Mike Shayne's Torrid Twelve

by editor Leo Margules

  “Yes, sir, a nice shirt.” And suddenly Captain Tolliver’s voice seemed a shade too hearty. “Mind if I touch it? Looks like mighty good material.”

  “The best, Cap’n.”

  Michael Shayne waited, alert. What was the unseen Tolliver getting at? He couldn’t believe the caller was interested in a linen sport shirt. He strained to catch every word.

  “Yes sir,” Tolliver was saying, “I wish I had a shirt like that. But I tell you what, Mr. Shayne. To make my story clear, I got to go get the map. Left it in my car, just in case I decided not to hire you. But I’m convinced now you’re the right man for the job, so I’m going to run down to get it. I’ll be back in a minute.”

  “Suppose I come with you.” There was undisguised eagerness in Whitey’s tone.

  “No, we’d just have to come back here anyway. Won’t be but a minute. Don’t need two to fetch a map.”

  The apartment door opened and closed. Beside Shayne, Shorty leaped up so abruptly that the knife he’d been holding on his lap skittered to the floor.

  “God damn it!” Shorty cursed in the darkness. Letting the knife lie where it fell, he dashed into the living room. “Whitey!” his voice was thick with rage. “You let him get away, you knuckleheaded cracker!”

  “Calm down, will you? He’s just goin’ for th’ map. Th’ treasure map. Once we have that—”

  “Map hell! He got wise somehow. He came over and looked at your shirt, didn’t he? What did he see, now? Why would that—Oh, for God’s sake! It was all on account of that bird-brained beauty-shop tramp of yours, Ireneabelle. She didn’t do a complete job. Come on! We can catch him before he gets very far.”

  The apartment door opened and slammed shut. Before their footsteps were gone down the hall, Shayne rolled off the bed. Contorting himself on the floor, he slid his taped hands down past his hips until he could draw his taped ankles through the circle of his arms. Now his fingers were in front of him.

  He slid head first under the bed, scrabbling on the dusty boards with his fingertips for the switchblade knife Shorty had dropped. He hit it with his knuckles, knocked it away, found it again, and wriggled back out with the knife clasped between his fingertips.

  He got to his knees, rose to a standing position, and hopped to the bureau. The top drawer was open a crack. He slid the handle of the knife inside the opening and wedged it in place by leaning against the drawer so that his weight held the weapon in place, caught between drawer and dresser.

  Now he could saw the edge of the tape which bound his wrists against the sharp blade. It cut easily. The drawer held the knife firm. When he had half cut through the tape he twisted his wrists and broke the rest. Swiftly he pulled the sticky stuff free, wincing a little as it pulled off the red hairs on his forearm. Then he stooped, cut his ankles free. Taking time only to rip the tape from his mouth, he went after Captain Tolliver and the two thugs.

  The elevator was in use. He went down the emergency stairs three at a time. They had at least four minutes’ start on him. But if they caught Tolliver they might decide to bring him back to the apartment.

  Six strides took Shayne through the empty lobby. At this time of night there was no one on duty. The street outside was empty.

  Around a corner garbage cans banged. The detective raced to the service alley. Old Sam, the night maintenance man, was manhandling garbage cans to the street for the morning pickup.

  “Sam,” Shayne rapped. “Did you see anything just now? Two men chasing another man, maybe?”

  “I sure did.” Sam paused and mopped his face. “He was a-runnin’ like a scared little rabbit. They caught him, too, up by the end of the block. Dragged him into a parked car and lit out. Maybe they was just funnin’.”

  “They weren’t funning,” the redhead said grimly. Whoever Captain Tod Tolliver was, and whatever he knew, he was gone now. Whitey and Shorty had him, and by now they were miles away, lost in the maze of Greater Miami.

  A bitter rage burned in him. He didn’t like to be sapped in his own room. He didn’t like having a client kidnaped from his place, either.

  Shayne swung about on his heel and went back to his apartment.

  3

  Michael Shayne sloshed brandy into a glass, gulped it, and scowled. Something about Whitey had tipped off Captain Tolliver that he was a phony. There had been that business about the shirt, and Tolliver had obviously gone over to get a closer look at it. Then he’d caught on and fled. What had tipped him? Not the shirt—it had to be something to do with Whitey.

