Brett Halliday - Murder Spins the Wheel

“Are you still working, Mike? I thought it was out of your hands.”

“It will be as soon as they catch up with Harry.”

After breaking the connection, Shayne called several people Harry might get in touch with, in the unlikely event that he succeeded in making it back to Miami. He asked them to pass on a simple message to Harry: do nothing until he talked to Michael Shayne.

He looked into the bedroom before leaving. Theo was sleeping under the openwork blanket, her face serene and untroubled.

La Gorce Island, where he had left his Buick, was only ten minutes away, but he had a strong feeling that his time was running out. The taxi took him to Normandy Isle.

Only one light was on in Harry Bass’s house, in a bedroom upstairs.

“Hold your flag,” Shayne told the driver. “I may not be staying.”

He looked in the garage window. Doc Waters’ Thunderbird was still there. He went around the house and up on the back terrace, where he tapped lightly on the sliding-glass door.

“Doc, are you in there?”

There was no answer, but there was a quality to the silence which long experience in entering silent houses had taught him to distrust. He stepped inside. Using his lighter, he found the light switch. The overhead light flashed on. The rifle Doc had threatened him with, its hammer crushed against the stock, lay across a low table. Ashtrays around the room were choked with cigarette stubs. Shayne checked the level in the whiskey bottle. If Doc Waters was the only one who had been drinking from it, he had put away most of a fifth. The little plastic pill container had tipped over, spilling tranquillizers across the table.

“Doc?” he called again.

He went into the hall. He felt a sudden prickling at the nape of his neck, but the warning came too late. He swung around. Something small and hard was thrust against his stomach from the side.

“Hold it, Mike.”

The light came on. Harry Bass was facing him, but it was a Harry Bass he had never before seen, haggard and wild-eyed. He seemed smaller, thinner and many years older. The head bandage, which capped the whole top of his head above the ears, had slipped to one side, which gave him a dissolute look. His tie was gone and there was blood on the front of his Madras jacket.

He took a backward step and showed Shayne a. 45, so heavy he had to support his right wrist with his left hand. “And I’ll use it, Mike. I’m not kidding.”

“I believe you,” Shayne said. “Have you already used it on Doc?”

“Not yet.” Harry opened a coat closet. “Come out slow, Doc.”

Waters staggered out, his face bloody and battered. He peered at Shayne through a bloody haze.

“He’s gone crazy!” he said appealingly. “You tell him I had nothing to do with it.”

Harry’s upper lip lifted. He moved the. 45 in a short arc between the two men.

“Do this my way, Mike. Don’t try to jump me or I’ll kill you. All three of us are going to the front door together and you’re going to get rid of the cab.”

“Sure, Harry. I’ve got a few things to tell you, and some of them may surprise you.”

“Everybody move slow,” Harry said, swinging the gun. “No tricks.”

“No tricks,” Shayne agreed.

They moved down the hall. At the screen door Shayne called to the taxi driver, “You don’t need to wait. Will ten bucks cover it?”

He looked at Harry for permission and stepped out on the porch. Harry watched him through the screen, the gun at his side. Shayne wrapped a ten dollar bill around a fifty cent piece and pitched it down the steps to the driver as he came out of his cab. The driver caught it neatly and waved.

“Now inside, Mike,” Harry said. “No more interruptions.”

“Whose plane did you use?” Shayne said.

“From the old days,” Harry grunted. “Now put it in writing, Doc.”

“Honest to God!” Waters protested. “You know I wouldn’t frame you. If you weren’t out of your skull you’d see it doesn’t add up.”

While he talked, he was following the orders the. 45 was giving him. In the living room, Harry collapsed into an upholstered chair, the gun on his knees.

“There’s the pad. Start writing.”

Suddenly his face turned into a mask of pain. His eyes squeezed tight. Waters twitched toward him.

Shayne said, “You know better than that, Doc.”

Harry’s eyes opened and he straightened the gun. Waters stared at him for a moment, then sat down at the dropleaf desk. A ruled yellow pad was waiting for him. He turned toward the redheaded detective for one more appeal.

“Shayne! He’s got this crazy idea I planted H in his coat and tipped off the New York cops. And if I don’t put it in writing and sign it he’s going to murder me. I didn’t think he would at first, but look at him. He’s just nuts enough, even in front of a witness.”

Harry’s head was wobbling. A muscle jumped badly in his cheek. His eyes crossed for a minute. With a visible effort, he forced them back into focus.

“The cop died, Harry,” Shayne said softly.

The jumping muscle in Harry’s cheek was joined by others. “So the luck went sour. In one day. OK. But nobody’s going to send me up on a drug rap. Start writing.”

“What do you think heroin is?” Waters demanded. “The atom bomb? Anybody can get hold of it if you want to put out the dough. I’ll write it down if you say so, Harry, because Jesus, I don’t like the looks of that end of a. 45. But wouldn’t you rather have the truth, for God’s sake?”

“You’ve been handling it,” Harry said.

“I handled one shipment! I was busted, I had an opportunity offered to me and I jumped at it. I know your rules. But this was absolutely open and shut. No risk attached to it at all. Why not talk to the guy who brought me the deal? Wave a. 45 under his nose and see what he says. Give me ten minutes on the phone and I’ll get him for you.”

“If you’re talking about Vince Donahue,” Shayne said, “he’s somebody else who’s dead.”

Waters looked at him in real terror. “He can’t be dead! I need him to back me up. Shayne, cut the crap.”

“I’d say he died about fifteen minutes after he stuck up Harry,” Shayne said.

“And this was your boy, Doc?” Harry said dangerously. “It begins to make sense. You and Naples rigged that big win so you could pull my cash out of the safe where you could get at it.”

“Harry, for Christ’s sake.” Waters swung toward the redhead, then back to Harry. “I wouldn’t rob you.”

“You had to,” Harry said quietly. “You had to set it up so I’d be out of cash. Otherwise the boys wouldn’t go for that drug frame. Not for a minute. Nobody would who knew me. You’re the one who thought of New York, not me. You were alone when the doctor was here. I’ve only got that one coat. You had time to plant the stuff.” He hitched forward in his chair, all his muscles clenched with the effort to say what he had to say with his last spark of vitality. “You wanted the top job. You thought you could sneak your way in. Send me to jail on a dirty rap and then you could-” A spasm of pain raced across his face. “I can’t think any more. I want that confession.”

“How many things do you want me to confess? I planted heroin in your coat. I faked a loss to Al Naples. I had a kid stick you up. I wanted your job. Harry, I wouldn’t sit in that seat for a million bucks!”

Harry motioned with the gun and Doc’s ballpoint pen started to scratch across the pad.

Shayne said evenly, “Doc didn’t kill Vince Donahue, though, Harry. He was here in the house when it happened. Don’t try to think about it. I’ll fit the pieces together for you. The heroin came in in some kind of trick compartment inside the frame of Theo’s Alfa-Romeo. Vince Donahue has been sleeping with Al Naples’ wife. She told him about the fix on Ladybug. He manipulated Johnny Black, the Florida Christian quarterback, and Black’s on his way in to give you the details if you need them. Vince was the third man in the stickup. Everything had to be carefully timed. He didn’t have the brains to work out anything that complex. Neither does Doc.”