Blood on Biscayne Bay ms-13

by Brett Halliday

  understand. Promise me you’ll go straight to the Play-Mor Club and pay Mr. Barbizon-as soon as you get the money-and get my IOU.”

  “All right,” he said. “If that’s the way you want it.” He finished his drink and stood up.

  Christine arose swiftly and went to him with her hands outstretched. She put them on his shoulders and said with passionate conviction, “I don’t know what I would have done without your help, Michael. I was just about ready to-to do something terrible when I read in the paper that you were in Miami.” Her fingers tightened on his shoulders and she pressed against him for an instant. Then, she turned with a stifled sob and ran from the room Shayne stood flat-footed with his long arms hanging loosely and looked after her as she fled, a frown on his gaunt face. He waited until the door closed and until he heard the elevator stop to take her down, then turned grimly to pick up the pearl necklace. He moved across the room, switched on a floor lamp and carefully examined the gleaming pearls under the bright light.

  His frown deepened into a scowl. They were an authentic heirloom. There was no doubt of that. In the inflated gem market they were worth a lot of money. Arnold Barbizon would be very happy to exchange a ten-grand IOU for the string.

  He went into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator and grinned wryly at a head of lettuce in the hydrator. Once before he had used a head of lettuce in that same hydrator as a hiding place for another string of pearls belonging to Phyllis Brighton. He had returned them to her after the case was closed and she was convinced she hadn’t murdered her own mother.

  He placed the pearls in the bottom of the hydrator, tore up the head of lettuce and covered them thoroughly and carelessly. Going back to the living-room, he got his hat and went downstairs to the lobby for an evening newspaper.

  Chapter Two: OLD FACES-NEW ANGLES

  Back in his apartment, Shayne found a story about the Belton murder case in New Orleans about which Lucy had wired him, on page two of the evening newspaper. He settled himself comfortably and read the press association account of the affair with deliberate care and with mounting interest.

  Mrs. Belton was described as the “lovely young wife” of Jason T. Belton, New Orleans industrialist and sportsman. Her body had been discovered in the back room of a dive in the French Quarter chastely described as “a lower class night club noted among the frequenters of the Quarter for the amorality of its habitues which included members of both the Negro and white races.” Mrs. Belton’s nude body lay on the bare wooden floor at the time of discovery. There were no outward marks of violence. A near-by table held a variety of “curious objects” supposed to be indispensable to the practice of voodoo.

  Mrs. Belton had left home earlier that evening in the company of a young business associate of her husband’s who was still missing at the time the story was written. No one knew why she had gone to that particular spot in the Quarter; and none of the customers or employees of the dive would admit knowledge of her presence there. Captain Denton of the French Quarter precinct had told reporters that a dragnet was out for every person present at the club that night, and intimated that many socially prominent people might be dragged in for questioning.

  Altogether, Shayne mused as he laid the paper aside, the Belton affair had many luscious angles. It was the sort of case a man could get his teeth into, and another chance to make a public fool out of Captain Denton.

  He took Lucy’s telegram from his pocket and reread it carefully. A thousand-dollar retainer wasn’t the least of the alluring angles.

  His time was running short in Miami. He sat for a moment looking at the chair where Christine Hudson had been sitting only a short time before, remembering the terror in her eyes and in her voice. By turning his head he could see the headlines of the Belton murder story in New Orleans. He got up and paced the floor briefly, a frown of indecision deepening the line between his eyes.

  Pacing into the kitchen, he went to the refrigerator and pulled out the hydrator, pushed the lettuce leaves aside and stood staring at the moist, gleaming string of pearls. His mouth tightened into a grim line, and he shoved the hydrator back, closed the refrigerator door, and stalked into the living-room.

  He poured a small drink, gulped it down, then moodily dragged out an empty Gladstone bag, put it on the table, and began carelessly packing the few clothes he had acquired on his vacation in the Magic City. His gaunt face held a look of abstraction, as though his thoughts were far away from the business at hand.