  But the single look Shayne had had of him before he’d been sapped hadn’t revealed anything that should make a stranger immediately suspicious. Unless it was something that didn’t become obvious until he had put on an open-necked sport shirt and—

  “Well, by God!” Shayne said aloud. Tolliver was a smart old bird. Whoever heard of a redhead being nicknamed “Whitey” anyway? Whitey had had his hair dyed especially for this job. But the hair on his chest had still been blond, and Tolliver had spotted it because of the open sport shirt. That was why Shorty had been sore at somebody in a beauty shop. For not doing a complete job of turning Whitey into a redhead. Deena—no, Ireneabelle.

  Hell, already he was learning something about the two thugs who had sapped him and tried to take his place. One of them was named Shorty, the other was called Whitey. Whitey had a girl friend named Ireneabelle—an unusual name—who worked in a beauty shop and had done a hurried dye job on him.

  The redhead scooped up the phone and dialed. A rich, throaty, woman’s voice answered.

  “Hello, Mabel,” he said. “Michael Shayne.”

  “Mike!” the voice gurgled. Mabel was forty-five, with bright orange hair. She weighed two hundred and fifty pounds and owned one of the larger Miami beauty shops.

  “Sweetheart! I was just sitting here waiting for you to call!”

  Shayne chuckled. Two months before a New York woman had died suddenly in Mabel’s shop, under a dryer. He had proved it was because of a dose of poison her husband had slipped into her coffee, and not because of anything Mabel’s operator had done. Mabel had sworn undying gratitude.

  “Mabel, I need a favor.”

  “Ask me anything, honey.” Mabel’s voice was languorous. “And I do mean anything.”

  “Did you ever hear of a beauty parlor girl named Ireneabelle?”

  “That’s a new handle to me, Mike. I have Clara Sue and Betty-Lee, and a dozen more, but no Ireneabelle.”

  “She probably works in some little, cheap shop. But I want to find her and get her home address and I want it fast. Will you call all your friends in the business and ask them? And if they don’t know, have them each call five friends, and keep the ball rolling until we locate Ireneabelle?”

  “Just let me get started. In ten minutes the phone company will wonder what hit them. Believe me, they will!”

  He chuckled again and hung up. He poured himself a stiff drink, to help ease the ache in his head, then went into the bedroom and found the clothes Whitey had discarded. They were cheap, Army-Navy store stuff, smelling of fish. The shirt didn’t even have a laundry mark.

  He threw them into his closet and went on into the bathroom. He ran cold water over his head, and the tenderness where Shorty had sapped him eased off. He was putting his shirt back on when the phone rang.

  It was a woman who spoke when he lifted the receiver. But it wasn’t Mabel.

  “This is Sandra Ames, Mr. Shayne. May I speak to Captain Tolliver, please?”

  “Sorry, Captain Tolliver isn’t here,” Shayne said, keeping his tone noncommittal.

  “He’s left already?”

  “Some time ago.”

  “But he said that he’d—Did he say where he was going?”

  “He didn’t say.”

  “The captain was supposed to call me as soon as he talked to you. Did you accept his offer?”

  “I didn’t accept anything. We didn’t have time to talk. The captain was kidnaped before I could speak to
him.”

  “Kidnaped!” The word was a gasp. There was a long silence. Then a new voice spoke, a man’s voice, high-pitched, excited, touched with an English accent.

  “Mr. Shayne! Did you say Captain Tolliver was kidnaped?”

  “I said kidnaped. From my apartment. By two armed men.”

  “Good Lord! He said he was being watched and followed but—Have you any idea who they were or where they took him?”

  “If I did I wouldn’t be standing here talking to you. Who are you, anyway?”

  “Excuse me. I’m—I’m very upset by what you’ve told me. My name is Mollison, Hugo Mollison, and I—that is, Miss Ames and I—were about to become Captain Tolliver’s partners in a business venture. But if he’s been kidnaped—I’m afraid I’m a little incoherent.”

  “A little.”

  “What I’m trying to say is, you must do your best to find him. I’ll guarantee any fee you name. Will you please take down this phone number and address, and if you find him, call us or come here with him at once?”

