Blood on Biscayne Bay

by Brett Halliday

  The desk clerk said cautiously, “Mr. Shayne? I thought I’d better tell you. There’s a man here—a taxi driver. He doesn’t know your name but he gave a perfect description of you and says he drove you home last night. I told him I wasn’t certain there was anyone here answering his description. Then he said there’d better be because if he didn’t see you right away he was going to the police. I told him I’d see if I could locate anyone and he’s waiting here in the lobby. If you don’t want to see him I’ll—”

  Shayne interrupted him sharply. “No. Send him up here. Give him my room number but don’t mention my name.”

  He hung up, trotted across the room and shut the door against Estelle’s irregular breathing. He then went to the front door, opened it slightly, picked up the two glasses, and carried them to the kitchen. He measured more Cointreau, cognac and lemon juice into the milk bottle and was adding ice cubes when a knock sounded on the outer door.

  He called out, “Come in,” and went on mixing another batch of sidecars.

  Chapter Fourteen: SILENCE AT A PRICE

  THE DOOR WAS PUSHED OPEN and Shayne said, “Come on in the kitchen.”

  Shayne looked up and saw a squatty man with a square freckled face and loose lips. He stood in the doorway twisting a visored cap in his dirty hands. He said, “That clerk downstairs gimme the right steer all right. You’re the guy I drove home from the Play-Mor last night.”

  “That’s right,” said Shayne. “I was just fixing myself a drink.” He was shaking the bottle again, vigorously. “Want one?” He moved into the living-room with the driver beside him.

  “Sure,” the man said, looking around the room. He selected the chair Estelle had been sitting in. He sat down and took a newspaper from his pocket, smoothed it out on his knee while Shayne poured his drink.

  “Hope you’ll like my concoction,” said Shayne.

  “Sure will,” he said. “My name’s Ira Wilson. I just saw the picture in the paper of this dame that got bumped off on the Beach last night.”

  Shayne sat down opposite him and said, “That’s interesting,” and lit a cigarette.

  “Ain’t it?” The taxi driver chuckled and picked up his glass, tasted it and smacked his lips, then drank the entire contents. “Smooth,” he said approvingly as he set the glass down. “I never held much with these mixed-up drinks. A man never knows whether he’s gettin’ any liquor or not. Taste good, but they ain’t got much wallop. Gimme a boilermaker any time.”

  Shayne said, “Sorry. I just mixed up the last of my liquor. The clerk downstairs said you wanted to see me about something?”

  “Well,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, “I ain’t the kind to cause anybody trouble. See what I mean? I always say live and let live, see? That’s why I come here ’stead of running to the cops and blowin’ my mouth off.”

  “About what?”

  “Now look, Mister.” Ira Wilson leaned forward and tapped Shayne on the knee. “You and me both know what I’m talking about. You take it now, this dame that’s got her pitcher in the paper. She’s the one you give a lift from the club last night.”

  “So?” Shayne’s face and voice were without expression. He took a sip from his glass.

  “Well, I got a hunch the cops might like to know about that,” the driver went on, his small black eyes sly, and his voice insinuating. “About you pretendin’ you didn’t know her when she hopped in my cab an’ you two not speakin’ a word an’ then you goin’ in with her when she got out.”

  Shayne lifted his broad shoulders slightly. “Why should the police be interested in that? I’d never seen the girl before. I merely offered to share the cab with her. I didn’t kill her.”

  “Maybe not. But nobody wants to get mixed up in a murder case. You mark my word, Mister, them cops turn a man inside out once they get him up to headquarters. I know what I’m talking about. Maybe you didn’t kill the dame, but the cops’re sure gonna want to know what you was doin’ in there with her them ten minutes while I waited.”

  “It was closer to two minutes,” Shayne said.

  “See? That’s what you’ll tell ’em,” said Wilson triumphantly. “Me? I’ll say no sir I didn’t hold no stop watch on ’em but it seemed like a good ten minutes to me. And if I tell ’em the way you two acted mad at each other an’ how it seemed like she was scared when she got out and you followed her in—” He spread out his dirty hands. “Believe me they can make a hell of a lot out of somethin’ like that. They don’t give a damn if a guy’s innocent or not just so they hang the rap on somebody an’ save their own jobs. You take it now, I know how they work it.”

