Murder in Haste

by Brett Halliday

  The sound was repeated. Shayne heard it this time, but still half asleep, he didn’t react. He even knew what had made the sound—a chisel being forced between the air-conditioner and the sash. Then the sash came up, and at that moment several things happened at once.

  The moon had slipped behind clouds, but a car threw its headlights against the window, and through the tilted slats of the blind Shayne saw an all-black figure, wearing what seemed to be a tight black jersey. Something dropped into the room. Even before the headlights flashed past, the figure was gone.

  Shayne sprang to his feet and called, “Joe! Outside!”

  He ran to the window and wrenched at the partly-raised sash. But it was jammed. He knew he was overlooking something important, and perhaps a second and a half passed before he realized what it was. Without an instant’s further thought he drew back a step and threw himself at the window.

  He had raised his arm as he plunged forward, twisting to protect his eyes and face. His elbow struck the blind with the full force of his powerful body behind it. The blind came loose with a crash, glass and wood splintered. Shayne fell through onto the veranda roof, and at that instant there was a terrific explosion inside the room.

  He had brought part of the blind with him. The momentum of his diving fall carried him to the edge of the roof, where he grabbed at the gutter to check himself. He was in precarious balance for a second, but the broken-off section of the blind whipped past him and carried him on over. Snared in the ropes, he landed badly, on his side with one arm beneath him. Each noise had overlapped with the next, and the whole thing had almost seemed to happen at once, as though the shattering of the glass, the clatter of the blind as it came down, his awkward fall, had all been part of the same explosion. For a moment he couldn’t move. He lay amid the wreckage, surrounded by ropes and torn slats and pieces of wood, looking up at the sky and swearing under his breath. Then he came to his feet. “Joe!” he yelled.

  He heard the pounding of footsteps inside the building. He crouched, listening. He couldn’t be sure how much time had passed since the bomb had been thrown into the room started for the corner of the house, and one of the Venetian Perhaps he had blacked out for a moment; perhaps not. He blind ropes tightened around his ankle and threw him.

  He freed himself, swearing more savagely. The porch-light flashed on. Joe Wing rah out, a gun in his hand.

  “Hold it!” Shayne yelled as the gun came up.

  “Mike! What are you doing out here?”

  “What do you think, catching fireflies? Do you hear anything?”

  Wing listened. But by now there was too much noise from the house to hear anything. Norton charged out through the door. Apparently he had reached Shayne’s room in time to run into the blast; his shirt was ripped, his face blackened. He, too, was waving a gun, to Shayne’s disgust.

  Lights were coming on all over the building. Suddenly a woman’s voice screamed.

  “He’s got some kind of a black sweater on,” Shayne said. “Black pants. Maybe we can still—”

  He set off up the driveway at a hard run. The iron gates were open; probably they were never closed. Shayne ran through and looked both ways. Several cars were parked on the drive nearby. When Norton joined him, Shayne said brusquely, “Check those parked cars. Then watch the gate.”

  He turned back and met Wing as the lieutenant ran up the driveway toward him. “He can’t be far away,” Shayne said. “I haven’t heard a car.”

  “We’ll have a couple of patrols here in a minute,” Wing said. “What kind of a sweater is he wearing?”

  “Black jersey, skin-tight.”

  “You’re bleeding like a pig, Mike.”

  “Too bad,” Shayne said. “Let’s find this son of a bitch and then I’ll get a transfusion.”

  They separated. Shayne had no trouble so long as he was out on the lawn, but he had to move cautiously when he went among the shrubs and bushes at the edge of the nursing home property. Reaching the high iron fence, protected at its base by a thick barberry hedge, he turned back toward the water. Off to his left, Wing’s flashlight moved back in the direction of the house. Many of the windows were lighted, and Shayne saw the gaping hole he had left as he crashed through the window ahead of the explosion.

  A little crowd of patients and attendants had gathered on the porch under the overhead light. Sirens were wailing. Soon the bushes became too dense to move through without a light, and Shayne went back to the lawn. As he came into the light from the porch, Rose broke from the others and ran toward him.

