Murder Spins the Wheel ms-53

by Brett Halliday

  Shayne redirected the lamp’s beam before starting down. His big rangy body cut off the light. When one of his feet went into the water he twisted aside, flattening himself against the boat, to let the beam thrust past him. The jet-black shadow glided up silently, grazed the planking and was sucked back down, twisting. Shayne’s teeth grated together. He reached down and tried to grasp it when it rose, but he was blocking the light again and he couldn’t see what he was doing.

  His fingers slipped across a hard, rounded surface, cold and unpleasant. Under his touch, the object rolled in the water and a narrower shadow separated itself from the main bulk. It was a black-clad arm. Immediately the menacing shape changed into the figure of a man, clad in a black diver’s outfit, with a narrow canister of oxygen strapped to its back.

  Shayne went down two more rungs, going into water up to his knees. When the body rose this time he caught it by one arm and brought it up. The other arm was hooked around a rung of the ladder, over and under. The fingers in their black glove were locked on the rope. With difficulty, wet to the thighs, Shayne rolled the body over on one side, supporting it across his knee while he tried to free the rope from the clutching hand. The further it came out of the water, the heavier it was. He decided against going back on board to look for a line. He was afraid he had dislodged the body just enough so the next swell would carry it away.

  The face mask was ajar, and apparently the airtight suit had filled with water. For an instant the powerful beam struck a cold cheek and a staring eye. That was the only glimpse Shayne was ever to get of the face of Vince Donahue.

  The beam danced away. Betty’s voice called, “Don’t! I’m scared!”

  One of Shayne’s arms was hooked through the ladder. With the other he kept the black-clad body from sliding away. He said calmly, “Betty, point the light down here.”

  Lee cried from the deck, “Is that a body?”

  “Leave it alone,” Betty said hysterically. “Let somebody else find it.”

  Shayne kept his voice level. “It’s Vince. I want to get him out and see if there’s anything we can do for him. Turn the light this way.”

  “No,” Betty whispered in horror. “It’s not Vince.”

  “I’ll do it,” Lee said. “Hold onto him, Mike.”

  He heard her footsteps leaving the deck. As he shifted his grip he touched a slack line. Following it through the water, he found it looped around Vince’s wrist. Perhaps he could lash the body to the ladder until he could get something more substantial down from on deck. He hauled it in, working carefully with one hand. It came easily, and something came with it. In a moment he touched a floating bait bucket. He unclamped the lid knowing what he would find inside even before his hand went in and felt the packages of bills.

  He fastened the lid again and picked at the knot at Vince’s wrist until it came loose. Passing the free end rapidly around the rung of the ladder, he slipped it through the bight and made it fast with a quick pull.

  The girls were arguing at the cabin window above him. Lee said angrily, “He needs the goddamn light!”

  The beam drifted back toward Shayne, then abruptly winked out.

  There was a scrabbling sound from the window. Lee said, “Betty, help me find the plug. Or get out of the way.”

  “It can’t be Vince,” Betty said harshly. “He can swim like a fish. It’s somebody else. I can tell you one thing, I’m not going to look at him.”

  Shayne jacked the body another foot or so out of the water. The ladder kept twisting under him. Without a block and tackle be couldn’t get the body on board unless he could open the suit to empty out some of the water. He wrestled with it in the blackness, swearing savagely. The black rubber was as slippery as though it had been polished and oiled.

  He freed the tab of the zipper under the chin, carefully levered the body on one knee and worked the zipper down. Water spurted out. For a moment the swell became stronger and the ladder swayed away. He tilted the body at a steeper angle. Already it felt much lighter. In another moment, he thought, he could begin manhandling it up the ladder.

  The light came on again. Lee’s voice said, “Get back inside, Betty. You can’t see anything.”

  The beam wavered violently, coming to rest on the back of Vince’s head.

  “What did I tell you?” Betty said triumphantly. “It’s a Negro. We can’t help if he’s already drowned. Why let it wreck the party?”