  Hugo Mollison gave the phone number and address—a very expensive motel where the individual houses were miniature bungalows, affording both space and privacy. “Please keep in touch with me, Mr. Shayne. I’m dreadfully upset.”

  Michael Shayne promised to keep in touch, and hung up. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Captain Tod Tolliver knew something that a lot of other people were suddenly very anxious to know. But unless Mable phoned soon—

  The phone rang. This time it was Mabel.

  “Mike, honey,” she gurgled, “the girl you’re looking for lives at three hundred and three Vista. Bedroom at the top of the stairs. Door’s unlocked. Just hurry over and go right up. She’ll be waiting for you.”

  He grinned at the phone. “Mabel, baby,” he said, “three hundred and three Vista is your address. I’ll take you up on that sometime, but tonight I have to find Ireneabelle.”

  “What’s she got that I didn’t have twenty years ago?” Mabel sighed. “Okay, I tried. Her name is Ireneabelle Smith and she lives at seven thirty-one Morton Street.”

  “Thanks, gorgeous.” He hung up before Mabel could turn coy again. From his desk he took his .38 and slid it into his coat pocket. Then he went downstairs, got his car out, and headed for Morton Street.

  4

  It was a drab street and 731 was an old two-story stucco apartment house. He let himself into the vestibule. An almost new card in a slot under a mail box said Ireneabelle Smith was in Apartment 7. The locked door opened for one of the special keys on his chain and the redhead let himself in and went up the scuffed stairs quietly, inhaling the smell of old buildings—sweat and cooking and ammonia and decay, all blended into an essence of poverty. Silently he moved down the dim hall and by the light of a dusty bulb found No. 7. He thumbed the doorbell with urgent pressure.

  There was the creak of bedsprings inside. A guarded, feminine voice whispered, “Who is it?”

  He put his mouth close to the door. “I’m from Whitey. Open up.”

  “Just a second.”

  The springs squeaked again. Light footsteps crossed the floor. The door opened. The dim light showed a small, dark-haired girl clutching a cheap wrapper around herself.

  “What about Whitey?” she asked.

  “I can’t talk out here.” Shayne deliberately pushed into the room and closed the door. Ireneabelle fell back, doubt and suspicion on her sullenly pretty features. Her eyes were cold.

  “That’s better,” he said, abruptly. “Whitey is in a jam. He wants to get his hair back again the right color. He wants to know what stuff to use on it.”

  “I already told him,” the girl said. “The dumb cracker, if he can’t remember—” She broke off, with a sudden look of cunning. “You don’t come from Whitey. Get out of here or I’ll start screaming.”

  “Scream away, baby.”

  “You’re a dick!” Ireneabelle shrilled. “But I ain’t done a thing! You can’t say I have.”

  “You’ve just been an accomplice to a kidnaping, that’s all.”

  “No such thing. Whatever he’s done, I don’t know anything about it!” Panic edged her voice.

  “Maybe yes and maybe no,” the detective said noncommittally. “Give me a little information and I’ll forget that dye job on him.”

  “What do you want to know?” Her tone was sullen, her gaze wary.

  “His address first.”

  “I don’t know it.”

  He sighed. “Okay, baby, come on down to Headquarters. Maybe your memory will be better there.”

  “No,” she whimpered. “He lives at nine twelve Bayard. It’s a shack he owns. He takes out fishing parties when he can get them.”

  “You know a guy named Shorty?”

  “I only saw him twice. Whitey hasn’t known him long.”

  “He live with Whitey?”

  “Whitey said he was bunking with him.”

  “That’s all, then. We won’t bother you again unless you’ve given me a bum steer.”

  “It’s a straight steer. But he’s going to be sore at me.” Ireneabelle’s voice was a self-pitying whisper. “He doesn’t like cops.”

  “He’s got a reason not to.”

  The redhead let himself out. Bayard Street was near the waterfront. It was a rundown district where a man’s business was his own private affair. The smell of garbage and dead fish was in the air. The houses were shacks and at night they leaked light through the cracks between the boards. No. 912 was back from the rest, with a marine junkyard on one side and an old garage on the other. From the front no light was visible.

