into the bedroom before leaving. Theo was sleeping under the openwork blanket, her face serene and untroubled.

  La Gorce Island, where he had left his Buick, was only ten minutes away, but he had a strong feeling that his time was running out. The taxi took him to Normandy Isle.

  Only one light was on in Harry Bass’s house, in a bedroom upstairs.

  “Hold your flag,” Shayne told the driver. “I may not be staying.”

  He looked in the garage window. Doc Waters’ Thunderbird was still there. He went around the house and up on the back terrace, where he tapped lightly on the sliding-glass door.

  “Doc, are you in there?”

  There was no answer, but there was a quality to the silence which long experience in entering silent houses had taught him to distrust. He stepped inside. Using his lighter, he found the light switch. The overhead light flashed on. The rifle Doc had threatened him with, its hammer crushed against the stock, lay across a low table. Ashtrays around the room were choked with cigarette stubs. Shayne checked the level in the whiskey bottle. If Doc Waters was the only one who had been drinking from it, he had put away most of a fifth. The little plastic pill container had tipped over, spilling tranquillizers across the table.

  “Doc?” he called again.

  He went into the hall. He felt a sudden prickling at the nape of his neck, but the warning came too late. He swung around. Something small and hard was thrust against his stomach from the side.

  “Hold it, Mike.”

  The light came on. Harry Bass
was facing him, but it was a Harry Bass he had never before seen, haggard and wild-eyed. He seemed smaller, thinner and many years older. The head bandage, which capped the whole top of his head above the ears, had slipped to one side, which gave him a dissolute look. His tie was gone and there was blood on the front of his Madras jacket.

  He took a backward step and showed Shayne a .45, so heavy he had to support his right wrist with his left hand. “And I’ll use it, Mike. I’m not kidding.”

  “I believe you,” Shayne said. “Have you already used it on Doc?”

  “Not yet.” Harry opened a coat closet. “Come out slow, Doc.”

  Waters staggered out, his face bloody and battered. He peered at Shayne through a bloody haze.

  “He’s gone crazy!” he said appealingly. “You tell him I had nothing to do with it.”

  Harry’s upper lip lifted. He moved the .45 in a short arc between the two men.

  “Do this my way, Mike. Don’t try to jump me or I’ll kill you. All three of us are going to the front door together and you’re going to get rid of the cab.”

  “Sure, Harry. I’ve got a few things to tell you, and some of them may surprise you.”

  “Everybody move slow,” Harry said, swinging the gun. “No tricks.”

  “No tricks,” Shayne agreed.

  They moved down the hall. At the screen door Shayne called to the taxi driver, “You don’t need to wait. Will ten bucks cover it?”

  He looked at Harry for permission and stepped out on the porch. Harry watched him through the screen, the gun at his side. Shayne wrapped a ten dollar bill around a fifty cent piece and pitched it down the steps to the driver as he came out of his cab. The driver caught it neatly and waved.

  “Now inside, Mike,” Harry said. “No more interruptions.”

  “Whose plane did you use?” Shayne said.

  “From the old days,” Harry grunted. “Now put it in writing, Doc.”

  “Honest to God!” Waters protested. “You know I wouldn’t frame you. If you weren’t out of your skull you’d see it doesn’t add up.”

  While he talked, he was following the orders the .45 was giving him. In the living room, Harry collapsed into an upholstered chair, the gun on his knees.

  “There’s the pad. Start writing.”

  Suddenly his face turned into a mask of pain. His eyes squeezed tight. Waters twitched toward him.

  Shayne said, “You know better than that, Doc.”

  Harry’s eyes opened and he straightened the gun. Waters stared at him for a moment, then sat down at the dropleaf desk. A ruled yellow pad was waiting for him. He turned toward the redheaded detective for one more appeal.

  “Shayne! He’s got this crazy idea I planted H in his coat and tipped off the New York cops. And if I don’t put it in writing and sign it he’s going to murder me. I didn’t think he would at first, but look at him. He’s just nuts enough, even in front of a witness.”

  Harry’s head was wobbling. A muscle jumped badly in his cheek. His eyes crossed for a minute. With a visible effort, he forced them back into focus.

  “The cop died, Harry,” Shayne said softly.

  The jumping muscle in Harry’s cheek was joined by others. “So the luck went sour. In one day. OK. But nobody’s going to send me up on a drug rap. Start writing.”

  “What do you think heroin is?” Waters demanded. “The atom bomb? Anybody can get hold of it if you want to put out the dough. I’ll write it down if you say so, Harry, because Jesus, I don’t like the looks of that end of a .45. But wouldn’t you rather have the truth, for God’s sake?”

  “You’ve been handling it,” Harry said.

  “I handled one shipment! I was busted, I had an opportunity offered to me and I jumped at it. I know your rules. But this was absolutely open and shut. No risk attached to it at all. Why not talk to the guy who brought me the deal? Wave a .45 under his nose and see what he says. Give me ten minutes on the phone and I’ll get him for you.”

  “If you’re talking about Vince Donahue,” Shayne said, “he’s somebody else who’s dead.”

  Waters looked at him in real terror. “He can’t be dead! I need him to back me up. Shayne, cut the crap.”

  “I’d say he died about fifteen minutes after he stuck up Harry,” Shayne said.