  He had almost finished his packing when he suddenly straightened, moved swiftly to the telephone and called the airport to check on the reservation Lucy Hamilton had made for him on the midnight plane to New Orleans. After being assured the reservation was in order, he asked, “When is your next plane leaving for New Orleans?”

  He was told that there was another flight at noon the next day, and he asked curtly if he could exchange the midnight reservation for space on the noon flight. After a slight delay, he was told that it might be arranged but that the airline could not guarantee the vacancy on the noon plane.

  “I’ll take a chance on it,” Shayne said, hung up, then lifted the receiver again and asked to be connected with Western Union. When the connection was made, he said, “I want to send a straight message to Miss Lucy Hamilton in New Orleans.” He gave his New Orleans address, and continued, “Departure delayed until noon tomorrow. Keep a tight hold on retainer. Stall Belton until I arrive. Sign that ‘Mike.’”

  Sweat was standing in the trenches in his face when he hung up. He mopped his face, poured another short drink, tossed it down and picked up his hat. He left his partially packed suitcase on the table and went out. He walked up to Flagler Street and found an empty taxi half a block from Biscayne Boulevard. He got in and said, “The Play-Mor Club on the Beach.”

  The Play-Mor Club was an imposing structure, formerly a private estate north of 79th Street on the ocean front, and the grounds consisted of 20 acres surrounded by a high wall of native rock and cement. A wide arched gateway led in from Ocean Drive, and a red and green neon sign invited passers-by to Come In and Play-Mor.

  Inside the high walls was a beautifully landscaped area with lush green lawns and tropical shrubbery softly lighted by colorful floodlights high among the fronds of palm trees. A driveway curved through the grounds, and rows of private cabanas lined the beach.

  A smartly uniformed doorman opened the door of Shayne’s cab when it pulled up at the canopied entrance. Shayne gave the driver a generous tip, then went up a low flight of stone steps and into a foyer where he checked his hat. Turning left, he went a few steps down a corridor and into a long, dimly lighted cocktail lounge.

  Shayne ordered cognac and was surprised to have a pony and a bottle of Hennessy slid in front of him. He was further surprised when the bartender poured cognac well above the one-shot mark on the glass. His gray eyes narrowed suspiciously when he received a cordial “Thank you, sir,” and sixty cents in change from the dollar bill he laid on the counter.

  His suspicion of Arnold Barbizon, manager of the club, grew as he sipped his forty-cent drink. Most clubs such as this would charge at least a dollar for a drink of domestic brandy. It was quite evident that the Play-Mor Club made no profit on the bar. The idea, he felt certain, was to get a sucker in an expansive mood and take him at the tables.

  His eyes widened speculatively as they came to rest on a man sitting alone at a table against the wall near the entrance. He was a small man wearing a baggy gray suit and a limp felt hat pulled well down on his forehead. His nose and chin were sharp and prominent, and as Shayne watched, he saw that the man scarcely wet his thin lips each time he lifted the tall glass from which he drank. His eyes were small and deep-set, and he never moved them from the bar entrance.

  Shayne’s face hardened a trifle. Presently he swung back to the bar, emptied his glass and shoved the pony toward the idle bartender. He laid a half dollar on the counter and watched appreciatively while another generous portion of cognac was poured i
nto his glass.

  With the glass in his hand, he circled between the tables until he reached the one occupied by the lone and watchful little man. He toed a chair out and sat down, saying heartily, “Working, Angus?”

  Angus Browne ducked his head and hunched his shoulders. He said, “It’s Mike Shayne,” as though he were surprised and not too pleased.

  “Don’t tell me you missed me when I came in,” said Shayne. “I haven’t seen you for years, Angus. Still partners with Brockson?”

  The man shook his head, turning slightly toward Shayne, but keeping his eyes on the entrance. “Brockson got blasted in a shakedown two years ago,” he said in a husky voice with a faint burr in it. “I’ve been on my own since then.”

  “Good pickings?”

  Browne shook his head and sighed. “Not so good these last few years. Damned war slowed things up.” He made a circular movement in the air with his right forefinger. “Some cheap divorce stuff and not much else.” He hesitated, then added, “If you’re back in town things must be looking up.”

