Dolls Are Deadly

by Brett Halliday

  “I’ve told you I don’t know. It certainly wasn’t anyone around here. We all loved him. He had a little-boy quality.”

  “Maybe that’s why someone sent him two voodoo dolls to play with.”

  “Voodoo dolls?” D. L. looked honestly bemused, “I didn’t know about that.”

  “Your organization’s slipping. Why did you think he came to me?”

  “To get protection from Dan Milford, of course.”

  Shayne laughed shortly. “What about his beautiful muscles? Couldn’t he protect himself?”

  “Henny didn’t have confidence,” D. L. said regretfully. “If he was on the aggressive end he was all right, but let someone give him a nasty look or threaten him and he went to pieces. That was part of his little boyishness. He was a good man otherwise, but I had to let him carry a gun once in a while to bolster his morale. When Milford took his gun away, it did something to him. Milford was a lot bigger, of course. It was nothing to be ashamed of.”

  “Speaking of Milford, how much does he owe you?”

  “Without checking my books, I’d say over forty-six hundred.”

  “He thinks it’s around four thousand.”

  “He’s forgotten some of the interest,” D. L. said in a velvet voice. “They always do. Most people are very poor at figures.”

  “Just very poor, I’d say—after they pay your interest. I don’t think you’ll get anything from Milford. He’s stony.”

  “His deadline’s midnight tonight.” D. L. shrugged elaborately. “People always keep their commitments to me.”

  “Or else?”

  The black eyes in their fleshpots hardened fleetingly, but the voice stayed as unctuously soft as ever. “I’m not a movie villain, Mr. Shayne. I’m a respectable man in a legitimate and socially useful business. The ancient practice of money lending.” Once more he gave that brilliant, gold-toothed smile. “And now, will you join me in a drink?”

  “A short brandy.”

  D. L. rose—he was barely five feet tall—and opened a paneled door which hid an ornate bar.

  “Do you know Sylvester Santos?” Shayne asked casually. “He runs a charter boat on the Beach.”

  “No, afraid not. I never fish. I don’t believe in killing for sport.” D. L. poured three fingers of cognac into a small glass for each of them.

  “Only for business?” Shayne took the glass D. L. extended.

  De Luca’s eyes glinted dangerously, but his voice held only soft reproach. “Mr. Shayne, you misjudge me.”

  “Sorry. Then I don’t suppose you know the three men who have been chartering Sylvester’s boat.” Shayne sniffed the brandy. It was old and mellow.

  “Are they worth knowing?”

  “They killed Sylvester.”

  The black eyes widened, the thick lips pursed in disapproval and, for the first time, the velvet voice was harsh. “Murderers! They should be apprehended and jailed.”

  Shayne’s voice was hard, his eyes bleak. “They will be.”

  D. L. regarded him thoughtfully. “This murder means something to you personally?”

  “Sylvester was my friend.”

  D. L. nodded gravely. “Let me ask you a question. He was not, as they crassly say, implicated in the rackets?”

  “He was not.”

  “Then why would they kill a charter-boat captain?”

  “When I find that out for sure, I’ll have the rest of it. Let’s get back to Dan Milford. Henny tried to hire me for the same reason Dan Milford’s wife did. She received a voodoo doll like Henny’s. And I’ve been told that you, through Henny, threatened her with violence if her husband didn’t pay up.”

  “That isn’t true,” D. L. said curtly. With a quick change of expression he smiled across at Shayne, showing a flash of gold teeth. He raised his glass. “To your success,” he said and drained the cognac.

  “My success might mean your failure.” Shayne emptied his glass and set it on a corner of D. L.’s desk.

  “Really, Mr. Shayne, I don’t understand your attitude,” D. L. said petulantly. “I’ve demonstrated to you that I am conducting a necessary service. When people are desperate for money, deserted by friends, coldly ignored by banks, I help them. My interest rates may be a trifle higher than the law allows, but everyone evades the law in some minor way.”

  “If you’re so socially acceptable, why keep this stable of men with beautiful muscles?”

