Brett Halliday - Murder Spins the Wheel

“Excuse me, Mr. Shayne. I don’t use language like that as a rule, but it seems to me the situation calls for something.”

“I’ve heard the word,” Shayne said. “When’s he due back?”

“At four-ten, depending on how long it takes him to get in from the airport in New York, pick up the money and get back. He wants to put the whole sum in Doc Waters’ hands before breakfast.-Please don’t look at me that way, Mr. Shayne. I really tried to discourage him, but nothing worked. I know you thought those drinks would slow him down, and they did. But they wore off.” She glanced at him, worried. “Did the police beat you up?”

“No, that dates back to early tonight.” He pointed to two lighted phone booths, side by side on a corner. “Over there, Miss Moore.”

“Won’t you call me Theo? Miss Moore sounds so-” She turned in to the curb. “How could I have stopped him? Doc Waters was less than no help. I didn’t know how to get in touch with you. Harry made a half dozen calls around town first, and they were angry calls. There was one person he was sure was lying to him, and he was about to sail out and shake the money out of him. How would that have ended? I thought at least he could calm down on the plane, possibly get some sleep. Up to the last minute I thought he was taking me with him. But he absolutely refused. We had to depend on cancellations. There was one, only one, and that ended the argument.”

She leaned forward to look in the mirror. “Mike, there’s a car behind us. It stopped when we did. Are they following us?”

“Just a couple of Painter’s boys,” Shayne said without looking back. “We can lose them if we have to. How much change have you got?”

She opened her bag. “I don’t think enough for a New York call.”

They pooled their silver. Shayne shut himself in a booth and dialed the number of a New York private detective named Hawkins. The man Harry Bass had gone to see was the elder statesman of the gambling business, an oldtime bootlegger and slot-machine man who had lost most of his real power, but was still a headline figure. Hawkins had worked for him during a contempt-of-Congress proceeding.

The New York detective answered sleepily.

“Think nothing of it,” he said, when Shayne had identified himself and apologized for calling so late. “I’m always glad to take a call from you, Mike. Nine out of ten times it means money in the till.”

“I just want somebody’s phone number,” Shayne said, and told him the man’s name.

“Jesus, Mike. How important is it? He’s always in bed by midnight these days-he’s slowed down a lot. And would it mean any trouble? Believe it or not, and I know what I’m talking about, in the last eight or nine years he’s been more sinned against than sinning.”

Shayne assured him that his reason for wanting the number was to prevent trouble, not to cause any. Hawkins gave him the number without further objection. Shayne waited for a dial tone and used a dime to put in a person-to-person call, collect, to Harry Bass. He read the number to the operator.

The phone rang over and over in New York. Finally a hoarse, rasping voice said irritably, “Hello?”

Immediately after the first click, Shayne heard a second, as an extension was opened. There were subdued noises in the background, low voices and somehow the feel of tension.

The operator said, “A collect call for Mr. Harry Bass?”

“There’s nobody here by that name,” the voice rasped.

The phone was slammed down with a small controlled explosion, but the extension remained open. A man’s voice said quickly, “Operator, who’s your call for?”

“Mr. Harry Bass.’ Michael Shayne in Miami calling. Do you accept the charges?”

“Yes! Put him on.”

“Is this Mr. Bass speaking?”

“This is Sergeant Fino of the New York Police Department. We’ll accept the charges. Let me speak to your party.”

“Cancel the call,” Shayne said, and broke the connection. In a moment he lifted the hook again. Finding the line still open, he left the phone dangling and moved to the next booth, where he used his last dime to call Tim Rourke.

“Tim?” he said when the reporter answered. “Do something for me. I know I’ve got a lot to explain, but I can’t take the time now. Do you know anybody on a morning paper in New York? The Daily News would be best.”

“I have an intimate friend on the Daily News,” Rourke said promptly, “but if you want to know can I trust him, it all depends.”

“Give him New York rights to those pictures your man took, and he’ll cooperate. I’m trying to get in touch with a client. I called a New York number where he’s supposed to be, and a cop answered.”

He told Rourke the name of the New York man.

“Mike, you know you’re getting to be quite a name-dropper?” Rourke said.

“I want to know what the cops are doing there, and if it has any connection with Harry Bass.”

“A local name. This gets better and better.”

“Harry went up on a nine-thirty jet. If he had any trouble the cops won’t be making it public yet, but a good reporter ought to be able to smoke it out. Call me on the car phone as soon as you get anything.”

He returned to the other booth and hung up the receiver. The phone rang immediately. That would be the long distance operator, trying to complete the New York call. Shayne backed into the Alfa-Romeo, leaving the phone ringing impatiently.

“Mike, tell me this instant,” Theo said urgently. “There’s trouble, of course.”

Shayne’s voice was hard. “That New York junket had trouble written all over it, from the word go. Harry’s friend has cops in his apartment. I don’t know how long they’ve been there. Tim Rourke is checking.”

“Mike, please, please,” she said helplessly. “How could I have stopped him?”

“He may be all right,” Shayne said.

He motioned impatiently and she started the motor. They continued north on Collins. She was tightly wound up. If there had been more traffic Shayne would have suggested driving himself. She gripped the wheel so tightly that the tendons stood out on her hands.

“I know this is going to sound self-centered,” she said. “But the minute I heard where Harry was going I knew I had to quit. I’m over my head. I tried to tell him when I was putting him on the plane, but he looked so-so pale and collapsed.”

“He can take care of himself,” Shayne said, and hoped it was true. “How did you know where to find me?”

“I got your secretary out of bed, I’m sorry to say. She was nicer about it than I would have been. She gave me Mr. Rourke’s number. I’ve been hoping you found out something so Harry wouldn’t have to go through with that New York loan. He shouldn’t be linked with that man.”

“I’ve found out who pulled the stickup,” Shayne said, “and how it was worked. I don’t know why.”

“Why?” she said, puzzled. “Isn’t two hundred thousand dollars a good enough reason?”

“Sometimes.”

Following his directions, she crossed the canal to La Gorce Island and parked behind his Buick, at the end of the lane running down to the dock. The police car, which had followed, stopped a discreet distance away. Leaving the door of the Buick open, Shayne tried Rourke’s number. The line was busy.

Theo had left her car and was nervously lighting a cigarette beside the open door of the Buick. “Mike, if you’re just going to be waiting for a call, can I talk to you? I know I ought to wait, but you may not be available later. I need some advice.”

Shayne took a flashlight out of the glove compartment. “I have to pick up something from the boat. I’ll be back in a minute. Answer the phone if it rings.”