Mike Shayne's Torrid Twelve

by editor Leo Margules

  “It wasn’t. Take my arm if you want, but let’s go. We’ll talk some place else.”

  “Always done my own navigating,” Captain Tolliver said stubbornly. “Just lead the way.”

  “Come on.”

  Shayne led the way to the back door. They passed Whitey lying jammed up in a corner of the room. Shorty was still balanced on the window sill. The redhead led Tolliver through the shadows to the front of the house and paused for a look.

  All up and down the street the shacks had an air of tense expectancy, as if a hundred eyes were watching. Radios and TV sets had suddenly become quiet. But nobody had come out to investigate. Nobody would, until someone surreptitiously called the police.

  Michael Shayne led the way to his car, and they left Bayard Street with its dead men behind them.

  5

  “Good Lord!” Hugo Mollison said helplessly. He pattered across the room to stub out a cigarillo in an ash tray, and came back mopping his high pink forehead with an imported linen handkerchief. “This—this killer just slipped into the house while you were lying there, Captain, waited until one of your kidnapers came into the room, then shot him, shot the other one, and ran?”

  “That’s it.” Tod Tolliver nodded. He sat upright on the edge of an easy chair, as erect as a bantam rooster, his seamed, leathery features serious.

  Shayne sat back in an arm chair, watching them all, while Tolliver and Hugo Mollison, a softly plump man with large, mournful brown eyes, talked. From time to time his gaze went to Sandra Ames. She sat in a straight-backed chair with her fingers interlaced tensely in her lap. She was tall and full-bosomed, a fact which the light silk shantung dress emphasized. In her dark eyes, as she watched Tod Tolliver, banked fires burned.

  The fifth member of the little group gathered in the living room of one of the Flying Pelican’s most deluxe units had been introduced as Pete Ruggles. Pete, with the fresh, ingenuous features and crewcut of a college boy, had straddled a chair backward and was listening with rapt attention to Tod Tolliver’s account of his kidnaping and rescue.

  So far Michael Shayne had said as little as possible. He preferred to listen and try to appraise the setup. No one had said exactly what the deal was that these three were making with Captain Tod Tolliver. But the idea of treasure—sunken Spanish treasure—still hung in the air.

  Shorty and Whitey had believed it was Spanish treasure they were after. But they were cheap thugs who had apparently stumbled onto something without knowing what it was. And now they were dead for their pains.

  The killer who had removed them from the scene gave Shayne a lot more to think about. He had shot them down deliberately, as if his only intention was to rescue Tod Tolliver. But then he had tried to take no advantage of the fact. Or had the redhead simply surprised him too quickly?

  On the other hand, was he merely a random factor in the equation—some thug settling an underworld argument? So far, there weren’t enough clues to tell. Hugo Mollison turned to Pete Ruggles. “What do you make of it, Peter?” he asked. Hugo was about fifty, a pouter pigeon type of man, with his pink face, high forehead, and the nervous manner of a suburbanite who finds himself mixed up in a neighborhood quarrel.

  “Gosh, Hugo, I don’t know,” Pete said goodnaturedly. He had a deep, pleasant voice. “I mean this is, well, out of my depth. I’m along just to lend a strong back to this enterprise. Sandra is supplying the money and you the brains and me—well, thinking isn’t my strong point. Maybe Mr. Shayne has some ideas.”

  “Of course.” Hugo Mollison mopped his forehead again. “Mr. Shayne, what do you think this murderous attack signifies?”

  Shayne put down his cigarette. “Ordinarily,” he said, “I’d have said somebody was interested in the captain and was keeping an eye on him, saw him snatched, followed Shorty and Whitey, and blasted them to rescue the captain. Maybe to ask him questions. But since the killer told Tolliver he wasn’t interested in him, I’m assuming it was a quarrel between crooks.

  “Shorty was from up north, by his accent. Whitey was a local boy, probably just on the fringe of the underworld. Maybe he did a little smuggling, something like that. My guess is, somebody had a grievance against Shorty, wanted to rub him out, and took Whitey along.”

