“We don’t happen to be visitors,” Shayne told the sailor pleasantly. “We represent the Great Mutual Marine Underwriters.”
He brought out his billfold and extracted a freshly printed card which he passed over.
“Just a routine inspection,” he explained, “to see that everything’s shipshape according to the marine law.”
The sailor fingered the card, read it with puckered brow.
“I guess it’s all right, Mr. Haines. I’ll call a steward to show you around.”
“Nothing doing on that stuff,” Shayne said curtly. “We’ll make our own investigation without being led around to see what you want us to see. I’ve had that dodge worked on me before.”
The sailor shrugged and spat over the side onto the dock.
“Go ahead and try to find something wrong,” he challenged.
“That’s just what we’re going to do.” Shayne turned to Rourke. “Suppose you take the engine room, Tim. Give the boilers a quick once-over and meet me back on deck. I’ll take the cabins and saloon first, checking fire equipment and life preservers.”
Rourke nodded and went to the aft companionway leading below into the engine room.
Shayne moved slowly across the deck toward the fore-cabins and wheelhouse, frowning through his glasses at fire buckets and extinguishers, turning into a passageway between cabins and into the main dining saloon, nodding curtly to whitecoated stewards who were dusting and polishing.
Explaining his supposed business aboard the craft, Shayne ordered them to unlock all the cabin doors, and he made a quick tour of inspection through them, then rejoined Rourke on the open deck a short time later.
“Engine room seems to be okay,” Rourke reported for the benefit of a group of three sailors, an engineer officer and the third mate, who stood at the top of the gangplank watching them with veiled curiosity.
Shayne nodded. “We’ll have a look at the lifeboats.”
They turned from the nattily uniformed group, strolled back to the fantail on the side away from the dock where one of the yacht’s four gleaming white lifeboats was snugly lashed down with a canvas cover close to the side where a section of bulwark and rail had been left out to provide an opening for easy shipping of the boat.
Making a pretense of inspecting the davits and falls, with his back toward the deck, Shayne muttered:
“This is the spot, Tim. Are they watching?”
Rourke glanced back casually and said, “Nope. They seem to be pretty well satisfied we’re not going to find anything wrong.”
“Ease your camera out and get set,” Shayne told him. He walked to the rail and looked down at the placid waters of the bay lapping against the water line not far below, then eased his body forward into the triangular space between the bow of the life boat and the side. Hidden from observation, he pulled Marsha’s jacket and hat from his pocket, unrolled the jacket and let it drop to the deck, then stooped and spread out the forged message on top of it, weighted one end of it down with the toque so sunlight lay brightly upon the penciled words.
Stepping back out of the way, he nodded to Rourke who was squatting down to focus a small candid camera on the little pile of clothing and the farewell message.
“That’s goddamned near perfect,” he exulted. “You can get the name of the lifeboat in it, too. Make it snappy, before someone comes.”
He moved over in front of Rourke to shield him from any vagrant glances, and the reporter quickly shot half a dozen pictures with the powerful little camera.
Then they strolled on to glance at the other lifeboats, and were met at the bow by a burly, grizzled old sea dog wearing master’s stripes.
“I understand you men represent our insurance agents,” he rumbled. “If you’d sent for me at once—”
“Quite all right, Captain,” Shayne interrupted. “Let me congratulate you on as shipshape a craft as it’s ever been my pleasure to inspect. The ‘Sea Queen’ gets an A-one rating in our report.”
The captain looked visibly relieved. “That’s splendid. If you’d care for a drink—”
“Sorry. We’ve a couple more inspections to make and some of the others may not be as easy as this one. Thanks just the same, Captain.”
Shayne shook hands with the captain, then he and Rourke went briskly to the gangplank and back to the dock.
“Suppose they don’t find that stuff,” Rourke muttered nervously as Shayne went with him toward his parked coupe. “It might stay there for days without being seen.”
