He cut the motor as he approached, turned the rudder to make a wide circle that would start him back in the other direction. He checked his watch and found to his surprise that he had been on the water almost half an hour. It had seemed much less than that, but his watch said 5:29.
It was heavier going on the return trip, bucking the stiff breeze and the swells. He squinted his eyes and fought to keep the little boat on her course.
He caught a glimpse of a floating object a hundred feet to his left and studied it curiously for a moment, then twisted the rudder to carry him closer to it
Two bronzed and trunk-clad lads were tacking a sailboat from the eastern shore on a course which was bringing them directly toward Shayne, but he held on toward the floating object as his first uneasy conviction grew stronger.
It looked like a floating bather riding lazily and easily on the swell, but it wasn’t wearing a bathing suit and it was floating face downward.
When he was within 20 feet of the object, Shayne knew it was the body of a man, fully dressed and with outspread arms and legs that moved sluggishly in the water as though he propelled himself forward.
Shayne hesitated briefly, glancing over his shoulder at the approaching sailboat. It was close now, and one of the boys was standing in the bow pointing ahead and shouting excitedly. Shayne knew that they too, had seen the floating body. He couldn’t turn away now and pretend he hadn’t seen it.
He cut his outboard motor and let the little boat drift on, dropping to his knees and leaning overboard to grab the body and pull it aboard.
The lads nosed their sailboat in against him gently as he turned the man over on his back and looked into the leathery face of Angus Browne.
One of the boys leaped aboard, exclaiming, “Gee, Mister, is he dead?”
“He’s dead, all right,” said Shayne grimly. The top of Browne’s head was smashed like an eggshell and the water lapping against the side of the boat bore a faint reddish tint which faded and disappeared into the blue waters of the bay, even as he looked down at it in the gathering dusk.
“Killed, by gosh!” the boy said in an awed voice. He yelled at his companion in the sailboat. “You oughta see it, Tom. It’s a dead man.”
Shayne sank back on his haunches, his mouth tight. They were less than a quarter of a mile from the eastern shore of the bay, not more than a mile north of the County Causeway.
“Better get back in your own boat,” Shayne told the boy. “Sail back to shore and call the police. Tell them to bring an ambulance to the foot of the Causeway. I’ll take the body in there.”
“Gee! You bet. Right away, Mister.” The boy leaped back into his sailboat and Shayne shoved his small boat away, starting the motor again. He waited until a fair distance separated the two boats before cutting his motor down and lashing the tiller to hold it on course. He then went through Browne’s pockets carefully.
He found a water-soaked wallet in his breast pocket, some keys, change, and a handkerchief in his pants pockets. Nothing else. Nothing to indicate what he had taken from the special delivery envelope only a few hours ago.
Shayne put the things back and headed the catboat in toward the foot of the Causeway. The boys had already reached shore and there was no doubt they had called the police at the earliest moment they could.
He heard the scream of police car and ambulance as he nosed the prow into the soft mud alongside the Causeway. A couple of ambulance attendants and some police officers were waiting for him. He tossed the painter ashore to one of them, stood up in the bow and leaped ashore.
Chief Painter came striding down behind the others, stopped short with a malignant eye on Shayne. “I might’ve guessed it. As soon as I heard there was a body, I might’ve known it’d be you again.”
Shayne grinned and agreed, “On-the-spot Shayne. Always doing your dirty work for you.”
“You’re on the spot, all right,” Painter snapped. “Why the devil did you bring him all the way in here? The boys who telephoned said he was floating away up the bay. Just about opposite the Hudson house, I take it.”
“It wasn’t anywhere near the Hudson place,” Shayne said calmly. “I thought I’d save time by bringing him in here while the boys were phoning.”
Painter brushed past him to join the group of men lifting the body from the boat. He took one look at the dead man and grunted angrily, “Answers the description of the taxi driver we haven’t been able to locate. Okay, Shayne.” He whirled on the detective, thumbnailing his mustache. “What have you to say for yourself this time?”
“I found him floating in the water like that. The two boys in the sailboat saw him about the same time, and they arrived at the spot at the same time I did.”
“You just happened to, I suppose. Like that?” Painter snapped his fingers with a sharp plop. “What were you doing out on the bay in a boat?”
“Taking a ride.”
“You weren’t looking for a body, I suppose? Or getting rid of one.”
“I didn’t get rid of this one,” Shayne said calmly. “I found him for you.”
“After making sure there were witnesses to see you find it,” said Painter with heavy sarcasm. “How did you know where to look?”
“I smelled him,” Shayne said disgustedly. “Didn’t I ever tell you my mother was frightened by a bloodhound before I was born?”
One of the policemen standing by chuckled. Painter snorted and glared at him with his sharp black eyes. He turned back to Shayne and snapped, “The way we got it over the phone the boys say you headed right toward the body as though you knew exactly where it’d be. After coming across the bay fast to that very spot a few minutes before where you probably tossed him out.”
Shayne shrugged and said, “Nuts.”
“If it’s that taxi driver, I’ll sure as hell-”
The officer who had chuckled redeemed himself by stepping forward and saying, “The stiff is Angus Browne, Chief. There’s a lot of stuff to identify him, and one of the boys knows him.”
“Browne?” Painter turned on them. “The private eye from Miami? Then why the devil didn’t you say before-”
“Browne was a sort of punk. Divorce stuff mostly,” the man who knew Browne said.
Painter turned back to Shayne and asked sharply, “What do you know about that?”
“I’d say he’s had it coming to him a long time. I’ll be going along now.” He started toward the beached catboat.
“Not so fast,” Painter snarled. “I’ve got a few questions first. How does Browne figure in this?”
Shayne said, “I don’t know-yet. Give me a couple of hours and I’ll find out for you?”
“Where were you between ten-thirty and eleven last night?”
“Riding home from the Play-Mor Club,” Shayne told him wearily.
“We’ve got a taxi driver who swears you took the dead girl with you in your cab-”
“I never take dead girls out in taxis,” Shayne interrupted solemnly.
Painter’s face grew livid with rage. “By God, Shayne, I’ll slam you behind bars if it’s the last thing I ever do.”
“All right,” Shayne said easily. “But if you want this case solved-”
“What about you taking Natalie Briggs home last night and going in after her? The taxi driver said-”
“The same driver you just said you haven’t been able to locate?” Shayne interrupted him again.
Painter brushed his mustache gently, his black eyes glittering up at Shayne. “The driver’s testimony will cinch what we already know,” he asserted.
“Maybe. If he doesn’t tell you we put the girl out of the cab after we’d gone two blocks from the Play-Mor,” said Shayne.
“Is that what you’re going to claim?” snapped Painter.
“Ask the taxi driver,” Shayne told him and waved a big hand negligently.
“I intend to as soon as we pick him up. In the meantime I want to know more about your innocent little joy ride on the bay. If you weren’t looking for Browne’s body, what was your purpose?”
“It’s just a new hobby I’ve taken up,” said Shayne. “It’s relaxing and restful. Try it some time. Good for the nerves.”
“You weren’t wasting time just going for a boat ride when you knew I was getting ready to hang a murder