  “Not for me. I’m leaving for New Orleans tomorrow.”

  Browne’s thin face showed a hint of relief. He muttered, “You always had a way of stirring things up.” He wet his lips with the whisky and soda.

  Shayne said, “You need a fresh drink. That one looks hot and stale.” He turned to beckon a waiter.

  He saw Angus Browne stiffen slightly and turn his head aside from the door as a couple entered. Shayne waggled a finger at a waiter and looked at the couple.

  The man was short and fairly heavy without being fat. He was thirtyish, swarthy, with thick, pouting lips loosely parted over three large protruding teeth. Coarse black hair grew low on his forehead and his eyes were too close to a blunt nose. He carried himself with an air of conscious arrogance, as though he knew he was repulsive-looking and dared anyone to mention it. He wore pearl-gray striped trousers and a short white jacket over a white silk shirt with white bow tie. His pearl-gray and white sports shoes were an exact match for the trousers, and spotlessly clean.

  A frizzled blonde, as tall as he, clung tightly to the man’s arm as though she feared someone might jerk him away from her. Her dinner gown was obviously expensive, and just as obviously had not been originally designed for her. She advanced with her companion with a set smile on her broad face and gave the impression that she would burst out giggling at any inanity that offered the slightest excuse for a giggle.

  Shayne’s eyes followed them to a table across the room where the man pulled out a chair and sat down, leaving the girl standing. After a moment’s confused hesitation, she drew out a chair for herself and sat down opposite him, propped both her elbows on the table and giggled happily at something he said.

  The waiter was standing beside Shayne. “A Scotch and soda,” Shayne said, and the man slid away.

  Browne was staring moodily at his glass. Shayne took a sip of cognac and asked, “Did you pipe the couple that just came in?”

  “Which ones?” Browne growled. “I didn’t notice anybody particular.”

  “They’re sitting at that table over there.” Shayne pointed a knobby forefinger in their direction, blandly ignoring Browne’s sullen and obvious lie. “He looks like a guy who would enjoy feeding babies to the crocodiles, and she looks as though she’d be willing to mother the raw material for him.”

  Browne glanced furtively in the direction of Shayne’s pointing finger and laughed mirthlessly. “Never saw either one of them before.”

  “I didn’t say you had,” Shayne said.

  The waiter brought a Scotch and soda and Shayne paid for it. Browne thanked him without enthusiasm, and Shayne finished his cognac. He got up and said, “Be seeing you around,” and wandered to the other end of the cocktail lounge and through an open door leading into the main dining-room.

  Here there were also soft lights and courteous service. Only a few of the tables were occupied; the others were set with white linen, gleaming silver, and sparkling crystal. Shayne was obsequiously seated at a small table near one corner of the spacious room and a menu was spread before him. An intriguing array of a la carte dishes with no printed prices stood out in bold, Old English type.

  Shayne ran an eager eye over the menu. There were no steaks listed. He turned to the waiter and asked,

  “No filets today?”

  “Oh, yes, sir. Rare, sir?”

  “Rare-and I mean rare. French fries and a green salad. Coffee with it.”

  The waiter bowed himself away. He returned presently with a filet mignon such as Shayne hadn’t seen for years. Red blood ran across his plate when he cut it through the center.

  “All right, sir?” asked the waiter.

  “Tender as a lovesick maiden’s heart,” Shayne said cheerfully, and stabbed a hot, crisp French fried potato. The salad was a highly paid chef’s dream, the coffee clear and strong.

  Shayne blinked in consternation at the bill when it was laid beside his plate. The sum was a dollar and a half. He put two one-dollar bills on top of it. He was beginning to feel exactly the way the management wanted him to feel, well-fed and grateful, and he certainly felt that a man could not do less for so genial a host than drop a few bucks in one of his games.

  He got up and strolled across the dining-room to a pair of closed doors discreetly lettered, Play Rooms. They opened onto what had formerly been a private ballroom, now transformed into a luxurious casino.

