Dolls Are Deadly

by Brett Halliday

  Carefully, using his handkerchief to minimize the smearing of any fingerprints that might be on it, Shayne removed the timer and reconnected the wire to the fuse box. As the electricity went on, he heard the slight rasp of the tape recorder near the head of the stairs in the kitchen. No more voices were issuing from it.

  He turned. “Who put this timer on the fuse box?”

  “I’ve no idea,” Madame Swoboda said tautly. “I don’t even know what a timer is.”

  “It’s what made the lights go out.”

  “Well, I didn’t do it certainly, for the same reason I didn’t record that tape that came on tonight. I like to make a living. Probably whoever substituted his tape for mine put that gadget on the wire too.”

  “Maybe. Come back upstairs.”

  In the long hall under a low-watt electric bulb, Shayne stopped and reached for the telephone.

  Madame Swoboda’s voice came on an indrawn breath of stark protest. “You’re not going to call the police?”

  “Why not? Somebody tried to murder Clarissa Milford.”

  “Shayne!” Her hand gripped his arm fiercely. “I didn’t do it! I know nothing about it!”

  “Then you’ve nothing to fear from the police.”

  “You know I can’t stand a police investigation!”

  “Do I?”

  “I had absolutely no reason for wanting to murder Clarissa Milford—”

  “Tell that to the police.”

  “But it looks bad for me. They’ll hold me for questioning at least overnight, won’t they?”

  “Probably.”

  “That’s too long! I’ve got to get out of here. Now!”

  “Why?”

  “For personal reasons. They have nothing at all to do with tonight’s séance.” She was pressing close to him, desperately intense, pleading, her breath warm on his face. “Do something for me, Shayne, please! You can’t lose by it.”

  “Can I gain?”

  “Yes, whatever you want. Just let me get out of here before the police come, or if you can’t do that because of your professional reputation, smooth it out for me with them. Fix it so they’ll let me go right away.” Her voice grew husky, seductive. “Will you do that, Shayne?”

  He smiled wryly. “I still can’t see what I’ll gain.”

  She lifted her hand suddenly, tore off the tiara and the enshrouding veil and threw them to the floor. As her arm descended, her bracelet caught in the silver shawl, pulling it down and exposing one perfect breast. She pressed close to him, her voice caressing. “Shayne, I’ll be good to you. There’s time for that. That fire you wondered about—I’ll burn you in a way you won’t forget.”

  Shayne said harshly, “You have burned me—with rage!”

  She reached for him with her lips. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying that your three associates murdered Sylvester!”

  “I know nothing of that.”

  “You know. Is the reason you have to leave town so fast because you don’t trust them? Are you afraid they’ll cut you out of your share?”

  “Share of what? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I’m talking about the last pick-up Ed Woodbine, Slim Collins and Vince Becker are going to make tonight from a Cuban boat. They’re out on Sylvester’s boat. I’m talking about narcotics in a fish belly. They were probably to meet you later up the coast. But if you aren’t there, they’ll go on without you and then you’ll never get your share. I’m talking about Slug Murphy, Slim Rizzo and Joe Arminetti!”

  She stood very still, her head drawn back, staring at him penetratingly with her gray, hypnotic eyes. “All right.” Her voice was precise, cool and under control. “I don’t know how you know, but you do know some of it. It’s only the smallest part. You leave me no choice, so I’m going to tell you the rest, and then I’m going to make you a proposition—the best you ever had in your life.”

  “I’ve had some good ones.”

  “Not this good. So listen, Shayne. You’re right about tonight. If I’m not there they’ll move on and try to cut me out. What you don’t know is that my part is the lion’s share.”

  “I assumed that. And I know that Swoboda is nobody’s dupe, nobody’s hired go-between. Swoboda is the brains and master of the whole operation.”

  She gasped. “Who told you?”