  “Yeh,” said Shayne. “I’ve heard about how they work it.” He drained his glass and got up. “I think we could use another drink.”

  “Another one of them wouldn’t go so bad,” Wilson agreed with a sly smile. “I can see you’re a right guy an’ we’re gonna get along.”

  In the kitchen Shayne wasted another ounce of cognac in the bottom of the driver’s glass. He had seen sidecars work on straight whisky drinkers before and he had hopes that Wilson wouldn’t be any more immune than Estelle Morrison had been.

  When he brought the drinks back and was seated again, Shayne held out his glass and said companionably, “Here’s to our continued understanding.”

  Wilson touched his glass to Shayne’s. “Oh you an’ me’ll get along, Mister. I can see that all right.” He closed one eye in a slow wink and tipped his glass up. It was empty when he set it down. “Mighty smooth drink,” he approved again. “What they got in ’em?”

  “Lemon juice and a little Cointreau and cognac,” said Shayne.

  “No real liquor, huh? I can taste liquor no matter how anybody tries to fix it up,” he bragged. “Just what’ll it be worth to you if I sorta forget about las’ night?”

  Shayne twirled his glass slowly in his hand. He said, “I don’t like blackmail, Wilson.”

  “I ain’t talkin’ about no blackmail. You take it now, I do you a good turn, see? That’s all right, huh? Nice an’ friendly. So you do me one right back.”

  Shayne said casually, “I haven’t anything to hide from the police.”

  Wilson licked his thick lips, then twisted them into a sly smile. “Maybe not, but you ain’t told the police about you givin’ that dame a taxi ride las’ night. Am I right?”

  Shayne said, “I can’t see that has anything to do with her being murdered.”

  “Don’t you now? It’s because you got better sense than to get mixed up in it. That’s what. An’ you’re plenty smart to not say anything. They’d ask you plenty questions if they got started. You take it now, I know how the cops work. They pull a man in on a little bit of somethin’ like that they end up, by God, findin’ out ever’thing he ever done in his whole life. Get your pitcher in the paper handcuffed, like as not, an’ if they do turn you loose folks’ll allus remember you was mixed up in a murder case.”

  Shayne said, “All right. How much will your loss of memory cost me?”

  “Well, now, I don’t reckon it’s me that ought to set a price.” Wilson looked around the apartment. “It’s a right nice place you got here in this swanky apartment hotel. Must cost you plenty.”

  “How much?”

  Wilson looked into Shayne’s cold gray eyes for a long moment. “A man don’t make much in the taxi business these days,” he whined. “I got my old lady an’ a couple of kids to think about. Do you reckon it’d be worth five hunnerd to stay in the clear?”

  Shayne said gravely, “Five hundred dollars is a lot of money.”

  “It sure is a heap,” Wilson agreed. “But there’s a heap of trouble waitin’ for you if the cops get on your trail.”

  Shayne said, “I’ve heard about such things. But you and I are going to work this out. There’s another drink left in the kitchen. We’ll split it and talk things over.” Wilson stood up, swaying slightly and asked, “You got a can in here ain’t you?” He grinned foolishly.

  “
Sure,” said Shayne. “Right through that door.” He pointed a knobby finger toward the bathroom door.

  With the glasses in his hand Shayne trotted over and cracked the bedroom door open after Wilson disappeared. Estelle was sleeping soundly and quietly. He hurried to the kitchen, found a larger glass in the cupboard, filled it with cognac to within two inches of the top, and poured in enough of the mixture in the milk bottle to fill it to the brim.

  He then took another glass of the same size and filled it with the diluted mixture in the bottle. Wilson was returning from the bathroom when he came in with the drinks, wavering as he walked, his black eyes slightly crossed.

  Shayne pressed the water glass in his hands and asked, “Is your taxi parked around here anywhere?”

  Wilson took a long gulp from his drink and said, “Sure. Right out in front. Watcha say this is got in it?”

  “Same thing. Lots of lemon juice and a little cognac and Cointreau,” Shayne assured him.

