Brett Halliday: Blood on Biscayne Bay

Shayne twisted at the same instant and smashed the whisky bottle down on Barbizon’s forearm. The knife clattered to the floor and a shrill scream of pain was partially smothered by the handkerchief pressed against his mouth. His right hand dangled limply from a broken wrist.

“That’s just the beginning,” Shayne told him in the same flat, impersonal tone he’d used before.

“I don’t know. I’d tell you if I did. God help me, Shayne, don’t you see I’d tell you?”

Shayne took a step forward, swinging the bottle.

“I tell you I don’t know,” he moaned. “I get a phone call. I don’t know who from. It says I’ll get a ten grand marker from this dame and to hang onto it for a twenty-eighty split when she buys it back. I don’t see why not. So I hang onto it. Till last night. That’s all I know. I swear it is. God in heaven, I got to have a doctor for this wrist.”

“You didn’t bother to get a doctor for me when your men dumped me a while ago,” snarled Shayne. He stood over the cowering man for a moment, considering his reply. It could be, he reluctantly conceded. Whoever was blackmailing Christine wouldn’t necessarily tip his hand to a go-between. It had to be someone who knew Barbizon. Someone who trusted him to make the twenty-eighty split when she paid off. But until the pay-off, it wouldn’t do him any good to come out in the open.

Shayne said, “I ought to kick your teeth in. Tell Smithy I’ll save that for him next time we meet.” He took another drink of whisky, put the bottle back in the cabinet and strode to the door and out onto the beach.

Shayne trotted down the beach and into the water. He swam easily and strongly toward the corner of the club grounds where Ira Wilson’s taxi awaited him.

Shayne didn’t waste time putting his clothes on. He was dripping wet and he didn’t know how long it would be before Barbizon could get his men out to look for him. He backed around and headed out to the pavement, drove back toward the business section of Miami Beach as fast as he dared.

He was pretty well dried out by the time he parked in front of the side entrance to the Blackstone.

He gathered up his clothing and got out, crossed the sidewalk and went in the side entrance and climbed the rear stairs to the floor above. He padded down the hall to the door of Timothy Rourke’s apartment and knocked.

Rourke opened the door and looked at him with twitching lips. He was stooped and pitiably thin, and his face was that of a sick man. His eyes looked dead and his voice sounded dead. “Oh. It’s you?”

Shayne asked, “Can I come in, Tim?”

“I suppose so. Been swimming?”

“Yeh.”

Rourke closed the door and asked politely but without any real interest or concern, “How’d you hurt your face?”

“I cut myself shaving.” He turned slowly and looked evenly into Rourke’s eyes and said, “I’m sorry, Tim.”

“It’s done now.”

“No it isn’t. We’ve been friends for ten years.”

“That’s why it’s over now,” said Timothy Rourke remotely.

Shayne said, “A man says things sometimes-when he knows he shouldn’t.”

“To hell with it.”

Shayne moved closer to him. “Things were the other way around once,” he reminded the reporter. “About four years ago. A girl got herself strangled in my bedroom.”

Rourke was silent. He didn’t look up.

“You and Gentry walked in on me,” Shayne went on. “Two of the best friends I ever had. Gentry walked out after telling me to get down on my belly and shake hands with the next skunk I met. You read me a sermon and started to walk out on me.”

Rourke looked up at him. “What the hell was I supposed to believe? You put yourself on the spot that time-pretending you were drunk with a girl in your bed the minute Phyllis turned her back.”

“You hated me for it because we were friends. Otherwise you wouldn’t have given a damn.”

“That’s right.”

“Okay,” said Shayne wearily. “That’s why I jumped you about those photostats today. That other time, I didn’t let you walk out when a word was all that was needed to clear it up.”

“So?” Rourke’s dark eyes no longer looked as though they belonged to a dead man.

“I know you’re not a blackmailer, Tim. I knew it all along.”

Rourke stood up and thrust out a bony hand and admitted, “I tried to call you about an hour ago.”

Shayne took his hand. “It’d help a lot if I knew who stole your photostats.”

“They weren’t stolen. After you left I went through every drawer in the damned place. They were in the linen closet under some towels.”

“Then how in hell-” He paused, clawing at his damp hair. “I’m sticky with salt water. Mind if I use your shower?”

“Go ahead.” Rourke grinned sheepishly. “I’ll go out and get us a bottle. I’ve been on the wagon ever since you left here a few hours ago.”

Shayne started to say something, hesitated, his eyes going over Timothy Rourke’s body, then said, “Better go easy for a while, Tim. You need to get some meat on your bones. You can’t do it drinking your meals.” He grinned and turned toward the bathroom.

Inspecting himself in the mirror, he decided there had been times when he looked worse, but he couldn’t remember when. He loosened the ends of the adhesive tape, jerked off the bandage with one swift movement.

He grimaced at his reflection, stripped off the bathing trunks and stepped under the shower.

Rourke reclined on the couch when Shayne came from the bathroom fully dressed. He sat down beside the reporter and said, “Now we know there were two sets of photostats. But Hampstead swears only one set was made-for you. How about that?” he went on sharply. “Hampstead also says you got a set as payment for your help in locating the letters-that you demanded them from Browne as your price for putting him wise.”

“Hampstead lies,” Rourke told him calmly. “I didn’t put Browne wise. I’d never heard of the deal until he invited me to go along. Of course I wanted copies if I could get them.”

Shayne tugged thoughtfully at his ear lobe. “There’s something screwy about this. Hampstead isn’t the sort of guy to abet blackmail. Yet he swears they made only one set of stats. Let’s see the ones you’ve got,” he added sharply.

Rourke got up and went into the bedroom. He returned in a moment with four photostatic sheets and handed them to Shayne.

The detective glanced at them and stiffened. “These are negatives,” he pointed out. “White on black.”

“That’s right,” Rourke said easily. “I remember now. Browne asked me if I minded having negatives rather than positives and I told him it didn’t matter to me either way.”

“The photostats used by the blackmailer were positive prints,” Shayne explained. “I should have thought about that as soon as I saw them. There had to be a set of negatives before the positives could be made. Some shops keep the negatives in their possession when you order a set of positives, and others give both sets to the customer.”

“Do you think Browne got the other set? That he’s the blackmailer, Mike?”

“Could be. He probably does a lot of business with the photostat firm and could have gone back later for the second set without Hampstead’s knowledge.”

“Or someone in the shop could have got hep and knocked out another set for his own use,” Rourke pointed out.

Shayne drummed blunt fingertips on the table, then lifted the receiver and called his hotel. The operator told him she had not yet received the long distance call for Angus Browne. Shayne had her connect him with the clerk.

“Mike Shayne,” he said to the clerk. “Do you remember the woman who was waiting for me when I came in this afternoon?”