that noose! It didn’t kill him. His neck isn’t even bruised. It was hung on him after he’d been killed. It’s a symbol, or a threat, or a message to someone.”
Painter was right about this anyway. The noose had probably been put around the hoodlum’s neck to let someone know that he had been murdered by the same person who sent him the voodoo doll. It was like a signed card saying, “I did it.” But who was it meant for? And why had Henlein been shot instead of strangled or stabbed? The other doll had had a pin through its chest. Had two people sent dolls to Henlein?
“Any other clues on him?” Shayne asked casually, wondering why Painter had not mentioned the voodoo dolls before this.
“Yes, a good one. Your name and address. What’s your connection? Who killed him?”
The redhead fastened his gray eyes quizzically on Painter. “I wouldn’t know. Do you? Or is that question too personal?”
“He had your address,” Painter sputtered.
“As I told your bright young man when he came crowding me, so do half the people of greater Miami. My newspaper publicity pays off. Maybe he was going to call me, but the guy with the gun interfered.” He gave Painter a wicked grin. “And now, if you’ll excuse me-”
Shayne turned slowly, expecting Painter to produce the little dolls at any moment for a surprise effect and start his grilling all over again.
Painter did step in front of him, but not to produce any dolls, merely to sound a belligerent warning. “Don’t get sarcastic with me, shamus. You’re not above the law and my office is going to be watching you close on this. You give me the ghost of a reason and I’ll have you down to headquarters so fast it’ll make your teeth rattle. So now, just give me the facts. What’s that noose doing around Henlein’s neck?”
“How do I know? Maybe he always wears it. Look, Petey, I’ve got other things to do.”
“Such as what?”
“It’s none of your damned business.” Shayne stepped around Painter and strode down the road to his car.
He slammed the door decisively, made a U-turn to head south on Alton Avenue, and sped toward the McArthur Causeway which led to the city of Miami. Once there, he stopped at the first bar he came to on Biscayne Boulevard, ordered a double brandy, carried it to a phone booth and dialed the Daily News. He asked for his old friend, Tim Rourke, and after a moment the veteran reporter’s voice came lazily over the wire.
“Hi, Mike. What’s new?”
“That’s what I called to ask you.”
“Nothing much. A murder over on the Beach. A hoodlum-”
“I know about that. What else?”
“God, you’re jaded. What do you want, a massacre?”
“Just some information-about that woman down by the river who’s been holding seances the last month or so. Her name’s Madame Swoboda.”
“Yeah. She’s quite a tourist attraction. I’ve been going to do a story on her for the paper.”
“Does she sell voodoo dolls?”
“By the hundreds. Also conjure candles, love potions and goofer dust.”
“What the hell is goofer dust?”
“Graveyard soil. I don’t know what it’s good for, but I can find out if you want some.”
“Don’t bother. If I ever do, I know where to get it free.” Shayne finished the brandy. “One thing more, Tim. Henny Henlein was working for De Luca. Any reason you know why D. L. might want him under six feet of goofer dust?”
“Can’t think of any. From what I hear, Henny was the ideal muscleman. He followed orders and he couldn’t think.”
“Maybe he began to try to think.”
“Don’t know why he should. D. L.’s supposed to be a good boss, as gangsters go. Even pensions ’em off-if they live that long.”
“Maybe he decided to save money on one pension.”
“Henny wasn’t old enough to be retired. And anyway, the loan racket’s booming.”
“Do you think Henny got out of line and tried a speculation on his own?”
“I don’t know. I’ll keep an ear to the ratline though, and let you know if I hear anything.”
“Thanks, Tim. I’ll see you soon.”
Shayne hung up, waited a moment, then raised the receiver, dropped in a coin and dialed his office number. It was after hours and he expected to get his answering service, but was pleasurably surprised to hear Lucy Hamilton’s voice come musically over the wire.
“Michael Shayne’s office.”
“It’s the man himself, in person. Has anything happened since I left?”
“Has anything happened, he asks! Has anything not happened. The police have been calling. That man with the little dolls has been murdered-”
“I know about that. Anything else?”
“Anything else! Yes, there is something else. You should have taken that poor man’s case when he asked you to. Then maybe he wouldn’t be dead now. You’re just as involved as if you had taken it, because he had your address in his pocket-”
“I know,” Shayne interrupted, “but he didn’t have the two dolls.”
“Of course not. I’ve got them.”
“What for? Are you starting a private eye business of your own?”
“No, but he came back again after you’d left, to try and talk you into changing your mind about helping him, and left the dolls with me because I seemed interested, which is more than you did. He seemed glad to get rid of them, though he was nice about it. He said he didn’t want to put the curse on me. I convinced him the curse was only dangerous for the person it was originally meant for-”
“You’re not sure about that. You took an awful chance.” Shayne grinned. “What’s the ‘something else’ you mentioned that happened?”
“There’s a woman here waiting to see you. That’s why I couldn’t close the office at a decent hour.” Lucy lowered her voice. “She says she’s going to wait to see you if it takes all night. She’s been here about an hour and she’s so fidgety she’s about to jump out of her clothes. You’d better hurry.”
“I’ll wait till she jumps. Is she young and beautiful?”
“She is young and beautiful,” Lucy said frostily, “and she is very scared, and I don’t blame her. If you don’t want somebody else to be murdered, you’d better get on over here. Because she’s got one of those little dolls too.”
4
Shayne left the phone booth and went out to his car, driving west as fast as the law allowed, pondering the circumstances which had brought two frightened people to his office today with voodoo dolls. Was this a new fad, like chain letters?
He discarded the idea distastefully as he recalled the graying face of Henny Henlein. The taking of human life, even a depraved life like Henlein’s, wasn’t to be regarded lightly.
It was a little after six when he strode into the anteroom of his third-floor office where Lucy sat typing. Through the partially opened door into the next room he could see a woman sitting in the chair beside his desk.
Lucy looked up reproachfully.
“Don’t frown, angel. It makes wrinkles.”
“Then hurry up,” she whispered. “That woman’s half crazy. I put her in your office because it made me jittery just to look at her.”
“Who is she?”
