Brett Halliday: Murder Takes No Holiday

He threw up his hands. Then he said gruffly, “There’s no new fracture. Your guardian angel was looking out for you, it seems. There’s been a slight splintering of one of the bone-ends, but I think the new tape will hold you together. Now please, Mike. Take it easy. Take a vacation. I don’t want the job of pulling bone splinters out of one of your lungs. Now will you get out of here?”

“Gladly,” Shayne said, walking to the door. “Thanks for the grease job.”

“And don’t come back!” Dr. Sanborn shouted.

Jack Malloy, the customs agent, was outside in the waiting room. He closed a magazine as Shayne came out, and stood up.

“I thought I’d find you here, Mike,” he said. “What’s bothering old sourpuss?”

“He thinks I ought to take a vacation,” Shayne said, grinning.

“I’m driving down to the office, Mike. Mind coming along?”

“If it doesn’t take more than half an hour. I’m picking up Martha Slater for dinner.”

Malloy gave him a peculiar look, and Shayne said, “What’s the matter, hear anything about Slater?”

They went out of the waiting room, and Malloy punched for the down elevator. “He’s dead, Mike. He went out around noon. He was only conscious for a few minutes after he made the hospital.”

“Well, I had it figured,” Shayne said heavily. “Did he do any talking?”

“A little, all pretty wild. The police stenographer got some of it. A French girl, Vivienne something-or-other, was with him right through.”

Shayne rubbed his forehead. “I’ll have to break it to Martha. It’s going to be rough.”

The elevator was crowded, and they didn’t speak again until they were outside in Malloy’s official Chevy.

Shayne said, “How about that welcoming committee at the airport this morning? Who told you we were coming?”

“We have our sources,” Malloy said vaguely, wheeling out from the curb to join the Biscayne Boulevard traffic.

“I wouldn’t have guessed it,” Shayne said dryly. “And what was the theory behind that shake-down your boys gave us? You thought Slater gave Martha something to carry?”

“You never know. All the tip said was that something hot was coming in from St. Albans. No names mentioned. But if you want me to relieve your mind, I can tell you now that there wasn’t a thing on that damn plane that didn’t belong there. That goes for Martha, for you and the pilot. It goes for the plane itself. We’ve been over it with a magnifying glass.”

“So no informer’s fee,” Shayne said, glancing at him. “Tough.”

Malloy turned right on Flagler. After several more blocks he slid into a no-parking slot in front of an office building.

“Incidentally,” he said as they were entering the lobby, “Slater left a sealed envelope with the check-room attendant at the airport. Gave him a couple of pounds and said he’d be back later to pick it up. If he didn’t show, the guy was supposed to hand it in person to a local cop. Sergeant Brannon, did you run into him?”

“God, yes,” Shayne said ruefully.

“After he was shot, Slater either forgot it, or he decided to let it ride. It was a confession that he and Alvarez killed Albert Watts for informing. It’s in Slater’s handwriting, and there’s no doubt it’s authentic. Alvarez is in jail, hollering frame-up. I gathered from Brannon’s tone of voice that as far as he’s concerned, the case is closed.”

“Yeah,” Shayne said. “He and Alvarez aren’t what you’d call close friends.”

“What does that mean? That you think the confession’s a phony?”

“Hell, Jack,” Shayne said irritably. “I know what Slater told Alvarez about it, and I’ll pass it on to Brannon. Those boys were trying to out-guess each other, and how much truth there was in it, I don’t know.”

They rode up rapidly in the elevator, and Shayne followed the customs agent to a door marked U. S. Treasury, Customs Division. Malloy had to use his key; it was 5:30, after civil service hours. He had a pleasant corner office looking out on the river.

The first thing he did was take a bottle of cognac and two glasses out of a file.

“You expected me,” Shayne said.

“Hell, I’m getting to like the stuff.”

Shayne sat down at one end of a leather sofa. Malloy splashed cognac into the two glasses and handed one of them to Shayne. Pushing papers aside, he perched on the desk.

“I’ve been brooding about this all afternoon, Mike, and it still doesn’t make sense. Here’s something else I picked up from Sergeant Brannon on the phone. He found a dummy attic in the Alvarez nightclub-”

“I told him about it,” Shayne said, drinking.

“He didn’t mention that,” Malloy said. “In fact, I got the feeling that if you ever go back to St. Albans without an honor guard of U. S. Marines, he’s going to nail your hide to the barn door. Well, he went over the attic and found one interesting thing-a little folded square of tissue paper. It may not mean anything, but that’s the way diamond dealers usually carry their stones. Anyway. You had a chance to watch Paul Slater in action, Mike. What do you think? Was he the one who creamed Alvarez, with the monkey wrench, and if so, what did he do with the goddamn loot? You didn’t hear a car, which means he probably got away on a bicycle. He had to plant the stuff somewhere, get out of the neighborhood, pick up a taxi and get to the airport by a quarter to twelve. That’s a lot to do in twenty-five minutes.”

“It’s too much,” Shayne said, “and I don’t think he did it. I’ve got to be going in a minute, so let’s leave it at that. He was too clever for his own good. Somebody found out about the way he set up his dates with Alvarez, and after that it was a cinch to highjack the shipment. If he’d really taken that plane at midnight, Alvarez would have been sure he did it. The real thief wouldn’t have to worry.”

“You’re a big help.”

“It means you’re still in business,” Shayne told him. “That shipment is still on the way, and you may catch it. I’m finished with it. It’s not too neat, I admit, and all I’ve earned so far is one British pound. But from this point on it’s up to you and the St. Albans cops, and I wish you lots of luck.”

“Thanks,” Malloy said dryly. “You surprise me, Mike. I never knew you to cop out before all the answers were in. Do you want to hear the junk Slater was spouting before he went under?”

“O.K.,” Shayne said, lighting a cigarette. “Just the high spots.”

Malloy picked up a folder. “It’s nothing but high spots. The stenographer didn’t get all of it. All right, Slater speaking. A plane goes over. ‘There they go. She should have married him. Not Shayne, not the husband type, but somebody like him, somebody sure. I did it all. I twisted her, I steered her. All wrong.’”

After two puffs, Shayne crushed out his cigarette. Almost at once he felt blindly for another.

Malloy looked up. “Nervous, Mike?”

“Who wouldn’t be nervous? I told Martha I’d keep her husband out of trouble. I didn’t do such a hell of a good job of it, did I? I don’t look forward to telling her she’s a widow. Go on, or is that all?”

“There’s more of the same. You can have it-I made two copies. I’m surprised he did even that much talking with three. 38 holes in him.”

Shayne looked up. He said sharply, “Say that again. Three. 38 holes?”

“So Brannon said. Only one of the slugs was still inside.” He added: “But don’t worry about breaking the news to Martha.”

Shayne’s voice was dangerously soft. “What do you mean by that?”

“Where were you going to pick her up, at her hotel?” Malloy said, watching him. “She won’t be there.”