Brett Halliday - Murder Spins the Wheel

“Sure. Don’t hold your breath till it happens.”

She turned toward him, her face pale in the reflected light from Shayne’s flashlight. “It sounded like a dream job when I heard about it. Something different all the time, quite a lot of responsibility. Good pay. It didn’t take me long to talk myself into it. I went into it with my eyes open. He’s a tremendous man. Oh, God, I hope he’s not-”

Cutting across the rough between two fairways, Shayne swerved to avoid a menacing hollow and Theo was thrown against him. She grabbed him to keep from falling. Shayne held her with one arm while he tried to keep the cart under control with the other. Her weight shifted as they hit another bump. His hand closed on her breast. It was the wrong way to be holding her on short acquaintance, but he couldn’t move his hand without letting her fall. The flash light bounded away. Shayne stamped at the floorboard, trying to find the brake, but it wasn’t in the logical place. She clung to him and he felt her breath on his cheek.

As soon as they were back on level ground she freed herself and returned to her seat. “Sorry,” she said in a small voice. “That was my fault.”

Shayne found the flashlight. It was still alive. “This seems to be my night for reckless driving,” he said. “What football game did Harry want to talk to me about?”

“Mr. Shayne, I just don’t know. He was watching it on television, and he kept calling me in to see what I thought. It looked legitimate to me, not that I know all that much about football. And there was a horse, too, at Tropical Park. I think the two things together made him think that neither one was entirely a matter of luck.”

Cutting his speed, he threaded his way carefully between sandtraps guarding the approach to a high green. Now they were approaching the stone wall near the burned-out Cadillac. Only one piece of fire apparatus remained, a small chemical pumper. The wind was blowing off the bay. The smell of scorched metal was strong and unpleasant.

Shayne cut the switch. As the motor died he heard a low moaning in the darkness between the cart and the wall.

Theo cried, “Harry?” and jumped down. Her heel went into the soft turf of the green. She fell. Swinging the flash light without getting down from the cart, Shayne began to rake the beam back and forth across the intervening space.

Something moved. The beam jumped toward the movement and picked up the figure of a man, with wildly waving arms.

Theo stumbled again and Shayne passed her. He flicked the flashlight across the face of the man staggering toward them. It was dirty and bloodstained, with staring eyes, but it was unquestionably Harry Bass. Shayne closed with him quickly. Harry swore and batted the flashlight away with a flailing blow. He aimed another swing at Shayne’s head, missed and went sprawling.

“Take it easy, Harry,” the redhead said in a conversational tone. “Mike Shayne.”

Harry came to one knee, panting. Recovering the flash light, Shayne pointed it at his own face. Then he turned it on Theo.

“You’re among friends.”

Harry said heavily, “Where the hell are we?”

“On the Normandy Shores golf course. I’d say about the eighth green. Did you have fire insurance on your Cadillac?”

Theo said quietly, “We have to get him to a doctor.”

“Hell with that,” Harry rumbled. “I need a drink. Been trying to climb that damn wall. Bastards over there wouldn’t listen to me.”

He came to his feet. Theo caught him, both arms around his chest, as he began to topple.

“I’m OK,” he said.

“Oh, yes, you’re fine.”

“How do you want to do it, Harry?” Shayne asked. “You can sit down and we’ll cover you up, and I’ll go back and call an ambulance. But if you don’t want to talk to the cops or sign a complaint right away, we’ll give you a nice bumpy ride out in a golf cart.”

“Mr. Shayne, be serious,” Theo said. “Look at him.”

Harry pulled away. “Not the first time in my life-”

Shayne caught him as he pitched forward. “All right, we’ll take the golf cart. You’ve put on some weight.”

“Hell I have,” Harry mumbled. “Maybe a couple of pounds.”

Shayne turned him so he could look at the flashlight. “How many lights do you see?”

Harry stared at the flashlight, then waved in disgust. “How can I count them when they keep moving around?”

Shayne laughed. “All you need is a couple of weeks in bed and you’ll be out here swinging a golf club.”

He supported the gambler to the cart and helped him up. Harry slumped forward, his head on his folded arms. Theo stood on the ledge behind him, to hold him in.

“How much did you lose, Harry?” Shayne asked before starting the motor.

For a moment he didn’t think Harry had heard him.

“Two hundred G’s,” Harry said softly.

Shayne stopped his Buick behind Doc Waters’ Thunderbird. Waters had been watching for them. He came down the porch steps, a drink in his hand.

“This surprises the hell out of me,” he said, looking in at Harry. “You let a couple of punks stick you up?”

Harry took Waters’ drink out of his hand and emptied it in a long swallow. He handed it back.

“I don’t remember asking you here, Doc,” he said evenly.

“Well, for God’s sake,” Waters said uneasily, “if I need an invitation after all these years-I waited a solid hour. I’m under pressure, Harry. I told you that.”

“You’re a rat and a son of a bitch,” Harry told him. “It’s your own fault you’re under pressure. You know what I’m talking about.”

His secretary and Shayne helped him out of the car and up the steps. Waters tried to get in on it but Harry twitched away.

“I don’t want your crummy hands on me.”

Shayne maneuvered his friend through the front door. He looked at Theo, who said helplessly, “Put him in here, I guess.”

Shayne steered him into the living room and lowered him onto a broad sofa. Harry touched his head and groaned.

“Give me another jolt of whiskey before that last one wears off. What happened to Billy?”

“He was on the right side of the wall,” Shayne said, “so he probably traveled by ambulance. Look at this cigarette.” He held a cigarette in front of Harry’s eyes. “Can you focus?”

After trying for a moment, Harry shook his head slightly. “OK, call a doctor. But I want to get you moving first.”

Waters said behind them, “I’ll call him, Harry. Who do you use?”

“Jason Goldstein, in Surfside.”

Theo ran in with a pan of warm water and towels, and knelt beside the sofa. “You look awful,” she said with an attempt at lightness. “Hold still, I want to clean you up a little so you won’t scare the doctor.”

“You’re a cute-looking kid, Theo,” Harry said. “Especially the one in the middle.”

She wrung out a washcloth and began sponging his forehead. “Don’t do too much talking.”

“Kiss me.”

Her hand stopped. “Now Harry.”

“Mike won’t mind. No, not there,” he said as her lips approached his cheek. “On the mouth.”

The expression on her face was hidden from Shayne. He lit a cigarette. Putting down the washcloth, Theo took Harry’s face in both hands and kissed him gently and thoroughly, without hurrying. Shayne had ample time to snap his lighter shut, to put it away, to examine the pictures on the walls. She lifted her head.

“I think I feel better,” Harry said. “Let the washing go for now, Theo. I’m clean enough. Get Mike some brandy. There’s a bottle of Cordon Bleu around somewhere.”

“He can wait a minute,” she said calmly, and finished sponging the blood and dirt from his face.