Brett Halliday - Murder Takes No Holiday

Shayne swung off the bike and propped it against the gate post. He was stiff and saddlesore.

“Make it a motorcycle next time. They’re noisier, but they go faster. Brannon damned near caught me.”

Powys laughed. Shayne limped up the path onto the porch. Powys was holding the door.

“You didn’t mislay my fish-sticker, I hope?”

“No, it’s out in the basket.”

“Right. They cost a goodish bit of money, actually. I’ll just put the bike undercover, in case we have a visitor in the shape of the good Sergeant Brannon. Make yourself a drink.”

“Thanks,” Shayne said. “I don’t know about you-you were pretty stoned the last time I saw you.”

“When I saw that spear pointed at my head I sobered up in a hurry.”

He went out. The furniture was arranged in much the same way as in Shayne’s own cottage. A bottle of Johnny Walker and several unopened splits of soda were set out on the coffee table beside the tape-recorder. Shayne poured some Scotch into a glass and sat down in an easy chair, stretching his legs.

When Powys came back Shayne said, “How about Brannon? Was it hard to persuade him the whole thing was a big mistake?”

“Damn hard.” The Englishman’s pipe had gone out. He tamped down the tobacco and lit a match. “But I’m well known to be somewhat eccentric. Balmy, you know, but harmless. He was too mad at you to be entirely rational. The tire, you know-I’m afraid that still sticks in his craw. That was a little too much. He’s not a complete fool, and on the off-chance that he may still pop around to ask me what I was doing in front of the Half Moon in the first place, I think we’d better sit in the dark.”

“All right with me,” Shayne said.

Powys turned off the lamps, and Shayne heard him sit down. Another match flared, lighting up the Englishman’s sad, bony face.

“And what were you doing in front of the Half Moon?” Shayne said.

“Ah, Mike. Mind if I call you Mike?”

“Go ahead.”

“Let’s put that question aside for the time being. What we have to determine, I take it, is where Alvarez has taken the Slaters.”

Shayne was no longer surprised by anything Powys said. He sat forward.

“You’ve been sticking pretty close to me all day. You didn’t just happen to go bonefishing this morning-or hell, yesterday morning by now. You went so you could keep an eye on me. You tailed me to the Camel’s nightclub. When the cops were about to put me out of circulation, you took care of it, and you did it very well. To a certain extent I have to trust you. But I’ll feel more comfortable if I know your angle.”

Even with the lights on, Shayne probably would have detected no change in the Englishman’s expression. His tone remained the same, casual and offhand.

“My-? Yes, I see what you mean. Why should a bloke like me care who smuggles what, or who murdered my insignificant compatriot Watts? Mike, I’m dreadfully afraid I’m not free to tell you. Can’t stop you from speculating, of course. I might be working for some kind of a hush-hush outfit. These illegal trade routes are used for other things besides goods, you know-agents, propaganda. I’m not the cloak-and-dagger type, actually, but you’d have no way of knowing that.”

He thought a moment, and suggested, “Or I might be working for the British diamond people. The London syndicate is deeply pained-where it hurts, you know, in the pocketbook-by the known fact that illegal stones somehow find their way from the South African black market to dealers in New York. Or it might be that I’m nothing but a student of human nature. Heaven knows I’m seeing quite a bit of it this evening. That last doesn’t sound too likely either, does it? My point is, does it matter?”

“Maybe not,” Shayne said, drinking. “How did you know you’d find me at the Half Moon?”

“It was really rather simple. As you surmised, my visit to the Pirate’s Rendezvous this evening wasn’t wholly anthropological in nature, although in point of fact I got some rather interesting material. I chiefly went to keep you company. You disappeared into the owner’s office. Various people walked in and out, including a party of police, but you didn’t appear again. When I investigated, I found that the office was empty. You had left by the window. That seemed to be that. I came back here, feeling disappointed and left out, and prepared to call it a night. Before long a car drove up and what did I see but Mike Shayne assisting the Camel himself into his cottage. The Camel seemed to be in a rather bad way. I nipped across to look in the window, and saw the Camel picking up the phone in your bedroom. Needless to say, I nipped right back. All our phones here are extensions of the one in the Lodge, so it was no trick at all to hear what he said. He mentioned the Half Moon as your destination, and as soon as you left, I set out after you on bicycle. I took the spear on the off-chance. Well, I saw two cars in front of the hotel and I pulled into the bushes to wait. I waited quite a time. Then there was a disturbance behind the hotel. Somebody whistled. The Camel and several others charged around the building. I heard what I thought was a shot.”

“It was a shot,” Shayne said grimly.

Powys went on, “The Camel and his men came out dragging Mrs. Slater. It was hard for me to see, but it didn’t seem that you were with them. After that there were some very peculiar noises, as though some poor damned soul was beating his head against an oil drum from inside. Before I could investigate, the police arrived. I’ve never been fond of officials, of whatever stripe, and it gave me considerable amusement to let the air out of one of their tires. Then they marched you out, and I thought I should take a hand. Help yourself to the whiskey.”

Shayne felt carefully along the top of the coffee table until his fingers fastened on the bottle. He uncapped it and poured by ear.

“You don’t have any idea where this place in the country is?”

“Not the foggiest,” Powys said cheerfully.

“You heard both ends of those phone calls. That was Slater’s girl he was talking to, as you probably gathered. She did a lot of the talking. Did she-?”

The Englishman interrupted. “The easiest thing would be to see what you think yourself. I was mulling it over before you came. I’d just about put together a tentative conclusion, but I’d like to see if you concur. The fact of the matter is, as soon as the Camel started talking I thought I’d turn on the tape so I’d have a record of it, if it came to that.”

Shayne’s eyebrows rose in the darkness. “I’m glad we’re working the same side of the street,” he said with a short laugh. “I’d hate to have you for an enemy. Let’s hear it.”

“Strike a match, that’s a good chap.”

Shayne felt for his matches. He lit one on his thumb-nail, and before it burned all the way down, the Englishman had found the spot on the tape where Alvarez, the phone in Shayne’s bedroom off the hook, was telling the detective to go to the other room and bring him some ice cubes in a towel.

Shayne blew out the match and settled back. He heard the Camel give the operator a number.

“That’s the nightclub, by the way,” Powys put in.

A voice said hello. Apparently recognizing the voice, Alvarez began speaking in Spanish.

“Do you understand what he’s saying?” Shayne asked.

Powys adjusted the volume and translated the quick flow of question and answer. “First of all, are the police still there? Yes, he is told. One, posted at the front entrance. How about the people who were taken in for questioning? Have they returned? Only Al, whoever he is. An American. The police didn’t want to take a chance on holding him longer. Then Alvarez says to bring Vivienne to the phone, and from now on it is in English.”