  “Betty, watch out or you’ll-”

  There was a sudden cry. The ladder lurched convulsively in Shayne’s hand, and Betty lost her balance and fell on him, knocking him into the water. He swallowed a mouthful of bay water before he came up, sputtering. He still had contact with the rubber-clad body, but the suit was rapidly filling with water. The zipper was out of reach. Betty was splashing frantically several yards from the boat. He wrestled the body upright and pulled it against the ladder, trying to get one of the arms in over the rungs. The weight of the water carried it under. Every time his grip relaxed it slipped again.

  Betty seized him around the neck from behind in a frantic clutch. Vince’s body slipped again, and for an instant Shayne almost lost his hold.

  “I can’t swim,” she said complainingly.

  He swore at her, trying to fight her off with one elbow without letting go of Vince. Above at the window, the lamp had pulled out again and Lee was calling, “Betty?” From the stern, the man and the girl who had been smoking reefers looked down idly.

  Thrashing around, Betty pulled him under. He wanted to find out what had happened to Vince, and he didn’t really care what happened to Betty. But between a dead man and a live girl, he had no choice. The body was now entirely submerged. Betty’s throat gurgled in his ear. He forced the body back to the surface for an instant, looped the loose line around its chest and tried again to catch one of the arms in the ladder. When he let go, the body hung precariously.

  He pushed off with a powerful backward kick. In the clear, he quickly broke Betty’s grip on his neck, bringing his shoulder up hard beneath her jaw to make her easier to manage. He brought her back to the ladder with one sweep of his arm. He yelled at Lee. The light came back on. The beam stabbed downward, and he saw the black shoulder slide past the ladder. He grabbed for it. His fingers slid across the hard surface without finding anything to fasten on. Then it went under.

  He whipped the light line around Betty’s arm, fumbling the end into a loose knot. He tried to wedge her against the rope with her head out of water, but it couldn’t be done. He made a sweeping motion with one arm, groping down and away, reaching as far as he could without letting go of Betty. The tide was running strongly. He felt the pressure of the current against his spread fingers, but there was no doubt now that the body was gone.

  He gave the line a tug to be sure the bait bucket was still secure. Then he hoisted Betty’s limp body on one shoulder and climbed toward the light.

  12

  He swung through into the cabin. Betty’s head knocked against the sill as he pulled her after him. But after what he had gone through on her account, he saw no reason to handle her gently.

  Holding her like a partly open jackknife, her head down, he let the water she had swallowed drain out onto the carpet. He shook her, then dumped her on the floor to start artificial respiration. He took the lower part of her rib cage in both hands and came down hard. She spewed out more water, diluted with Scotch. He helped her expel one more breath. When her eyes opened he got up off his knees, leaving her to recover the rest of the way by herself.

  She flopped over on her back, her wet slip clinging to her thighs. Her long hair was as stringy as seaweed.

  She looked up at him accusingly. “Where’s Vince?”

  “I thought you said it was a Negro,” Shayne said in a disgusted voice.

  He went into the bathroom and returned with a large, rough towel. He rubbed his coarse red hair briskly. Lee watched him from near the window, her eyes wide.

  “Was it really Vince?”r />
  Steve put his head in the door. “What’s going on in here, may I ask? Vince said to be quiet. This is a ritzy neighborhood, somebody’s going to report us. Wait and see.”

  “You drowned him,” Betty said flatly, staring up at Shayne. “You drowned him like a kitten.”

  “Yeah.” Shayne tossed her the towel. “Dry yourself off. You look like a drowned cat yourself.”

  She shook the towel off and came to her feet, her eyes blazing. “He had on his scuba suit. It was only a joke! He’s always doing things like that.” She whirled toward Lee. “Isn’t he? You know how he’s always popping out of the water to scare people.”

  “He was just floating there,” she said doubtfully.

  “He was fine! He had his oxygen! Then this guy jumped on him and opened up his zipper and held his head under water.”

  “Now why would I do anything like that?” Shayne said reasonably.

  “For the good of society! I know the way your mind works. Just because he can’t cope, just because he gives himself a shot once in a while, you think he ought to be drowned like a damn kitten!”

