Brett Halliday

Murder Takes No Holiday

1

Michael Shayne lifted a quizzical eyebrow at Lucy Hamilton, his pert, brown-haired secretary. They were in the crowded Calypso bar at Miami’s International Airport. Lucy was seeing him off on a three-week vacation, and she had worn a new dress for the occasion, with a tight waist and a flaring skirt. From the glances she was getting, Shayne could see that he wasn’t alone in thinking that she was the best-looking woman in the place.

“Finish your drink, angel,” he said, “or that damn plane is going off without me.”

Lifting her glass, she smiled at him across the little table. “Don’t pretend you’d consider that such a tragedy.”

“Well, this wasn’t my idea, God knows,” Shayne said.

“Good heavens, Michael! A person would think you’d been sentenced to a term on the chain gang. You’re going off for three leisurely weeks on a romantic Caribbean island, with nothing to do but fish and swim and lie on the sand. Anybody but a stubborn mule named Michael Shayne would be looking forward to it.”

As his face darkened she said quickly, putting her small hand on his, “I know, Michael. I shouldn’t tease you. You think you could do all that without leaving Miami. But it wouldn’t work out. After the things you’ve been through, any ordinary man would be glad to relax for a few weeks, and let people take care of their own problems. But I know you. If you stayed in Miami, some cute little blonde would be sure to find you after a day or two, with some trouble which naturally she’d be too embarrassed to take to the police. No other private detective could help her. She’d bat her eyes and take a few deep breaths, and you’d be back in action again, broken ribs and all—Don’t look at me like that. You know what I mean. Dr. Sanborn would never have let you out of the hospital if you hadn’t promised to have a real rest, and I’m going to see that you keep your promise if it kills both of us.”

Shayne was grinning. “How do you know there aren’t any cute blondes with problems where I’m going?”

“They won’t know who you are, thank goodness. They can take their problems to somebody who hasn’t just got out of a hospital. And you’d better not encourage them, either!”

“That might be easier if you were somewhere on the same island, angel,” Shayne said lightly.

She colored and looked away. “It seems to me we’ve been over that, too. But I don’t mind saying it again if you didn’t hear me any of the other times. I have something to think about, and I think more clearly, for some reason, when you’re a few hundred miles away. Well.”

She finished her drink and said briskly, “We don’t want to keep the chain gang waiting, do we?”

Shayne laughed. He drank off his cognac, and took a sip of ice-water, after which he stood up. Taking Lucy’s arm, he steered her toward the door. It burst open and a tall, loose-jointed, untidy man, his hat on the back of his head, pushed in. It was Tim Rourke, a reporter on the Miami News, Michael Shayne’s oldest friend in Miami.

“Hey, Mike,” he said. “They’re calling your plane, did you know that? I didn’t think I was going to get here in time. Go ahead—I want to grab a fast shot. You’re looking nice, baby,” he added to Lucy. “Nice dress.”

“Thank you, Tim,” she said, smiling.

The bar-man served him promptly, and Rourke overtook Lucy and the rangy redhaired private detective in the lobby.

“You know what I did, Mike? I forgot to bring you a going-away present. That would never do. The other passengers would think you aren’t popular.”

He veered off abruptly and headed for a news-stand. Shayne and his secretary watched, amused, while the disheveled reporter made a swift series of purchases. He returned in a moment with an armload of paperbound books and a huge box of chocolates.

“Tim, you idiot,” Lucy said fondly. “Michael doesn’t like candy.”

“Then the candy’s for you,” Rourke said, putting the box into her arms. “Don’t read all these, Mike. Take your pick and leave the rest for the stewardess. There’s quite a cool bunch of chicks on this line—but of course an invalid like you wouldn’t be interested.”

He faked a punch at the redhead’s ribs, four of which had been fractured as a result of a fight in a speeding car that was being driven by a heroin wholesaler named Sal Rubio. The car had gone over an embankment. The hoodlum had been killed.

“Tim!” Lucy cried in alarm.

“Don’t worry, honey,” Rourke told her. “It wouldn’t give me any satisfaction to beat up on Mike, in his present condition. He’s too puny. Get your strength back, Mike, and I’ll carry you for a few fast rounds. Gate Five,” he said, looking up. “I do believe that’s us. Now don’t do anything too strenuous, pal. A little brainwork won’t hurt you, but no rough-housing. Remember what the doctor told you.”

He gave Shayne a large wink. Lucy demanded, “Just what do you mean by that, Tim?”

“Not a thing,” Rourke said innocently. “But I’ve known this character longer than you have. Wherever he goes, for some strange reason things seem to happen. And the big son of a—” He caught himself. “Excuse me. The big baboon usually comes out with a nice piece of change. What I wanted to say, Mike,” he said more seriously, “is you scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours. When I steer something somebody’s way, I expect first crack at it for the News. Do you get my point?”

“Hell, no,” Shayne said easily, “and if I didn’t know you so well, I’d say you’d been drinking.”

“Never touch the stuff.”

Lucy studied Tim suspiciously for another moment, and turned to Shayne.

“Don’t look at me,” the detective said. “I don’t know what the hell he’s talking about, if he’s talking about anything.”

“Well, I only hope I don’t live to regret this.” Coming up on her toes, she gave him a glancing kiss on the cheek. “Send me a postcard every day, Michael.”

He put an arm around her shoulders and gave her a rough hug, feeling a stab of pain in his rib-cage. “Goodbye, Miss Hamilton. This is going to be a long three weeks.”

He turned quickly. Passing through the gate with long, purposeful strides, he followed the red carpet to the big bird that was waiting for him on the hardtop. Lucy and Tim Rourke climbed to the observation deck to watch the take-off. The stewardess—and Shayne noted with amusement that she was as trim and attractive as Rourke had predicted—consulted her clipboard. She made a check beside his name and led him down the aisle. Halfway to the end she stopped, puzzled, and looked at her board again. The seat assigned to Michael Shayne was taken.

“May I see your reservation, sir?” she asked politely.

A rumpled, heavily-built man, holding a dispatch case on his lap, looked up, and Shayne recognized Jack Malloy, the customs agent-in-charge, a former Miami cop.

Malloy heaved himself up. “You just about got in under the wire, Mike. I was beginning to think that Tim Rourke was wrong.”

“What about Tim?” Shayne said.

“I ran into him this afternoon, and he told me you were taking this plane.”

The stewardess cleared her throat unhappily. “I’m afraid there’s been a mistake. I must ask to see your ticket, sir.”

“I’m not going with you, dear,” Malloy said, “so relax. I cleared it with the boys up front. But for God’s sake don’t let them take off with me aboard. It’s just the sort of thing that captain of yours would think is funny.”

She looked doubtful, but tucked the clipboard under her arm and let him squeeze past.

“Come on back here, Mike,” Malloy said. “Something I want to ask you.”

Shayne exchanged a look with the stewardess and shrugged. He tossed the books Rourke had given him onto the vacant seat and followed Malloy back to the narrow galley. The customs agent let him go in first. He remained in the doorway himself, turned sideways so he could watch the passengers.

“This isn’t the way I like to work,” he said. “It’s pretty public. But it seemed like too good a chance to pass up. I’ve been trying to track you down all afternoon.”

“Miss Hamilton took me shopping,” the redhead said with disgust. “You can’t go to the Caribbean these days, it seems, without getting dolled up like a damn fool.”

“Sorry I didn’t get around to the hospital, Mike. How are you feeling? You look all right to me.”

“I’m fine,” Shayne said curtly. “But what’s it all about, Jack? Unless you want to go for a plane ride you’d better get to the point.”

Malloy looked at his watch. “They’ll wait for me. I hope. I brought you a present, to put you in the mood.”

He took a flat pint bottle of cognac out of his side pocket.

“Rourke gave me a box of candy,” the redhead said. “This is a big improvement.”

“I thought you’d appreciate it. We’ll have to drink it straight, but as I remember that’s the way you like it.”

He broke the seal with his thumb-nail and got glasses down from a shelf over the stainless-steel sink. He splashed a good double-jigger into each glass and pushed one toward Shayne. Then he returned to the doorway.

“Tim tells me you’re supposed to take it easy, so I know I have to do some persuading. To get the sordid matter of money out of the way first, if all goes well it could pay the full fifty thousand.”

Shayne looked at him sharply. “Wait a minute, Jack. You wouldn’t be holding up a plane with fifty people aboard unless you had something your own people aren’t equipped to handle, and ordinarily I’d be glad to hear about it. I know you pay informers twenty-five percent of seizures, to a top of fifty grand. People have weird ideas about the size of my income, but as a matter of fact I don’t get that kind of fee very often. I can’t help you, though, Jack. When they let me out of that hospital they put me on good behavior. I promised various people, including my secretary, that I wouldn’t do any work for three weeks.”

“They don’t need to know about it,” Malloy said, unruffled. “If it was only a matter of the fifty thousand I wouldn’t take up any of your time. In your bracket, what’s a mere fifty thousand? My fellow-workers in Internal Revenue will get most of it.”

“Knock it off,” Shayne growled. “I just want you to know how things stand. Thanks for the cognac. Unless you want to change your mind and take it back?”

“Damn it, Mike. Don’t be such a hard-nose. I’m going to tell you about this if it takes all night. Why not shut up and listen so they can get this plane in the air?”

Shayne looked at him, his ragged red brows close together. After a second he shrugged and lifted the cognac.

“Go ahead. So long as you realize you’re wasting your breath.”

“All right,” Malloy said. “Three or four weeks ago an Englishman named Albert Watts came into my office. A mild little guy in his late thirties. Very nervous and jumpy. He looked as though he might have served a hitch in the British army and never got over it. A jet came over and the sonic boom almost gave him heart failure. He’d heard about our informer fees, and he wanted to know two things—how much of a tip he’d have to turn in to get the top price, and would he have to appear in court to give evidence? Well, we don’t use our pigeons in court because a smuggler has to be caught with the goods on him, or there isn’t any case. Watts seemed glad to hear it. He wouldn’t say anything more, except that I’d be hearing from him. I put a man on him, who tailed him back to his hotel. He was only in town for two days. He’d come up from St. Albans on business.”

“St. Albans,” Shayne said sarcastically. “The same place I’m going. Big surprise.”

“Come on, Mike. Sure it’s the same place. Otherwise why would I be here? We didn’t have any trouble finding out that he was assistant manager of the St. Albans branch of an American travel agency. He didn’t have much to do in Miami. The trip was mainly a pretext to see me. He went sightseeing, saw a few movies, and then went home. He didn’t have one drink while he was here. About two weeks later a cable came in from St. Albans, signed Albert. All it gave was a ship, an arrival time, and a man’s name—Paul Slater. Does that ring any bell with you, Mike?”

Shayne revolved his glass of cognac thoughtfully. “Paul Slater. I don’t think so. I suppose you shook him down when he came in. What did you find—nothing?”

“Not exactly. We found fifty Swiss watch movements inside the lining of a suitcase. If he got a good break on the resale, he stood to make the magnificent sum of four hundred dollars. Naturally I was disgusted with the nervous Mr. Watts. All this build up and hugger-mugger for a hundred buck fee, maybe less. Well, stranger things have happened. We confiscated the watch movements and gave Mr. Slater the treatment: a formal indictment, maximum fine and a stern lecture from the judge. This is usually enough to make a petty smuggler think twice before he does it again. It seemed to work with Slater. He looked like a beaten dog. After the trial, Watts should have contacted me to collect his fee. But there wasn’t any word from him at all. That sometimes happens, too, and ordinarily I’d forget about it. But something about this was nagging at me. I couldn’t really believe that the Albert Watts who’d been in my office had only expected to clear a hundred bucks. And I was there when Slater was searched. He was nervous, but we have that effect even on honest people. He didn’t overplay it or underplay it. It was just about right. But you need second-sight to be a good customs agent, and there was something wrong about the guy, Mike. I felt it and men felt it, and it wasn’t just those fifty watch movements. So I sent a message through channels. I was careful about it, because St. Albans is British, after all. There’s an old tradition of smuggling in the area, and they’re more tolerant of it than I tend to be. The message was simple. I asked Watts to come in and see me the next time he was in Miami. He never got it. Last Wednesday, two or three days after Slater got back to St. Albans, Watts was found knifed in the native quarter of the Old Town.”

Shayne shook out a cigarette and stuck it in his mouth. He offered the pack to Malloy, who shook his head.

“All right,” Shayne said. “I can hardly keep from crying. You don’t think it was anything simple, like a fight or a robbery. You think it ties in with the tip he gave you on Slater. And people don’t get murdered because of a few watch movements.”

“Exactly. And so it occurred to me. What if you’re a courier like Slater? You work out a pretty good method of getting the stuff in. But you have to buy it from somebody, and there’s always a danger of leakage. Why wouldn’t it be a smart idea to carry a decoy, a second parcel of contraband, only worth a few C’s? Then if somebody turns in a tip, the poor dumb customs agents find the decoy parcel and write the informer off as a harmless crackpot. The real contraband goes through untouched. No further investigation. No tail on the guy. Clever?”

Shayne swallowed the cognac he had been rolling around in his mouth, and reached for the bottle. Against his will, he was becoming interested.

“Why wouldn’t it be even better if you didn’t find anything?” he asked. “If the real stuff is going through some other way, he’s in the clear. He can act indignant and make you feel like a heel.”

“If we had a good solid tip on him, Mike,” Malloy said grimly, “we’d put him under the microscope. We’d get him up in the morning and put him to bed at night. We’d dog him around every minute he was in this country, and if he tried to take delivery on an illegal shipment, we’d grab him. This way, he paid a small fine to get us to forget about him.”

“Is there anything to indicate that, or is it just a hunch?”

“So far just a hunch,” Malloy admitted. “We have as many hunches as lady horse-players, only they don’t lose us any money if we’re wrong. This time the hunch is that those watch movements have been traveling back and forth a long time. The more I think about it, the stronger it gets. I’ve had two men digging up background on Slater, and they’ve put together quite a dossier. He’s perfect for the part. He runs a little import business in gift and novelty items in St. Albans. He travels a lot around the Caribbean, picking up local junk, most of it native-made, that he sells to gift shops. Baskets, costume jewelry, that kind of stuff. He comes through Miami once a month or once every two months. He doesn’t make a hell of a lot or money. And he’s careful. His standard of living is about right for his legal income. A good reputation with his jobbers. Not very aggressive or high-powered, but people seem to like him. No sign of anything offbeat in his private life.”

“Very logical,” Shayne commented skeptically. “You didn’t find anything, so that proves he’s a crook.”

“The watch movements, Mike,” Malloy reminded him. “He was out of line there.”

“I suppose you’ve checked his shipments?”

“Sure. We’re putting everything through the scope. Nothing’s turned up so far.”

“More and more suspicious,” Shayne said.

“Mike, you’re going to get me sore in a minute. We gave him a scare. Naturally he’ll be extra careful for a while.”

“It’s still your problem, not mine,” Shayne said. “If he slipped something past you, I can see how you feel. But it’s too late to do anything about it now. And what makes you think he’ll do it again. In other words, where do the fifty thousand bucks come in?”

“Sometimes when they think of a new angle they give it a dry run, to see if it works, and make the real push the next trip. But I told you the money’s not the big thing here. As it happens, Slater’s been married six years, happily, as far as anybody knows. Do you remember Fred Baines, Mike? Remember he had a wife?”

The lines on the redhead’s face were deeply etched. He nodded slowly. “That’s why the name sounded so familiar.”

“I was in Fred’s division when I was on the force,” Malloy went on. “I saw quite a bit of them at one time. When Fred got plugged, Martha must have been all of twenty or twenty-one. She and Fred didn’t have any kids. You couldn’t expect her to stay a widow the rest of her life, and she married Paul Slater a couple of years later. The name didn’t click with me until I was going through Slater’s file and came to his wife’s name. I remember you worked on that case. Does that change things at all?”

Shayne was looking at him thoughtfully, and Malloy went on, “We’ve got time for another drink.”

Shayne watched him pour the cognac. He had been with Martha Baines that long-ago afternoon when four cops—tongue-tied and miserable, but doing what they had to do—had brought her husband’s body home. She had seemed very young to Shayne then, too young to have such a thing happen to her. Under Shayne’s eyes in the days that followed, the scared kid had turned into a mature, tragic-faced woman. Her husband, a plainclothes detective, had been shot by a thief he had surprised in the act of robbing a jewelers’ exchange. Shayne, on contingency fee from an insurance company, had brought in the killer and recovered most of the stolen jewelry. The murderer’s death sentence had been commuted, largely on the strength of a plea for clemency made by the young widow.

During the trial and afterward, Shayne had come to feel a deep admiration for Martha Baines. He had seen the color return to her cheeks, and on one occasion he still remembered clearly—he had taken her to a jai-alii fronton—he had watched her eyes light up with excitement for the first time since her husband’s death. Not long after that, he had met Lucy Hamilton, and from then on no other woman could mean anything to him.

He picked up his glass and took a long swallow. “You really think Slater’s mixed up in something important?”

“Yes,” Malloy said quietly. “I’m sure as it’s possible to be without absolute proof. Maybe Watts was actually killed in a barroom brawl, but is it likely, Mike? And there’s one other point I haven’t mentioned. I’ve had a number of little tips that stuff is coming into St. Albans for re-shipment to the States.”

Shayne tugged at one ear lobe. “If you’re right, if Slater got by with something this last time, he’ll try it again. Sooner or later you’ll catch him and put him in jail, and that’ll be hell on Martha. All right, I’ll talk to her. It’ll be a painful conversation, God knows, but she can probably convince him—”

Malloy put in quickly, “I wish you wouldn’t, Mike. Of course I can’t stop you. That’s one of the risks I’m running by putting my cards on the table. What if she does persuade him to quit? They’ll get themselves another boy. If the gimmick still works and the new courier makes money, Slater will be sore that he let her talk him out of it. The next time he gets an offer he’ll take it, and he’ll be back on the merry-go-round. Let’s put the main people out of business, Mike. Then he won’t be tempted. I’ve been looking for a chance like this. We pick up the couriers now and then, and our seizures just about cover expenses. We never touch the higher-ups. We don’t even hurt them financially. There’s a bunch of ethical businessmen in Amsterdam who write insurance covering smuggling losses.”

A fair young man in pilot’s uniform came down the aisle. “Can’t hold her much longer, Jack. The control tower’s getting salty.”

“Just going,” Malloy said. “This is Mike Shayne, Captain Connors.”

“Hello, Mr. Shayne,” the pilot said, shaking hands. “I’ve heard about you.”

“Can you stall for two minutes more?” Shayne said. “We’d appreciate it.”

“Sure. But that’s about all.”

When the pilot left, Shayne said angrily, “I don’t know a soul on the island. I don’t know the ground rules. I’m only hitting on three cylinders, and if somebody gives me a gentle nudge in the ribs, I go back to the hospital for another few weeks. And how about this program you’ve laid out for me? All you want me to do is break up a smuggling ring, solve a murder, keep Slater out of trouble unless he happens to turn out to be the murderer, and at the same time see to it that the next shipment, whatever it is, goes through with another courier so you’ll get credit for a seizure and I’ll get a fee. They’ll be in a hurry now, so how much time do I have for all this? A couple of days?”

Malloy grinned. “I had an idea you’d do it.”

“Don’t expect any miracles, that’s all,” Shayne said, still angry.

“Well, I’ve seen you pull some surprising rabbits out of hats in your time, Mike. There’s only one lead I can give you, and frankly it’s not too hot. I’m told that some of the high-duty stuff coming into St. Albans from Europe ends up with a character named Luis Alvarez, also known as the Camel. A Venezuelan. He runs a tourist trap called The Pirate’s Rendezvous.”

“Any connection with Slater?”

“Not as far as I know.”

“Wait a minute,” Shayne said as Malloy turned. He worried at his earlobe for a moment longer and said, “This may not work, but I’m going to need something. Get a flier printed up. ‘Wanted for unlawful flight to avoid prosecution’—one of those. You can pick up a picture of me in one of the newspaper morgues. Not the News, because I don’t want Tim Rourke to know about this. Print up a half dozen with my description and some nice interesting crime and rush them down to the St. Albans cops on tomorrow afternoon’s plane. Special delivery. Urgent. You have information that this man has left the country, heading for the Caribbean.”

Malloy thought about it. “I don’t like it, Mike. Officially I have to keep on good terms with all the departments in the area.”

“Then don’t sign it with your own name,” Shayne said impatiently. “Use a mimeographed sheet. To all police chiefs in the Caribbean. From Joe Doakes, Miami office, FBI. Hell, do I have to draft it for you? If you really don’t like the idea, think of a better one.”

“I can’t on the spur of the moment,” Malloy admitted. “What name do you want on the picture?”

Shayne sighed. “Michael Shayne, I guess. Too many complications, otherwise. I hope Miss Hamilton doesn’t hear about it.”

“Well, you’re the one who’ll be taking the chances, Mike. Good luck.”

He put out his hand. The stewardess was signalling frantically with her clipboard. He called, “Coming.”

They shook hands briefly. As Shayne watched Malloy go up the aisle, his eyes were bleak. He turned abruptly and reached for the cognac.

2

Paul Slater scrubbed his hand through his fair hair. It was the color of driftwood, cropped very close. He wore only a pair of walking shorts. He was built like an athlete, and his movements were quick and graceful. He was beautifully tanned.

He ground out a cigarette viciously and looked at the girl lying on the bed, propped on one elbow. She was dark, with tousled black hair that looked as though it had been disarranged by a high wind. This was a deliberate effect, produced with care. She was both lithe and lush, an interesting combination which was readily apparent, as she was covered only by one corner of the sheet. That was where it was not because of modesty, but simply because that was where it had ended up.

She blinked up at Slater lazily. “But what was it like?”

“You don’t know, Vivienne,” he said with feeling. “You just don’t know. I’ve never been through anything remotely like it. The physical search—it was thorough and professional and humiliating, of course. Never mind. That I could stand. It was their attitude. I was dirt under their feet.”

“But you fool them, eh?” the girl said indifferently, speaking with a strong French accent.

“Oh, yes,” Slater said gloomily. “It worked like a charm. There’s no doubt about it, I’m a genius. But the one thing that I didn’t expect was the way I felt. At first they were polite and respectful. Not really polite, but they treated me as one professional to another. It was my job to fool them, it was their job not to be fooled. Then they found those miserable watch movements. I’ve been hauling them around in my suitcase ever since the duty went up, just waiting for this moment. Positively brilliant. And all at once I became ludicrous. Fifty watch movements! I wasn’t a professional after all, I was a bungling, half-witted amateur. After that they treated me with contempt. Naturally the judge couldn’t let me go without a tongue lashing. He did a good job of it, too. I was wriggling like a schoolboy.”

“If it had been me,” the girl said, “I would have been laughing at them inside the whole time.”

“That’s the way I always thought I’d feel,” he said, puzzled. He lit a fresh cigarette and breathed smoke out slowly. “But when you come to the point, all of a sudden it dawns on you—sure, they may be fools, but they also have the power to put you in prison for a long, long time. When you’re standing up in front of a judge who doesn’t think much of you, it isn’t quite so amusing. I walked out of the courthouse, and I should have been feeling fine. Everybody said their lines exactly the way they were supposed to. But what if they hadn’t? What if some eager type had wondered if I was as dumb as I looked, and really started dogging me around?” A slight shudder passed over his handsome body. “It makes me cold to think about it. The odds were about fifty to one. That’s a very good bet. But even fifty-to-one shots sometimes come in. It’s been known to happen.”

He stared at the glowing tip of the cigarette. He sat down on the edge of the bed beside her and dropped one hand lightly onto her hip.

“Anyway,” he said, “that’s the last time I go through anything like that. I’m resigning, as of now. That’s what I’ve been leading up to. I want you to know how I feel about it.”

Her eyes glinted for a moment. Then her lids came down and hid the shrewd look that had appeared in them briefly. She raised her arms and stretched, her body moving underneath his hand.

“Of course you must stop if you feel that way, cheri. It is not too serious. There are other ways of getting money.”

“Name three,” Slater said grimly. “I don’t see myself selling enough baskets to gift shops to put me up with Rockefeller. No, I can’t quite picture it. God knows there’s money around. Look at these damned tourists. Where they get it, I don’t know. None of it seems to stick to me.”

“Then I’ll tell you what I think,” she said. “I think we must bid each other goodbye. Not at this precise minute! No, in a little while. I am without money or family, with my way to make in the world. Poor Paul, I am such a terrible extravagance for you. So say goodbye to me like a good friend. It will be simple.”

“Simple! “he said.

“But of course. You must cut down on expenses. You have me, you have your wife. Everything double. I am not asking you to divorce her. Absolutely not. That is altogether your affair.”

Slater breathed out heavily.

“I am ashamed, you know,” she said. “Not about our love, that is a very beautiful thing. But because of me, you must do something you dislike. You are unhappy. I say it will be simple, but not easy. It will be hard. For me as well. But I am very, very bad for you, Paul. I will leave your life, then again you can be happy in the old way, no more of this silly business of taking things to America against the law.”

“God, Vivienne,” he protested.

She moved restlessly. “I like you more than any man I have ever known. You make me feel—so—” She stopped. “I cannot say it in this stiff and awkward language, English. But you know it. You know it well. What am I to do? My other American friend says he can find a way to take me to your country, where I so much long to be. I am tired of these hot, horrible little towns. I want to see New York! The cars, the beautiful clothes, the tall buildings. To be looked at, admired. I am stifling here.”

She came up on both elbows and said quickly, “I know how you feel. But listen to me, Paul. You said the next time would be really big. I mean, you would make more than ever before. And after that, then you could stop, and we could still—” The light in her face faded and she lay back. “No, it is impossible. There is always that one chance in fifty, and it would be horrible if—”

“Ten years in jail,” he said. “God, I just don’t know. Maybe—”

She smiled suddenly and reached out for him with both arms. “Let us forget about money and such things. We are together. Who knows? If it is the last time, we will always regret wasting it in talking.”

“It won’t be the last,” he said fiercely.

She moistened her lips, and a sort of veil fell over her eyes. “You are also wasting time smoking a cigarette. You can smoke cigarettes by the carton after your wife returns. Paul, my darling.”

A sound escaped him, almost a groan. He waited while her eyes closed and her tongue moved impatiently across her lips. She was snapping her fingers silently, as she did when she was hunting for an English word.

Putting his burning cigarette deliberately on the edge of the bedside table, he came down to her. The cigarette continued to smolder, leaving a scar on the varnish, overlapping other burn-marks left by other careless guests of the hotel. Soon there was nothing left but ash. The breeze from the open window struck it. It sifted to the floor.

Suddenly the phone rang.

Slater lifted his head. They looked at each other in dismay.

“She couldn’t be—” he said.

The phone rang again. He snatched it up.

“Yes? She is? My God! Yes. Thanks.”

He hurled the phone at the cradle. “Martha’s back! She’s in the lobby now. You’ve got to—”

Sitting up, the girl pushed at her hair. “This would be a good time to tell her, no? That is, if you have made up your mind to tell her.”

“Not like this!” Slater said, appalled. “If she walks in on—” He gestured at the tumbled bed, the untidy room. “It’s out of the question. Goddamn it, will you hurry?”

He seized her arms and pulled her off the bed. She felt among her clothes, which were lying in a heap on a chair.

“So you did not mean the things you said in my ear one minute ago? I am not surprised. I have experience with this habit of men. Promises—”

“I meant it all! It’s just—my God, no, there’s no time, never mind those things. Just your dress and shoes. Vivienne, darling, please. I can’t hurt her this way. She’s been hurt so badly already.”

“And I?” Vivienne asked, with surprising dignity considering the fact that she was lifting her dress to pull it over her head.

“Nobody can hurt you,” he said. “That’s one of the things I like about you.”

“I am hard, am I?” she cried. She wriggled her dress down over her hips and tugged at the zipper. “I am not flesh and bone, I am made of metal. That is what you think.”

“Don’t be dumb, baby. I know what you’re made of, and it isn’t metal. Leave that zipper. Fix it outside.”

He handed her a shoe. Hopping on one foot, she put it on, suddenly seeming about to cry. “You have this wonderful idea, you, for making money. Most safe. And good God, how badly we need this money, you and I! Perhaps it settles nothing, but we need it, to have time to decide. And suddenly you are frightened because they ask you a few questions. Because a judge scolds you. All the thought, the planning—”

Holding the foot of the bed, she thrust her foot into her second shoe. “But Paul, with everything else you are so nice to me! Why are all rich Americans fat and bald and tiresome? Can you answer that?”

“Not right now,” he said, pushing the remainder of her clothing at her. “I’ll call you tomorrow. Now for God’s sake hurry. Here’s your garter belt! Christ, if you left that! Go around the corner of the corridor. You can hear the elevator. And don’t get the clever idea of coming out ahead of time so she sees you, to settle things that way. It wouldn’t be clever at all.”

He kissed her forehead quickly and propelled her out the door. There was one good thing, he thought, about this crummy hotel. When the elevator was in operation it clanked horribly, but thank God it still was silent. He watched the French girl. One heel wasn’t all the way inside her shoe, and she had to hop. Her dress was tight about the hips. Going or coming, clothed or unclothed, it was a wonderful thing to see the way she moved, and Slater rubbed the back of one hand across his lips, which suddenly seemed very dry. How in heaven’s name could he be expected to give that up?

“God,” he said softly, and swallowed.

Stepping back, he closed the door and looked around the room quickly. He put the bed in order, drawing the sheets tight and plumping up the pillows. He took out a colorful short-sleeved sports shirt. After he put it on, he examined his face in the mirror. He rubbed lipstick from the corner of his mouth, using a Kleenex which he was careful to flush away. His hair was short enough so it needed no attention.

He forced himself to stand still and look around the room, taking it one section at a time. The careful scrutiny showed him a lipstick-tipped cigarette. He field-stripped it and threw way the reddened paper. Satisfied, he stretched out on the bed and picked up that week’s issue of the Island Times, which was still, he saw, almost entirely taken up with the murder of the Englishman, Albert Watts.

But he was too unsettled to read. He threw the paper aside. To disarm suspicion completely, he should be doing something normal and routine. Going to the bathroom, he tucked a towel inside his shirt collar and lathered his face. He had shaved before Vivienne came, and scraping off the lather with long sweeping strokes took only a few seconds. His hand jerked as he finally heard the labored clanking of the elevator. He was pretending to work on the stubborn spot on his upper lip when a key turned in the lock.

“Darling?” he called. “I’m in here.”

He went to the bathroom door, the razor in his hand. His wife Martha, an ash-blonde with gray eyes and well-marked cheekbones, put down her overnight bag.

“Paul.”

She brushed back her hair with a weary gesture, went to the bureau and took a cigarette out of the package there. She held herself with her usual erectness, but she seemed very tired.

She tapped the cigarette on the bureau. “Well, it was a wild-goose chase, I’m afraid. The woman who used to make those wonderful woven trays has been sick for three months, and she didn’t have a thing for me. After that there didn’t seem to be much point in going on to the other village for a few baskets. I turned tail and came home. I suppose I was a little discouraged, Paul. I’ve been counting heavily on those trays. Well, one of these days our luck will change.”

She succeeded in smiling. Slater looked at her for a long moment. He wiped off what was left of the lather and threw the towel into the bathtub. Coming into the bedroom, he put both arms around her.

“Never mind, dear,” he said, holding her very tight. “It doesn’t matter. But we can’t go on scraping and patching like this. It isn’t fair to you. You don’t deserve to live this way, and I’m going to do something about it.”

He felt her body stiffen. “And I don’t mean what you think, either. If I can’t make some legitimate money I’ll drown myself and put an end to it. There won’t be any more of those dirty little errands through the customs. I’m through. They can find themselves another sucker.”

She pulled back. “Do you mean that, Paul?” she said eagerly, searching his face.

“Damn right I mean it,” he told her. “I’ve been teetering. They scared me, I don’t mind admitting, but I didn’t want to give it up just because I was scared. It seemed like a lousy reason. I’ve been fooling with the idea of doing it once more before I quit. But I know what would happen. I’d do it once more after that, and then once more, and I’d go on doing it till finally that fifty-to-one shot came in and they caught me. The time to stop is now. I made up my mind when you tried to smile.”

“Thank God, Paul,” she said softly. “You don’t know what I’ve been going through. I honestly don’t know what I’d do if anything happened to you.” She laughed ruefully. “It’s absurd to be so emotionally dependent, but that seems to be the way I’m put together.”

