The waiter brought their drinks and she stopped talking until he went away, and then went on. “You heard me tell Chief Gentry about them driving out to the lodge this morning with the diving outfits, and tying me up and going out to come back with those boxes. Then they waited for you to come, Mike. And they talked about killing you and how they’d have the whole boatload of guns for themselves … with Boyd, of course. Actually, it was he who killed the captain last night while torturing him.”
“All that is pretty clear,” said Rourke, “but what I can’t understand is why Captain Ruffer left that stuff in the lagoon all these years when he actually didn’t have enough to eat part of the time.”
“I think it was because Captain Ruffer was an honorable man,” Shayne said slowly. “The cargo didn’t belong to him, you see. He had collected insurance on his boat without admitting it was sunk in a lagoon where it could have been salvaged, and he had no claim on the cargo. So he didn’t touch a single gun until Enders was paroled and then murdered by Boyd and his two former pals. With Enders dead, they thought the captain would throw in with them, but the stubborn old coot refused. Instead, he slipped out to the lagoon on his own and got a case of the pistols up to the surface and sold six of them to Wilshinskis, promising him more if he wanted them.
“When they realized the Lenskis were getting into circulation in Miami, they knew it had to be the captain selling them.”
“But why did they kill Roy Enders as soon as they got him out of jail?” asked Molly. “I understood that Boyd was instrumental in getting his parole.”
“You’ve got to remember that Enders was a fanatical Castro man. Those guns were meant for Castro in the beginning, and I’m sure he was determined that’s where they should go today. There wouldn’t have been any loot for Boyd and Pug and Slim to split up if Enders stayed alive. And things aren’t the same now, with Russia openly sending arms to Castro. Six years ago it was different. Think what a stink we could have made if it had been proved Castro was being supplied arms by Russia while he was still just a bearded revolutionary in the Sierra Maestra mountains. Roy Enders had to keep that secret as long as he was in the penitentiary.”
“There’s just one more thing puzzles me,” Rourke said. “We were talking about it last night, Mike, when we read that story I wrote about the captain’s rescue at sea three days after the hurricane was supposed to have sunk his boat out in the Caribbean. It wasn’t sunk out at sea. Instead, it appears he ran his cargo aground in a lagoon at the height of the storm. So, how did he get miles out to sea on a life preserver three days later?”
“That’s in his logbook, too. He took the bottom out of his boat on the reef going into that lagoon in the storm. The insurance company would have tried to salvage it, and there it was loaded to the gunwales with illicit arms. He stayed at the lodge with Enders until the storm died away, and they took him offshore at night in a power launch and dumped him where he was bound to be spotted the next day.”
Timothy Rourke had been industriously scribbling notes while Shayne talked. Now he looked at his watch and said, “I’m going to phone the rest of this stuff in to rewrite. Take your drinks slow, you two.” He slid out and went to a telephone booth at the rear of the bar. Molly sipped her drink and moved closer to Shayne, and again he felt her body warmth and he smelled her.
She said softly, “I’m sorry I lost the key to your back door, Mike. I think I might have been tempted to use it one of these nights.”
He said, “I’ll start leaving my front door unlocked.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. You know something?” She tilted her head and looked sidewise at him, provocatively.
“What?”
“You still haven’t kissed me.”
He said, “We have been pretty busy.” He turned his head to see Timothy Rourke in the phone booth with the door shut, and then he turned to her and kept the promise he had made in his apartment more than sixteen hectic hours previously.
Turn the page to continue reading from the Mike Shayne Mysteries
1
Michael Shayne said, “no,” flatly and without emphasis, but with utter finality. He rumpled his red hair with the knobby fingers of his left hand and looked almost wonderingly across the scarred table at his oldest and closest friend in Miami. “For God’s sake, Tim,” he went on in a voice that patently strove to be reasonable, “I’m not a psychiatrist or marriage counsellor.”
“I know,” said Timothy Rourke bitterly. “You’re a detective and you get paid for solving murders, so why should you be interested in preventing one? But goddamn it, Mike, I wish you’d listen to me. After Ralph spilled his guts to me last night I’m going to feel responsible if I don’t do something.”
