Brett Halliday

Kill All the Young Girls

Chapter 1

Larry Zion, whose only real identification was as chairman of the board of Consolidated-Famous Pictures, drifted along Interstate 95 in the direction of Miami, letting his big Italian car proceed at its own speed. Fewer than thirty of these impressive monsters had been sold in the United States market, almost all to executives or top-money stars in the motion picture industry. A TV talk-show host had recently been seen at the wheel of one, and this was an indication to Zion that it might be time to start looking for another symbol.

But it was a marvelous piece of machinery. Not like people. People were becoming harder and harder for Zion to manipulate, and there was even some danger that his company might be slipping out of his grasp. But the great car, which had cost Consolidated $18,000, was not only the most powerful on the highway, it was fully under Zion’s control; and that was a pleasant feeling. He stepped up the fingertip-pressure slightly. It responded at once. His women used to be like that, but no longer. They balked and asked questions and wanted him to be interested in their ideas. Their ideas, for the love of God.

Consolidated-Famous was one of the three or four great companies that went back to the early days of silent pictures. When Zion was eighteen, he sold them a book he had hired somebody else to write under his name; and the next time anybody noticed, he was a major producer. He was phenomenally lucky; it was his major quality. Luck is the single most important thing in motion picture production. The money has to be committed eighteen months before the public sees the picture, and guessing right that far in advance takes more luck than brains. Zion’s guesses had been so good that for a long time the bankers were shouldering each other aside to be allowed in on his action.

Then all at once the business changed. People began queuing up outside out-of-the-way theaters showing pictures that had been made for nickels and dimes. Consolidated-Famous stopped paying dividends. The bankers were slow about returning Zion’s phone calls. He went on making pictures, that being the business he was in; and he managed in the course of a single fiscal year to lose forty million dollars. Sometimes he pulled out that balance sheet to make sure he hadn’t imagined the whole incredible thing. And there it was—a dollar sign, a four, and an endless string of zeroes.

So the vultures gathered. Every year he had to fight off a challenge for control. The world around him had changed; and Zion, that senile bastard, still thought people went to the movies looking to be entertained. He was too old, it was said; he no longer had the touch. What they were after, of course, had nothing to do with movie production. They longed to sink their teeth in the real estate—the 500-acre backlot in Beverly Hills, the Kern County ranch, the great sound stages built on prime development land.

And then there was the backlog, the huge library of films made during Zion’s reign, which could be peddled to television for the best kind of money, windfall money. Needless to say, Zion had respect for money. It was the way he measured success. But when he sold his pictures to television, he wanted control over cuts and interruptions. A spoiled picture, a slashed picture, was commercially damaged. His opponents didn’t understand that.

And meanwhile, he had gone on producing pictures, which the people soliciting proxies against him knew nothing about. Lawyers, accountants. A magazine publisher. In the magazine business, you printed five million copies at so much per copy, sold them at so much per copy, and hoped for ten percent on your money. Whereas in movies, you could bring in a picture for two million; and if the public wanted to go to see it, you could gross twenty times that in your first year.

But yes, you had to be lucky. And Zion himself had to admit that his luck had been spotty lately.

No streak lasts forever; and if he could wait long enough, the turn would come. But he had never believed in sitting around waiting for his fairy godmother to walk up and knock him down with her magic wand. He believed in making his own luck. The looters were putting on the pressure this year, throwing money around like chewing gum wrappers; and he conceded the possibility that they might win. But they would know they had been in a fight.

He fitted a smuggled Havana into a cigar holder and used the dashboard lighter. The powerful car continued to carry him along the almost deserted highway at eighty, tires rustling on the concrete and the motor giving off its comfortable, nearly inaudible murmur. The stereo deck was playing the soundtrack from one of Zion’s old musicals, the ninth top grosser of all time, made at Zion’s insistence in a year when everybody else maintained that musicals were deadly poison. Seven Academy Award nominations on that one because the public had loved it so much. Keko Brannon’s last completed film; and having started on a new medicine, the sweet, insane child hadn’t given them much trouble for once. The new pills had worked well until she began washing them down with Beefeater martinis. The pert little ass on that girl.

