guarding the Play-Mor Club. Turning off the pavement he plowed through the sand parallel to the south wall leading to the shore and parked at the edge of a low cliff overhanging the ocean.
He found a flashlight in the glove compartment of the cab, got out and went around to the rear of the car and opened the luggage space. He discovered a steel spring that was evidently used for a tire tool, stripped down to his bathing trunks and stuck the tool under his belt.
A footpath angled down the cliff to the sandy shore below. Shayne followed the high stone wall to a point where it turned northward for a couple of hundred feet until he reached the club’s private bathing beach.
He waded out until he was waist deep, then began swimming. The cool salt water refreshed him and the waves slapping in his face sent the hot blood coursing through him. He swam strongly in a wide arc that carried him a quarter mile out to sea directly opposite the floodlighted strip of the club’s beach.
He turned then and swam shoreward. Silhouetted against the bright lights he could see the bobbing heads of swimmers who had not ventured so far out.
Shayne avoided the larger groups as he neared the beach, selecting a comparatively vacant space to land and go striding up toward the cabanas.
Some of them were lighted, and in front of some, family groups were enjoying picnic suppers. He picked out a row of half a dozen together that were unlighted and unhesitatingly went toward the center of the group.
He stopped in front of the door as though fumbling for a key, glanced right and left to be sure he was unobserved, then pulled the piece of steel spring from under his belt, rammed the narrow blade of it between the door and the facing, and put pressure on it until the flimsy lock yielded.
Inside, he closed the door and turned on a light to disclose a neat little room about twelve by fourteen feet in size, furnished with a couch and a couple of comfortable chairs. He opened a door across the room, disclosing a shower and toilet; an open archway led into a tiny kitchenette complete with gas plate and cooking utensils.
Shayne surveyed the brightly lighted interior of the one large room. An electric button on the inside door jamb caught his eye. The brass plate said Porter. He pressed the button and opened the jimmied door to let light shine through.
A few minutes later a hunched figure hurried down the boardwalk in front of the cabanas. He was an old man with a thatch of gray hair and a slight bump on his back. He wheezed gently as he stopped in front of Shayne.
Shayne blocked the doorway, the bandaged side of his face turned away from the man. “This is a hell of a note,” he began angrily. “Someone has broken the lock on this door while I was swimming, and stolen my clothes. Get Barbizon down here at once.” He pointed to the mark his steel spring had made on the door facing.
“Look here,” grunted the old man, “this here is Mr. Jamieson’s cabin and-”
“Of course it is,” said Shayne impatiently. “I’m Jamieson’s cousin and he loaned it to me. Get the manager down here in a hurry. And I want Arnold Barbizon in person,” he added harshly. “None of his hired help.”
The old man said, “Yessir. I’ll tell Mr. Barbizon right away. He’ll fix it right with you.” He turned and went away.
Shayne found a small paring knife and quickly unscrewed the brass Porter plate from the wall. The electric wires were exposed when he pulled it away. He cut one of them with the knife. He replaced the plate, then strolled over to a wall cabinet and investigated its contents. His face still hurt like hell, but the ache in his head had stopped though the lump on it was tender to the touch.
There was a bottle of Irish whisky, some gin and rye in the cabinet. Shayne had the cork out of the whisky bottle and was trickling some of it down his parched throat when footsteps sounded on the boardwalk and there was a sharp knock on the door.
It was jerked open instantly and Barbizon stepped inside, demanding impatiently, “What’s this I hear about-?”
Taking the bottle from his lips, Shayne asked, “What is it you’ve been hearing?”
“So it’s you,” Barbizon said curtly after his amazement vanished. “Smithy said-”
“Smithy didn’t lie to you,” said Shayne coldly. “He did a job on me but it wasn’t quite good enough. And I’ll crown you,” he warned swiftly, “with this bottle if you try to duck out that door or call anyone.”
The club manager moved aside and leaned his shoulder blades against the door jamb and asked, “What do you want?” He wriggled against the brass plate.
“I want to know who you were holding Mrs. Hudson’s IOU for.”
“Why does that matter now?” Barbizon hedged. “You’ve got it.”
“I want to know who was going to get the pay-off.”
Barbizon moved his shoulders back and forth as though he itched. “What do you mean by that? When someone loses money at my tables I generally do the collecting.”
Shayne walked over to him, the whisky bottle dangling from his left hand, and slapped Barbizon’s swarthy face. He kept his palm open but the force of his blow slammed the manager half off balance and made an angry red mark on his olive cheek. As he staggered erect, showing sharp white teeth in a snarl, Shayne told him flatly, “You’re going to talk. The longer it takes to get the truth out of you the better I’m going to like it.” He tilted the bottle and took another drink.
Barbizon’s eyes were blazing but he kept his voice steady. “You’ll pay for that. Nobody hits me-”
Shayne laughed and drove his right fist into Barbizon’s mouth. It smashed his full lips, which had the appearance of being rouged, back against his teeth, and blood trickled down his chin.
Barbizon staggered back, reached for a handkerchief, and held it against his mouth.
Shayne tilted the bottle again. He was beginning to feel lightheaded and happy. His gashed cheek didn’t hurt so much any more and he enjoyed the sight of blood seeping through Barbizon’s handkerchief.
The manager was crowded back in a corner and his eyes were like those of a crazed animal. He crouched suddenly and dropped his right hand into his coat pocket. It flashed out with a clasp knife, the long blade leaped open from the pressure of a spring, and he twisted sideways to drive the blade at Shayne’s belly.
Shayne twisted at the same instant and smashed the whisky bottle down on Barbizon’s forearm. The knife clattered to the floor and a shrill scream of pain was partially smothered by the handkerchief pressed against his mouth. His right hand dangled limply from a broken wrist.
“That’s just the beginning,” Shayne told him in the same flat, impersonal tone he’d used before.
“I don’t know. I’d tell you if I did. God help me, Shayne, don’t you see I’d tell you?”
Shayne took a step forward, swinging the bottle.
“I tell you I don’t know,” he moaned. “I get a phone call. I don’t know who from. It says I’ll get a ten grand marker from this dame and to hang onto it for a twenty-eighty split when she buys it back. I don’t see why not. So I hang onto it. Till last night. That’s all I know. I swear it is. God in heaven, I got to have a doctor for this wrist.”
“You didn’t bother to get a doctor for me when your men dumped me a while ago,” snarled Shayne. He stood over the cowering man for a moment, considering his reply. It could be, he reluctantly conceded. Whoever was blackmailing Christine wouldn’t necessarily tip his hand to a go-between. It had to be someone who knew Barbizon. Someone who trusted him to make the twenty-eighty split when she paid off. But until the pay-off, it wouldn’t do him any good to come out in the open.
Shayne said, “I ought to kick your teeth in. Tell Smithy I’ll save that for him next time we meet.” He took another drink of whisky, put the bottle back in the cabinet and strode to the door and out onto the beach.
Shayne trotted down the beach and into the water. He swam easily and strongly toward the corner of the club grounds where Ira Wilson’s taxi awaited him.
Chapter Eighteen: BLACKMAIL CLUE
Shayne didn’t waste time putting his clothes on. He was dripping wet and he didn’t know how long it would be before Barbizon could get his men out to look for him. He backed around and headed out to the pavement, drove back toward the business section of Miami Beach as fast as he dared.
He was pretty well dried out by the time he parked in front of the side entrance to the Blackstone.
He gathered up his clothing and got out, crossed the sidewalk and went in the side entrance and climbed the rear stairs to the floor above. He padded down the hall to the door of Timothy Rourke’s apartment and