  “No one. It figures. Otherwise why this run-around of passing on information through numbers incorporated in spirit messages? If this was your project, if you recruited those three men for the job, then you had to have some way of keeping the reins tight in your hands. You’d have to make sure you’d be the one to receive the vital information that came in from your outside contact. This séance set-up gave you complete control. You could withhold time-and-place information on the next pickup until you had assured yourself the previous shipment had progressed through Miami according to plan to the ultimate receiving or cutting center.”

  “All right. Here’s the rest of it. I told you it was Vegas where all this started. It wasn’t—it was Cuba. I did a mentalist act there, but I also had a small part in a narcotics ring operated by the Syndicate with a nod from someone in the Batista government. Then when Castro strong-armed Batista out, everything fell to pieces and through a lucky break I got my hands on some of the stuff. The problem was to get it to the States, so I flew around the country and lined up my operation, using contacts I’d made when I was working with the Syndicate.”

  “You must have been pretty afraid the Syndicate would find out.”

  “I was, believe me. More than of the police. That’s why I had to keep it tight in my hands at all costs. That’s why I set up this séance business.”

  She paused for a moment, and when she spoke again her voice was charged with hoarse intensity. “So, here’s my proposition. There’s more of that golden stuff than came in tonight. We’ve only brought in six shipments. I can cut those three goons out, Shayne, if I can get to my contact up north quick enough, and I can cut you in. Even money. And you can leave Miami with me and protect your interests all the way. And Shayne—” her voice softened—“I’m part of the bargain, for as long as you want.” She pulled his head down and pressed her lips on his mouth searingly.

  He let the kiss end, then pulled away, “Sorry. The Coast Guard has already picked up your three stooges from the Santa Clara and seized the shipment, and the Syndicate now knows about you, and so will the police when I put through this call.”

  “You bastard!” She swung away from him, seething. “You police-stool bastard!” She lifted her hand, ostensibly to pull the silver shawl over her bare breast, but when it reappeared something in it flickered metallically in the dim hall light.

  Shayne’s big hand moved in the same instant. He wrenched the delicate lady’s gun from her grasp. It clattered to the floor. With a sob in her throat, she bent. Her hand snaked out. Shayne stamped his foot on it, and before the cry of pain had fully left her lips, had the gun in his own hand.

  With it trained on her, he reached for the telephone and dialed the number of Police Headquarters.

  16

  When Will Gentry was on the line, Shayne said, “Better come over to Swoboda’s fast, Will.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ll tell you in a minute. Did you get any reports yet on the affair of the Santa Clara?”

  “They just came in. De Luca and some out-of-town hoods poured it into each other and then the Coast Guard and the Narcotics Bureau mopped up. Wait a minute! Is what you’ve got at Swoboda’s part of that?”

  “The biggest part. But there’s something else that isn’t related to the smuggling. You should have had a man at the séance tonight the way I told you. Someone made an attempt on Clarissa Milford’s life.”

  “Well, I’m damned! If you knew they were going to, why didn’t you insist?”

  “I didn’t know for sure. I’m not psychic.”

  “The way you’ve been hanging out there lately, you seem to—” Gen
try stopped abruptly. “Milford? Is that the Clarissa Milford who was in the news last week? That freak accident? Her car was stolen and her nephew killed by it?”

  “That’s the one. Only I don’t think it was an accident. I think it was murder. Do me a favor, Will—”

  “Do me one,” Gentry snapped. “Tell me in plain English what’s up.”

  “I think I can wrap it up fast,” Shayne said, “if you’ll take Mr. and Mrs. Milford and Mr. and Mrs. Thain in for questioning along with whoever else you want. And give me about an hour before you turn them loose.”

  “All right,” Gentry said grudgingly. “We’ll be right over.”

  Shayne took Madame Swoboda back to the others in the séance room and waited for the police. The medium seemed to have lost all her fire. She slumped into her chair at the head of the table and sat staring dully ahead.

  As soon as Gentry arrived with two policemen, Shayne left with Lucy. He headed the car toward the northwest outskirts of the city where the twin houses of Milfords and Thains stood in the scraggly field.