And suddenly, as clearly as though an 8x10 publicity glossy had fluttered up from the roadbed and plastered itself against the windshield, Zion saw Keko nude in one of the pornographic poses she liked to get into; in her judgment, the sexual apparatus and all acts of sex were equally funny. She had been reclining against a table with her legs apart, both hands on her mount, her mouth open and glistening, in a parody of the fan-magazine covers of the time. She wouldn’t have been even thirty now. If she had trusted her talent or even believed that she had any, she would still be packing the theaters. Maybe they had seen the last of that kind of star.

A shadow, a flicker of movement, pulled Zion’s eye to his rear-view mirror. A fire-engine red convertible with the top down was right on his rear bumper.

It was close, frighteningly close. Adrenalin spurted. He stepped up the pressure on his gas pedal, and the convertible faded backward. A girl was driving, her blonde hair whipping in the wind. A blonde in a red convertible—an obvious combination that stirred the imagination. Keko’s cars, speaking of Keko, had always been red. Every movie-goer knew the story of how Keko, coming off a difficult abortion, broke, hungry, and with only one decent dress, had boosted a bright convertible, the first in a long line, and had lain in wait outside the Consolidated gates. Zion drove a Bentley in those days, using a driver so he could get off some of his paper work on the way to his so-called home. And what did the nutty girl do but nudge the Bentley playfully every time it stopped for a light, until finally Zion erupted out of the back seat to demand what the hell she thought she was doing. The answer was that she thought she was bringing herself to the attention of a powerful studio head. And having been brought to his attention, she went home with him; and he tested her the next day and gave her a bit in a gangster movie. A great Hollywood legend, and unlike so many others, it happened to be absolutely true.

The blonde in the convertible behind him now was wearing dark glasses and a blue, blowing scarf. This was a bit odd. Keko, in dark glasses of course, had been wearing a blue scarf that day he first met her. A superstitious person might have worried, but Zion merely thought that it would make a cute opening for a certain kind of picture.

As he drove, he squeezed the grip of a forearm exerciser, counting somewhere far back in his mind, changing hands when he reached fifty. He was a savage ping-pong player, but he didn’t have the full ferocity he needed for his forehand smash. Nevertheless, he seldom lost. His son Marcus had once thought he could give him some competition, but he had never succeeded in creeping closer than sixteen or seventeen points. Zion was in fabulous shape. He slept hard and exercised hard. His sexual episodes, while less frequent than formerly, were still as intense. He weighed the same as during his first marriage, to a New York girl he rarely remembered now. And yet, at sixty-two, he wasn’t one of those people who want to look no older than forty. His only facial adornment was a thin mustache. He had never capped his teeth or worn a hairpiece. Men who had face-lifts were sick, he believed. He was on hormones, but that was for medical reasons.

He had almost forgotten the red convertible. It came up behind him very fast and rammed him before he could react.

It was a hard shot, and Zion’s head snapped back against the headrest. His cigar fell to his lap. His dark glasses had been jolted askew, and the road ahead went out of focus alarmingly. The blue scarf, the whipping hair, the red car. He was jarred back in time, to the earlier moment when he and Keko had clashed bumpers. He heard her voice on the stereo. Not knowing exactly where he was for an instant, he did the wrong thing, letting up on the gas. The convertible hit him again.

He was braced for this one, but the neck snap was sudden and painful.

He realized that he was still counting squeezes. He put the exerciser on the seat beside him as the red car slid out of the overhead mirror and moved up alongside. He pushed his shades back into place and brushed the burning cigar to the floor. Action and sound came back into synchronization. In the present again, he prepared to outrun her. If she tried to cut in on him, he would hold the heavy car to the road and tough it out. He owned eighteen percent of the stock in a major motion picture company, and his old luck was coming back.

He turned his head, and his mind jumped again. The likeness was incredible. But Keko Brannon was dead. She had died seven years ago, on the thirteenth day of shooting a picture budgeted at two million five—a picture sure to have slopped over, like all Brannon pictures, because she found it so difficult to show up anywhere at the appointed time. She had drowned in a bathtub in a rented house in Encino, stunned by a lethal mixture of booze and pills. And after that, how the ink had flowed. A stand-in was used to finish the film, and the publicity had been so enormous that in the end the picture had more than recouped. The movie-going public is ninety-five percent ghoul.

