Brett Halliday: Blood on Biscayne Bay

“Where were you between ten-thirty and eleven last night?”

“Riding home from the Play-Mor Club,” Shayne told him wearily.

“We’ve got a taxi driver who swears you took the dead girl with you in your cab-”

“I never take dead girls out in taxis,” Shayne interrupted solemnly.

Painter’s face grew livid with rage. “By God, Shayne, I’ll slam you behind bars if it’s the last thing I ever do.”

“All right,” Shayne said easily. “But if you want this case solved-”

“What about you taking Natalie Briggs home last night and going in after her? The taxi driver said-”

“The same driver you just said you haven’t been able to locate?” Shayne interrupted him again.

Painter brushed his mustache gently, his black eyes glittering up at Shayne. “The driver’s testimony will cinch what we already know,” he asserted.

“Maybe. If he doesn’t tell you we put the girl out of the cab after we’d gone two blocks from the Play-Mor,” said Shayne.

“Is that what you’re going to claim?” snapped Painter.

“Ask the taxi driver,” Shayne told him and waved a big hand negligently.

“I intend to as soon as we pick him up. In the meantime I want to know more about your innocent little joy ride on the bay. If you weren’t looking for Browne’s body, what was your purpose?”

“It’s just a new hobby I’ve taken up,” said Shayne. “It’s relaxing and restful. Try it some time. Good for the nerves.”

“You weren’t wasting time just going for a boat ride when you knew I was getting ready to hang a murder rap on you.”

Shayne said, “That’s my story.” He again started to the boat.

“Wait a minute,” Painter called sharply. “Where’d you get that boat?”

“They have them for rent in Miami,” Shayne reminded him.

“Who did you rent it from? When?”

Shayne shook his head. “That’s in the nature of a leading question and shouldn’t be put except in the presence of counsel. If I had counsel, I’d be advised not to answer.”

“I can get the dope, all right,” Painter barked. “Every boat on this bay is registered.” He peered at the name painted on the catboat. “The Tarzan, eh? All I need is proof that you started out on your joy ride with Angus Browne aboard.”

“When you get that,” Shayne agreed, “you’ll have something. In the meantime I’ve got a couple of murders to solve.” He strode past the canvas on which Browne’s body lay. The attendants were waiting for Painter’s order to take the body in. Shayne glanced at the two men and saw an expression of faint amusement on their faces which quickly changed to solemnity.

Shayne lifted his hand slightly in farewell, got in the boat and shoved off. He started the motor and cut directly across the bay toward the Morrison dock.

There was no one in sight when he docked the boat. He tied it up and went across the lawn and onto the street. He slid under the steering wheel of Ira Wilson’s taxi and drove to Biscayne Boulevard, turning north to 79th Street and crossed the Causeway there, striking Ocean Drive not far south of the Play-Mor Club.

Shayne’s eyes were bleak when he got out of the cab and walked the short distance to the club.

The uniformed doorman at the top of the stairway was the same one who had been on duty the preceding night. He turned and pressed a signal button in the door jamb-two shorts and then a very long one. The button presently lighted with a signal glow, and the doorman, his back turned to Shayne, said, “I’m sorry, sir,” coldly, “but I have orders not to admit you.”

He was an exceedingly tall man of about 60. He turned slowly to the redheaded detective and folded his long arms beneath his chest with an air of quiet finality.

Shayne grinned and said, “Are you going to keep me out, dad?”

“I have to obey orders, sir,” he answered, apologetically.

“I’ve got business with your boss,” Shayne said. He turned slightly and hunched his left shoulder against the elderly doorman, shoving him aside.

A gruff voice spoke from behind the doorman in a tone of pleased surprise. “Damned if it ain’t the redhead again. He givin’ you trouble. Pop?”

A taxi was stopping in front of the canopied entrance. The doorman sidled away from Shayne and said softly, “Handle him quiet, Smith,” and went down the steps to greet the passengers getting out of the taxi.

Two men moved through the doorway toward Shayne. One of them was the bulky man who had escorted him to Barbizon’s office from the roulette table. His companion weighed a hundred pounds less than the man the doorman had called Smith, but his eyes glittered in a hawklike face and he moved easily on the balls of his feet. His right hand was bunched in the side pocket of his coat.

Shayne said, “Take it easy, boys. All I want is a word with Barbizon.”

“Sure, we’ll take it easy,” Smith assured him. “Just step out of the way of these folks comin’ up and we’ll talk it over.”

Shayne stepped aside and let the couple pass through the door. He said, “Call Barbizon out here. I don’t want any trouble.”

“I thought you liked trouble.” Smith rubbed his big hands together happily. He stood one step above Shayne. His companion moved down to Shayne’s left and level with him.

Shayne said, “I made a mistake last night. Tell Barbizon that, and-”

“You bet you made a mistake.” Smith stepped forward and down without warning. His bulk pressed Shayne backward and off balance. As he fell, the thin man with the glittering eyes pulled a blackjack from his pocket and sapped him neatly on the side of his head.

Shayne fell to the bottom of the short flight of stairs and lay very still. Anyone witnessing the incident from more than 20 feet away would have sworn a drunk had lost his balance, for the light was dimly red above the entrance door.

The elderly doorman had been watching from the driveway, keeping an eye out for customers who might arrive. He said, “Get him out of here. There’s a car coming.”

Smith and Dick got hold of Shayne’s long body. They carried him half a block away and dumped him into a narrow pit at the foot of the stone wall.

“D’yuh think I conked him too hard?” Dick asked uneasily as they stepped back to look at Shayne’s crumpled form.

“Naw-he got what was comin’ to him,” Smith said. “Slammin’ a steel door in my face when we went in to see the boss. Leave him lay right there.”

“It might make a lot of trouble,” Dick said nervously.

“Forget it,” growled Smith. “C’mon. Le’s get back.” They turned and trudged back to the club entrance.

Shayne lay with his head against the wall for a long time. When he regained consciousness he stirred dazedly and realized he was lying face down in a pool of sticky blood. Strangely, the wound on his cheek didn’t hurt. That side of his face was numb.

He vaguely remembered the beginning of the fight with the two men, but nothing was clear after that except the names of the men. Smith-and the man Smith called Dick.

Leaning his head against the stone wall, Shayne sat for several minutes fighting off the pain and trying to clarify every incident which had occurred before he was blacked out. He got a handkerchief from his pocket and held it against his cheek. By the light of an approaching car he held it out and saw that the bleeding had stopped.

He dragged himself up from the wall and went to Wilson’s taxi, swaying unsteadily. His mind cleared after he had sat under the steering wheel for a while.

The ache in his head was more than he could endure, but he knew he had to see Barbizon-tonight. Barbizon knew the answer to a question, and he had to have that answer.