Brett Halliday - Million Dollar Handle

“We may be fairly soon. Did you find out anything about Geary’s financing?”

“One or two things, but should we talk about it on the phone?”

“It’s high percentage nobody’s listening.”

“Well-I did better than I expected without a subpoena. During the renovations, the books show a series of advances from a New York company I never heard of. Some of those notes are still outstanding. Some have been paid off by transfers of stock.”

“Tell me that again,” Shayne said, frowning.

After Liebler repeated it: “Anything to connect the New York company with the Bahamas, or with Castle?”

“No, but there’s this. It’s from Wolf, in Tallahassee. It has nothing to do with tax matters-he stumbled on it. You know Geary was always going back and forth to Nassau, and it seems he had a whole second life there, house on the beach, boat, woman, different lifestyle. And Wolf says that the woman was planted on him by Castle, to find out where he was getting his extra money.-Mike?” Shayne must have made some sound. “Is it helpful, I hope?”

Shayne was gripping the phone hard. This was the woman Frieda had heard about, and decided to question.

“Thinking,” he said. “Hold on a minute.” But whatever was going on in Nassau, there was no way he could influence it from here, and he went on: “I want you to arrange something for me, Liebler. I’m as anxious as you are to get the flow started, but I can’t just walk in and wave a magic wand. I have to pinpoint it. I can do that mechanically if I have the run of the place for a few hours. I think early tomorrow morning would be the best time-very early, so I won’t be bothered.”

“I’ll meet you anyplace you say.”

“You’re a hard-working man, Liebler. You need sleep. I never like to have people looking over my shoulder. When two people know a secret, it stops being a secret. Nothing for you to worry about financially. I’m increasing the size of your cut by a third, and the same for Fitzhugh. Tell him. Is everybody out by two o’clock?”

“Pretty close, usually. There’s a watchman.”

“I need a key, and I need that wiring diagram you were carrying around, and I want Fitzhugh to talk to the watchman so he’ll be expecting me. Tell him I’m checking the TV security, late at night so nobody’ll know about it. That should be good enough cover. And tomorrow night-money, Liebler. More than usual, to catch up after our little vacation.”

Shayne looked up the address of the Fanchon Towers, where Ricardo Sanchez had been living since making the acquaintance of Charlotte Geary. After finding a parking place, he unlocked the trunk of the Buick, then unlocked a metal box welded to the floor, and picked out a small transistorized unit three quarters the size of a cigarette package. It came equipped with suction cups, and contained a microphone and transmitter, capable of broadcasting at good fidelity an eighth of a mile.

The building, a new one, was still renting; according to the small print at the bottom of the vacancy notice, it was a Harry Zell venture. It was wedged onto a sliver of land at the edge of Little River Canal, and it was clearly outside the financial range of anyone trying to live on a Surfside salary. There was a vestibule, a locked inner door. Shayne picked his way through. Upstairs, he rang the bell, and getting no response, began working on the simple lock.

He stepped in and felt for the light switch. The light came on before he found it. Mrs. Geary was already there, and like so many other people in the last day and a half, she was pointing a gun at him.

“It’s you,” she said. “He’s not here. You’ll have to beat him up some other time.”

Shayne closed the door. “I don’t want to beat him up. I want to ask him how he can afford to pay the rent here.”

“I pay three quarters of it. That’s fair.”

Shayne turned on another light. It was a one-room apartment with a small kitchen alcove, a smaller terrace and a splintered view of the Bay and the lights of Miami Beach. The carpet had probably come with the apartment, but there wasn’t much furniture, and little to show that anyone lived here. A low lamp table at the end of a convertible sofa was the logical place for his microphone.

He turned. He had studied Mrs. Geary’s face through field glasses the night before, and she had looked drawn and strained. She couldn’t have slept much since, and her eyes were red, as though she might have been crying. But she was slender and moved well, and without the marks of fatigue she would have been a good-looking woman.

“If you aren’t going to shoot me with that, put it away,” Shayne said. “This isn’t that kind of problem.”

“I’m not so sure. There was shooting last night, some of it done by you, I understand. The animals are fighting over the meat.”

“Does he keep any booze here?”

“He doesn’t drink much, only to celebrate something. This has been good for me because I was beginning to need those martinis.”

Shayne sat down within reach of the lamp table. He waved at her, but she stayed on her feet, the gun pointed at the floor.

“Don’t make yourself too comfortable. Have you talked to Linda?”

“Briefly, on the phone.”

“Didn’t she tell you you’ve been discharged?”

“She was never my client.”

Mrs. Geary looked surprised. He explained, “Before I take on a client, we have a clear agreement on what I’m expected to do, and how I’m going to be paid. Linda assumed she hired me, but she walked away before I said yes or no. I’m not too interested in rearranging your private life. If it works, great. But you don’t look as though you’ve been enjoying it much lately.”

“Oh, God.” Dropping the gun into her purse, she sat down facing him, squinting slightly, her knees tightly together. “If you aren’t working for my loving daughter, what are you doing breaking into Ricardo’s apartment?”

“I’m working for myself. Maybe you can help me.”

“Why would I want to do that?”

“So I’ll lose interest and quit. I don’t want any more trouble. Last night was close enough. I didn’t understand that at the time, and I still don’t. I don’t know who’s going to be pointing a gun at me next. You, for Christ’s sake. Why do you even own a gun?”

“It was Max’s. All right, instead of shooting, let’s talk. You begin.”

“First you wanted to sell. Then you didn’t. Now you do, Linda tells me.”

“I seem to be rather changeable.”

“You must have reasons, Mrs. Geary. What were they this time?”

“Because I’m scared! I want a comfortable, uneventful life.”

“Does Ricardo know about the latest switch?”

“Not yet.”

“Is that why you brought a gun?”

“No! Mr. Shayne, if you want to ask any factual questions, go ahead, but leave my feelings out of it. I felt something about Max, maybe not grief, but definitely something. I’m not over it. Why don’t you ask about money? That’s what you’re really interested in.”

“I didn’t know it showed. O.K. It’s your track now, and you have a right to sell it. But you can see why the people on Max’s slush list, including me, aren’t too happy about that. We won’t get any grease out of a hotel on the site. Somebody will, but different people. Let me negotiate for you. I’ll get you a better deal than Max had. There’s money there, Mrs. Geary. How much, I don’t even like to guess. Why don’t you forget about being honest and poor, keep the track open, give Ricardo a promotion to kennelmaster, and see how much we can squeeze together? Try it for a year.”

“I was actually thinking of doing just that. Mr. Shayne, although I don’t see why I would need your assistance. I would find it too strenuous, I’m afraid.”