Brett Halliday - Michael Shayne’s Triple Mystery

“Wait a minute,” Shayne said. “How bad was that hurricane?”

“Plenty bad. That’s really the reason I missed the fun. The cutter had to run for anchorage on the thirteenth, and she couldn’t put out again until the fifteenth on account of the storm.”

“Then that strip of coast wasn’t being patrolled the two nights before the sinking?” Shayne mused.

“Nope. Except by the elements.”

“And that rum-runner might have been slipping out after discharging cargo, instead of being headed in.”

Rourke stared at the redheaded detective. “If the captain was crazy enough to try and hit that inlet while the hurricane was blowing everything to hell.”

Shayne said gravely, “I think I know the captain who was crazy enough to do just that — and succeeded.”

Rourke raised his brows quizzically. “You’ve got something up your sleeve,” he accused.

Shayne nodded. “It adds up. Tim, I’m willing to bet there was a boatload of 1926 Monnet unloaded at Grossman’s lodge while the hurricane was raging. And it’s still there some place. Grossman was arrested the seventeenth, before he had a chance to get rid of any of it, and he left it there while he was doing time in Atlanta.”

Timothy Rourke whistled shrilly. “It’d be worth as much now as it was during prohibition.”

“More, with the country full of people earning more money than ever before in their lives.”

“If your hunch is right—”

“It has to be right. How long do you think a man could stay alive floating around the ocean in a life preserver? “

“Couple of days, at the most.”

“That’s my hunch, too. From the fifteenth to the seventeenth might not be impossible. But the hurricane struck on the thirteenth and fourteenth. Take a look at your front page for June 17, and you’ll see what I mean.”

Rourke hurriedly brought out the News for June 17. On the front page, next to the story of Grossman’s arrest, was the story of the sensational rescue of Captain Samuels which Shayne had already read in his apartment. Rourke put his finger on the picture and exclaimed. “I remember that now. I interviewed the Captain and thought it miraculous he had stayed alive that long. Captain Thomas Anthony Samuels. Why, damn it, Mike, he’s the old coot who was found murdered tonight.”

Shayne said soberly, “After selling a case of Monnet for a hundred bucks earlier in the evening.”

“He was the only survivor of his ship,” Rourke recalled excitedly. “Then he and Grossman must have been the only ones who knew the stuff was out there.”

“And now Grossman is the only one left,” Shayne said flatly. “Keep this stuff under your hat, Tim. When it’s ready to break it’ll be your baby.” He turned and hurried out.

Shayne didn’t reach his apartment again until after three. He took a nightcap and went to bed, fell immediately into deep and dreamless slumber.

The ringing of his telephone awakened him. He started to yawn, and pain clawed at his facial muscles. He got into a robe and lurched to the telephone. It was a little after eight o’clock.

He lifted the receiver and said, “Shayne.”

A thick voice replied, “This is John Grossman.”

Shayne said, “I expected you to call sooner.”

There was a brief silence as though his caller were taken aback by his reply. Then: “Well, I’m calling you now.”

Shayne said, “That’s quite evident.”

“You’re horning in on things that don’t concern you.”

“Cognac always concerns me.”

“I’m wondering how much you found out from the Captain before he died last night,” Grossman went on.

Shayne said, “Nuts. You killed him and you know exactly how much talking he didn’t do.”

“You can’t prove I was near his place last night,” said Grossman gruffly.

“I think I can. If you just called up to play ring-around-the-rosy, we’re both wasting our time.”

“I’ve been wondering how much real information you’ve got.”

“I knew that would worry you,” Shayne said impatiently. “And since you know Samuels was dead before I reached him, the source of information you’re worried about is the logbook. Let’s talk straight.”

“Why should I worry about the logbook? I’ve got it now.”

“I know you have. But you don’t know how much I read about the Mermaid’s last trip before you got it.”

“The girl says you didn’t read it any.”

Shayne laughed harshly. “You’d like to believe her, wouldn’t you?”

“All right.” The voice became resigned. “Maybe you did read more than she says. How about a deal?”

“What kind of deal?”

“You’re pretty crazy about Monnet, aren’t you?”

“Plenty.”

“How does five cases sound? Delivered to your apartment tonight.”

Shayne said, “It sounds like a joke — and a poor one.”

“You’ll take it and keep your mouth shut if you’re smart.”

Shayne said disgustedly, “You’re rolling me in the aisle.” He hung up and padded across the room in his bare feet to the table, where he poured a slug of Portuguese brandy. The telephone began ringing again. He drank some of the brandy, lit a cigarette, and went to the phone carrying the glass. He lifted the receiver and asked curtly, “Got any more jokes?”

The same voice answered plaintively, “What do you want?”

Shayne asked, “Why should I deal with you at all? I’ve got everything I need with Samuels’s description of where the stuff is hidden.”

“What can you do with it?” the murderer argued.

“The Internal Revenue boys could use my dope.”

“And cut yourself out? Not if I know you.”

“All right,” Shayne said irritably. “You have to cut me in, and you know it. Fifty-fifty.”

“Come out and we’ll talk it over.”

“Where?”

“My lodge on the Keys. First dirt road to the south after you pass Homestead, and then to your right after two miles.”

Shayne said, “I know where it is.”

“I’ll expect you about ten o’clock.”

Shayne said, “Make it eleven. I’ve got to get some breakfast.”

“Eleven it is.” A click broke the connection.

Shayne dressed swiftly, jammed a wide-brimmed Panama down over his head and pulled the brim low over his face, and went out. He hesitated a moment, then went back into the living room. He flipped the pages of the telephone directory until he found the number of Renaldo’s tavern, lifted the receiver, and got a brisk “Good morning,” from a masculine voice at the switchboard downstairs. A frown knitted his forehead, and instead of asking for Renaldo’s number, he said, “Do you have the time?”

He was told, “It is eight twenty-two.”

In the lobby, Shayne went across to the desk and leaned one elbow on it. He simulated astonishment and asked the day clerk, “Where’s Mabel today?”

The clerk glanced around at the brown-suited, middle-aged man alertly handling the switchboard and said, “Mabel was ill, and the telephone company sent us a substitute.”

Shayne went out, got in his car, and drove to a drugstore on Flagler. He called Renaldo’s number and said briskly, “Mike Shayne talking.”

“Mike?” Renaldo sounded relieved. “You’re all right? God, I’m sorry about—”

Shayne laughed softly. “I’m okay. Your boys could be a little more gentle but I feel I owe them something for last night. I’ve got a line on that stuff you were after.”

“Yeah? Well, I don’t know…”

“I need some help to handle it,” Shayne went on. “I figure Blackie and Lennie are just the boys — after seeing them in action.”

“I don’t know,” Renaldo said again, more doubtfully.