“I’ll take care of that,” Shayne promised. “The suicide evidence will be discovered not later than two o’clock. Get the hell back to your office and get those pictures developed, and make over your front page. And print that extra if you want a real scoop. Have the extras loaded in trucks and waiting at strategic points all over the city for a flash to distribute. And you meet me in Painter’s office at three for that flash. Get going.”
He gave Timothy a good-natured shove into his coupe, stood there with his hands in his pockets and watched the reporter start back toward Miami at high speed.
Alone, Shayne moved down the shore line to a spot where he could see the aft lifeboat in its davits on the Sea Queen’s deck.
He settled on the grass with his back against the shaggy bole of a coco palm and took up his vigil. He lit one cigarette from another, never for long taking his gaze from the prow of the lifeboat where he had deposited the evidence of Marsha’s suicide.
He stayed there an hour without moving, and nothing out of the ordinary happened on board the yacht.
Shayne yawned and got up to stretch wearily, then walked swiftly to a near-by beer and sandwich parlor where he went into the telephone booth and called the Miami Beach police office.
To the first voice that answered, he said in a low, whining tone, “Is this here a policeman?”
“Yeh. What is it?”
“I’m a fisherman, see? I don’ want to git mixed up in no trouble and I been tryin’ all day to git up enough nerve to tell some cop about what I saw happen las’ night.”
“Well, what is it? You won’t get in any trouble if you tell the truth.”
“I saw what looked like a woman get throwed in the bay las’ night, mister. Early this mornin’. Off that there ‘Sea Queen’ yacht tied up at the dock. She yelled once and then splashed.”
“Wait a minute!” yelled the excited desk sergeant at the other end. “Who’s calling? Where are you?”
“Never mind. I’m tellin’ the truth so he’p me.”
Shayne hung up, held the receiver down a moment, then called Marco’s Casino. Using the same tone, he whined, “Lemme speak to Mr. Marco, please. I got somethin’ important and private to tell ’im.”
When Marco’s heavy voice growled, “What is it?” Shayne replied swiftly, “This is a friend that saw a man push your girl off Elliot Thomas’s yacht into the bay last night. The police are on the way to the boat now.”
He calmly hung up on Marco’s bellowed exclamations, sauntered across to the counter and ordered a glass of beer.
Sitting on a stool with the glass in his hand, he looked over at the pier and at the Sea Queen riding idly against the pull of her hawsers.
His beer wasn’t half finished before two police cars screamed up to the pier and a squad of detectives tumbled out, led by the dapper figure of Peter Painter.
Shayne took a deep sip of his beer and watched them mount the gangplank, push the guard out of the way and spread out over the boat, questioning the crew and officers who turned out to see what the alarm was all about.
A few moments later John Marco’s limousine rolled up beside the police cars, and the Miami Beach councilman got out and hurried up the gangplank.
Shayne finished off his beer and flipped a dime to the counter, strolled out unconcernedly, taking off his hornrimmed glasses as he stepped into the sunlight.
Unobserved, he went to his parked roadster and got in, drove away slowly toward the Miami Beach police station whe
re he parked half a block away and contentedly waited for developments to develop.
Chapter Nineteen: MAKING THE NEWS COME TRUE
SHAYNE DIDN’T have very long to wait before one of the police cars came back bringing Painter and about half of the detectives who had gone to the yacht.
John Marco was close behind them in his limousine. Shayne pleasurably observed the strained look of horror on the big gambler’s face as he got out of his car and tramped heavily into the police station behind Painter.
Shayne relaxed in the seat of his roadster, bright-eyed and watchful.
Ten minutes later a radio car rolled up in front of the police station and disgorged a burly cop in uniform and a passenger.
It was Elliot Thomas.
The millionaire yachtsman appeared to be more angered than frightened. He was remonstrating hotly with the officer—or it looked so from Shayne’s position. The policeman led him up the steps and they disappeared inside a door.