  Shayne left his car parked half a block away and walked to 912. He waited, saw no one watching, and melted into the shadows along the board fence of the junkyard. Whitey’s shack was one story, probably four rooms. Toward the rear he saw light seeping out under a drawn shade. He moved quietly back, found a rear porch, saw the shade of the window facing it up a couple of inches. Then he ducked back just in time as the rear door opened.

  It was Whitey, who dredged into the old icebox on the porch, took out two bottles of beer and went back inside, slamming the door. If they were drinking beer there was no hurry. Shayne eased back onto the porch and squatted down beside the window that overlooked the grimy little kitchen.

  Shorty, in shirt sleeves, sat in a kitchen chair holding the glass Whitey had just poured. Whitey was pouring a drink for himself.

  “We got him here safe,” Shorty was arguing. “Now we ain’t going to hurry things. It’s still only eleven. We’ll wait until midnight to let things get good and quiet. Then we’ll sneak him on your boat and head out to sea. We’ll make him take us there and we’ll mark the spot. You’re a good diver, you can go down and check.”

  “How do I know how deep it is?” Whitey grumbled, gulping beer noisily. “What about them sharks and barracuda? I need me a real outfit.”

  “For five million bucks you can take a chance. Anyway, I read sharks and barracuda don’t attack unless they smell blood. This is how we got to do it. Mark the spot, then raise dough for equipment. And keep our mouths shut!”

  “You don’t think I’d gab, do you?”

  “You like to talk when you’re around girls. Make out you’re a big shot. Well, you’ll be one—if you keep your mouth shut.”

  Sullenly Whitey drained his beer, his thin features ugly. Shayne could see that the two were keyed up. He had an idea Whitey would keep his mouth shut because as soon as Shorty knew Captain Tolliver’s secret, he’d shut Whitey’s mouth for him.

  “All right.” Whitey wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I’ll just go in, and make sure the old coot is tied tight.”

  He put down his glass and opened the door which led toward the front of the shack. The room beyond, a bedroom probably, was pitch dark. He disappeared into it—and Shayne saw a finger of scarlet flame slice the darkness.

  The shot boomed like a cannon in the little shack. Whitey gave a gurgling scream and somewhere in the dar
kness pitched to the floor. The detective could hear him flopping there like a dying fish.

  Shorty jumped up. For an instant he stood in the doorway, staring into the dark room, befuddled. A second shot rattled the boards of the shack. Shorty took the bullet in his chest, slammed backward across the little kitchen, hit the window sill with his hips, and the upper half of his body went through the glass. Then he lay there, bent backward in the middle, balanced on the window sill like a broken teeter-totter, blood coming down under his collar and pouring over his face.

  Even before Shorty hit the window Michael Shayne was at the back door. He swept it open, stepped inside, reached for the string and pulled out the overhead light in one fluid motion. Then he took a stride toward the doorway into the bedroom and waited, his gun ready.

  The shack was completely dark now. The tinkle of broken glass had stopped, and Whitey had quit his fish-flopping. In the bedroom Shayne could hear heavy breathing. Then footsteps broke in the opposite direction. The front door slammed open and a figure darted out and away into the shadows. The redhead followed as far as the front door and stopped. His first job was to rescue Tolliver. He turned back and swept the beam of a pencil flashlight around the room.

  It picked out a figure sprawled on an old daybed, bound and gagged. The light reflected from bright blue eyes in a lined, leathery face. Shayne put the light out and got out a knife. “I’m Shayne,” he said, as he slashed the ropes binding Tolliver’s hands and feet. “The real one this time.”

  He untied the gag and helped the little man sit up. Beside him Tolliver tentatively stretched his arms and legs. “That feels good,” he said. “I guess you came in what they call the nick of time. Wasn’t you who killed them fellers, was it?”

  “No, it wasn’t me. How do you feel? Can you walk?”

  “Always been able to since I was a year old.” Tolliver struggled to his feet. “Didn’t think it was. This other feller was in here anyway five minutes, waiting, before the shooting. He whispered something to me. Sounded like he said, ‘Don’t worry, old man, I’m not interested in you. Just those back there.’ Couldn’t hear his voice real clear but it didn’t sound like yours.”