The door opened and Jackie groped her way to him with a container of hot, bitter coffee. He drank it all, and then steamed some more. After two more hot-cold cycles, he came out into the bedroom, a soggy towel about his waist, moving almost normally. But his head still felt as fragile as glass.
Jackie had more coffee for him. He waved it aside.
“What’s been happening?”
He dropped into a chair and tried to make the other furniture stay in place while she told him. Two of Gregory’s men had taken her and Tim Rourke to an isolated farmhouse, refusing to say why. Half an hour later there was a phone call. They were driven back to town and set free, still with no explanation.
They returned to Tim Rourke’s motel. Soon afterward there was a knock on the door, and when they opened it, Shayne pitched headlong into the room, muttering something about Gregory. Before putting him to bed they had taken the precaution of changing motels.
“Which wasn’t exactly easy,” she concluded. “You’re heavy, Mike.”
Shayne grunted. “Where’s Tim?”
“He has a plan for getting into Sam Rapp’s party. He said if you woke up to tell you he’s taking care of everything.” She hesitated. “I’m worried about him. It seems a lot more serious than it did this morning, but Tim thinks they’re just going to let him barge right in—”
Bearing down, Shayne had been able to keep abreast of what she was telling him. “Go over it again. This party. It’s at Judge Kendrick’s fishing camp and Sam Rapp is giving it. Who’s going to be there?”
An hour later, in a Hertz Chevy, Shayne was driving west on the winding two-lane road to Lake Talquin. Jackie had marked the route for him on a road map; Shayne had never worked in this part of the country. He drove carefully, concentrating on keeping all four wheels on the highway. A tiny jet engine still screamed faintly inside his head, and if he looked too long at anything it began to revolve. But he had come a long way.
Whenever the highway began to slide he felt in his pocket for a benzedrine inhaler and breathed in deeply. After that, for a time, everything sharpened.
He slowed, knowing from Jackie’s directions that he was approaching the turnoff. He passed a stationary car with its parking lights on, pulled off on the shoulder near a closed gate. The name on a small marker leaped out at Shayne: Kendrick.
He continued until he found a place to leave the car, and used the inhaler again before getting out. He checked the fence around the Kendrick property, using a powerful three-cell flashlight. It was heavy-duty wire, topped by two barbed strands.
Turning off the light, he waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. The night was clear, with the moon in its final quarter.
He started back toward the gate.
The roadside brush had been killed back to the fence-line. When he could see the glow of parking lights he crossed the road. The tangle of undergrowth made walking difficult but gave him cover. Hearing an approaching car, he dropped to the ground. The car slowed.
A voice called, “This the Kendrick place?”
It was Rourke. Keeping low, Shayne moved nearer, and he saw his friend at the wheel of a Tallahassee taxi. He was wearing a driver’s cap, blazoned with dues buttons, pushed back on his head. An unlighted cigarette dangled out of the corner of his mouth.
A man detached himself from the parked car and came into the glare. He proved to be a highway patrolman, tricked out in the full regalia, the big hat, the gun belt, the tight pants, the boots. He was holding a clipboard.
“What’s the name, Buddy?”
“Just delivering a couple of passengers. I’m not staying unless they urge me.”
The patrolman swung his flashlight into the back seat, and Shayne heard a giggle.
“Wow,” a girl’s voice said. “It might be more fun not to go to this party.”
The patrolman laughed. “I go off at midnight. Bear it in mind.”
He opened the gate to admit the taxi. After closing it again he remarked to his partner, “That’s Rourke. The poor bastard must think he’s disguised.”
Shayne thought about that for a moment. But whatever the reason for Rourke’s easy entry—he would have to think about it later—he knew that his own name was undoubtedly not on the list.
Turning carefully, he moved back to the utility pole where lines from the lake-camps tied into the main north-south transmission. A hundred yards from the gate, the cops were no longer in view. He searched the roadside until he found a sharp stone, which he put in his pocket, and a willow sapling. He broke the sapling into ten-inch lengths, forcing them into spike-holes in the pole. They wouldn’t support his full weight, but they gave enough purchase so he was able to work himself up to the permanent spikes.
A moment later he was at the top.
In the distance he heard party noises, music and women’s voices. The far edge of the lake was visible beyond the trees. Lights twinkled along the shore. All at once the pole he was clinging to seemed to begin to bend. He hung on with both arms until his head cleared and the stars took their regular places, separating themselves from the electric lights in the shoreside camps. Then he took up the slack in the wire to the Kendrick camp, doubled it around a metal bracket and struck down sharply with the stone. When several blows failed to sever the wire, he slipped it off the bracket and snapped it hard. The wire whipped away into the darkness, and the lights he had seen through the trees went out.
Again, for an instant, the pole seemed to want to throw him. He climbed down when it stopped swaying, and worked back toward the gate.
The highway patrolmen, unaware of the power interruption, were still talking quietly in the front seat of their cruiser. Shayne went around the next bend, found a stump, and settled down to wait.
Mosquitoes kept him alert. Some twenty minutes later, seeing the red lights of the power company’s repair truck, he came to his feet and stepped out on the road, swinging his flashlight. When the truck stopped beside him, he pulled open the front door.