He kissed her hard, pulling her in tight against his chest. “It’s not absurd. It’s wonderful, and you know it. I don’t know what’s got into me lately. I’ve had a kind of desperate feeling—I can’t describe it. But it’s over now, and suddenly I wonder what I’ve been worried about. I’m young and able-bodied. I’m not deformed. I have a reasonably good education and good table manners. Somewhere in this world there’s a philanthropist who’s going to offer me a job.”

“Of course there is, darling,” she whispered. “The only thing you need is confidence. Thank God you’ve come to your senses. I was so afraid—”

“Come and sit down. You must be tired.”

He took her to the bed. She kicked off her shoes and sat back against the stacked pillows. “You can be so sweet, Paul. What did I do with my cigarette?”

He retrieved it and looked for a match.

“You really are getting absent-minded,” she said gaily. “You let another cigarette go out on the table. Before we go looking for your philanthropist, I’m going to break you of the habit of putting a cigarette down wherever you happen to be.”

He muttered something. She leaned forward for the light, holding the cigarette between two fingers. Her nostrils flared slightly.

“Aren’t you using a new after-shaving lotion, darling?” She sniffed again and said judiciously, “I don’t know if I approve or not. It’s pretty strong for a man.”

“Just trying it out,” Slater said, leaning forward so she couldn’t see his face. His hands felt damp, and he wiped them on his shorts.

She put the tip of one finger against a mark on his neck, inside the open collar of the sports shirt. There were several slightly irregular indentations there, that might have been made by teeth. Again her nostrils flared. She was frowning slightly.

Airplane engines were throbbing high in the sky. Slater looked nervously at his watch.

“That must be the plane from Miami,” he said. “It’s late.”

3

Getting down from the horse-drawn carriage that had brought him from the airport, Michael Shayne was greeted by a small English lady who could have been any age between thirty and fifty. She wore a long-sleeved print dress, buttoned to the neck.

“You will be Mr. Shayne,” she said firmly. “How d’you do? I am Miss Trivers, your hostess. Welcome to Hibiscus Lodge.”

She put her small hand briefly in Shayne’s. He found her grip surprisingly strong.

“I’m delighted you decided to come to us, Mr. Shayne,” she continued, “and I do hope we can make your stay pleasant. If you will come with me I’ll show you your cottage.”

She took him through a well-kept garden, along a path that led to the pink stucco cottage Lucy had picked out from a portfolio of pictures in the Miami Beach travel agency. It was pleasantly situated on a rise overlooking a crescent of beach. There were other cottages near it, each with its own patch of lawn and its own garden screening it from the others. The sand below was very white, dotted with clumps of low-growing palms.

The Englishwoman showed him around the cottage, ending where they had begun, in the living room.

“Fine, fine,” Shayne told her. “All as advertised.”

The carriage driver had put the redhead’s battered suitcase in the bedroom. Shayne pulled out a handful of the British coins he had been given at the airport and held them out to Miss Trivers, who sorted out the proper amount for the fare. The driver was dissatisfied with the size of the tip, but Miss Trivers gave him a crisp nod and he went back down the path, grumbling.

“Now let me see,” she said. “What else should I tell you? Dinner’s at seven. After you get settled in, why don’t you come up to the Lodge and let me give you tea?”

Shayne grinned. “Tea’s never been my favorite drink. I think I’ll skip it, thanks. I may want to go out fishing in the morning. Wouldn’t your local paper have a list of charter outfits?”

“Right here, Mr. Shayne.”

The current issue of the Island Times was laid out on the coffee table, alongside fresh copies of the popular U. S. weeklies. Miss Trivers, picking it up, glanced at the front-page headline and made a clicking sound with her tongue. She turned the pages until she found the charter-boat ads.

“These are all quite reliable, I believe,” she said. “I am not a sportswoman myself.”

Shayne took the paper. “I see you people have had a murder.”

“Well,” she said grudgingly, “yes, we have. But I hope you won’t think such a thing is an everyday occurrence with us. It’s anything but.”

“That’s all right,” Shayne said, the corners of his mouth twitching. “People get murdered now and then in Miami. I’ll feel more at home.”

She shot him a sharp look and said severely, “Now Mr. Shayne. You’re pulling my leg. It isn’t a joking matter for us, I can assure you. I wish there was some way it could have been kept out of the papers, but I suppose—freedom of the press and so on. Our economic health is so dependent on tourists that something like this can have an extremely deleterious effect. There’s been a terrific falling-off in the nightclub business. People are reluctant to go into the Old Town after dark, which is just plain ridiculous, in my opinion. You’re as safe there as in your own sitting room. I know you won’t have any such hesitation, Mr. Shayne,” she said, glancing at his rangy, powerfully built frame.

“I came down for a rest,” Shayne said, “but I suppose I can always rest in the daytime. I hear you’ve got some night-spots that are well worth seeing.”

“Oh, we do!” she assured him. She touched her back hair. “Not that I frequent them myself. My dancing days are long since over. But if I took it into my head to go dancing, I’d go, murder or no murder.”

“And if your cops are anything like ours,” Shayne said, his face under control, “they’re probably thick as flies in that neighborhood, so how could anything happen?”

“My point exactly!” Miss Trivers exclaimed. “I was saying precisely the same thing to some friends this afternoon. We don’t have an elaborate police establishment, never having had much call for one, but they’ve all been taken off traffic duty and put to work patrolling the native quarter. The old story of locking the barn after the pony has been stolen. But I’m standing here gabbling, and you must be dying for a wash and a change.”

“No, I’m interested,” Shayne said. “This must have given people plenty to talk about.”

“They can’t talk about anything else! It’s so unusual, you see. I think we must be one of the most peaceful spots on the face of the entire globe. Oh, I don’t say there isn’t a spot of trouble sometimes on Saturday nights, when our young people take on a bit too much rum and get to dancing those rather uninhibited native dances. But that’s a matter of sheer animal spirits, and I, for one, am all against bottling them up so they explode in other ways. Those who are complaining the most now never stop to think that the island would be a pretty tame place without our black people. I’ve heard some pretty drastic proposals in the past week, including a nine o’clock curfew, if you please. Well, do tourists come down here solely to enjoy our sun and our scenery? I beg leave to doubt it! They would leave us in droves.”

“You think he was killed by the natives?”

“There’s not much doubt about that, I’m afraid. But here is the question, if you really are interested—”

Shayne assured her that he was, and she went on, “Some of the Britishers are saying that we must look on this senseless murder as the first outbreak of nationalist feeling, because why on earth would any native in his senses murder poor Albert Watts except inasmuch as he was a symbol of the ruling race? And if you knew Albert, incidentally, you’d realize that they picked themselves a pretty poor symbol.”

“You knew him?”

“Yes indeed. The Wattses live almost across the way, and we British tend to be somewhat clannish on foreign soil, I’m afraid. Daphne Watts, with all her faults, is a great friend of mine. Well, there’s talk in certain quarters that we ought to organize a citizens’ militia, and strap pistols around our waists, a la Kenya, when the Mau-Maus were on the rampage, otherwise we’ll all have our throats cut while we sleep. I say nonsense. Let’s keep our heads. Leave the matter to the police, and first and foremost, the native police. I’ve been on this earth long enough to know that the truth about people will sometimes surprise you. It’s true that Albert Watts seemed the most ordinary man alive, but I say that somebody, I don’t know who and I don’t know why, had a good reason for wanting him dead.”

“I see you’ve given it considerable thought,” Shayne said.

“Indeed I have. Unless you develop a personal theory about this murder, you might as well withdraw entirely from social intercourse. I’m a great reader of mystery stories, actually. It’s more or less my vice. If you run out of reading matter while you’re here, I have quite an extensive collection at the Lodge. Of course my taste inclines to the Agatha Christie school, and I know you Americans are likely to want a little more raw meat in your diet.”

Shayne grinned down at her, which flustered her a little.

“Well, don’t you?” she said. “Did I say something wrong?” She looked at her wristwatch. “Good grief, as late as that? I have a thousand things to do before dinner. Now if you want for anything, don’t hesitate to ask. We want to make your stay comfortable.”

Shayne saw her to the door, then set about making his stay as comfortable as he could by himself. He threw his coat at one chair, his tie at another. He took off his shoes and socks, and sent them in four different directions. By this time the room had begun to look as though someone was living in it. Padding into the bedroom, he opened his suitcase and looked dubiously at the colorful sportswear which Lucy Hamilton had considered suitable for a tropical vacation. Most men Shayne had seen so far on the island had been wearing shorts, but he decided to put that off as long as possible. He pulled out the bottle of cognac he had bought at the airport (the low price in dollars had been a pleasant surprise), and took it to the kitchenette. He slid an ice-tray out of the little refrigerator unit, found two glasses and filled one with ice water.

He took the bottle and the glasses to the terrace on the ocean side of the cottage, picking up the Island Times on the way. He sank into one of the long outdoor chairs and poured himself a drink. He tasted the cognac, sipped at the ice water and looked out at the palms, the white sand and the sparkling blue water. A sailboat tacked across the entrance to the bay. A half dozen fishing boats were coming in. An American family, two grown-ups and two children, had a little encampment at the end of the beach belonging to the cottage colony. The children were digging madly. There was activity beyond, in the sand in front of a resort hotel. Brilliant flowers grew amid the palms.

The chair was comfortable, and Shayne felt himself beginning to relax. He sat up straight with an effort, drank some cognac and reached for the Island Times.

For a moment his eye lingered on the fishing ads. These were illustrated with eloquent photographs of unimpressive-looking fishermen holding up some really impressive fish. Because of the state of his ribs, the game-fish had nothing to fear from Shayne on this trip, but he promised himself that he would get in some light-line bone-fishing if it killed him. He would have a full day before the Wanted fliers arrived.

He reluctantly turned back to the first page, to the account of the murder. In an instant he was completely absorbed.

Fifteen minutes later he laid the paper aside and poured himself more cognac. He sampled it thoughtfully, his red brows close together. He looked in the paper again to check an address. Then he took another look around at the pleasant scene, tossed off his drink and swung his feet down from the long chair. It cost him a considerable effort. Turning his back on the beach, he went into the cottage and gathered up his shoes and socks. He put them on. He changed into the least colorful of the sports shirts; perhaps, he thought, it was just barely flamboyant enough so he wouldn’t be conspicuous.

He walked out past the Lodge to Bayview Road. He was looking for 1306½, and after the second house he saw that he had started in the wrong direction. He strolled on a little farther, looked idly at the view, turned and came back. Passing the Lodge again, he walked past a succession of small suburban villas set in neat gardens. Soon he came to a sign on a picket fence that said: “Journey’s End,” and beneath that, A. Watts.”

A. Watts had indeed reached his journey’s end on St. Albans, Shayne reflected. He opened the gate, and was immediately attacked by a small, furious dog, which circled him, yapping wildly and making quick darts at his ankles, until a very fat woman appeared on the front porch and called sternly, “Georgette! Mind your manners!”

She must have weighed two hundred and fifty pounds, which she balanced on small feet in very high heels. Her features seemed almost dainty amid the rolls of fat. Her hair was up in metal curlers.

Shayne advanced up the flagstone path between neatly arranged flower beds. He raised his voice to be heard above the dog’s yapping. “Mrs. Watts? My name is Shayne. I’m—”

She looked at him petulantly out of her blue dolls’ eyes. “I can’t hear you.”

“I’d like to talk to you privately, if you don’t mind.”

“Georgette!” she said with pretended fierceness, putting her hands on her hips. “Will you hush? Get inside and be quiet.”

She shooed the dog into the house. “Now start all over,” she said to Shayne. “I didn’t hear one word you said. People have been trooping in and out all week, and that animal is a bundle of nerves. The doctor says she’ll calm down with the passing of time.”

The redhead began again. “My name is Michael Shayne. I’m from the International Police Association, and I’ve been sent down to look into your husband’s death. There are some rather odd angles, it seems to us, and frankly we aren’t at all satisfied with the way the local police are conducting the investigation.”

“Nor am I,” she snapped. “It’s obvious that—” A man passed on a bicycle, and she lowered her voice. “Come inside, Mr. Shayne. This neighborhood is full of snoops.”

She waddled into the house. The dog followed silently.

“I’m glad to see you’ve decided to behave, Georgette,” Mrs. Watts said. “That’s my darling. I was just taking a solitary cup of tea, Mr. Shayne. I hope you’ll join me?”

“I’ve already had tea, thanks,” Shayne lied.

“One more cup of good tea never hurt anybody.”

The furniture in the little living room was covered with flowered chintz, and little knickknacks of china and shell stood on every available inch of surface. Shayne moved carefully, to avoid knocking anything over. Mrs. Watts went to a shelf for another cup. The tea things were spread out on a low table in front of the sofa, the pot hidden beneath a quilted tea-cozy.

Mrs. Watts lowered herself to the sofa. This seemed to be her usual resting-place, for that end of the sofa was badly sprung. Shayne pulled up a straight chair. He refused sugar and cream, and watched his hostess take both.

“Is that the way you like it?” she inquired. “A little more water?”

Shayne took a sip, managing not to make a face. “This is just right. Mrs. Watts—”

“Try one of my little cakes,” she urged him. “I know I ought to be watching my calories, but now that Albert is gone, I’ve decided to stop torturing myself. Because what’s the use? I was sitting here feeling perfectly miserable, and all of a sudden I said to myself, ‘Daphne, old girl, fling caution to the winds. Pull up your socks and get out the cookbook.’ I feel almost sinful, and I find that a most stimulating sensation.”

She giggled and popped a small cake into her mouth. Her face worked for a moment, like a quicksand bog swallowing an unwary mouse. A drop of chocolate appeared at the corner of her mouth. Her tongue darted out and got it.

Holding the tiny cup and saucer in his large hand, Shayne patiently started over. “In the first place, Mrs. Watts, sooner or later the local police will have to know I’m here, but the longer I can work independently, the better. Don’t tell anybody you’ve talked to me.”

“You can count on my absolute discretion,” she said. Leaning forward, she added confidentially, “It’s my belief that they’re covering up for somebody.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if that turned out to be true,” Shayne said gravely. “I don’t want to ask for their files until I have to, so I’ll probably take you over ground you’ve already covered with them. I know this must be very hard for you, Mrs. Watts.”

The eagerness faded out of her face, and she became melancholy. She sighed.

Shayne went on, “So far I don’t know anything except what’s been printed in the paper. Your husband called up from work and told you not to expect him for dinner. He locked the office promptly at six, as usual, and walked off down High Street toward the bay, with his raincoat over his arm, also as usual. At that point he disappeared. The cops haven’t turned up anyone who laid eyes on him between two or three minutes after six and midnight, when a native watchman found him lying dead in a doorway. He had been stabbed three times. His wallet was missing and his pockets were turned inside out. From the trail of blood on the sidewalk, he had fallen several times before he collapsed for good in the doorway. His clothes were badly disheveled. He had been drinking heavily.”

“Poppycock!” Mrs. Watts said sharply. “They falsified those blood tests, for obscure reasons of their own, or perhaps not so obscure, after all. Albert was a militant abstainer. He hadn’t touched a drop in twenty years.”

“He never went to bars or nightclubs?”

“Certainly not, Mr. Shayne. He would sooner have patronized—” She blushed. “Well, I almost said a house of ill repute, but if you had known Albert—” She finished with one of her nervous giggles.

She glanced at the small upright piano. There was a photograph on it, obviously of the dead man. He had worn a bristling cavalryman’s mustache, which had been in striking contrast to the rest of his face. His hair and chin had both receded. Even in the photograph his eyes seemed to be watering. There were worried brackets at the corners of his mouth. He had tried to fix the camera with a soldierly stare, but it had been a failure.

Shayne asked, “Was your husband in the war?”

“No, he suffered from a kidney difficulty which kept him a civilian. He was reticent about his feelings, but I believe he felt it keenly. He was painfully shy and introverted, and it might have done him a world of good to rub elbows with men from other walks of life.”

Shayne lifted his cup as though about to drink, then set it back on the saucer. He observed, “Shy people don’t usually work for travel agencies.”

“Oh, he didn’t have the kind of position where he was called upon to mingle with the public. He used to refer to himself—he had a dry sense of humor at times—as a high class baggage clerk. He kept accounts, planned itineraries, placed reservations, and of course he did have a lot to do with baggage. You probably know that American tourists who stay more than a few days are entitled to take back five hundred dollars worth of goods duty-free. You’d be surprised how many people buy things they can’t possibly use, merely because they’re so much cheaper here. Albert didn’t care for tourists, especially ladies. He used to tell some horrendous tales.”

Looking away so she wouldn’t see what her hand was doing, she picked another little cake out of the basket. It was very hot in the room. Shayne could feel himself perspiring.

“What kind of tales, Mrs. Watts?” he said with an effort.

“Oh, you know what they’re like,” she said, chewing. “Brassy, immodest in their dress and language, screeching to each other about the sensational bargains. Albert could take them off quite aptly. The thing he chiefly couldn’t abide was their frightful sentimentality toward the natives. Charming and unsophisticated, so fresh, so childlike.” She snorted. “If they knew these savages the way we do!”

“That’s one of the things we wondered about,” Shayne said. “Did he have any reason to be in the native quarter the night he was killed? Did he have any native friends, or spend any time there as a rule?”

“I should say not! Quite the opposite. The place is filthy, unsanitary, a perfect sink. Albert was fastidious. He wouldn’t have been caught dead in that part of town.” She exclaimed, “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. Because he was caught dead there, wasn’t he? And that’s the whole point, you see. Reading the account in the newspaper—and I’ve seriously considered suing them for slander—what would one conclude? That here was another respectable and henpecked husband who had kicked over the traces and gone off to some low colored dive to make a night of it. He had more rum than was good for him, blundered among thieves and was just foolish enough and intoxicated enough to put up a fight. All very plausible. But untrue.”

“Let’s go back to the phone call, Mrs. Watts. Exactly what did he say?”

“Well that,” she said, considering, “was a bit queer, one must admit. I won’t bore you with the ins and outs of island politics, which I don’t understand clearly myself, as a matter of fact. In brief, Albert had recently joined a committee to protect the traditional interest in the face of increasing native agitation. He phoned to say that this committee was having an extraordinary session to discuss a confidential matter. He would have a bite of something at a restaurant in town. Very well. So far so good. I had no reason to doubt that there would actually be such a meeting. But he kept on with it, and told me just where the committee would be meeting, who would be there, and this and that—all made up out of whole cloth, because about the one thing our brilliant police have established so far is that no meeting had been scheduled, or even discussed. By the end I said to myself, ‘Methinks the lady doth protest too much,’ quoting the Bard, you know. He promised to bring home a magazine I had asked for, and those were the last words I heard from Albert in the flesh.”

She touched a little napkin to her eyes, although Shayne hadn’t noticed any tears.

“Was there any change in him in the last few months?” Shayne asked.

She put her finger to her chin. “Nothing too extraordinary, Mr. Shayne. There were little things. He was wakeful—Albert, who during the whole previous course of our married life had always slept like a log. Sometimes he would go out for what he called brooding walks. He would stride along the sand for hours, and come home drained and exhausted. And he became increasingly irritable. He was always a phlegmatic person, but one night a few weeks ago he took a rolled-up copy of Punch and struck Georgette a violent blow across the face. All she was doing, poor innocent, was scratching to go out.”

Shayne kept his face serious. “Did he ever mention the possibility of coming into a sum of money?”

She shook her head, her fingers moving toward the cake basket. “Money. I think not. One thing—he had always admired the way I managed the household funds, but recently he did tell me that I didn’t need to make do with the cheaper cuts. He specifically told me to get top-round from then on, and leave the spareribs to the natives.”

It was becoming hotter in the room by the minute. Shayne barely managed to resist an impulse to put down his cup and escape into fresh air.

“A couple of other questions, Mrs. Watts. Did he do much traveling?”

“No, I thought I’d explained that. He had to go to Miami recently for some kind of training course, but that’s the only time he stirred off this island in years.”

“Did he ever have any dealings with a man named Luis Alvarez?” She shook her head, and he tried another name: “Paul Slater?”

He was watching her closely. She started. “Surely you don’t think that nice good-looking Paul Slater could have any connection with—”

“Just a shot in the dark,” Shayne said. “He and your husband knew each other?”

“Superficially. We saw the Slaters sometimes at the Yacht Haven dances, or at fireworks displays, that kind of semi-public occasion. Mr. Slater was once kind enough to fetch me an ice at a dance. A most agreeable young man, for an American. I don’t mean to imply,” she said hastily, “but the Americans one sees on St. Albans—”

“You aren’t hurting my feelings,” Shayne said.

He put down his cup on the lee of the teapot, so she couldn’t see how little he had drunk.

“More tea, Mr. Shayne?”

“No, thanks,” he said, standing up. “You’ve been very helpful, Mrs. Watts, and I’ll let you know if I find out anything.”

“Do have one of my little cakes, at least,” she said. “Dear me, they seem to be all gone. Mr. Shayne, you’re so abstemious you quite put me to shame.”

She struggled forward, but soon gave up the attempt to rise. “I’m going to be most discourteous and let you find your own way out. I feel a little faint. I don’t think of myself as a demonstrative person, but when I speak of Albert, the tears have a way of coming.”

She touched her eyes again. The cross little dog let Shayne leave without barking at him. It seemed to the American that the eyes of Albert Watts’ portrait followed him as he made his way to the door.

Outside, he mopped his forehead and let out his breath in a long, soundless whistle.

4

Michael Shayne spent the next day like any other tourist. He left a call with Miss Trivers to be awakened early. After breakfast, he phoned for a cab. One of Miss Trivers’ other guests came up to him as he was waiting on the Lodge steps.

This was a tall, sad-faced Englishman named Cecil Powys. He wore a battered tweed jacket with leather patches on the elbows. Heavy-rimmed glasses gave him a somewhat owlish look. “I say,” he said hesitantly, taking his pipe out of his mouth, “Miss Trivers tells me you plan to go bone-fishing on the flats. Would you mind frightfully if I come along?”

“Glad to have you,” Shayne said.

“The price of a charter’s too steep for me to manage single-handed,” the Englishman said. “Divided in two, it becomes possible. Divided in three or four would be even better. I’ll get my impedimenta. Back in a sec.”

“They provide the tackle,” Shayne said.

“I’m not going out to fish. My forte is spear-fishing, actually. Underwater, you know? I’ll explain.”

He was back in a moment with what looked to Shayne like a battery-powered tape recorder.

“The whole thing’s a trifle ridiculous, when you come right down to it,” he said. “I’m reading for a doctor’s degree at Oxford in anthropology. Beastly subject, really. I’m writing my dissertation on Folk Beliefs of the Caribbean. It’s not going too well.” He put the pipe in his mouth and struck a match. “I thought I’d drift around the islands and let the natives tell me stories. But I’m having the devil’s own time getting them to talk. I’m after fishing material at the moment, but it’s like pulling teeth. Perhaps they’ll open up more when we’re out on the water.”

The taxi arrived. It proved to be a little British Hillman. Powys slid in with the ease of long experience. Shayne jack-knifed his long legs awkwardly into the back seat and told the driver to take them to the charter-boat dock at the Yacht Haven.

They divided the charter with two other Americans, a man and wife from Chicago. The native captain quickly showed that he knew his business. He took his boat to the far side of an offshore island, cut his motor and let the current move them quietly forward. He tested the wind, peered into the water, and finally said, “Here is good place.”

Shayne had his first strike within a minute after his bait hit the water. By the end of the afternoon, when they swung around and headed back toward the Yacht Haven, he had a string of eight handsome bonefish, the largest weighing over ten pounds. The Chicago couple had done nearly as well. Powys had spent the day chatting with the captain and his barefooted deck hand, sometimes switching on the recorder to get a story or anecdote in the island dialect. Shayne persuaded him to take a rod just before they turned back, and he caught the biggest fish of the day.

There was a photographer on the dock with a sixty-second Polaroid Land camera. Shayne borrowed the Englishman’s fish and posed for a picture. The photographer made a series of passes over his camera, and took out a large watch with a sweep second-hand. Ten seconds or so passed, and a native policeman strolled out on the dock, dressed in a brilliant blue and red uniform, white helmet and white gloves.

Then Shayne remembered. Half an hour earlier he had heard a big commercial plane pass over. It must have been the Miami plane, bringing the Wanted flier with his picture on it. The fliers probably wouldn’t be posted this soon, but nevertheless Shayne pulled his beat-up fishing cap forward over his eyes and was busy tightening his shoelaces as the cop went past. The Chicagoans converged on the splendid uniform and begged the cop to pose between them. Pulling down his tunic self-consciously, he agreed, and they formed up on either side and waited for the photographer. Shayne straightened, his back to the cop, and started for the end of the dock.

“Your picture, sah!” the photographer called. “Five seconds more.”

“That’s right,” Shayne muttered.

He had to turn, but the Americans had maneuvered the cop around so the boat would be in the background. The photographer gave Shayne the picture and a stamped envelope to put it in. Shayne glanced at it; it showed a tall, broad-shouldered American, his eyes shaded by the long peak of his cap, holding up a handsome twelve-pound bonefish and grinning broadly with pleasure. He was slightly sunburned, the picture of health, and clearly didn’t have a care in the world. This had been perfectly true sixty seconds ago, before Shayne had remembered the other picture of himself, which Jack Malloy had dug out of a newspaper morgue.

He hastily scrawled Lucy’s address on the envelope and dropped it in a mail box across from the cab and carriage stand.

When he presented the string of fish to Miss Trivers for the Lodge kitchen, some of his pleasure returned. The fact was, after a day on the water he felt better than he had in months. He showered, put on clean clothes and had a peaceful drink on the terrace. Shayne had the strong feeling that this would be his last peaceful moment for some time, and he made the most of it.

Miss Trivers’ native chef stuffed the bonefish and served it in a fiery sauce. After dinner Shayne took a pot of coffee back to his own terrace and drank coffee royals while the sun went down in a wild blaze of color. He waited till the first star was out before he called a carriage.

He was wearing a white Palm Beach jacket. He put all his paper money, a few hundred pounds, in a clip in his side pocket and left his wallet, with his private detective’s license, locked inside his suitcase. When he heard a horse’s hoofs on the gravel he went out. On the way down the path, he picked a brilliant crimson flower for his buttonhole. That was all he could do by way of disguise.

Getting into the decrepit carriage, he told the driver to take him to town. The driver clucked to his horse, and it clopped off at a leisurely pace. Shayne settled back, an unlighted cigarette in his mouth, and reviewed the situation.

He had talked with detectives and undercover government agents who as part of their jobs had allowed themselves to be recruited by criminal gangs. Shayne had played a similar part once or twice himself, and he was always surprised at how easy it was to get the confidence of a criminal, who logically ought to be more suspicious than an ordinary law-abiding citizen. All that was usually necessary was to drink in the right bars and look touchy and unsociable. But this took time, and time was something Shayne didn’t have. The Wanted circular had been an off-the-cuff idea, produced under pressure while the pilot of the Miami-St. Albans plane was straining to take off. There were many things wrong with it; it could easily backfire. On the other hand, it could just as easily work. If the police were looking for him, Luis Alvarez, proprietor of the nightclub known as The Pirate’s Rendezvous, would have no reason to think that he was anything else than the circulars said he was—a criminal wanted by the American police.

Shayne leaned forward. “I thought I might take in a nightclub. Someplace with a good band and a floorshow.”

The driver listed three or four before he came to The Pirate’s Rendezvous.

“Somebody was telling me about that last one,” Shayne said. “It sounds o.k.”

The driver grunted. Fifteen minutes later he pulled his horse to a stop in front of a huge sign that showed a peg-legged pirate with a patch over one eye and a parrot on his shoulder. A goombay orchestra was playing inside. The sign was brightly lighted, and there were other similar signs further along the block, but the narrow, cobbled street was empty. Two native policemen were stationed at the corner.

“Looks kind of dead,” Shayne said.

“Big crowd later,” the driver assured him. “If you don’t like, take you to Dirty Ed’s—very colorful, very pretty girls.”

He gestured with his whip toward one of the other nightclubs. At that moment the two policemen started to saunter toward them, and the redhead said hastily, “No, I’ll try this one.”

He crossed the wide walk while the cops were still half a block away. Inside, a head waiter greeted him cordially, and asked if he wanted a table. Shayne shook his head, turning toward the bar. The bartender was wearing a pirate costume, and there was a lurid mural with a pirate motif above the mirror on the back-bar; but with these exceptions the place resembled a hundred others Shayne had been in around the Caribbean. There were even some like it in Miami. In the dining room beyond, a few of the tables were occupied and one couple was dancing valiantly on the handkerchief-sized dance floor. The little orchestra played mechanically.

“Is that all the cognac you’ve got?” he asked the pirate, nodding at an inferior brand against the back-bar.

“Not much call for cognac,” the bartender said. He was squat and solidly built, with a powerful chest and shoulders. He had a long, drooping mustache, a several-day-old beard, a bandanna knotted around his head and a gold hoop in one ear. He spoke English with a New York accent. He went on, “But the boss may have a bottle down cellar. Do you want me to—”

“No, the hell with it,” Shayne said. “Give me a triple rum. Ice water chaser.”

When the bartender set the two glasses in front of him Shayne said, “You’re not doing much business.”

“Still early,” the bartender told him. “We had a little trouble in the neighborhood, and not many walk in off the street. But we’re still getting the guided parties from the hotels and the cruises.”

“I think I know what you mean,” Shayne said. “A gay, uninhibited tour of the exotic native night spots. Price includes two drinks.”

“Also includes tips,” the bartender said sourly.

Shayne grinned. “Doesn’t that get-up make you feel a little silly?”

The bartender gave Shayne a hard look and put both hands palm down on the bar, one on either side of Shayne’s drink. “What do you think you’re trying to be, Jack? Funny?”

“Hell, no,” Shayne said. “Just wondering. Let me buy you a drink.”

After a moment the man relaxed. “I’m getting hard to get along with. Either I put a rag on my head or I don’t work here. The rest of it I don’t mind, except this goddamn earring. Toward the end of an evening I have to take plenty of cracks.”

“Anyway,” Shayne said, “they didn’t make you cut off one leg.”

The bartender wasn’t amused. He poured himself a double jigger of rum, saluted Shayne with it, and knocked it back.

Shayne ordered another drink. A party of American vacationers came in, and things began to pick up. The orchestra played another number, with better spirit, enticing two couples out on the floor. Then the drummer, a strapping native in a straw hat and a red shirt, beat out an intricate rhythm, and a dancer ran out from behind the orchestra, wearing a ruffled dress split to the waist, with a brief ruffled top.

When the performance was over, Shayne found that a girl had slid onto the next stool but one. She was dark and slender, with short tumbled hair, and was wearing a revealing white evening gown. She lit a long cigarette.

“I will have a glass of light rum, Al,” she said to the bartender, in an accent Shayne couldn’t place.

“Why not have it with me?” he suggested.

She breathed out a mouthful of smoke, and only then looked at Shayne coolly. “That is nice of you, but I am afraid I must say no.”

“I won’t bite you,” Shayne said. “What’s that nice pronunciation? Are you French?”

He took out his money-clip, squinting to keep the smoke out of his eyes, and when both the girl and the bartender had seen how much money he was carrying, he flipped a pound note onto the bar. Al picked it up and looked at her. She moved her shoulders in a slight shrug.

“Very well, if you wish. Yes, I am French. An unhappy Parisienne, at present far from the boulevards. You are American, Mr.—?”

“Michael Shayne. Sure. What brings you to St. Albans?”

“Ah, that is a long story. Not a very interesting one, I am afraid. I am an artist, you see. No,” she said, as Shayne looked at her questioningly, “not an artist with paint and brush. A dancer. I started off with a group to perform in the South American capitals and later, perhaps, if all went well, in your own country. A supper room in the exciting hotels in New York? Hollywood? Television? Such are the dreams of foolish people. Thank you, Al.”

She took the glass of rum and lifted it, without drinking. “And of course, being entertainers from the sinful city of Paris, we are expected to perform—” she made a brief gesture—“in costumes too small to be seen by the naked eye. Very well. One is realistic. Then the pig of a manager took it into his head to vanish with the leading dancer, and what is worse, the money we are owed for three weeks. Engagements cancelled. Voila—we are marooned on this island. The owner here wishes some different entertainment than the other places, so I have a job. For how long I do not know.”

She smiled. “You are not listening. I know, it is a tragedy only to me.”

“Sure I’m listening,” Shayne said. “Let’s take our drinks to a table. Hit me again, Al.”

He moved his glass toward the bartender, who filled it. Shayne picked up the three glasses, including the girl’s. She hesitated, then repeated her slight shrug and followed him to a corner table in the other room. As she sat down she said, “But there is one thing I should make clear.”

“I’m ahead of you,” Shayne said, interrupting. “Just because a girl comes from Paris and works in nightclubs, I don’t think that necessarily makes her a tramp. Was that what you were worrying about?”

