Brett Halliday: The Violent World of Michael Shayne

11:30 A.M.

The big fish broke water less than ten yards from the boat. After battling Michael Shayne for half an hour, it had begun to weaken. Shaking its head in a vain attempt to dislodge the hook, it twisted in the air and went under. The redheaded private detective spun the reel, his shoulder muscles rippling under his T-shirt. Totally absorbed in what he was doing, forgetting the problems and frustrations of the past forty-eight hours, he worked the fish in close enough for Captain Prideaux to reach it with the gaff. Together they brought it on board.

“It’s a big one, Mike,” Prideaux said.

“Yeah,” Shayne said happily, stretching.

“Bait up again. There are plenty of nice sailfish left out there. And why not use a barb this time?”

“One’s enough, Jean. Let’s go home.”

He hung the rod carefully on its brackets, then picked up the cognac bottle and kicked a canvas chair around to face the rail. Maybe he could get some sleep on the way in.

At a sound behind him he turned, to find a blonde in a black sleeveless dress watching him from the cabin doorway.

“Congratulations on your fish, Mr. Shayne,” she said.

Shayne swiveled around toward Captain Prideaux, who had suddenly become extremely busy disposing of the sail-fish.

“What’s going on here, Jean?”

The girl said quickly, “Don’t blame Captain Prideaux. It’s my fault.”

Her heel caught as she stepped out on deck. Balancing herself, she took off her high-heeled shoes. She was good-looking in a chilly, self-possessed way, with well marked cheekbones and cool gray eyes. She was in her late twenties or early thirties. The black dress, although simple enough, was far too elegant for a fishing boat. She brushed back her hair and laughed ruefully.

“I’m Trina Hitchcock. I have something to talk to you about, and Jean told me to wait till you’d caught a fish and put away a few slugs of cognac.”

“That was good advice,” the redhead snapped. “How much did you pay for it?”

Prideaux looked around angrily. “OK, so I was wrong! I disturbed the great man when he wanted to be alone. I apologize. Listen to her for a minute, will you?”

“No,” Shayne said. “And the next time I charter your boat for a morning’s fishing I’ll look in the cabin to see who you’re hiding. If there is a next time.”

“I know this is terrible,” the girl said. “I read about what happened yesterday, and you certainly deserve a day off. But I don’t know what else to do!”

“I suppose you need a detective?” Shayne said.

“I certainly do! And if you’ll just-”

“All right,” Shayne interrupted. “If you saw the papers, you know I’ve been moving steadily for two days and two nights. That includes one eight-hour session, from midnight to eight A.M., with Petey Painter, Chief of Detectives on the Beach. He’s never satisfied to be told anything once. He has to hear it a dozen times before he believes it, and after one of those nights the only way I can feel human again is to get out in the Stream, where there aren’t any narcotics hustlers or stick-up men or Painters. Just fish. Now I’m going in and have a steak and a few drinks, and sleep approximately sixteen hours. I’ll make a deal with you, Miss Hitchcock. Or is it Mrs.?”

“Miss. Or why not just Trina?”

“If you’ll sit down and keep your problems entirely to yourself, I’ll pour you a drink of good cognac and when we get in I’ll give you the phone number of a reliable man who’ll take care of you without charging you too much. If you still want to talk to me about it, call my secretary and make an appointment. I won’t be in tomorrow, but I may be in the day after that.”

“It can’t wait that long, Mr. Shayne! And it has to be you.”

“I’m sorry,” the redhead said.

Prideaux returned to the wheel, and threw it over so hard that the girl took several quick steps and banged against the rail.

“Goddamn it, will you stop playing games?” Shayne yelled.

Prideaux came all the way about and headed back toward open ocean. He looked over his shoulder.

“And if you want me to turn around again you know what you’ll have to do. You can probably take me, but if you’re as tired as you say you are, you’ll save yourself some trouble and listen to this girl. I’ve known her since she was a kid. Her daddy’s the senator, Senator Hitchcock.”

Shayne swore to himself savagely. “One of these days you’re going to lose a customer, Jean, I mean it.” He unfolded another canvas chair for the girl. “I’ll listen, Miss Hitchcock, but that’s all I’ll do. And let’s hope it isn’t anything complicated.”

She settled herself in the battered chair and called to Prideaux, “Thanks, Jean, that was noble. You can turn around now.”

“Don’t pay any attention if he growls at you,” Prideaux said. “The whole thing’s an act.”

“Like hell it is,” Shayne growled. “How’s your father?”

“He’s fine. Glowing, in fact, and that’s the trouble. Mr. Shayne, I’m dying for a cigarette. I didn’t want you to see smoke drifting out of the cabin.”

Shayne shook out a cigarette for her and took one himself. He was trying to remember what he had read about her father recently. Emory Hitchcock, after several terms as a congressman, was now in his second term in the Senate. One of the least aggressive men in Washington, he rarely made the headlines. Shayne distrusted most politicians and kept as far away from them as he could, but he liked what he had seen of Hitchcock. The Senator had done him a favor once during an argument he was having with the FBI. Nobody wins arguments from that Bureau without important backing, and Shayne had needed help from Hitchcock to gain his point.

He snapped his lighter shut after lighting their cigarettes. “I said I’d give you a drink, but what are you going to drink it out of?”

“I can drink from the bottle. Really.”

He looked at her skeptically and held it out. She hesitated, then put it to her mouth and took a long pull. She coughed most of it over the rail.

“Goodness, it burns! I admit it’s the first time I ever tried that.”

Shayne laughed. He drank from the bottle himself, corked it, and set it on the deck between the chairs.

She said, “I really hate to do this to you, Mr. Shayne. I know you’d like to throw me overboard and make me swim home, and that’s what I deserve. Your secretary finally broke down and told me you were going fishing, and where I could intercept you. But she didn’t hold out much hope that I could talk you into doing anything. She’s nice, isn’t she?”

“Damn nice,” Shayne said.

“And after that I had quite an argument with Captain Prideaux before he’d let me aboard. Well-maybe all you can do is give me advice. God knows I can use it.”

“Go ahead, Miss Hitchcock. If you see me falling asleep poke me.”

She drew hungrily at her cigarette. “It’s about my father, of course. A perfectly awful woman has her hooks in him. And when I say she’s awful, I mean awful. He’s nearly sixty. Fifty-eight, to be exact, and this can’t be the first time in history someone his age has made a fool of himself over that obvious type of woman. If that was all there was to it, an older man in the clutches of a flamboyant younger woman, I don’t say I’d like it, but I’d keep my mouth shut in the hopes that it would blow over. He’s not just any fifty-eight-year-old widower, however. He’s a United States Senator. What’s happening is quite clear.”

She colored slightly. Without looking at Shayne she said quietly, “They’re trying to get a photograph of the two of them together in bed, so they can blackmail him with it.”