As a rational man, Zion knew that this had to be some kook who had heard the legend and thought it would work again, not knowing that those days were gone forever. She had fixed herself up like Brannon and was wearing, he noticed, a typical Brannon dress, with a low scooped neck that showed an extravagant pair of boobs. Her car, a stock Ford or Chevy, seemed to be trying to shed its skin. He decided to pull out in front and keep a safe interval until he spotted a patrol car. They might be able to milk this for a little newspaper space.

He depressed the pedal. In another moment he would be clear.

The girl whipped off her dark glasses. It was Kate Thackera, in a blonde wig. That explained it all. Crazy was the word for this lass. But what did she think it was going to accomplish? Was he supposed to be so guilt ridden and skittery that at the sight of Keko Brannon—a girl masquerading as Keko Brannon—he would go gibbering off the interstate highway at eighty-five miles an hour? True, she had startled him for a moment. But he was over that now.

He muttered and dropped back until they were running even again. He had thought of a way to handle this problem—swing over hard and drive the lighter American car into the center divider. Another highway fatality. They all drive too fast at that age; they haven t learned that they, too, are mortal. He checked the highway. No cars in sight. His name wouldn’t be mentioned, and he would have this demented female off his back for good.

But he hesitated. Was he sure that his luck had actually changed? If a tire blew, for example, at this speed…

Their movement together was dreamy and unnatural, as though the film had been slowed to sixteen frames a second. He had worked too hard to have it all end in a crash on a highway. He had never walked out on a movie in his life.

Still in slow motion, she picked up a pistol from the bucket seat beside her and extended her arm. She aimed at Zion carefully, smiling. His foot started the jump from gas pedal to brake; but before he could change his speed, she fired.

Chapter 2

The hotel suite was a big, corner one overlooking one of the most expensive strips of sand in the world. The young woman who responded to Michael Shayne’s buzz identified herself as Evie Zion. She gave him a pleasant smile and thanked him for coming so promptly.

Her husband, Marcus Zion, broke off a phone call to shake hands. He apologized, waved Shayne to a chair, and returned to the phone. Mrs. Zion went to the sideboard, which was crowded with bottles and glasses.

“What can I give you?”

“Scotch is all right, unless you have cognac,” he said. “It doesn’t matter.”

Shayne, a private detective, was tall and powerfully built, with large freckled hands and scarred knuckles, and a way of seeming entirely at ease in any context. He looked around. The air in the room was heavy with tension and cigar smoke. There were three phones, all in use. A typewriter clacked in the next room.

Zion listened and said little, grunting an occasional question and twirling a pair of horn-rimmed glasses. Two other men, tanned and paunchy, in rumpled suits, shouted into the remaining phones, switching from incredulity to angry abuse to wheedling. The atmosphere was that of a political headquarters the night before an important election.

Mrs. Zion brought Shayne a snifter and a bottle of Courvoisier.

“We don’t usually live like this,” she said. “But it’s wartime. One more day and it’s over, and the clocks can’t move fast enough to suit me.”

“Weren’t you in the movies once?” Shayne said.

“Oh, dear, does it show? I’ve aged since then.”

She couldn’t have been older than thirty. She probably considered herself a few pounds overweight. As far as Shayne was concerned, it was distributed well. Her soft voice had an unusual throaty timbre, but it was her smile Shayne remembered from the days when he went to the movies more regularly.

“Now think back,” she said. “Did you ever go to vampire movies? I sometimes lasted into the third reel, and then I made the mistake of going to bed with the window open. For some reason, I’ve never wanted to give any blood to the Red Cross since.”

“Eva Price,” Shayne said.

“You remember,” she said, pleased. “When I graduated to grown-up pictures, they always cast me as the sweet, suffering wife—the one the leading man comes back to when she’s about to have a baby. Then I married Marcus, and I haven’t suffered too much. I haven’t had a baby either, I may add. But these annual proxy fights. They’re getting to be a bit of a drag. I wish we manufactured something simple, like neckties.”

Her husband, his head cocked, continued to listen to the voice on the phone. He retracted his lips as though he tasted something sour.

“Let me know what happens with him.”