“You do the something,” said Shayne, keeping his voice indulgent and reasonable. “It certainly is none of my affair.” He leaned back in the booth at the rear of Joe’s Bar and lifted the sidecar in front of him and took an appreciative sip.
“It’s anybody’s affair,” argued Rourke harshly. “If you see a guy headed for the edge of a precipice you do what you can to prevent it. Even a cynical, hard-boiled, red-headed bastard such as Mike Shayne likes to pretend to be doesn’t turn his head and look the other way while the guy goes over. You at least shout out a warning to him.”
“All right,” said Shayne agreeably. “You see your friend Ralph Larson headed hell-bent for murder and you shout out a warning to him. I gather you did that last night. If he’s too stupid to pay any attention to you, what can I do abut it?”
“I just got through telling you. Go see his wife and talk to her like a Dutch Uncle. She’s the key to the whole affair. She’s the stupid one. If she could just get it through her silly head that she’s driving her husband straight to murder, she’d drop the whole thing like a hot tomato. Damn it, Mike, they had a good marriage until Ralph went to work for Wesley Ames and she became involved with him. I was best man at their wedding just three years ago.”
“Then you’re the one to talk to her like a Dutch Uncle,” Shayne argued amiably. “I’m an outsider. Why should she listen to me?”
“Because you are an outsider. That would frighten her, Mike. Don’t tell her I sent you. Leave me out of it altogether. You’re well enough known here in town that just your name will scare hell out of her. Tell her anything. That Mrs. Ames has hired you to spy on her husband and to break up the affair he’s having with Dorothy. You don’t have to bring Ralph into it at all if you think it’s best not to. Just go see her and play it by ear. Convince her that all hell is going to break loose if she doesn’t quit seeing Wesley Ames.”
“You don’t know that she is seeing him. The way you just told it to me, her husband merely has these suspicions. She hasn’t admitted it to him, has she?”
“I guess not. I don’t think he’s even accused her. Ralph was pretty drunk last night and practically incoherent, but he’s absolutely convinced in his own mind that Wesley Ames is making a big play for his wife and that she’s flattered by his attentions and is reciprocating. He doesn’t know whether they’ve actually slept together or not, and that’s driving him nuts. He’s still crazy in love with Dorothy, and that makes him crazy jealous.”
Shayne said, “Nuts,” disgustedly, and emptied his sidecar glass. “You know what I think about jealous husbands who go out and kill men for making passes at their wives. No woman is worth that. Why doesn’t your friend just walk away from her and let her play her extra-marital games?”
“Because he’s young and he’s in love,” grated Rourke angrily. He lifted his highball glass with both hands and sucked at the contents greedily. “You can sit back and philosophize about the situation all you want to, Mike, but that’s not going to change the basic facts. Here are two inherently decent young people who are caught up in a mess that’s going to eventuate in murder unless something is done to prevent it. It’s that simple.” He turned his head to look over the back of the booth and catch the waiter’s eye. He held up two fingers, and tur
ned back to light a cigarette.
“Wesley Ames is a smart operator,” he said bitterly. “He’s a dyed-in-the-wool son-of-a-bitch, but he’s suave and he’s got charm and an unlimited expense account. His gossip column is syndicated in forty newspapers, and all over the country people turn to it avidly to pick up the latest dirt on celebrities cavorting at Miami’s swanky night spots. All he has to do, reputedly, is crook his finger and half the society dames in the country are eager to crawl into bed with him. So if he crooks that same finger at a simple little reporter’s wife like Dorothy Larson, what do you think she’s going to do about it?”
The waiter brought fresh drinks and set them in front of the two men. Shayne leaned back and frowned and shook his red head in puzzlement. “On the other hand, why should he bother?”
“To crook his finger at Dorothy?”
“Yeh. If he’s got all these other dames on his string.”
