Brett Halliday: Blood on Biscayne Bay

The driver grinned as he pulled away. “That dame didn’t seem very friendly-you letting her ride in the cab, and all. I figured you and her didn’t know each other when you got in back there.”

Shayne said, “We didn’t,” shortly, discouraging further probing by the driver.

It was eleven o’clock when he reached his apartment. He glared at the half-packed Gladstone on the table, poured a slug of cognac, drank it neat, and went into the bedroom. Fifteen minutes later he was sound asleep.

Shayne awoke at eight o’clock the next morning. He lay blinking at the ceiling for a moment, then tossed the covers back and padded into the living-room in his pajamas. A stiff breeze blowing in the two open windows had a late November chill so early in the morning, and he stopped to close them on his way to the kitchen.

He set a pot of coffee on the stove to brew, then went into the bathroom where he hurriedly shaved and showered. Wrapping a towel about his middle, he went back to the kitchen, pulled the percolator off the fire, and returned to the bedroom to dress.

He drank a cup of black coffee, poured another and added a generous amount of cognac, and settled himself comfortably with a cigarette. This morning routine was accomplished with a minimum of movement and of effort, and without conscious thought

Now, he frowned meditatively as he took a deep pull on his cigarette and took a stiff drink of the coffee royal. The events of the previous afternoon and evening came to him in rapid succession. His visit from Christine Hudson, the securing of her IOU from Arnold Barbizon, Angus Browne loitering in the Play-Mor bar, the girl in the taxi, her companion, and Timothy Rourke’s connection with her.

He finished his cigarette and the coffee royal, sat for a moment looking at the Gladstone, sprang up and started packing. He had kept his promise to Christine Hudson. Her IOU was safely scrapped and in his pocket He decided that he was making a mountain out of a molehill, and that the only thing left for him to do now was to deliver the IOU and her pearls. He stopped packing to go in the kitchen and get the pearls from the hydrator and put them in his pocket.

He came back and packed the last of his things, snapped the bag shut, and went down to the lobby to arrange to have it delivered to the airport by 11:30. He then went out and found a taxi, got in and directed the driver to 139 Magnolia Lane on the Beach.

The Hudson residence was an imposing structure by daylight, of Moorish and Spanish architecture in high favor during the early period of Miami Beach’s development. A vast expanse of terraced lawn spread out to the water’s edge, bordered on two sides with coco palms and Australian pines, and dotted with fern-bedecked fish ponds over which tiny decorative coral bridges were fashioned.

Shayne told the driver to wait, and went briskly up the walk to the door. The same middle-aged woman answered his ring. She smiled and told him to step inside when he asked for Mrs. Hudson. She led him into a spacious living-room and asked him to sit down. Then she went out.

Christine hurried into the room a few minutes later, her dark eyes glowing eagerly. Her hair was brushed back from her face, and except for a little blue bow tucked on one side, she looked slim and boyishly youthful in white linen slacks. She caught both his hands in hers when he got up and went to her.

“Hurry and tell me, Michael,” she implored. “I’ve been so worried. Is everything all right?”

He grinned down at her. “Everything is fine,” he assured her. He took the torn shreds of the IOU from his pocket, took one of her hands and held it palm upward, and crushed the mass into it. “You’d better burn these. But I thought you’d like to see them first, just for your own peace of mind.”

Christine sat down and spread the bits of paper out. “Oh,” she breathed, “I can’t tell you how much I thank you, Michael. I feel free again-and alive!” She looked up at him with shining eyes and a smile parting her lips. She crushed the papers into a little ball and put them in the pocket of her slacks.

Shayne said, “I’ve got something else for you.” He took the pearls from his coat pocket and dangled them before her.

She drew in a sharp breath and cried, “Oh, no!” Her face went white and one hand went to her throat. “No!” She shrank back in the chair as though he had struck her.

“What the hell!” he exclaimed. “I’m not doing anything but returning your property. Take them-and consider the whole thing a bad dream. It’s all settled.”

“But I don’t understand,” she moaned. “If you didn’t-how did you get the IOU back?”

“I persuaded Barbizon to give it to me,” Shayne said cheerfully. “It wasn’t very difficult. He didn’t-”

“Oh, God!” Christine covered her eyes with her hands and an agonized moan came from her throat. “Oh, you’ve ruined everything! Now I’ll never-”

The sharp ringing of the front doorbell interrupted her. She took her hands from her eyes and there was a frantic, hunted look in them. She sprang up and ran to the front door.

Shayne stared down at the pearls still dangling from his knobby forefinger, then quickly put them in his pocket. He turned to the door and saw Christine admit a tall, lean man with finely chiseled features. His light brown hair was thinning in front, and he was heavily tanned. A man, Shayne guessed, in his early thirties; athletically trim, and he walked with a springy step and with complete self-assurance.

He didn’t look in Shayne’s direction, but put his arm around Christine, held her close, and said gently, “You mustn’t worry, dear. It’s just that they’ve found Natalie.”

A slow, sardonic smile twisted Michael Shayne’s wide mouth when he saw the man who entered the room behind Leslie Hudson.

Peter Painter, Chief of the Miami Beach Detective Bureau, strutted past Christine and Leslie Hudson. His black eyes darted around the room, and a manicured forefinger went up to caress a threadlike black mustache, but stopped in mid-air as he saw, then glared incredulously at the tall redhead who lounged against a chair. Painter drew in a sharp, audible breath and said, “Shayne! By God, if I ever walked in on a case without finding you, I’d-” He clenched his fists and took two angry steps forward.

Leslie Hudson turned with his arm around Christine. “This is Chief Painter,” he told her. “When I telephoned him from my office to report Natalie’s disappearance, he asked me to come right over.”

Shayne stepped forward and Christine said, “Leslie, this is Michael Shayne. You remember my telling you about Phyllis-”

Leslie Hudson held out his hand and said, “Of course. How do you do, Mr. Shayne.”

“I’m leaving town today,” said Shayne, taking the other’s hand, “and dropped in to say good-by and wish Christine luck.”

“You’re acquainted with Chief Painter, of course,” Hudson said.

“We’ve met.” He let go of Hudson’s hand and stepped back. “Don’t let me interrupt anything. I have to catch a plane for New Orleans at noon.” He glanced aside at Christine’s miserable face.

“We don’t want to prevent that,” said Chief Painter. “You haven’t too much time to get to the airport.”

“I’ve a taxi waiting,” Shayne assured him easily. “What’s this about someone being missing?”

“Natalie, our maid,” Hudson explained. “She didn’t come in last night and we became worried this morning. I phoned the police and Chief Painter tells me-” He broke off with an inquiring glance at the chief.

Christine stepped back from her husband, her dark eyes fearful. She caught Shayne’s eye and pressed a finger to her lips, motioning him frantically for silence.