Brett Halliday: Blood on Biscayne Bay

“I’ll say I do. She sailed out through the lobby half an hour ago looking mad enough to bust a gut.”

“What about the taxi driver you sent up? Have you seen him?”

“He followed her out five minutes later. Acted drunk and he was all scratched up. He claims somebody stole his cab that was parked outside.”

“Thanks,” Shayne said. He got to his feet and began to pace back and forth across the room, telling Rourke, “Things are beginning to shape up. Keep a tight hold on your set of photostats. I think they’ll be the basis of a hotter story than you think before many more hours.”

“What’s it all about, Mike?”

Shayne shook his red head indecisively, still striding up and down. “I won’t know all the answers until I get a call from New York.” He looked at his watch and sighed. “I haven’t got too much time. I’ve got to catch that midnight plane for New Orleans or I won’t have any secretary.” He dropped into a chair and rubbed his chin. “Do you remember the man who was with Natalie Briggs at the roulette table last night before she made up to you?”

Rourke frowned thoughtfully. “I didn’t pay much attention. Short and dark and ugly, wasn’t he? Seems to me I picked him for one I wouldn’t want my kid sister to run around with-if I had a kid sister.”

“He’s the one. Did you notice him around after she left?”

“I don’t think so. Seems to me I saw him whispering with that big bouncer-the one you went out with after you made your beef-and then I didn’t notice him any more.”

“He and Browne both seem to have disappeared about the same time. Someone was at the Play-Mor last night waiting for Christine Hudson to show up with ten thousand dollars. After my interview with Barbizon it wasn’t necessary for that person to wait any longer.”

Shayne was frowning and tugging at his ear lobe again. “Let’s take a ride over to Miami. I’m damned interested in what time Victor Morrison went out fishing last night.”

Rourke said, “Okay, I’ll get my crate.”

“No need for that. I’ve got a cab waiting by the side entrance.”

“You’ll go broke paying taxi fares,” Rourke protested as they went outside and down the back stairway.

“I came to that conclusion this afternoon, so I made other arrangements.” He waved toward the parked cab as they emerged through the doorway. “I’m driving my own now, so you’ll get cheap rates.”

Rourke said, “I’ll be damned. How’d you make the raise?”

“I paid a good price for the use of it,” Shayne assured him.

They reached the mainland and Shayne was turning north on Biscayne Boulevard when a police siren sighed softly behind them and a prowl car nosed up and edged them over to the curb.

A policeman jumped out and said harshly, “Okay, boys. This is the end of the buggy ride.” He opened the back door and jumped in, directing Shayne to follow the prowl car. “We’re going to Headquarters.”

Timothy Rourke grinned and settled back as Shayne wheeled the taxi to follow the police car back down the boulevard. “Just like old times. Have you got a couple of bodies concealed in the trunk of this thing?”

“Could be,” said Shayne. “Though I’m inclined to think it’s nothing more serious than a stolen car charge.”

“Just that?” Rourke snapped his fingers airily and turned to the officer in the back seat. “Is that what all this fuss is about? Just because my friend stole a hack?”

“Just keep on driving,” grunted the officer. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

They passed Flagler Street and turned on S. E. 1st, heading westward. Rourke straightened back in his seat and sighed. “Only thing I wish is that this had happened on the Beach where Peter Painter could get his claws on you. I haven’t seen you tangle with him for years.”

“You’re likely to see it tonight,” Shayne said sourly. He and Rourke got out and the officer joined them, saying briskly, “Right inside to the chief’s office.”

They went down a long corridor to Chief Will Gentry’s private office. Shayne pushed the door open and walked in without knocking. The cop pressed in behind him to report, “I picked these two up on the boulevard driving that stolen cab, Chief. The redhead was behind the wheel and this other one-”

“All right,” Gentry interrupted him. “Wait outside.”

“You could have borrowed a car from the Department,” Gentry told Shayne, “if you couldn’t afford taxi fares.”

Shayne grinned and eased one hip down on a corner of Gentry’s desk. “Did Wilson put up a squawk?”

“He’s been yelling his head off. Claims you fed him a mickey and stole his cab.”

Shayne’s grin widened. “Is he around?”

Gentry nodded He took the cigar from his mouth and rumbled, “You! Porter,” at the partially closed door.

It opened wider and the arresting officer stuck his head in.

“Bring in that cab driver. He’s waiting in front.” When the officer withdrew, Gentry asked Shayne fretfully, “Why didn’t you use your head when Wilson came to see you? I’ll have to give you to Painter now.”

Shayne nodded to Rourke. “That’s what you wanted isn’t it?” Turning back to Gentry, he said, “I gave Wilson my best liquor and tucked him in bed with a platinum blonde when I went out. What the hell else could I do to make him feel at home?”

The door opened and Ira Wilson came in. He was bareheaded and his clothing was badly rumpled. There were two long streaks of dried blood down his right cheek and his left eye was beginning to turn a liverish yellow. He stopped and glared at Shayne and said, “That’s him. He fed me knockout drops and stole my keys and my hack and cap.”

“Just a mild mixture of Cointreau and cognac,” Shayne assured him easily. “How’d you and the dame get along?”

“That hellcat!” raged Wilson. “I didn’t make no passes at her. Gawd! She acted like I was to blame for it all when I didn’t even know she was there till I woke up. Did she get at you, too?” he ended, staring at Shayne’s swollen and cut face.

“What’s this about a woman?” asked Gentry wearily. “Am I going to have to charge you with procuring, too?”

Shayne said, “You’d have as much chance of making it stick as car theft. I paid you plenty for the use of your cab,” he reminded Wilson sharply. “Were you too drunk to remember our agreement? I slipped you a hundred and twenty-five before you passed out. You didn’t raise any howl then about my using your cab.”

“You didn’t either,” blustered Wilson. “You gimme that money to-” He paused and glanced at Gentry, wetting his thick lips.

“He’s already spilled the whole story to us, Mike. He claims you tried to bribe him to keep quiet about last night. And after he passed out you slid the money in his pocket to incriminate him.”

Shayne said bleakly, “So that puts me on the spot.”

“Plenty,” Gentry agreed with a sigh. “He saw you go around the back of the Hudson house with the girl, and gives you ten minutes back there with her just about the time she was getting herself killed. Then you came running out looking scared and told him to drive like hell to Miami.”

Shayne looked at Wilson with deep disgust. “You really fixed things up.”

“Did you expect me to cover for you after puttin’ me in bed with that crazy dame and stealin’ my cab? What in hell’ll I tell my wife about these here scratches she gimme?”

“I’ll be worrying about you and your wife,” Shayne told him sardonically, “while I’m rotting in jail on a murder charge.” He turned back to Gentry. “Do you want my side of it?”

“What’s the use? It isn’t my case, Mike.”