Brett Halliday - Mermaid on the Rocks

He landed in a low-growing thornbush, reeled into the open, tripped and went headlong. He came back to his feet by slow stages. He looked up at the tree to get his bearings and began hunting for the path.

He found it and lost it. The vines seemed determined not to let him go this soon. The thick green canopy above seemed to wheel in ever-widening circles, and when he broke out onto the clamshell driveway, caught up in the clockwise rotation of the landscape around him, he turned the wrong way. He kept veering toward the dense wall of foliage, first on one side, then the other. He rounded a bend and saw nothing ahead of him but a long white streak of clamshells. After a long moment he turned back.

Some time later he went around another bend and came upon the house. He lurched up two steps and fell against the kitchen door. When it failed to open, he backed off a step and came at it from the side, trying to reach the knob with his numb hands.

There was a gasp from inside. Eda Lou called, “Who’s out there?”

A figure swam toward him, stopping on the other side of the screen. “Mike Shayne?”

She tried to open the screen, but Shayne had propped himself against it.

“Je-sus! Move. Don’t fall down, for God’s sake. You must know I can’t carry you.”

Shayne pivoted, the door came open and he fell through.

Eda Lou ran to a drawer for a pair of shears and freed his wrists. He brought his arms forward, and levered himself up on his elbows.

“Hold still, I’ll get that thing out of your mouth.” She touched the side of his head to keep it from wavering. “You’re in great shape, aren’t you?”

She picked at the knot at the back of his neck, and when it came loose Shayne spat the gag onto the floor.

“Phone,” he croaked.

“Yes, baby,” she said. “You can tell me all about it as soon as I fix you up so you don’t bleed on my carpets. Lie on the floor. It’s washable.”

He laid his cheek gratefully against the cool black and white tile. He heard her muttering above him while she did something to the back of his head.

“Not as bad as I thought,” she said finally. “In six months you’ll be as good as new.”

Shayne raised his head. “What time is it?” It came out as a meaningless grunt. He said it again, more carefully.

“Not quite nine. Can you walk? Crawl? I better drive you into Marathon. If we make it a house call, the doctor won’t be here before noon.”

Shayne brought himself to his hands and knees, then came erect with the help of the kitchen table. He bared his teeth in what he meant as a smile. She was wearing city clothes, a striped cotton suit, and she had brightened her lipstick while toning down the colors around her eyes.

“I want to phone.”

“What? I didn’t catch.”

The room turned over, and the detective sat down in a straight chair. “Phone!” he said impatiently, and pantomimed a phone call.

“Oh, the phone,” she said. “You’d better wait till you get your tongue working again, don’t you think? I’d advise it.”

“I’ve got to hurry.”

“What?”

He looked away hopelessly and saw a coffee pot on the stove.

“You want some coffee, is that it?” she said.

He nodded. While she was lighting a burner and getting a cup and saucer, he shook hands with himself in an attempt to restore the circulation.

“I won’t ask you what happened,” she said, “because I can’t translate that gibberish. But Christ, people don’t drop in this way, with their wrists tied and a rag in their mouth. Who did it? Where’s the VW? Mike, hurry up, get better.”

“Where’s Barbara?”

“Did you say where’s Barbara? You’re improving. She went to Miami.”

Shayne groaned and started to get up. The ceiling descended rapidly, dealt him a hard rap and retreated to its usual place. He sat back and put his hand to his head. To his surprise he found that he was wearing a bandage.

“Don’t pull it,” Eda Lou said. “It’ll come off. Outside of the phone, and believe me, you can’t handle any phone calls yet, is there anything else I can get for you?”

“Cognac.”

“You’re still talking baby talk. That sounded like cognac.”

Shayne nodded.

She laughed at him. “Honey, if I give you a drink with that hole in your head I’ll be liable. You could sue me for thousands and thousands, not that you’d be able to collect thousands and thousands.”

Shayne pushed himself up. This time he made it all the way.

“Sit down,” she said. “I’ll get it. But I’d make you sign a waiver if you could hold a pen.”

The coffee was boiling when she came back. She turned it off and poured a cup, adding a few drops of cognac. When he growled at her, she added a little more.

Shayne’s fingers were being stabbed with sharp needles as the blood came back. He put his face down to the coffee and breathed in the pleasant fumes.

“When did she leave?” he said.

“Barbara? Twenty minutes ago. Today’s her nurse’s aide day, but I don’t know if that’s where she’s going. She was in a foul mood. We had words, and she slammed the door on the way out, as if we don’t already have enough broken glass. Hell, I’ll help you.”

She steadied his head with one hand and lifted the coffee with another. For an instant, after taking the first sip, he felt almost normal.

“Who’s the guy with the beard?”

“Hank Sims, Kitty’s husband. Is he the one who jumped you? Of course. You’re working for Kitty and he’s in the middle of a mean divorce. I’m kind of surprised you let him get away with it, though.”

“Had my back turned,” Shayne said bleakly. “Loan me your. 25.”

“What for?”

He made a peremptory gesture and she shrugged. “O.K. If you’re going after Hank Sims in that condition, you’d better have something. He’s nobody’s dream boy. Shoot a couple of holes in him and I’ll give you a dollar.”

She left him sagging over the coffee. As soon as she was out of the kitchen he fought his way to his feet and followed quietly.

He stopped at the top of the two steps leading down to the living room. She was rummaging in the little drawer in the long mahogany table. After sliding the drawer shut she straightened and stood for a moment, her back to Shayne, thinking.

She turned decisively. Seeing Shayne, she put her hand to her heart.

“Not there?” Shayne said.

“How hard do you have to get hit before you stop thinking? No, it’s not there, which doesn’t mean a single damn thing. I’m getting forgetful in my old age. I put it somewhere else, that’s all.”

“Or else Barbara took it to Miami.” Shayne came down the steps and dropped onto the sofa, at the end nearest the phone. “Bring me the coffee.”

“Go to hell.”

Shayne rubbed his forehead. “Eda Lou, if Barbara’s walking around with a gun in her purse, I want to know it. I need that kind of information. I also need coffee.”

“Poor man, my heart bleeds.”

She went to the kitchen, came back with coffee and put it down near him. “But she didn’t take the gun. I remember now-I put it away upstairs. And on second thought, I think I’d better hang on to it.”

“Are you going to help me with the phone?” Shayne said wearily.

She lit a cigarette deliberately. “I suppose I have to, if I want to find out what’s going on. Why don’t I take you to the doctor first?”

After a moment she moved a straight chair into position and sat down.

“The News,” he said. “Ask for Tim Rourke.”

He told her the number. The switchboard girl at the paper passed the call on to the city room. She gave Shayne the phone.

He dropped it. She picked it up for him and wedged it into place against his shoulder.