She smiled. “A little. But you have not seen me work. Ninety-nine men out of a hundred—”

“Maybe I’m the hundredth,” Shayne said. “Relax.”

“You seem to be quite a—nice person, Mr. Michael Shayne.” She looked at him over her glass. “You make me feel a little better, I think. I have been sad and discouraged.”

Shayne waited a moment. “Don’t throw me any bouquets. Any other time I’d be one of those ninety-nine other guys. In fact, in that dress you almost make me forget that I’ve got my own troubles.”

“Troubles,” she said, smiling. “What kind of troubles can you have?”

“Never mind, I wouldn’t want to spoil your evening,” Shayne said. He reached for a cigarette and said casually, “But I’m as anxious to get off this island as you are.”

“Impossible.” Then she looked at him intently. “Do you happen to be serious?”

Shayne struck a match. “Is there a guy around here they call the Camel?”

Another group of Americans had arrived, noisier than the first. They were being taken to tables. Four couples were dancing, filling the little dance floor almost to capacity. A door had opened beyond the orchestra’s raised platform, and a man had come out. He was of middle height, balding, with pouches beneath his eyes. He wore a dark double-breasted suit, and as Shayne mentioned his nickname he half-turned, and Shayne saw the small hump on his back. Having made the identification, he was willing to let it drop, but the girl said softly, “Yes, Alvarez. The owner. He has a boat. But such a service, you know, is expensive.”

Shayne grinned. “You don’t mean he’d take advantage of somebody in a jam?”

She repeated her elegant little shrug. “But naturally, who would not? Still, there is this. I know only what is said about him, but it is said that when he gives a promise he will keep it, within reason. Shall I tell him your problem?”

“No, I’d better introduce myself,” Shayne said.

He signalled a passing waiter.

“None more for me,” the girl said. “But I have a sudden idea. I would like to dance with you.”

“Another triple and more ice water,” Shayne told the waiter, and said to the girl: “I can’t dance to this music.”

“Certainly you can,” she said. “It is very simple, I will show you.”

Springing to her feet, her eyes alight, she seized his hand.

5

After several extremely embarrassing minutes, he began to get the hang of it. When the music stopped, the girl waved at the orchestra leader and it started again. The musicians grinned broadly. The other dancers had backed off to make room.

“You see how easy?” she said. “Again. One—two—”

She was beginning to introduce variations. He kept on moving his feet in the same basic pattern while she circled provocatively before him, smiling demurely as though she didn’t suspect what her body was doing. It was typical of Michael Shayne that while he was watching the girl, concentrating hard on keeping to the beat the drummer was giving him, he was fully aware of everything else that was going on in the room. Luis Alvarez, carrying the little hump that had given him his nickname, had gone into the bar. More customers arrived, first a large group, then a couple, then a single man. Shayne saw with surprise that it was the Englishman from the Lodge, Cecil Powys, with his tape recorder. The head waiter gave him a table near the orchestra.

When the music stopped there was a spattering of good natured applause.

“You see?” the girl said triumphantly.

Her breathing was normal, though the redhead was badly winded. Powys caught his eye and waved as he came off the dance floor. Shayne waved back and continued to his own table. The girl picked up her bag.

“Presently I give my performance. You will watch me, no? And here is an idea. Only an idea!” she said, holding up one hand. “If you get the Camel’s boat, perhaps you would like a passenger?”

She came even closer to him, so she was touching him lightly at several points. “Think about it, eh?” She turned and walked quickly away.

Shayne waited, watching her thoughtfully, till she disappeared backstage. He drank his rum in one long pull without sitting down.

“Telephone?” he asked a nearby waiter.

“Yes, sah,” the man said. “Down the stairs, if you please. By the lavatory.”

Shayne glanced in at the bar. Alvarez was listening to another man who seemed to be selling him something. The detective went past and descended a badly-lighted flight of stairs. At the bottom, across from the door to the men’s room, there was a pay phone in a little niche. He looked up a number in the thin directory, sorted through his change until he found a coin that would fit one of the slots, and dropped it in. An operator answered and he gave the number.

Soon a man’s voice said gruffly, “Sergeant Brannon here.”

Someone came out of the men’s room behind him and started up the stairs. Shayne said, “Wait a minute.”

He leafed through the directory, waiting to be alone. A voice was coming out of the earphone irritably, “Are you there? Are you there?”

“Sure I’m here,” Shayne growled when the other customer had gone up the stairs. “Keep your pants on. I’ve got some information for you, and you can have it for nothing because I want to see this guy clobbered, but good. Are you listening?”

The voice said, “Who is this, please?”

“Never mind, never mind,” Shayne said. “I’m not out for publicity. If you’ve got something better to do, I don’t want to keep you.”

“Go ahead.”

“And don’t bother to have the call traced. I’m at a ginmill called the Pirate’s Roost, or something like that. The bar-man has a ring in one ear. You know the place I mean?”

“Yes. The Pirate’s Rendezvous.”

“I just saw this crumb Shayne in the bar here. If you send somebody right over you can put the bracelets on him.”

There was an instant’s pause, and the voice said more alertly, “What was that name?”

“Shayne. Mike Shayne. He’s hot right now. I hear the Florida cops want to talk to him. Don’t send one man, send two. No, on second thoughts, make it four.”

The voice started to say something, but Shayne hung up. He went back upstairs. At the top, he lit a cigarette and looked around.

The lights were down. Two male dancers were leaping around the little dance floor in the glare of two converging spotlights. The singer who had performed earlier was sitting at Powys’ table, and the Englishman’s recorder was open. Shayne drifted silently toward the entrance to the bar. Alvarez was still there, and Shayne saw that the bartender had just served him a fresh drink. The redhead circled the room, pausing at the door to the owner’s office, marked “No Admittance.” The dance became more frenzied and unrestrained. So far as Shayne could tell, no one was looking in his direction. He felt behind him for the doorknob, found it, opened the door and stepped through.

He shut the door quickly. A lamp was burning on the desk. The only pieces of furniture in the room besides the desk were several straight chairs, a couch and a large combination safe. The walls, like the walls in nightclub offices all over the world, were covered with framed pictures of obscure entertainers, most of them autographed.

Shayne reached the window in four long strides and pulled the slats of the Venetian blinds. He tried the safe. It was locked. He tugged at his earlobe, looking around, then sat down in Alvarez’ chair and began going through the desk.

He searched quickly and professionally, overlooking nothing, putting everything back in place when he was done with it. In the middle drawer he found an American .45 automatic. He unloaded it, dropping the clip into his side pocket, and then laid the automatic on the desk-top with its muzzle pointing at the drawer. In the bottom drawer he came to a bottle of rum and a glass. He took them out, looked suspiciously at the glass and took a drink from the bottle. It was better rum than Alvarez served the public over his bar.

Finding nothing else of interest, he sat back, lifted his feet to the desk, and waited.

But something remained at the edge of his consciousness. He tried to think—had he seen something in the desk which shouldn’t have been there? He brought his feet down and started through the drawers again.

He found it almost at once: a simple listing of radio programs, torn from a newspaper. Shayne looked at the opposite side and saw an ad for a St. Albans hotel. The listings were given for a half dozen stations in the area, from Havana to Kingston. On that day’s date, a light pencil line had been drawn around 11 p.m. Shayne checked his watch. It was now 10:25.

He closed the drawer thoughtfully and put his feet back on the desk. Taking the cap off the rum, he took another long drink.

Outside, a girl was singing in French, accompanied only by an intricate beat from a hand-drum. This was probably his new friend, Shayne thought. The crowd was quiet; apparently she was wearing the kind of costume, or lack of costume, expected of French entertainers. Her voice was thin and appealing, quavering on the high notes. She was well applauded. As the clapping began to die, the door opened and Alvarez came in, looking at his wrist watch.

He stopped dead as he saw Shayne. His glance jumped from the soles of the redhead’s shoes to the gun beside them, and back at Shayne’s face.

“Come on in,” Shayne told him. He nudged the bottle of rum with one foot. “Have a drink of your own liquor. It’s not bad.”

“Who are you?” Alvarez demanded in a high voice.

“And not only that. What am I doing in your private office without an invitation? Sit down and I’ll tell you about it.” When Alvarez hesitated, Shayne said politely, “Does the gun bother you?”

Leaning forward suddenly, he picked up the .45 and tossed it to the nightclub owner. Caught by surprise, Alvarez dropped it. He snatched it up from the floor and pointed it. The redhead was pleased to see that it wavered slightly.

“But I’ve got the clip,” Shayne said, “so don’t start giving me any orders. Your bar-man may have told you that I’m carrying a modest bankroll. I don’t know how you people operate, but I hear the town is a little warm. So I hope you won’t get any idea about taking it away from me.”

Alvarez checked the gun to see if it was actually empty. He came forward and dropped it on the desk. Then he whipped out a pair of black-rimmed glasses, put them on and stared at Shayne. The redhead grinned at him.

“I want some transportation,” he said. “I didn’t think anybody knew me on St. Albans, but it seems there’s a sheet going around with my picture on it. I want to get back to the States in a hurry. It’s a little cramped here. I’ll go as high as fifteen hundred. Dollars, not pounds.”

Alvarez thrust his glasses back in his pocket. He folded his lips primly, and poured several fingers of rum into the glass Shayne had decided not to use.

“What makes you think—”

“Come on, amigo,” Shayne said impatiently. “What do you want, references?”

Alvarez sloshed the rum around in the bottom of his glass without drinking it. “It is true, I go here and there about the island, I hear of such things being done. People have boats. I have a boat myself. But for fifteen hundred?”

“It’s not like hustling aliens,” Shayne said. “I’m a citizen. Somebody takes me out deep-sea fishing and we get lost. I don’t know what connections you’ve got. Maybe we run into a deep-sea boat out of Miami or Key West, accidentally on purpose. Do I have to draw you a diagram?”

Alvarez looked at his watch again, and his mouth twitched. “I must give this a little thought. Please excuse me for the moment. Watch my excellent international floorshow. Come back in one half hour, and we will discuss it. Of course I will want to know who wants you, and for what. That will have a bearing.”

Shayne stood up with a muffled exclamation. “You’re as jittery as a virgin on her first date. Why I want to go fishing is my own business. Do you want the fifteen hundred or not? If not, say so and I’ll try somebody else. I’ve got a couple of other names.”

Before the Camel could answer the phone rang. He looked at Shayne and picked it up.

“Yes… What? Coming here? Yes, yes. Of course I want to hear it…” His eye rested on Shayne as the voice rasped on at the other end of the line, no doubt reading Shayne’s description from the Wanted flier. When the voice stopped, Alvarez said crisply, “I do not know him, so there is no problem. Call me later.”

He put the phone back as there was a quick double-knock at the door. A waiter put his head in, called something in Spanish and ducked back out. Alvarez gave Shayne an unfriendly look, consulted his watch again and swore under his breath.

“Your name is Shayne, and may you fry in hell. The police are here looking for you. Say twenty-five hundred dollars.”

Shayne hesitated. “O.K. You seem to have me over a barrel.”

“Get up on the desk,” Alvarez told him. “Quickly.”

Shayne looked at the ceiling, a checkerboard of squares of masonite wallboard. Alvarez made an impatient motion, and the redhead did as he’d been told.

“Now reach up,” Alvarez said. “Press. A little more toward me.”

Shayne pushed upward with both hands, his fingers spread. A section made up of four of the masonite squares gave way under the pressure.

“Now through,” Alvarez said, wiping his face with a silk handkerchief. “Hurry.”

Michael Shayne pushed the loose section out of the way, then stooped for the bottle of rum and passed it through. He tested the sides of the opening, and swung himself up, feeling a stab of pain in his chest as he put his weight on his arms. Pulling his legs up, he rolled off to one side. He was in a low air-space, some three feet high at its highest point. He worked the trap-door back into place.

Alvarez said beneath him, “If they come in here, please be careful and do not move. Even the smallest movement can be heard.”

The office door opened and closed. A thin line of light came through the cracks around the trap door, and Shayne saw a shallow wooden box, pushed back against the front wall. He listened carefully. Hearing nothing, he changed position and struck a match. The box was fitted with a hasp and a padlock, and the lock hung open. He hitched himself forward till he could reach it. The match burned his fingers. He shook it out and struck another.

When he satisfied himself that the box was empty, he took a long pull at the rum, screwed the cap back on and settled down to wait.

Five minutes later he heard the door open in the office beneath him. The Camel’s voice said, “But search, by all means. Look in the wastebasket, under the rug. Here is a bottle of ink. Perhaps I am hiding a genii in it.”

There were sounds of movement. A chair scraped. Shayne, above, was being careful to lie very still.

A British voice said, “Very well, he is not here. You were warned. This is becoming monotonous. I have suspected that one of our people is secretly on your payroll. Would such a thing be possible, do you think?”

“A policeman? In the pay of the notorious Luis Alvarez, who owns a nightclub? A shocking suggestion, Sergeant.”

“I agree with you, and one worth investigating.”

“I do not understand any of this,” Alvarez said. “Tell me who you are looking for, and perhaps I can help you.”

“I’m sure you could help me,” the sergeant said sarcastically, “but somehow I don’t think you will. We’re looking for an American named Michael Shayne. I wouldn’t say he’s the type of person you’d forget seeing, however briefly. His red hair, for example, should make an identification easy. Tall. The look of a heavyweight fighter. Amazingly enough, your bartender and your waiters can’t recall if they served such a man or not. Fortunately some of your customers have better memories. They distinctly remember seeing him dancing with one of your entertainers.”

“Yes,” Alvarez said thoughtfully. “I think I do remember him. But if I had any connection with a man being sought by the police, I would not let him do anything as conspicuous as to dance with such a charming girl in such a daring dress.”

“That may be. That may be. Or it’s possible that you didn’t know he was wanted. I’ll give you a word of advice, Alvarez. I’ve got downwind of one or two of your small transactions lately. Business is business, and that kind of business doesn’t concern me much. I’ve passed on what I know to the American authorities, and if you want to take that as a warning, you’re welcome to it.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Alvarez said stiffly.

“I’m talking about smuggling, as you bloody well know. You’ve imported luxury items which you haven’t sold locally, and which I assume you haven’t been giving away. Smuggling doesn’t turn into a crime until the goods pass the American customs, and that’s out of my jurisdiction. But a man has been murdered, and that, Alvarez, is very much within my jurisdiction.”

Alvarez sniffed. In his hiding place Shayne heard the supercilious little sniff clearly. “I hope you don’t think I could do anything so stupid.”

“Not personally. But if Watts was working for you, if he broke a contract and you had him killed, I intend to see that you hang for it, even if somebody else actually used the knife.”

“That Watts was working for me?” The amazement in Alvarez’ voice seemed genuine to Shayne.

The policeman continued, “I don’t think he was stabbed on the street where he was found. I think he was stabbed in a car, and dropped where he was because the murderer knew that no one in that neighborhood would give any cooperation to the police. From that day to this, we’ve done nothing but follow blind leads. I, for one, am tired of it. So I’m taking in a few of your people. With any luck at all I can hold them for twenty-four hours. I don’t know how this Michael Shayne fits into the picture, if he fits into it at all, but perhaps in twenty-four hours I can get them to admit he was here.”

The Camel’s voice was suddenly choked and ugly. “You are making a mistake, Sergeant.”

“That may very well be,” the other responded. “We will find out.”

There was a quick clatter of footsteps. Alvarez said urgently, “I will speak to them. Why should they not admit the American was here? He means nothing to me. One word will clear it up.”

“Tomorrow, Alvarez.”

A little scuffle followed, and the Englishman’s voice came again. He said coldly and quietly, “Take your hands off me.”

Shayne made an interested face in the darkness. He had a cramp in one leg; in another minute or two he would have to move, no matter what stage the argument had reached below. But that ended it. There were more footsteps. The door slammed. Alvarez swore angrily in Spanish and kicked over a chair. He went out, and Shayne at last was able to roll over. He moved his wrist so he could see his watch. It was ten minutes to eleven. If the radio schedule had indicated an eleven o’clock appointment, it was rapidly approaching.

Again the door opened and closed. “Shayne?” the Camel’s voice said. “Come down now.”

Shayne lifted the trap-door and lowered himself. As his feet touched the desk, one leg caved in and he nearly fell.

“You—you—” Alvarez said incoherently. “Why couldn’t you call on the phone and tell me quietly? But no. You had to get out on the dance floor so only a blind man could fail to see you.”

“I didn’t know they had a Wanted sheet out on me already,” Shayne said, massaging his leg. “You ought to put an air mattress up there. What’s the charge, did the guy on the phone say?”

“Armed robbery.”

Shayne chuckled. “Could be worse.”

He reached up into the little attic for the rum, then worked the door back into position. After he got down from the desk, Alvarez wiped off his footprints with his silk handkerchief.

“What I should do,” Alvarez said, “is wash my hands of the whole thing. You make trouble for me, I knew that the first minute I saw you.”

He looked at his watch again, and clapped his hand over his wrist. “I could choke you with these hands! A mess you make of this, you blundering imbecile!”

English was not a flexible enough language to express his feelings, and he fell back on Spanish. He took a few nervous steps, and returned to the desk. He looked searchingly at Shayne, who was unscrewing the cap of the rum bottle.

“Something wrong?” the redhead said innocently.

“Wrong! One works everything out carefully, takes all possibilities into account, and then a large stupid North American lumbers in like a bull in a parlor—”

He broke off abruptly. “Can you drive a car?”

Shayne raised his eyebrows. “Sure.”

“Then I will do you a service and get you off the island. But first you will do a service for me. The two men I could trust, they are now, thanks to you, in jail. You will have to take their place.”

Shayne balanced the bottle lightly in both hands. “Better tell me something about it, amigo. I like to know what I’m doing.”

“It is nothing so complicated, after all. You are to follow me in a car and pick me up when I tell you. Then we go another place, and after that, directly to the dock and you leave St. Albans before you get me into more trouble, God forbid. First the bullets, please.”

He put out his hand. Shayne gave him the clip for the .45 and watched him load the gun.

“You don’t just want a driver,” the redhead said, settling himself on the desk. “Even an American imbecile like me can figure that out.”

The Camel’s mouth was twitching again. “That is true,” he admitted, and continued reluctantly, “I meet a certain person tonight. I am not altogether sure I trust this person. I would not wish an accident to happen. No special exertion on your part is necessary. It will be enough if you are present.” He added more sharply, “And are you in any position to refuse?”

“I’m not refusing,” Shayne said. He fished out a cigarette and a match, and struck the match on his thumbnail. “But when the cops showed up, you bumped the tariff from fifteen hundred to twenty-five. Now let’s be reasonable. Make it an even thousand and I’m with you.”

Alvarez looked at him with distaste. “So. It is a bargain. Although you exaggerate the value of your service, Mr. Shayne. It is merely insurance against an unpleasantness. I am delivering a car. You are to follow me closely. I will leave the car in a garage, and you will take me where I tell you. There I will exchange the keys to the car for a sum of money. That is all.”

Shayne laughed and stood up. “It’s a hell of a complicated way to run a railroad.”

“But it is not your railroad, is it? I begin to think that I will be relieved to see the last of you, Mr. Shayne. Now,” he said with the spinsterish primness that seemed to be habitual with him, “here is what you must do.”

6

Michael Shayne, cigarette dangling from his lips, switched out the light after Alvarez left the office. Going to the window, he adjusted the slats of the blind and raised it all the way. The window was already up as far as it would go. Kneeling and keeping close to the window frame, he looked out cautiously.

He would have only a three-foot drop to a cobblestoned alley. A cat was prowling along it, a big yellow tom. Seeing Shayne, the animal froze and gave him a look of intense suspicion—possibly wondering, Shayne thought wryly, if the American was actually wanted for armed robbery by the Florida police.

He heard an automobile motor. It idled a moment, then stalled. That was the signal. When it took hold again, Shayne swung one of his long legs over the sill. At his first move, the cat whirled about and disappeared. The redhead let himself down to his full length and dropped to the cobblestones as a small British car with Alvarez at the wheel turned the corner. The motor and transmission seemed very loud to Shayne in the narrow alley. As the car braked, the door swung open. Shayne backed in.

Alvarez snapped, “Get down. They may have another man in back.”

“What do you mean, get down?” Shayne growled. “I’m down as far as I can go.”

But by putting his head between his shoulders and twisting sideward, he managed to slide a little farther. Alvarez accelerated rapidly. The tires squealed as he turned the corner.

“Not yet!” he said, as Shayne started to raise his head.

After a few more blocks he gave Shayne permission to get up on the seat. They were leaving the narrow, twisting streets of the Old Town, Shayne saw, heading inland. The Camel’s eyes darted busily back and forth between the road ahead and the rearview mirror. Presently he swung to the right and pulled up beside another of the little cars which, with the exception of bicycles and carriages, were the only means of transport on the island.

He gave Shayne a key. “For the ignition. Do not follow me too closely. When I pull into a garage, stop fifty feet behind, but keep the motor running. I will leave the car and start walking. Come up to me and I will get in.”

“What if a cop sees me? I’d better carry the gun.”

Alvarez mopped his forehead with his silk handkerchief. “The shooting of a policeman—that is all we need. No, if you are seen and they give chase, our arrangements are off. Go where you please from then on. But I do not think that will happen. We have few policemen, and they are busy elsewhere.”

“O.K.,” Shayne said, his voice resigned. “Where’s the starter on these bugs?”

Alvarez showed him. The redhead transferred to the other car. Alvarez waited till he found the necessary pulls and switches, and had the lights on and the motor turning over. When Alvarez pulled away, Shayne put the Hillman in gear and followed, watching for sign-posts and trying to memorize the route in case he had to follow it again. He had to resist an impulse to drift over to the righthand side of the road, where he felt he belonged. They left the settled part of the town. Well out in the country, the tail-lights ahead turned abruptly onto a dirt road. Shayne followed. Coming to a hard-surface road again after a little more than four kilometers, they soon were in a suburb of little detached villas, each with its own brick wall and garden. Since leaving the nightclub, they had met only two cars. Shayne shielded his face, as though dazzled by the headlights.

The red brake lights flashed on the Camel’s car. The directional arrow was blinking for a right turn. This seemed to be the place. When Alvarez came to a full stop, Shayne swung over against the curb. He was on a slight downward slope; he set the emergency and shifted into neutral. There was only an occasional streetlight in this part of town, but Alvarez had left his headlights on full, and Shayne saw him get out of the Hillman and hurry to unlock the door of a one-car garage, set back from the street just far enough so the doors would be flush with the sidewalk when they were open. Alvarez opened first one, then the other, ran back to his car and drove into the garage. He cut the motor and the lights.

Shayne glanced at his watch; it was 11:20.

In the stillness, the panting of the Hillman’s motor seemed very loud. Shayne saw only one or two lighted windows in nearby villas—this was clearly a neighborhood where people went to bed early. He started a cigarette and hunched over the wheel, one hand on the gearshift lever, watching the open doors of the garage.

For a man in a hurry, Alvarez was taking his time. The garage doors remained open. No light or sound of movement came from within. It occurred to Shayne that he hadn’t heard the car door slam. He drew deeply on his cigarette. He let another minute pass. The conviction was growing inside him that something had happened, something not on the schedule.

He turned off his motor. The night was full of small noises; none of them interested Shayne. He took off the emergency and coasted silently down to the garage, leaving his lights on high-beam. He leaned across to the open window on the inner side and called in a low voice, “Alvarez.”

There was no answer. The night noises continued around him.

Getting out of the car, Shayne warily approached the garage. In the side-glow from his headlights, he could see that the front door of the other car gaped open. The hood was up. There was a small window in the back wall of the garage. When he saw that that, too, was open, Shayne knew what he would find even before he stumbled over the body.

Alvarez, in his neat blue business suit, lay face down on the front seat. Shayne flipped away his cigarette and squatted beside him. A monkey wrench, partially wrapped in an oily rag, lay nearby. All the lines on Shayne’s face were deeply etched. When Alvarez drove the car into the garage, someone had been standing in the corner where he would not be seen in the headlights. Alvarez had turned off the lights and started to get out of the car; his assailant had stepped forward and hit him with the monkey wrench from behind.

That much was clear. Straightening, the redhead dusted his fingers lightly and went to the open window. There was a gravel path outside. Again he listened carefully, but heard nothing.

The interior of the luggage space was in deep shadow, but he knew without checking that whatever Alvarez had brought was no longer there. The key was still in the lock. He left it and went back to the Camel’s body.

Stooping, he took Alvarez under the arms and dragged him out from the car so he could close the door. After he had done that, he rolled the unconscious man on his back, supporting him under the shoulders. He was breathing harshly. Shayne felt for a pulse. It was irregular and very fast.

Suddenly Alvarez sat up with a shout, seizing Shayne’s lapels, his eyes staring. He screamed something in Spanish and struck out wildly. His doubled-up fist caught Shayne on the mouth. It was more of a push than a blow, but the American was sitting back on his heels and it knocked him off balance. He fell backward on his hands. Alvarez, released, rolled on one elbow, and when Shayne looked at him again, he saw that the Venezuelan had snatched out his gun.

“Cut it out, for God’s sake,” Shayne growled.

“Where is the—”

Shayne interrupted roughly. “Use your head. You were slugged getting out of the car. I wasn’t anywhere near you. Somebody was waiting when you drove in.”

Alvarez looked at him stupidly, and Shayne said, his voice heavy with anger, “Put it away. If I slugged you, would I still be here?”

Alvarez touched the back of his head, wincing. Then he twisted suddenly and saw the raised hood. “Look in the luggage space. See if—”

“It’s gone,” Shayne said. “The window’s open back there. If you don’t know what happened by now, that crack on the head must have scrambled your brains. You’ve been robbed, and not by me.”

Alvarez thought for a moment. “I must telephone.”

“It also might be a smart move to get the hell out of here,” Shayne said.

Going to the front of the Hillman, he slammed the hood and took out the keys. As he came back, Alvarez made an effort to rise, but slumped back on his elbows.

“If you’re going anywhere, walk,” Shayne said coldly. “Don’t expect me to carry you.”

Alvarez tried again, and succeeded in getting to one knee. Shayne made a disgusted sound, put an arm around his waist and helped him out to the other car. After putting him in, the redhead went around and got behind the wheel.

“You want to make a phone call. That’s o.k. with me. But I hope you remember that you and I still have a deal on the fire. Don’t let it slip your mind.”

“I’m not forgetting,” Alvarez said weakly.

He groaned and his head fell forward in his hands. Shayne started the motor, but hesitated a moment, thinking, before putting the little car in gear. When Alvarez made his phone call, Shayne wanted to be where he could hear it.

He headed downhill in what he hoped was the right direction. When he recognized Bay View Road, he made the turn. Alvarez raised his head.

“Where are you going?”

“I’ve got a cottage out here,” Shayne said, putting the gas pedal on the floor. “Be there in two minutes. You need a shot of something to get the buzzing out of your ears.”

“Have you lost your mind? We will find a policeman waiting for us.”

“I don’t think so,” Shayne said. “It’s too late at night to start checking cottages and transient houses. They wouldn’t expect me to register under my own name. But I’ll look it over first.”

He remembered a little turnaround short of the Lodge, where sightseers could park overlooking the bay. He turned out his lights, pulled off and told Alvarez to wait. He slipped off silently into the darkness. In a minute or two he was back.

“No sign of anybody.”

He drove on to the driveway to the cottages without turning on his lights. Arriving in front of his own cottage a moment later, he shut off the motor, got out and went around to help Alvarez. The Camel had opened the door, and Shayne caught him before he fell. He half-carried the Venezuelan into the cottage, knocked over a chair on the way across the living room. He dumped his burden on the sofa and turned on a lamp.

Alvarez was goggling up at him, gasping. “This pain—do you have an aspirin?”

Shayne laughed. “You need more than an aspirin, amigo. You need a head X-ray and a few weeks in a nursing home.”

Shayne produced glasses and his bottle of cognac. After a quick search through his suitcase he found a tin of aspirin tablets. He gave this to Alvarez, who gulped down four, two at a time, and followed them with a stiff peg of cognac.

He shuddered as the cognac took hold. “That is better. Where is your phone?”

“In the bedroom, if you can make it,” Shayne said.

“I can make it.”

He came erect, and stood swaying for a moment, leaning on the back of a chair.

“Want some help?” Shayne asked, watching him narrowly.

Alvarez shook his head and reached the bedroom doorway in three lurching steps. There he rested again. Gathering his strength, he plunged forward and collapsed on the bed.

Shayne handed him the phone. He waited, breathing hard. After the sixth long breath he rattled for the operator.

Shayne took off his white coat, which was badly soiled where Alvarez had grabbed it, and changed back into the gray tropical worsted he had worn from Miami. Alvarez rattled the phone impatiently.

“What is the matter with this damned operator? Shayne, get me some ice. This pain is so bad I can’t think. And I must think. In a towel, a wash-cloth—anything.”

The redhead went to the little kitchenette. He opened the midget refrigerator and turned on the hot water faucet. Leaving the water running, he quietly returned to the living room so he could hear what his guest was saying. Alvarez was talking very rapidly in Spanish. It was too fast for Shayne. He listened for a moment. When Alvarez didn’t switch back to English, Shayne returned to the kitchenette.

The ice-tray was an ancient model. He had to wait till the water ran hot before it would warm up the tray enough to release the cubes. He wrapped half a dozen in a dish-towel and took them to the bedroom, where Alvarez seized them gratefully and pressed them to his temples.

“Yes, yes,” he said into the phone in English. “But yesterday! Yesterday. I want to know his exact words. Did he say he had not decided if he would do it? Or precisely what?”

Shayne returned to the living room and sat down to his cognac. His eyes were hard.

“And in the end?” Alvarez said. “How did you leave it? You persuaded him?”

He listened for some time.

“All right,” he said. “I understand that. Still you had a feeling that he would go ahead as planned? This is important. I must know exactly.”

There was another long pause. “And then today on the phone?”

There was a longer pause before he spoke again. “No, no. I am not criticizing you. He is not an easy person, and you do very well with him. When do you see him again?”

A moment after that Alvarez exclaimed, “If he comes back! What do you mean if he comes back? He can’t be leaving St. Albans! But when? How?”

He waited for an answer.

“At midnight! Why didn’t you tell me? Blessed Mary, that’s in five minutes. I cannot—Wait. Wait there a minute.”

Shayne’s muscles tightened.

In the bedroom Alvarez said slowly, “Call the airport. Have them get Slater for you. Insist on speaking to him, don’t allow them to put you off. Tell him he must come to you at once. You are hurt. No, no. That is not enough. God, this pain! His wife is not going with him?”

Shayne poured cognac while Alvarez listened to the answer.

“Good, good,” Alvarez said, beginning to sound more sure of himself. “If they have quarreled, she will not be at the airport to see him leave. What do you say, if the wicked Señor Alvarez has the innocent blonde-haired Martha Slater in his clutches, will Paul hasten to rescue her? Do not answer. Perhaps he will merely laugh loudly, but I must try it at least. You told me he feels great guilt about these meetings with you. Now he will feel more guilt because of the quarrel. Yes, I think with luck I can get my hands on Paul Slater, and he will be sorry he hit Luis Alvarez with a wrench… What? I don’t care if you believe it or not. If you had my headache you would know it happened. Ring off.”

Shayne heard him rattling for the operator. There was a sound of pages being flipped rapidly, and Alvarez gave the operator a number. Another moment passed, during which Shayne could hear the faint pulse of a ringing phone.

Then the Camel was saying urgently, “Hello, hello. Police headquarters here. Listen to me carefully. You have a chartered plane scheduled to take off for the U. S. at midnight. I don’t know the company, or the name of the pilot. There is a passenger aboard, an American, Paul Slater. S-l-a-t-e-r. I have to talk to him at once. At once! A life is at stake.”

There was an objection at the other end of the line, but Alvarez raised his voice and rode it down. “This is an emergency! Damn your rules and regulations. He must not be allowed to leave. Do you understand? Good.”

He drummed his fingers against the side of the bed, and called, “Shayne! Any more cognac?”

Shayne got up to show him the empty bottle. “Do you want some of mine?”

“No, no.” And into the phone: “He’s coming? All right, yes. I am holding on.”

He bent forward over the phone, his lips drawn back in a concentrated expression of viciousness. Shayne watched him for a moment. Feeling the redhead’s eyes on him, Alvarez looked up. Shayne went back to his drink.

“Well, Paul,” Alvarez said smoothly. “I am so sorry to interrupt your departure. At the very last moment, too… The police? No, indeed, this is your old friend and ex-business colleague. I say ex because after tonight I somehow think our business connection has come to an end. How does it happen that you neglected to let me know you were leaving?”

