“That’s pure selfish imagining. Anyway, I’m not pulled in six directions. Only yours and Clarissa’s. And if I had my choice, I’d take yours.”
5
“Get Bill Martin on the phone, please, angel,” Shayne said.
“The private detective?” Lucy asked incredulously. “He’s your competition.”
“I resent that. He’s a rank newcomer, just hung out his shingle. I’m not even sure he can handle a tailing job.”
Lucy riffled through the phone book indignantly. “I get the complete picture now. Two people brought you voodoo dolls today. In fact, Mr. Henlein brought you two. But you wouldn’t even give him time to tell you about them-just hustled him out to be killed. However, when a pretty woman-a wholly lovely one-comes in with only one doll, you turn over heaven and earth to protect her.” She dialed the number with unnecessary vigor and handed the receiver to Shayne.
“You’re not being logical, Lucy.”
“That wasn’t a requirement when you hired me.”
“It’s just because Henlein was murdered,” Shayne said evenly, “that I’m getting someone to keep an eye on Clarissa Milford. And I’m not turning over heaven and earth to do it. I’m merely hiring Bill Martin who, as I said, doesn’t rate very high in the profession anyway.”
He stopped and spoke into the phone. “Hello, Bill? This is Shayne. I’d like you to do a little job for me-if you have time.”
“I’ve got plenty.” Martin had a boyish voice, too placating, too enthusiastic. “That is,” he amended, “I’m pretty rushed, but I’ll do it for you, Mike. What is it?”
“Protection. Around the clock-until further notice. And you’d better carry a gun.” Shayne held out his hand for the piece of paper Lucy, the perfect secretary, had anticipated he’d want, and read into the phone an address in the remote northeast section of the city. “Better start now. She’ll be getting home soon.”
“Righto, Mike. Until further notice. Thanks, Mike.” Typical of a young comer, he mentioned Shayne’s first name too often.
The redhead hung up and reached for his hat. “Call Tim Rourke and ask him to meet me at Swoboda’s at exactly quarter to eight tonight. And, angel-” He ran a hand thoughtfully over his lean jaw-“Tim was telling me the other day about a transistor recorder, pocket size. I don’t remember the trade name, but he’ll know what you mean. It’s a new import from West Germany. Tell him to come loaded with that.”
Lucy nodded, then said, “Take me, Michael. I’ve heard so much about Madame Swoboda.”
“Sorry.” Shayne shook his head. “Two women are all I can handle tonight.”
“Two?”
“The Madame and Clarissa. But don’t look so hurt. Maybe I’ll take you next time. How do I know it’s a fit place until I look it over?”
“Don’t think I’ll buy that, Michael Shayne! After all the joints you’ve lugged me in and out of-”
“Can’t risk it any more. You’re too good a secretary.” He grinned, bent down and pressed a firm kiss on the bridge of her nose, directly between her eyes. At the door he turned. “Why don’t you take in a movie?”
“Maybe I will. And a new gentleman friend too.”
Shayne stopped at The Angus, grabbed a quick meal of rare steak and brandy, got into his car and turned toward the Miami River and Southwest Sixth Avenue.
At a little before quarter to eight, he drew up in front of a ramshackle house that had once been painted yellow. One side was propped on stilts precariously bedded in the Miami River, the roof shingles were damp and mildewed, and the stone sidewalk leading from the curb to a small railed porch was muddy and, in places, gave under his weight as he walked up to the door.
Several cars, some with out-of-state licenses, were parked in front and across the street. Among them he recognized Rourke’s beat-up coupe. Yet from outside there was little evidence that the house held visitors. Except for a dim bulb in the front hall and a diffused green glow coming from beneath one of the drawn drapes, no light showed.
Shayne paused for a moment on the small porch, his nostrils flaring, trying to place a sweet, indefinable odor. The front door was of heavy pine, with a stained glass transom through which light from a yellow bulb shone.
A small card above the bell read Walk in in letters crudely penned with black ink. Shayne turned the handle of the door and opened it. Inside, the odor was stronger.
On the right of a small entrance hall was a sliding door, tightly closed. On the other side an open arch was half-blocked by a desk behind which a middle-aged woman wearing brown, horn-rimmed glasses sat guard over a green cash box and a pad and pencil. Over the pad stood another crudely inked card, saying Messages.
“To the other world?” Shayne nodded toward the card.
“To the departed,” the woman affirmed in a voice as unctuous as an undertaker’s. “If this is your first time here I’d better tell you that we allow few questions-inside.” The faint pause before the last word and the drop in her voice gave full and relevant value to it. However, the reverence with which she pronounced the next words, “That’ll be five dollars,” took away some of the effect.
Dropping a five on the desk, the redhead walked past her into the next room. It was furnished like a doctor’s waiting room except that there were no magazines. The furniture consisted of benches on which three people might sit with only small discomfort, and straight wooden chairs. A round pine table in the center was bare except for an incense burner from which the sickening odor of sandalwood emanated. The only light came from a green-shaded lamp.
Shayne spotted Tim Rourke seated alone on a bench, bent over, his lean legs widely separated. His thin hands twirled his hat between his legs while he stared at the floor. Shayne’s eye flicked past the baggy coat pocket where the recorder might well be concealed, to Tim’s belt buckle which doubled for a crystal microphone.
On another bench Clarissa Milford sat, wedged between a man and a woman, probably her sister and brother-in-law, for the man wore a black mourning band on one sleeve. Clarissa gave him a faint nod of negation, and Shayne walked past her without speaking and sat down beside Tim Rourke.
The reporter’s emaciated face stretched into the thin smile he might give a stranger; he nodded slightly and went back to twirling his hat.
Putting a cigarette to his lips, Shayne spoke behind his hand in a barely audible voice and without looking at Tim. “You set with the pick-up?”
“Yeah.” Rourke’s lips hardly moved. “What you want taped?”
“The whole seance.”
Rourke nodded and Shayne fell silent. Where, he wondered, was Clarissa Milford’s husband? Since Dan Milford was the one who really believed in the seances, it was a little curious that tonight he should not be here. In the weighted silence, he studied Clarissa’s benchmates.
Her sister, Mabel, sat stiffly as if she were so tightly corseted that her spine was held rigid. Her shoulders were square and her wrists, where they showed below the sleeves of her black dress, were thin and bony. Her brown, straight hair was pulled back severely into a bun-not the chic bun Clarissa wore, but an old-fashioned braided twist. Had it not been for a formation of bone around the eyes and a fleeting expression at the mouth, Shayne would have found it hard to believe that the two could be sisters.
The man with the mourning band on the sleeve of his light gray suit looked shorter than Mabel. Except for the grim set of his mouth, Percy Thain would have been innocuous looking, but bereavement, rage and rebellion against the tragic death of his son were apparent in his face and in the bleak lifelessness of his eyes.
At ten minutes to eight two other couples entered-tourists, judging from their spruce vacation clothing-and, in their wake, another couple. Shayne’s knobby fingers massaged his left earlobe.
The man was the balding, angel-haloed man called Ed whom he had met on Sylvester’s boat that afternoon. His wife was about what Shayne would have expected; middle-aged and showing it, dumpy but trying to conceal it with tight corsets and high heels.
