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.
