“Yeh.”
“This is Mrs. Steven Shephard speaking, Mr. McTige. Or Mrs. Renshaw, if you prefer.” Lucy Hamilton was forming her words precisely and clearly, and her voice vibrated with strain. “Do you hear me, Mr. McTige?”
Shayne growled between set teeth, “I hear you.”
“I understand you are holding a large sum of money for me… which you obtained from my husband?”
“Yeh. I…”
“I want you to bring it to me at once. I will be waiting for you at the Dolphin Bar. That is on the north bank of the Miami River between Sixth and Seventh streets. I will expect you with the money immediately.”
“Sure. Right away.” Shayne heard a decisive click of the receiver at the other end, and he dropped his instrument back into place.
He was really sweating by this time. He mopped his face slowly, staring across the room with baffled gray eyes. What in the name of God did this mean?
Had Lucy recognized his voice over the telephone? He didn’t think so, yet he couldn’t be certain. If she had recognized it, wouldn’t she have given him some sign? Surely… unless? Unless she was making the call under duress. Where she could be overheard and had to choose her words carefully.
He shook his red head slowly from side to side in utter bafflement and then grabbed the phone and lifted it swiftly to forestall another possible ring.
He gave the switchboard operator the number for the Homicide department, and when a voice answered, “Homicide. Sergeant Getts…” he broke in fast:
“Reporting a corpse in room eight-two-six the Yardley Hotel.”
He slammed the receiver down and rolled off the bed to his feet, strode to the door and pulled it open with his handkerchiefed left hand, rubbed his fingerprints off the outside knob while pulling it shut, and then long-legged it down the hall to a red light marking the stairway.
He plunged down one flight and rang for an elevator, was fortunate enough to get a down car a moment later, and strode briskly through the lobby and out onto the street without looking to right or left.
He was settling himself behind the steering wheel of his sedan when a prowl car slid past him and into the curb in front of the hotel.
He waited until two uniformed men jumped out and trotted inside before putting his car in gear and driving past, headed for the bar on the riverfront to keep a dead man’s rendezvous with his own secretary.
14
The Dolphin Bar on the riverfront was old and dark and smelly. It was frequented mostly by the crews of small fishing boats tied up at the docks nearby, and it smelled of fish and sweat from the work-stained clothing of these men; native Crackers, all of them, mostly recruited from the Keys where fishing for a living was the natural way of life.
Lucy Hamilton forced a faint smile onto her trembling lips as she clicked the receiver back into place on the wall telephone at the end of the bar. She turned to the sullen-faced young man standing directly behind her and assured him, “He’s bringing the money right away.”
“He better.” Ralph Billiter’s close-set eyes glittered meanly. “You take it real easy when he comes. One wrong word outta you, an’ you know what’ll happen.”
Lucy said simply, “I know.” She winced as he took her upper right arm roughly and turned her back to the rear booth where they had been sitting before she made the call. He pushed her in against the wall facing the front, and settled his body solidly beside her.
There was a shot-glass of whiskey in front of him, and a beer chaser beside it. It was his fifth since they had come to the bar, and he was showing the effects of the drinks in his increasing aggressiveness.
“I still got that li’l ole persuader right here handy, an’ if he tries to pull a gun like last time or anything like that it’ll be just too bad for you. You know what I mean.”
Lucy said, “I know what you mean,” without attempting to repress a shudder. She knew all about the needle-sharp conch shell in his left hand coat pocket, and hadn’t the faintest doubt that he would use it fatally on the slightest provocation. He had been dangerous enough when he returned to the Bright Spot, enraged but sober after having had a fortune snatched out of his hands. Now, inflamed by liquor and by the aroused hope of getting his hands on the money again, she knew instinctively that he would kill without compunction if anything happened to thwart him.
So what would happen when Michael walked in, instead of Baron McTige whom he expected? What could she do to warn Michael?
Waves of fear swept nauseatingly over her as she sat beside Ralph, crammed up against the wall by his heavy body, waiting for Michael Shayne to come.
She was positive it was Shayne’s voice that had answered McTige’s telephone, though she knew he was trying to disguise it. But it had taken her so utterly by surprise. And she had her speech completely memorized before she picked up the receiver. She had simply, helplessly, repeated the words by rote with Ralph pressed threateningly against her and her sure knowledge that death was clasped in the palm of his hand if she said one word wrong.
Michael knew it was she who had called, of course. He couldn’t have failed to recognize her voice over the wire. Not after all these years and all the telephone conversations they had had together. So what would Michael think or suspect? What would he do?”
“It ain’t none of his business you an’ me are here friendly-like,” Ralph said angrily. “None of his business what you do with the money. He said it was yourn, an’ he’d see you got it. Him holdin’ a gun on me like he was…” His voice trailed off sullenly and he tossed off the contents of the shot-glass, slammed it down hard on the wooden table to attract the attention of a waiter for a refill.
“It’s none of his business at all, Ralph,” Lucy placated him. “I’m sure he’ll give it to me all right.”
“He better. Kinda soft on you, ain’t he?”
“Baron McTige?” Lucy couldn’t hide her astonishment.
“That’s the way I figgered it in the cabin when him an’ his pal started fightin’ over it. Like you and him had planned to get hold of the money together. So if he’s got ideas like that when he comes here, you change his mind quick… you hear?”
“Of course I will,” Lucy said faintly. All this time she had been staring fixedly over the low wall of the booth in front of her at the swinging doors in front, dreading to see Michael Shayne push them open, and yet thinking she couldn’t stand it another minute unless he did.
Now she saw a tall, rangy figure shamble through and her heart missed a couple of beats.
It was Michael Shayne, but only his best friend or his secretary would have recognized him. He wore a sloppy canvas fisherman’s hat rammed down over one eye to cover his red hair, and had a streak of black grease on his face. His shirt was open-throated and tieless, with a shabby corduroy jacket buttoned over it that was at least two sizes too small for him and left his wrists dangling out of the sleeves.
In this costume, he fitted perfectly into the Dolphin background and was indistinguishable from a dozen habituees of the place clustered at the bar, and no one accorded him more than a passing glance as he bellied up to the bar and ordered beer on draught.
He put down a dollar bill to pay for the beer, and leaned one elbow on the bar, looking slowly down the length of it and the men drinking there, then shifted his gaze aside to the row of booths, and suddenly he was looking directly into Lucy’s eyes, separated by a distance of about thirty feet.
The waiter had put a fresh drink in front of Ralph Billiter and he was toying with it, looking down at the table with a sulky frown.
Lucy kept her chin lifted, and met Shayne’s gaze squarely. She realized he could have no idea who her companion in the booth was, but some of the icy fear went out of her and she relaxed a trifle when she saw her employer’s right eyelid come down in a slow and unmistakable wink for her. She fluttered her own eyelids down when she saw Shayne gather up his change and pocket it, swallow some of his beer, and then begin weaving his way slowly back toward the rear of the room, simulating a slight degree of drunkenness as he passed behind the