  Sandra Ames let out her breath. “I hope so,” she said huskily. “I couldn’t bear to think there was still a third group who knew about the captain’s secret. How did these two learn about it?” She looked at Tolliver. The little man seemed sheepish.

  “I expect it was my fault,” he said apologetically. “Last month I got a little tipsy and was having fun telling some tourists how easy it is to find lost Spanish treasure in these waters—just stringing them along, you know. Then I had to have some help navigatin’ back to my shack. This Shorty fellow was the one who helped me. All these years I never let my tongue run free, but I remember he pestered me with questions until I told him some fool story and chased him out. Guess what I said told him too much, because it was right after that I got the feeling I was being watched and followed.

  “Then you folks came along and proved to me you knowed what my secret was, and I figured I’d pushed my luck too long. Too many folks all of a sudden knew too much. That’s why I was willing to do business. This feller tonight who killed them two—maybe he wasn’t interested in me, like he said. But I got a feeling we should do our business and get it done with, fast as possible. I just don’t feel easy in my mind any more.”

  “Then you’re ready to go ahead with our arrangements?” Hugo Mollison asked. “I was afraid—but that’s wonderful. Is there still time to leave tonight?”

  “There’s time.” Tolliver eyed the clock over the mantel. “Providin’ Mr. Shayne is willing to come with me.”

  “Are you willing, Mr. Shayne?” Mollison asked anxiously. “There shouldn’t be any danger, really. And it will be well worth your while.”

  “Hell,” the redhead said, “I don’t even know what you’re asking me to do. So far no one has told me what this is all about. I can make a guess, but I don’t care for guessing games. Tell me what you have in mind and I’ll see how I feel about it.”

  “He’s right,” Pete Ruggles said. “Why hasn’t anyone told him?”

  “I guess things moved too fast this evening,” Sandra Ames said. She gave Michael Shayne the full benefit of a dazzling smile. “Please accept our apologies. We forgot that you never had your interview with Captain Tolliver.”

  “Everybody else seemed to know my business, I sort of figured you did too,” Tolliver chuckled. He seemed to be enjoying himself, like a schoolboy on a lark. “Will you tell him, Mr. Mollison?”

  “By all means,” the plump man said. “It’s a story I enjoy telling. On September fifteenth, sixteen ninety-two, Mr. Shayne,” he said, “a fleet of five Spanish galleons set sail from Havana. One of them, the flagship, the Santa Cristina, had aboard it a strong room full of treasure, collected from all over South America. There were gold and silver bars. There were loose gems and gems in the form of necklaces, bracelets, fans, hair combs and many other ornaments. There were coins minted under Spanish supervision in Mexico, Peru, and elsewhere. Accounts of the time say it was more treasure than twenty men could carry.

  “Well, only a day out of Havana, the little fleet was overtaken by a Caribbean hurricane. It ran before the storm, northward toward the coast of Florida. The storm struck, the fleet was dispersed. A week later three survivors of the fleet put back into Havana, badly battered. The Santa Cristina was not one of them. It had gone down somewhere off the Florida coast, carrying to the bottom enough treasure to pay the debts of the Spanish monarchy. In present-day figures, the value of the treasure is estimated at between ten and twenty million dollars.

  “And Captain Tolliver—” Hugo Mollison paused to draw a deep breath—“Captain Tolliver knows where the Santa Cristina lies today. He’s actually brought up some of that treasure. In fact, for ten years he has known the whereabouts of the Santa Cristina and he’s been mining it
of treasure as if it were a private safe-deposit box.”

  He shook his head, looking with admiration at Captain Tolliver. The little man seemed to enjoy being the center of attention.

  “That’s right,” Tolliver said. “Once a year I go, dive down, and bring up what I need. Up till now, nobody’s suspected me. But now Miss Ames and Mr. Mollison and Mr. Ruggles, well, somehow they found me out. They’ve made me a proposition. I’m going to show them where the wreck lies, and they’ll mark it. Miss Ames is going along with me to verify I ain’t faking and that the wreck and treasure are there. I’m not taking either Mr. Mollison or Mr. Ruggles because Miss Ames can verify the wreck and I don’t think she’ll get a sudden temptation to put old Captain Tolliver out of the picture.