  Ignoring her, Shayne sat on the edge of the bed and stripped off his wet socks. He dried his feet on a pillow case.

  “Do you think I’m going to let you get away with it?” Betty was standing over him, her fists clenched. Suddenly she began beating him on the top of his head with both fists. “Why couldn’t you give him a break? What did he ever do to you?”

  He caught her arms and moved her out of his way. She was sputtering incoherently. When she tried to kick him between the legs he turned her around and put her down emphatically on the bed.

  “Goddamn it, if you hadn’t jumped on me-” He waved in disgust. “Will you shut up?”

  He had one more thing to do before he left. Vince’s death would have to be reported, but first he wanted to pull in the bait bucket and get it out of sight.

  “I don’t understand what happened,” Steve said, puzzled. “What did you say about Vince?”

  The other couple, wearing a minimum of clothing, had floated in from the stern in search of entertainment. The man said, “Vince go for a swim?” He giggled.

  Lee had been on Shayne’s side while he was in the water, but now she seemed to be wavering.

  “I couldn’t tell, Steve, it was so dark down there. I saw him open Vince’s suit. He did hold him underwater.”

  “I thought you’d decided to be friendly,” Shayne remarked.

  “I can’t feel very friendly toward people who go around drowning-”

  Shayne swung out over the windowsill. Betty flung herself at him.

  “He’s going to swim ashore!”

  She caught him by the hair, jerking him inward, and Lee hit him with the empty Scotch bottle. She hadn’t completely made up her mind about him, and checked her swing at the last instant. He fell in across the sill and slid back into the cabin. Betty was all over him, scratching, kicking, pummeling the back of his head. Shayne felt a blaze of anger. Coming to his feet, he gripped her by the wet hair and swung her around.

  “Will everybody listen to me?” he said savagely. “Let’s hope it penetrates. There was a stickup on Normandy Isle at about seven-thirty tonight. Vince threw this party so a watchman could testify that he was on board at seven-thirty, and five other people could testify that he was in bed with Betty and a bagful of junk. Betty saw him-hold still, damn you-Betty saw him mainline the stuff with her own two eyes, and she was so disappointed in him that she packed away a fifth of good Scotch. But this one time Vince didn’t use heroin. There are his clothes.” He pointed the struggling girl at the open closet. “He swam across to Normandy Isle and two old friends from St. Louis picked him up in a stolen car. He pulled the job and swam back. Don’t ask me why he couldn’t haul himself up the ladder. If Betty had kept out of it, we’d probably know.”

  “Vince didn’t ever stick up anybody,” Steve said scornfully. “It’s not the kind of thing he goes in for.”

  “There’s a first time for everything. Now there’s something down in the water I want to get. Relax for a minute.”

  He pushed Betty toward the bed. The instant he let go of her she whirled and attacked him again.

  “Who are you, anyway? I never saw you before in my life. You’re no friend of his.”

  Lee put in, “He said he’s a detective.”

  The word was like kerosene on a dying fire. Steve howled, “You bastards, when are you going to start minding your own business? What harm did Vince do you? But you’ve got to make your arrest quota, don’t you? He’s never been pulled in before. Naturally he didn’t want you to take him in for possession! Naturally he jumped out the window! I thought there was something screwy about it when you jimmied the door.”

  The third girl, reacting slowly, finally understood what they were saying about Shayne. “He drowned Vince?”

  Steve turned toward her and explained, “Maybe Vince was too smoked-up to turn on his oxygen.”

  Outraged, the girl burst past Steve and hit Shayne like a projectile. She had passed in an instant from relaxation to a state of uncontrollable fury. The other man came into the cabin, his fists raised in boxing position, and danced around behind the three girls. Shayne was borne backward and hit the wall. The empty Scotch bottle was jolted out of Lee’s hand, smashing the mirror.

