Brett Halliday - Mermaid on the Rocks

Barbara asked a question.

“Yes, right now. I’ve tried to talk him out of it and when you see what he looks like you’ll know why. But when he gets an idea in his head-What it amounts to, Barbara, I know I told Brad I wouldn’t sell under any circumstances, but now I’m having second thoughts like mad. Discretion the better part of valor and so on. Mike seems to be leaning in the same direction. I think in the end I’ll take his advice, but he doesn’t want to make any firm recommendation before he knows all the facts. So if you’d be willing to see him-”

She listened.

“He’ll leave right away and fly down,” Kitty said. “Don’t ask me where he expects to find a helicopter at this ungodly hour, but he thinks he can arrange it. I left the VW on Goose Key and he can use that. If everything works out he can be there in three-quarters of an hour. I know it’s asking a lot, but conceivably he’ll advise me to sell, and isn’t that what you want? I’m having breakfast with him in the morning before I go. Yes. All right, fine. Be nice to him. I’ve been giving him whiskey, but he’ll enjoy the visit more if you break out a bottle of Cal’s cognac. He’s not an easy man to get drunk, however, as I’ve been in the process of finding out.”

She hung up triumphantly.

“Mike, you were absolutely right! You should have heard the gulp when I said I had you here in my apartment.” She made a busy gesture beside her forehead. “I could hear the little cogs turning. She knew what Brad was up to, all right! I’ll bet that sex-killing angle was her idea!” She gave a small joyful hoot, stifling it as quickly as it had come. “I’m actually gloating! Well, I don’t think I’ll shed any tears over Brad. He deserved it. He really and truly did. And I’m not out of the woods yet, am I?”

“Maybe,” Shayne said briefly, putting on his shoes. “It depends on how greedy they are.”

“Oh, they’re greedy, but they also have to be a little realistic. Mike, give her the idea that you’re coming straight back here to report-she’ll put on an all-night filibuster. Who knows? She might even try to seduce you.” She looked at him speculatively. “She isn’t bad-looking, you know.”

“This is my night for good-looking women,” Shayne said noncommittally. “Call Natalie. If Tim’s there, let me talk to him.”

He returned to the bedroom to look for the. 38. He searched that room and the bathroom, and he still hadn’t found it after following Brad’s trail to the kitchen. Apparently the old man had managed to take it with him.

Kitty called him and held out the phone. “Big surprise. Tim’s still there.”

Shayne took the phone. “Something I want you to do, Tim.”

“Sure. You just caught me going out the door. We were looking at the late movie.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Shayne said impatiently. “I’m in a hurry. Things have been happening-I’ll fill you in later. There’s going to be a story for you, with some fairly big names. I’m flying back down to Gaspar. I want you to call me at Barbara’s at exactly three. As soon as I’m on start talking fast and keep talking. I don’t care what you say. I want the lady to get the idea you’re telling me some bad news, such as that a client of mine has been found in bed with her throat cut.”

“Ugh.”

“Just don’t fall asleep before three,” Shayne told him. “I’m bringing Kitty over to spend the rest of the night with Natalie.”

“Mike!” Rourke protested. “Without going into detail, that’s not such a hot idea.”

“I thought you said you were just going out the door,” Shayne said, grinning. “We’ll be there in five minutes.” He hung up before Rourke could say anything more. “Now I suppose you’re going to want your jacket,” Kitty said with a glint.

“Yeah. Can you get dressed fast, Kitty? I have two more phone calls.”

He called the house doctor in a downtown hotel and told him to get a needle and thread ready. Then he roused an old friend named Jeremy Blakey, a helicopter pilot who was paid a monthly retainer by the detective, in return for which he was always on twenty-four-hour call. Shayne told him to meet him at the Watson Park heliport, and not to expect to be back to Miami before breakfast.

The Tuttle house on Key Gaspar was a good example of the pseudo-Moorish period in Southern Florida architecture. Its walls were stucco, its roof steeply pitched and tiled. There were innumerable balconies with wrought-iron railings. On the seaward side, however, part of one wall had been knocked out and replaced by a large picture window and a glass door opening onto a flagstone terrace.

Pulling up in a cobblestone turn-around at the foot of this terrace, Shayne unkinked himself from the front seat of Kitty’s Volkswagen and stamped several times to start the blood circulating in the foot he had used on the accelerator. His injured leg had stiffened in the ride from the heliport. After stitching and bandaging the long cut on his calf, the doctor had changed to a larger needle and sewn up his torn pants.

The house was ablaze with light. Through the big front window, Shayne saw a black-haired woman, probably Cal Tuttle’s daughter, putting on eye-liner at a narrow pier-glass mirror.

He limped along a path skirting the terrace. Arriving at the front door, he pulled a jangling iron bell.

Almost at once the door was opened by an extraordinary old lady. A cigarette dangled from the corner of her mouth. The smoke was making her squint. Her eyes were heavily madeup, the lashes and upper lids very black, the lower lids blue green. Her hair, piled high on her head, was the color of heavy cream. She was barefoot, wearing very brief shorts and a bulky knitted sweater. Her legs were firm and beautifully tanned, her toenails painted blue-green to match her eyelids. In addition to a musky perfume, she gave off a strong smell of gin and vermouth.

“Mike Shayne,” she said in a low hoarse voice.

She didn’t move out of the doorway until she had looked him up and down. Reaching forward with a clawlike hand laden with rings, she pinched the flesh at his waist.

“You keep in shape,” she said approvingly. She jerked her head toward the room with the big window. “You’re going to make a big hit in there. That’s my weather forecast for tonight. Come on in.”

Turning abruptly, she led him along a hall and down several carpeted steps to the living room. The other woman had moved from the mirror to a deep sofa. She put out a hand to Shayne without getting up. She had the same magnificent tan as her housekeeper, though less of hers was showing. She was dressed in tight tapering red pants and a loose belted jacket, without buttons. By leaning forward to shake hands, she established the fact at once that there was nothing under her jacket but smooth skin, some of it tanned, some untanned. Her hand was hard and dry.

“Mr. Shayne,” she said. “I’ve read about your exploits, of course. I’ve always hoped to be able to ask you. How much of what you achieve do you ascribe to luck and how much to-well, rapid footwork, I suppose you’d call it? Please tell me your secret.”

“I just try not to make too many mistakes.”

“Now that’s a wonderfully evasive answer!” she cried. “I prefer to believe that luck enters into it, which is why I’m so delighted to meet you. I like lucky people. I like to be in their orbit.”

She settled back. “We’ve been drinking martinis because that was what we were in the mood for, but fix yourself what you want. Kitty mentioned cognac. There’s some over there.” She waved at a mahogany sideboard. “Eda Lou, honey, you’ve been a love. Get to bed now. You must be worn to a frazzle.”

“I’m about ready to drop,” the older woman agreed. “What do you need before I go? Ice, sparkling water, booze-it all seems to be there.”