  “And this was your boy, Doc?” Harry said dangerously. “It begins to make sense. You and Naples rigged that big win so you could pull my cash out of the safe where you could get at it.”

  “Harry, for Christ’s sake.” Waters swung toward the redhead, then back to Harry. “I wouldn’t rob you.”

  “You had to,” Harry said quietly. “You had to set it up so I’d be out of cash. Otherwise the boys wouldn’t go for that drug frame. Not for a minute. Nobody would who knew me. You’re the one who thought of New York, not me. You were alone when the doctor was here. I’ve only got that one coat. You had time to plant the stuff.” He hitched forward in his chair, all his muscles clenched with the effort to say what he had to say with his last spark of vitality. “You wanted the top job. You thought you could sneak your way in. Send me to jail on a dirty rap and then you could—” A spasm of pain raced across his face. “I can’t think any more. I want that confession.”

  “How many things do you want me to confess? I planted heroin in your coat. I faked a loss to Al Naples. I had a kid stick you up. I wanted your job. Harry, I wouldn’t sit in that seat for a million bucks!”

  Harry motioned with the gun and Doc’s ballpoint pen started to scratch across the pad.

  Shayne said evenly, “Doc didn’t kill Vince Donahue, though, Harry. He was here in the house when it happened. Don’t try to think about it. I’ll fit the pieces together for you. The heroin came in in some kind of trick compartment inside the frame of Theo’s Alfa-Romeo. Vince Donahue has been sleeping with Al Naples’ wife. She told him about the fix on Ladybug. He manipulated Johnny Black, the Florida Christian quarterback, and Black’s on his way in to give you the details if you need them. Vince was the third man in the stickup. Everything had to be carefully timed. He didn’t have the brains to work out anything that complex. Neither does Doc.”

  “I never claimed to be a genius,” Waters said sullenly. “Harry!” he screamed. “Don’t!”

  Harry had stopped listening. His head came forward with a snap. The .45 was pointed at Waters’ chest, and with his last strength he tried to pull the trigger.

  Waters recoiled against the desk, holding the yellow pad as though it could deflect a bullet. All at once Harry pitched out of the chair and the gun slithered across the carpet. Waters was on it in one catlike motion. Shayne came out of his chair like a released spring and caught his friend before he was all the way down.

  Waters pointed the .45 at him. “Now we work fast, Shayne.” He ripped the top sheet off the pad, thumbed his lighter with one hand and set fire to the partial confession. “We stick him in my car and dump him. There’s going to be no connection between him and me. Give me any trouble and you’re going to be lying right there beside him.” His voice was high and hysterical, but the .45 in his fist didn’t waver. “In fact, you know too damn much about that heroin, and I think I’d better—”

  Shayne interrupted, “Doc, we just agreed that thinking isn’t the thing you do best.” He picked up Harry, one arm under his shoulders and one under his knees. “Haven’t you realized yet that I’m the one person who can get you out of this?”

  “Shayne, damn it,” Waters said in a complaining voice, “I was asleep when he started slapping me in the face with that .45. I don’t know what’s what any more.”

  He looked at the unconscious gambler with something approaching affection. “This is the way he used to be. When he was younger he was a real bulldozer. I didn’t think he still had it. How about getting all the way back from New York, when you wouldn’t think he could make it around the block? You know what he was going to do when you walked in? Get my confession, shoot me and put the gun in my hand. Yeah! I could see it in his
eye.—Now let’s get him out of here.”

  19.

  SHAYNE CARRIED HARRY BASS to the front porch. Waters opened the screen door for him, sending agonized glances into the darkness. He overtook Shayne at the top step and nudged him with the .45.

  “I’ll get the garage doors open. We’re going to be working together, right? We’ve got a lot of picking up to do.”

  Harry’s unconscious body was beginning to slip in Shayne’s arms. Shayne grunted and shifted his hold.

  “He’s heavier than he looks. Damn it, give me a hand before I drop him.”

  They were halfway down the steps. Waters caught Harry’s body as it got away from Shayne. The redhead’s hand came up from underneath, closed on the .45 and wrenched it away. Then he eased Harry down onto the steps.

  “Goddamn you, Shayne!” Waters exclaimed. “What are you shooting for here, that two hundred G’s?”

  “I hope I’ll collect a fee,” Shayne said, “but Harry’s going to need the rest for legal expenses. If you’re not the one who planted the drugs in Harry’s coat, who did?”

  “Why ask me? Maybe Vince Donahue. And how will you prove it?”

  A voice said sharply, “Drop the gun, Shayne!”

  Shayne opened his hand and the .45 fell to the porch steps. He grinned bleakly.

  “What’s been keeping you guys?”

  A powerful flashlight came on, stabbing at Waters. “Cool it, Doc,” the same voice said as Waters came about, crouching.

  Waters bunked in the powerful beam. “Who said I’m going anywhere? You want Harry Bass, right? Here he is.”

  Two men in dark tropical suits came around a bush, ten yards away. Painter and Sanderson followed. All four were holding drawn guns.

  Painter danced up to Shayne. “Did you go off the deep end this time! You don’t give aid and comfort to a fugitive from justice around here and get away with it! I’m going to nail you for conspiracy.”

  “I doubt it, Petey,” Shayne said calmly, and looked at the two men in dark suits. “Which one do I talk to?”