Brett Halliday: Murder Takes No Holiday

He stopped dead as he saw Shayne. His glance jumped from the soles of the redhead’s shoes to the gun beside them, and back at Shayne’s face.

“Come on in,” Shayne told him. He nudged the bottle of rum with one foot. “Have a drink of your own liquor. It’s not bad.”

“Who are you?” Alvarez demanded in a high voice.

“And not only that. What am I doing in your private office without an invitation? Sit down and I’ll tell you about it.” When Alvarez hesitated, Shayne said politely, “Does the gun bother you?”

Leaning forward suddenly, he picked up the. 45 and tossed it to the nightclub owner. Caught by surprise, Alvarez dropped it. He snatched it up from the floor and pointed it. The redhead was pleased to see that it wavered slightly.

“But I’ve got the clip,” Shayne said, “so don’t start giving me any orders. Your bar-man may have told you that I’m carrying a modest bankroll. I don’t know how you people operate, but I hear the town is a little warm. So I hope you won’t get any idea about taking it away from me.”

Alvarez checked the gun to see if it was actually empty. He came forward and dropped it on the desk. Then he whipped out a pair of black-rimmed glasses, put them on and stared at Shayne. The redhead grinned at him.

“I want some transportation,” he said. “I didn’t think anybody knew me on St. Albans, but it seems there’s a sheet going around with my picture on it. I want to get back to the States in a hurry. It’s a little cramped here. I’ll go as high as fifteen hundred. Dollars, not pounds.”

Alvarez thrust his glasses back in his pocket. He folded his lips primly, and poured several fingers of rum into the glass Shayne had decided not to use.

“What makes you think-”

“Come on, amigo,” Shayne said impatiently. “What do you want, references?”

Alvarez sloshed the rum around in the bottom of his glass without drinking it. “It is true, I go here and there about the island, I hear of such things being done. People have boats. I have a boat myself. But for fifteen hundred?”

“It’s not like hustling aliens,” Shayne said. “I’m a citizen. Somebody takes me out deep-sea fishing and we get lost. I don’t know what connections you’ve got. Maybe we run into a deep-sea boat out of Miami or Key West, accidentally on purpose. Do I have to draw you a diagram?”

Alvarez looked at his watch again, and his mouth twitched. “I must give this a little thought. Please excuse me for the moment. Watch my excellent international floorshow. Come back in one half hour, and we will discuss it. Of course I will want to know who wants you, and for what. That will have a bearing.”

Shayne stood up with a muffled exclamation. “You’re as jittery as a virgin on her first date. Why I want to go fishing is my own business. Do you want the fifteen hundred or not? If not, say so and I’ll try somebody else. I’ve got a couple of other names.”

Before the Camel could answer the phone rang. He looked at Shayne and picked it up.

“Yes… What? Coming here? Yes, yes. Of course I want to hear it…” His eye rested on Shayne as the voice rasped on at the other end of the line, no doubt reading Shayne’s description from the Wanted flier. When the voice stopped, Alvarez said crisply, “I do not know him, so there is no problem. Call me later.”

He put the phone back as there was a quick double-knock at the door. A waiter put his head in, called something in Spanish and ducked back out. Alvarez gave Shayne an unfriendly look, consulted his watch again and swore under his breath.

“Your name is Shayne, and may you fry in hell. The police are here looking for you. Say twenty-five hundred dollars.”

Shayne hesitated. “O.K. You seem to have me over a barrel.”

“Get up on the desk,” Alvarez told him. “Quickly.”

Shayne looked at the ceiling, a checkerboard of squares of masonite wallboard. Alvarez made an impatient motion, and the redhead did as he’d been told.

“Now reach up,” Alvarez said. “Press. A little more toward me.”

Shayne pushed upward with both hands, his fingers spread. A section made up of four of the masonite squares gave way under the pressure.

“Now through,” Alvarez said, wiping his face with a silk handkerchief. “Hurry.”

Michael Shayne pushed the loose section out of the way, then stooped for the bottle of rum and passed it through. He tested the sides of the opening, and swung himself up, feeling a stab of pain in his chest as he put his weight on his arms. Pulling his legs up, he rolled off to one side. He was in a low air-space, some three feet high at its highest point. He worked the trap-door back into place.

Alvarez said beneath him, “If they come in here, please be careful and do not move. Even the smallest movement can be heard.”

The office door opened and closed. A thin line of light came through the cracks around the trap door, and Shayne saw a shallow wooden box, pushed back against the front wall. He listened carefully. Hearing nothing, he changed position and struck a match. The box was fitted with a hasp and a padlock, and the lock hung open. He hitched himself forward till he could reach it. The match burned his fingers. He shook it out and struck another.

When he satisfied himself that the box was empty, he took a long pull at the rum, screwed the cap back on and settled down to wait.

Five minutes later he heard the door open in the office beneath him. The Camel’s voice said, “But search, by all means. Look in the wastebasket, under the rug. Here is a bottle of ink. Perhaps I am hiding a genii in it.”

There were sounds of movement. A chair scraped. Shayne, above, was being careful to lie very still.

A British voice said, “Very well, he is not here. You were warned. This is becoming monotonous. I have suspected that one of our people is secretly on your payroll. Would such a thing be possible, do you think?”

“A policeman? In the pay of the notorious Luis Alvarez, who owns a nightclub? A shocking suggestion, Sergeant.”

“I agree with you, and one worth investigating.”

“I do not understand any of this,” Alvarez said. “Tell me who you are looking for, and perhaps I can help you.”

“I’m sure you could help me,” the sergeant said sarcastically, “but somehow I don’t think you will. We’re looking for an American named Michael Shayne. I wouldn’t say he’s the type of person you’d forget seeing, however briefly. His red hair, for example, should make an identification easy. Tall. The look of a heavyweight fighter. Amazingly enough, your bartender and your waiters can’t recall if they served such a man or not. Fortunately some of your customers have better memories. They distinctly remember seeing him dancing with one of your entertainers.”

“Yes,” Alvarez said thoughtfully. “I think I do remember him. But if I had any connection with a man being sought by the police, I would not let him do anything as conspicuous as to dance with such a charming girl in such a daring dress.”

“That may be. That may be. Or it’s possible that you didn’t know he was wanted. I’ll give you a word of advice, Alvarez. I’ve got downwind of one or two of your small transactions lately. Business is business, and that kind of business doesn’t concern me much. I’ve passed on what I know to the American authorities, and if you want to take that as a warning, you’re welcome to it.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Alvarez said stiffly.

“I’m talking about smuggling, as you bloody well know. You’ve imported luxury items which you haven’t sold locally, and which I assume you haven’t been giving away. Smuggling doesn’t turn into a crime until the goods pass the American customs, and that’s out of my jurisdiction. But a man has been murdered, and that, Alvarez, is very much within my jurisdiction.”