Brett Halliday - Dolls Are Deadly

“Have you typed it?”

“From first examination, I’d say ‘O.’”

“That limits it, anyway. What do I owe you?”

“Ten dollars. Pay the girl, please.”

Shayne gave him a bleak nod, turned and went through the door, dropping a ten-dollar bill on the receptionist’s desk.

From the drugstore downstairs, Shayne called his office.

“I’m dreaming!” Lucy said. “Or are you? Talking in your sleep, I mean?”

“It’s the shank of the day, angel.”

Sensing the depression beneath his glib words, she asked anxiously, “What is it, Michael?”

“Phone Mrs. Santos and find out Sylvester’s doctor. Phone the doctor and see if he has Sylvester’s blood type and if he has, if it’s Rh. Then phone the information to Peter Painter’s office where I’ll go from here. Got it?”

“Got it. Michael, is something the matter with Sylvester?”

“I think he’s been murdered.”

She gasped. “Oh, Michael, I know how you-”

“One thing more,” he broke in, keeping his voice matter-of-fact, “has Bill Martin called in a report on Clarissa Milford?”

“Yes. Nothing’s happened. She hasn’t left the house and no one has gone in.”

“Not even her husband?”

“No one, he said.”

“Next time Bill phones in, tell him to hang on till I can get somebody to relieve him.”

“All right, Michael.” She paused. “Whatever it was with Sylvester, is it part of the voodoo doll business?”

“That’s something I have to find out. The only connection now is that one of the men I met on Sylvester’s boat turned up at Swoboda’s seance last night.”

“Then there might be-”

“Yes, there might be,” he said bleakly and hung up.

Peter Painter had just taken off his coat when Shayne burst into the office. The Detective Chief turned irritably at the early morning intrusion.

Shayne asked humorlessly, “Something bad you ate, Petey? Or is it me?”

Painter sat down behind his desk with bristling officiousness, lifted one hand and traced the thin line of his black mustache with his thumbnail. He did not invite Shayne to be seated. “It’s you,” he said.

Putting his knuckles on the desk, Shayne leaned toward Painter. “Did you get a phone call this morning that concerns me?”

“I think I’ve had two. One from your secretary, and one from a William Fox of the William Fox Medical Laboratories. I’m sure Mr. Fox was describing you. ‘Paranoiac type,’ he said. ‘Delusions of grandeur. Probably homicidal.’ In fact, he thinks you’ve already murdered somebody. So do I. Henry Henlein.”

“No, it would be William Fox,” Shayne said, “except that I didn’t have time. What did my secretary say?”

“She wanted me to report to you that Sylvester Santos’ blood type is Rh.”

Shayne said grimly, “Then I want to report to your office, Painter, what I believe to be the murder of Sylvester Santos. He’s been running the Santa Clara, a charter boat, for years.”

“I know who you mean.”

“If you work fast enough before they move it, I think you’ll find Sylvester’s knife-stabbed body on the harbor bottom, weighted down by his own boat anchor, at the slip where he rents mooring space.”

Painter made notes on a pad. “Would it be in order,” he asked sarcastically, “for the police department to inquire how citizen Shayne came by this rather precise information?”

“It would be in order,” Shayne said evenly, “but I haven’t time to tell you. Get going on this, will you?”

“I gather this is of close personal interest to you, shamus.” Painter’s thin lips stretched in an unctuous smile. “And inasmuch as you’re asking me to do something-there was a murder yesterday in which you also were involved…”

A muscle twitched in Shayne’s cheek. “I can’t help you on that one, Petey.”

“It’s just possible you won’t have to, hard as it will be for you to believe it. Ballistics has reported that he was shot by his own gun.”

“That. 32 Colt with the walnut handle that was lying beside him?”

Painter nodded.

“That’s funny. Henlein was a muscleman. I heard he didn’t usually carry a gun.”

“That was the rumor. Maybe he bought one and committed suicide.”

“Sure. And tied that noose around his own neck. Look, Painter, the one thing I can help you with-Sylvester-you don’t seem to want to listen to. If you find him murdered where I told you to look, I can name you three prime suspects.”

Painter reached for his pen with simulated weariness, holding it poised and waiting.

“Ed Woodbine, Blue Grotto,” Shayne said, “Slim Collins, Blue Grotto, Vince Becker, Mirador. I haven’t checked the addresses yet, but I think they’re right. These men are putting on a good, honest front.”

“What if they are on the up and up?”

“Then we look elsewhere. You might check back where they say they came from. They’re vacationists. Ed Woodbine’s in the insurance business in Detroit. He’s here with his wife. Slim Collins is a contractor with a hobby for working on internal-combustion engines. He’s from Philadelphia. Vince Becker owns a motel in Arizona. That’s what they told me, anyway. Their names may be phony. Becker looks Sicilian. In fact, none of them fit, but I’ll leave the checking to you.”

“Your trust is gratifying. However, how do I know all this isn’t a red herring you dreamed up to dilute our efforts to probe into the Henlein murder?”

A muscle jumped in Shayne’s cheek and his knuckles strained as his big hands gripped the table edge. He fastened his gray eyes on Painter with such bleak savagery that the Detective Chief drew back and lowered his own eyes to the neat pile of papers on his desk. “I don’t give a damn about Henlein,” Shayne snapped, “but Sylvester was a friend of mine.”

“All right,” Painter murmured. “I was only asking. Your co-operation with this office isn’t always so good, you know.”

Shayne swung away. “Phone Lucy at my office when you turn anything up on Sylvester.” At the door, he added, “I’ve got two tails on me this morning. If one of them’s yours, you’d better warn him not to get hurt.”

“Now look here, Shayne-” Painter half rose, but Shayne was out of sight down the hall.

The redhead stopped at a bar down the street, picked up a double Hennessy and carried it with him to a phone booth. He wanted to see Madame Swoboda again and to talk with Percy and Mabel Thain, but most important of all he wanted to find Clarissa’s husband, Dan Milford. Two men had been murdered since yesterday, and Dan Milford was still missing. Perhaps, as his wife feared, he had been murdered too, but if he was still alive…

He downed the cognac, drew a well-worn address book from his pocket and thumbed through it.

He dialed a number. When the connection was made, he said, “This is Mike Shayne, Bobo. How’s the world treating you?”

“It ain’t.” The voice came sourly. “I’m treating it.”

“You got any games going?”

“Naw. Annual clean-up week. The cops closed us.”

“Tight?”

“Tight.”

“Anybody they haven’t got to yet?”

“You might try Harley. His friend on the force works harder for him than mine does.”

“Craps or poker?”

“Both, if he’s running.”

“Thanks. What’s his number now?”

“Hang on… Beach 7-9811…”

“Thanks, Bobo.” Shayne forked the receiver, un-forked it and dialed again. When the line was open he could hear a mumble of male voices and an echoing rattle before a nasal “Hello” came over.

“This is Shayne, Harley. I hear you’ve got a game running.”

“Yeah? You keep your ears flapped out, you hear plenty. Who told you?”