“In the first place because Dorothy has got what it takes … as you’ll note for yourself when you see her. She’s a beautiful kid, and she’s stacked. On top of that there’s an aura of innocence about her that would appeal to a degenerate bastard like Ames. Besides, Ralph is obviously and helplessly in love with her. He first took on this outside job as legman for Ames in order to earn extra money to spend on Dorothy and keep her happy. That would probably be an added incentive for Ames to make a play for her. Sort of turning the screw on a poor devil who’s more or less dependent on his bounty. Who knows what motivates a man like Wesley Ames?”
“You make him sound like a guy who thoroughly deserves killing.”
“Hell, he deserves it all right. If society were properly arranged, the man who knocked off Ames would get a medal instead of the chair. But society isn’t that far advanced, and that’s why Ralph has to be stopped before this thing goes any further.”
“Why not put it straight to Ames himself?” suggested Shayne easily. “That seems a lot more sensible than approaching Mrs. Larson. After all, Ames has more to lose.”
“He’d laugh in your face,” grated Timothy Rourke. “It would probably please his ego tremendously. No. There’s only one thing to do in this situation, Mike. Make Dorothy Larson realize that she’s not playing with fire, but with an atomic explosion. You don’t know Ralph, and you didn’t listen to him raving last night. I did. And, goddamn it, I like the guy. I’d love to see Ames dead, but I don’t want Ralph to go to the chair for it. I’m putting this to you as a personal favor, Mike. Talk to Dorothy at least. Make her realize the seriousness of the situation. One of the things Ralph kept drunkenly coming back to last night is that he has a two-week vacation coming up and Dorothy wants him to go off on his own while she stays here. He’s convinced in his own mind that she wants him out of the way so she can shack up with Ames while he’s gone. Maybe she has got some such idea. I don’t know. But I don’t believe she wants both Ames and her husband dead, and I think she’d come to her senses if it were put to her that way. And you’re the guy to do it, Mike. You’ve got no axe to grind. She won’t suspect that Ralph put you up to it … the way she would if I went to her.”
Shayne shook his head morosely. “I’ll repeat what I said in the beginning. I’m not a psychiatrist or marriage counsellor. Get her minister or her priest to talk to her. It’s not my responsibility.”
“But it is, Mike,” Rourke insisted intensely. “You’re licensed as a private detective by the state of Florida and you swore an oath to uphold the due processes of the law. You’re like a cop in that respect. It’s a cop’s job to prevent crime.”
“Then let the cops do it,” snarled Shayne. “Why don’t you tell your story to Will Gentry and get him to go around and talk some sense into the lady? Or put Ralph Larson under arrest and hold him in protective custody? Or assign a bodyguard to Wesley Ames? Hell’s bells, Tim! There are a dozen better ways to handle it than the one you suggest.”
Rourke let his thin frame sink back in a slumped position against the back of the wooden bench with his head sunk down between jutting shoulder blades. He shook his head slowly and said, “You’re talking through your hat, Mike, and you know you are. This thing with Ralph has got beyond routine police procedure. None of those stopgaps you mention would be any good. The only thing that will possibly work is to throw the fear of God into Dorothy Larson and bring her back to her senses. She’s a good kid, Mike. Basically, she’s fine. I know her, goddamn it. She and Ralph have got off the track somehow. It isn’t for you or me to sit in judgment. You can’t just sit back and complacently wash your hands of the whole affair and say they’ve brought it on themselves. Sure, they have. Does that mean they don’t deserve help? Who the hell are you to sit back and refuse to lift a hand when it may mean life or death to a couple of intrinsically decent young people. You’re not that cynical, Mike.” The reporter’s deep-set eyes blazed across the barroom table at his old friend, and his voice shook with fervor.
Shayne dropped his gaze from Rourke’s and lifted his glass and drank from it deeply. He sat it down in front of him and turned it round and round with his fingers while he scowled deeply. Without lifting his eyes to meet Rourke’s, he muttered, “All right. I guess I’m not. Just what the hell do you want me to do?”