  The night was foggy and moonless and the damp air had a desolate feel. Its heaviness separated people, set up a barrier between them, isolated each individual in a gray world of fog. Shayne extended his right arm and drew Lucy across the seat until her shoulder rested against his chest. That was a little better. The night lost some of its feeling of desolation.

  The trenches were deep in the redhead’s lean face. He lit a cigarette, took a deep drag, tossed the dead match out the window and said, “I’m taking you along, angel, because I’ve got a feeling I can use your woman’s eye.” He paused, asking after a moment, “Lucy, did you notice anything strange about that tape recording tonight?”

  She stirred under his sheltering arm. “Of course. It was darned strange. Who’d murder a child? Jimsey wasn’t heir to a fortune or anything.”

  “That isn’t what I mean. He was only twelve when he died. At that age children, especially boys, are quite attached to their mothers. Yet, instead of saying ‘Mother and Daddy’ as he did the night before, he called only for ‘Daddy’ tonight.”

  “That is strange.”

  “Now the point is,” Shayne removed his arm from her shoulder, ran one hand quickly through his wiry hair, then put it back around her, “Madame Swoboda made the previous recordings and she did the natural thing—had Jimsey call for both parents. But whoever made tonight’s tape either knew that Jimsey was not attached to his mother, or knew nothing about Jimsey or twelve-year-old boys in general. What’s your choice?”

  “That Jimsey wasn’t attached to Mabel. She’s not exactly the mother type—and whoever made the tape knew it.”

  “That’s what I think.” Shayne stared bleakly into the saffron glow the car lights made in the fog.

  “There are so many loose ends,” Lucy murmured. “How does D. L. come into it, for instance? Is it possible he sent someone to kill Clarissa so that her husband would get her insurance and be able to pay his debt?”

  “It’s possible. But voodoo dolls and séances seem too roundabout for a gangster. De Luca’s men don’t spend time trying to scare people to death. We’d do better to concentrate on the others who had a motive for killing Clarissa.”

  “You mean her husband? And Percy and Mabel Thain?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s hard for me to see why it would have been any of them, Michael.”

  “It’s coming clearer,” Shayne said. He turned in at the Milford driveway, stopped the car and helped Lucy out. Together they walked around to the back. The kitchen door was open as Clarissa had said it always was. Shayne switched on a light. A few unwashed dishes lay in the sink, a pot of cold coffee stood on the stove. Nothing here told anything.

  They walked through the small dining el into the living room. A tape recorder stood on the table. When Shayne connected it, the rhythmic beat of piano boogie sounded. He switched it off and moved across the room to look at two miniatures hanging on the wall; one of Clarissa as a young girl, the other, undoubtedly of her sister, Mabel, as ugly then as she was now.

  They covered the rest of the house quickly. The two bedrooms were small, each contained a double bed and two dressers, and revealed nothing of interest. Shayne went down the basement steps, leaving Lucy alone in the living room, but there was nothing to tell him anything there either.

  Turning off the lights and closing the kitchen door, they went out to the car, drove down the Milford driveway, still shrouded in fog, and up the next drive to the Thain house.

  The kitchen here was identical, but neater. The pots and pans sparkled; the stove and icebox were spotless.

  “This is curious, Michael.” Lucy had opened one of the cupboards. “The dishes seem new. There’s a complete set—eight of everything. All the same.”

  “What’s curious about it, angel?”

  “There aren’t even any odd glasses,” she said. “Everyone I know uses a few jelly glasses to eke out.”

  “I still don’t get it.”

  “If Jimsey was twelve,” Lucy said, “we can assume that Mabel and Percy Thain have been married at least thirteen years. By that time the average housewife has broken up several sets of dishes. But she always hangs on to a few of them, just in case. It looks here as if Mabel must have thrown everything out lately and bought all new stuff.”

  Remembering the austere woman with the pinched, unhappy mouth and bony finger, Shayne said, “Maybe she’s just careful and never breaks anything. She looks it.”