He hung up with a thump and came across to Shayne. He was considerably older than his wife, a common practice in his industry. Unlike the others in the room, he had wasted little time in the California sun. The skin was slack below his jawline. He looked as though he had done nothing since early morning except take unpleasant phone calls.

He rubbed his jaw with the back of his hand. “I’m pressed for time. I have an appointment in half an hour with a trustee from Boston, and he’ll want me to look my best. Keep me company while I shave. Bring your drink.”

A man came out of the bedroom with a sheet of paper, but Marcus shook him off. The phone was ringing.

“Only if it’s a major disaster,” he told Mrs. Zion.

He stopped at the sideboard and dropped ice in a glass. But after picking up a whiskey bottle, he pursed his lips and put it back.

“Damn it, better not.”

Both twin beds in the bedroom were littered with lists and manila folders. A pretty girl was typing with a portable on her knees. The phone between the beds rang, but Zion continued into the bathroom.

He had brought the ice-filled glass. He filled it from the tap and left the water running.

“Make yourself comfortable.” Leaning forward, he peered at himself in the mirror. “I don’t think I look trustworthy, do you? Would you trust a man with this face to help run one of our biggest U.S. corporations?”

He pushed the shower curtain aside, sat on the edge of the tub and took a sip of cold water. “Who’s that eccentric billionaire who used to hold important business conferences in men’s rooms? Howard Hughes, no doubt. I never thought it was my style.”

“Do you want me to help by flushing the toilet?” Shayne said.

Marcus looked surprised and then laughed. “This may seem a bit paranoid. It’s not that I’m afraid of being bugged. But there’s money at stake here. Lots and lots of money. As well as certain intangibles such as power. Fame. I suppose even women. We’ve all got our spies, and some of the things I want to tell you I wouldn’t even like Evie to hear. How much have you heard about my father’s accident?”

“Just that he ran off the highway and smashed an expensive automobile.”

“He didn’t run off by himself,” Marcus said. “He was crowded off. And it happened at a bad time. Everything’s popping at once. Are you up to date on our proxy troubles? I don’t want to waste time telling you anything you already know.”

“I know that an outside group is trying to take over your company. I didn’t read past the headlines. It isn’t my kind of story.”

Marcus said dryly, “You might be surprised, Shayne. Both sides have been getting pretty rough. My father’s been in charge of our strategy. Unfortunately, nobody knows his secrets; and that goes for his own flesh and blood. So having him unconscious all afternoon has been a very serious thing.”

“I understand he wasn’t badly hurt.”

“That’s the way we’re playing it. And as a matter of fact,” he said with some distaste, “the son-of-a-bitch is amazing. Don’t get the wrong idea. I’m as full of filial crap as anybody else. I haven’t been sitting around the hospital chain-smoking, but I’ve worried about him from time to time. On top of everything else, we’ve just put a picture into production. I’ve had the full burden of setting up the stockholders’ meeting tomorrow, with no way of knowing what surprises Larry has in store for us. And now this. Larry’s conscious. He intends to chair the meeting and give the main report. Somebody tried to murder him this afternoon. Conceivably they’ll try again. I’m a stranger in Miami. I asked our attorneys to give me the name of a good man, and they gave me yours. But they said you’re semi-retired, and I’d have to persuade you that the job would be interesting. If I can’t make it interesting enough, I’ll call in some writers to help me make it interesting. They also said you expect your clients to be honest with you.”

“I expect it,” Shayne said. “It doesn’t always happen.”

“I don’t see any reason to hold anything back. If you come in on this, you’ll be talking to people. I’m the money man in the organization, and I’m not too popular because I’m the one who has to decide that some ideas are too expensive. But you may be told that under this plodding exterior, I have my ambitions—I’d like to see if I could make it on my own, without Larry breathing down the back of my neck from morning to night. You may hear that I resent the sneers and sarcasm that have come my way over the years and that the only reason I want to make sure Larry lives through the night is because if he dies his shares will revert to a family trust with two trustees. I’m one of them. The other’s my mother. She’s a venal woman who hates Larry and will vote against his slate, and I’ll be job hunting.”

Shayne drank. “It’s interesting so far. You said another car crowded him off. What does he say about that?”

