Mermaid on the Rocks
Page 8
She clenched her fists, her face suddenly ugly. “And the whole thing depends on Kitty!”
chapter 10
The phone clanged.
The strained look stayed on Barbara’s face for only an instant longer. A smile took its place.
“I’m going to end up with a stomach ulcer unless I can cut that out,” she said. “I keep forgetting you’re in her corner. Now if the bitch drops dead of heart failure some morning, you’ll think I did it by witchcraft.”
The phone rang again. “And who the hell that is, at three in the morning—”
She picked up the phone and said hello.
“Shayne? Michael Shayne? Yes, he’s here.”
She held out the phone to the detective. An instant after Shayne took it he heard a muffled click, followed by a change in the intensity of the sound. Without bothering to cover the mouthpiece, he said to Barbara, “Where’s the extension?”
“At the end of the hall.”
He put the phone down and crossed the room. By the time he reached the hall the second phone was back on its bracket.
He returned and picked up the living room phone. “O.K., this is Shayne.”
“I want to report that it’s three o’clock,” Rourke’s voice said. “The girls kicked me out so they could go to sleep, which was unfriendly of them, I thought. I’m at Harry’s, and there isn’t much to do at Harry’s except drink. Come to think of it, it’s a bar, that’s what the place is for. Do you want to react now?”
“What?” the redhead exclaimed furiously.
“That’s a nice strong reaction. I’m not sure I follow your reasoning on this. You want the lady to think I’m calling to tell you that Kitty Sims has been found in her bed in a welter of blood, as we used to say in the days when they let us use clichés?”
Shayne swore savagely. Across the room, the lip of the martini pitcher rang slightly against the glass as Barbara poured. She looked at Shayne. Their eyes held while the reporter continued.
“Yeah. Nude, in a welter of blood, with filthy playing cards all over the bed. The age-old story. She should’ve asked for his references before she invited him up. Now don’t hang up on me before I pass along a piece of legitimate news I just picked up from a fellow barfly.”
“Where did you hear about it?” Shayne demanded.
“That’s a complicated story, and while she thinks I’m answering your question, I’ll pass on my tidbit. It comes from a legman who covers the courthouse for us. It’s about Francis X. Shanahan, one of your client’s fellow heirs, and how he became a judge. He became a judge by laying out a substantial hunk of money, Mike. I won’t bore you with how much, or whose safe-deposit box it ended up in, because I don’t want to shake your faith in the great American system of representative government. The interesting angle is that my guy was surprised that Frank had it, being what we call a semipro playboy. Then, too, he’s always given every sign of liking the bachelor life, so how come he suddenly decided to marry Cal Tuttle’s daughter Barbara? The talk is that she put up the dough. In return she gets a judge for a husband. They’ve been engaged six months. People in that age bracket don’t usually get engaged. They just get married. Maybe he’s not too enthusiastic about the idea, do you think? This might be something to work on.”
“I’m afraid I can’t help you,” Shayne growled. “I’ve only been on the case since yesterday afternoon, and all I know is what people have been telling me. I’m almost through here. I can be back in an hour and start picking up the pieces.”
He hung up. For a long moment he and Barbara looked at each other.
“There are only three in the pot now,” he said.
She picked him up sharply. “What are you talking about? What pot, Mike?”
She was facing him, her back to the tall picture window. Suddenly there was a small explosion, followed at once by a tiny ping. An instant passed before the little interruption broke through to Shayne.
“Get down!” he snarled.
He knocked her to the floor, jolting the glass out of her hand and sending the cold gin in a cascade over her chest. The quick little sequence of sounds was repeated, the explosion, the crisp spattering noise, the ping. Tiny holes had been drilled in two adjoining pipes above the organ. There were two matching holes side by side through the double glass of the picture window.
“That’s a thirty-caliber carbine,” Shayne said quietly, “so keep your head down.”
Barbara’s eyes were wide with shock. “You mean somebody’s shooting at us?”
“Not at me, baby. I’m not one of the joint tenants.”
She moved her head and looked toward the window. A tiny network of cracks radiated out from each neat double hole. She looked back at the pipes, and Shayne could see her drawing an imaginary line connecting the holes and projecting it outside.
“Someone in a boat,” she whispered.
“What kind of a shot is Eda Lou?”
“Eda Lou! Don’t be an idiot.”
Eda Lou spoke acidly from the doorway. “On the floor already, I see. That didn’t take long. I don’t like to barge in on the orgy, but I thought you might like to know there’s a boat out in the cove.”
“Stay away from the window!” Barbara commanded. “They’re shooting at us.”
“Who’s shooting at us, may I ask?” the old woman said sarcastically. “Cupid?”
She was wearing high-heeled slippers and an old-fashioned floor-length negligee with a collar of feathers. The carbine fired again and she went down like a stone. A loose feather floated down after her.
She moaned faintly.
“Eda Lou!” Barbara cried. “Are you hurt?”