  “They protect me. The best way to make an enemy is to do a favor for a friend, you know. People who can’t meet their obligations get vicious sometimes. And as I’ve told you, I have no muscles myself.”

  Shayne rose and stood looking down at the squat gangster. “The ancient practice of money lending has prospered lately?”

  D. L. nodded agreeably. “Business has prospered gratifyingly the last few months.”

  “You’ve had more time to devote to the loan business then,” Shayne asked with deceptive quietness, “since the Feds came in and dried up Miami as an entry port for smuggled dope?”

  De Luca’s eyes glowed with something close to menace. “If you read the newspapers, Mr. Shayne, you are aware that investigation failed to connect my offices in any way with dope running.”

  “I’m aware that you beat the rap,” Shayne said brusquely and moved across the oriental rug to the door. “A final question. Where did Dan Milford expect to get the money by twelve o’clock tonight?”

  D. L. got up and clumped after him. “It is not my practice to pry into the personal affairs of my clients. I do not ask how or where they get money—only that they do get it.”

  “And by the hour agreed upon?”

  “By the hour agreed upon, yes.”

  “Before I go, De Luca,” Shayne’s voice was hard, “I want to say that if any violence comes to either Dan Milford or his wife you’ll answer personally for it.”

  D. L. raised his eyebrows. “You’re threatening me, Mr. Shayne.”

  “I’m threatening you! By the way, instruct your tail not to make himself so obvious. I might be tempted to work him over with a thoroughness even you will admire.”

  Surprisingly, D. L. grinned. “Now that we’ve had our clarifying talk, I may pull him off entirely. Incidentally, he reports you have another tail.”

  Shayne said dryly, “They’re practically scraping fenders.”

  “The police, I presume?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine.” Shayne opened the door. Max had revived enough to be standing guard again, but he showed the signs of Shayne’s rough handling.

  Still in the velvet voice, but with a knife edge beneath it, D. L. said, “You’d better step around to McGloflin’s Gym, Max. Build yourself up. Mr. Shayne says you’re getting flabby.”

  Shayne grinned, walked past the glowering guard and out to his car. Once in it he lit a cigarette and staring bleakly ahead, wondering if the visit had paid off. Shayne lifted one big hand and gently massaged his left earlobe between thumb and forefinger. Then abruptly he came to life and tromped on the starter.

  Only one tail, the gray Buick, moved out behind him as he swung away from the curb. De Luca had lost no time in getting word to his man to give up the chase.

  The lone tail stayed discreetly far behind, almost as if he missed his companion.

  Shayne stopped in front of a drugstore, strode in and dialed his office number, making the call he had been dreading to make all morning.

  Lucy said, “Michael Shayne’s office,” and he could tell from her voice what the answer was, but he had to ask anyway.

  “I’ve been expecting a call from Beach police headquarters,” he said quietly. “Did Peter Painter call—about Sylvester?”

  12

  “Yes, Michael,” Lucy said softly.

  Shayne drove the next question hard. “Was it the way I thought?”

  “Yes, They grappled where you told them to, at the end of the wharf by the boat. The body was—Sylvester’s body was knifed and weighted down by the Santa Clara’s anchor, as yo
u guessed.”

  “Did Painter report on the three suspects I described to him?”

  “Yes. They’ve all been questioned.”

  “Did he hold them?”

  “No.”

  “Why didn’t he?”

  “‘No proof,’ he said. ‘No motive.’”

  “What does he want? Has he got to see it happen?”

  “Wait, darling,” Lucy said gently, “there’s more.”

  “Let’s have it.”

  “It’s interesting, and disturbing. When Painter checked on the three men he discovered they had all been under observation by his office. They’re criminals of record, and they’ve all served time, but they checked in at the police station like good boys when they arrived, the way the rules say. They’re here on a vacation, that’s all—”

  “According to Painter!” Shayne put in angrily.

  “I know. But this is what I thought so curious. They arrived in Miami at about the same time and from different parts of the U. S. Yet they’ve been inseparable since.”