“Took you long enough to get here.”
There were two men in the front seat. Shayne got in with them, making the man on his side slide over.
“Some of these people down here are pretty high up in politics,” he went on. “They expect something extra in the way of service. You’ve heard of Judge Kendrick.”
“Sure,” the driver said anxiously. “We got here as fast as we could. We had to spot-check the line.”
“The wire’s down between the camp and the road.”
“Then Jesus, not a hell of a lot we can do before daylight.”
After a quick exchange between the repairman and the patrolmen, the gate swung open to let them through.
The dirt road was in poor shape. The repairman, now very uneasy, took it too fast, crashing into potholes and swinging wide on the turns. He pulled up in a crushed-shell turnaround and leaped out, leaving his headlights on. Shayne swung out more slowly, and didn’t let go of the door until he was sure he was back in balance.
He pushed off, but instead of entering the building he followed a shell path to an open space where more than a dozen cars were parked. They included several with official Florida plates. Again, even with Rourke to help, he was badly outnumbered and he had to proceed with caution. From the darkness he reviewed the situation.
The building was larger than it had seemed to him at first. It was built of skinned pine logs, sanded and varnished. There was a screened-in porch along the side of the building facing the lake, a boathouse off to the right.
Probably the sudden blackout had picked up the party. Two or three candles were flickering inside, and Shayne saw the repairman’s flashlight as he looked for the house connection. There was a hum of excited talk and laughter. Occasionally someone could be heard to call out.
“Grover!” a woman’s voice cried. “Was that you, Grover, you dog?”
Rourke had parked the taxi carelessly, where it blocked the single exit from the parking area. Shayne removed the ignition key so
it couldn’t be moved. Then he checked the boathouse. An outboard was tied to a short dock, the motor tilted parallel to the water. Inside, there was a small 18-foot runabout. Shayne disarmed both boats, pulling the shear pin from the outboard and removing the spark plugs from the engine of the power boat. That completed the simple deadfall. Any guests who wanted to leave would have to walk or swim.
He cleared his head with the help of the benzedrine inhaler, stepped out of the boathouse and collided hard with somebody who was standing in the shadow just outside the doorway.
Shayne’s adjustment to the world was still shaky, and thrown off-stride, he crashed back against the side of the building, felt the night closing in around him, and reeled forward into the other man’s arms.
“Mike, I thought you were in bed,” Rourke said.
CHAPTER 5
“Nothing wrong with me but a hangover,” Shayne mumbled. “I can cure that with a few facts.”
Taking his arm, Rourke pulled him back inside the boathouse.
“Let’s have a little skull-practice before we bust in. I didn’t figure on the power going off.”
Shayne released a small spurt of light from his flashlight and found a bench.
“The cops at the gate were expecting you.”
“What are you talking about?” Rourke demanded. “I squandered a hundred bucks on a taxi. I brought a couple of girls—fooled the goddamn patrolmen completely.”
In a few words, Shayne told him what had happened at the gate. Rourke was silent for a moment.
“Well,” he said soberly, “all I can say is, this is the noisiest hush-hush operation I’ve ever been mixed up in. What in God’s name explains it? But if they really expected me, if they’ve got something rigged, I think I’d better watch my step before I get a foot blown off. I had a busy afternoon, found out a few interesting things about Grover Kendrick, Jr. Do you want them now?”
“The high-spots.”
Rourke lit a cigarette, gave it to Shayne and lit another for himself.
“He’s been having money trouble, Mike, to the extent of forty G’s. An over-the-counter electronic stock that was supposed to go up. It went down, way down, and he had to borrow from a shark on the Beach to cover. Eddie Myer. You know him. He isn’t famous for writing off bad debts. Whenever Grover was in town he stayed at the Regency, Sam Rapp’s hotel. He’s been seen having drinks with Lib Patrick, Sam Rapp’s girl. Is that enough for now?”
“Yeah. What do people say about the casino bill, anything new?”
“No, the boys in the press corps think it can still go either way, depending on how mean Kendrick feels tomorrow. The father, not the son.”
“Is he here?”
“The father? No, he’s gone home for the night, back to the somnolent little town of Leesville, where life is so much simpler. Maybe so he won’t be spattered if garbage starts flying here. What’s your plan, Mike? I ought to know so I can back you up if you need me.”
“Plan? You’re kidding.” Shayne drew on his cigarette once more and pitched it away. “All I can do is show up and see who starts running. But I hope nobody offers me any cognac, because I’d have to turn it down.”
He now had a reasonably accurate notion of the inside of the darkened building. There was one main room with a high ceiling and an open balcony leading to the bedrooms. The sloping shed-roof of the kitchen ell ran up to within a few feet of the bedroom windows. He had to use his flashlight only once. In the angle of the ell, outside the door to the kitchen, there was a neat stack of logs, cut to fireplace length. He slid the sawhorse against the wall. Stepping up on it, he pulled himself to the sloping roof.
There were four bedrooms. All the windows were open, with sliding metal screens. No lights showed inside. He inched up to the first window and listened. He heard a low whisper, the creak of a bed.
