Brett Halliday - Dolls Are Deadly

It was the same thing Ed Woodbine had emphasized, and precisely what Shayne himself was thinking. “They got more than their money’s worth. That’s what bothers me. At five dollars a performance and fifty cents a doll, she’s damn near losing money.”

Rourke scratched his head. “You think it’s set up as a front for something? Could be. But I don’t see what.”

“I don’t either. But I’ve had two frightened clients today with dolls that came from here, and one was murdered this afternoon.”

“You talking about Henny Henlein? You’ve been holding out on me, Mike.”

“I’ll give it to you as soon as it can be printed.”

Rourke looked at Shayne through narrowed eyes. “Are the dolls the only thing that’s worrying you?”

“No. There was a man here I’m curious about. I met him this afternoon on Sylvester’s boat. He’s a vacationist-but not the type I’d figure to shoot a tropical evening at Madame Swoboda’s.”

“Hell. Mike, I think you’re straining. People do things when they get to Miami they’d never think of doing anywhere else. Maybe the sun gets them. Or maybe they just get tired of fishing and an ectoplasmic evening seems like a good change. Or maybe they get tired of communing with their wives and decide to give the spirits a whirl.”

“I’d rather whirl a real body-even if it was my wife.”

“So would I,” Rourke said, “Especially if it was your wife.”

Shayne grinned. “Speaking of that, I think I’ll go and find out what Swoboda’s like without her astral body.”

“I’ll run along then. Want me to burn a pink Success candle for you?”

“I’m sure it’s not necessary,” Shayne said.

The redhead walked down the hall past the seance room in the direction Madame Swoboda had taken. The hall ended at a kitchen, off which a narrow stairway led upstairs. He mounted the steps, purposely making his footsteps heavy, and found at the top another narrow hallway, dimly lit, and leading to the front of the house.

The first room he passed was an old-fashioned bath with a footed tub and a box over the toilet with a long chain dangling from it. The second was a bedroom, sparsely furnished and uninviting, and the third, a sort of den in which Madame Swoboda was sitting in a wicker rocker.

The gossamer veiling and tiara lay on the floor beside her, but she still wore the silver shawl crossed over her ample and worldly breasts. The lamplight brought out the red lights in her black hair and emphasized the extraordinary length of her lashes. A highball stood on a battered Victorian table at her elbow, and smoke wafted upward from the cigarette she held between slim fingers.

She turned, startled, as Shayne entered, asking coldly, “What do you want here?”

“To tell you how impressive you were.” Shayne toed a chair around to face her and sat down in it.

Accepting the compliment, she said, “I have the gift. I’m a born medium.” Picking up the drink she took a deep draught, then set it down and puffed on the cigarette.

“Are you the deep-trance type?” The redhead was amused at the contrast between hard liquor, tobacco and the spiritual claim. “Or are you semi-trance?”

“Deep,” she said in her timbred voice. She fastened enormous gray eyes on him, the black lashes spreading around them like spider legs. They looked bottomless, seeming to hold slumbering fire, feminine provocation and worldly knowledge-everything, in fact, but spiritual light. “In a trance I feel exhilarated, I feel profound, but-” she sighed heavily-“it is tiring. I need stimulation after it is over.”

Shayne grinned and abandoned the rarity he had been putting into his voice. “I understand. I’m not exactly a teetotaler myself.”

“Don’t I know you from somewhere?” Her eyes narrowed.

“I don’t think so. How long have you been in this business?”

“That’s none of yours!”

“I’d like it to be,” Shayne said softly.

She looked at him speculatively, some of the hardness melting. “Why?”

“Beautiful women are a hobby with me.”

She smiled slowly, showing white, even teeth, let the smile die and raised her eyebrows aloofly. “Hobbies don’t interest me-particularly other people’s.”

“Who are you?”

“Kyra Swoboda.”

“Nuts! Who were you before. Jenny Hopfstedder? Mary Murphy?”

“To you,” she said coldly, “I’m Madame Swoboda. And I think it’s time you were getting the hell out of here.”

Shayne rose, moved in front of her and rested one hand on each arm of her chair, completely fencing her in. She looked up provocatively, eyes quizzical and inviting, her moist lips slightly parted so that the tips of her white teeth showed. A movement went through her body-a movement wholly material and physical. Looking down, Shayne saw the mounds of her breasts outlined by the crossed shawl. They rose and fell as her breathing quickened.

“You could be a career,” Shayne said huskily.

“That interests me more.”

He was bending to kiss her when her eyes quickened with recognition. She drew back, forcibly removed one of his hands from the chair arm and squeezed past him, rising and walking across the room with a lithe animal stride.

“I thought I recognized you when I first saw you out there this evening. Your picture’s been in enough papers. You ought to start wearing a beard, Mr. Shayne.”

“It’s not becoming-”

“What do you want with me?” she asked harshly.

“Your background.”

“Why?”

“Let’s say it’s a matter of close personal interest.”

“That’s not true!”

“All right then. I’m investigating a murder. A man was found dead today. His name was Henry Henlein and he had received two of your little dolls, one stabbed, one strangled.”

She laughed humorlessly. “What have I to do with that? Hundreds of people have bought them. We don’t keep records.”

“You keep a record of those who attend your seances regularly. Otherwise you wouldn’t be able to prepare the tape recordings in advance. Who does attend them regularly-besides the Thains and the Milfords?”

“I don’t know. There are no tapes and I don’t keep records!” There was venom in her voice.

“What about the Woodbines? Are they regulars?”

Her manner changed. She became softer, almost placating, as if she now wanted to co-operate. “I’m not sure who you mean.”

“A chunky, bald-headed man, blond. His skin’s peeling from sunburn. His wife’s dumpy and middle-aged.”

“It seems to me they’ve been here once or twice, but I’m not sure. Really,” she smiled in sweet reasonableness, “I hold a seance every night. Tourists come and go. I can’t keep track of them all and don’t try to. I have no reason to.”

“What were you-before this?”

“I had a mentalist act. I was a mind-reader on the stage. Not that it’s any of your business.” She recovered her assurance suddenly, turned her back, jabbed her cigarette viciously in the ash tray and took another from a box on the table.

“Who set you up here?”

“I took my own money and set myself up. Now, will you get the hell out?”

“I hate to leave on this note. We were getting along so beautifully.”

“We’re not any more.”

“One last question. Are you in love with Dan Milford?”

She swung around, her mouth set in a crimson line, her eyes flashing. “Now I get it! Now I know who sent you. Murder, indeed! It was that jealous wife of his! She came here, threatening to interfere with the way I make my living, throwing her weight around and upsetting me so I could hardly go into a trance that night.”

She flipped the ashes of her cigarette irritably in the direction of an ash tray, then using it as a pointer, shook it at him.