  Losing patience, Shayne picked up Betty and knocked the blonde girl down with her. Then he threw her at Lee. The boy aimed an elegant jab at Shayne’s head, or where he imagined Shayne’s head ought to be. The big redhead came in with a right, putting all his feelings about this situation behind it. The boy went over the bed, hit the wall, slid to the floor, and stopped moving.

  Shayne gave Lee a warning look as she tried to get up. Everyone was accounted for but Steve. As Shayne went through the doorway looking for him, Steve jumped out and dumped the tangle of movie film over his head and shoulders.

  The film writhed and coiled like live snakes. Steve pulled back his right fist and hit Shayne in the jaw, going off balance just as it landed. As a result it didn’t explode. Shayne raked at the film, trying to free at least one arm, and Steve tried again with a roundhouse left. Shayne saw it coming and ducked away, putting the back of his head directly into the downward path of the other Scotch bottle. It connected solidly, dropping him to the floor, still in the grip of the dirty movie.

  He had to take a short count until the noises in his head subsided. He heard a chair go over. Somebody whipped a pillow case over his head like a hood.

  “You’re going to get a lesson,” Betty’s voice panted. “Steve, get a rope! Get a rope! He can’t drown somebody and get a medal for it. Throw him in himself. See how he likes it.”

  Her fingers stopped moving, and suddenly there was complete silence in the room except for hurried breathing. Shayne heard a siren. It was coming fast.

  Steve’s voice said, “I knew we were making too much racket. These fancy bastards around here can’t stand a little noise.”

  Somebody wrenched Shayne’s wrists behind his back and started binding them together with a torn strip of cloth. The siren died at the end of the lane.

  “I don’t know about you people,” Steve said, “but I’m getting out of here.”

  “No!” Lee’s voice said excitedly. “Everybody get a bottle. It’s a private party, what right have they got? They think they can do anything they damn please.”

  There were scurrying sounds around the room. Shayne lay still, but kept a space between his wrists as they were lashed together. Heavy footsteps ran along the dock. He flexed his wrists until he could revolve his hands. Finding the knot, he began to pick it apart with his thumb and forefinger.

  The cops, confronted with a silent but lighted boat, halted and conferred on the dock. They proceeded up the gangway with more caution.

  “Hello?” a voice called. “Anybody aboard?”

  “OK, Maguire,” a second voice said. “See if they’ve passed out or what.”

  Sh
ayne worked his hands free. There was a nervous laugh from somebody, immediately stifled. The cops stepped off the gangway, and Shayne heard them moving along the deck toward the lighted doorway. He still hoped that under cover of the confusion he could get down the ladder and cut loose the money-filled bait bucket. If necessary he could swim under the dock with it and wait till the boat was cleared. Once the money fell into Peter Painter’s hands, Harry Bass would have a hard time proving ownership. In the end it would probably escheat to the city.

  “Hello?” the cop called again.

  Shayne recognized Maguire’s voice. He was a tough, bullheaded veteran who was famous for extracting confessions from Negroes, and he had been commended frequently for shooting teen-age holdup men. It sometimes seemed to Shayne that Maguire only considered the season open on bandits under the age of twenty-one. An encounter with Betty and her friends, Shayne thought, would do him no lasting harm.

  Maguire’s foot scraped in the doorway, and suddenly the storm broke. Shayne sat up quickly, ripped off the pillow case and began trying to divest himself of the film. The room was noisy with screams and curses. Maguire staggered to one knee. For an instant he and Shayne regarded each other on the same level. Maguire’s hat had been knocked off and his head was bleeding.

  “Shayne?” he said wonderingly, and took out his gun.

  Steve slapped at his wrist with a broken chair. The other cop, a plainclothes detective, was being belabored with empty bottles. His arms were raised to protect his head. The blonde girl stole around behind him and dropped him with a vodka bottle.

  A man with a flashbulb camera darted in, made a picture and dived beneath the table.

  Shayne stood up and started for the cabin where everything had started. He was trailing loops of film. Betty was knocked violently backward past him. A long welt had sprung up across her face. Rebounding from the wall, she threw herself at Maguire and buried her teeth in his fleshy neck. He screamed like an animal and tore her loose.