“Twisted my ankle,” the old woman snapped. “What a rotten shot. I thought there was something creepy about that boat—it just sat there with no lights on. What a comfort to think we have a man in the house for a change.”
Shayne grunted. “Take a look around.”
She did as he told her, without lifting her head. “I think I see what you mean,” she said slowly.
The front windows came down to within twelve inches of the floor. The room was as brightly lit as a stage set. From the gunman’s position in the cove he commanded every inch of it except for a narrow stretch of front wall. There were two standing floor lamps, one large ornate table lamp with a Tiffany glass shade. The main light came from a brass ceiling fixture, four frosted bowls attached to a central stem. This was controlled by a switch which Shayne could see on the wall inside the door. To reach the switch, he would have to pass the double sliding glass door.
“We’d better turn off the lights,” Eda Lou suggested. “I’ll unplug the lamps. You get the chandelier.”
Shayne grinned at her. “You get the chandelier. I’ll unplug the lamps.”
“Good for you,” she said. “Let the women do the hard part. And Cal always said you were one of the toughest people around. You’ve slowed down, Shayne.”
Shayne went on grinning. “What would Cal do in a case like this?”
She glared at him fiercely. Then one of the feathers in her collar tickled her and made her nose wrinkle. She gave a short laugh.
“Just what you’re doing, boy. He played the odds, and that’s how he lived as long as he did.”
Using his elbows and the muscles of his upper thighs, Shayne wriggled forward without raising any part of his body more than an inch. He ended at the front wall beyond the big window.
“Who do you think’s out there, Barbara?” he said, lighting a cigarette.
“How would I know?” she responded irritably. “Daddy was involved in a million things. He was never afraid to make enemies.”
Eda Lou snorted. “Honey, give the man credit for some sense. You know who it is, and Mike knows you know.”
Barbara shot her an angry look. “Will you keep out of this? I don’t suppose I can ask you to leave the room, but please stop interrupting.”
“Pardon me for living,” the older woman said acidly.
Eda Lou put in, “This is Mike Shayne. Don’t you read the papers? He wouldn’t help you across the street for less than twenty.”
Barbara gave her another hard look and she said meekly, “I thought you might not know.”
Barbara said through set lips, looking back at Shayne, “Fifteen, Mike?”
“Do you have fifteen?” Shayne asked.
The fear in Barbara’s eyes deepened to panic. “You won’t insist on being paid in advance, will you? Cash is the problem.”
“What happened to the option money from Florida-American? Did that pay for Shanahan’s judgeship?”
Eda Lou snickered. Barbara’s face was working.
“Don’t turn me down, Mike, please. What’ll I do? Brad’s insane! You don’t know what he’s like. He’s a killer.”
“Yeah, there’s that old killing in his record,” Shayne observed, “but I thought you said it wasn’t important?”
She swallowed, saying nothing.
Shayne went on, “And I couldn’t help you even if I wanted to, which I don’t. I can’t work for two people at the same time. That’s one of the rules. I already have a client.”
“Not any more. Can’t you—”
She stopped abruptly. She looked at the phone, then at the detective. The blood drained out of her face. Shayne grinned at her.
“You bastard,” she said faintly.
“That’s what people sometimes call me,” Shayne agreed.
“What’s going on around here?” Eda Lou demanded. “What’s all the back-and-forth?”
“Brad met with an accident,” Shayne said without looking away from Barbara. “A cop shot him. I’m glad to say that I helped.”
Barbara cut her eyes toward the neat little holes in the window.
“No, that isn’t Brad out there,” Shayne said. “So who is it? It can’t be Kitty, because I know where she is. That leaves Judge Shanahan. It hardly seems in character, but who else is left? People sometimes step out of character when they have a strong enough reason—if they don’t want to get married, for example.”
“You tricked me once,” Barbara said coldly. “Although what you imagine you’ve proved, merely because I assumed that phone call was about Kitty—”
“I’m not trying for courtroom evidence,” Shayne told her. “Just checking an idea. You work in a hospital, don’t you? What do you know about the properties of nitrous oxide?”
Barbara drew in her breath sharply and raised her head. The carbine cracked. This round gouged a splinter out of the window frame. Barbara banged her forehead against the floor.
“I don’t know what you mean,” she said in a low voice.
“The hell you don’t,” Shayne said. “Do you know what the statutes say about conspiracy to commit murder? Look it up.” There was a harsh edge to his voice. “I’m going to chase that guy away in another minute. I’ve been faking a bit here. I can push the sofa in front of the glass doors and get past without being shot at. I didn’t bring a gun, but I doubt if he’ll stick around to find that out. I’ll see Kitty at breakfast and pass on your proposition. If she asks my advice, I’ll advise her to take it. By the time she gets a hundred-percent ownership, this buried-treasure story is going to sound pretty stale. But it’s up to her. If she says no, I want you to realize there isn’t a thing you can do about it. Not one thing. So relax and stop trying. If you decide to go on trying, you’d better kill me first. Is that clear?”
