Brett Halliday: Blood on Biscayne Bay

He drove slowly, realizing that he had to make himself more presentable before he talked to Barbizon.

There was a public bathing beach at 79th Street and he forced himself to remember that there was also a cluster of small business places there; a filling station and a roadside cafe.

He turned into the filling station and got out, managing a tight-lipped grin for the attendant who hurried out and stopped with a shrill whistle when he saw the redhead’s blood-smeared face.

“Had a little accident,” Shayne said vaguely. “I’d like to wash up and borrow some adhesive tape if you’ve got any.”

“You bet. Washroom’s right inside. And I’ve got a first-aid kit here.”

“That’ll be fine,” Shayne said on his way to the washroom. Inside he ran cold water in the basin and splashed it over his face and head to soften the crusted blood.

The boy carefully covered the gash with a Band-Aid containing a sulfa drug, leaving it loose for air to filter through.

Shayne asked, “Do they have bathing suits at the casino near here?”

“Sure. They’ll rent you a bathing suit, but you aren’t going swimming now, are you?”

“Nothing like a good swim to calm the nerves,” Shayne told him. He pressed a dollar bill into the attendant’s hand and went out to his car. He drove half a block from the filling station and parked the taxi in front of the casino.

In the bathhouse he persuaded the owner to allow him to strip in a cubicle and put on a pair of bathing trunks under his clothes and wear them away, in exchange for a five dollar bill.

Shayne went back to his cab and drove slowly northward until he reached the corner of the stone wall guarding the Play-Mor Club. Turning off the pavement he plowed through the sand parallel to the south wall leading to the shore and parked at the edge of a low cliff overhanging the ocean.

He found a flashlight in the glove compartment of the cab, got out and went around to the rear of the car and opened the luggage space. He discovered a steel spring that was evidently used for a tire tool, stripped down to his bathing trunks and stuck the tool under his belt.

A footpath angled down the cliff to the sandy shore below. Shayne followed the high stone wall to a point where it turned northward for a couple of hundred feet until he reached the club’s private bathing beach.

He waded out until he was waist deep, then began swimming. The cool salt water refreshed him and the waves slapping in his face sent the hot blood coursing through him. He swam strongly in a wide arc that carried him a quarter mile out to sea directly opposite the floodlighted strip of the club’s beach.

He turned then and swam shoreward. Silhouetted against the bright lights he could see the bobbing heads of swimmers who had not ventured so far out.

Shayne avoided the larger groups as he neared the beach, selecting a comparatively vacant space to land and go striding up toward the cabanas.

Some of them were lighted, and in front of some, family groups were enjoying picnic suppers. He picked out a row of half a dozen together that were unlighted and unhesitatingly went toward the center of the group.

He stopped in front of the door as though fumbling for a key, glanced right and left to be sure he was unobserved, then pulled the piece of steel spring from under his belt, rammed the narrow blade of it between the door and the facing, and put pressure on it until the flimsy lock yielded.

Inside, he closed the door and turned on a light to disclose a neat little room about twelve by fourteen feet in size, furnished with a couch and a couple of comfortable chairs. He opened a door across the room, disclosing a shower and toilet; an open archway led into a tiny kitchenette complete with gas plate and cooking utensils.

Shayne surveyed the brightly lighted interior of the one large room. An electric button on the inside door jamb caught his eye. The brass plate said Porter. He pressed the button and opened the jimmied door to let light shine through.

A few minutes later a hunched figure hurried down the boardwalk in front of the cabanas. He was an old man with a thatch of gray hair and a slight bump on his back. He wheezed gently as he stopped in front of Shayne.

Shayne blocked the doorway, the bandaged side of his face turned away from the man. “This is a hell of a note,” he began angrily. “Someone has broken the lock on this door while I was swimming, and stolen my clothes. Get Barbizon down here at once.” He pointed to the mark his steel spring had made on the door facing.

“Look here,” grunted the old man, “this here is Mr. Jamieson’s cabin and-”

“Of course it is,” said Shayne impatiently. “I’m Jamieson’s cousin and he loaned it to me. Get the manager down here in a hurry. And I want Arnold Barbizon in person,” he added harshly. “None of his hired help.”

The old man said, “Yessir. I’ll tell Mr. Barbizon right away. He’ll fix it right with you.” He turned and went away.

Shayne found a small paring knife and quickly unscrewed the brass Porter plate from the wall. The electric wires were exposed when he pulled it away. He cut one of them with the knife. He replaced the plate, then strolled over to a wall cabinet and investigated its contents. His face still hurt like hell, but the ache in his head had stopped though the lump on it was tender to the touch.

There was a bottle of Irish whisky, some gin and rye in the cabinet. Shayne had the cork out of the whisky bottle and was trickling some of it down his parched throat when footsteps sounded on the boardwalk and there was a sharp knock on the door.

It was jerked open instantly and Barbizon stepped inside, demanding impatiently, “What’s this I hear about-?”

Taking the bottle from his lips, Shayne asked, “What is it you’ve been hearing?”

“So it’s you,” Barbizon said curtly after his amazement vanished. “Smithy said-”

“Smithy didn’t lie to you,” said Shayne coldly. “He did a job on me but it wasn’t quite good enough. And I’ll crown you,” he warned swiftly, “with this bottle if you try to duck out that door or call anyone.”

The club manager moved aside and leaned his shoulder blades against the door jamb and asked, “What do you want?” He wriggled against the brass plate.

“I want to know who you were holding Mrs. Hudson’s IOU for.”

“Why does that matter now?” Barbizon hedged. “You’ve got it.”

“I want to know who was going to get the pay-off.”

Barbizon moved his shoulders back and forth as though he itched. “What do you mean by that? When someone loses money at my tables I generally do the collecting.”

Shayne walked over to him, the whisky bottle dangling from his left hand, and slapped Barbizon’s swarthy face. He kept his palm open but the force of his blow slammed the manager half off balance and made an angry red mark on his olive cheek. As he staggered erect, showing sharp white teeth in a snarl, Shayne told him flatly, “You’re going to talk. The longer it takes to get the truth out of you the better I’m going to like it.” He tilted the bottle and took another drink.

Barbizon’s eyes were blazing but he kept his voice steady. “You’ll pay for that. Nobody hits me-”

Shayne laughed and drove his right fist into Barbizon’s mouth. It smashed his full lips, which had the appearance of being rouged, back against his teeth, and blood trickled down his chin.

Barbizon staggered back, reached for a handkerchief, and held it against his mouth.

Shayne tilted the bottle again. He was beginning to feel lightheaded and happy. His gashed cheek didn’t hurt so much any more and he enjoyed the sight of blood seeping through Barbizon’s handkerchief.

The manager was crowded back in a corner and his eyes were like those of a crazed animal. He crouched suddenly and dropped his right hand into his coat pocket. It flashed out with a clasp knife, the long blade leaped open from the pressure of a spring, and he twisted sideways to drive the blade at Shayne’s belly.