Shayne’s faculties were strained to the utmost. Alvarez said, “I would not take that tone with me, Paul. Of course it is some business of mine, what you do and do not do. I am distressed to hear that you must fly to your mother’s side. The sickness must be grave indeed, to make you leave without saying goodbye to your friends. Indeed, grief would appear to have unhinged your reason.” His voice hardened. “Did you really think you could get away with it?”

A moment’s silence followed.

“What, indeed?” Alvarez said savagely. “Of course you are anxious to be on your way. I understand your feelings. Why do you think I called you? To implore you to return what you have stolen from me? I am not so innocent. Or do you think I am holding you on the phone till my men have time to reach the airport? I thought of that, but they could never get there in time, and how could they force their way onto the field? I have made a better arrangement. Your wife is here with me.”

After listening to Slater’s response, he laughed unpleasantly. “Patience, patience. She is perfectly all right, although we had to hit her several times before she agreed to come with us. I would let you speak to her, but I fear she would urge you to complete your escape. Her morale seems excellent. She is quite defiant, as a matter of fact. I have a scratched face from her fingernails. I admire her for it, Paul. I assure you she will not be hurt unless you continue to do these foolish things. Come to me and we can talk things over sensibly and reach a sensible conclusion.”

He continued in a moment, “I see your position. There is a large sum of money involved, and you want to make your calculations. If you return to the plane, what horrible thing, after all, can happen?” His voice climbed shrilly. “You will not see her again, Slater! You have been quarrelling. This is a small island, news travels quickly. I know all about it. You have behaved foolishly with another woman. Perhaps it will not matter to you that your wife is dead. Perhaps you will be pleased. This is a chance I must take.”

He listened again. “I would not? You are wrong, dead wrong. If I promise you something and you pay no attention to me, I would have to do it, or no one would be impressed with me from that time on. Every petty thief in the islands would think he can rob Alvarez and have nothing to fear. I do not care to sound melodramatic, but this is what I will do. I will take her out in my boat. Sometime later, I will return alone, minus your lovely wife, minus my oyster knife, minus my anchor.”

He paused, and Shayne heard the faint note of relief in his voice when he spoke again. “I was sure you would look on it sensibly, Paul. We will be at the country place. You know the way. Get a taxi. Half an hour should do it easily. If you are delayed by a flat tire, or anything of that nature, be sure to phone me. I wouldn’t want anything to happen I would regret.”

He hung up. Shayne swallowed the last of the cognac and went over to the doorway. Alvarez still had his hand on the phone. He winked at Shayne, pleased with his own cleverness. Signalling the operator again, he gave her another number.

When the connection was open he said abruptly, “Who is this, Al?… I want three men and a car. In a hurry. Try José first. His brother, if you can get him. Offer six pounds apiece for the night, go to ten if you have to. Tell them to meet at the Half Moon. I will be waiting there in the Minx. Have you got that?”

Shayne could see the ugly outline of the .45 in the Venezuelan’s right coat pocket. He waited until the bartender had repeated the instructions and hung up. Then he stepped around the foot of the bed. Reaching down, he took the Camel’s right wrist and yanked him forward.

“Don’t try to reach the gun,” Shayne told him gently, “or you’ll be in worse shape than you are now. I heard some of that. You’ve worked up quite a crowded schedule. And where do I fit in? You made a deal with me, and I’d like to see some action on it.”

“Things have changed. I—”

Shayne took a quick backward step, jerking Alvarez to his feet. Without putting pressure anywhere except on the wrist, Shayne walked him backward until he slammed against the wall. The man’s face, gray to begin with, had turned a disagreeable shade of off-white.

“You seem to have problems,” Shayne said. “So long as you don’t forget that I’m one of them. I’m beginning to wonder if you’re figuring on dumping me. I wouldn’t like that.”

“Talk about it!” Alvarez gasped.

“Sure. But let’s talk about it now. Let’s not wait till three or four guys show up.”

“If you will let go—”

Shayne looked into his eyes for a moment longer, his own hard and unfriendly, then threw the wrist away in disgust. Alvarez swayed, but made it to the foot of the bed before he fell. Shayne didn’t help him. Little by little his strength came back, and he pulled himself into a sitting position, rubbing the wrist and looking at Shayne with hatred.

“You swine.”

“Never mind the compliments,” Shayne told him. “What’s on the program? I don’t want to be put off till everything else is out of the way. I think I heard you mention dropping somebody off a boat. That boat is going to be busy, because I’m going to be on it.”

“I said things have changed. The boat is out of the question. Thanks to your blundering, the boat’s captain is in jail.”

Shayne made a threatening gesture, and Alvarez said shrilly, “Do not hit me, Shayne!”

A moment passed, during which they did nothing but look at each other.

“I have had another idea, if you will control yourself,” Alvarez said. “Believe me, you are much on my mind. I am trying to keep six knives in the air at one time. This man I just talked to—he has a chartered plane waiting at the airport. He has been cleared for departure. We will persuade him to let you use his credentials. Give the pilot a hundred pounds additional, and he will put you down wherever you please in Florida.”

“How do you persuade the guy?” Shayne said doubtfully.

“That will not be difficult, I think,” Alvarez said. “When we straighten out another matter, he will no longer be in a hurry to leave. I do not concern myself about his feelings, in any case. I am in his debt for a bad knock on the head.”

Shayne pulled at his earlobe. “I don’t like it. What makes you think he’ll fall for that crap you were handing out on the phone.—Yeah, I heard it. What did you want me to do, put my fingers in my ears? You told him you had his wife.”

“I will have her,” Alvarez said calmly. “We will stop at her hotel and pick her up. It is on our way.”

“I don’t like that word we,” Shayne said. “I don’t give a damn how many people you kidnap, so long as you don’t take all night. But leave me out of it.”

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible. I will need your help. But do not excite yourself—it will be simple.”

Shayne snorted. “This other thing was supposed to be simple. Just drive a car in a garage. No trouble at all. And if you’d set it up so I was driving the car, I would have been skulled with a monkey wrench. Let’s talk some sense, goddamn it. Too many people know what I look like by now. Why stick my neck out when I don’t have to? When you get the guy’s papers, come back and pick me up. I’ll be here.”

Alvarez was shaking his head. “It cannot be done that way. We are wasting time, but I see I must explain. I caught Slater off-balance. I persuaded him to do what I said because he has a strong guilty feeling—the details are unimportant. His brain was frozen, but after some minutes it will unfreeze and he will wonder if I am merely bluffing, if the woman is actually with me. If this is true, the safest thing for him will be to return to the airport and leave by plane with the utmost speed. He will wish to make sure. He will phone me and insist on speaking to her. I must be able to let him hear her voice. Now do you understand?”

“It still has nothing to do with me,” Shayne said. “Send your boys out to meet him at the airport.”

“No. No. It is much too public, also much too chancy. I do not wish to call attention to myself at the moment, my position is delicate. If they missed connections, the plane would depart and you would still be here, Mr. Shayne, surrounded by police who have seen your picture.”

Shayne swore under his breath. Then he said grudgingly, “I guess you know more about it than I do. What am I supposed to do this time?”

“She lives in a second-rate beach hotel. It would be most unwise for us to break in and try to take her by force. We would arouse the hotel, the police would be summoned. It must be handled discreetly. She must walk out quietly, of her own will. She would not come with me, or with one of my men. But you are a fellow-American. We will invent a plausible story, and she will come like a lamb.”

Shayne continued to tug at his earlobe. Alvarez added, “The plane will be already paid for by Slater, and I will put you safely aboard without charging you a shilling.”

Making up his mind, Shayne shook a cigarette out of a pack. “All right, but don’t try to work any more switches.”

“I have promised.”

“And I hope you keep your promise,” Shayne said, “for your sake. What’s this doll like? What do I say to her?”

Shayne steadied Alvarez as he came off the bed and stood up. “We will think about it.”

The redhead left the other propped in the doorway and went back to lock his suitcase and turn off the lights. In the Hillman, heading back into St. Albans along the bay, Alvarez said, “The important thing, do not hurry. There is one way you could surely fetch her, to say that the husband’s plane has crashed and he is badly hurt. But no. She would rush out half-dressed, with much noise and excitement. Let us do it this way, I think.”

Glancing at him, Shayne saw that he was smiling slyly. “Tell her you are a private detective,” Alvarez said, “and you—”

“What?” Shayne exclaimed.

“I know how you must feel about the police and detectives, but this will be only for a moment. Tell her you have found out that the husband’s plane trip is only a pretext, he really goes to spend several days in seclusion with another girl. If she wishes proof, you can provide it. But she must be quiet and careful.”

“And what if she just tells me to pick up my feet and blow?”

“Convince her. You see, she can either come with you to get evidence for a divorce, or she can come to save her husband from a greedy woman.”

He made a little sound that was probably intended as a laugh. Shayne stared bleakly at the road ahead, making no further comment. Alvarez called the turns, and before long they drew up in front of a rundown hotel called the Half Moon, separated from the bay by a fringe of palms. Only a few of the windows on the front of the hotel were lighted.

“Turn the car around,” Alvarez said. “I will go in quietly and inspect. It will be better if no one sees you.”

“Damn right it’ll be better,” Shayne said.

When Alvarez got out, Shayne drove on to where the street dead-ended at a low embankment. With its short wheelbase, the Hillman was an easy car to turn. When he came back, Alvarez was coming down the hotel steps, and Shayne had a sudden impression that he was not as hurt as he pretended. His eyes narrowing, the redhead watched him falter and put his hand to his forehead, as though suddenly dizzy. He crossed the sidewalk to the Hillman and got in.

“This will be easy,” he said. “There is one man only, for the desk, the switchboard, the elevator. Look in the window. When he goes up in the elevator or must answer the phone, you will simply walk in to the stairs. Good luck.”

Shayne stayed where he was. “What if the phone doesn’t ring or if nobody wants the elevator?”

“My men will be here presently. I will send one to telephone. The room is on the fifth floor, five forty-two. From the stairs go to the first turning in the corridor.”

Shayne unlatched the door. “How much time do I have? You told the husband half an hour. If I get hung up somewhere, I don’t want you sitting down here counting the minutes until you send your army in after me.”

Alvarez said, “Take the time you need. I have a man to entertain Slater until we arrive, and I will tell him what to say if Slater calls. I agree that you must be quiet and careful.”

“And what do I do if I can get her to come with me? No, don’t tell me. I ring for the elevator. When it doesn’t show up right away, I get impatient and drag her down the stairs. That way the desk clerk won’t see me.”

“Excellent.”

Shayne left the Hillman and went up to the front steps. There was a broad porch overlooking the bay. Instead of entering the lobby he went along the porch, past a line of empty rocking chairs, until he came to a window through which he could look into the lobby. No one was behind the desk. Moving to the next window, Shayne saw the switchboard, but it was unattended. He located the elevator. The door was closed, and an arrow above was moving slowly around a semi-circle. There was a loud, ominous clanking.

He returned to the front door and entered the lobby. The arrow had stopped at four. Through an archway he looked into the dining room, with tables set for breakfast. He reached the bottom of the stairs as the clanking resumed and the elevator started down.

He took the steps two at a rime. The elevator, descending slowly and painfully, passed him between the second and the third floor. He continued to five, found Room 542 without trouble, and knocked.

The transom was open and light was on in the room. When there was no answer, Shayne knocked again.

“Mrs. Slater?” he said cautiously.

He heard a faint noise, and saw the doorknob beginning to turn slowly. Then the door came violently open. Martha Slater was standing in the doorway, a gun in her hand.

7

“Come in,” she said.

Her voice was small but determined. The gun was a little .25 automatic. She held it firmly. Michael Shayne came into the room and she kicked the door shut behind him. She was wearing a tightly-belted blue dressing gown. Her blonde hair was brushed out loosely and fell almost to her shoulders. There were lines and shadows on her face that hadn’t been there when Shayne last saw her, but she was still, at thirty, beautiful, intelligent, self-possessed. Her eyes were gray and steady.

“Don’t you know who I am?” he said.

“Stay where you are. Don’t move.”

She backed across the room, feeling for the phone. Her fingers touched the edge of the bedside table and she knocked over a small bottle of sleeping pills. She lifted the phone.

Then she said suddenly, “Michael Shayne?”

She looked at him in horror. An instant later she dropped the little gun as though it had bitten her. “Michael! I almost—” She laughed hysterically and put her face in both hands.

He reached her in two strides and caught her in his arms. She pressed her face fiercely against his chest. “Michael. Michael. What are you doing here?” Then she pulled away from him, the look of horror still in her eyes, and said faintly, “Did you come after Paul?”

“Take it easy,” Shayne said in his gentlest tone. He put the phone back in its place. “It’s going to work out. Come over here and sit down.”

He led her to the bed and arranged the pillows. After she was settled he sat down beside her, holding her hands. They were cold and trembling.

“I just made some cocoa,” she said abstractedly, looking toward the little bedside table, which was badly marked with cigarette burns. “We aren’t supposed to cook, but I have an electric plate. No, I remember,” she said, seeming hardly aware of what she was saying, “you’d like some cognac. I’m sorry I can’t—”

He stopped her. “We don’t have too much time. When I knocked at the door, who did you think it was?”

She burst into tears. “Michael, we’ve got ourselves into such a mess! What on earth am I going to do?”

“We’ll think of something.”

He grinned at her encouragingly and looked around. The bureau had a caster missing, and tipped drunkenly. The rug was threadbare. It was worse than he expected, and he hated to see Martha living like this. He moved a box of Kleenex where she could reach it.

“I’m—I’m sorry, Michael. It’s just—seeing you like this, after so many years—”

Taking her by the shoulders, he gave her a quick shake. “Stop it. I won’t tell you how glad I am to see you, because we don’t have time. I know it’s serious. You and Paul are in trouble, and if you want me to help you you’ve got to tell me a few things. What about the gun?”

She blew her nose and said faintly, “I don’t know how to begin. I’ve been expecting something to happen for months. I thought—”

She couldn’t go on, and Shayne said, “You thought it had something to do with the smuggling?”

Her eyes widened. “Of course. You heard he’d been arrested, and you didn’t like the idea of an old friend of yours being married to a criminal. I don’t like it either. But he’s stopped, Michael! You don’t have to worry about us. He won’t do anything like that again.”

“It’s a little more complicated than that,” he said. “I heard about it from the customs agent-in-charge in Miami, Jack Malloy. Do you remember him?”

“Of course,” she said quietly. “Another old friend who thinks—”

Her eyes filled, and Shayne said quickly, “Keep talking about it, Martha. It may not seem so bad when it’s out where we can look at it.”

“Michael, don’t you see?” she said desperately. “I knew about it. I’m as much to blame as Paul. Oh, I argued against it, but he could tell I didn’t mean it. He just laughed at me. and went right ahead. I didn’t refuse to take the money he made by it, you notice! Certainly not. That might have convinced him I was serious. I finally laid down the law, gave him a clear-cut set of alternatives, but not until after he’d been caught! I’m so ashamed.”

“How long has it gone on?”

“Oh, Michael, for months and months. A man came to Paul and offered to sell him some cheap perfume for export. He—”

“Was his name Alvarez?”

She drew in her breath in surprise. “Luis Alvarez. Yes. Do you mean Jack Malloy knows about that?”

“Not yet. Go on.”

“Well, Alvarez explained it. What he wanted our firm to handle was bottled as toilet water. Actually it was the concentrated essence of some famous French perfume, worth hundreds and hundreds of dollars an ounce. Paul didn’t tell me about it till it was all over. It was simplicity itself. He consigned the shipment to a dummy company, picked it up and forwarded it to a big perfume company up north. For this trifling service, he was paid fifteen hundred dollars! I was horrified, but apparently not quite horrified enough. Actually, I used to feel irritated by the price my friends paid for imported perfume, and I suppose that smuggling it past the customs didn’t seem like such a terrible crime. Paul put the money in the business, and it just disappeared. Although I’ve suddenly begun to wonder if he could have spent it on—but never mind. Alvarez had another proposition soon afterward. There was never any trouble, and Paul paid less and less attention when I tried to get him to think about what he was doing. Then all of a sudden he was arrested, and it did something horrible to him, Michael. I’ve never seen a man so reduced. And all for a silly little handful of watch movements!”

“You think that was all he had?”

She frowned. “I assumed—but they have some kind of X-ray machine, don’t they? I’ve always been told that once they’re suspicious of you, you can’t bring in as much as a carpet tack without their knowing about it.”

“Jack Malloy has a theory, but there’s probably nothing to it. You said you gave Paul some alternatives?”

“Yes, I told him that if he didn’t stop for good, I’d leave him. From now on they’ll take extra precautions when Paul comes in. I used to think I was a fairly honest person, but I’m learning some unpleasant truths about myself. Did I give him that ultimatum because what he was doing was wrong, or because he’d surely be caught if he tried again? I don’t know, Michael.”

“And he agreed to quit?” Shayne said thoughtfully.

“Finally. We had quite a knockdown, drag-out fight, and even after we’d made our peace and he swore a solemn oath, I think he was still a little tempted. Apparently Alvarez has made a new offer that was very hard to turn down. I don’t know much about that man, but I imagine he got rather ugly when Paul said he was through. I thought he’d sent someone for Paul, and that was who was knocking on my door. But thank heaven it’s after midnight. Paul’s beyond his reach, and I’m going to see to it that he doesn’t come back. As of twelve o’clock tonight, our firm is out of business. What’s more, nobody’s going to miss it but us.”

Shayne poured some cocoa from the little pot into the waiting cup. He had been feeling his way blindly, and he couldn’t do anything effective without knowing a few more facts. He had ten minutes, perhaps fifteen at the outside.

He handed Martha the cup. “Better drink this. I’m going to ask you some questions, and I have a few things to tell you. Then we’ll decide what to do.”

“Michael, before you start, I want to tell you how wonderful it is to see you. I’ve been so terribly tense and upset, and now all at once I begin to think that things may turn out all right. That’s what I remember about you—how reassuring you could be. Without saying anything, just by being there. I’ve kept up with your cases, and I’ve always been so proud of knowing you! I’m afraid I boasted about it a little sometimes. You—never married again, did you, Michael?”

Shayne shook his head. “No. When this is over, I’ll tell you about my secretary, Lucy Hamilton. You were married to a cop. I think you’d understand why I don’t want to let anyone in for—” He broke off abruptly. “But that’s neither here nor there. Why did Paul charter a plane tonight instead of waiting for a regular flight in the morning?”

“His mother’s doctor cabled him. She’s very sick and wants to see him. They’ve always been very close. If you want to know the truth, I don’t think she’s all that sick—she’s a bit of a hypochondriac. I shouldn’t be saying this, but I’ll bet any amount of money that she’ll still be around thirty years from now. But Alvarez had been threatening Paul, and it suddenly occurred to me that here was my chance to wipe the slate clean. I could use my mother-in-law’s sickness to get Paul away before anything happened. Needless to say, we can’t afford to charter a plane. But I insisted. I made all the arrangements and bundled him into a taxi, without giving him time to open his mouth to protest. And to show you how wealthy we’ve become, with all of Paul’s desperate smuggling, after scraping up enough to pay for the plane I was feeling too poor to pay for a taxi back from the airport. So I said goodbye to him here.”

“Did you actually see that cable?” Shayne asked.

“No,” she said, puzzled. “He read it to me on the phone. But why?”

“Well, brace yourself,” he said bluntly. “I may be all wrong, but here’s how it looks to me. I don’t think there was any cable. He needed an excuse to get off the island in a hurry, without waiting till morning. He set up a date with Alvarez for tonight. When Alvarez showed up, Paul slugged him with a monkey wrench and took the contraband without paying for it. This was risky, but he planned to be on a plane half an hour later, and he planned to let you persuade him not to come back.”

Martha set the cocoa back on the bedside table, being very careful to keep it from spilling. She said slowly, “I don’t believe it.”

“I was there with Alvarez,” Shayne said. “I didn’t see who did the slugging, but I do know he was slugged.”

“It wasn’t Paul!” she said, putting her hand impulsively on his arm. “I know him, Michael. He couldn’t have done it.”

Shayne, who had had some experience with husbands and wives, knew how little they often knew about each other. He said skeptically, “When did he leave?”

“He wanted to allow plenty of time for all the red-tape. About a quarter to eleven?” she said hopefully. “Maybe later. He called from the airport to say goodbye. That must have been around eleven-thirty. Wouldn’t that prove—”

“He could say he was at the airport and not be there.”

“Well, I don’t suppose I can convince you, Michael. But you just don’t know how impossible it is. If you could find the taxi driver, couldn’t he settle it? No, the simplest thing will be to cable Jack Malloy. Have him meet Paul’s plane, and find out if he’s smuggling anything.”

“Paul didn’t take off,” Shayne said.

The color drained slowly out of her face as she stared at him. “Alvarez thinks Paul hit him with a wrench and robbed him, and Paul is still on St. Albans?”

The redhead nodded somberly.

“But how did it happen?” she said. “Did something go wrong with the plane?”

Shayne shook his head. “Alvarez got him on the phone just before he took off. He told him he’s holding you as hostage, and warned him not to leave if he wanted to see you again.”

She breathed out in a kind of shudder. “And Paul stayed? Thank God.”

She went on quickly, “There’s something I haven’t told you, Michael. It’s mixed up with the rest in a queer way, I don’t know how. He’s been seeing another woman, apparently for some time. I only found out about it yesterday. Oh, things have been quite hectic around here for the last twenty-four hours. At the end he promised to give up both the smuggling and the girl, but I’m not sure I believed him. That’s the real reason I didn’t go to the airport. I was wrung dry. But Michael—if he knows that Alvarez suspects him of doing this crazy thing, he must know how dangerous it is to stay on the island.” She turned her head. “And if in spite of that he stayed—”

She sat erect and said briskly, “What are we going to do about it, Michael?”

“We’ll try to put him back on the plane. Alvarez told him to go to some place in the country. A cab from the airport could make it in half an hour. Does that mean anything to you?”

She moved her head, frowning. “I don’t understand. How do you know all this, Michael? And you said you were there when Alvarez was robbed. You haven’t got into trouble on my account, have you?”

Shayne grinned at her. “Nothing serious.”

Her breath caught, and her face was suddenly flooded with comprehension. “He’s waiting downstairs!”

She swung off the bed and went to the window, approaching it cautiously from one side. Drawing back the curtain a few inches, she peeped out.

“Two cars,” she said quietly, turning. “Yes, of course. Before Paul puts his head in the noose he’ll want to make sure that Alvarez isn’t bluffing.”

“That’s right. So here’s what we’ll do. I’ll tell Alvarez I talked you into coming with me, but something made you suspicious and you gave me the slip. Get out by the back door. Steal somebody’s bike and get as far as you can in five minutes. Then stay out of sight. Maybe Paul will have sense enough to keep clear. If he doesn’t, he’ll have an easier time holding up under the pressure if you aren’t around.”

“Michael, wait a minute. Did you say half an hour from the airport? It seems to me Paul once pointed out a driveway that went in to a wonderful modern house, and said something mysterious about the wages of sin. I’ll just bet—it must be!” she exclaimed, becoming excited. “Michael, he’ll wait downstairs, won’t he? Alvarez? If we could get a taxi, maybe we could get there ahead of him and warn Paul.”

Shayne snapped his fingers. “All right, we’ll try it. Get your clothes on.”

She ran to the closet and snatched a skirt and blouse off a hanger. She pulled open bureau drawers. Carrying the bundle of clothes, she hurried to the bathroom.

“Leave the door open,” Shayne called. “I’ve got some more questions to ask you. Did you or Paul know Albert Watts?”

“Who?” she said behind the partly closed door. “You mean the Englishman who was killed?”

“That’s the one. Did he have any connection with the smuggling?”

“I’m trying to think,” she answered after a brief pause. “I don’t see how. He had some kind of job with a tourist agency, didn’t he? A strange little man with a mustache, a very fat wife. I was maneuvered into dancing with him once—quite against his will. He suffered agonies because we hadn’t been properly introduced. I thought it was terribly sad. Such a conventional little man, and then to be killed in such a disreputable and unconventional way. I’m hurrying, Michael.”

Suddenly she appeared in the open doorway, looking at Shayne, aghast. She put on the skirt and had an arm in one sleeve of the blouse.

“Michael, you don’t think Paul had any connection with that!”

Shayne lit a cigarette and spoke around it, his eyes squinting against the smoke. “Watts made a trip to Miami to find out how much the customs service pays informants. A little later Malloy got a cable from him, fingering Paul Slater. That’s how Paul happened to get arrested. When all Malloy’s boys could find were a few measly watch movements, they wrote Watts down as a nut, without much sense of proportion, and didn’t give Paul a real hard look. If it hadn’t been for those watch movements, Paul would have been followed around every second he was in the States. Then Watts was stabbed before he could collect his two-bit fee.”

Martha abruptly became aware of being only partially dressed, and disappeared. Her voice came through the opening. “And Jack thinks—”

“What else could he think? The cops here don’t know about the cable. Jack wanted to see what I could find out, if anything, before he turned it over. And as soon as he does, they’ll pull Paul in and hit him with it. This is pretty rough on you, but you might as well know it now.”

She opened the door again, buttoning her blouse. “But Michael,” she said beseechingly, “he was drunk, wasn’t he? The paper said they took a blood test. Everybody says he must have got into a fight in some bar. He belonged to that idiotic committee that’s so down on the natives, and he made some belligerent remark while he was drinking, and a native followed him out to the street and they fought.”

“All that is possible,” Shayne said, “but after the cops hear about the cable to Malloy, they won’t think it’s very likely. And there are two points about that five hundred dollar fine. If a pigeon like Watts can give away a small shipment, he can give away a big one. And Malloy has a wild idea that Paul was bringing in something big that they didn’t catch. The watch movements were a decoy.”

Martha tucked in her blouse, laughing shortly. “Wild idea is right. You can tell Jack from me that Paul is very definitely in the minor-leagues as a smuggler, or else it’s a well-kept secret. Seriously, Michael, this is something I really think I’d know. I know that keeping two women at one time can run into money, but goodness—I could show you his socks. I don’t mean to sound frivolous, but he doesn’t have a whole pair to his name. His shorts are ready for the ragbag. And as for murdering anybody—no.” She shook her head. “That is something you must stop thinking about. I said I was sure he couldn’t lie in wait for somebody and hit him from behind. If there was enough money at stake, and he thought he wouldn’t get caught, maybe he could talk himself into trying it. But something would go wrong. He’d swing an instant too soon or an instant too late, if he could do it at all. And I’m glad he’s that kind of person.”

“The killing was a week ago Wednesday,” Shayne said. “Sometime between six, when Watts left his office, and twelve-thirty the next morning. Do you know where Paul was during that time?”

She smiled. “Of course. Sometimes we go our separate ways in the daytime, but we always meet for dinner and spend the evening together. We have a dozen favorite picnic spots—picnics aren’t as expensive as eating in restaurants! Every now and then, once every two or three weeks, perhaps, one of us goes out on a buying or a scouting trip. But last week—”

She was putting on a pair of high-heeled shoes. She straightened suddenly, her face very still. “Well, one day last week—it wasn’t Wednesday. But I can look it up.”

She put on her second shoe and went to the little drop-leaf desk. There she rummaged about until she found an engagement calendar. Her back was turned to Shayne, but the redhead knew what she had found even before she swung around to face him.

“It was Wednesday,” she said. “I hired a car and drove across to a fishing village where we know some people who make wonderful glazed bowls. I’ve been in such a daze—I could have sworn it was earlier in the week. I wanted to save paying for a room, so I drove back that same night. I doubt if I got in before eleven. But that doesn’t mean anything, Michael. We just have to ask Paul what he was doing, and—”

She paused, and went on hopelessly, “No, he told me he packed a few sandwiches and went for a long bike ride. Unless he was lying, and he was with that girl? But Michael, it’s all beside the point! He didn’t do it, and that’s that. Why does it have to be Paul, just because it was his name in the cable? Why not Alvarez? Everything else about this was his doing. He could have found out about Watts. Of course he wouldn’t do it himself—he’d hire somebody. I think you’ll find that Luis Alvarez was in some extremely public place, with twenty people watching him every minute.”

She kicked off her high-heeled shoes, and went to the closet for a pair with low heels. She fumbled with the laces. She was trying to speak calmly, but Shayne could see the marks of tension.

“It’s beginning to sink in at last,” she said. “And I can remember when I actually had a sneaking feeling of admiration for Paul, when he made that huge fee taking in the perfume. It seemed almost romantic. But now! My God, Michael. Alvarez thinks Paul robbed him. Watts was killed for considerably less.”

She wasn’t far from hysteria. She pulled one of the laces too tight and it snapped.

“Let it go,” Shane said. “Alvarez is probably getting restless.”

“Michael, find out who did kill Watts! I’ll hire you. If you don’t, they’ll pin it on Paul. I can see it coming.”

“Tell me one thing. In spite of this babe of his and all the rest of it, do you still want to keep the marriage going?”

As she stood up, she gave him one of the direct, candid looks he remembered. “I don’t know,” she said simply. “It was a real kick in the teeth for me, finding out about this girl. Things can’t be exactly the same again, no matter what happens. He promised me today that he would break with Alvarez. If I find out that he lied to me about that—Michael, I don’t know. I think—I’m still in love with him. I probably always will be. I don’t want anything bad to happen to him. But ask me if I want to stay married to him after I find out the real truth.”

Shayne rubbed out his cigarette. “When this is over, will you give me a complete statement of everything you know about the smuggling?”

She didn’t hesitate. “Yes, Michael. It will be a horrible thing to have to put down in black and white, and I hope you won’t have to use it. But I want to put an end to this nightmare, once and for all.”

She felt in her handbag and took out a pound note.

“What’s that for?” Shayne asked.

“If anybody asks you if you have a client, don’t you want to be able to say you’ve been given a retainer?”

Shayne grinned, taking the note and putting it in his pocket. “That doesn’t mean they’ll believe me. No, leave the light on,” he said as she reached automatically for the light switch. “No point in letting them know we’re leaving.”

He approached the window carefully, keeping well back from the lighted rectangle, and drew the curtain aside. The Hillman was where he had left it, and a slightly larger car had pulled up behind it. He could make out two figures in the shadows. One of these, in a dark suit, was probably Alvarez. There was a third man at the wheel of the second car.

Martha was nervously putting on lipstick. She blotted her lips on a Kleenex and said, “We can go out through the laundry room in the basement. There’s a big hotel farther along the shore. I think we can get a taxi there.” She waited with her hand on the doorknob. “You’ve brought me some bad news tonight, Michael. Paying you that silly retainer doesn’t change anything, but it makes me feel better. I’m not exactly unbiased on the subject of Michael Shayne. If anybody can make sense out of this, you can.”

He grinned at her and they went out. The fact that Shayne now had a client would give him a slight tactical advantage when he came to talk to the cops, but in another sense it was unimportant. Sooner or later in most of his cases, a moment came when he no longer cared whether he would end up with a fee or not, even whether he would come through with a whole skin. He had lived with danger so long it no longer meant anything to him. He was like a structural steel worker who spends his working day high in the air on a strip of steel a few inches wide. That was simply the way he made his living. There was only one thing he cared about, and that was to get to the bottom of the problem that faced him.

He had arrived at this point now. He wouldn’t have come this far if Martha hadn’t been an old friend, but that, too, no longer mattered. Someone had killed an obscure Englishman, Albert Watts. Watts meant nothing to Shayne, but his killer meant a great deal. From now on there was an almost emotional bond between Shayne and the killer. It would be broken only when Shayne had trapped him and made him admit his guilt.

On the third floor, Martha rang for the elevator. They could hear the sound of the buzzer beneath them in the shaft. They went quietly to the next landing and waited to hear the clanking as the elevator started up. When there was still no sound, Martha went back to the third floor and gave the desk clerk another long, urgent summons. They listened again. She whispered to Shayne, “He must be asleep.”

They went down the last flight to the lobby. She looked cautiously around the corner. Then, looking back at Shayne, she drew a little diagram in the air, showing him which way to go. He followed her into the lobby. He caught a swift glimpse of the clerk, an old colored man, tipped back precariously on his stool, his eyes closed and his mouth wide open. Martha opened the door to the basement stairs and motioned him ahead of her.

When the door closed they were in utter darkness. He felt her hand on his shoulder. His fingers closed on a railing. He groped ahead with his other hand and went down slowly, feeling his way a step at a time.

At the bottom he whispered, “I’m going to light a match. We don’t want to kick anything over.”