  “What criminal records do they have?”

  “They’re all ‘syndicate’ men, but there’s nothing to show that they ever worked with each other before, or even knew each other.”

  “What are they working at here?”

  “Apparently nothing. Painter had them watched for a few days, thinking they had a job lined up. But they just go fishing, that’s all. Painter thinks they’re setting up a time-and-place alibi here for something that’s happened or is going to happen somewhere else.”

  “Sylvester wasn’t somewhere else,” Shayne said bleakly. “Neither was Henny Henlein. And Clarissa and Dan Milford aren’t either.”

  “You think it’s all connected?”

  “I’m not sure. It seems to be.”

  “He was such a good little man,” Lucy said, as if Shayne had spoken only of Sylvester. Indignation at the violence that had been done to his friend had never been buried far beneath Shayne’s words.

  “I’ve got to go now, angel. I’ll keep in touch.”

  The redhead hung up, fished for another coin and dialed Peter Painter.

  “I’ve just talked to Lucy,” he said when the Detective Chief answered. “She told me what you reported about Sylvester and our three prime suspects.”

  “What else do you want to know?”

  “Have any of the three contacted De Luca since they’ve been here, or hobnobbed with any of his hoods?”

  “No, not to our knowledge—and I think we’d know. They’ve kept their noses clean in this town. Fishing, just fishing.”

  “Has your office dossiers on them? What about their back-home specialties?”

  “Just a minute. I’ve got it here.” Shayne heard the rustle of papers. “The one signed on the hotel register as Collins from Philadelphia—he’s from Philly all right—is known there as Tony ‘Slim’ Rizzo. Stolen-car racket. Served three stretches when he was younger, but now has connections. Used to be good at working on engines. He’d do the work himself, remodel and resell—”

  “That’s enough. What about Vince Becker?”

  “In Arizona he’s Joe Arminetti. He’s got a boatyard on Cougar Butte Lake. A front for a race-wire room. Also in slot machines and numbers.”

  “Can he handle a boat?”

  “That’s his sport. Yes.”

  “Ed Woodbine?”

  “Slug Murphy in Detroit. Ed ‘Slug’ Murphy, labor slugger and union organizer. You know what kind of unions.”

  “Any of them ever known to do any fishing before?”

  “Not as far’s I know.”

  “What about Ed’s wife?”

  “She is. He’s married to her, that is. Edna Appinger, an old-time con woman.”

  “Lucy says you didn’t hold any of them.”

  “What am I going to hold them on? There’s no police pick-up on them from anywhere. And, like I say, they’ve kept their noses clean here.”

  “Except for that little item of murder.”

  “The fact that they had been chartering Sylvester’s boat”—Painter’s voice rose—“was enough to bring them in for questioning. It certainly isn’t enough to book them for murder. We’ve gone over their persons, their cabanas and the boat. They’re all clean.”

  “The wharf wasn’t clean,” Shayne said grimly, “where Slim Collins gutted the fish.”

  “He explained about that. The blood was on the wharf when he came down to get the fish. He didn’t want to make any more mess than necessary, so he cleaned his fish where the other blood was—fish blood, he assumed.”

  “And you bought that?” Shayne asked icily.

  “In the absence of motive or any other incriminating evidence, yes,” Painter flared. “We bought it.”

  “How much blood do you think a fish makes?”

  “I didn’t see it.”

  “I did.”

  “Then round up some other evidence to go with it, and maybe you can make something out of it.”

  “I’ve been under the vague impression that was police work.”

  “We’ve made our investigation. We’re satisfied.”

  “Did any of your men,” Shayne asked acidly, “notice that a new engine had been put in Sylvester’s boat? And, if they did, did they ask themselves why? Or where a poor Cuban got the money? Or if he didn’t get the engine himself, who got it for him? And dirtied it up to look like an old one?”

  “Look, Shayne, if you knew all these things why didn’t you tell me this morning?”

  “I had trouble getting you to listen to what I did tell you. Your three hoodlum vacationers put that engine in Sylvester’s boat. Sylvester thought it was because they liked him.”

