Бретт Холлидей - Murder in Haste

“But what on earth—”

“Just do it. I’ll explain later. Lock up and don’t let anybody in.”

He hung up. The attendant said, “Shayne, eh?”

“I’ll give you my autograph some other time,” Shayne said, and ran back to his Buick. He waited approximately fifteen seconds, thinking hard. He could park on the shoulder of the causeway and get back to the island on foot, but that wouldn’t accomplish what he had in mind.

He turned left on Collins and took another left to the Haulover Beach charter docks. In a moment he saw a captain he recognized — Jean Prideaux, a Frenchman from Martinique. He left the Buick double-parked with the motor running, and slid a Miami Beach police department courtesy card under the windshield wiper.

Prideaux hailed him. “Mike! Not see for months. Come out with me today and kill a sailfish?”

“Not today, Jean. I want some taxi service — ten bucks down to the Bay Harbor islands and back.”

The fishing captain looked at him in amazement. “You charter a deep-sea boat to go to Bay Harbor?”

“This is business,” Shayne said briefly. “I want to sneak up on some people, and they know my car. Fifteen bucks.”

“Sure, Mike, sure,” Prideaux cried. “Make it quick because I got a party coming.”

Shayne jumped in and Prideaux called to a boy at the gas pump, “Tell them I back quick, o.k.?”

“And keep an eye on my car!” Shayne shouted.

Prideaux cast off and gunned the motor. They rocketed away from the dock. Prideaux grinned back at Shayne.

“Noisy, to sneak up on people.”

“Take her out past the Haulover and back in,” Shayne shouted.

Other fishing boats were heading out toward the Stream with charter parties, and the upper bay was dotted with sails. Prideaux veered to the left, and at a signal from Shayne cut sharply toward the causeway and then swung back toward the islands. The private docks along the water were screened from the single street by palms and hedges. Shayne saw the long, low modern house where he had had breakfast. He let Prideaux pass the dock that went with the house, then signed to him to cut his motor and coast in.

Shayne grabbed at the dock belonging to Rose’s next-door neighbor. “Don’t tie up,” he said in a low voice. “I could be leaving fast.”

Prideaux tapped his wrist watch, reminding Shayne that he had paying customers waiting. Shayne stepped onto the dock. He skirted the boathouse and went across the lawn, parallel to the water’s edge. An elderly woman having breakfast alone on the back terrace of the next house looked at him in surprise. He waved cheerfully and went on. As soon as he was hidden behind a flowering hedge, he ran, bent over, to the Heminway house.

He tried the back door. She had done as he had told her; it was locked. He tapped lightly. There was no response from within. As he moved off the small porch and started along the back of the house he could hear the electric pump hammering in the basement. All the windows on that side of the house were shut and locked, and an air-conditioning unit was sealed into a bedroom window. He reached the single frosted glass window of the bathroom. The shower was running. He tapped sharply on the glass with his fingernail, but the noise of the shower drowned it out. He went to the corner of the house and looked around carefully.

The black sedan had moved up in front of the house. The front door was open. Shayne could see only one of the two men. He was sitting sideways in the front seat, his feet on the curb. Shayne’s eyes closed down to slits. He didn’t like this man’s looks. He was overweight for his height, with heavy jowls and a thick neck. He hadn’t shaved yet this morning, and he needed it badly. The stubble was grayish and dirty-looking. His hat was pushed back on his head. He had a loose, careless look, as though nothing mattered to him.

Shayne pulled back, moving slowly so he wouldn’t attract the man’s eye. He thought for a moment and went back to the bathroom window. Taking a half dollar from his pocket, he clinked it against the glass. It sounded very loud to Shayne’s ears, but it didn’t seem to penetrate the noise of the shower. He flicked open a pen-knife. Reaching up to his full height, he slipped the blade through the crack between the upper and lower sash and forced the catch. Then he raised the lower sash just enough so he could work his fingers beneath the bottom. He raised it without difficulty.

“Mrs. Heminway,” he whispered. “Rose.”

He heard a noise from the front of the house and sprang up, getting the upper half of his rangy body in across the sill. He wriggled headfirst into the bathroom and came down on his hands. He had just turned to close the window when the shower went off and Rose Heminway opened the door of the shower stall.

She gasped and raised one hand, as though to hold him off. “Michael Shayne!”

He was still in a slight crouch, breathing hard from the exertion. Her hair was pinned up on the top of her head, to get it out of the water’s way. The first thing Shayne noticed was that she was very clean, but that wasn’t all he noticed. He would have to report to Lucy Hamilton what had happened in Miami while she was in New Orleans, but on the whole, he thought, he had better not tell her he had climbed in through a bathroom window.

“It’s all right,” he said reassuringly. “It’s the only way I could get in. Those guys in front aren’t cops.”

One hand fluttered to her forehead and she reached out with the other for something solid to hold onto. “Mike, I feel so—”

“Don’t faint!” Shayne said sharply. “There’s no time for that. Here.”

He grabbed a large towel from the nearest rack and held it out. Her eyelids trembled. She tried to say something, but her breath came out in a sigh and she fell forward. He caught her under the arms, suppressing the profanity that sprang to his lips, and dragged her to the bedroom. He laid her on the bed, wet as she was, and toweled her roughly. She was only unconscious a moment. The cool air of the bedroom brought her back. She sat up and seized the towel.

“Just what do you think you’re trying to—” she began indignantly, but he cut her off with a peremptory gesture.

“No, Rose. That’s another thing there’s no time for.”

He saw her red robe thrown over the back of a chair. He got it for her. “Put this on. Never mind about getting dry first. Put it on. Right away, please.”

She put an arm into one sleeve, still trying to hold the towel in front of her. In Shayne’s opinion it was a little late for that.

She whispered, “What happened? Everything turned upside down.”

“You weren’t expecting anybody,” Shayne said. “There was too much steam in there. Never mind that now.”

Letting go of the towel, she put her arm in the other sleeve. She still seemed dazed. She looked down at herself suddenly, and snatched the robe together.

“Don’t worry about it, Rose,” Shayne said. “I’m over voting age. Did they try to get in?”

She nodded. “The doorbell rang. They’d seen me through the window, and I knew they’d think it was funny if I didn’t answer, so I turned on the shower. Then I thought I might as well actually take a shower. But if they aren’t police, who are they?”

“That’s what I want to find out. Can you stand up?”

She put her feet on the floor and leaned forward. Remembering that her hair was still up, she pulled several pins and it tumbled down almost to her shoulders. Supporting herself on the footboard, she came to her feet. She swayed dizzily. Shayne caught her arm before she could fall.

“They probably heard the shower go off,” he said. “They’ll give you a couple of minutes to get dressed before they ring the bell again. I want you to be on your feet and functioning.”