“There wasn’t much traffic. They shouldn’t have been that close together. He swerved off on the shoulder—all the way off on the grass. From the skid marks, both cars were travelling very fast. And before he could get back, he ran into one of those lovely exit barriers. Zap. The other car didn’t stop. It was a red convertible. Somebody coming north saw it pull past and leave the highway.”

“Unless the highway patrol has something, I’d have to be lucky to find out who was driving. And if they do have something, you don’t need me.”

“We know who was driving. An actress named Kate Thackera. I caught Larry at the right moment, when he was coming out of the concussion, before the censorship could start working. He said, and I quote, ‘That Brannon bitch, do you know what she did? She tried to shoot me.’”

“Brannon?” Shayne said, frowning. “Keko Brannon?”

“Kate Thackera took Brannon’s place in that sad lady’s last picture. He got them confused.”

“And she tried to shoot him from the other car?”

Marcus spread his hands. “That was all he’d say. I said something like, ‘What? Who? Tried to shoot you—what are you talking about, Larry?’ He came back into focus and his brain started clicking. I told you he doesn’t go in for telling secrets, and not to Junior especially. I tried to get him to go back to it, naturally; but he pooh-poohed it—more important matters to think about and so on. I had a man check the hotels. Kate Thackera is here at the St. Albans. She came in this afternoon. And she’s driving a rented Chevy, which happens to be red and a convertible.”

“Why does she want to kill him?”

“She’s trying to get the part of Doña Isabella, in The Last Buccaneer. We’re shooting it on location in Homestead; and if you haven’t heard about it, our publicity people are doing a lousy job. It’s a fat part, really fat—the only woman on a pirate ship. I saw her costume tests, and I thought she was okay. Maybe better than okay. But I’m not the creative genius. Larry’s using somebody else.”

“So she ambushed him on Interstate 95? I don’t know many movie stars, but how often does this happen?”

“This is a special girl. Not the world’s most stable individual. Larry used to screw her, and that makes it less simple. I don’t mean it was nutty, anything but. Under the circumstances, it might have worked. Larry likes people to fight for a part—he thinks it carries over into their performance. That was a heavy thing she did. Larry has to be impressed. Everybody else wanted her for the part, the producer, the director.”

“Are there any bullet holes in your father’s car?”

“You’re ahead of me. I couldn’t see any. Now I want to tell you something that’s not common knowledge. First I’d better see if we can cut a deal. What I want to have you do is take charge of Kate Thackera. I don’t care how you do it. I want you to tie her up so she can’t make another move for thirty-six hours. Tonight, tomorrow, tomorrow night.”

“That sounds possible.”

“And I’m not thinking in terms of surveillance. Our own people could handle that. I want you to be actually on the scene all the time. I don’t know if anybody’s working with her; so I don’t want her to have access to a phone. I’m told you set your fee according to the difficulty of the assignment. I’d prefer it if you could do all this without letting her know you’re working for us, but she’s not dumb, and she may be hard to handle. I’m thinking in terms of a thousand dollars.”

“For thirty-six hours?” Shayne said. “It’s high for escort duty. It’s low for kidnapping.”

“I’m not talking about kidnapping. Well, I suppose I am, if you look at it a certain way. Fifteen hundred? Half in advance.”

“What happens thirty-six hours from now?”

“The meeting will be over, and the Honest Ballot Association will announce the count. But that’s not all. Larry rushed Buccaneer into production and moved the meeting to Miami so the stockholders could visit the set and see the old dazzler in action. The proxy thing has been getting national coverage, and we want to spin some of that off on the picture. We’re on a thirty-day schedule. Right now—through tomorrow—we could switch Kate into the part. Then we start shooting scenes with the new girl, and it would cost too much. And Kate knows it. At that point, unless she’s completely out of her head, she’ll give up.”

“Have you put bodyguards on your father?”

“Three. But he’s not going to stay in the hospital a minute longer than he has to. They’ve put on a walking cast. It wouldn’t surprise me if he’s already out. The important thing is tomorrow’s New York papers, the Times and the Wall Street Journal. They’ll carry a wire-service story, and it has to say that the dynamic Consolidated-Famous executive, lucky as always, came out of the crash with nothing more serious than a broken leg and a few minor cuts. We aren’t mentioning the concussion.”

“Where’s he staying, here on the Beach?”