Shayne lit a cigarette and dragged smoke out of it happily. He felt tense, keyed up to a high, feverish pitch. Anything could happen in the next half-hour. He didn’t know what, but he liked that feeling of sitting atop a powder keg. Moments like this were what made life worth while. One slip would mean utter disaster. One tiny break in the rhythm of events—one fatal flaw in his line of reasoning—
He delayed as long as he dared, savoring to the utmost the thrill of being poised above a precipice before taking the final leap from which there could be no turning back.
He took a final drag on his cigarette and flung the butt away. Smoke trailed lazily from his wide nostrils as he eased his long body out from under the wheel and sauntered to the entrance.
It was two-twenty when he entered the corridor. The afternoon edition of the Miami News would be on the streets in ten minutes.
A group of detectives were loitering in the hall outside the closed door of Painter’s office. They glared at Shayne as he strolled up, and two of them got between him and the door.
“You can’t go in there,” one of them announced belligerently. “Chief’s got an important conference on.”
Shayne kept moving directly toward the door. His eyes were impersonally cold, steely gray. His voice matched his eyes, “I’m going in.”
Reluctantly, they got out of his way. There was something about Shayne that moved them aside.
He turned the knob without knocking and went in.
Painter, Elliot Thomas, and John Marco were alone in the office. Marco was slumped into a chair mopping his bald head. His big features and tiny mouth were lax, as though the fibers of his flesh had disintegrated under the unnerving shock of learning that his daughter was a suicide victim.
Thomas was leaning over the desk facing Painter, his ruddy face angrily flushed. His fist thudded down and words spurted out into the detective chief’s face.
“—damnable outrage. I have no knowledge of this affair. Absolutely none.”
He gestured with a shaking hand toward Marsha Marco’s jacket, felt hat, and the suicide note lying in front of Painter.
“I have no idea how those got on my yacht. Not the faintest. I haven’t seen Miss Marco for days. She’s never been aboard the ‘Sea Queen’ to my knowledge.”
Marco glanced apathetically at Shayne. Painter darted one keen glance at him with no sign of recognition. To Thomas, he said silkily, “You entertained some woman on your yacht last night. The steward and two of the sailors saw you bring her aboard. If it wasn’t Miss Marco, who was it?”
Thomas was breathing heavily, audibly. He straightened and answered, “It certainly was not Miss Marco. It was another woman entirely. And she left early. Why, it’s absurd.”
“None of the crew saw her leave,” Painter told him. “You can prove your story by giving me her name. I’ll have her brought in for questioning.”
Thomas started to say something, then stopped. He swallowed hard and began in an uncertain voice, “That’s the devil of it. I don’t know her name. That is—Helen—” He paused, licking his lips.
He turned slightly and saw Shayne lounging against the door. His eyes brightened and relief spread over his face.
“Mr. Shayne. Thank God you’re here. Tell them I—that the woman who was aboard my yacht last night wasn’t Miss Marco. Mr. Shayne knows her,” he went on triumphantly to Painter. “He can tell you her name. You see, I happened to meet her in his apartment last night and we left together.”
Shayne’s eyes narrowed.
He said, “Don’t try to drag me into this to save your own hide, Thomas. I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
Thomas swung about in utter amazement.
“You don’t? Why, last night in your apartment—”
Shayne shook his head, regarding him bleakly. “I didn’t see you last night. Don’t expect me to lie for you. Painter’s just waiting to hang a murder charge on me.”
The yachtsman’s eyes bulged and his lower jaw dropped slackly. Then anger blazed in his eyes and his mouth snapped shut.
Regaining control of himself, Thomas yelled, “You’re lying. Trying to save yourself. You can’t get away with it, Shayne. You’re going to tell the truth or I’ll—”
He took a forward step, fists knotted.
Shayne swayed forward lazily with an easy flow of rippling muscles. His right fist moved in a terrific uppercut that smashed against Thomas’s jaw and sent him reeling back.
“Don’t ever call me a liar,” he growled, then turned on Painter, who was standing up, white-faced and trembling.