As the match flared they started forward, hand in hand. The way was fairly clear. After the match flickered out he went by memory for a few more steps before stopping to light another. This one took them to the door of the laundry room. Clawing a cobweb out of his eyes, he went on. The third match was still burning when they reached the outside door. He shook it out.

He felt her hands on his arms. She was very close. Her lips brushed his cheek.

“Thank you, Michael,” she said. “For everything.”

She opened the door. For a moment he saw her slight figure against the stars.

He followed her out, and a blinding light struck him in the eyes. A voice said, “Hold it, Shayne,” and something jabbed him hard beneath the left arm.

It was a bad place for Shayne to be hit. A wave of pain rose around him and nearly pulled him under.

8

He was aware of a flurry of movement just in front of him. The flashlight swung in a vicious upward arc and cracked Martha across the head. Then the man holding the flashlight reached around her and wrested the little automatic out of her hand. He was small and dark, Shayne saw, with a twisted mouth. Shayne raised his arm and looked down at the heavy gun pressed against the break in his ribs. Turning slowly, he looked over his shoulder at Al, the heavy-set bartender from the Camel’s nightclub. He still wore the drooping, villainous mustache, but he no longer had the bandanna over his head or the ring in his ear. He was almost bald.

“That’s right,” Al said. “You’re being careful. Don’t move for a minute and we’ll get the boss. Whistle, José.”

He felt Shayne’s body for weapons. The smaller man was saying something rapidly in Spanish. He feinted at Martha with the heavy flashlight, and she retreated against the wall. He was smiling, showing pointed yellow teeth. He stabbed the flashlight at Shayne’s eyes, and kicked the redhead very hard beneath the right kneecap. Shayne gritted his teeth. José gave a light, wild laugh.

“Tell him to keep away from me,” Shayne said coldly, “or you’ll have to shoot me. The Camel may not like that.”

“The bastard can’t speak English,” Al said. “José, get back there, goddamn it, or I’ll break you in two.”

José responded with another swift outburst in Spanish. Al whistled, without succeeding in making much noise. José showed his disgust. Putting two fingers to his lips, he produced a piercing blast. Then he danced up to Shayne again. Looking up at the bigger man slyly, he drew back his foot, as though for another kick, aiming higher up. Shayne regarded him steadily, his fingers beginning to curl. José gave another brainless laugh and bending down, spat on the ground between them.

Al drew back from Shayne, motioning with his heavy gun. “Back up against the house. Next to the doll. Keep your hands out where I can see them, and don’t try to jump anybody. The boss tells me you’re on a Wanted sheet, and any guy who plugs you gets a thank-you letter from the governor. And at the same time, it turns out you’re a private eye. We’re all impressed. We don’t get many of those down here.”

“I’m on vacation,” Shayne said wearily.

“Some vacation,” Al said with a laugh. “Most people come here for their health. But not you, boy. You’ve been butting your nose in other people’s business, and that ain’t healthy.”

“I see you took off your earring,” Shayne commented, watching him. “I can’t tell in this light—how about the mascara?”

Al’s jaws snapped together, and his head came forward. “Don’t try to needle me. I take worse than that six nights a week from the local winos. Goddamn it, José, will you cool off?” He stepped forward to block the smaller man as he made another swift dart at Shayne. He explained, “He’s probably never had a chance to kick a private eye in his life. He’s excited.”

Alvarez and two others ran around the corner of the building. Shayne wasted no time on Alvarez, having studied him earlier in the evening, but gave the others a close scrutiny as they came within range of the flashlight. Both were Latins. One vaguely resembled José, but was larger, with a hairline mustache; he was probably José’s brother. The other, a plump, moon-faced youth, looked a little simple-minded.

“Well, Shayne,” Alvarez said, out of breath from the short run. He clapped his horn-rimmed glasses on his nose and peered at the American. “I thought you seemed a little smart to be a hoodlum. You fooled me with that police circular. Your timing on that was very good. But I think I fooled you a little in return, eh? Perhaps I was not quite so unconscious from this knock on the head as you thought. I sent you out for ice-cubes so I could look in your suitcase. And what did I find? A Florida private detective’s license, complete with fingerprints. Who you are working for, that I still do not know.”

“Mrs. Slater,” Shayne said evenly.

“I assumed as much. I was laughing in my sleeve when I brought you here to get her. I knew you would bring her out with no fuss or noise—out the back door, into our arms.”

“I’m sorry, Michael,” Martha said miserably.

“That’s all right,” Shayne said, his eyes moving from face to face around the little semi-circle. “You can’t win them all.”

“So now we make haste,” Alvarez said. “We will have to conduct Mrs. Slater to the rendezvous with her husband, where we will find out who is going around hitting people on the head with heavy wrenches. We will tighten the screws on this Paul Slater. He is not so much, in my opinion. I will ask him politely, and then José will ask him impolitely. This is a specialty of José, who can make a fish talk, as the popular saying goes. If Slater is stubborn, we will ask the same questions of his wife in his presence. From this José will get even greater pleasure, I think.”

José bobbed his head, grinning.

“Michael,” Martha said warningly as Shayne stirred.

“Oh, he will be careful,” Alvarez assured her. “North American private detectives, whatever else one may say about them, are well known to be perfectly sane. If they lose one case, they wish to remain alive to take another. So Michael Shayne will stand still and allow us to tie him up. Of this I am sure. Pedro, you have the line?”

It was true that the redhead had very little choice. The .45, held unwaveringly in Al’s rocklike fist, was aimed point-blank at his stomach. José had Martha’s .25, if nothing else. The moon-faced youth had his hand in the side pocket of his jacket.

José’s brother took out a small reel of fishing line and released the long blade of a spring-knife with a tiny ugly click. He cut off a length of the line and advanced on Shayne.

José let go another burst of Spanish. Alvarez tolerantly shook his head.

“He asks my permission to shoot you once in each knee,” Alvarez said. “A charming imagination. This would certainly interfere with your freedom of action, but I have another plan, a better one.”

Shayne ignored him and went on concentrating on Al. “If he told you to pull that trigger, what would you do?”

“Pull the trigger,” Al said calmly. “I told you to stop needling me.”

“Loyalty today is all too rare,” Alvarez said smugly.

Pedro pulled Shayne’s hands together behind him and tied them at the wrists. Suddenly the .25 in José’s hand went off with a sharp crack. A comical look of surprise and consternation appeared in his mean little eyes. The gun had been pointing downward, and Shayne saw where a chip had been bitten out of the concrete.

Al said, “But you better do something about this nut or I’m going to have to lay his face open. He’s beginning to get on my nerves.”

Alvarez shot an order at José, who put the gun away sheepishly. Again Shayne heard the vicious snick of a knife behind him. After cutting another length of fishing line, Pedro began tying Shayne’s ankles, moving swiftly and surely. He threw a loop of line around one ankle, cinched it tight, then with another loop pulled Shayne’s feet together and made fast.

“I’d like to ask one question,” Shayne said, looking at Alvarez. “How many people can testify what you were doing a week ago Wednesday, between six and midnight?”

Squinting, Alvarez swung a roundhouse right at the redhead’s jaw. Shayne watched it coming. At the last instant he bent his knees, taking the blow on his forehead. It probably hurt Alvarez more than it did him, but because Shayne’s ankles were lashed together it knocked him down. He twisted as he fell, taking the jolt on his hip and shoulder.

“You need some work on the heavy bag,” Shayne said caustically. “I’ll be asking you that question again.”

Stooping, Pedro forced a folded handkerchief between Shayne’s teeth and bound it in place with another length of the waxed fishing line.

“I may not be here to answer you,” Alvarez said. “If all goes well with my friends the Slaters, I think I will use that plane Paul has chartered. Not to go to the States, however! As for you, it would distress me if someone came along and untied you. I am hardly ever in a position to do the police a favor, so I think I will tell them where to find you. I have your detective’s license, so you may find it difficult to convince them who you are. Goodnight, Shayne. I won’t say it’s been a pleasure.”

“I’ll make it up to you, Michael,” Martha called. “I’m—”

It ended in a moan. She was hurried away. The flashlight disappeared around the building, and Shayne was left alone in the dark. Car doors slammed. One motor roared, then the other, and the little cavalcade moved away very fast. He tried to determine which way they turned at the corner, but from where he lay it was impossible to tell.

In a moment Shayne’s eyes had adjusted to the absence of artificial light. The night was clear, without a moon. He seemed to be lying at the foot of a gently sloping concrete ramp. He could probably succeed in wriggling to the top, but even if he could roll in among the low palms before the cops arrived, they would have no trouble finding him. His one chance was to make enough noise so he could wake up somebody in the hotel and get them to untie him.

He jack-knifed about, struggling into a sitting position. Hitching sideward, first moving his legs, then leaning backward so he could support his weight on his clenched fists, he reached the doorway. He backed through into the blackness.

He tried to remember the arrangement of the laundry facilities, as he had seen them briefly in the feeble glow of the paper match. There were stationary tubs along one wall, a bench off to the left, an indoors clothesline, shaped like the ribs of a huge umbrella. Somewhere on the floor near the bench he thought he had glimpsed a squat, two-handled utensil, a wash basin of some kind. He hitched painfully across the rough concrete in what he hoped was the right direction.

The line was cutting his wrists cruelly. Each time he moved he had to use more effort than the time before. Lying full length, he tried rolling. He rolled twice, splashing through a puddle of brackish water. Twisting around, he lashed out with both legs. His shins struck something sharp, and the bench went over with a crash and a ring of metal. Shayne kicked the bench out of his way and tried to find the basin. He reached it after a moment’s floundering. One heel struck against it with a resounding clang.

He rested for a moment, breathing hard. But time was passing. He maneuvered into a position where he could raise his legs and swing them against the basin. The noise seemed very loud, echoing back and forth between the cinder-block walls. With each kick the basin moved a few inches and he had to shift position. From time to time he stopped to listen, but except for the sound of his own panting breath he could hear nothing. If he had succeeded in awakening the desk clerk, the old man was afraid to come down to the basement to see what was going on.

Shayne kicked at the basin twice more. The second kick sent it spinning out of reach. He hitched himself after it, and knocked over the pole holding the inside clothesline. The whole awkward contraption came down on top of him. The heavy pole missed him narrowly, but the web of ropes was all around him. He tried again to reach the basin, and the ropes tightened. As he backed away, trying to work free, he cut the back of one hand against the bottom of the pole. He felt the stab of pain and swore deep in his throat. Then, realizing in a flash what had happened, he maneuvered cautiously backward to bring his wrists against the sharp edge. The metal binding around the base of the pole had been knocked loose, exposing a jagged corner of metal a quarter of an inch across. The little spur of metal raked the back of his hand again. He worked it very carefully between his wrists and began rocking backward and forward.

Then he heard the car.

It came around the corner, tires screaming. The driver shifted into high only an instant before he had to slam down hard on his brakes. He came to a noisy stop in front of the hotel. Biting down hard on the gag in his mouth, Shayne continued to saw away at the jagged piece of metal. But Alvarez had told them exactly where they could find him. He heard running footsteps on the concrete ramp. The line broke as two cops with flashlights burst in through the back door.

There was nothing Shayne could do now but lie still. The circles of light played rapidly around the room until they found him. A voice warned him not to move, or he would be shot. One of the flashlights held steady on him while the other stabbed here and there until it picked out the light switch. A third man came past the other two. All three, Shayne saw, had pistols showing. A naked 150-watt bulb flooded the room with light.

The two cops with the flashlights were natives, wearing their full dress-up uniform, blue and red, with white Sam Browne belt and white helmet. The only thing they had dispensed with was the gloves. The third was an Englishman in a simpler uniform. Shayne noticed upside-down chevrons on his arm. He was short and red-faced, with a full mustache. His collar seemed too tight.

He strode across to Shayne and looked down. “That’s the man,” he said with satisfaction.

Shayne made a small sound. He brought his hands out in front of him and tried to untie the gag. The only way he could get out of this was to talk his way out, which was impossible so long as he had a handkerchief in his mouth.

The native cops put away their flashlights, but their guns were still out. The sergeant kicked the basin out of his way.

“Well, you bastard,” he said in an unexpectedly deep voice, “you’ve kept us all up after our regular bedtime, and don’t expect us to be friendly. You’re under arrest. I’ll omit the warning because you won’t be charged in my jurisdiction. You really got yourself tangled up, didn’t you?” He motioned to one of his men and said, “Cut him loose.”

The cop produced a pen-knife. Wielding it delicately, he cut the fishing line that bound Shayne’s ankles. After that he cut the line around his mouth. The redhead spat out the handkerchief, but picked it up again to wrap around his cut wrist. The cop helped him free himself from the clothesline, and quickly went over him to see if he was carrying a gun.

“Get up,” the sergeant said, “and don’t give us any trouble.”

Shayne did as he was told. He stamped one foot to get the circulation going. When he tried to speak, he only succeeded in bringing forth an unintelligible croak. He cleared his throat and tried again. This time the muscles worked.

“Do you want to know who murdered Albert Watts?”

For a moment the sergeant looked at him in silence. Then he said, “Don’t tell me you did.”

“He turned in a customs tip on an American named Paul Slater before he was killed. Slater was caught and fined, and came back to St. Albans. So maybe Watts wasn’t killed by a native, after all. Does any of this interest you?”

“Right now,” the sergeant said, “whether I’m interested or not is neither here nor there. If you want to buy your way out of this with information, you’re talking to the wrong man. You can take it up with the inspector in the morning.”

“It won’t be worth anything in the morning,” Shayne said. “There’s a large-scale smuggling operation underway on this island, as I think you know. If you move fast you can break it up while the inspector’s still asleep. And while you’re doing that you can find out who murdered Watts.”

“You are feeling talkative, aren’t you?” the sergeant said. “But let’s wait and have a stenographer take it all down.”

“I just said it can’t wait,” Shayne told him impatiently. “By the time everything’s signed and witnessed and all the documents have been filled out in triplicate, Alvarez will be in some other country.”

“Who did you say?” the sergeant said, pushing his head forward.

“You heard me. Luis Alvarez. Use a little imagination and you can put him out of business for good. Law enforcement around here will be easier when that son of a bitch is behind bars.”

“Where does Alvarez come into this?”

“Slater was working for him as a courier,” Shayne said. “That tip from Watts was as bad for him as it was for Slater. There’s been some fancy double-crossing going on tonight. Slater was about to take off for the States in a chartered plane. Alvarez kidnapped his wife and threatened to kill her unless Slater got off the plane and came in to explain himself. Do you follow that, or do you want me to go over it again?”

“Where are they, at Alvarez’ nightclub?”

“No. I don’t know where they are, but maybe we can figure it out.”

The sergeant hesitated. “Kidnapping, double-crossing, blackmail,” he said suspiciously. “What are you saying, exactly? That Alvarez killed Watts?”

“I don’t know who killed Watts. I do know that he was killed because of the tip he turned in on Slater.”

“Do you have some evidence of this that you’d like to tell us about?”

Shayne skipped quickly back over the few hard facts he had picked up in the last few hours. “No. Nothing definite. Alvarez has an illegal shipment he was supposed to pass on to Slater tonight. You arrested Alvarez’ driver, and he took me along instead. Something went wrong. He was knocked cold and the shipment was highjacked. Not by me.”

The sergeant smoothed his mustache with his fingertip, in a gesture that for some reason reminded Shayne of somebody he knew well.

“A shipment of what?” he said.

“How should I know?” Shayne said, becoming increasingly impatient. “It had to be contraband of some kind, because of the way it was delivered.”

The sergeant persisted, “Did you see it?”

“No! We don’t have time for all this detail, but if you can’t live without it—he drove into a private garage. I think I can take you to it, but later, for God’s sake! The stuff was in the trunk of his Hillman. Somebody was waiting in the dark and as soon as the headlights went off, stepped up and conked him. When I went in to see why he didn’t come out, he was taking the full count, with a lump on the back of his head. The back window in the garage was open, the trunk hatch was up. Goddamn it, how much more do you want?”

“A great deal more. He believed his assailant to be this American, Paul Slater?”

“Yeah, and it looks that way to me too. The meet was set for eleven. Slater’s plane was set to take off at twelve. It looks like a time-table the same person worked out.”

“I see,” the sergeant said slowly. “The procedure in assault cases is for the aggrieved party to come in and make a complaint. It is then our duty to investigate, even if the victim is an unsavory character like Alvarez, who deserves to be knocked on the head repeatedly, in my humble opinion. But—” and here his head shot forward again—“this entire story is rather flimsy, my friend, and I don’t believe it for an instant. What I seem to see here is a falling-out among scoundrels. No doubt it was the estimable Señor Alvarez who trussed you up like this and told us where we could lay our hands on you. You bear him ill-will, and would like to use the police for your private revenge. I have been in this business long enough to know that such little fallings-out often have most fruitful results for honest men. In the morning we will have it out with the inspector, and you can give us all the corroborating details which you have apparently been skipping over.”

“The morning—” Shayne began hotly.

“Will be too late,” the sergeant said. “I believe you told us that already. But we have nobody’s word for it but yours, do we? And your bonafides are hardly of the best.”

He nodded to the two policemen, who had been standing alertly, one on either side of Shayne. “Take him in.”

Shayne whirled, a dangerous look on his scored face, his hands well out from his sides.

The sergeant said, “I wouldn’t recommend any resistance. My men are picked for both strength and dexterity.”

“Yeah,” Shayne growled. “But I can give them some trouble. You can make it easier on all of us if you listen to me for a minute. Alvarez and a bunch of goons—including one really vicious type whose first name is José, another named Pedro, the bartender from that pirate joint of Alvarez’, and one more whose name I didn’t find out—picked up Martha Slater ten minutes ago. They’re giving her and her husband a going over somewhere in the country, half an hour’s drive from the airport. You’ve got some of the Camel’s boys in jail. Lean on them a little and find out where this place is.”

“We don’t lean on people down here.”

“Then say please!” Shayne exclaimed in sudden exasperation. “There’s a big chunk of dough tied up in this deal. Play it too cool and you’ll end up in the morning with a couple more killings. Alvarez was talking about taking Mrs. Slater out for a one-way sail. Doesn’t that sound a little like the Luis Alvarez you know?”

The sergeant seemed half-convinced. “I would need a warrant.”

“You’ve had a murder. How many more do you need before you can get a judge to issue a search-warrant? Bring in the whole bunch and ask some questions. One of them is the killer, or I’m crazy.”

“Now, that,” the Englishman said coldly, “is an interesting possibility. And what is your motive in all this? Are you really naive enough to think that you can persuade us not to turn you over to the American authorities?”

“Raid this place before anything happens, and I don’t care what you do to me. If you need a motive, I don’t want to see anybody twist Martha Slater’s arm. She’s a good-looking blonde and an old friend of mine.”

The sergeant shook his head decisively. “And what am I to tell the inspector in the morning? That I kept my men up all night, blundering about the island in the dark on some wild-goose chase—and on the unsupported word of an American crook? No, thank you. I am not quite that wet behind the ears.”

He brushed at his mustache again in that oddly familiar gesture.

“You don’t need to tell him where the information came from,” Shayne said. “Take a chance. What can you lose?”

“Perhaps nothing, perhaps quite a lot. I know too little about this to act intelligently. I’m not convinced there is such an overwhelming need for haste. We’ll go into it in the morning, never fear. I’ll have Alvarez picked up, as well as this Slater chap, and we’ll see what exactly is what.”

Shayne’s time had run out. He had only one other card to play, and like the Wanted circular, it could easily turn into a firecracker and go off in his face. He said, speaking evenly and fast, “That flier on me was a fake. I’m not wanted by the cops in Florida, or anywhere else. I’m a private detective from Miami. Mrs. Slater knows her husband will be suspected of killing Watts, and she’s retained me to find out who did it. I also checked with the American customs before I came down. Alvarez and Slater have worked out some fancy way of beating the import duty. I dreamed up this gimmick with the picture and the police description, so I could get close to Alvarez in a hurry. It was taking a big chance, but it worked.”

The two native cops stood still. One of them had both hands on Shayne’s upper arm. The British sergeant looked at the redhead blankly, his mouth open.

“Are you trying to maintain that this was all a trick?”

“It didn’t do any harm,” Shayne said. “All it did was cost you some sleep. I still don’t know much about this set-up, but I know a lot more than I did. For one thing, I know that Alvarez keeps his contraband in a locked wooden box in an airspace over the desk in his office. I was up there over your head when you were looking for me. I know how he makes contact with his couriers. I went along on a delivery. I couldn’t have done any of this by barging into his office and showing him a private detective’s license.”

The sergeant closed his mouth with a snap. “I don’t believe you.”

“Is your name Brannon?”

“What of it?”

“How did you find out I was at the Pirate’s Rendezvous? Somebody called you, right?” He quoted: “‘I’ve got some information for you, and you can have it free because I want to pay off this guy.’ Words to that effect.”

Sergeant Brannon’s face turned perceptibly redder. “That was you?”

“That was me,” Shayne told him, watching the slowly reddening face. “I can’t show you my credentials, because I don’t have them. But would somebody who was really wanted by the cops call them and tell them where they could find him? And if you still don’t believe me, put in a call to Miami. The head of the customs there is a man named Jack Malloy. Maybe you’ve heard of him. This is a big thing for Malloy, and he won’t mind if you get him out of bed.”

“And what is your real interest in this, Mr. Shayne?” Brannon said through stiff lips, apparently having difficulty pronouncing Shayne’s name.

“Money,” Shayne said promptly, because by this time any other answer would have been too complicated. “I’m shooting for the fifty thousand bucks.”

“And you think—” Brannon said thickly—“you think you can walk into the British Commonwealth and defy established authority, flout and trick and trample on individual liberty, break laws right and left, the way you undoubtedly do at home? You think you can hoodwink Her Majesty’s police, bring them out after midnight on a fool’s errand, and come out of it unscathed? You are mistaken! You—are—very—much—mistaken!”

“Make up your mind,” Shayne said. “Which would you rather do, yell at me, or catch a murderer?”

“I’ll do a great deal more than yell at you!” Brannon yelled. “I’ll put you in my most primitive cell and forget about you until somebody brings you officially to my attention! I think you have finally decided to tell me the truth. I think you are actually what you represent yourself to be—a cheap, money-grabbing, conscienceless private detective. I know all about your kind. But you may come to regret that it ever entered your mind to play ducks and drakes with our backward little provincial constabulary. What you need is time for reflection, and I’m the man who can give it to you!”

Shayne, too, was beginning to get angry. “Did you ever hear of a writ for habeas corpus?”

“Often. You Americans stole it from us, you know. But I don’t think it will apply in your case. We have arrested a notorious American fugitive, who is wanted for unlawful flight to evade prosecution, in the language of an apparently official circular we received through the usual channels. We will notify our American friends that we have captured you, and let them begin extradition proceedings. We will send off this notification the first thing tomorrow, as soon as the proper forms can be made out, by the slowest available boat. We will address it to the FBI, who won’t have heard of your harmless little deception, will they? Oh, I foresee many interesting delays. You will have a marvelous opportunity to study the cracks in the ceiling of that cell.”

“And while you’re making your point,” Shayne said, “what happens to the murderer of Albert Watts? It doesn’t seem to me you were making much headway before I got here.”

Brannon’s flush deepened, if such a thing was possible. “We were making headway, in our slow, unspectacular, bumbling fashion. We will continue this process, without any help from American private detectives, eliminating one possibility at a time until only one is left and we are in a position to arrest and convict the killer.”

“Sure,” Shayne said sarcastically. “You’ll go on working from nine to five, with an hour off for lunch and another in the afternoon for tea. Meanwhile the killer will be working overtime. If one of the Slaters gets hurt, you’ll begin to feel a little more heat.”

“Ah, the appeal to the American eagle,” Brannon said. “I was waiting for that.”

“Goddamn it,” Shayne shouted, “can’t you break out of the tired old routine for once? If Alvarez can’t get Slater to talk, he’ll go to work on Slater’s wife. I had a small taste of the kid who’s going to be putting on the pressure. He’s a mental case. Nothing surprising about that—it’s another form of routine. Doesn’t it mean anything to you?”

“And after the various lies I’ve heard from you, why should I believe anything you tell me at this point, Shayne?”

“Why, you pompous little tinpot Napoleon! Just because something never happened to you before, you think it can’t happen. Open your eyes to what’s going on in the world! If you put me in jail I’m warning you—”

“That will be enough of that,” Brannon snapped.

He signed to his men, who closed in on the redhead. Shayne’s muscles were rigid. He stood rooted, staring into the British sergeant’s eyes. Brannon returned the look contemptuously, and flicked again at his mustache.

Suddenly Shayne laughed.

“Is anything funny?” Brannon snarled. “Share it with me.”

“I just remembered who you remind me of,” Shayne said. “You wouldn’t know him.”

For some obscure reason he felt much better. Physically there was no resemblance between the two men, but in every other respect, he had realized suddenly, this British sergeant was much like Peter Painter, chief of detectives in Miami Beach, and a longtime adversary of Shayne’s. After years of trial and error, Shayne had learned how to handle Painter. He had been in many tight squeezes, but Painter had never succeeded in besting him. And neither would Brannon, Shayne promised himself, in spite of the British accent, his immense assurance, his cops with their vehicles and their guns, not to speak of the fact that he was operating on his home ground among friends, while Shayne was a stranger, as solitary as he had ever been in his life.

Meanwhile, there was no point in tangling with Brannon’s men. He let them take him to the door. They walked him up the ramp and around the hotel, holding his arms in a professional grip, one hand above and one hand below the elbow, keeping the elbow locked. Brannon was a step or two behind, shining an electric torch on the path, his other hand resting on the butt of his revolver.

They had come in a four-door English Ford. Brannon passed the others to unlatch the rear door. This street, like most of those on St. Albans, had a high crown, but even so, Shayne thought, the car seemed to lean unnaturally far toward the sidewalk.

“Flat tire!” one of the native cops exclaimed.

Brannon muttered in annoyance. At that moment Shayne heard a man’s voice singing tipsily. Looking around, he saw a lanky figure wearing Bermuda shorts, a pipe clenched in the corner of his mouth, wobbling toward them on a bicycle which he seemed hardly able to control. As he passed under a street lamp, Shayne recognized him. It was the British anthropologist, Cecil Powys. He had some kind of long, clumsy object in the bicycle basket.

Shayne and the three policemen were a compact group, looking down at the flat tire. Powys’ bicycle came faster and faster, the front wheel swinging violently from one side of the sidewalk to the other.

“Watch out!” the Englishman cried, appalled at what was about to happen.

Leaning far backward, his balance more and more uncertain, he closed his eyes and squeezed the hand brakes on the handlebars. The front wheel turned at right angles to the street, but as the brakes took hold it whipped back around. The bike came abreast of Shayne and the three cops. Powys gave a drunken yell as the handlebars were wrenched out of his grip and the front wheel slammed headlong into Sergeant Brannon. The sergeant went down. His arms flailing, Powys pitched forward against one of the cops holding Shayne. The bike’s pedal caught the other cop in the knees and dropped him. As he fell he carried Shayne down with him. Powys himself landed on top of the heap.

The bike ended upside down, its front wheel still spinning.

9

Michael Shayne, twisting, grabbed at Sergeant Brannon’s holster. The flap was unfastened and his fingers slid across the cold hardness of the pistol grip. He tugged at it, but it resisted. Apparently the holster had a safety catch that would release the pistol only when it was pulled at the proper angle.

Only one of the cops had kept his two-handed grip on Shayne’s arm. The redhead bent his arm and drove the point of his elbow into the man’s midriff, with the full weight of his body behind it. The cop grunted but still managed to hold on until Shayne pivoted on one knee, straightening his arm suddenly and swinging it upward in a half arc. The cop’s grip broke. Shayne rolled and came to his feet, crouching.

Brannon was fumbling with the flap of his holster. Powys, drunk as a lord, lost his balance again and sprawled forward, arms and legs outflung, keeping the two cops out of action. So it was between Shayne and Brannon. The American threw a quick glance at the retaining wall, a dozen steps away. He could probably get over it before Brannon could draw and fire, but he didn’t like the idea of being hunted through loose sand by three men with flashlights and guns. He stepped quickly around the tangle of arms and legs, going into position to deliver a quick kick at Brannon’s head. But his foot struck the long object Powys had been carrying in his basket, and without any conscious thought he instantly switched gears.

It was one of the murderous three-pronged spears carried by skin-divers. He snatched it up, stepping backward. With a quick pass of his right hand, he cocked it, and in the same movement he released the safety. Now the broad rubber bands that gave the weapon its hitting power were at full stretch. He held it lightly in both hands, aimed just above the group on the ground.

“Let the gun alone, Brannon,” he said sharply.

The sergeant looked up at the vicious prongs, three feet from his head. Shayne grinned down at him wolfishly. The two cops ceased to struggle. Powys disentangled his long arms and legs; to Shayne’s surprise the pipe was still firmly clenched in his mouth.

“Surely want to apologize,” he said. “The confounded machine bolted on me. Anybody hurt except me?”

Shayne nudged the Englishman with his toe. “Get up. The rest of you stay where you are.”

Powys rose unsteadily. “Nothing strenuous, if you don’t mind, old chap. Perfectly sober and all that. I see you’ve got my spear. Quite right. Get it out of harm’s way.” Then he cried suddenly, peering owlishly at Shayne, “Great Scott, my dear chap! You’ve got it cocked!”

“Yeah, so I have,” Shayne said. “Now reach down and pull the sergeant’s gun out of its holster. Don’t make any sudden moves. Just be slow and careful.”

“Careful!” Powys said indignantly, suddenly sounding almost sober. “You’re the one who’d better be careful.”

Shayne made a small gesture with the spear, and the Englishman said hastily, “My God! Don’t point it. You don’t realize. That’s for barracuda. Those prongs can go through a two-inch plank.”

“Get the gun and give it to me,” Shayne said. “I’m a little nervous, but I’ll try not to pull the trigger.”

“Point it higher, please! You don’t aim the bloody thing like a rifle. It shoots low.”

Watching Shayne fearfully over his shoulder, he bent down and tugged at the gun in Brannon’s holster until he had worked it into position to come free. Holding it between thumb and forefinger, so Shayne would have no reason to think he was going to try to fire it, he handed it up to the redhead, who sent it spinning over the retaining wall into the sand.

“Now two more,” Shayne said.

The Englishman disarmed the two other cops and Shayne disposed of their guns in the same fashion. He backed toward the bike until he could touch it with one foot. Very little time had elapsed; the front wheel was still revolving slowly.

“What do you hope to accomplish, Shayne?” Brannon demanded, recovering the use of his tongue. “You don’t think you can get off the island before I catch up with you, do you?”

“I can try,” Shayne said grimly, reaching down.

“Perhaps we might come to some compromise,” Brannon said slowly. “I was a little hasty, I see that. Forget what I said about putting you in jail.”

Holding the spear in one hand, Shayne set the bicycle upright and ran it forward and back to be sure it could still be ridden. One of the pedals ticked against the frame as it came around, but otherwise it seemed to be undamaged.

“There’s probably a lot in some of the things you were saying,” Brannon went on. “I’m sure the inspector—”

“The inspector wouldn’t want to be disturbed,” Shayne said. “Nothing unusual has happened, after all, except that a man’s been murdered. You remind me more and more of that character I know in Miami Beach. He always begins to get reasonable when he realizes how dumb he’s going to look.”

He swung a long leg over the bike and settled down on the saddle. He hadn’t ridden one of these things in years, and he hoped he remembered how. He gave the group near the car a long, deadly look, ready to swing the spear around if they made any move. Then he dropped the spear into the basket and pedalled hard for the corner.

Before he was halfway there he heard someone running behind him. He glanced around. Sergeant Brannon had set out in pursuit, knees high, arms pumping. He called out something. Shayne bent low over the handlebars and drove forward. In that one rapid glance at Brannon’s straining face, he had seen that the sergeant was thinking of what his superiors would say when they found out that he had captured Shayne and let him get away. At that moment he was more afraid of ridicule than he was of being impaled on the spear.

For a moment, exerting himself to the utmost, Brannon gained on the American. Shayne knew there was a way to shift to a higher gear on these English bikes, but he couldn’t waste any time learning the technique. He spun around the corner, narrowly missing the curb. With a despairing burst of speed, Brannon narrowed the gap to five or six feet. It was downhill now, and as the grade increased, Shayne began to pull away. The sergeant kept it up for another fifty yards, falling farther and farther behind. In desperation he picked up a stone and hurled it at Shayne. The redhead heard it clatter on the road.

“I’ll get you—” Brannon shouted.

Shayne continued to pedal at top speed. When the grade levelled out he looked back, but the sergeant was no longer within sight. He switched on the headlamp, found the gearshift lever and changed sprockets. After that the pumping was easier.