The next room seemed empty. The door to the balcony was ajar, showing a narrow rectangle of dim light from the big room below.
Working slowly and carefully, Shayne removed the screen and slid inside. He waited again after replacing the screen. Crossing the room, he pulled the door shut and turned on his flashlight. At some point during the evening, the bed had been used. There were stale drinks on the table beside the bed, an overflowing ashtray, the reek of whiskey.
He hesitated, scraping his chin. He was getting a strong signal from somewhere. He directed the light around the room slowly, picking out the spare country furniture, a calendar on the closet door, the objects on the bedside table. He came back to the calendar. It was turned to the wrong month, not in the past but in the future. He dropped the light to the carpet, and saw a dark stain which seemed to originate from the crack at the bottom of the closet door. Stooping, he touched his finger to the stain and sniffed; it was nothing but whiskey.
He turned the doorknob carefully. As soon as the latch was free, the door came back hard and a seated figure toppled out.
Shayne let the door open all the way and pulled the man over on his back.
It was Senator Sheldon Maslow, and he had looked more like a rising politician that morning than he did now. His hair was the only thing that was still neat—perhaps the long, careful crest was held in place with spray. In other respects he had gone downhill. His tie was gone, his clothes were rumpled and dirty. He had dropped a burning cigarette in his lap—the leg of his expensive pants had charred through.
He was breathing harshly. He groaned in his sleep and turned on one side. There was a crunching sound. Shayne checked his jacket and found the shards of an infra-red bulb.
He poked around in the closet with his flashlight. There was an empty fifth of bourbon on the floor, a small brace and bit, but no sign of a camera. Two holes had been bored through the closet door. The calendar on the outside of the door hung from a long U-shaped wire. At the moment the holes were covered, but they could be unblocked by manipulating the calendar from inside.
Shayne left Maslow where he was, turned out the flashlight and let himself out in the dark. There was a key in the door, but after a brief hesitation he decided to leave it unlocked.
Standing on the balcony, he looked over the rustic railing into the big room below. It was lighted by a single candle. A poker game had been underway at the central table, in front of the fireplace, but it had broken up when the lights went off. The green felt was littered with cards and chips. Only one man remained at the table, working at a game of solitaire. Three other men were arguing in front of a small highboy, loaded with bottles. The girls were scattered about, several together, several with men.
He smelled pot, and turned.
A girl stood watching him. She was blonde and tall. Lifting her homemade cigarette, she sucked in the smoke, her eyelids flickering, and let it out luxuriously, with the semireligious expression of the dedicated pot-smoker.
“Elegant.”
Swaying away from the wall, she offered Shayne a drag. He accepted, hoping his recovery was far enough along so one lungful wouldn’t knock him off the balcony.
“I’m hallucinating,” the girl said, speaking with a marked English accent. “I was told all the men would be politicians. You’re not in politics.”
“Are you sure?”
She waved the cigarette lazily. “Quite sure. You have a certain air. A sort of impatience. You are not the type to sit quietly for hours upon hours, while a pack of Bedlamites split hairs about the difference between ‘shall’ and ‘may.’ That was not the way you developed those muscles.”
“And not only that,” Shayne said, “you saw me on the six-thirty news.”
She came toward him slowly. She was wearing a simple white dress with a deep slit at the neck, and she was put together like a champion. She raised one hand dreamily and touched his face.
“Extrasensory. On the six-thirty news. Talking about gambling houses in Nevada. I saw you on a black-and-white screen, so without the red hair. Michael Shayne. What are you doing here, Michael Shayne, spying on us?”
“Yeah. Sam
seems to be asking for it. And what are you doing here?”
“Never mind about me. I am a hostess, the U.S. equivalent of the Japanese geisha. I am paid two hundred dollars to make a relaxed atmosphere. And at this precise point in time I have a very nice high, can you notice?”
“The light’s not too good.”
“Are you interested in what I’m called?”
“I’d better have it for the record.”
“Anne Braithwaite. And now where does my duty lie? You are clearly an enemy, not really an enemy but in the pay of the enemy. You really shouldn’t be permitted to walk around observing and taking notes. I think you and I should find an unoccupied bedroom and you should let me distract you. I promise you it would be quite jolly.”
There was a disturbance beneath them. Voices greeted Sam Rapp, coming in from another room with a lighted kerosene lamp. He put it on the poker table.
“Who wants to play some cards?”
The words were spoken with forced gaiety, as though Sam, too, wasn’t sure he was in the right role. He was a small, leathery old man, with a skeptical manner and heavily pouched eyes.
He made another effort. “Anybody wants a drink, you know where to find it. Matt, you can use a freshener.”
Matt McGranahan, a citrus senator, was orating quietly to a girl on a wicker couch near the door. Interrupting himself, he waved his drink, and spilled some of it.
“Sam, you’re a doll. Tremendous party. Lovely young ladies.”
The room was much brighter since the addition of the kerosene lamp. Shayne, above, was able to pick out several other familiar faces, including one of the senators he had testified before that morning. In the group at the makeshift bar, he recognized a lobbyist named Phil Noonan, who represented the savings and loan banks.
Lady, Be Bad Page 4
