Brett Halliday - So Lush, So Deadly

“That’s right.”

“Ensign Gray.” They shook hands briefly. “Wasn’t there a woman in the water?”

“Yeah, but I lost her.”

“Any point in dropping a buoy?”

Shayne shook his head, looking down at Brady’s face. The eyelids were partially gone, showing the whites of his eyes, startlingly white in the blackened face.

“Give him a shot,” Gray said.

The enlisted man dragged out a first-aid box. The officer stooped to look down at the burning boat.

“We ought to get this guy back. Can we be sure there were only two of them aboard?”

“That’s all,” Shayne said. “Can you loan me a pair of binoculars?”

The Nefertiti’s engines had stopped and she was dead in the water, on fire along her entire length. The pilot wheeled the big bird around, hovering near the edge of the cloud of smoke. Shayne leaned out. The heat was intense. He focused the binoculars on the top of the wheelhouse. The planking had burned through. He waited for a shift in the smoke, then returned the binoculars to their case and nodded to the officer.

A little fireboat from Fisher Island was on its way, coming fast.

“Not a hell of a lot they can do at this point,” Gray said.

“Can I get a phone connection through your radio?”

“They can’t hook you in. They can pass along a message.”

They went up to the cockpit, where the pilot was completing a transmission. “Hold it,” Gray said, and handed Shayne the mike.

“This is Mike Shayne,” Shayne said. “I want to call Peter Painter, Chief of Detectives on the Beach. It’s urgent. You’ll find him at the St. Albans Hotel, room 1421.”

The radioman chuckled. “Since when have you been on speaking terms with Painter?”

The officer took the mike and said sharply, “Put that call through.”

“Yes, sir.”

The helicopter rose, turned, and the jets cut loose. Soon the column of smoke was only a smudge on the horizon.

The voice announced, “I’ve got Painter on the line. Shayne? He wants to know where the hell you are and why the hell you had the goddamn nerve to walk away after you found the body. Over.”

“I’m not receiving you too well,” Shayne said. “Tell him-”

“I say again. Chief Painter wants to know-”

Ensign Gray grabbed the mike and snapped, “Use some intelligence. Relay Shayne’s message.”

“Oh, I get you, sir. Go ahead.”

Shayne said, “Tell him to pick up a woman named Katharine Brady. Katharine Brady. I think she’s registered in a Beach hotel, one of the expensive ones. Check with the airlines, and if they have her listed for an outgoing flight, get there before the plane leaves and pull her off. Don’t let her get out of town. Check the parked cars at Haulover Beach. He’ll find one with rental-agency plates and a man’s clothes in it. I want to know who rented it. Wait a minute.”

He looked at the officer. “Where do you take your casualties?”

“We have an aid station at the base.”

Shayne went on, “Tell him we’ll collect at the Opa Locka aid station. As soon as possible, because I’ve been up all night.”

“Are we still having the same transmission difficulties?”

“Yeah, getting worse.”

He handed the mike back. The officer grinned.

“If you’ve been up all night, maybe you’d like a small nip. We carry brandy as part of our medical stores.”

“If you’ll join me.”

“Maybe I can find you some clothes.”

A long time ago, Shayne had left his shorts on Katharine Brady’s boat, and the rest of his clothes on the Panther. He was naked, not for the first time that night.

He dropped into the main compartment, where the enlisted man gave him a cigarette. Brady was unconscious, breathing heavily.

Shayne picked up the tawny wig and the cotton jacket. There was a small hole in the front of the jacket, the kind made by a.25 slug. His face blank and dangerous, Shayne ran the tip of one finger into the tiny hole. He had never been fooled this badly, but he was about to start collecting some of his outstanding accounts.

Shayne was finishing breakfast in the officers’ mess when Painter’s party arrived, in two cars, using both sirens. Shayne had been given a denim coverall, a size too small for him. He finished his coffee without hurrying, postponing the moment when he would have to confront the little chief of detectives. He was in for a painful couple of hours. Shayne didn’t mind being asked questions, but one of Painter’s biggest troubles was that he rarely took time to listen to the answers.

The wall phone rang.

“Your call to New York, Mike,” Ensign Gray said.

“Thanks. Would you mind telling Painter I’ll be with him in a minute?” He took the phone. “Joshua?”

“Michael. Good news or bad news?”

“Pretty bad. For one thing, Tom Moseley’s been murdered.”

Loring sucked in his breath. “No!”

“He was bludgeoned in a hotel room early this morning. I can’t give you much on it now. A cop’s waiting for me, and he burns on a very short fuse. One thing I need to know-did Moseley go to Harvard?”

“Yes,” Loring whispered.

“In the same class as De Rham and Brady?”

“I think so. They’re all about the same age.”

“Can you check it for me? The other thing is, will you find out what company wrote the insurance on Winslow’s Massachusetts plant? I want to talk to the official who okayed that claim. I’ve picked up some evidence that the fire was set. I took a bad beating getting it, and there’s no reason I shouldn’t get some compensation.”

“You mean that Dotty-”

“I’m sorry, but you must have known it was in the cards. Tell him to call me at this number as soon as possible.”

“Mike-is she all right?”

Shayne waited, considering various answers, and then depressed the bar, breaking the connection.

Painter, told to meet Shayne in the aid station, was on his way out to look for him. The two men met in the doorway. As in every collision between Shayne and Painter, the smaller man got the worst of it. He was immaculately dressed, even now, with the points of a carefully folded handkerchief peeping from the breast pocket of an Italian silk suit. He had found time to shave, and his little hairline mustache was neatly trimmed.

“This isn’t a one-way transmission now, Shayne!” he fumed. “Can you hear me? Am I talking loud enough for you? Not that you took me in with that one-way dodge! I’ve known you too long.”

“Petey, slow down a minute.”

“And just what do you think gives you the authority to issue orders? Go there, do this, pick up so-and-so. I’m the one who gives the orders, do you understand? The sooner you get that through your head the better.”

“Orders?” Shayne said mildly. “I hope that radioman didn’t misquote me. All I said was that if you had nothing better to do, I’d appreciate it if you stopped by the Opa Locka Airport. I’m glad you could make it.”

“You don’t fool me for a minute, Shayne! I know the way you talk about me behind my back. People have told me. I’ve had verbatim quotes.”

“Petey, is this getting us anywhere? Did you locate Mrs. Brady?”

Painter held up one hand. “Do I have your permission to speak? Before I tell you what I’ve done about your polite request to locate a certain Mrs. Katharine Brady, would you kindly tell me who the hell Mrs. Katharine Brady is and why you want her?”

“She killed Moseley,” Shayne said.

Painter had a habit of hearing only the things he wanted to hear, but he heard that. He gave his mustache a quick flick in both directions.

“She killed Moseley, did she?” he said sarcastically. “Here I’ve been going on the supposition that you killed Moseley. Rourke gives you an alibi for the crucial time, but everybody knows about you and Rourke, you’ve been co-conspirators for years. This wouldn’t be the first time somebody killed a man, then came back an hour later and found the body. What makes you think you can pin it on this woman?”