He had already done all the thinking he had to do. It might have been an accident, that Powys, drunk, should wobble up on a bicycle at that precise moment, but it hadn’t been an accident that one of the tires on the cops’ car was flat. Someone had let out the air, and there was no doubt in Shayne’s mind that it was Powys. The redhead wanted to find out why; he needed all the help he could get.

When he came to a promising road on the outskirts of town he turned inland and began to climb. He shifted down into low again, and as the pitch increased he got off and pushed. Soon he was able to turn onto a dirt road parallelling the bay. He pedalled for five miles and turned back, taking the descent very fast. He came out on Bayview Road, only a few hundred yards from the Hibiscus Lodge. He approached carefully. Only one of the little cluster of cottages still had a light burning. Shayne switched off his headlamp.

As he glided to a stop at the gate, the front door opened and Powys looked out. “That you, Shayne?”

Shayne swung off the bike and propped it against the gate post. He was stiff and saddlesore.

“Make it a motorcycle next time. They’re noisier, but they go faster. Brannon damned near caught me.”

Powys laughed. Shayne limped up the path onto the porch. Powys was holding the door.

“You didn’t mislay my fish-sticker, I hope?”

“No, it’s out in the basket.”

“Right. They cost a goodish bit of money, actually. I’ll just put the bike undercover, in case we have a visitor in the shape of the good Sergeant Brannon. Make yourself a drink.”

“Thanks,” Shayne said. “I don’t know about you—you were pretty stoned the last time I saw you.”

“When I saw that spear pointed at my head I sobered up in a hurry.”

He went out. The furniture was arranged in much the same way as in Shayne’s own cottage. A bottle of Johnny Walker and several unopened splits of soda were set out on the coffee table beside the tape-recorder. Shayne poured some Scotch into a glass and sat down in an easy chair, stretching his legs.

When Powys came back Shayne said, “How about Brannon? Was it hard to persuade him the whole thing was a big mistake?”

“Damn hard.” The Englishman’s pipe had gone out. He tamped down the tobacco and lit a match. “But I’m well known to be somewhat eccentric. Balmy, you know, but harmless. He was too mad at you to be entirely rational. The tire, you know—I’m afraid that still sticks in his craw. That was a little too much. He’s not a complete fool, and on the off-chance that he may still pop around to ask me what I was doing in front of the Half Moon in the first place, I think we’d better sit in the dark.”

“All right with me,” Shayne said.

Powys turned off the lamps, and Shayne heard him sit down. Another match flared, lighting up the Englishman’s sad, bony face.

“And what were you doing in front of the Half Moon?” Shayne said.

“Ah, Mike. Mind if I call you Mike?”

“Go ahead.”

“Let’s put that question aside for the time being. What we have to determine, I take it, is where Alvarez has taken the Slaters.”

Shayne was no longer surprised by anything Powys said. He sat forward.

“You’ve been sticking pretty close to me all day. You didn’t just happen to go bonefishing this morning—or hell, yesterday morning by now. You went so you could keep an eye on me. You tailed me to the Camel’s nightclub. When the cops were about to put me out of circulation, you took care of it, and you did it very well. To a certain extent I have to trust you. But I’ll feel more comfortable if I know your angle.”

Even with the lights on, Shayne probably would have detected no change in the Englishman’s expression. His tone remained the same, casual and offhand.

“My—? Yes, I see what you mean. Why should a bloke like me care who smuggles what, or who murdered my insignificant compatriot Watts? Mike, I’m dreadfully afraid I’m not free to tell you. Can’t stop you from speculating, of course. I might be working for some kind of a hush-hush outfit. These illegal trade routes are used for other things besides goods, you know—agents, propaganda. I’m not the cloak-and-dagger type, actually, but you’d have no way of knowing that.”

He thought a moment, and suggested, “Or I might be working for the British diamond people. The London syndicate is deeply pained—where it hurts, you know, in the pocketbook—by the known fact that illegal stones somehow find their way from the South African black market to dealers in New York. Or it might be that I’m nothing but a student of human nature. Heaven knows I’m seeing quite a bit of it this evening. That last doesn’t sound too likely either, does it? My point is, does it matter?”

“Maybe not,” Shayne said, drinking. “How did you know you’d find me at the Half Moon?”

“It was really rather simple. As you surmised, my visit to the Pirate’s Rendezvous this evening wasn’t wholly anthropological in nature, although in point of fact I got some rather interesting material. I chiefly went to keep you company. You disappeared into the owner’s office. Various people walked in and out, including a party of police, but you didn’t appear again. When I investigated, I found that the office was empty. You had left by the window. That seemed to be that. I came back here, feeling disappointed and left out, and prepared to call it a night. Before long a car drove up and what did I see but Mike Shayne assisting the Camel himself into his cottage. The Camel seemed to be in a rather bad way. I nipped across to look in the window, and saw the Camel picking up the phone in your bedroom. Needless to say, I nipped right back. All our phones here are extensions of the one in the Lodge, so it was no trick at all to hear what he said. He mentioned the Half Moon as your destination, and as soon as you left, I set out after you on bicycle. I took the spear on the off-chance. Well, I saw two cars in front of the hotel and I pulled into the bushes to wait. I waited quite a time. Then there was a disturbance behind the hotel. Somebody whistled. The Camel and several others charged around the building. I heard what I thought was a shot.”

“It was a shot,” Shayne said grimly.

Powys went on, “The Camel and his men came out dragging Mrs. Slater. It was hard for me to see, but it didn’t seem that you were with them. After that there were some very peculiar noises, as though some poor damned soul was beating his head against an oil drum from inside. Before I could investigate, the police arrived. I’ve never been fond of officials, of whatever stripe, and it gave me considerable amusement to let the air out of one of their tires. Then they marched you out, and I thought I should take a hand. Help yourself to the whiskey.”

Shayne felt carefully along the top of the coffee table until his fingers fastened on the bottle. He uncapped it and poured by ear.

“You don’t have any idea where this place in the country is?”

“Not the foggiest,” Powys said cheerfully.

“You heard both ends of those phone calls. That was Slater’s girl he was talking to, as you probably gathered. She did a lot of the talking. Did she—?”

The Englishman interrupted. “The easiest thing would be to see what you think yourself. I was mulling it over before you came. I’d just about put together a tentative conclusion, but I’d like to see if you concur. The fact of the matter is, as soon as the Camel started talking I thought I’d turn on the tape so I’d have a record of it, if it came to that.”

Shayne’s eyebrows rose in the darkness. “I’m glad we’re working the same side of the street,” he said with a short laugh. “I’d hate to have you for an enemy. Let’s hear it.”

“Strike a match, that’s a good chap.”

Shayne felt for his matches. He lit one on his thumb-nail, and before it burned all the way down, the Englishman had found the spot on the tape where Alvarez, the phone in Shayne’s bedroom off the hook, was telling the detective to go to the other room and bring him some ice cubes in a towel.

Shayne blew out the match and settled back. He heard the Camel give the operator a number.

“That’s the nightclub, by the way,” Powys put in.

A voice said hello. Apparently recognizing the voice, Alvarez began speaking in Spanish.

“Do you understand what he’s saying?” Shayne asked.

Powys adjusted the volume and translated the quick flow of question and answer. “First of all, are the police still there? Yes, he is told. One, posted at the front entrance. How about the people who were taken in for questioning? Have they returned? Only Al, whoever he is. An American. The police didn’t want to take a chance on holding him longer. Then Alvarez says to bring Vivienne to the phone, and from now on it is in English.”

He turned up the volume again. Shayne waited. There was a faint whirring sound from the machine.

A girl’s voice came on, and before she had spoken a dozen words, he knew it was the French girl he had met at the Pirate’s Rendezvous. He quickly fitted her into place beside Paul Slater. Alvarez had undoubtedly pulled those strings, arranging the connection so he could keep an eye on his courier and make sure he would be in need of money. Shayne, who made few moral judgments in this field, knew from his brief talk with her that she would be an expensive hobby for a man without much legitimate income.

That was all the rearranging he had time for before the Camel’s voice was saying, “Are you alone? Is the door closed?”

“Yes, yes,” the girl answered sulkily. “You understand that they have started my music. I must begin singing in one moment.”

“Never mind that. When did you talk to Slater?”

“On the telephone, this afternoon for five minutes. His wife—”

“I know, I know. What did he tell you?”

“About what?”

The urgency in the Camel’s tone came through clearly. “You know very well about what. You know that I have a business arrangement with this man. I received a notice in the mail setting a date for delivery—eleven o’clock tonight. When you talked to him he had already mailed the notice. He must have referred to it in some way.”

“No,” the girl’s voice said, still sulky. “You do not tell me about times or deliveries or such stupid matters, and I wish to have nothing to do with that side of the affair. Nothing whatever, do you hear me? When you want me to ask him what he will be doing at eleven o’clock or something of the sort, tell me what I must ask and I will ask it.”

“Why did he call you, then?”

“Oh, to warn me not to phone him at the hotel. His wife, you understand, had discovered about me and our meetings when she was gone. They had a great quarrel about it. He felt great remorse.”

“Yes, yes,” the Camel said. “But yesterday. Yesterday. I want to know his exact words. Did he say he had not decided? Or precisely what?”

Shayne had heard this question as he brought in the ice cubes and handed them to the Camel. From this point on, he had heard the Camel’s end of the conversation. He leaned forward, intent on the girl’s answer.

“He said he had decided to give it up,” she said. “It is finished. What happened the last trip frightened him severely, so no more dealings with that devil Alvarez. I sighed and told him this was bad news, I must consider how I am to live. You told me to make it clear, and so I made it clear. It is connected, the business with you and the pleasure with me, although I think sometimes it is not such a great pleasure to him, after all. And it is only common sense. If he gives up making money, he must give up seeing me. I spoke to him of another American, who unhappily lives only in my imagination—fat, bald, with much money. This man Paul does not like. Nor do I, to speak the truth.”

“And in the end? How did you leave it? You persuaded him?”

“No, no. There wasn’t time. I did the best I could. In another hour’s time he would have promised anything, though whether he would keep this promise is yet another matter. He is not exactly the Rock of Gibraltar, Paul. But I have no chance to get even a promise. The phone rings. Erring! His wife has returned. She is downstairs in the lobby. I must dash about here and there, picking up clothes, shoes. It is like a comedy on the stage, though I am the only one of the two of us who thinks it is funny. For Paul it is most extremely serious. This wife of his must be truly formidable. I assure you, with my dress half on, in only one shoe, with the fearful Mrs. Slater entering the elevator, I did not ask him if he had changed his mind and would handle one more shipment for you. This would be much to expect, Luis.”

“All right, I understand that. Still, you had a feeling that he would go ahead with it as planned? This is important. I must know exactly.”

The reels revolved in silence for a moment. The girl’s voice said reluctantly, “I wish very much to have the commission you promise me. So of course I wish that Paul would not be such a great fool. Why he is so frightened, I do not see. But I must not seem to care too greatly, or I will lose him. He is a complicated one, our Paul. Before our tête-à-tête is brought to a sudden halt, I think he is convinced at last that if he must choose, he will choose Vivienne Larousse, lately of Paris, France. He knows this is possible only if he has money to spend, and he has no rich uncle who is likely to die in the future, I believe. As I hop out the door with zipper unzipped, one shoe off, one shoe on, I am giggling. Now I have him in my pocket, now he will do as Uncle Luis wants, he will make money, he will give it to me, not to that dried up stick of a wife. But then I think some more. He is in confusion, this young man. One can turn him easily. And Martha Slater had him all night, all morning. Perhaps she used different methods from me, but perhaps not, do you know? And now I think that perhaps you and I should both look for someone new.”

Alvarez made a noncommittal sound. “And today on the phone?”

“It was nothing. He babbled about his wife, she worked so hard, she stuck to him and he was worth nothing—all very boring. He said nothing about you or your affair. I am surprised, you know, that he had arranged to meet you.”

Shayne went on listening to the exchange between the Camel and the girl, but his mind was no longer on it. The Englishman’s pipe had gone out again; another match flared in the darkness. The Camel cut the conversation off abruptly when he learned that Slater was leaving St. Albans, and asked for another number.

“Need any more, Mike?” Powys said quietly.

“I guess not,” Shayne told him.

The Englishman sat forward and turned off the machine. For a moment they sat in silence.

Shayne said, “I think I’d better have a talk with that girl.”

“My idea exactly,” Powys said. “I was thinking it might be interesting to have a whack at her myself. I saw her performance—quite educational, actually. But you’re the logical man. Wasn’t she the one you were dancing with?”

“She was doing the dancing,” Shayne said. “I just gave her moral support. Too bad you don’t have a car. Brannon’s probably shown my picture to all the cab drivers who are still working.”

“More than likely. But we are going to need a car, Mike.” He struck a match. He seemed to be having a hard time getting his pipe to draw. “Stay where you are. I’ll run out and steal one.”

10

Michael Shayne smoked a cigarette sitting in the darkness on the Englishman’s front steps. When he heard the crunch of tires on the gravel, he gulped the last of his drink and put the glass on a window sill. Powys was driving without lights. He coasted to a stop at the gate, and Shayne got in.

“Nice little Morris,” Powys said with satisfaction. “Amazing how easy it is to steal a car. Never did it before. I think it belongs to Miss Trivers, so let’s try not to get any bullet holes in it.”

He kept the lights off until they were a quarter of a mile from the Lodge. Then he decided not to run the risk of going through the town. Once again Shayne circled St. Albans on back roads.

“Don’t forget there’s a cop in front of the place,” Shayne reminded him.

“Never fear, never fear. That man is very much on my mind.”

They came in through the straggly unpaved streets of the Old Town. “Everybody asleep,” Powys observed. “Wouldn’t mind being asleep myself.”

They passed through the native market. After rejecting several possible parking places, Powys parked on a steep street beside the old church.

“I’ll look the situation over. Back in a tick.” He glanced at Shayne as he got out. “Pity you’re so bloody big, Mike. And that red hair. There’s no getting around it, you don’t look much like a tourist.”

He latched the door softly and disappeared. They were several blocks from the nightclub district; Shayne could see the fitful reflections from the big electric signs, which would go on blinking for another few hours. He heard a goombay band, perhaps playing in the Pirate’s Rendezvous. Beginning to feel trapped in the little car, he got out and stood waiting for Powys in the side doorway of the church. After a time he saw the Englishman coming up toward him rapidly. Seeing Shayne, Powys signalled. He turned and started back in the direction he had come. Shayne followed, keeping close to shop-fronts.

Powys stopped at the entrance to a narrow cobbled alley. “You’d better go in through the back,” he said as Shayne came up to him. “I couldn’t make out what kind of guard they have on the door, but with all those pretty gels in the floorshow, they must have something. I’ll pave the way. Another sudden attack of drunkenness is called for, I’m afraid. I’ll have quite a reputation before the night’s over.”

He nodded and plunged into the alley. At the next intersection he looked around the corner with care, and walked briskly across. A car went by. The instant Shayne heard the sound of the approaching motor he dove for a shadow and pressed hard against a damp wall. He waited until the car was well out of the neighborhood before he continued to the corner. Powys, across the street, waved jauntily. Without waiting for Shayne, he turned into the continuation of the alley. Shayne crossed the street at a run and saw Powys going up a short flight of steps that led into one of the buildings, probably the one that held the nightclub. The goombay band was resting between numbers, but even without the music there were muffled indications that the building was alive.

The Englishman’s walk suddenly became lurching and uncoordinated. He was gone by the time Shayne reached the top of the steps. The door was open, and the redhead looked into a long hall, poorly lit by a single 25-watt bulb. Powys was dancing solemnly with an old colored woman, who had apparently been watching the door. Shayne grinned. This was clearly a dance step of the Englishman’s invention, a weird combination of a cha-cha and a waltz. He held her in both arms, whirling her around and around while she shrieked with laughter and tried to push him away. He danced backward into an open doorway, looking down at her with his usual owlish solemnity. Shayne heard him say, “My good woman, you dance superbly.”

The redhead slipped past. Glancing to the left at the end of the hall, he saw a stove and a man in a chef’s hat, and heard the clatter of dishes. He turned right. A moment later he found himself at the foot of a steep iron staircase. Sticking a cigarette in his mouth, he looked around. A man in the costume worn by the orchestra came through a doorway mopping his forehead. A drum began to beat slowly.

“Where’s Vivienne?” Shayne asked casually.

“Working,” the man told him, without giving Shayne a second glance. “Her dressing room upstairs. First door.”

Shayne thanked him and went up. This part of the building, which the public never entered, was in a bad state of repair. The paint was peeling, the floors were dirty. He stood aside on the landing to let a dancer go by. She was barefooted, and wasn’t wearing much in the way of a costume. The first door at the top of the stairs was unmarked and without a latch. Shayne pushed it open and went in.

It was little more than a large closet. An unshaded bulb was burning above a make-up table with a fly-specked mirror. Clothes were thrown carelessly over the back of a chair. A small window that looked out on the alley was open as far as it would go, but the air in the room was heavy with the smell of cosmetic preparations and stale tobacco smoke.

Shayne lit his cigarette and made a quick survey of the room. One of the several dresses hanging along one wall had a Paris label, a sign that he was in the right place. He opened a small trunk, and found it filled with a jumble of costumes. He continued around the room, his deeply trenched face clearly showing his distaste for the job. He almost missed the small purse on the dressing table, amid a litter of jars and tubes and crumpled tissues. He cleared a space on the table and turned it inside out.

Below, the drum-beat had quickened. Shayne disregarded the few coins, the hairpins, lipstick and eye-tools. There were several torn scraps of newspaper and a folded letter. The drum-beat was now very fast; the girl’s number must be nearing its climax. He pulled the letter out of the soiled envelope and read it quickly. It was on a letterhead of the American consul, addressed to Mile. Vivienne Larousse at a St. Albans hotel. In stiff official language it listed the conditions under which French citizens could be assigned a quota number for permanent admission to the United States. Mile. Larousse’s chances, the consul seemed to feel, were not good.

Shayne thrust the letter back and picked up the newspaper clippings. The lines on his face deepened. They were radio schedules, like the one he had found in the Camel’s desk, and a light pencil-line had been drawn in the same way around several listings. The drummer in the main room of the nightclub was slapping his drum with mounting frenzy. He beat out a complicated series of rhythms in a final excited flurry, and there was an abrupt burst of applause. Shayne swept the assortment of objects back into the purse. Before he snapped it, he looked at the radio schedules again. One of the little circles had been drawn around the six o’clock news on Wednesday in the previous week. That was the exact moment when Albert Watts had locked his travel agency and walked off toward the bay, not to be seen again alive.

Closing the purse with a snap, Shayne stepped back against the opposite wall. His eyes were bleak. The crowd continued to applaud, and mixed with the clapping there were a few drunken shouts. Gradually the noise died. A moment or two later, Shayne heard the click of high heels on the iron steps. The door opened.

In addition to high-heeled slippers, all she seemed to be wearing was a light cotton wrap, which she wasn’t bothering to hold together. When Shayne had seen her earlier that evening, her face had been alert and interested. Her eyes had been alive. Now, coming into a mean, sordid room where she believed herself to be alone, her face sagged and was without luster. She seemed years older. Sitting down at the dressing table, she leaned forward to look without pleasure at her reflection in the mirror. She had reached up to take off her eyelashes when she saw Shayne.

“Hi,” he said.

She whirled. Her eyes were wide with shock.

“Now take it easy,” Shayne said. “I just want to ask you a couple of questions.”

She wet her lips and took a deep breath, pulling the wrapper across her breast. “Mr. Shayne. You gave me a bad moment, do you realize that?”

“Sorry. I didn’t think I ought to walk in here with a brass band.” He pulled the trunk out from the wall and sat down. “How was the show? You got a nice hand.”

Some of her quick expressiveness came back to her face. “It was not too bad. But this last show is difficult, after midnight. All the undrunken ones have gone home, and the pigs who remain—I feel that we have been wallowing all of us in the same sty. It will be hours before I can sleep.”

“Maybe you ought to go into some other business.”

She gave him an angry look. “Unhappily, I have never learned to operate a typewriter. I do not wish to be a clerk in a store. That is not my talent. But I begin to think I have been wrong, I am a third-rate artist and such I shall always be. And yet, here in this third-rate place, is it possible to be anything else? If I stay here much longer, I predict what will happen. One night after this last show, I will come up here and I will not have the courage to look myself in the face, which is necessary to change my make-up. And I will shoot myself.”

“I doubt if you’ll do that, baby,” Shayne said. “Not so long as half the population of the world is male. You may not make it in show business, but I think you’ll make it.”

She gave him a suspicious look. “This I hope is a compliment.”

“Have the cops been bothering you?”

She made a scornful sound. “I am not bothered by flics, of any nation. Somebody told them you and I danced together, so they asked me questions. They showed me a picture. It was bad, very fuzzy, on one of those little police placards. I did not recognize it. And you? Did you see the Camel?”

“Yeah, I saw him,” Shayne said. “It seemed to me we were getting to be pretty good friends, but then we had an argument and now I don’t think he likes me.”

“Then I am sorry. I do not like you either.”

“It’s not that simple. All I want from you is a little information. He won’t know I’ve been here unless you tell him.”

“And why should I not tell him? I dislike this job of his very much, but I would dislike even more to be without it. In three weeks’ time, I would be deported.”

“Didn’t you say something about wanting to go to America?”

A gleam appeared in her eye. She turned toward him a little, moving the chair so her wrapper opened. “Are you going to take me?”

Shayne grinned. “Don’t waste it on me. Your best bet is still Paul Slater.”

A wrinkle sprang up between her eyes. “What do you know about Paul Slater?”

“Quite a bit, baby. I made friends with the night clerk at the Half Moon. He didn’t know your name but he could describe you. Before he was finished the poor guy was drooling. It seems you’ve been coming there to see Slater.”

She thought a moment. “I would like a cigarette, please.”

He took out his pack, shook out a cigarette for her and held the match. She put her hand on his wrist as she took the light, then breathed out smoke slowly and looked up at him through her long artificial eyelashes.

“The Camel always keeps a supply of gasoline on his boat. I know where to get more. Do you know boats?”

“I know boats,” Shayne said, “but I don’t know the water around here. And you can’t get a nightclub ticket in the States unless you come in legally.”

She laughed bitterly. “If I put my name on the list now, perhaps there will be a place for me when I am eighty-nine. Of course I can always meet some lonely American and become married. There will be no nonsense about having a job waiting, having two sponsors, to guarantee I will not cost your rich government any money. But it is not so simple to get married as people think. The only American bachelors who come to St. Albans are college freshmen on Christmas vacation. It is said that Americans marry younger each year. But not these children. They have other thoughts besides marriage. And as for men like Paul Slater, they are married already. Did your friend the night clerk tell you that the last thing Paul Slater will ever do is get a divorce from his wife?”

“But what if his wife gets a divorce from him?” Shayne said.

“Oh?” she said, interested. “Now that, I concede, had not occurred to me.”

He let her think about it. The door was swinging in a slight draught. Shayne pulled it open and looked out; the corridor was empty. He closed the door and leaned against it to keep it closed.

“I’m not too up-to-date on the situation,” he said, “but I may know a couple of angles you don’t. His wife has had nothing but bad breaks all her life. Maybe that’s why he won’t ask for a divorce, he’s afraid she’d crack up and he’d have it on his conscience. By this time she probably knows all about how he’s been two-timing her with a nightclub dancer. That’s a hard secret to keep in a place like this. They’ve been fighting like cats and dogs—that’s another thing the night clerk told me. I used to take her out before she and Slater got married. I still go for her. This might be just the right moment for me to show up.”

“I see,” she said slowly. “And what do you want from me?”

“I’m not sure how much of this you already know. The Camel picked her up tonight to use as a handle against Slater. Slater was ready to skip, and the only way Alvarez could hold him was by threatening to kill his wife. Slater fell for it.”

“Do not fool yourself,” she said. “If Luis Alvarez says he will do something of that nature, he will do it.”

Shayne laughed. “It’s an act, honey. He’s a big frog down here, but it’s not much of a puddle. Back home we send people like that out for coffee. The point is, where did he take her? It’s a country place, half an hour by taxi from the airport. I can’t spend my time ringing doorbells. I want to show up before anybody gets hurt.”

She looked at him speculatively. “And you think she will jump into your arms?”

“She just might,” Shayne said briefly. “Even if she doesn’t, I’m tender-hearted where this blonde is concerned. I don’t want any of those creeps to shove her around. But she’s mad at Paul. First on account of you, then because he got her into this mess. Who knows? Maybe she’ll cry on my shoulder, and we’ll get talking about old times. One thing leads to another, and she gives Paulie-boy the boot. It could happen.”

“That is why you came here, when the police are looking for you?”

“I didn’t know they were looking for me,” Shayne said. “I’m gone on the doll, but not that gone. How about this place in the country. Do you know where it is?”

“I think so,” she said. “But I have not yet decided to tell you. If something goes wrong, and the Camel finds out I was talking to you—”

“Honey,” Shayne said patiently, “he thinks the cops have got me. When I turn up, the whole thing is going to be a big surprise. Why should he connect me with you?”

She made a gesture toward the wretched little room and burst out, “I am sick to death of all this! It is only a tiny chance, I know that, and I am a fool to take it. But I am sick of the Camel, too, if you wish to know. First tell me. Is it true that Paul hit him with a wrench?”

“Somebody did. He thinks it was Paul.”

She shook her head. “It is a side of Paul I have not seen. Yes, I think I will take this chance, like a fool. You have a car?”

Shayne nodded. In a rush, as though to get it out before she changed her mind, she said, “Go out of town toward the north. Drive ten, twelve kilometers. You will come to a crossroads, the main road across the island. Turn left. Now another fifteen kilometers. It is a new house on a mountain. Many windows. The sign at the turn says—” She thought a moment. “P. Smith. Or perhaps another initial. I remember a single initial, then the name Smith.” She added, reminiscently, “The pig.”

Shayne repeated the directions, hoping the turns would be easy to find in the dark. She stood up and put a hand on his shoulder.

“There will be others besides Alvarez there. Four, I think. Take care of yourself. It would be too bad if something happened to you.”

“I agree with you,” Shayne said. “Thanks, baby. I’ll be careful going out.”

Her hand slid along his upper arm. She was being very careless with the wrapper.

“Do you know,” she said, “if the virtuous Mrs. Slater decides to remain true to her husband, you could do worse than come for me.”

Shayne grinned and shook his head. “Uh-uh. I think you’ll make some lucky man a nice wife, but I know too much about you.”

She came even closer to him. Her lips were parted, and her perfume overcame the other smells in the room. In a low husky whisper she said, “Forget.”

Shayne felt behind him for the doorknob. “You’ve made your point. Don’t push it. I’ve got just one more question. Did you ever run into a guy named Albert Watts?”

Her eyes changed slightly.

“You recognize the name?” Shayne said, improvising quickly. “Good. I heard tonight that Watts was the one who tipped off the customs on Slater. I might be able to use this with Martha. Besides being a Casanova and a smuggler, what if he’s a killer? I’ll be careful with it, because it’s the sort of thing that can boomerang. If you don’t feel like answering, say so.”

She shrugged. “It was nothing. Six months or so ago, Paul asked me to become friendly with this man. It was arranged that we meet by chance. I was charming as always, but he put his tail between his legs and ran. Paul laughed about it. He said I frightened the poor man.” She smiled up at Shayne. “But how could that be?”

Shayne said, “Paul didn’t bring it up again?”

“No, the next time I heard the name, someone said he was killed in a quarrel of some kind. I am only interested in living people. That is all? Then I think I must give you one kiss before you go.”

She came up on her toes. Her hands slipped around his body, inside his coat. Her fingers were on the overlapping layers of adhesive tape beneath his shirt.

It isn’t necessary to be a private detective to have an accident requiring that kind of bandage. It can happen to anybody, even to the hoodlum Shayne was pretending to be. But for some reason that little touch was all the girl needed. A spark flared in her eyes.

She said coldly, “So the Camel thinks the police have got you? And I see that they have not. Does that mean you are a policeman yourself?”

Shayne snorted. “Do I look like a cop?”

“Yes,” she said slowly. “Little things have made me wonder about you, and all at once I think that is just what you look like, a cop.”

She glanced at the door, then whirled and ran to the little window. He caught her in two strides and clapped a hand over her mouth before she could make any noise. His other arm was around her waist. She struggled against him, throwing herself from side to side. She had a dancer’s body—smooth and controlled. She tried to bite his hand, but he was gripping her too tightly.

After a moment she stopped resisting. He kept his hand over her mouth.

“If you’re going to start using your head this late in the day,” he said, “really use it. I’m a private detective. I faked up that flier the cops showed you. They had their hands on me tonight but I got away. I made them look a little stupid. That’s something no cop likes, I don’t care who he is. So I’m in the middle.”

She tried to speak.

“No, listen to me,” Shayne went on. “If I let you yell out the window, do you really think there’s anybody here who can stop me? Don’t be stupid. All that would happen is that the Camel would know you gave me directions. It wouldn’t matter to him who you thought you were talking to. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

After a second he felt her nod.

“All right. I’ll let you go now, but if you make a move in any direction I’ll forget it’s bad manners to slug a lady.”

He took his hand from her mouth first. When she made no attempt to yell he released her. She whirled, pulling the wrapper together, and looked at him defiantly. Her lipstick was badly smeared.

“Get out of here!” she cried.

“You mean you’ve stopped wanting to kiss me?”

She glared at him, but in another second she smiled slightly. “I didn’t say that. I said to get out of here.”

“Maybe I’d better tie you up before I go,” Shayne said. “Alvarez may have a phone at that place of his. I wouldn’t want you to tell him I’m coming.”

She flared up again. “Try it! You will have a fight on your hands, Michael Shayne!”

Shayne laughed. “I think I could win it, but somebody might come in and untie you.” He studied her. “O.K., baby, get some clothes on.”

“I hope you don’t think I’m going with you?”

“That’s exactly what I think,” Shayne said, becoming completely serious. “It’s the only way you can get off the hook. Do it right and the Camel won’t know you helped me. Slater won’t be any good to you dead. If I get him out of there in one piece, you can claim all the credit for it. Maybe he’ll be grateful.”

She said suspiciously, “Who is paying you?”

“Mrs. Slater,” Shayne answered impatiently. “It’s also true that because she’s an old friend of mine she isn’t paying me much. And there’s one thing I didn’t mention. I have a tape of a phone conversation between you and the Camel earlier tonight. You were a little cold-blooded at a couple of points there, I thought. It might hurt Paul’s feelings if he heard it.”

“You wouldn’t—”

“It would be a dirty trick, wouldn’t it?” Shayne said. “It might even give him the idea that you don’t really love him.”

“So,” she said after a pause. “Since you ask me so nicely, I will get dressed. Turn around, please.”

“Turn around, hell,” Shayne said. “And get a knife between my shoulder blades?”

She stared at him for a moment, then laughed. “In some ways you are rather impressive, you know?”

“Come on, come on,” Shayne said. “We don’t have all the time in the world.”

He put another cigarette in his mouth as she shrugged out of her wrapper.

11

She chose the dress with the Paris label. It was simple and black, and fitted her exactly. Shayne was in a position to know how much she was wearing in addition to the dress, and he felt she was somewhat under-clothed, even for this warm climate.

She stepped into her high-heeled shoes, and then was ready for her face. As she worked Shayne became more and more impatient. She left the full theatrical make-up on her eyes, giving most of her attention to her mouth.

“Better?” she asked, looking around.

“Fine, fine,” Shayne growled, “Let’s get going.”

He was waiting at the door. She picked up her purse, gave her reflection one last glance, and did something more to her hair.

“I don’t know why I have decided to trust you,” she said, giving him an upward glance through the long eyelashes.

“I do,” he said. “Because I’ve got the tape of that phone call stashed away in a safe place. Any monkey business going downstairs and you’re dead with Slater.”

“Don’t threaten me, Michael,” she said, smiling. “And to show you we are friends—” She went to the trunk and opened it. After tumbling the costumes around for a moment, she came up with a battered man’s hat. “Put this on. I have a song I sing sometimes in a tramp costume—not at the Pirate’s Rendezvous, of course, here they care only for what goes on beneath the costume. It is too large for me,” she added unnecessarily.

It was too large for Shayne, he found after he had punched it into shape and put it on. She giggled.

He let her go first. She looked down the stairs and along the corridor. Turning, she beckoned. They met no one on the stairs. At the bottom, as she turned into the corridor, she called a gay greeting to someone, and Shayne pulled down the brim of the grotesque hat. He had his hand to his cigarette screening the lower part of his face, as he passed a Negro porter leaning on a broom. The man looked at him curiously, and Shayne replaced his usual vigorous step with a spiritless shuffle. The old woman at the door was drowsing over an American movie magazine. Shayne went by with his head down, his hand still at his mouth.

