Brett Halliday: Lady, Be Bad

“Grover!” a woman’s voice cried. “Was that you, Grover, you dog?”

Rourke had parked the taxi carelessly, where it blocked the single exit from the parking area. Shayne removed the ignition key so it couldn’t be moved. Then he checked the boathouse. An outboard was tied to a short dock, the motor tilted parallel to the water. Inside, there was a small 18-foot runabout. Shayne disarmed both boats, pulling the shear pin from the outboard and removing the spark plugs from the engine of the power boat. That completed the simple deadfall. Any guests who wanted to leave would have to walk or swim.

He cleared his head with the help of the benzedrine inhaler, stepped out of the boathouse and collided hard with somebody who was standing in the shadow just outside the doorway.

Shayne’s adjustment to the world was still shaky, and thrown off-stride, he crashed back against the side of the building, felt the night closing in around him, and reeled forward into the other man’s arms.

“Mike, I thought you were in bed,” Rourke said.

“Nothing wrong with me but a hangover,” Shayne mumbled. “I can cure that with a few facts.”

Taking his arm, Rourke pulled him back inside the boathouse.

“Let’s have a little skull-practice before we bust in. I didn’t figure on the power going off.”

Shayne released a small spurt of light from his flashlight and found a bench.

“The cops at the gate were expecting you.”

“What are you talking about?” Rourke demanded. “I squandered a hundred bucks on a taxi. I brought a couple of girls-fooled the goddamn patrolmen completely.”

In a few words, Shayne told him what had happened at the gate. Rourke was silent for a moment.

“Well,” he said soberly, “all I can say is, this is the noisiest hush-hush operation I’ve ever been mixed up in. What in God’s name explains it? But if they really expected me, if they’ve got something rigged, I think I’d better watch my step before I get a foot blown off. I had a busy afternoon, found out a few interesting things about Grover Kendrick, Jr. Do you want them now?”

“The high-spots.”

Rourke lit a cigarette, gave it to Shayne and lit another for himself.

“He’s been having money trouble, Mike, to the extent of forty G’s. An over-the-counter electronic stock that was supposed to go up. It went down, way down, and he had to borrow from a shark on the Beach to cover. Eddie Myer. You know him. He isn’t famous for writing off bad debts. Whenever Grover was in town he stayed at the Regency, Sam Rapp’s hotel. He’s been seen having drinks with Lib Patrick, Sam Rapp’s girl. Is that enough for now?”

“Yeah. What do people say about the casino bill, anything new?”

“No, the boys in the press corps think it can still go either way, depending on how mean Kendrick feels tomorrow. The father, not the son.”

“Is he here?”

“The father? No, he’s gone home for the night, back to the somnolent little town of Leesville, where life is so much simpler. Maybe so he won’t be spattered if garbage starts flying here. What’s your plan, Mike? I ought to know so I can back you up if you need me.”

“Plan? You’re kidding.” Shayne drew on his cigarette once more and pitched it away. “All I can do is show up and see who starts running. But I hope nobody offers me any cognac, because I’d have to turn it down.”

He now had a reasonably accurate notion of the inside of the darkened building. There was one main room with a high ceiling and an open balcony leading to the bedrooms. The sloping shed-roof of the kitchen ell ran up to within a few feet of the bedroom windows. He had to use his flashlight only once. In the angle of the ell, outside the door to the kitchen, there was a neat stack of logs, cut to fireplace length. He slid the sawhorse against the wall. Stepping up on it, he pulled himself to the sloping roof.

There were four bedrooms. All the windows were open, with sliding metal screens. No lights showed inside. He inched up to the first window and listened. He heard a low whisper, the creak of a bed.

The next room seemed empty. The door to the balcony was ajar, showing a narrow rectangle of dim light from the big room below.

Working slowly and carefully, Shayne removed the screen and slid inside. He waited again after replacing the screen. Crossing the room, he pulled the door shut and turned on his flashlight. At some point during the evening, the bed had been used. There were stale drinks on the table beside the bed, an overflowing ashtray, the reek of whiskey.

He hesitated, scraping his chin. He was getting a strong signal from somewhere. He directed the light around the room slowly, picking out the spare country furniture, a calendar on the closet door, the objects on the bedside table. He came back to the calendar. It was turned to the wrong month, not in the past but in the future. He dropped the light to the carpet, and saw a dark stain which seemed to originate from the crack at the bottom of the closet door. Stooping, he touched his finger to the stain and sniffed; it was nothing but whiskey.

He turned the doorknob carefully. As soon as the latch was free, the door came back hard and a seated figure toppled out.

Shayne let the door open all the way and pulled the man over on his back.

It was Senator Sheldon Maslow, and he had looked more like a rising politician that morning than he did now. His hair was the only thing that was still neat-perhaps the long, careful crest was held in place with spray. In other respects he had gone downhill. His tie was gone, his clothes were rumpled and dirty. He had dropped a burning cigarette in his lap-the leg of his expensive pants had charred through.

He was breathing harshly. He groaned in his sleep and turned on one side. There was a crunching sound. Shayne checked his jacket and found the shards of an infra-red bulb.

He poked around in the closet with his flashlight. There was an empty fifth of bourbon on the floor, a small brace and bit, but no sign of a camera. Two holes had been bored through the closet door. The calendar on the outside of the door hung from a long U-shaped wire. At the moment the holes were covered, but they could be unblocked by manipulating the calendar from inside.

Shayne left Maslow where he was, turned out the flashlight and let himself out in the dark. There was a key in the door, but after a brief hesitation he decided to leave it unlocked.

Standing on the balcony, he looked over the rustic railing into the big room below. It was lighted by a single candle. A poker game had been underway at the central table, in front of the fireplace, but it had broken up when the lights went off. The green felt was littered with cards and chips. Only one man remained at the table, working at a game of solitaire. Three other men were arguing in front of a small highboy, loaded with bottles. The girls were scattered about, several together, several with men.

He smelled pot, and turned.

A girl stood watching him. She was blonde and tall. Lifting her homemade cigarette, she sucked in the smoke, her eyelids flickering, and let it out luxuriously, with the semireligious expression of the dedicated pot-smoker.

“Elegant.”

Swaying away from the wall, she offered Shayne a drag. He accepted, hoping his recovery was far enough along so one lungful wouldn’t knock him off the balcony.

“I’m hallucinating,” the girl said, speaking with a marked English accent. “I was told all the men would be politicians. You’re not in politics.”

“Are you sure?”

She waved the cigarette lazily. “Quite sure. You have a certain air. A sort of impatience. You are not the type to sit quietly for hours upon hours, while a pack of Bedlamites split hairs about the difference between ‘shall’ and ‘may.’ That was not the way you developed those muscles.”