  “Mike! You—”

  She stopped, aghast at what she saw. Shayne brushed the blood out of his eyes.

  Suddenly, beneath the excited rattle of conversation from the porch, he noticed another sound—the quiet beating of an inboard motor, and then he knew the explanation of the tight black jersey.

  “A skin-diver!” he shouted to Wing, who was coming out of the shrubbery on the other side of the lawn. “He swam out to a boat. Call the Coast Guard.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  The Coast Guard station at the end of the MacArthur Causeway turned out three patrol boats, and turned them out in a hurry. They crisscrossed the bay from the mainland to the southern tip of the Beach, but Shayne, watching their searchlights from the side porch of the nursing home, knew that they were too late. It was impressive, the kind of massive effort that couldn’t be mounted by a single private detective, but if the bomber had slipped through before the boats were in position, as Shayne was sure he had, it was wasted effort.

  Dr. Shoiffet had patched Shayne up, removing several fragments of broken glass and taking several stitches in the worst gash, over one eye. He had wrenched his left shoulder, and it was beginning to stiffen. Lieutenant Wing and an explosives expert were working in the bombed-out room. Apparently the bomber had known the exact location of Chadwick’s bed. Looking at the twisted wreekage, Wing congratulated Shayne dryly on not having been in it. Morton, hearing Shayne’s call, had rushed out, and the bomb had gone off when he was wrenching at the doorknob. The door was blown off its hinges and came back in his face, shielding him from the full force of the blast.

  Rose and most of the patients had gone back to bed and things were beginning to quiet down. The night had four hours to run and Michael Shayne was feeling the pressure. He was pacing restlessly up and down the porch when a car drove up to the front steps and Tim Rourke piled out. His face was puffy with lack of sleep, and he hadn’t taken the time or trouble to button all the buttons of his shirt His skinny chest could be seen through the gaps. He ran his fingers through his hair, which was all the maintenance he usually gave it.

  “Hey, Mike,” he said. “You look grisly. Fighting again?”

  “You should see the other guy,” Shayne said sourly. “Not a mark on him.”

  “You had an explosion out here, they tell me.”

  “Second floor,” the redhead said briefly. “You can’t miss it.”

  “Don’t go anywhere, Mike. Any chance of a drink in this place?”

  “I had a bottle of cognac upstairs,” Shayne said. “But I don’t think there’s much left of either the cognac or the bottle.”

  “There must be a doctor around. This is a nursing home, isn’t it? I’ll hit him for some prescription stuff.”

  Shayne went on pacing while Rourke visited the scene of the explosion and phoned his paper. He came out fifteen minutes later, an unlighted cigarette dangling from his lips.

  “This quack they have here doesn’t think he’d advise a drink. Let’s go to my place, Mike. I keep a couple of pints in the bottom of the laundry hamper, for emergencies.”

  “Later,” Shayne said.

  “Later! Two nights in a row is a little too much. I’m an old man. I get tired.”

  “Sit down,” Shayne said.

  Something in his friend’s tone seemed to surprise Rourke; he sat down obediently in one of the wicker rocking chairs. Shayne planted himself on the broad porch railing.

>   “I’ve picked up a few things,” Shayne said, “but there’s still a long way to go. You said something this morning—no, hell, yesterday morning—that might ring a loud bell if I could only remember what it was.”

  Rourke scowled. “That’s about the vaguest remark I ever heard from you.”

  “I know it’s vague!” Shayne said angrily. “But let’s see if we can find it. I think it was when we were talking about the Truckers’ election. Anything new on that?”

  “They’ve been wheeling and dealing all day,” Rourke said, lighting his cigarette. “They pulled me off the story to cover a knifing in the county jail. And I understand you were on the premises at the time, far too busy to put in a phone call to your old pal Tim Rourke. I’m not complaining. I’m not asking questions. I’m just touching lightly on one of those areas where the press would like a little explanation.”

