Хал Эллсон: Mink Is for a Minx

Finch was also a war hero. The industrialist had been a Major in the OSS behind enemy lines for most of the war. That would be where this Pietro Corelli came in, Shayne told himself. Finch had a perfect war record, and after the war had come up with his special rocket additive. Finch had a full partner — Kurt Berger, a German.

Finch also had many friends, but only a few close ones. Finch had always mixed business and pleasure, and Shayne expected that the industrialist’s business and personal friends would be at the Westhampton house.

Shayne studied the names and backgrounds of the four or five of Finch’s friends who were mentioned in the material Rourke had given him. By that time his jet landed at Idlewild.

The redhead found a car waiting for him at the airport, and smiled when he saw it. With all his money, Finch had not sent a chauffeur with the car. The industrialist had remembered that Shayne preferred to drive himself.

He drove the car into New York City to Center Street, and showed a high-ranking police officer Gentry’s letter. He left the building with a letter in his wallet to the State Police in Suffolk County.

Shayne drove out of the city through the Queen’s Midtown Tunnel and along the Long Island parkways. The weather was clear and warm in July. He drove with his window open and the wind blowing his thick red hair.

By the time he reached Patchogue it was night and dark. The salt odor of the sea was pleasant in the night. Shayne watched the moon rise to the south over Fire Island. Perhaps that was why his guard was down as he turned onto the drawbridge from Westhampton to Westhampton Beach and saw the black sedan across the roadway.

The moon was high above the dunes when Shayne at last staggered to his feet. He stumbled through the sparse shrubbery and knee-high tangles of prickly thorns, keeping close to the shoreline until he came to the single road of Westhampton Beach. He walked slowly along the road until he reached the “cabana” of Alistair Finch.

The big house loomed large in the night. It was blazing with light. There was a police car at the door. Shayne saw his own car, the one Finch had sent for him. They were obviously looking for him. He walked in and fell into a chair in the giant hallway.

“Mike!” Alistair Finch cried. “What happened?”

“I went for a moonlight swim,” Shayne said wryly.

His grey eyes searched all the faces in the room. He did not see the men. There were seven people in the house, in addition to the police.

“What happened, Shayne?” a State Police officer said.

Shayne recognized Ed Masters. Ten years was a long time, and Masters was heavier and a captain now. But it did not surprise Mike Shayne that Alistair Finch would rate the State Police, and a captain.

Shayne greeted the police officer and told him what had happened. Masters went away to give the descriptions of the two men who had tried to kill Shayne to his men.

“Who do you think they were?” Finch asked.

“You tell me,” Shayne said. “Who knew I was coming?”

“They don’t sound familiar, Mike,” Finch said.

“Two more men nobody knows,” Shayne said. He had the strange feeling that Finch was lying. The redheaded detective tugged on his left earlobe and narrowed his grey eyes. “Get me a large cognac, a change of clothes, and then tell me your story.”

In Finch’s study, Shayne, a Martel in his hand and his clothes changed, listened to Finch’s story. The study was a large, book-lined room furnished with leather and polished wood. The wide window overlooked the sea where a white line of surf was clear in the moonlight.

“That’s all there was, Mike,” Finch said. “We were there behind the German lines up near Milan. Corelli was our Partisan leader. Gerry Olney, Marty Maltz, and myself saw them capture him. There was nothing we could do. Corelli had planned a real suicide mission for two days after he was taken.

“Maybe he was getting careless. We heard a few days later that he had been shot. Of course, there were the usual charges of betrayal. Those Partisans were mostly Communists and they always said we betrayed them. We were cleared.”

“What do you think Corelli wanted here?” Shayne said.

“I can’t imagine,” Finch said.

“Does anyone in this house have an idea?” Shayne said. “By the way, who are your guests?”

“Not one of them knew Corelli except me,” Finch said. “There are five guests: Kurt Berger, of course; Max Helpman, one of my vice-presidents and an old friend; Sally Helpman, Max’s wife; Paul Macadam, you know him, the yacht man who spends a lot of time in Florida; and Myrna Mix the actress. My wife too, of course.”

Shayne went down the list in his mind. All the names had been prominent in Tim Rourke’s file on Finch. They were all old friends of Finch.

“Kurt Berger’s your partner?” Shayne said.

“That’s right. We own all the companies together. I run the American operation and Kurt has charge of the European companies.”

“Did you tell Masters that you knew Corelli?”

“Yes,” Finch said. “I told him you told me to.”

Shayne knew he had not told Finch to say that. But he let it pass for the moment. “Do the others know about Corelli now?”

“I told them when I told Masters,” Finch said.

Shayne nodded and said, “Those other two men who were with you when Corelli was captured. Has anyone talked to them since you called me in Miami?”

“Olney and Maltz? I don’t think so. I didn’t mention their names to anyone,” Finch said.

“Where are they?” Shayne asked.

“I’m not sure,” Finch said. “We lost touch. Olney was my radioman, a Sergeant. Marty Maltz was my second in command, a Captain. They were both good men, Shayne.”

“Men can change,” Shayne said. “Let’s talk to your guests.”

The five guests and Finch’s wife sat in the giant living room. It was late and they seemed annoyed. Finch’s wife was a tall blonde half his age. She was his third wife. Her name was Laura, and she seemed to be rather friendly with Kurt Berger, her husband’s partner. She sat perched on the arm of Berger’s chair.

Shayne came directly to the point. “Masters told me that the coroner fixed the time of death at somewhere around nine o’clock last night. Berger, where were you?”

“Swimming,” Kurt Berger said. “I like to swim at night.”

Berger was a tall, blond man of about forty-five. He was still handsome and had all his hair. The partner of Finch was Finch’s best friend, according to Shayne’s information.

“You swam alone?” Shayne asked.

“Laura was with me,” Berger said. Berger smiled a wolfish smile. “Mrs. Finch, I mean, Shayne. We swam from about eight o’clock until past midnight. Right, Laura?”

“Yes,” Laura Finch said.

“That was a long swim,” Shayne said.

“We walked on the beach, too,” Berger said. “A long walk. Correct, Laura?”

“Yes,” Laura Finch said.

She looked at her husband who was red in the face by now. Shayne made a note of that in his mind. He turned to Helpman.

“How about you, Helpman?”

Max Helpman was nervous. The short, dark man fidgeted on the edge of his chair. Helpman was almost completely bald. His tall, thin, acid-looking wife sat beside him and glared at Shayne.

“Max was with me all night,” Sally Helpman said. “We were in our room. Do you want to know what we were doing?”

“Shut up, Sally,” Max Helpman said. “We were in our room, Shayne. Sally didn’t feel well and we went up right after dinner.”

“Anybody else see either of you?” Shayne said.

“I don’t think so,” Helpman said.