  “When she reports back to Mr. Mollison, I get a certified check for one hundred thousand dollars, which he’s already got in his pocket. Only when I got that check in the bank do I let them chart the wreck. After that it’s all theirs and my interest is over.

  “I’m talking frank talk, Mr. Shayne, because we all understand each other. These look like honest folks, but in a deal like this it don’t pay to take chances and I want somebody on my side. I asked around among some folks for a man who was tough but could be trusted and I got your name. That’s why I called you. I want to hire you to see to it I get to bank my check and then spend it later. Your fee will be a flat ten per cent. That’s the deal. What do you say?”

  “Please say yes, Mr. Shayne.” Sandra Ames leaned toward him. “Captain Tolliver wants to sail tonight. I think he’s right. The sooner we do this, the less the chance of interference. So I hope you will accept.” She smiled at him. “I’m sure you haven’t a thing to fear from me,” she smiled.

  Shayne finished his cigarette and stubbed it out. They were all looking at him, waiting. Sandra Ames’s gaze seemed to be willing him to say yes. He let the wait stretch out just long enough. Then he nodded decisively.

  “I’m with you, Captain,” he said.

  6

  Michael Shayne lay back in the narrow bunk of the old charter boat, Golden Girl, and listened. The engines were quiet. Outside there was a small lap-lap of water against the sides. For the last hour, up until five minutes ago, the Golden Girl had been pushing hard through the Atlantic south from Biscayne Bay—at least, they had started south.

  They had left Miami fast. Five minutes from the time they stopped talking, they were driving to the marina where the Golden Girl was moored. Sandra Ames had brought two suitcases with her, one of them containing skin-diving equipment. Neither Shayne nor Tod Tolliver had returned to their rooms to pick up anything. Tolliver wanted to move fast and they had moved fast.

  The detective felt the rough blanket of the bunk against his skin; having brought no pajamas, he was sleeping raw. Up on deck, he knew Tod Tolliver was crouching, probably peering into the darkness behind them, and listening.

  After a few feet, past where a small doorway divided the tiny cabin into two sections, Sandra Ames was sleeping. At least, he assumed she was sleeping until he heard the door slide open.

  “Mike?” Her voice was a husky, tentative whisper. “I just wondered if you were awake.” She came softly into his section of the cabin. In the darkness he could see her only as a blur of white, but her perfume filled the little space, subtle and provocative. “Why do you think Captain Tolliver has stopped?”

  “To listen to see if we’re being followed,” Shayne said.

  She sat down on the opposite bunk and he could almost see her now—not quite. “Who could follow us?”

  “Who knows?” He made his tone casual. “Captain Tolliver doesn’t believe in taking any chances. For ten years he’s made it pay off.”

  “Yes, of course. He’s smart—very smart. I like him.”

  “So do I. He’s almost seventy, but he’s all man.”

  “I know. He’s had a fabulous career. He started as a cabin boy in a whaling ship out of Salem, more than fifty years ago. But I didn’t come to talk about Captain Tolliver.”

  The redhead’s “Oh?” was noncommittal. He didn’t think she had come to talk about the captain. Her voice held a tentative note, as if she were testing him as they talked. He wondered what she was leading up to.

  “Have you a cigarette?”

  “Sure.” He reached under the pillow, found the pack and some matches. He raised up on his elbow and leaned across the narrow aisle, holding out the pack. She took one, leaned forward, and he lit a match. The flare showed her face only a foot from his, showed also that she was wearing the filmiest kind of nightgown, with a scarf thrown over her bare shoulders.

  “Thank you.” She sat back, while he lit a cigarette for himself. “Tell me, Mike, did you believe Hugo’s story about the Santa Cristina and the Spanish treasure?”

  He took a reflective puff. “Should I have?”

  Sandra Ames gave a sudden, appreciative laugh. “You should have been a diplomat. Why didn’t you believe it?”

  “For one thing, any ship sunk in the year Hugo mentioned would be rotted away by now. It and any treasure would be hidden under a coating of coral, in these waters. You probably wouldn’t even know it was a ship unless you excavated under the coral.”

  “I was pretty sure you hadn’t swallowed it.” She sounded pleased. “Hugo was positive you had. Of course it is a lie. Do you know what we’re really after?”

