Brett Halliday - Dolls Are Deadly

“What about De Luca-sometimes called by his initials, D. L.?”

“You mean the gangster? I’ve seen his name in the papers, that’s all.”

Shayne rose and looked down on Clarissa Milford’s smooth golden head. She was tall, but her bones were light and her waist was small and she gave the impression of delicate fragility. He moved his glance down, past breasts which made a firm thrust against the thin fabric of her blouse, to legs which could have modeled for a stocking ad, then returned to her face again. She was putting on lipstick, her blue eyes focused intently on the tiny vanity mirror. When she snapped it shut and looked up at him she seemed to be one of those rare feminine creatures without imperfection.

“Why should a woman as wholly lovely as you stick to a man who’s fool enough not to want her?” he asked impulsively.

The beginning smile left her lips. “I know I should have more pride, but it’s something I can’t help. I guess I’m a one-man woman, or abnormally possessive, or maybe just plain selfish. You know women like that, don’t you?”

“I do, but I don’t think you’re one of them.”

“I’m afraid I am. I have a strong streak of jealousy. It runs all through our family. My sister, Mabel, and I, and my mother and father-we were all jealous of each other at times. But, as far as Dan goes, I married him because I loved him, and no matter what he does or how little he cares for me, I can’t stop loving him. I know I can’t. I’ve tried.”

“Well, it’s nothing to be ashamed of.” Shayne’s gray eyes were gentle. “Though it does seem a waste.”

“No,” she said vehemently. “No, it isn’t. I know Dan’s good! And somehow I can’t really believe he doesn’t love me still. Or maybe it’s only that I can’t accept it,” she finished sadly.

Shayne patted her arm and walked with her through the outer office. She smiled at him softly before the door closed behind her.

Lucy swung around in her chair, looking up at the redhead with hard, brown eyes. “May I ask you a question, Michael Shayne?”

“Sure, angel. Shoot.”

“Why should a woman as wholly lovely as I am stick to a man who regards her only as a piece of office equipment?”

Shayne grinned crookedly. “Because you love him, eavesdropper.”

“I do not love you and I was not eavesdropping! You purposely left the door open so I could hear you.”

“You misjudge me, Lucy. And besides, this enterprise holds you in higher esteem than it does a piece of office equipment.”

“This enterprise!” She sniffed.

Shayne leaned over her desk and bent to rest his cheek on her silky brown hair. “I’m sorry, angel. I was planning on a little extra-office activity tonight, starting with dinner at Luigi’s, but this other woman came along.”

“That wholly lovely one? And you liked her better?”

“Impossible. But she needs me more. Being needed is very important to a man.”

“To a woman, too.” Lucy sighed. “Imagine having a man all to one’s self. A man who wasn’t pulled in six directions at once.”

“That’s pure selfish imagining. Anyway, I’m not pulled in six directions. Only yours and Clarissa’s. And if I had my choice, I’d take yours.”

“Get Bill Martin on the phone, please, angel,” Shayne said.

“The private detective?” Lucy asked incredulously. “He’s your competition.”

“I resent that. He’s a rank newcomer, just hung out his shingle. I’m not even sure he can handle a tailing job.”

Lucy riffled through the phone book indignantly. “I get the complete picture now. Two people brought you voodoo dolls today. In fact, Mr. Henlein brought you two. But you wouldn’t even give him time to tell you about them-just hustled him out to be killed. However, when a pretty woman-a wholly lovely one-comes in with only one doll, you turn over heaven and earth to protect her.” She dialed the number with unnecessary vigor and handed the receiver to Shayne.

“You’re not being logical, Lucy.”

“That wasn’t a requirement when you hired me.”

“It’s just because Henlein was murdered,” Shayne said evenly, “that I’m getting someone to keep an eye on Clarissa Milford. And I’m not turning over heaven and earth to do it. I’m merely hiring Bill Martin who, as I said, doesn’t rate very high in the profession anyway.”

He stopped and spoke into the phone. “Hello, Bill? This is Shayne. I’d like you to do a little job for me-if you have time.”

“I’ve got plenty.” Martin had a boyish voice, too placating, too enthusiastic. “That is,” he amended, “I’m pretty rushed, but I’ll do it for you, Mike. What is it?”

“Protection. Around the clock-until further notice. And you’d better carry a gun.” Shayne held out his hand for the piece of paper Lucy, the perfect secretary, had anticipated he’d want, and read into the phone an address in the remote northeast section of the city. “Better start now. She’ll be getting home soon.”

“Righto, Mike. Until further notice. Thanks, Mike.” Typical of a young comer, he mentioned Shayne’s first name too often.

The redhead hung up and reached for his hat. “Call Tim Rourke and ask him to meet me at Swoboda’s at exactly quarter to eight tonight. And, angel-” He ran a hand thoughtfully over his lean jaw-“Tim was telling me the other day about a transistor recorder, pocket size. I don’t remember the trade name, but he’ll know what you mean. It’s a new import from West Germany. Tell him to come loaded with that.”

Lucy nodded, then said, “Take me, Michael. I’ve heard so much about Madame Swoboda.”

“Sorry.” Shayne shook his head. “Two women are all I can handle tonight.”

“Two?”

“The Madame and Clarissa. But don’t look so hurt. Maybe I’ll take you next time. How do I know it’s a fit place until I look it over?”

“Don’t think I’ll buy that, Michael Shayne! After all the joints you’ve lugged me in and out of-”

“Can’t risk it any more. You’re too good a secretary.” He grinned, bent down and pressed a firm kiss on the bridge of her nose, directly between her eyes. At the door he turned. “Why don’t you take in a movie?”

“Maybe I will. And a new gentleman friend too.”

Shayne stopped at The Angus, grabbed a quick meal of rare steak and brandy, got into his car and turned toward the Miami River and Southwest Sixth Avenue.

At a little before quarter to eight, he drew up in front of a ramshackle house that had once been painted yellow. One side was propped on stilts precariously bedded in the Miami River, the roof shingles were damp and mildewed, and the stone sidewalk leading from the curb to a small railed porch was muddy and, in places, gave under his weight as he walked up to the door.

Several cars, some with out-of-state licenses, were parked in front and across the street. Among them he recognized Rourke’s beat-up coupe. Yet from outside there was little evidence that the house held visitors. Except for a dim bulb in the front hall and a diffused green glow coming from beneath one of the drawn drapes, no light showed.

Shayne paused for a moment on the small porch, his nostrils flaring, trying to place a sweet, indefinable odor. The front door was of heavy pine, with a stained glass transom through which light from a yellow bulb shone.

A small card above the bell read Walk in in letters crudely penned with black ink. Shayne turned the handle of the door and opened it. Inside, the odor was stronger.

On the right of a small entrance hall was a sliding door, tightly closed. On the other side an open arch was half-blocked by a desk behind which a middle-aged woman wearing brown, horn-rimmed glasses sat guard over a green cash box and a pad and pencil. Over the pad stood another crudely inked card, saying Messages.