Vivienne was waiting in the alley. She took his arm possessively, hugging it to her breast.

“Where is the car, cheri?”

Without answering, Shayne took her along the alley and up the steep street to the church. The Morris was parked where he had left it. Cecil Powys was behind the wheel.

“Mike,” he said as Shayne opened the door for the girl. “This is a pleasant surprise.”

“I knew you’d appreciate it,” Shayne said. “She’s going along to show us the way. I also want her where I can keep my eye on her.”

“That shouldn’t be at all difficult,” the Englishman said cordially.

She gave him an interested look, shooting from behind the eyelashes as she had done with Shayne. The redhead got in back; she stayed in front so she could call the turns. Powys, sitting sideways in the driver’s seat, seemed in no hurry to get underway.

“I enjoyed your performance,” he said to the girl. “Frightfully good, really. When you were doing those convolutions to the drum, the thought crossed my mind how jolly nice it would be to go backstage and make your acquaintance. Then I thought to myself, ‘Impossible, old boy. Can’t be done. Girl like that must have scads of admirers. Probably a jealous husband somewhere in the background.’”

He beamed at her. Shayne said brusquely, “His name is Cecil Powys. He claims to be working for a degree at Oxford, but don’t ask him what he’s really up to because he won’t tell you. Now let’s get going.”

“Oh, come now,” Powys said mildly, looking around. “It’s not all that bad. I say—where did you get that awful hat?”

“You mean you just noticed it?”

Shayne laughed and put the hat on the seat beside him. Powys started the motor, swinging around the block to keep from passing the nightclub’s front entrance. Soon, following the girl’s directions, they were out of town tooling along the coast road at the little car’s top speed. Occasionally Powys turned his head to smile appreciatively at the girl beside him. She was a girl who liked to be appreciated. She slid closer until their shoulders touched.

“Now to the left,” she said after a time.

They started inland. Shayne leaned forward.

“I keep thinking of more things I want to ask you. When Martha was going out of town and Paul wanted to make a date with you, didn’t he have some way of sending you a message so it wouldn’t mean anything to anybody else? Wouldn’t it be a good idea, for instance, to tear the radio program out of a paper and—”

She swung around, and Shayne said, “That’s right. I looked through your bag. I didn’t have anything else to occupy my time. Those were from Paul?”

She hesitated. “I see no reason not to tell you. Yes.”

“You’ve been with him a lot lately. By this time you probably know most of his secrets. The customs people think he fooled them on his last trip. Do you know how he did it?”

Powys, his pipe clenched between his teeth, was holding the steering wheel lightly, intent on the road. His grip seemed to tighten, and Shayne felt a sharpening of attention.

Vivienne said carelessly, “I do not concern myself.”

Shayne made a rude noise. “The hell you don’t, baby. It wouldn’t surprise me if even Alvarez doesn’t know exactly how he works. But I’d be damn surprised if you don’t.”

She smiled in the faint light. “But you know, all this trouble may bring him together with his wife again. And if that happens, I might want to talk to the American officials in person. They pay well for such information, I am told.”

“Now that’s the spirit I like to see,” Powys said.

When she looked at him to see if he was joking, he winked at her broadly. Shayne sat back.

“Now you must go more slowly,” Vivienne said soon afterward, peering at the road ahead. “It is not far away.”

Powys cut his speed while the girl watched for landmarks. They passed several large plantations, and went on climbing. They left a small sleeping village behind. In the end, though they were all watching for the turn, they missed it. Powys had to stop and back. It was a small sign: “R. Smith,” with an arrow pointed up a gravel road. At a quiet word from the girl, Powys cut his lights. He waited briefly until his eyes came into the new focus, then ground forward slowly in second. The dark vegetation on each side made the road easy to follow.

“Not far,” the girl said.

Soon Shayne made out a massive stone wall on their left, about as high as a professional basketball center taking a rebound.

“I remember something,” Vivienne said suddenly. “Wait. When the gate opens, a bell rings at the house.”

“Easy enough,” Powys said. “We go over the wall, eh, Mike?”

He spotted a break in the vegetation. Coming to a halt, he got out to try the ground. Satisfied, he returned to the Morris, cut the wheels sharply and backed off the road as far as he could, stopping only when the rear wheels began to spin. He killed the motor and set the emergency. All three then set to work breaking branches to conceal the little car.

“What do you think about our mademoiselle?” Powys said. “Can we count on her not to drive away and leave us?”

“Sure,” Shayne replied with a grin. “I convinced her. And just to be on the safe side, let’s take the keys.”

“You don’t mean you are going to leave me here in the jungle!” she exclaimed. “All by myself?”

“We’ll be back.”

“Michael!” she said pleadingly. “You don’t know what you are saying. There are wild animals.”

“If I worried about anybody,” Shayne said, “I’d be worrying about the animals.”

“It is nothing to joke about!”

Powys laughed, but then said seriously, “No, you’re right. Get in the car and run up the windows. Then even the snakes can’t get in.”

“Snakes!” she said in horror. “You, you—you—”

He held the branches aside for her. After she was in the car, he let them fall back in place. “All right?”

Her voice seemed small and far away. “But for the love of God, hurry.”

“All the same,” he said in a low voice to Shayne, “this may not be so simple. I don’t suppose you have a gun?”

“They have enough guns to go around,” Shayne said.

“Expect you’re right,” Powys said doubtfully as they crossed the road. “I’ll give you a leg up. Mind there’s no broken glass on the top.”

He backed up against the stone wall and made a foothold with his hands. “I had Commando training, actually. Never thought it would come in handy. Just keep your foot out of my face, will you?”

Shayne put his toe on the Englishman’s hands and sprang upward. He swept his hand across the top of the wall without meeting any obstacles, and came back to the ground.

“No glass, at least.”

Powys flexed his fingers. “Next time I’m going to pick somebody who weighs less. Here we go.”

Shayne gripped the Englishman’s shoulders, placed his foot, and went up onto the wall in one smooth flow of motion. He swung his legs up and reached down for Powys’ hand. The Englishman backed away a few steps, threw himself toward the wall and seized Shayne’s hand.

The redhead felt a stab go through his chest, as though a sliver of glass was being driven between his ribs. He held on and pulled, and Powys came up the wall. For an instant, until he threw his free arm over the top, his full weight seemed to bear on the break in Shayne’s ribs. He scrambled up beside Shayne, and the two men dropped to the ground together. Shayne had to prop himself against the solid bulk of the wall or he would have fallen. His lips were drawn back as he fought the pain.

“Anything wrong, Mike?” Powys said.

Shayne grunted and pushed off from the wall. He saw the lighted house ahead, several hundred yards away, but instead of heading for it directly, across uncertain ground, they followed the wall to the gate. Then they went up the drive, single file on the turf at the edge of the gravel.

The house was lit up like a beacon. It was all on one level, of brick and glass. On the far side, the ground dropped away steeply, and in daylight there was probably a fine view across the mountains from the flagstone terrace. The rooms were like separate stage sets, each flooded with light. A man’s figure crossed in front of one of the windows, and Shayne instinctively crouched, although he knew they couldn’t be seen. The drive curved on around the house, ending at a three-car garage. One of the cars Shayne had seen at the Half Moon had been run into the garage, but the overhead door had not been closed. The second car was parked outside on the gravel. A cab, probably the one that had brought Paul Slater from the airport, was standing at the front steps.

Shayne pointed at the cars and made a wringing motion with both hands. The Englishman nodded. Keeping below the level of the terrace, he made his way quietly to the cab, unlatched the hood and lifted it carefully so he could get to the motor. Shayne heard a small tearing sound. Powys threw something into the darkness, lowered the hood and moved on.

A radio somewhere in the house, turned up too high, was playing American music. Crouching, Shayne ran to the stone balustrade at the edge of the side terrace. After a moment, very cautiously, he raised his head. Standing in a lighted bedroom, on the opposite side of a large picture window, Martha Slater was looking directly at him.

It took Shayne an instant to realize that she couldn’t see him. She was holding a lighted cigarette, and she looked very tired. The shoulder of her blouse was torn. She turned and walked away, going out of sight and then coming back.

There were two men in the room with her. One was on the bed, and Shayne saw, with an involuntary tightening of his stomach muscles, that it was José. He was watching Martha. As she moved, a kind of hunger glittered in his small eyes. The other man was in a straight chair tipped back against the door. Shayne raised his head a little more. It was the moonfaced youth whose name Shayne didn’t know. He was paring his fingernails lazily with a long knife.

Martha said something which Shayne couldn’t hear. José laughed scornfully.

Shayne pulled at his earlobe. Before he could make his move, he had to know where all his enemies were located and what they were doing. He ducked down below the balustrade and eased on to the next room. This was a much smaller bedroom. The cab-driver, wearing an impromptu uniform, was sitting at his ease in an upholstered chair with one leg over the chair-arm, smoking a long cigar. He had a tall iced drink in his hand. The radio was at his elbow, with a choice of Caribbean or North American music. Outside, his meter was ticking off waiting time. There was a wonderful look of contentment on his face.

The redhead grinned ruefully and continued his careful survey of the house. There was a bathroom and then another bedroom, both of which seemed to be empty. That brought him to the front terrace. To see into the front windows he would have had to cross the terrace, so he backed off into the darkness and retraced his steps.

The kitchen was empty. Powys was not in evidence; Shayne could hear faint metallic noises from the garage, where he was putting the third car out of action. Passing the garage, the redhead looked into the dining room. Al, the bartender, was playing solitaire at a long table. He was in his shirt sleeves, and he was wearing his big gun in a shoulder holster. That was the gun Shayne was chiefly concerned about. He was about to move on when he noticed something else. Al was turning up one card at a time, but he wasn’t adding any of them to the red-and-black pattern spread out on the table in front of him. Instead, while he kept his hands moving, he was leaning back in his chair, listening intently. A folding door was pulled shut behind him.

Shayne went on, around a clump of flowering shrubs. He saw the Camel in the living room, and a moment later he saw a man who must be Slater. That left only two unaccounted for—José’s brother Pedro and the caretaker Alvarez had mentioned.

Slater was speaking angrily. He was boyishly good-looking, but there was a weakness and petulance around his mouth, an unbecoming fleshiness of the neck and chin. The redhead was too far away to catch more than an occasional word. He studied the situation.

The Camel was on one side of a large stone fireplace, Slater on the other, continuing his harangue. Slater stalked to the big front window. The Camel followed him with his eyes. Now they were both in profile to Shayne, and the redhead quickly vaulted the balustrade, dropping without a sound onto the terrace. Slater’s voice rose and Alvarez broke in on him. Both men were fully taken up with each other. Shayne crawled in against the building, beneath the window level, and around to the front terrace. Here he could hear the voices plainly. There was a soft scraping behind him and Powys wriggled around the corner. The Englishman winked solemnly, and made a sign that the cars were out of commission.

“And if you are not the villain who raised this bump on my head, dear Paul,” the Camel’s voice said calmly, “I make it a condition that you tell me who did. I think that is reasonable.”

Powys tugged at Shayne’s ankle and formed the word “Alvarez” with his lips. Shayne nodded.

“I don’t accept that,” Slater answered. “It’s unreasonable as hell. I’m not your keeper. Do you expect me to make a list of all the people who have a good reason for wanting to beat your brains out? The woods are full of them.”

“Perhaps,” the Camel said. “The point is, you see, that the appointment was made in the usual way.”

“On a radio schedule?” Slater said sharply.

“Precisely! It came in the afternoon mail. With a circle around eleven o’clock.”

Shayne would have liked to see Slater’s face, but it would have been too risky to raise his head.

“I swear to God, Luis,” Slater said fervently. “I don’t know how it happened. Nobody knew that trick but me. You’re not the world’s most cautious man. One of your monkeys must have seen it on your desk one of the other times, and put two and two together. I can see how you figure, but you’re absolutely wrong. I didn’t do it, goddamn it!” And he added in a low voice, “But if you want to know something funny, I almost wish I had.”

“Is that funny?” the Camel said dryly. “Your sense of humor is a little deficient, I think. Let us be specific. I was twenty minutes late, through no fault of my own. Where were you between five minutes of eleven and twenty minutes past? Give me the names of two impartial witnesses who can assure me that you were not in a garage waiting for me to arrive so you could knock me on the head, and perhaps you will succeed in convincing me.”

Slater didn’t respond at once. Then he said heavily, “You don’t want much, do you? Between five of eleven and twenty after I was doing something dumb. I left the hotel at ten-thirty and I didn’t get to the airport till quarter of twelve. I suppose I picked up the taxi at about eleven-thirty, but before then I was taking pains not to be seen by anybody. And for a good reason. I sneaked out and put some of the money I made on my last trip in the mailbox of Mrs. Albert Watts.”

There was an expressive silence.

“I know it was dumb,” Slater said miserably. “You don’t have to tell me.”

“Dumb! It was insane! What if somebody saw you? Did you think about that? “

“Nobody saw me. It took time, but I was careful.”

“And why did you feel prompted to do this crazy thing? You are ill, my friend. It is as good as a signed confession.”

“Aah—I was feeling lousy, Luis. She’s pathetic. I snowed her once at a dance, and I’ve been feeling bad about it ever since. It wasn’t her fault that Watts wanted to make himself a dirty buck by turning me in. I could have mailed it to her, but they might have traced it to me. This way was better.”

“It isn’t good. If you go to the trouble of killing somebody, the least you can do is be quiet about it afterward.”

“I didn’t kill him,” Slater said wearily. “Don’t try to act innocent with me of all people, Luis. But he was killed because of something I’d done for money, and all of a sudden that dough wasn’t any good any more.”

“How much did you give her?” the Camel sneered. “Half?”

“I wanted to give her the whole goddamn thing, but when I came right down to it, I couldn’t. I didn’t count it. I just pushed it in the mailbox. Maybe it wasn’t even half.”

“But this is weak, Paul. Very, very weak. Oh, I am quite sure you did it. It is too absurd to be a lie. But I do not think it would take an hour to leave some money in a fat lady’s mailbox. No, I suggest that you felt generous to this creature because you knew you were about to rob me of a matter of one hundred and twenty thousand dollars.”

Powys stirred. The redhead looked at him quickly, and the Englishman made a face to show that the sum impressed him.

The Camel went on. “We are clearing the ground. Now this sudden midnight trip by chartered plane. Your mother is sick?”

His voice was thick with sarcasm, and Slater said defensively, “Maybe she’s not so sick I couldn’t have gone up tomorrow. But my wife’s been putting pressure on me to straighten up. You’ve been putting pressure on me to take one more trip and make enough to retire. At the same time I’ve been getting the pressure from another source you may not know about. I haven’t been getting much sleep lately, not that it matters. Martha is a good judge of character. She knew that if you people put on one ounce more of that pressure I’d break. And if that happened, if I took one more wrong dollar, she said she’d leave me. I’ve played around a little, sure, but I worship that kid, Luis.”

“True love,” Alvarez said. “I honor it. But please continue. You expected me to come to see you and urge you once again to be sensible and make some money. And you were afraid you would agree?”

“Well, hell,” Slater said uncomfortably. “I know my limitations. So I thought this cable about Mother was a god-given opportunity.”

“God-given,” the Camel sneered, “but perhaps arranged by someone on earth, eh? I will tell you, Paul. It is no news to me that you have begun to shake and shiver. A little of this pressure you speak about, applied by policemen, and I have feared you would fall apart. When you are nervous, you make me nervous. It is true, I want you to go once more. I have been working up to this one for a long time. And this knock on the head seems to me to fit, Paul. You have been thinking perhaps yes, perhaps no. When you decide at last, you do not choose the sensible, honest way, but the foolish, the dishonest. And why? You are angry at me for this so-called pressure. It will be the last time, you tell yourself, and never again, if you do it this way, will you have to make such an unpleasant decision.”

“That’s pretty cheap psychology. And it’s wrong.”

“This we will learn. Because of one thing I am certain. You will find out tonight what is meant by pressure, and I think you are right—you are not the type to stand up.”

“No. No. But don’t use any muscle on me, Luis. On me or my wife. At the same time I’m not a moron. When you pulled me off the plane and said you had Martha, you really jarred me. I would have done anything you said. But then I stopped to think. Consider a possibility, Luis. What if I didn’t steal this dough? Just consider it, that’s all I ask. How can I convince you, by swearing on the Bible? You probably don’t even have a Bible. To you it’s ABC. All I have to do is get up the dough. But I can’t get it up if I don’t have it, can I? So I knocked my few brains together. I know what you do with the people who double-cross you. Crrr!”

He made a choking sound, which he must have accompanied with a gesture, drawing his hand flat across his throat. “And if you killed me you’d have to kill Martha too, and I didn’t want either of those things to happen. So this is the way I worked it. I wrote a letter. It’ll be found in the morning unless I get it and tear it up in the meantime. And if I’m dead I can’t very well tear it up.”

“What is in this letter?”

“Why, the whole damn thing, Luis. Facts and figures. I know you think you can beat a smuggling rap, and maybe you can. So I put in the dope on what happened to Albert Watts.”

“That does not sound so menacing.”

“You think so, do you? I know you covered yourself. You’d be careful about a thing like that. So what I said was that we did it together.”

After a moment’s silence the Camel’s voice said softly, “My God, Paul.”

“I knew it would impress you. I said you told me not to worry about the alibi. You could get plenty of people to swear we were somewhere else that night. But it won’t stand up against a written confession, Luis. I described how we did it. I only drove the car, naturally. You used the knife.”

“And you—signed this amazing document?”

“What good would it be without a signature? And I don’t think it’s bad, for something I thought up on the spur of the moment. If you let us go, you’ll still be all right. But if the cops find me in a ditch with my throat cut, you know what they’ll think. They’ll think you killed me to keep me from confessing, not knowing I’d already written it out and signed it. If you didn’t hang for one murder, you’d hang for the other.”

Alvarez said in disbelief, “Dear God. What if somebody finds this letter before you get it?”

“They won’t,” Slater said with confidence. “And don’t think you can follow me and pick me up again after I have it. I intend to cut your telephone wires and see that your cars won’t start without some extensive repairs.”

There was another moment’s silence. Outside on the terrace, Shayne could feel the tension in the room. Then the Camel gave a muffled exclamation. There was the sound of a blow.

“You imbecile!” the Camel said. “I hope you don’t think you can make a fool of me twice in one evening. I don’t have to cut your throat. I will stop short of that. We will work slowly, so you will have time to appreciate everything fully. Then we will move on to your wife, to José’s delight. You said you worshipped her, I believe? There will be little left to worship when he is finished.”

“The letter—”

“But don’t you understand, Paul? Where you have put this letter is merely one more of the things we must find out.”

He raised his voice to summon the bartender. “Al!”

12

As Alvarez called, Michael Shayne moved his legs and nodded to Powys. Silently the Englishman began to wriggle backward. When they were around the corner, Shayne crawled across to the balustrade. Turning, he cautiously raised his head. Al had run in from the dining room. He was standing over Slater’s chair, and Alvarez seemed to be tying Slater’s hands.

Shayne and Powys quickly slid over the balustrade. Crouched low, they ran past the dining-room windows. Gaining the protection of the garage, they stopped for a low-voiced consultation.

“This becomes a bit more serious,” Powys said.

“You’re still with me?”

“Definitely. I want to get the Slaters aboard that plane as much as you do. How many men are we up against?”

“The Camel and Al in the living room. Two in the bedroom with Mrs. Slater, two more around the house somewhere. I don’t think we need to count the cab driver. He’s neutral.”

Powys said lightly, “Three apiece. Take them in sequence. I think we can handle them.”

“O.K. Start with the bedroom. I want the one on the bed.”

They circled the house. The kitchen, as they passed, still seemed to be empty. They were careful crossing the lighted strip of turf and the terrace, but once inside there was no further need for caution. The cab driver had turned up the radio to get the full driving effect of a Louis Armstrong solo. Powys followed Shayne quickly along a carpeted hall. The sharp pain in the redhead’s chest was gone, but a dull ache remained, a reminder that he couldn’t press an attack with his usual abandon.

He counted doors, remembering the layout of the wing as he had seen it from outside. He stopped and exchanged a look with Powys. The Englishman tapped his pipe against his heel and stuck it into his breast pocket.

Shayne turned the knob slowly, holding it in both hands. His shoulder muscles were knotted. When the knob was all the way around, freeing the latch, he drew back slightly and slammed his shoulder hard against the door. It came open violently. The man on the other side was hurled forward, and the chair fell on top of him.

Shayne left him to Powys. On the bed, José’s face had gone blank with surprise. Martha, too, halfway between the bed and the door, had frozen as Shayne burst in. The redhead had to break stride to go around her, giving José the fraction of a second he needed. He scrambled up higher on the bed, but didn’t have time to get out of a sitting position. As Shayne came around the bed he rolled forward and kicked out hard with his right foot.

The pointed toe of his shoe caught the detective in the side with stunning force. Six inches farther forward, and Shayne would have gone nowhere the rest of the night under his own power. He was probably unconscious for a moment. He fell, landing across the smaller man’s body, and his fingers fastened in the front of José’s coat. Momentum carried him across the bed. As he fell to the floor he dragged José with him.

His brain cleared in time to see that José had managed to take out a gun. This wasn’t Martha’s little automatic, but an ugly short-barrelled revolver. Shayne grabbed for his arm, but he was rolling away, bringing the gun up between them. Shayne let go of José’s coat and batted him awkwardly across the head with his loosely clenched fist. It was more of a push than a blow, but it knocked the Latin’s head back against the metal framework of the bed, dazing him for an instant.

In that instant Shayne recovered. He clamped a crushing grip on José’s right wrist. José stabbed out at his eyes with his free hand, his fingers bunched and rigid, but Shayne jerked his head and the dangerous fingers passed harmlessly across his cheekbone. He had discovered that he couldn’t lift his left arm. He increased the pressure with his right as José tried to get away. Straining against each other, they came to their feet slowly. José’s face was contorted with effort. José managed to turn so Shayne was behind him. Shayne was putting forth his full strength to keep the small man from twisting his wrist upward.

No more than several seconds had elapsed. The fat-faced youth, who had been sitting tipped back against the door, now lay sprawled on his back, arms and legs outflung. He was unconscious, and it seemed to Shayne that his jaw was broken. Powys was sucking the knuckles of his left hand. He stooped swiftly and took a gun from somewhere inside the unconscious man’s clothes. There were running footsteps outside in the corridor. Turning, Powys ran out, holding the gun behind his leg.

José squirmed, kicking back viciously at the detective’s leg. Shayne was slowly forcing his adversary in against the bed, smothering him with his superior weight and size. But his left arm still dangled uselessly.

“Michael, you’re hurt!” Martha cried.

“Get back,” Shayne grated through his clenched teeth.

Martha looked desperately for something to use as a weapon. José spat out something in Spanish. In the next bedroom, the Louis Armstrong record came to a blazing climax, and an American with a Georgia accent began telling his listeners how easy it was to borrow money from the friendly finance company that was sponsoring the program. Sweat poured down Shayne’s face, and his hand began to slip.

A man appeared in the bedroom doorway—Pedro, José’s brother. He looked stupidly at the scene, and it took him a moment to understand the meaning of what he saw: Michael Shayne, left bound and gagged behind the Half Moon for the police, no longer behind the Half Moon or in jail, but struggling with José for a gun. He started forward, shouting, and at that same instant Shayne’s hand slipped on José’s wrist, the gun came up and fired.

Shayne chopped at José’s head with his right. He was able to put a little beef behind this blow, and it caught the small man on the ear and sent him sprawling. Shayne stamped at the gun. He missed. He tried again, moving quickly, and his foot came down hard on José’s hand. José’s finger was still curled around the trigger guard. He screamed as the finger broke. He had one knee beneath him, trying to rise. Martha ran across a room, lifting a lamp over her head. She brought it down. It shattered over his shoulders; the heavy bronze base caught the top of his head and he went over sidewards.

Shayne kicked the gun out of his hand. He whirled, crouching. José’s brother was still standing in the middle of the room. The stupid look was back on his face, and he clutched his breast with both hands. Before Shayne could reach him his knees sagged and he folded forward. His coat came open, and Shayne saw the red stain on his shirt.

Martha’s hands were over her eyes. She was trembling violently. Shayne strode up to her and took her by the shoulders. She looked at him, her eyes wide with shock.

“Michael, I’m going to faint.”

“The hell you are,” he said roughly. “You’re going to stay on your feet and get their guns. Toss them over the embankment. Then clear out.” He thrust a set of car-keys at her. “If we aren’t out in five minutes, go down the road and call Vivienne.”

“Who?” she said.

“Vivienne. And then get some cops out here. Have you got it?”

She shook her head. “I can’t leave Paul.”

“Goddamn it!” Shayne shouted. “Do what I tell you!”

She shook her head again, returning his look firmly. Her eyes had cleared. Shayne could see that she meant to stay, no matter what he said to her. He put the keys back in his pocket, snatched up José’s revolver and ran out of the bedroom.

He had put both hands on her shoulders, he remembered, so his left arm must be working again. He tried it. He could bend the elbow, but couldn’t bring it out from his side.

The cab driver had heard the shot, and was looking out cautiously. Shayne gave him one look, his lips peeled back from his teeth. The cigar dropped from the man’s mouth. He popped back into the bedroom and slammed the door.

Shayne ran into the dining room as Al came through the folding doors at the opposite end. Al had his big gun up, but he didn’t fire. Shayne stopped. For a long moment the two men looked at each other. The revolver was pointed at Al’s feet. Al’s gun was pointed over Shayne’s head.

“You want to watch what you do from now on,” the redhead said quietly. “You don’t want to wind up as the guy who takes the fall for these bastards.”

He began to walk forward slowly. The cards were still laid out at the end of the table. Al was planted solidly in front of the doorway, looking as though it would take a bulldozer to move him.

Shayne said, “It’s a Mexican stand-off. You haven’t been playing solitaire. You heard what they’ve been saying. They’ve got each other sewed up. The Camel’s connections don’t stretch as far as murder. When he goes, the rest of his people go with him, and that includes you, Al. Don’t forget you’re a foreigner here. You won’t get any help from the American consul.”

Confused sounds came from beyond the folding door. The volume on the cab driver’s radio was still up very high but the music was now cool jazz, played by a small group of calm musicians.

“You were in on a kidnapping,” Shayne went on, still walking forward. “It wasn’t handled too well. Too many people in on it—very sloppy. If you think back, you’ll remember that the cops had me for a while, and I gave them all the names.”

Al slowly lowered the heavy gun until it was pointed at Shayne’s chest. Shayne kept the revolver aimed at the floor.

“I’m out of my own territory down here,” he said, several steps away from Al. “But if I get killed there’s going to be a certain amount of heat. The Camel must have something on you to make you wear that ring in your ear. The hell with that. He’ll have to have somebody to turn over, and you’re the number one prospect. Leave Alvarez to me. I’ll get him out of your hair.”

He shifted the revolver to his left hand. As he came up to Al he reached out slowly, moving with care, and took Al’s gun out of his hand. The tension went out of the bartender’s body all at once. He seemed sure of himself again. Shifting his weight, he hit Shayne on the side of the jaw.

Shayne rocked back on his heels. He grinned savagely, dropping the guns. Stepping back, he picked up a chair and whirled it at Al. It broke against Al’s upstretched arms. Shayne drove in behind it and nailed Al with a high right to the head. A left in the right spot now would have finished him, but the detective’s left arm was still dead.

He tried to drop back into hitting position; with only one arm in motion, Shayne was badly off-balance, and he fell forward, knocking Al into the folding door. Two sections of the door folded shut on him. As he freed himself, it banged open all the way. Slater and the Camel, Shayne saw, were rolling across the living-room rug.

Al came at Shayne, both hands up. Luckily he wasn’t a body-puncher. He threw a right and a left at Shayne’s head. Shayne slipped them both, and at that instant he had a sensation as though something had torn in his shoulder, and his left arm came up. He still couldn’t hit with it, but it put him back in balance and he could shield his ribs. Al caught him with a straight overhand. It helped Shayne set himself. He saw another punch starting, and he beat it in. Al’s punch landed, but with nothing behind it. Shayne hit him twice more. This was crude slugging, with no attempt at style. If either punch had missed, the redhead would have been wide open. But they didn’t miss. Al was already on the way down when Shayne hit him in the same spot a second time, with his weight behind it. One of Al’s arms, swinging, swept the cards off the table. He was unconscious before he hit the floor.

Shayne staggered. He felt the corner of the table against his hip.

Paul Slater had Alvarez by the throat and was knocking his head repeatedly against the floor. Slater was no longer the handsome, somewhat spoiled-looking young man Shayne had glimpsed from the terrace; his face was suffused with blood, his eyes protruded, and he was out of control. Alvarez flopped around helplessly, clawing at Slater’s wrists. A curious sound came from deep in his throat. Shayne knew that unless he did something to stop it, in another thirty seconds or less Alvarez would be dead. But a terrible weariness had come over him. He couldn’t move.

Cecil Powys ran in from the terrace, a gun in his hand. He glanced at the struggling pair on the floor. Without an instant’s pause he chopped at Slater’s wrists with the gun. Slater cried out. Powys hit him again, and his fingers opened. Alvarez fell away from him, clutching his throat.

“On your feet, Paul,” Powys said. “Your wife is still here.”

“Oh, my God,” Slater said thickly.

Alvarez croaked something and plunged upward at Slater, butting him in the chest.

“Gentlemen,” Powys said impatiently.

He dropped the gun into his side pocket. He pulled the Camel around with one hand and hit him with the other. It had been a long time since Shayne had seen anyone punch like that. The blow was delivered seemingly without effort, but Alvarez pitched forward as though he had been hit with a hammer.

Slater scrambled to his feet. “Where is she?”

A bell rang loudly in another part of the house. The strange lethargy fell away from Shayne. He whipped around. The bell went on ringing, a harsh and urgent summons. Someone must have opened the gate at the foot of the drive. He shouted to Powys and headed back through the dining room.

José was in the kitchen, standing confusedly with his face streaming with blood. He had made it this far, but he wasn’t going much farther. His eyes were glazed. He swayed forward and fell towards Shayne. He was holding a large carving knife in front of him.

“Watch it, Mike!” Powys cried behind him.

The redhead sidestepped, and José fell through the doorway. As he went down he pulled over a table and a lamp crashed to the floor. There was a sudden brilliant flash, and the house was plunged into darkness. The bell stopped ringing. The music was cut off abruptly in the middle of a note.

In the sudden silence, Shayne heard a car’s motor. He ran to the kitchen door.

“Martha!”

He heard Powys behind him: “Let’s get out of this place, Mike. That’s Sergeant Brannon or I miss my guess.”

Shayne groped his way outside. A moment later he was across the terrace and down the steps. He felt gravel beneath his feet, then grass. He could see the headlights now, coming fast. There were sounds of movement behind him. He called Martha’s name again. A shot was fired inside the house, then another.

“Off in the grass,” Powys called. “Keep together.”

Shayne could make out a blur of movement on the other side of the drive. Three more shots sounded. He heard a woman’s voice.

“Martha?”

“Yes, over here,” her voice answered.

“Is Slater with you?”

Hearing the American grunt in reply, Shayne concentrated on getting the little group as far as possible from the house before the car reached them.

“Now get down,” he snapped. “All of you. Down.”

They fell to the grass as the headlights swept by. Shayne saw that the driver was wearing a police uniform. When the car was past, they ran for the gate, keeping to the grass that bordered the gravel. At the gate Shayne looked back. The police car’s headlights illuminated one side of the house. There was another fusillade of shots.

The gate had been left open. Slater had apparently been hurt in the fight with the Camel. He lagged behind the others, his breath coming in great gasps. Outside the gate, he fell.

“Powys, go on ahead and get the car ready,” Shayne said. “Take it easy, Paul. Plenty of time.”

“I—” Slater gasped.

“Darling, it’s all right now,” Martha said beside him. “It’s going to be really all right.”

Shayne lifted him from one side, Martha from the other. For a moment the shooting had stopped, and Shayne heard a stentorian voice, unmistakably Sergeant Brannon’s, bellowing a command. More shots followed.

The Morris was cleared by the time they reached it.

“Give me a hand, Mike,” Powys said. “We can roll it out without starting the motor. Vivienne? Steer it for us, that’s a good girl.”

Shayne forced his way into the underbrush and gripped the rear bumper. Powys, on the other side, counted to three and they lifted and heaved forward. The little car hung for a moment, caught on a broken sapling, then rolled into the road.