  “Maybe it was. You’ve been shamusing for so long you’ve forgotten that the milk of human kindness does run in the veins of some people.” Painter laughed dryly.

  “Is that why you have a tail on me? To protect me—out of kindness?”

  “I haven’t, you egotist. You asked me that before. What do I care where you go? Just keep out of the way of police department investigations.”

  “I’ll do better than that. You can sit back in your swivel chair and wait while I do your job for you.”

  Shayne hung up, his gaunt face bleak and deeply trenched.

  Three men, engaged in different and unconnected criminal operations, had come to Miami at the same time from three different parts of the country, had chummed up and pretended to go fishing and had murdered Sylvester. One of the men, conveniently, was an expert mechanic and he had put a new engine in Sylvester’s boat; another was adept at handling a boat. Shayne had seen him bring the Santa Clara to berth with nearly as sure a touch as Sylvester’s. The third, genial Ed Woodbine, seemed to have served no function as yet.

  Things seemed to funnel from diverse directions to one point—Madame Swoboda. Ed Woodbine had attended a séance; Clarissa Milford and Henlein had both received voodoo dolls.

  Shayne stepped on the starter abruptly and turned south toward the Miami River and the last decaying house on a moldering street.

  The gray Buick held a wary distance behind him, passing as he parked in front of Swoboda’s. It didn’t come back. Shayne stepped out of his car to the deserted street and strode toward the rotting yellow house.

  By daylight it looked even more precariously placed than it had the night before. The stilts which supported it on the river side were sagging and covered with slimy moss. One piling had split and, in a makeshift effort to keep the house still standing, someone had bound it with rope. The rope stretched and creaked as the water lapped at the piling.

  This was the only occupied house on the block. The others, in only slightly more disrepair, stood empty, condemned, their windows gaping and broken, eyeless, in a sort of mute envy of the flicker of life which still existed around them.

  The redhead strode back, took a .38 from the glove compartment of the car and dropped it into his side pocket, then again crossed the sinking flagstones with an anima
l litheness at variance with his bony height. Though the sign beside the heavy pine door still read Walk in, he pushed the button.

  Nothing happened. He flattened his thumb on the bell button and held it there. Finally the door was opened by Madame Swoboda. Her ebony hair lay smooth and shining in a long pageboy bob and her skin was ivory white against it. The gray, black-lashed eyes looked even more beautiful in the light of day than they had last night.

  When she recognized Shayne, her face stiffened. “What do you want?”

  She made a quick move to close the door but Shayne blocked it and stepped inside.

  “This is—illegal!” She was seething. “I’ll have you thrown out!”

  Shayne moved his eyes over her body. She was wearing a trim tweed skirt and a blouse which, though severely tailored, accented the sexy swell of her breasts, her narrow waist and the exciting curve of hips and thighs. Except for that intense femaleness, however, she looked like any girl on her way to the supermarket, or perhaps to a golf game. Her appearance today was so far removed from what it had been at the séance table that it was hard to believe she had been the “mystic channel” through which messages had flowed from the “other world.”

  Behind her, several pieces of expensive-looking luggage were stacked against the wall.

  “Going some place?”

  She bit her lush lips. “It’s no concern of yours!”

  “I’d hate to lose you just as we’ve become acquainted.” The redhead walked past her into the waiting room and sat down on one of the hard benches. His big hand patted the seat beside him invitingly.

  After a moment’s hesitation, she came over and sat down. “Now,” she said coldly, “why did you force your way in?”

  “It’s the brute in me. Do you admire brute strength, like D. L.?”

  “Is that cryptic remark supposed to mean something to me?”

  “You know D. L., of course.”

  “No, I don’t.” She widened her round gray eyes and accepted the cigarette he offered, keeping them fastened provocatively on his face and leaning closer than necessary while he lit it. “What do you really want with me?”

  “Besides the obvious, I’d like to know who set you up here and why.” He was aware of the warmth of her thigh.