Shayne took a sip of cognac and said, “I know Barbizon slightly. I might have a talk with him-stall him-”
“No!” Her voice was sharp with fear. “Don’t you see? I can’t risk that!”
“I’m catching a plane at midnight,” Shayne told her coldly. “Do you want me to handle the pay-off for you, too?”
“If you would,” she breathed. “Just pay him the money and get my IOU and tear it up. You might phone me to let me know everything is all right.”
Shayne nodded casually. It wouldn’t add to her peace of mind any to explain that after being out of touch with such matters in Miami for so long it would be utterly impossible for him to locate a fence who would put up ten grand for the necklace on such short notice. He said, “Consider the matter taken care of. Where can I reach you by telephone?”
She gave him a Miami Beach number. “It’s in the phone book. Leslie P. Hudson.”
Shayne made a note of the number. “If there’s anything left over from the amount I get, I’ll mail it to you before I leave town.”
“No!” she exclaimed. “You keep it. It’s the only way I can possibly pay you.”
Shayne said, “Okay,” carelessly.
“I feel so-relieved,” she sighed.
“I could go to your husband,” he said after a short silence between them. “He might listen to me. After all, gambling is no sin and if he has plenty of money-”
“No!” She was sitting erect again and trembling. “Promise me faithfully you won’t do that, Michael. You don’t know how he is. He’s terribly strict about gambling, and things like that. He simply wouldn’t
understand. Promise me you’ll go straight to the Play-Mor Club and pay Mr. Barbizon-as soon as you get the money-and get my IOU.”
“All right,” he said. “If that’s the way you want it.” He finished his drink and stood up.
Christine arose swiftly and went to him with her hands outstretched. She put them on his shoulders and said with passionate conviction, “I don’t know what I would have done without your help, Michael. I was just about ready to-to do something terrible when I read in the paper that you were in Miami.” Her fingers tightened on his shoulders and she pressed against him for an instant. Then, she turned with a stifled sob and ran from the room Shayne stood flat-footed with his long arms hanging loosely and looked after her as she fled, a frown on his gaunt face. He waited until the door closed and until he heard the elevator stop to take her down, then turned grimly to pick up the pearl necklace. He moved across the room, switched on a floor lamp and carefully examined the gleaming pearls under the bright light.
His frown deepened into a scowl. They were an authentic heirloom. There was no doubt of that. In the inflated gem market they were worth a lot of money. Arnold Barbizon would be very happy to exchange a ten-grand IOU for the string.
He went into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator and grinned wryly at a head of lettuce in the hydrator. Once before he had used a head of lettuce in that same hydrator as a hiding place for another string of pearls belonging to Phyllis Brighton. He had returned them to her after the case was closed and she was convinced she hadn’t murdered her own mother.
He placed the pearls in the bottom of the hydrator, tore up the head of lettuce and covered them thoroughly and carelessly. Going back to the living-room, he got his hat and went downstairs to the lobby for an evening newspaper.
Chapter Two: OLD FACES-NEW ANGLES
Back in his apartment, Shayne found a story about the Belton murder case in New Orleans about which Lucy had wired him, on page two of the evening newspaper. He settled himself comfortably and read the press association account of the affair with deliberate care and with mounting interest.
Mrs. Belton was described as the “lovely young wife” of Jason T. Belton, New Orleans industrialist and sportsman. Her body had been discovered in the back room of a dive in the French Quarter chastely described as “a lower class night club noted among the frequenters of the Quarter for the amorality of its habitues which included members of both the Negro and white races.” Mrs. Belton’s nude body lay on the bare wooden floor at the time of discovery. There were no outward marks of violence. A near-by table held a variety of “curious objects” supposed to be indispensable to the practice of voodoo.
Mrs. Belton had left home earlier that evening in the company of a young business associate of her husband’s who was still missing at the time the story was written. No one knew why she had gone to that particular spot in the Quarter; and none of the customers or employees of the dive would admit knowledge of her presence there. Captain Denton of the French Quarter precinct had told reporters that a dragnet was out for every person present at the club that night, and intimated that many socially prominent people might be dragged in for questioning.
Altogether, Shayne mused as he laid the paper aside, the Belton affair had many luscious angles. It was the sort of case a man could get his teeth into, and another chance to make a public fool out of Captain Denton.
He took Lucy’s telegram from his pocket and reread it carefully. A thousand-dollar retainer wasn’t the least of the alluring angles.
His time was running short in Miami. He sat for a moment looking at the chair where Christine Hudson had been sitting only a short time before, remembering the terror in her eyes and in her voice. By turning his head he could see the headlines of the Belton murder story in New Orleans. He got up and paced the floor briefly, a frown of indecision deepening the line between his eyes.
Pacing into the kitchen, he went to the refrigerator and pulled out the hydrator, pushed the lettuce leaves aside and stood staring at the moist, gleaming string of pearls. His mouth tightened into a grim line, and he shoved the hydrator back, closed the refrigerator door, and stalked into the living-room.
He poured a small drink, gulped it down, then moodily dragged out an empty Gladstone bag, put it on the table, and began carelessly packing the few clothes he had acquired on his vacation in the Magic City. His gaunt face held a look of abstraction, as though his thoughts were far away from the business at hand.
He had almost finished his packing when he suddenly straightened, moved swiftly to the telephone and called the airport to check on the reservation Lucy Hamilton had made for him on the midnight plane to New Orleans. After being assured the reservation was in order, he asked, “When is your next plane leaving for New Orleans?”
He was told that there was another flight at noon the next day, and he asked curtly if he could exchange the midnight reservation for space on the noon flight. After a slight delay, he was told that it might be arranged but that the airline could not guarantee the vacancy on the noon plane.
“I’ll take a chance on it,” Shayne said, hung up, then lifted the receiver again and asked to be connected with Western Union. When the connection was made, he said, “I want to send a straight message to Miss Lucy Hamilton in New Orleans.” He gave his New Orleans address, and continued, “Departure delayed until noon tomorrow. Keep a tight hold on retainer. Stall Belton until I arrive. Sign that ‘Mike.’”
Sweat was standing in the trenches in his face when he hung up. He mopped his face, poured another short drink, tossed it down and picked up his hat. He left his partially packed suitcase on the table and went out. He walked up to Flagler Street and found an empty taxi half a block from Biscayne Boulevard. He got in and said, “The Play-Mor Club on the Beach.”
The Play-Mor Club was an imposing structure, formerly a private estate north of 79th Street on the ocean front, and the grounds consisted of 20 acres surrounded by a high wall of native rock and cement. A wide arched gateway led in from Ocean Drive, and a red and green neon sign invited passers-by to Come In and Play-Mor.
Inside the high walls was a beautifully landscaped area with lush green lawns and tropical shrubbery softly lighted by colorful floodlights high among the fronds of palm trees. A driveway curved through the grounds, and rows of private cabanas lined the beach.
A smartly uniformed doorman opened the door of Shayne’s cab when it pulled up at the canopied entrance. Shayne gave the driver a generous tip, then went up a low flight of stone steps and into a foyer where he checked his hat. Turning left, he went a few steps down a corridor and into a long, dimly lighted cocktail lounge.
Shayne ordered cognac and was surprised to have a pony and a bottle of Hennessy slid in front of him. He was further surprised when the bartender poured cognac well above the one-shot mark on the glass. His gray eyes
