Murder Takes No Holiday

Brett Halliday

Murder Takes No Holiday

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.”