“Just what I said in the beginning.” Timothy Rourke was very careful not to let a tinge of triumph sound in his voice, though he could not restrain a note of relief. “Go and see Dorothy Larson. Right away. Now. After listening to Ralph rave last night, I don’t think there’s any time to spare. As I said before: Get tough with Dorothy. Scare the pants off her. Send her off on Ralph’s vacation with him next week … and I’ll go to work on Ralph tonight. He’s got to quit his goddamned job with Ames. Running around the night spots and snooping out dirt for his filthy column is no job for a self-respecting newspaperman anyhow. Tell Dorothy that pressure is being put on Ralph to quit. They don’t need that extra money. They’ve got to get out of the whole Ames’ orbit.”
“Suppose she won’t see me?” muttered Shayne. “Why should she? How can I explain …?”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake!” exclaimed Rourke in exasperation. “You’re a detective, aren’t you? For more years than I like to remember you’ve been solving cases by barging in on people who had no desire to talk to you. Now, you ask me. Tell her any damn thing. Except that you’re a friend of her husband’s and feel sorry for him. Somehow, I don’t think that’s the right approach.”
Shayne nodded his head thoughtfully, draining the last of his cocktail from the glass. “How much am I supposed to know? That is … what sort of games have she and Wesley Ames been playing? If I claim to have been hired by Mrs. Ames, for instance … what sort of dope am I supposed to have gathered on the two of them?”
Rourke hesitated before replying, getting his underlip between his teeth and gnawing on it indecisively. “You’ve sort of got me there,” he confessed. “Ralph wasn’t making too much sense last night. I gather that it all started a couple of months ago when Ames suggested that Ralph take Dorothy along to a couple of night spots where Ames joined them with some other doll he had in tow. Dorothy being a sort of protective coloration in making it a foursome. Then Ames apparently asked Dorothy out on a couple of occasions while Ralph was carefully sent some other place to do errands for Ames … all perfectly innocent, perhaps, but Ralph began adding two and two together and is now convinced that Ames is using his position as boss to keep him in some other part of town while laying his wife … or trying to lay her … Ralph isn’t quite sure which it is at this point.”
“Then I don’t have any chapters or verses to quote to her,” muttered Shayne. “No specific instances to throw in her face if she denies everything and tells me to get the hell out.”
“N-no,” conceded Rourke reluctantly. “I don’t think Ralph has any real evidence of anything wrong. As I said before, you’ll just have to play it by ear and pretend you know a lot more than you do. But she must have certain guilt feelings no matter how far she has or hasn’t gone,
and just having a detective show up on her doorstep at all should scare hell out of her.”
“It sounds,” said Shayne, “like a pretty lousy assignment. All right. Just where is her doorstep?”
“They have an apartment in the Northeast section.” Rourke eagerly dug into the right-hand pocket of his baggy jacket and withdrew a folded sheet of paper. “I wrote it down for you.” He unfolded it and glanced at the penciled notation, passed it across to the redhead. “Northeast Sixty-First. Right now would be a good time to walk in on her. Ralph will be tied up at the newspaper office until seven.”
Shayne frowned and looked at his watch, shaking his head. “Not tonight. I’ve got a date to pick Lucy up at her apartment in half an hour and take her to dinner at Lucio’s. Tomorrow will be soon enough for Dorothy Larson.”
“Don’t put it off, Mike,” Rourke urged him. “I swear to God I’m afraid one more night may be one too many. Go out and see her now. I’ll pick up Lucy and take her out to Lucio’s. Meet us there whenever you’re through with Dorothy. I’ll ply Lucy with drinks and keep her happy.”
“And explain that I’ve stood her up for another woman … and a well-stacked one at that?” Shayne lifted a quizzical red eyebrow at his old friend across the table.
Rourke grinned back at him and said happily, “I’ll tell Lucy the truth. That you’re mounted on your white charger and doing your Boy Scout good turn for the day. Get going, damn it. I’ll even pay for Lucy’s drinks and for both your dinners.”
2
Driving out through the soft Miami twilight toward the Northeast section of the city, Shayne became more and more irritated with himself for allowing Tim Rourke to talk him into undertaking this errand. It just didn’t make sense to barge in on strangers and start arranging their lives for them. They were bound to resent his officious interference … and rightly.
A Redhead for Mike Shayne Page 14
