Brett Halliday - Dolls Are Deadly

“I didn’t want to worry him any more. He had enough to be worried about.” She was crying softly. “And even if he did want to kill me-which he never would-why wouldn’t he just do it, instead of sending me the doll?”

“You told me this afternoon he believed in the voodoo curse-that he was like a child that way.”

“Dan would never hurt me, much less kill me. He wouldn’t!”

“He wants to divorce you,” Shayne said brutally. “He told you so. Maybe he’s changed his mind about that and would like your insurance money instead. He’d be just as free to marry Madame Swoboda if you were dead as if you were divorced. And he’d be out from under De Luca’s threat, with maybe some money left over.”

“You’re horrible, Mr. Shayne!” She whirled away from him and started toward the house.

He caught her arm and swung her around. She bumped against him and for a quick instant he felt her body warm and exciting against him. “You hired me to help you, Clarissa. That’s what I’m trying to do.”

She sobbed on his shoulder. “I know. I’m sorry to be making such a scene, but I’m so worried about Dan-”

“He’s been out gambling before.”

She drew away and wiped her eyes. “I don’t think he’s gambling tonight. I think he’s trying to raise money to pay off D. L. And if he can’t do it-and I don’t know how he can-our house and car are mortgaged to the limit-I’m afraid of what D. L. will do. Dan may be beaten-or killed. Even now he may be dead-”

She stopped as light streamed from the just-opened door of the house.

“Clarissa!” Mabel called peremptorily. “Where are you?”

“Out here. Talking to Mr. Shayne.”

“Good heavens, you’ve been at it long enough. And all over a silly doll somebody most likely left you for a joke. Well anyway, we’re going home. Percy needs some sleep if he’s going to work tomorrow.”

“Don’t go. I’m coming in now.”

The Thains came down the steps anyway and moved toward them across the lawn.

“I wonder if you’d mind telling me,” Shayne said as they came nearer, “how long you’ve been going to Madame Swoboda’s?”

Mabel Thain stopped a few feet away. “Only since Jimsey’s death,” she said tightly. “Dan took us and we found it comforting.”

“How long has Dan been going?”

“A month or so,” Clarissa said. “Ever since she started up.”

“Does Madame Swoboda always incorporate numbers in her messages?”

“Numbers? No, not always. Sometimes.”

“What do you make of them?”

“Nothing,” Clarissa said firmly. “Nothing at all.”

“How about Dan?”

“Dan believes in numerology,” she said slowly. “He says his lucky number is twelve. If her numbers add up to a divisor or multiple of twelve, he believes that’s his day to gamble. I think he loses as fast on those days as the others.”

Shayne turned to the Thains. “What do you make of the numbers?”

Percy Thain looked beaten and dispirited; his hostility toward Shayne seemed to be gone. “I don’t know. I don’t try to understand everything. It’s enough for me to hear my son’s voice.”

“And you?” The redhead shifted his eyes to Mabel.

“They give me a sense of mystic knowledge,” she said exaltedly, fastening her eyes on the dark sky as if probing its mysteries. “It is a cabala, the theosophy of the occult. One senses and one knows, but none of these things can be communicated in words.”

Shayne waited a moment, tugging his left ear-lobe, then turned. “I’ll keep in touch with you, Mrs. Milford. And don’t worry.”

Lost in thought, he walked toward the car. Mabel had, of course, treated the matter of the voodoo doll lightly to keep her sister from being unduly distressed. But Clarissa had said Mabel believed in the seances, therefore she must also believe in the potency of a curse symbolized by a doll.

He patted Lucy’s knee when he got in the car and backed it out the drive. Near the shrubbery where he had glimpsed the movement of a few minutes before, he stopped long enough to call softly to Martin on the shag job. “Nice going, Bill. Let me know when Dan Milford-or anybody-comes in.”

Out on the road the gray Buick picked up his trail again. He put his arm on Lucy’s shoulder, drawing her over so he could feel the warmth of her body beside him. She seemed tense.

“Don’t worry, angel. Somebody’s going to see me take you home, that’s all. And if it’s a spy from a morals squad, he can go back and report I didn’t eat breakfast at your apartment.”

“I’m not worried about that-it’s Clarissa.”

“She was only crying on my shoulder.”

“I know. I feel terribly sorry for her.”

“So do I. She’s in love with her no-good husband, and from the way it looks now, he’s got some of the answers we need.”

Shayne rose early the next morning, showered, shaved, dressed and ate breakfast and, twenty minutes later, was striding through the downstairs lobby to the door. He stopped suddenly, turned back to the desk, picked up the phone and dialed Sylvester’s home.

Mrs. Santos answered, her voice tired and worried. No, Sylvester hadn’t come home or called and she didn’t know where he was. Shayne pronged the receiver, made for the door again and long-legged it to where he had parked his car the night before.

The gray Buick was parked a few cars behind it. The redhead passed, then whirled impulsively and stared boldly for half a minute at the man behind the wheel. He didn’t recognize the face but he would again, undistinctive as it was. The man was about average height with straight black hair thinning a little on top, and lidless eyes, like a snake’s. His skin had that peculiarly dry look which comes as the result of a bad case of acne at puberty. He wore a wilted seersucker suit and no hat. Under Shayne’s gaze, he shifted uneasily, lifting one hand to wipe self-consciously at his long upper lip. The hand was thin and bony, with big knuckles and visible veins.

Shayne waved genially, wryly amused at the startled and defensive look the gesture brought, turned and strode to his own car.

Speeding along Biscayne Boulevard, he turned east to the Causeway leading to the Beach. The morning was already hot. Sun beat on the road, making a mirror of it and intensifying the vivid flower colors along its edge. There was no wind, Spanish moss hung stiffly from the trees.

Through the rear-view mirror Shayne kept an eye on the tailing Buick, realizing suddenly that a green car which had pulled out from the curb too when he left his apartment was holding close behind the Buick. Was it possible that, this morning, he had two tails?

He crossed the Causeway and turned south, the two cars still with him, finally pulling in the parking lot at the head of the long slip where Sylvester’s boat was moored. Most of the other boats were already out, leaving the Santa Clara almost alone.

Near her on the wharf, a tall man was bent over, concentrating on something. As Shayne strode closer he recognized him as Slim, the lazy one from Philadelphia, who had lain on his back all day without doing anything more energetic than tilting a rum highball. He was the do-it-yourself man whose hobby was mechanics, according to Sylvester. This morning he had a different hobby. He was cleaning a fish.

He looked up from the mess of blood and guts as Shayne’s shadow fell across him. “Oh, hello, Mike.”

“Good morning. Is Sylvester around?”

“No, he’s down the coast somewhere. Be gone a day or two, he said.”

“What did he do, walk?” Shayne eyed the Santa Clara.

“Nope. Got a lift.”

“Boat or car?”

There was an instant’s hesitation before Slim said, “Car.”