  Wilson hiccoughed and said, “How about the cash, Mister?” and took another drink.

  Shayne sat down. “It looks as though you’ve got me over a barrelhead, Wilson. The banks are closed for the day and I haven’t got five hundred on me right now.”

  “How much you got?” he demanded greedily.

  Shayne took his wallet out, leaving the zippered side closed. He withdrew some bills from the open side and held them out, counting them carefully. “There’s a hundred and twenty-five here. I can get the balance in the morning,” he said.

  Wilson reached for the money. “I reckon you won’t run out on me. I’ll see you tomorrow for the rest.” He took the bills, thrust them in his pocket, then drained his glass.

  The telephone rang. Shayne went swiftly to answer it and said, “Yes?”

  The desk clerk said excitedly, but in an almost inaudible whisper, “Couple of cops going to the elevator on their way to your room. I thought I’d better—”

  “Thanks,” he said and hung up. He had heard a sound behind him. He turned and saw Ira Wilson stretched out flat on the floor. He ran to the entrance door of the apartment, shut it and latched it from the inside, then picked up the unconscious taxi driver and dragged him into the bedroom.

  A loud knock sounded on his door. He pulled back the sheet and shoved Ira Wilson on the bed beside Estelle Morrison, and hurried out, closing the door quietly and firmly behind him.

  He paused to scoop up the empty water glasses and carried them to the kitchen. From the kitchen he walked with a firm and heavy tread to the door, unlatched it, and jerked it open.

  Chief of Police Will Gentry and a sergeant of the Miami police force stood in the doorway. Gentry was a big man with a placid, ruddy face and intelligent eyes. He and Shayne had been friends for a long time, but Chief Gentry had never let their friendship interfere with his sense of duty. He walked in and said:

  “Hello, Mike. You know Sergeant Benham.”

  Shayne said, “Sure. How are you, Sergeant,” and invited them to sit down. “I was just polishing off some sidecars. I can shake up some more in a hurry.”

  “Don’t bother.” Gentry sank into a chair and sat solidly erect with a worried frown on his face. “I thought you were leaving town by plane last night,” he complained to Shayne.

  The sergeant moved over to the couch and sat down. Shayne took the chair opposite Gentry, and said, “I put it off twenty-four hours.”

  “Just for the fun of getting in Painter’s hair again?” Gentry rumbled.

  “What’s Painter’s gripe this time?” Shayne asked.

  “He called me from the Beach a little while ago. Wants me to locate a taxi driver who picked you up at the Play-Mor last night. You and the girl that got murdered right after she got in the taxi with you.”

  “Have you located the driver?” Shayne asked.

  “Not yet. But we’ve got a pickup out on him. How do you do it, Mike? Painter was frothing over the phone. Claimed you were sitting on top of the case like a damned ghoul when he got in on it this morning. He thinks you bumped the girl last night just to work up some business, and then hurried around to get yourself retained to solve it.”

  Shayne grinned. “Business has been bad lately, Will. Does he figure I’ll put a noose around my neck to earn a fee?”

  “Painter says you’ve got some sort of slick frame planned,” said Gentry, ignoring Shayne’s attempt to be funny. He sighed and folded his hands over his belly. “It’s just a matter of time before we locate the driver, Mike,” he went on seriously. “I don’t know what his story will be, but you do. If it puts you within a mile of the girl at the time she was killed Painter’s going to force me to pull you in.”

  “What time was she killed?”

  “They make it before eleven o’clock. The doorman at the Play-Mor says you and she rode off in a taxi together about ten-thirty. We’ve got a good description of the driver,” he ended.

  Shayne was tugging at his left ear lobe. He asked, “Do they know where she was bumped?”

  “They’ve pretty well fixed it right at the rear of the Hudson house where she worked. If you took her there from the club, Mike, it puts you on the spot at exactly the right time.”

  “Not,” said Shayne, “if the driver testifies that I merely let her out of the cab at the front gate and had him drive me straight home.”

  “No,” Gentry agreed. He had the cigar in his mouth but made no attempt to light it “Not if that’s what happened. But there’s a catch in that Painter claims he can place you at the front door of the house about fifteen or twenty minutes before eleven.”