  Only two tables were getting any play when he entered. Half a dozen men were gathered around a crap layout in one corner, and a dozen or more men and women were at the roulette table.

  Shayne walked over to a barred grill and shoved two twenties toward the cashier. “Tens,” he said.

  The cashier was a pleasant-faced and elderly man. He said, “Yes, sir,” as though this modest transaction were the apex of the evening’s work, and pushed out four red chips.

  The thickset man and the frizzled blonde he had seen enter the bar earlier were at the roulette table. The man had a stack of blue chips in front of him, and the blonde had reds and whites. The smell of expensive perfume too liberally applied floated to Shayne’s nostrils as he came up behind the couple.

  Shayne stepped back a pace and turned his nostrils away from the perfume. It was then that he saw Timothy Rourke. Rourke was swaying toward the roulette table with blue chips in his hand.

  Shayne said, “Hi, Tim,” very casually, concealing his surprise, and moved around behind the croupier to the reporter’s side.

  Tim’s deep-set eyes glittered queerly when he recognized Shayne. He had been months recovering from the bullet wounds in his chest, and was thin almost to the point of emaciation. He hiccoughed gently, grinned, and said, “Thought you were getting out of town, Mike.”

  “Tomorrow,” Shayne said

  Rourke placed a blue chip on each of three numbers, supporting himself with one hand on the table, and leaning against Shayne. Shayne slid a red chip on EVEN.

  He looked up and saw the blonde looking intently at him from across the table. Her eyebrows and lashes were very thin and the color of bleached straw, giving her enormous dark eyes a vacant appearance. Shayne couldn’t be sure whether she was looking at him or Rourke, but her gaze did not waver before his challenging stare. She had half a dozen assorted chips spread out across the board, and her low-browed companion placed three blues carefully on Number 30.

  The wheel went around and the croupier spun the ivory ball. All eyes except those of the tall blond girl were focused on it eagerly. She continued to stare at Shayne and Timothy Rourke. The ball dropped into the Number 16 slot and the croupier raked in a lot of chips, and doled out a few.

  Shayne played EVEN half a dozen rolls, and was down to his last chip. He placed it on Number 14 and waited.

  The ball rolled into the 24 slot. Shayne put a cigarette between his lips and struck a match to it, turning his head away slightly while the croupier raked in and paid off. He waited until the ball was lifted from its resting pla
ce before simulating a start of surprise and exclaiming angrily, “How about paying me off? I was on Number 14.”

  “But 24 was the winning number,” the croupier assured him softly.

  “The hell it was,” raged Shayne. “What sort of game are you running here? Can’t you win sucker money fast enough on your crooked wheel without pulling a gyp like that?”

  There was a murmur of polite protest from the other players, and Timothy Rourke complained thickly, “For crissakes, Mike-” but Shayne continued his angry protests, leaning forward to shake his finger in the croupier’s face.

  A bulky man came up behind him and placed a firm hand on his shoulder. A harsh and grating voice said, “Maybe you’d like to take your kick to the boss.”

  “I sure as hell would,” Shayne told him violently, turning about to meet a pair of cold eyes level with his own. “If he’s running this sort of gyp game I intend to call his hand.”

  “Take it easy, pal,” the burly man muttered, tightening his fingers on Shayne’s shoulder and putting 220 pounds into a pull that moved Shayne away from the table.

  Shayne shoved the big hand off angrily and stalked behind the man while the other gamblers looked on in disapproving silence. They stopped at a steel door down the hall marked Private, and cleverly painted and grained to look like oak. The man knuckled the door and turned the knob.

  Shayne pushed past him into a brightly lighted office. The bouncer stuck his head in and growled, “This guy has got a wrong beef, boss, and-”

  He didn’t get any further with his explanation. Shayne hit the inner edge of the door with his shoulder and the bouncer jerked his head back to avoid being struck.

  Shayne slammed the door shut and slid a heavy steel bolt on the inside. He turned to look into the muzzle of a. 45 in the hand of Arnold Barbizon, who was standing in a half-crouch behind a shining mahogany desk in the center of the room.

  Chapter Three: THE STAGE IS SET