  “No. But I know it’s something plenty big. Five million was the figure Shorty and Whitey were talking about.”

  “Not five, no. Just one. A million dollars. In United States currency.”

  “Oh?”

  “You don’t sound a bit surprised!” Sandra Ames said accusingly. She puffed on her cigarette, and the glow lit her eyes so that they seemed a deep violet. She was breathing a little faster, her bosom rising and falling beneath the filmy nightgown.

  “When you’ve been around as much as I have, you won’t be easy to surprise, either.”

  “Well, it’s fabulous, Mike! There’s a sunken German submarine, somewhere off the Florida coast. It slipped out of Hamburg just before the war ended. It had all this cash aboard, and Hugo believes it was headed for South America where Hitler was going to try to escape and go into hiding. But Hitler never got away and the submarine sank.

  “The money is packed in watertight containers. Every year Captain Tolliver has been bringing up ten thousand dollars. He makes a trip north every year, because he knows it would arouse suspicion if anyone locally knew he was banking so much money. He puts the ten thousand into a bank account in New York under another name. He never takes more because that’s all he needs, and for ten years nobody’s guessed a thing.”

  “But you and Hugo and Pete found out.”

  “Oh, that’s Hugo’s cleverness. Somehow he found out that these bills from Germany were turning up. I don’t know how, but he has connections. He knew the sub had gone down in Florida waters, so for three years he’s been living down here, poking around, trying to find a clue. He finally learned about Tolliver’s trips north every year, and this year he followed him and learned Tolliver was the man who’d found the sunken sub.

  “Then he came to me and asked me to help finance an expedition to recover the money and buy Tolliver out. I said yes—it was like finding buried treasure. So it was I who went to Captain Tolliver and told him his secret was known and asked him if he wouldn’t sell out to us. He’s getting old, and he didn’t want to worry any more about being found out, so he said yes.”

  “I can see his point of view,” Michael Shayne said. “Once his secret was known he wasn’t safe any more. He’s already just missed being killed by Whitey and Shorty. He’s playing it smart.”

  “How can you be so calm!” Sandra Ames said. She stood up, and leaned toward him. Even though he could scarcely see her, he could feel the excitement emanating from her. She hesitated, as if waiting for him to say something. Then abruptly she turned and went back to her berth and closed the door.

  The redhead sta
red reflectively at the glowing tip of his cigarette. So far, several people had told him several lies. The sunken Spanish treasure ship had become a sunken sub carrying a million dollars in less romantic, but more negotiable, U. S. currency. The first had been a lie. Was the second story the truth?

  Suddenly the throb of the engine began to shake the little boat, and the slap of waves against her body recommenced. They were under way again.

  7

  Sandra Ames said in a strained voice, “Why doesn’t he come up?” She knelt on the splintery deck of the Golden Girl and stared out at the mirror-like blue surface into which Tolliver had vanished half an hour before. “Do you think anything happened to him?”

  “He has air enough for an hour,” Shayne said. He looked around at the empty ocean which stretched away on all sides of them. There wasn’t even the smoke of a steamer in the distance. The Golden Girl was anchored, and there was too little swell even to move her. The sun was only half an hour above the eastern horizon.

  Where they were—except that they were probably some place east of the Florida Keys—he had no idea. They had reached this spot in the first light of predawn, anchored, and Tod Tolliver had promptly donned his skin-diving gear, slipped into the water, and submerged.

  How the old captain had known that this was the spot he wanted, Shayne had no idea. But Tolliver had come here somehow as unerringly as a pigeon finds its way to its home roost.

  Sandra Ames relaxed and sat back cross-legged on the deck. This morning she wore white shorts and a white halter.

  “I suppose I’m just being too impatient,” she said. “Cigarette?”

  “Sure.” He lit two, and handed her one. She inhaled gratefully as, with a swirl of water, Captain Tod Tolliver broke the surface beside the anchored boat. Sandra Ames rushed to the tail. Tolliver kicked himself to the ladder hanging over the side and pulled himself up, looking grotesque in his face plate with the tank of oxygen on his back and the floppy green flippers on his feet.