Brett Halliday - Mermaid on the Rocks

She waited till he had read the story. The name of the finder had been left blank, probably because he hadn’t been hired at the time the story was written.

“The interesting thing is the release date,” Barbara said. “That’s a Thursday. The formal opening was scheduled for Tuesday. Jethroe was killed late Monday night. There just aren’t any holes in it!”

Shayne scraped his jaw. “You don’t think it’s almost too good?”

Her mouth tightened. “You bastard, what do you mean by that?”

“It has a certain smell,” Shayne said slowly. “I’m just wondering who’s being swindled. You couldn’t get anything definite out of the map?”

“That’s the whole point-it couldn’t be too precise. The treasure was going to be found first. Then the map would turn up. There’s no north-south orientation, and the coast line is just a squiggle. And those folds. Jethroe had to convince the customers that the map and the treasure weren’t necessarily connected. If this was a pirate hideout, doesn’t it stand to reason that they buried more than one chest of doubloons? Not only that. Things have changed shape since 1925. One whole neck was washed away in the ’35 hurricane. And look at this.” Her finger touched a spot partially concealed by the brown stain. “You’re supposed to take a sighting here from a point thirty paces southeast of a big buttonwood tree. There aren’t any buttonwood trees left on the Key. Eda Lou found some old photographs that showed a big tree about there, and she figured out what she thought was the best place to dig. I told you I dug a hole myself. And that crazy Brad paid no attention to the map at all and bought an army-surplus mine detector. He detected a lot of miscellaneous junk before he quit.”

“Kitty wasn’t in on the digging?”

“I should say not. I wanted to keep it between me and Eda Lou, but the dear old soul didn’t think she could trust me, for some reason. We called a meeting of the real heirs, everybody but Kitty. We decided to cut Eda Lou in for a twentieth because she found the map. Which was generous of us,” she added, raising her voice. “After Brad got nowhere with the mine detector we made a priority list of likely spots and brought a man in with a backhoe. He must have thought we were insane. Then I happened to meet Mr. Quarrels at an art auction, and he saw possibilities right away. If you were Jethroe, how deep would you put the chest? No deeper than three feet, or a man digging a privy wouldn’t hit it. Florida-American will come in with their bulldozers. They’ll rip out the mangroves, and those roots go down further than three feet. By the time they’re finished grading and filling, the chances are they’ll find it. If not, they’ll bring in an article writer and let him write the story and sell it to a national magazine. People will figure that maybe Jethroe buried the chest three and a half feet deep, and if they buy a piece of attractive ocean frontage, it could be on their land. This is going to be a fast-growing community, Mike.”

She clenched her fists, her face suddenly ugly. “And the whole thing depends on Kitty!”

The phone clanged.

The strained look stayed on Barbara’s face for only an instant longer. A smile took its place.

“I’m going to end up with a stomach ulcer unless I can cut that out,” she said. “I keep forgetting you’re in her corner. Now if the bitch drops dead of heart failure some morning, you’ll think I did it by witchcraft.”

The phone rang again. “And who the hell that is, at three in the morning-”

She picked up the phone and said hello.

“Shayne? Michael Shayne? Yes, he’s here.”

She held out the phone to the detective. An instant after Shayne took it he heard a muffled click, followed by a change in the intensity of the sound. Without bothering to cover the mouthpiece, he said to Barbara, “Where’s the extension?”

“At the end of the hall.”

He put the phone down and crossed the room. By the time he reached the hall the second phone was back on its bracket.

He returned and picked up the living room phone. “O.K., this is Shayne.”

“I want to report that it’s three o’clock,” Rourke’s voice said. “The girls kicked me out so they could go to sleep, which was unfriendly of them, I thought. I’m at Harry’s, and there isn’t much to do at Harry’s except drink. Come to think of it, it’s a bar, that’s what the place is for. Do you want to react now?”

“What?” the redhead exclaimed furiously.

“That’s a nice strong reaction. I’m not sure I follow your reasoning on this. You want the lady to think I’m calling to tell you that Kitty Sims has been found in her bed in a welter of blood, as we used to say in the days when they let us use cliches?”

Shayne swore savagely. Across the room, the lip of the martini pitcher rang slightly against the glass as Barbara poured. She looked at Shayne. Their eyes held while the reporter continued.

“Yeah. Nude, in a welter of blood, with filthy playing cards all over the bed. The age-old story. She should’ve asked for his references before she invited him up. Now don’t hang up on me before I pass along a piece of legitimate news I just picked up from a fellow barfly.”

“Where did you hear about it?” Shayne demanded.

“That’s a complicated story, and while she thinks I’m answering your question, I’ll pass on my tidbit. It comes from a legman who covers the courthouse for us. It’s about Francis X. Shanahan, one of your client’s fellow heirs, and how he became a judge. He became a judge by laying out a substantial hunk of money, Mike. I won’t bore you with how much, or whose safe-deposit box it ended up in, because I don’t want to shake your faith in the great American system of representative government. The interesting angle is that my guy was surprised that Frank had it, being what we call a semipro playboy. Then, too, he’s always given every sign of liking the bachelor life, so how come he suddenly decided to marry Cal Tuttle’s daughter Barbara? The talk is that she put up the dough. In return she gets a judge for a husband. They’ve been engaged six months. People in that age bracket don’t usually get engaged. They just get married. Maybe he’s not too enthusiastic about the idea, do you think? This might be something to work on.”

“I’m afraid I can’t help you,” Shayne growled. “I’ve only been on the case since yesterday afternoon, and all I know is what people have been telling me. I’m almost through here. I can be back in an hour and start picking up the pieces.”

He hung up. For a long moment he and Barbara looked at each other.

“There are only three in the pot now,” he said.

She picked him up sharply. “What are you talking about? What pot, Mike?”

She was facing him, her back to the tall picture window. Suddenly there was a small explosion, followed at once by a tiny ping. An instant passed before the little interruption broke through to Shayne.

“Get down!” he snarled.

He knocked her to the floor, jolting the glass out of her hand and sending the cold gin in a cascade over her chest. The quick little sequence of sounds was repeated, the explosion, the crisp spattering noise, the ping. Tiny holes had been drilled in two adjoining pipes above the organ. There were two matching holes side by side through the double glass of the picture window.

“That’s a thirty-caliber carbine,” Shayne said quietly, “so keep your head down.”

Barbara’s eyes were wide with shock. “You mean somebody’s shooting at us?”

“Not at me, baby. I’m not one of the joint tenants.”

She moved her head and looked toward the window. A tiny network of cracks radiated out from each neat double hole. She looked back at the pipes, and Shayne could see her drawing an imaginary line connecting the holes and projecting it outside.