  “Keep your mind on the union election. Does Plato still look good for the Welfare Fund?”

  “The last I heard. There’s a bunch of sub-bosses who’d like to dump him because he’s been getting such lousy publicity, but they don’t have a chance unless they can get Quinn to go along. My informants tell me he’s been getting some handsome offers, but he’s still in Plato’s corner.”

  “Baltimore. That’s come up a couple of times now. Are the Baltimore delegates part of any faction?”

  “I’d have to ask. It’s part of the Eastern district, and that’s Quinn’s. But Plato’s got strength all over the country. He’s in Washington a lot of the time, which isn’t far from Baltimore.”

  “This goon named Al Cole, the boy with the Lüger. Does he fit anywhere?”

  “That was attempted murder, Mike. I’ve got a couple of cooperative sources in the union, but they don’t talk to reporters about things like that.”

  “The guy who tossed the bomb upstairs was wearing a skin-diver’s outfit. You’ve probably read the biographies of all the top men. Do you remember anybody with that kind of hobby?”

  “Not offhand. When these guys relax they usually do it in a nightclub, with a couple of babes to improve the scenery. Of course they all have boats. That’s the big status symbol these days. The bigger the boat, the bigger the status. But when they put to sea they take along a case of liquor and the usual couple of babes, so it’s not much different from going to a nightclub.”

  Shayne had been watching the searchlights move across water. Now he swung around on Rourke. “That’s it! When you were telling me about Plato you said he had a boat.”

  “It’s no secret. I forget how many she sleeps, enough to keep one man busy, anyway. I can remember the name if I think hard enough. The Panther! He sailed down on her. The Washington reporters all wanted to talk to him about the convention, but Plato, who in some ways is a very smart apple, couldn’t be reached. He was at sea.”

  Shayne was snapping his fingers silently. Rourke said, watching him, “An idea?”

  “You’re goddam right! That’s where he took Painter!”

  Rourke screwed up his eyes. “So that’s who’s got Painter. Thanks for telling me.”

  “I don’t know for sure,” Shayne said impatiently. “But Petey was last seen going up Collins last night with four of Plato’s huskies behind him in a rented Chevy.” He stood for a moment looking down at the reporter. “Let’s go find the boat.”

  Rourke didn’t answer for a moment. “Taking a few cops with us, of course.”

  “Not taking any cops. You know what the rum-runners used to do when they saw a revenue cutter. They dumped their cargo. I wouldn’t want that to happen to Petey, and it’s what will happen if a few carloads of cops show up at dock-side with their sirens going. First we find him. Then we look the situation over. Then we’ll talk about how much help we’ll need, if any.”

  “If any,” Rourke said. “That’s what I’m afraid of. And how do we find this needle in the haystack? There are more marinas in town these days than motels. And it is now, unless my watch has stopped because of all the excitement—” he consulted the time—“three o’clock in the morning.”

  “He’d use a marina on the Beach or one of the islands, to be handy to the St. Albans. I doubt if they’d let him in a yacht club, so we can skip those. If he owns a luxury boat, he’d tie up at a luxury dock. That cuts it down. If the name is the Panther she’s probably painted black.”

  “That’s sound reasoning, old man, except that we ran a picture when he came in, and she’s painted white. A couple of decks amidships, I don’t know what they’re called, plenty of cabin-space and a big mast. And one of those forward platforms over the bow for catching tuna. She’s not as big as the Queens, but in the ordinary marina I admit she’d tend to stick out.”

  “Now you’re being helpful, Tim. You start at the south end of the Beach, I’ll start at the north, and we’ll meet in the middle.”

  “Tell you what, Mike. This is more your idea than it is mine. I don’t want anything too bad to happen to Painter, but I don’t want anything to happen to me, either. I’ll be home. If you find the boat and decide you need help, call me.”

  “Sure,” Shayne said carelessly. “If you want to know how it turns out, buy a Herald in the morning.”

  “You’re mixed up, Mike. The News is my paper.”

  “I’m not mixed up.”