Eda Lou clapped ironically.
“I haven’t done anything,” Barbara said in a faint voice.
“That’s fine,” he said. “Go on doing nothing, and if you’re lucky you’ll stay out of the electric chair.”
She made a weak little sound.
“What she’s trying to tell you, Mike,” Eda Lou said, “is that she’s going to change her ways. And if you want a gun, there’s a .25 in the drawer of that table.”
“A .25,” Shayne said sarcastically. “You wouldn’t happen to have a slingshot to go with it? Never mind, it’ll save moving the furniture.”
He worked away from the wall and slowly reversed. He began to creep toward a heavily carved table, all the way across the room. Reaching it finally, he rolled over on his back.
Looking up from beneath, he saw a small drawer suspended from parallel guides. He began to slide it slowly out. It was while he was doing this that he noticed a small button microphone screwed to the inside of one of the massive carved legs.
chapter 11
When the drawer was almost out Shayne gave it a final flick and let it fall to the floor. He rolled over to wriggle into the open, and as he did so his trained eye followed the wire out of the little mike down the carved leg to a hole drilled in the baseboard.
“It better be there,” Eda Lou said, meaning the .25. “I saw it a couple of weeks ago.”
The drawer had picked up the usual accumulation of household objects—a single glove, receipted bills, flashlight batteries, a package of Kleenex. Shayne took out the little automatic and released the clip. It was loaded.
Creeping along the wall, he twitched the plug of the big table lamp out of its socket. “Get the other lamps,” he told Eda Lou. “You were right in the first place—I’m getting the chandelier.”
The floor lamps blinked out one after another. Rolling over on one side, Shayne shot out one of the four overhead globes.
“Give the man a cigar,” Eda Lou said.
When Shayne shot out the second globe the man with the carbine fired twice, shooting at random.
“Mike,” Barbara said urgently, “listen, go down the hall and out through the kitchen. You’ll see the boathouse.”
Shayne fired again, leaving only one bulb alive. “I’m not chasing anybody. A .25 is no good in a fire fight with a carbine.”
“I have a fast boat. Stay out of range. You can do it. We have to know who it is! If it’s really Frank—”
Shayne shot out the final light and rolled to his feet. A motor roared outside in the cove. He had mapped out a path between furniture and he moved fast in the sudden darkness. But Eda Lou hadn’t stayed in the same spot and they collided. Shayne got a mouthful of feathers. He sent her flying, and one of the heavy floor lamps went over.
He moved down the hall at a kind of half-run, the fresh stitches pulling at every step. He went through the brightly lighted kitchen and out the door toward the low boathouse. The door was half open. He felt inside for the light switch and found it on the second pass.
The boat was a 28-footer, a Hatteras cruiser. He swung over the rail, made his way to the short ladder to the pilot room and hitched himself up. Sliding behind the wheel, he turned the key. The powerful twin Chryslers took hold with a roar. As Shayne snapped on the running lights, the roar faltered and died.
After listening to the growl of the starter until it began to fade, he turned out the running lights, climbed down the ladder and limped back to the house. The sound of the other boat’s motor was already far away.
The two women met him on the terrace. “Here’s your .25,” he said to the older woman.
“I was out this afternoon,” Barbara said. “Everything ran perfectly.”
“Somebody’s been tinkering with the fuel line in the meantime,” Shayne said. “Thanks for the drinks and the information.”
Barbara tried again, without being able to get much conviction into her voice. “Mike, I don’t know how much she’s paying you, but won’t you negotiate with me a little? I can give you a postdated check. I really have been helpful, hav
en’t I? Fifteen thousand for a few day’s work—I don’t care what anybody says, that’s good pay. Don’t just advise her to come in on the deal. Tell her. It’s the best thing for everybody, you said so yourself.”
Shayne lit a cigarette on the top step. “Remember what I told you,” he said in a grating voice. “Stop thinking up smart ways to murder people. This is the end of the line. When you see Frank, pass it on.”
Barbara stayed where she was but Eda Lou came down the steps to the Volkswagen.
“More excitement than we’ve had in the last twenty years,” she observed. “Can you actually get in that thing?”
“It’s not easy.”
Shayne contracted his big frame and backed downward into the tiny opening. After he closed the door Eda Lou touched his elbow.
“That swimming invitation’s still open.”
“I’ll bear it in mind,” he said. “But with a little luck I won’t be down this way again.”
“The soul of politeness,” she said agreeably. “So long, Mike.”
He wheeled the Volkswagen around and headed back toward the curving trestle to the next Key and the highway. Just before the road joined Route he remembered a dirt track running into a swampy tangle that was only slightly less dense than the one on Key Gaspar. Coming to this opening in the wall of undergrowth, he pulled off the paved road and followed the ruts, past No Trespassing, No Hunting, No Shooting and Positively No Fishing signs.