“All right, everybody,” Powys said. “Pile in. Going to be a squeeze.”

Shayne tipped up the driver’s seat so Paul and Martha could get in back. He ducked his head to go in after them.

“Paul?” Vivienne said in a small voice.

“Hello, Vivienne.”

Martha looked from Paul to the girl and turned her head, biting her lip. Powys leaped in and released the emergency. The little car began to roll.

“Keep an eye out back, will you, Mike?” he said.

As soon as they passed around a bend, he turned on the parking lights. The car rolled more rapidly. He put it in second and turned on the ignition; the motor started smoothly.

“I didn’t introduce you people,” Shayne said. “That’s Cecil Powys at the wheel. Mrs. Slater, Miss Vivienne Larousse. I mean mademoiselle—or however the hell you pronounce it. You can thank Vivienne for getting us out here. We couldn’t have found the place without her.”

Martha hesitated. “We are grateful,” she said quietly.

“So much shooting!” Vivienne exclaimed. “When I heard that I was sure you would all be shot full of holes. Mon Dieu, how I suffered. Michael, were those policemen?”

“Yeah,” Shayne said. “I guess Brannon took my advice and found himself a pigeon.”

Powys said, “Rummage around in the dashboard compartment there, Vivienne. I need a map. I think there’s a short way to the airdrome without going around through St. Albans.”

Vivienne snapped on the dome light. In a moment she found a travel folder with included a road map of the island. Powys waited till they reached the main east-west road, then stopped to study the map.

“I thought so,” he said after a moment. “I wish now we’d pulled out the phone back there. I intended to, but I forgot about it, what with one thing and another.”

“Alvarez won’t be doing any phoning,” Shayne said. “If he can talk at all after that left you gave him, he’ll be explaining things to Brannon.”

“Hope you’re right,” the Englishman said. “I’d hate to get through all this and then find the beggars waiting for us.”

“Wait!” Martha said suddenly as he reached back to turn off the light. “Paul!”

The intensity in Martha’s tone lifted the Englishman’s foot off the accelerator. Even Slater’s lips were pale, Shayne saw as he turned toward him. There were great drops of sweat on his forehead. He tried to smile, but only succeeded in exposing his lips in a terrible grimace. He had one hand inside his coat.

“Are you hit, Slater?” Shayne said.

Slater shook his head shortly. “Fine. Go on.”

Shayne opened his coat and gently pulled his hand away from his stomach. With a sigh, Vivienne slid down in the front seat.

“Damn lucky shooting,” Slater said weakly. “Black as pitch.”

“Is it bad, Michael?” Martha asked quietly.

He looked at her. “Bad enough. I’ll need something to use for a bandage.”

“Yes.”

Lifting herself, she pulled off her half-slip. Shayne ripped it in two and passed it around Slater’s body, frowning as his hand touched the warmth and dampness in the small of Slater’s back.

“We have to get him to a hospital,” Martha said, watching Shayne’s face. “Quickly.”

Slater shook his head. “Airport first. Get you on the plane. I’ll be all right.”

Shayne completed the makeshift bandage. It would slow up the bleeding, possibly even stop it. But he knew that there wasn’t anything he or anyone could do for Paul Slater now. He had seen too many gunshot wounds, and he had seen the look in Slater’s eyes.

Powys threw the car into gear and it shot forward. “Make it just as fast going past the airport. What do you think, Mike? Put him on the plane?”

“No,” Shayne said. “He’s going to need transfusions.”

“Put Martha on,” Slater said. “Get out of this, darling.”

“Don’t be silly,” she said sharply. “How can you think I could go away and leave you when—”

He interrupted. “Shayne,” he said, his voice becoming stronger. “I know all about you. Oh, yes. When you were in the papers, Martha cut it out and kept it. Jealous. Funny? You’re the kind of man she should have married. Not me, poor old Paul. Nothing I did amounted to a damn. Couldn’t even be a halfway decent crook. Ashamed. Put her on the plane. I don’t want her. Tell her to go, she’ll go. Stay, all kinds of trouble. All my fault!”

Martha was crying helplessly. “Paul. Don’t say those things. I won’t go, you know I won’t go.”

“You will,” Slater said. “Shayne, make her. Won’t be alone. Vivienne. My type, Vivienne. I don’t mean it? I mean it. Never loved you, Martha. Admired you. Different. She wasn’t the first I ran away to. Last of a long line. If I married her, I’d be a better crook, better everything. You and I. Oil and water.”

“Can’t you go any faster?” Martha called to Powys.

“Don’t know the road,” Powys said grimly around his pipe. “We’re making pretty good time.”

The Morris rocketed around a curve, the outer wheels leaving the hardtop, and Slater said fiercely, “Hear me, Shayne? Make her. If she stays, the Camel—kill her.” A spasm of pain shook him. “Bastard thinks I robbed him. Thinks I passed it to Martha. Danger.” He gasped, “He’ll kill her. The truth.”

Powys took another long curve without slackening speed, and settled down for a straightaway.

“There’s something in what he says. I’ll take good care of him. If you stay, Mrs. Slater, the Camel’s organization will be after you again. I think we can stave them off, but Paul will worry about it, and that’s the worst possible thing for him to do. He’ll be easier in his mind if you take that plane—The turn’s along here somewhere. Watch for it.”

After a moment he continued, “And as for you, Mike, you don’t want to let the sergeant get his hands on you again. It’s going to cost a little something. Do you have any cash?”

“A few hundred pounds.”

“That should swing it.”

Shayne was still frowning. Both Powys and Slater must know as well as he did that Martha no longer had anything to fear from Alvarez. He and his men would be in jail—if for nothing else, for shooting at Sergeant Brannon. A performance was being put on for somebody’s benefit here. But whose?

The Morris was eating up the road. Slater lay with his head against Martha’s breast. Her arms were around him.

“I love you, Paul,” she said through stiff lips. “Don’t be badly hurt. I couldn’t live without you.”

She was crying silently. In front, Vivienne sat up with a start as the little car screamed around another unbanked curve. She turned to look at Slater, her face frightened. Slater’s eyes were closed. His head shifted on Martha’s breast with the motion of the car. Shayne thought he was unconscious, but when the lights of the airport could be seen ahead and Powys slowed for the turn, Slater’s eyes opened.

“Not much we can do if the blighters telephoned,” Powys said. “Let’s be sure we’re in agreement. Mrs. Slater?”

“No. No. How can you imagine I could—”

“Stop that!” Slater said. “Settled. Shayne, carry her if you have to. I’m—” He paused, gathering his strength. “I’m through. You—never respected me. Too late for argument. Do what I say. Better long ago if I gave you orders. Wife obey husband. Supposed to. I understand, Martha. My fault. Lousy husband.”

“We will look after him,” Vivienne said. “They are right, you should hurry. Paul must get to the hospital very quickly.”

And that made it unanimous, Shayne thought.

“I’m sorry about everything, darling,” Martha said hopelessly. “Paul, please. If you tell me I must—”

She was sobbing uncontrollably as Powys made the turn.

13

Late the following afternoon in Miami, Michael Shayne knotted his necktie in front of a mirror in the office of Dr. Benjamin Sanborn, the elderly orthopedic surgeon who patched him up whenever some misadventure of Shayne’s made it necessary. Dr. Sanborn tossed a set of X-rays onto his desk.

“You were lucky, Mike. When I let you out of the hospital I told you to relax. To keep out of trouble. Not to put any strain on your chest muscles. I think I remember advising you to close your office and go on a vacation.”

Shayne grinned at his reflection in the mirror. “No sermons, Doc. What’s the verdict?”

“From the marks on your face, from the skin that seems to be missing on the back of your right hand, I have a pretty good idea how you picked up these latest injuries. It wasn’t an auto accident this time. It was a fight. One of these days they’ll bring you in with something I can’t repair. And don’t think it’s going to make me unhappy! I don’t think I ever had a patient as deliberately uncooperative as you. What do you want me to do, put you in a straight-jacket or keep you under sedation till those bones have a chance to knit?”

He threw up his hands. Then he said gruffly, “There’s no new fracture. Your guardian angel was looking out for you, it seems. There’s been a slight splintering of one of the bone-ends, but I think the new tape will hold you together. Now please, Mike. Take it easy. Take a vacation. I don’t want the job of pulling bone splinters out of one of your lungs. Now will you get out of here?”

“Gladly,” Shayne said, walking to the door. “Thanks for the grease job.”

“And don’t come back!” Dr. Sanborn shouted.

Jack Malloy, the customs agent, was outside in the waiting room. He closed a magazine as Shayne came out, and stood up.

“I thought I’d find you here, Mike,” he said. “What’s bothering old sourpuss?”

“He thinks I ought to take a vacation,” Shayne said, grinning.

“I’m driving down to the office, Mike. Mind coming along?”

“If it doesn’t take more than half an hour. I’m picking up Martha Slater for dinner.”

Malloy gave him a peculiar look, and Shayne said, “What’s the matter, hear anything about Slater?”

They went out of the waiting room, and Malloy punched for the down elevator. “He’s dead, Mike. He went out around noon. He was only conscious for a few minutes after he made the hospital.”

“Well, I had it figured,” Shayne said heavily. “Did he do any talking?”

“A little, all pretty wild. The police stenographer got some of it. A French girl, Vivienne something-or-other, was with him right through.”

Shayne rubbed his forehead. “I’ll have to break it to Martha. It’s going to be rough.”

The elevator was crowded, and they didn’t speak again until they were outside in Malloy’s official Chevy.

Shayne said, “How about that welcoming committee at the airport this morning? Who told you we were coming?”

“We have our sources,” Malloy said vaguely, wheeling out from the curb to join the Biscayne Boulevard traffic.

“I wouldn’t have guessed it,” Shayne said dryly. “And what was the theory behind that shake-down your boys gave us? You thought Slater gave Martha something to carry?”

“You never know. All the tip said was that something hot was coming in from St. Albans. No names mentioned. But if you want me to relieve your mind, I can tell you now that there wasn’t a thing on that damn plane that didn’t belong there. That goes for Martha, for you and the pilot. It goes for the plane itself. We’ve been over it with a magnifying glass.”

“So no informer’s fee,” Shayne said, glancing at him. “Tough.”

Malloy turned right on Flagler. After several more blocks he slid into a no-parking slot in front of an office building.

“Incidentally,” he said as they were entering the lobby, “Slater left a sealed envelope with the check-room attendant at the airport. Gave him a couple of pounds and said he’d be back later to pick it up. If he didn’t show, the guy was supposed to hand it in person to a local cop. Sergeant Brannon, did you run into him?”

“God, yes,” Shayne said ruefully.

“After he was shot, Slater either forgot it, or he decided to let it ride. It was a confession that he and Alvarez killed Albert Watts for informing. It’s in Slater’s handwriting, and there’s no doubt it’s authentic. Alvarez is in jail, hollering frame-up. I gathered from Brannon’s tone of voice that as far as he’s concerned, the case is closed.”

“Yeah,” Shayne said. “He and Alvarez aren’t what you’d call close friends.”

“What does that mean? That you think the confession’s a phony?”

“Hell, Jack,” Shayne said irritably. “I know what Slater told Alvarez about it, and I’ll pass it on to Brannon. Those boys were trying to out-guess each other, and how much truth there was in it, I don’t know.”

They rode up rapidly in the elevator, and Shayne followed the customs agent to a door marked U. S. Treasury, Customs Division. Malloy had to use his key; it was 5:30, after civil service hours. He had a pleasant corner office looking out on the river.

The first thing he did was take a bottle of cognac and two glasses out of a file.

“You expected me,” Shayne said.

“Hell, I’m getting to like the stuff.”

Shayne sat down at one end of a leather sofa. Malloy splashed cognac into the two glasses and handed one of them to Shayne. Pushing papers aside, he perched on the desk.

“I’ve been brooding about this all afternoon, Mike, and it still doesn’t make sense. Here’s something else I picked up from Sergeant Brannon on the phone. He found a dummy attic in the Alvarez nightclub—”

“I told him about it,” Shayne said, drinking.

“He didn’t mention that,” Malloy said. “In fact, I got the feeling that if you ever go back to St. Albans without an honor guard of U. S. Marines, he’s going to nail your hide to the barn door. Well, he went over the attic and found one interesting thing—a little folded square of tissue paper. It may not mean anything, but that’s the way diamond dealers usually carry their stones. Anyway. You had a chance to watch Paul Slater in action, Mike. What do you think? Was he the one who creamed Alvarez, with the monkey wrench, and if so, what did he do with the goddamn loot? You didn’t hear a car, which means he probably got away on a bicycle. He had to plant the stuff somewhere, get out of the neighborhood, pick up a taxi and get to the airport by a quarter to twelve. That’s a lot to do in twenty-five minutes.”

“It’s too much,” Shayne said, “and I don’t think he did it. I’ve got to be going in a minute, so let’s leave it at that. He was too clever for his own good. Somebody found out about the way he set up his dates with Alvarez, and after that it was a cinch to highjack the shipment. If he’d really taken that plane at midnight, Alvarez would have been sure he did it. The real thief wouldn’t have to worry.”

“You’re a big help.”

“It means you’re still in business,” Shayne told him. “That shipment is still on the way, and you may catch it. I’m finished with it. It’s not too neat, I admit, and all I’ve earned so far is one British pound. But from this point on it’s up to you and the St. Albans cops, and I wish you lots of luck.”

“Thanks,” Malloy said dryly. “You surprise me, Mike. I never knew you to cop out before all the answers were in. Do you want to hear the junk Slater was spouting before he went under?”

“O.K.,” Shayne said, lighting a cigarette. “Just the high spots.”

Malloy picked up a folder. “It’s nothing but high spots. The stenographer didn’t get all of it. All right, Slater speaking. A plane goes over. ‘There they go. She should have married him. Not Shayne, not the husband type, but somebody like him, somebody sure. I did it all. I twisted her, I steered her. All wrong.’”

After two puffs, Shayne crushed out his cigarette. Almost at once he felt blindly for another.

Malloy looked up. “Nervous, Mike?”

“Who wouldn’t be nervous? I told Martha I’d keep her husband out of trouble. I didn’t do such a hell of a good job of it, did I? I don’t look forward to telling her she’s a widow. Go on, or is that all?”

“There’s more of the same. You can have it—I made two copies. I’m surprised he did even that much talking with three .38 holes in him.”

Shayne looked up. He said sharply, “Say that again. Three .38 holes?”

“So Brannon said. Only one of the slugs was still inside.” He added: “But don’t worry about breaking the news to Martha.”

Shayne’s voice was dangerously soft. “What do you mean by that?”

“Where were you going to pick her up, at her hotel?” Malloy said, watching him. “She won’t be there.”

The redhead could feel his stomach tightening. His mouth was dry. “You had a tail on her.”

“Hell, yes, Mike. Standard procedure. Two radio cars and four old pros. I wasn’t hoping for much, because if she was trying to pull something she wouldn’t be likely to do it the first day. And she slipped us.”

“You’re sure your boys didn’t mess it up?”

“Not these boys. She knew they were behind her, and she dumped them. Did a nice professional job of it. She hasn’t been back to her hotel. I’ve got a watch on terminals and airports, but it isn’t quite big enough for roadblocks. I don’t really expect to see Martha Slater again.”

Shayne reached for the cognac. He was feeling completely relaxed for the first time since he went bonefishing on St. Albans.

“Get through to Sergeant Brannon,” he said. “Find out if Paul Slater had a cable in his pocket when they brought him in.”

Malloy turned over the pages in the folder. “I got an inventory this afternoon. Yeah, a cable saying his mother was seriously ill, to come home at once. What’s that prove? We know it’s a fake, to give him a pretext for chartering the plane. I didn’t even bother to check on his mother’s health.”

“Don’t worry about her,” Shayne said, grinning. “She’s fine.”

He took the cognac to the window and looked down on the river. When Malloy started to speak, he made a brusque gesture. “I want to work this out.” After a moment he turned. “Have you got today’s News’?”

“Right here.”

Shayne took it and flipped through the pages. Malloy circled the desk to see what he was looking up, but Shayne closed the paper and threw it on the desk.

“Ok., Jack. That’s fine.” He strode to the door. “I’ll be in touch.”

“Mike! “Malloy said.

Shayne turned. “There’s one other thing. I don’t have much trouble getting rid of tails, but they slow me down. So don’t put one on me, Jack. Where will you be, if I want to call you?”

Malloy sighed. “Right here, I guess, Mike. I see this is going to be another night without sleep.”

“You need a vacation,” Shayne said.

He went downstairs and out by a side entrance. He picked up a cab in front of the County Courthouse. He gave the driver a series of complicated directions, which carried them north for a time, then east on NW 7th, south on 12th Avenue. He left the cab at the mouth of a one-way street, walked two blocks against the traffic and caught a southbound bus, changing again to another cab. By the time he paid off this cab on Miami Avenue near the bridge, he was sure that no one was following him.

Now he was within walking distance of his apartment hotel. He went through the driveway to the garages and took out his Buick. After more precautions, he drove to the P & O Steamship pier and went inside. He came out after fifteen minutes, headed south on Miami Avenue and found the address he was looking for.

It was on Bird Road in South Miami, a large stucco house with a considerable expanse of lawn. Shayne drove around the block. Returning, he found a parking space from which he could watch the house. He lit a cigarette and settled down to wait.

14

At 6:30 a man crossed the open breezeway leading to the garage from the house, and backed out a Pontiac station wagon. Forty-five minutes later he returned, bringing a well-dressed, healthy-looking woman, a boy and a girl in their early teens, and a great deal of luggage. The Pontiac was unloaded and put away. At eight a Mercury sedan drove into the driveway and a man and a woman went into the house. They were greeted enthusiastically in the doorway. A little over two hours later, Shayne ran out of cigarettes. Ten minutes later the couple left. Lights began going out.

Michael Shayne leaned forward hugging the steering wheel, his eyes hooded and wary. He had done a lot of this type of waiting in his career, and he would undoubtedly do a lot more. It didn’t bother him.

When the last light in the house went out, Shayne slipped lower in the seat. He had parked in a spot between streetlights, in the shadow of a leafy sycamore. At ten minutes after midnight, a woman approached on the opposite sidewalk. She was wearing ankle-length slacks and low-heeled shoes. It was Martha Slater. She glanced at the house Shayne was watching, and passed on, going around the next corner.

He left the car. Crossing the street, he crouched on one knee among the low-growing shrubbery at the foot of the lawn. He parted the shrubbery carefully and watched the house and the garage. After fifteen minutes he saw a flicker of movement in the breezeway. For just an instant he saw a woman’s figure. She came out a moment later wheeling a bicycle.

Instead of coming straight down the driveway, she headed across the lawn at an angle. Shayne would have to leave cover to intercept her. He kept behind the shrubbery as long as he could, but as he was crossing the drive she turned and saw him.

He set off toward her at a hard run. She wrenched the bike around, leaped into the saddle and shot rapidly down the sloping lawn. Shayne could see that he had no hope of cutting her off. He whirled and raced back to his car. Martha, peddling hard, bumped over the curb and was around the corner by the time he had the motor started. He roared into the nearest driveway, cramping the wheels viciously, reversed and came back. He reversed again and the powerful car leaped forward.

He turned the corner on the edges of his tires. For a moment he thought he had lost her. Then he saw a flash of movement between two stone gates into the University of Miami campus. Shayne swung the wheel hard. He knew she could get away from him among the university buildings, where he couldn’t follow in the Buick. Instead of turning through the gates he went past and made the turn on Ponce de Leon Boulevard. Again he was afraid it was a bad guess, and he began to slow down. Something glinted at him in the rear-view mirror; it was gone when he turned around, but he made a sweeping U-turn at the next intersection and came back with the gas pedal on the floor. Ahead, the bike shot through a red light and hurtled into the southbound traffic on Miami Avenue.

A horn sounded a long desperate warning. There was a shriek of locked wheels. Martha, on the bike, was trying to cut diagonally across the lanes. An open convertible swerved to avoid her. An opening appeared. She almost slipped through, but the car behind her was traveling too fast; it touched her rear fender and she went out of control. Lights flashed. Brakes and horns sounded at the same second. She disappeared from Shayne’s view. There was a long skid, a sickening crunch of metal.

The light changed, and Shayne came down hard on the gas. On the other side of the intersection he swung in toward the sidewalk, his wheels riding over the curb. He snapped off the ignition and leaped out.

He saw the bicycle first. It was a boy’s English bike, brand new, with the brakes on the handlebars. The front wheel was squashed flat, the center bar bent into the shape of an L. It had been hurled almost across the sidewalk, but Martha lay on the curb, her head and shoulders on the sidewalk, the rest of her body on the road.

The light changed, but the northbound traffic couldn’t move; a panel truck had slued as the brakes took hold, and now blocked both lanes. The driver, a pale young man in a sports shirt, ran toward Martha. He and Shayne reached her almost together.

“She shot right out in front of me!” he cried. “How could I—”

Shayne knelt beside the girl. Her body was twisted at a terrible angle. “I don’t feel anything at all,” she said wonderingly. “Mike. I knew you’d find out. I didn’t dare wait. I thought I’d still have a chance if I could get away tonight.”

“Don’t touch her!” Shayne said roughly as the truck driver stooped to lift her onto the sidewalk. “Call an ambulance. The V. A. hospital’s nearest. Then call police emergency. Get moving.”

“How did you know I would come here?” Martha said.

“It wasn’t too hard to figure,” Shayne said. “The P & O had a cruise ship coming in tonight that touched at St. Albans this morning. I got a list of the passengers who went aboard at St. Albans, with their baggage declarations. These people were the only ones who brought back an English bicycle. You’d better not talk.”

“I want to. The strange thing is that I have no feeling anywhere at all. That means it’s serious, doesn’t it?”

“We’ll see when the ambulance gets here.”

“Has there been any news about Paul?”

“He’s dead.”

A spasm of pain twisted her face. “How horrible.”

Shayne looked down at her and said gently, “But if you were going to feel bad about it, you shouldn’t have shot him.”

Her eyes widened. “Michael, you know me! You know—”

“I’m beginning to think I don’t know you very well. There was a lot of wild shooting last night. One of those stray shots might have pinked any one of us. But not three shots in a row. I told you to throw away the guns, but you kept one of them, didn’t you? When the lights went out you called for your husband. He answered you. You took his hand, put the gun against his stomach and shot him three times.”

She turned her face away. “How can you think such a horrible thing?”

“Come on, Martha. Stop acting. What’s in the bike frame?”

“Diamonds. That doesn’t mean—”

Shayne looked up. A circle of people was standing around them. One was a cop whose face looked vaguely familiar.

“Anything I can do, Mike? The ambulance call is in.”

“Better clear the lane so it can get in against the curb.”

“Michael,” Martha said in a low voice, “talk to me about it. You owe me that much. The pain will be too bad later. I have to make plans.”

“I don’t owe you anything except one pound,” he said.

Reaching out, she found his hand. “Michael. I knew about the diamonds, but that’s absolutely all.”

“The hell it is, Martha. Paul didn’t make those arrangements last night. You did. You knew about the trick with the radio programs. You made the appointment with Alvarez. You arranged with someone up here to send the cable about Paul’s mother. You talked him into chartering the plane. And if he’d actually taken off, it would have worked. It was a pretty good try. You only missed by thirty seconds.”

She threw her head from side to side, keeping a desperate hold on his hand.

He said, “The cable was in his pocket when they brought him in. He wouldn’t have to send a cable to himself—he didn’t show it to anybody.”

“Damn you, Michael. The minute you came into that room I knew it was over. I have to know. Why do you think I should shoot Paul?”

“The minute Alvarez told him how the appointment had been made, he knew who made it. He probably guessed that the cable was a phony. He wouldn’t have the guts to pull a trick like that himself, but he was willing to cover up for you, and divide the profits. And it wasn’t part of your plan to divide with anybody. And there were other things. He thought he was the one who started the smuggling. I doubt it. I think it was your idea, and like a good wife you persuaded him that he’d thought of it first. Of course he was the one who’d go to jail if anything slipped. He wasn’t the world’s biggest brain, but in time he would have figured it out. You didn’t want that, because he might figure out at the same time that you’re the one who put the knife in Albert Watts.”

“Michael. Stop.”

“I’d just as soon stop. This wasn’t my idea.”

“No, no, I have to know what you think. But it’s insane!”

“Look at it one way,” Shayne said, “and every murderer’s insane. Paul thought it was Alvarez or one of his people who killed Watts. Alvarez thought it was Paul. They both had the same reason. It was a good one, but yours was better. Because why didn’t Watts give information against you as well as Paul?”

She frowned.

Shayne went on, “You were the link, Martha. I’ve had since six tonight to work it out, and I think I’ve got it. Neither Paul nor you did any actual handling. You planted the stuff on people who didn’t know you existed. This afternoon Malloy reminded me that after the Camel was slugged I didn’t hear a car. Whoever did it must have got away on a bicycle. And it dawned on me. Everybody on St. Albans rides bicycles. The tourists rent them. Some of them take one of them home, if they’ve got any of their five hundred dollars left. I don’t know if they get as good a break on the price as on jewelry or liquor—”

“Just about,” she said tonelessly.

“All you had to do was find out who’d bought a bicycle to ship home, and borrow it for a few hours. That would be easy. Nobody locks up bicycles down there. You take off the handlebars and drop the little packages in the hollow frame. You put the bike back where you got it. A month later, or six months later, after the tourist is back in the States with all his wonderful bargains, you borrow the bike again. You take out the packages and have it back before the owner knows it’s missing. And there’s never any connection between you and Paul and the people who carry the stuff in for you. You keep to tourists who live in southern Florida, which is also easy because if they live farther away they don’t take a bicycle home. It’s a clumsy thing to carry in a car.”

“You should have been a criminal,” she said bitterly.

“Watts handled baggage at the agency,” Shayne went on. “He’d know who bought what, and when they were leaving. Paul tried Vivienne on him first. She scared him. But you wouldn’t scare him, Martha. Did you pay him with money or something else? Hell, maybe you didn’t have to pay him at all. But he found out what was going on. He didn’t denounce you both, just Paul. I think he saw Paul in jail for a long term, and Albert Watts and Paul’s wife on some other Caribbean island spending those nice thousand dollar bills. A dreamer, in short. But that was his dream, not yours. You couldn’t afford to have him alive with the big one coming up.”

A siren began rising and falling in the distance.

“I was across the island when he was killed,” she said.

“No, I don’t think so, Martha. He gave his wife a long excuse about why he wouldn’t be home for dinner, the kind of elaborate excuse a married man uses when he has a date with another girl. You were driving a rented car. You probably did some business on the other side of the island, counting on the natives to be vague about the time if anybody ever asked them. Watts walked out of town to some lonely spot, where you picked him up after dark. You did some hard drinking together, and he probably did some more dreaming. On the way back to town, you pulled off the road for one last kiss. You stabbed him three times, the same number of bullets you put in Paul. You took his wallet, to make it look like a robbery, and pushed him out in the native quarter. You knew the natives wouldn’t come out to help a white man with his well known views on the subject of natives. He bled to death.”

“Nobody else thinks—”

“Martha, he’d denounced a smuggler, and the man had reappeared on the island. At a time like that he wouldn’t go drinking in native bars. He wouldn’t be alone with anyone he didn’t trust.”

“Is that all?”

“I think it’s about all.”

The siren was coming rapidly nearer. Martha said, “Then it’s not very much. I’m going to fight it. I won’t give you an inch.”

Her face was suddenly distorted with pain. The cords stood out on her neck and her grip on Shayne’s hand tightened.

“It’s beginning,” she whispered. After an instant she went on, “Well, do you expect me to say I’m sorry? All you have is a theory. You’ll have your hands full convicting me of smuggling. And as for murder—”

“You hired me to find out who killed Watts,” Shayne said wearily. “With your husband, you used somebody else’s gun, and you’re probably in the clear. But I think they’ll pin Watts on you. They don’t need much. Just someone who saw you together once, someone who saw him being pushed out of the car. A little blood on the seat would do it. There’s a lot of blood in a stabbing. Maybe his raincoat didn’t catch it all.”

She turned her head to look at him as the ambulance pulled up at the curb.

“You must hate me, Michael.”

“Maybe just a little,” Shayne said.

Two interns jumped out of the ambulance with a stretcher. Shayne remained at the girl’s side.

“You had your full quota of luck with Slater,” he said. “He knew you shot him, but he wanted you to take the plane and get away with the diamonds, because he thought it was his fault. He thought he started the smuggling, and turned you into the kind of person who would kill her husband for money, because he’d made money seem that important to you. When I think of that, I’m a little sick. And I’ve suddenly started wondering about the first time you became a widow. Everybody thought Fred Baines was shot by a jewel thief. The guy always claimed he was innocent. I’m going to have another look at that case.”

She stared at him. “You monster! Damn you, damn you. I didn’t!” she cried as the pain began again. “I had to kill Watts and Paul. You don’t understand. After I started I had to go through with it, wherever it led. But not Fred. I loved him! He was the only man—”

Shayne stood up. One of the interns had a hypodermic syringe. Shayne watched bleakly as the needle went in. Slowly and painstakingly, the interns worked the stretcher beneath her body.

“I didn’t!” she sobbed. “You horrible, horrible—”

Her voice died, and with a sigh she went under. As one of the interns went past him, Shayne gave him a questioning look. The intern shook his head.

“Not a chance.”

They slid the stretcher into the ambulance. As the ambulance moved off, its siren howling, Malloy’s Chevy pulled into the space it left vacant.

“I thought that would be you, Mike,” he said, coming out. “I’ve been listening to the trouble on short wave.”

Shayne was looking after the departing ambulance, his face drained of expression.

“Martha?” Malloy said.

“Yeah,” Shayne said heavily, and with an effort he turned toward the smashed bike. “Diamonds. In the frame.”

“Well, well,” Malloy exclaimed. “I knew you’d come through for me with that much dough involved, Mike.”

“What?” Shayne said, and then he thrust his head forward. In an instant he had thrown off his depression. Everything seemed in much sharper focus. “Open it up, Jack. Twenty-five percent of a hundred and twenty grand—”

Malloy said suspiciously, “Where’d you get that figure?”

“Alvarez said that’s how much he lost when he was slugged.”

“That’s wholesale. We’ll put it up at auction and get pretty close to the market price. It should run a quarter of a million or better, if he figured it at a hundred and twenty.” He went to pick up the bike. “But I might as well tell you. You’re only getting half.”

“What do you mean, half? I did all the work. They were shooting at me, not you.”

“I’m not talking about me. I’ll go on drawing my modest salary for another twenty years, when I’ll become eligible for a modest pension. But there’s a character named Powys—”

“Powys!” Shayne said. “The guy who claimed he was working on a Ph.D.?”

“Doctors in anthropology get even less than people who work for the U. S. government, I understand. It could be that he was also having himself a good time, but this twenty-five G’s will come in handy.”

“Good God!” Shayne said, clapping his thighs as many things suddenly became clear to him. “He must have thought I actually was a hoodlum.”

“He saw your face on a Wanted flier. What else would he think? There’s one thing wrong with our way of paying for information—when one of our tipsters gets wind of a shipment, he wants it to go through so he can take his percentage of the seizure. Powys didn’t want you arrested. He wanted you and the Slaters to get away. The moment your plane took off he cabled me.”

“You didn’t find anything on the plane,” Shayne said. “So how does he come in for half?”

“This is a one-shot with you, Mike. If Alvarez beats this murder charge, and I have a hunch he will, he’s going to start operating again. And Powys is still on the scene. I want to keep him happy.”

Shayne looked at him for a moment, somewhat groggily. Then he pulled himself together.

“I can’t stand here arguing. Sergeant Brannon or no Sergeant Brannon, I’ve got to get back to St. Albans.”

“Why?” Malloy said, surprised.

“You forget I’m on vacation. I have to send postcards, get a sunburn and do some shopping. And then come in at the International Airport on the right plane so my secretary can meet me. If she knew I’d come home ahead of time she’d wring my neck.”

“Mike, you can’t mean—”

“That’s exactly what I do mean,” Shayne said grimly.

But life, as Shayne had known for years, is full of surprises. There were almost a million people in greater Miami. The odds that Lucy Hamilton would be passing that spot on Miami Avenue in a taxi at exactly that moment were rather long. For one thing, she only came into that part of town once or twice a year. For another, when Shayne was out of town she usually went to bed earlier than this. But as it happened, she had had dinner with friends nearby, and had been listening to records all evening, and was now on her way home. She called out sharply to her driver. When he came to a stop in front of Malloy’s Chevy she leaned out the window.

“Michael Shayne, what are you doing in Miami?” Neither Malloy nor Shayne could answer. They were laughing too hard.

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