  “At the front door,” Shayne said. “Not the back door. Mrs. Morgan answered when I rang. And by the way, Mrs. Morgan told Painter she was a very sound sleeper, that she was asleep when Natalie Briggs was murdered and that she didn’t hear a sound. Tie that in,” he ended with a broad grin.

  Gentry rumbled, “It’s not anything to kid about, Mike.”

  “You’ve got to admit that Painter always picks on me,” said Shayne, “when he has a dozen other suspects to go after. But thanks for tipping me off, Will,” he added gravely.

  “I just wanted you to know what you were up against.”

  He pushed himself up from the chair with both hands on the arms.

  The young sergeant arose from the couch and Shayne walked to the door with them.

  He said, “Good luck on picking up that taxi driver, Will,” and stood in the doorway watching them until they stepped into the elevator.

  Closing the door, he went leisurely to the bedroom door, opened it, and was thankful that neither of his captives snored. They lay side by side, sleeping off their overdose of sidecars.

  Shayne went carefully through Ira Wilson’s pockets until he found the keys to the taxi. Wilson was as limp and unconscious as a rag doll. Shayne went out and closed the door.

  He found the visored cap tucked in the chair seat where Will Gentry had been sitting. He pulled it out, muttering an oath as he did so, tried it on for size and found it a half-size too small.

  He tilted the driver’s cap forward, went into the bathroom and looked in the cabinet mirror. He decided that it didn’t look too bad.

  Then he took it off and went out into the corridor, closing his apartment door, and went down in the elevator with the cap tucked inconspicuously under his arm.

  Shayne found an empty taxi outside the hotel and got in. Wilson’s keys fitted the ignition. He put the cap on at a jaunty angle and started the motor and drove across the County Causeway to Miami Beach.

  Chapter Fifteen: A TIMELY LETTER

  MICHAEL SHAYNE and Christine Hudson were alone in the living-room of the big bayfront house. Neither Leslie nor Floyd Hudson was at home.

  Shayne said, “Don’t hold out on me, Christine. For God’s sake give it to me straight. Did Victor Morrison write those letters to you?”

  She said, “No—not unless he was completely out of his mind. And they were never mailed to me. I have never seen the originals of those
photostats.”

  Shayne said, “Everything I’ve turned up thus far points to their genuineness. I’m sorry as hell, but it’s your word against a lot of facts.”

  “Does Mr. Morrison claim he wrote them to me?”

  “Naturally not. He declares they’re forgeries. But we know they’re not.”

  Christine sighed faintly but her chin remained defiantly lifted. “I can’t help it, Michael I’ve told you the truth. I swear Mr. Morrison never so much as made a pass at me during the two and a half years I worked for him.”

  Shayne argued quietly, “It doesn’t make sense that way, Christine. At first I worked on the theory that he was secretly in love with you and had worked out a devious plan for discrediting you with your husband so you’d be forced to go to him to avoid public scandal. But it looks now as though he had no part in sending those men here to find the letters. Hampstead, the lawyer, is retained by Mrs. Morrison to file a divorce suit against her husband. A man with his sort of ethics wouldn’t lend himself to any legal trickery. The detective was also employed by Mrs. Morrison to get evidence against her husband. She freely admits she had planned something like this in New York when she urged Morrison to go out with you after you resigned your position. Don’t you see that I have to know the truth?”

  Christine said, “How many times do I have to tell you I’ve told you the truth—about everything,” in a tone of exasperation.

  Shayne sighed, leaned back, and lit a cigarette. He spun the match away and said savagely, “All right. You dope it out on that basis. The letters mentioned a plan to get rid of the present Mrs. Morrison. I’ve discovered that Morrison put that plan into effect as soon as they reached Miami. He put a private detective on her trail and got enough evidence to kick her out without a dime. Don’t you see what an utter fool he would be to let those letters get into her hands? It slashes his case against her all to hell. She can enter countersuit and demand a whopping big cash settlement. So he certainly didn’t have the letters planted here for her to find. Then who did? Who else could have?”