  In the living room the unimaginative furniture looked new and unused too. Under the shiny desk stood a wastebasket with a few torn letters and some crumpled paper in it. Dumping its contents on the immaculate floor, Shayne sifted through it. Lucy turned at his low whistle. “What is it, Michael?”

  Shayne’s blunt fingers held out a piece of torn cellophane. “Wrappings from a tape that would fit the recording machine we saw at Milfords’.”

  “What of it? Mabel and Clarissa must have seen a lot of each other.”

  “It’s only a supposition. But if you think back you’ll remember that Percy Thain was the only one who spoke during the séance. He seemed to know when the pauses were due. And the tape answered him pretty accurately.”

  Lucy nodded, her eyes quickening with excitement. “You think he made the tape and switched it for the one on Madame Swoboda’s machine, and put the timer on the fuse box to turn off the lights?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “So he tried to kill Clarissa because he thought Clarissa ran over his son—”

  “I wonder.” Shayne lit a cigarette and took a deep drag. “You asked earlier what motive there’d be for deliberately killing a child. Why should Clarissa have wanted to?”

  “Maybe she didn’t. Maybe it was an accident.”

  Shayne scowled. “Percy might have suspected that Clarissa ran over Jimsey, but he wasn’t sure. That’s obviously the reason he made the tape—in the hope of forcing her to admit it.” The scowl eased, but the redhead’s gaunt face remained sober.

  When he had left these houses last night, Shayne had sensed that no one except possibly Dan Milford actually believed in the séances. Certainly, if Percy Thain had prepared the tape used tonight with the supposed voice of Jimsey on it, he knew that the séances were faked. Why, then, had he and Mabel attended them every night since Jimsey’s death?

  The answer came almost at once. Percy Thain thought Clarissa believed in the séances. The voodoo doll was the opening gun; then the tape and the timer set on the fuse box to cut the lights. Thain had counted on pyramiding fear to force a confession from Clarissa. It was the kind of unrewarding plan a man mad with grief might conceive of.

  If, indeed, it had been Thain who left Clarissa the voodoo doll and who had made tonight’s recording. It could have been Clarissa’s husband, Dan. It could have been her sister, Mabel Thain. It even could have been Clarissa herself, though the motivation for that was obscure.

  Shayne snubbed out his ciga
rette in a spotlessly clean dish and said abruptly, “Come on, Lucy. Let’s finish going through the house before they come home.”

  In the first bedroom a picture of Mabel stood on the man’s dresser, a picture of Percy on the vanity. The second was a boy’s room, brown corduroy bedspread on the single bed, a school banner on the wall, a desk with a student’s lamp over it, a baseball bat standing in the corner. But it was all too clean and neat. It was silent and sad. Even under Mabel’s compulsively precise housekeeping, some aura of the live boy would have emerged, but none was here now. The room, like the boy, was dead.

  Without the touch of his eager, grimy hands, his possessions were static. They were not just waiting to be used; they lay heavily, never to be moved again. The bed was made forever, the bat would stand there until the end of time. There was no feeling that in a moment the boy would stamp into the room, hurl his coat on the bed, seize the bat and rush out to join his companions on the field.

  In this room everything had ended.

  On the bureau beside a comb, brush and mirror accurately lined up, were two pictures in identical frames. One was obviously a picture of Jimsey. The other was that of a young and smiling soft-haired woman.

  Lucy stared silently at the pictures. The resemblance between the two was striking.

  A scowl of speculation crossed Shayne’s craggy face. “Too old to be his sister,” he murmured. “Perhaps this is one of the answers. Suppose Mabel was not Jimsey’s real mother? Clarissa didn’t say.”

  “Maybe that’s why the dishes are all new. Maybe Percy and Mabel haven’t been married long enough to break any.” Lucy turned. “If Jimsey were Percy’s son, not Mabel’s, does that put a new light on things?”

  “At least it explains why Percy had Jimsey call only for ‘Daddy’ on tonight’s tape—if Percy made that tape.”