  “Mike! How can you do a thing like this to me?” He struggled up out of the rocking chair. “You mentioned four goons. You and me make two. We’re outnumbered. Couldn’t we take a couple of cops? If they promise to walk tiptoe?”

  “No,” Shayne said curtly.

  “Do I say goodnight to Wing?”

  “He’s busy. Let’s not disturb him.”

  They started down the steps. Rourke shook his head. “Mike, did you really dive headfirst out of a second-floor window?”

  “Yeah, I really did.”

  “I wish I’d been here to see it You must have made quite a splash.”

  Shayne backed his Buick out of the garage. Rourke let him pass, and followed. Speeding down Biscayne Street with Rourke’s headlights gleaming in his rear-view mirror, the big redhead went back over everything he knew about the case, skirting the large gaps in his knowledge and those places where experience told him that he had been listening to lies. Harry Plato, he knew, would kidnap a policeman only if it was absolutely vital to him, but the conviction was growing in Shayne that his sudden hunch had been right, that Plato, a stranger in town, surrounded by enemies, could find no better place to hide his prisoner than aboard a boat And at that point Shayne put the unanswered questions aside for consideration later, and with characteristic concentration, planned the search.

  At the corner of Collins Avenue, Tim Rourke blinked his lights and turned to the right. Shayne continued all the way north on Collins, making good time in the light traffic. Reaching Haulover Beach Park, he parked and walked over to the bayfront, where he began the slow, laborious process of checking marinas. He would walk casually past on the promenade, keeping to an easy saunter, as though he was a guest at one of the big hotels further south, unable to sleep and out for a stroll in the moonlight. One eye was cocked for a tall white boat with a mast and a tuna-rig. Part of the time the moon was behind clouds, but when it was out the visibility was good. He saw white boats of the shape Rourke had described, he saw radio masts, he saw several of the awkward tuna platforms, looking like afterthoughts, but he didn’t see them all together.

  He went back to the Buick and moved it down to Bal Harbour. Here there were fewer possibilities and he made better time. Passing the 79th Street Causeway, he parked again and walked the short block to the water, where he knew he would find one of the largest and best-equipped marinas in the North Bay. There was a large clubhouse in the middle of a plaza, with four long docks sticking out in the water like the outstretched fingers of a hand.

  He went to the water’s edge and his eye ran along the long rows of berths, all but a few of them filled. The boats were every size and shape and color. His eye was
caught by a white boat near the end of the northernmost dock. The silhouette was right, but there was no tuna platform. He looked past, but kept coming back. Those platforms could be unbolted and stowed, and perhaps, Shayne thought, it had been taken off after Plato’s arrival in Miami. Certainly this pretentious monster was just the kind Harry Plato would choose when he was shopping for boats.

  Shayne moved on to the north, avoiding the clubhouse. Again he looked out over the water. Clouds were scudding across the moon. He was too far away from the white boat to make out her name, but he saw the capital P, counted letters and saw the rise of the “t” and “h” in the middle. Panther!

  He threw away his cigarette and crossed the street at an angle, heading for the place where he had left his Buick. He passed between two parked cars. As he came out on the sidewalk, two men stepped in against him from either side, and one of them hit his injured side with the muzzle of a gun. The redhead straightened his arms in an instinctive reflex, getting both hands out in the moonlight where they could be seen.

  One of the men said, “Do something stupid and we’ll use you for target practice. I’m going to get your billfold. Keep your hands where they are.”

  Shayne turned his head carefully to look at the man who had spoken. He was about Shayne’s size, six feet two and built as solidly as a professional football tackle. There was a ridge of scar tissue over his eyes. The other was the bald man Shayne had seen in Plato’s sitting room. He kept jabbing Shayne’s side with the gun. The door of a parked car opened and somebody else came out. The redhead didn’t look that way, but saved him for later.

  “Stop pushing me with that thing,” Shayne said evenly, “or you’ll have to shoot me with it.”

  “I won’t mind,” the man told him.