Staring down into the smaller man’s eyes, Shayne asked, “Could you see me privately for a moment?”
Painter read the imperative message in his eyes aright. After a momentary hesitation, he nodded and went through a door into an inner office. Thomas sank down into a chair holding a handkerchief to his jaw, his face twitching with sudden hatred and with fear as Shayne went out.
Closing the connecting door behind them, Shayne said swiftly, “Get smart, Painter. You won’t lose anything by taking good advice from a fellow who’s given you good advice before. Rush a man out to the yacht to search Thomas’s stateroom. If I were doing the searching, I’d pay particular attention to the center drawer of an unlocked writing desk.”
Painter studied him a long time with suspicion actively alive in his black eyes.
“You’re pulling another fast one,” he charged. “I ought to—”
“You’d better do as I say,” Shayne interrupted.
Painter hesitated. “About that pistol of yours—”
Shayne put his hand on the smaller man’s shoulder and gave him a good-natured push toward the door.
“I’m right here where you want me. Start a man out to the yacht.”
Shayne went back through the connecting door. Painter went into the hallway and spoke to one of the detectives waiting outside.
Marco was leaning over Thomas when Shayne stepped back into the office without warning. The millionaire was looking up at the gambler with revulsion showing on his face, one hand up as though to ward off what Marco was saying.
The gambler turned away hurriedly when Shayne entered.
Shayne grinned and said, “You’re a hell of a father to be consorting with the man who murdered your daughter.”
“I don’t believe it for a minute,” Marco snarled.
“Don’t believe it—don’t believe she’s dead? You don’t believe Thomas knew she was there?”
Shayne asked the questions in a pleasant voice. He sat on the edge of Painter’s desk and swung one foot. Painter came in and dropped into a chair behind him.
“I don’t believe either one,” Marco rasped. “This is some kind of a plant. With you mixed up in it, I don’t believe anything.”
“Not even your daughter’s farewell note?” Shayne gestured behind him to the articles on the desk. “And those are her clothes, aren’t they?”
“I don’t know whether they are or not. Might be any dame’s clo
thes that were planted there.”
“It can be proved easily enough.”
Shayne paused to light a cigarette. Staring through the flame, he added casually:
“You seem mighty damned unconcerned about your girl, Marco. Maybe you know she isn’t dead. Maybe you—”
“You know damn well I don’t know where she is,” Marco bellowed. “Do you think I’d have offered to pay you money to find her if I knew?”
Shayne shrugged.
“How can you laugh off this note? It’s her writing, isn’t it?”
“I haven’t examined it closely,” Marco mumbled.
“Look at it again,” Shayne urged. “Study it closely.” He reached behind him for the note and passed it over to Marco who took it with some reluctance.
“If it’s a genuine note, that proves it was suicide,” Elliot Thomas broke out excitedly. “Perhaps she did slip aboard my yacht and plunge over the side. She didn’t like me. In a deranged state, she might have thought to cause me publicity and trouble. But I can’t be blamed if a crazy girl chooses my yacht for a jumping-off place.”
“I don’t think you’ve convinced anyone you didn’t bring her aboard last night and get her so soused up on champagne she maybe didn’t know what she was doing,” Shayne said drily. “You’ve told nothing but lies about the mysterious girl the sailors saw.”
“Lies? Why, you—you—
Thomas started to his feet, but Shayne’s lips pulled away from his teeth and he started to swing off the desk.
Thomas subsided with a frustrated mutter of fury, and John Marco spoke up from where he sat studying the suicide note, “This looks like Marsha’s writing, all right. But I can’t believe—she wouldn’t do a thing like that. Not Marsha.”
“She was in love with Harry Grange, wasn’t she?” Shayne asked sharply. “Maybe after he died she decided life wasn’t worth while.”
“The report we received didn’t sound like suicide,”
Painter said importantly. “The fisherman who telephoned in said explicitly that she was thrown off the yacht. He testified that she screamed before she was thrown overboard.”
The Private Practice of Michael Shayne Page 15