Brett Halliday: Murder Takes No Holiday

“I see you’ve given it considerable thought,” Shayne said.

“Indeed I have. Unless you develop a personal theory about this murder, you might as well withdraw entirely from social intercourse. I’m a great reader of mystery stories, actually. It’s more or less my vice. If you run out of reading matter while you’re here, I have quite an extensive collection at the Lodge. Of course my taste inclines to the Agatha Christie school, and I know you Americans are likely to want a little more raw meat in your diet.”

Shayne grinned down at her, which flustered her a little.

“Well, don’t you?” she said. “Did I say something wrong?” She looked at her wristwatch. “Good grief, as late as that? I have a thousand things to do before dinner. Now if you want for anything, don’t hesitate to ask. We want to make your stay comfortable.”

Shayne saw her to the door, then set about making his stay as comfortable as he could by himself. He threw his coat at one chair, his tie at another. He took off his shoes and socks, and sent them in four different directions. By this time the room had begun to look as though someone was living in it. Padding into the bedroom, he opened his suitcase and looked dubiously at the colorful sportswear which Lucy Hamilton had considered suitable for a tropical vacation. Most men Shayne had seen so far on the island had been wearing shorts, but he decided to put that off as long as possible. He pulled out the bottle of cognac he had bought at the airport (the low price in dollars had been a pleasant surprise), and took it to the kitchenette. He slid an ice-tray out of the little refrigerator unit, found two glasses and filled one with ice water.

He took the bottle and the glasses to the terrace on the ocean side of the cottage, picking up the Island Times on the way. He sank into one of the long outdoor chairs and poured himself a drink. He tasted the cognac, sipped at the ice water and looked out at the palms, the white sand and the sparkling blue water. A sailboat tacked across the entrance to the bay. A half dozen fishing boats were coming in. An American family, two grown-ups and two children, had a little encampment at the end of the beach belonging to the cottage colony. The children were digging madly. There was activity beyond, in the sand in front of a resort hotel. Brilliant flowers grew amid the palms.

The chair was comfortable, and Shayne felt himself beginning to relax. He sat up straight with an effort, drank some cognac and reached for the Island Times.

For a moment his eye lingered on the fishing ads. These were illustrated with eloquent photographs of unimpressive-looking fishermen holding up some really impressive fish. Because of the state of his ribs, the game-fish had nothing to fear from Shayne on this trip, but he promised himself that he would get in some light-line bone-fishing if it killed him. He would have a full day before the Wanted fliers arrived.

He reluctantly turned back to the first page, to the account of the murder. In an instant he was completely absorbed.

Fifteen minutes later he laid the paper aside and poured himself more cognac. He sampled it thoughtfully, his red brows close together. He looked in the paper again to check an address. Then he took another look around at the pleasant scene, tossed off his drink and swung his feet down from the long chair. It cost him a considerable effort. Turning his back on the beach, he went into the cottage and gathered up his shoes and socks. He put them on. He changed into the least colorful of the sports shirts; perhaps, he thought, it was just barely flamboyant enough so he wouldn’t be conspicuous.

He walked out past the Lodge to Bayview Road. He was looking for 1306? and after the second house he saw that he had started in the wrong direction. He strolled on a little farther, looked idly at the view, turned and came back. Passing the Lodge again, he walked past a succession of small suburban villas set in neat gardens. Soon he came to a sign on a picket fence that said: “Journey’s End,” and beneath that, A. Watts.”

A. Watts had indeed reached his journey’s end on St. Albans, Shayne reflected. He opened the gate, and was immediately attacked by a small, furious dog, which circled him, yapping wildly and making quick darts at his ankles, until a very fat woman appeared on the front porch and called sternly, “Georgette! Mind your manners!”

She must have weighed two hundred and fifty pounds, which she balanced on small feet in very high heels. Her features seemed almost dainty amid the rolls of fat. Her hair was up in metal curlers.

Shayne advanced up the flagstone path between neatly arranged flower beds. He raised his voice to be heard above the dog’s yapping. “Mrs. Watts? My name is Shayne. I’m-”

She looked at him petulantly out of her blue dolls’ eyes. “I can’t hear you.”

“I’d like to talk to you privately, if you don’t mind.”

“Georgette!” she said with pretended fierceness, putting her hands on her hips. “Will you hush? Get inside and be quiet.”

She shooed the dog into the house. “Now start all over,” she said to Shayne. “I didn’t hear one word you said. People have been trooping in and out all week, and that animal is a bundle of nerves. The doctor says she’ll calm down with the passing of time.”

The redhead began again. “My name is Michael Shayne. I’m from the International Police Association, and I’ve been sent down to look into your husband’s death. There are some rather odd angles, it seems to us, and frankly we aren’t at all satisfied with the way the local police are conducting the investigation.”

“Nor am I,” she snapped. “It’s obvious that-” A man passed on a bicycle, and she lowered her voice. “Come inside, Mr. Shayne. This neighborhood is full of snoops.”

She waddled into the house. The dog followed silently.

“I’m glad to see you’ve decided to behave, Georgette,” Mrs. Watts said. “That’s my darling. I was just taking a solitary cup of tea, Mr. Shayne. I hope you’ll join me?”

“I’ve already had tea, thanks,” Shayne lied.

“One more cup of good tea never hurt anybody.”

The furniture in the little living room was covered with flowered chintz, and little knickknacks of china and shell stood on every available inch of surface. Shayne moved carefully, to avoid knocking anything over. Mrs. Watts went to a shelf for another cup. The tea things were spread out on a low table in front of the sofa, the pot hidden beneath a quilted tea-cozy.

Mrs. Watts lowered herself to the sofa. This seemed to be her usual resting-place, for that end of the sofa was badly sprung. Shayne pulled up a straight chair. He refused sugar and cream, and watched his hostess take both.

“Is that the way you like it?” she inquired. “A little more water?”

Shayne took a sip, managing not to make a face. “This is just right. Mrs. Watts-”

“Try one of my little cakes,” she urged him. “I know I ought to be watching my calories, but now that Albert is gone, I’ve decided to stop torturing myself. Because what’s the use? I was sitting here feeling perfectly miserable, and all of a sudden I said to myself, ‘Daphne, old girl, fling caution to the winds. Pull up your socks and get out the cookbook.’ I feel almost sinful, and I find that a most stimulating sensation.”

She giggled and popped a small cake into her mouth. Her face worked for a moment, like a quicksand bog swallowing an unwary mouse. A drop of chocolate appeared at the corner of her mouth. Her tongue darted out and got it.

Holding the tiny cup and saucer in his large hand, Shayne patiently started over. “In the first place, Mrs. Watts, sooner or later the local police will have to know I’m here, but the longer I can work independently, the better. Don’t tell anybody you’ve talked to me.”