“No, he has a location trailer in Homestead. The idea is, he’s giving the picture his personal supervision. That doesn’t mean he’ll actually sleep there. The most sensible thing for him to do would be to check in somewhere inconspicuously under another name, with two or three armed men; and then we could stop worrying. But if I suggest that he do it, he’ll do the opposite. That’s why we have to work on it from the other end.”

“What was the thing you were going to tell me?”

Marcus faced the mirror again and began laying out his shaving equipment.

“That Larry had a heart attack last year, and this is really confidential. I know it happens all the time, and people accept the message and slow down. But we’re talking about Larry Zion. He’s a cliché, but don’t forget he’s one of the three or four people who originated the cliché—Louis B. Mayer, Harry Warner, Larry Zion, Harry Cohn. In Larry’s position, you can’t slow down. You keep going at the same speed, or you get the hell out of the movie business. All the way out. For this reason: if you have a bankable star and a property, there’s no problem getting financing. But you need financing before you can tie up the star and the property. It gets more complicated, but that’s basically it. Some of our big deals have been pretty bizarre lately. You plot and connive and blackmail; you beg some people and put the arm on others; you trade and cut corners and promise the moon; but to close that circle finally, you need somebody as hard as steel. Somebody like Larry, who’ll cut throats if he has to to get the deal. He’s the guy who drove the gangsters out of the studio unions, and he didn’t do it by being nice. A heart attack makes people soft. But that’s not the way pictures get made. All Larry did after the attack was transfer from tennis to table tennis; and my God, he’s turned into a demon at the game.”

“So the lady in the red convertible wasn’t trying to shoot him; she was trying to scare him to death?”

“That’s the way it looks. She wouldn’t have to shoot real bullets. The bang and the flash would be enough. He knew she had a good reason for wanting him to die. By that I mean a good reason in terms he himself has always accepted. He had half a second to recognize her and react. One twitch at that speed would do it. And then Kate would go into Buccaneer, the critics would love her, and she could get off unemployment insurance. That’s my theory; and whether it’s true or not, I’m betting that Larry believes it.”

Shayne looked down into his glass and studied the shifting patterns on the surface of the cognac.

“Let’s see if I’ve got this. He regretted telling you about the gun. He’s a tough man who doesn’t believe in falling back on his son or anybody else when he’s threatened or in trouble. He believes in taking care of his own problems. That was a close miss today. She was taking a big chance herself, and he knows she’s serious. So you aren’t hiring me because you’re worried about what she’ll do to him. You want me to keep him from doing anything to her.”

Marcus rinsed his razor. “Shayne, I don’t want either one of them killed or hurt. I can’t put company guards on her because Larry outranks me. He formed his attitudes in the days when movie companies could pretty much do what they pleased. But this is Miami, not Los Angeles. Nobody knows us here. I don’t want any trouble right now. I happen not to give a goddamn about the girl personally, but I want her immobilized, and I want her protected. I assume we have a deal?”

Shayne finished his drink and nodded. “Where can I find her?”

“The last time I had a report, she was drinking downstairs in the Seminole Room. She’s a great bourbon drinker; and this would be a good time of night to make the connection, while she’s still fairly sober.”

Shayne stood up. “How do I recognize her?”

“Kate Thackera?” Marcus said, sounding really surprised for the first time. “She’s made some big-budget pictures for us.”

“We don’t go to the movies as much here as you do in Los Angeles.”

Marcus shook his head. “I’ll send somebody down with you to point her out. Do you have a gun with you? I’m sure we can scare one up if you haven’t.”

Chapter 3

In this light, at least, Kate Thackera seemed perfectly sane. She was strikingly well built, and the red dress she was wearing had been designed to call attention to that fact. She wore her black hair in bangs, long enough to hide her eyebrows when she raised them. Her eyes were wide-set, slightly slanting. Just then she tilted her head, her eyes closed down almost to slits, and her face broke up into happy laughter. But she looked less happy as Shayne got closer to her. Some of the laughlines had been put there by something else.

She was at the extreme end of the bar, sitting on a stool with her legs crossed, her skirt well up along her thigh. She had two men with her. Shayne squeezed into an opening beside a slightly built youth in glasses.

“Hey, Mike,” the bartender said in greeting. “Months and months. I’ve been keeping Hennessy in stock, and the bottle’s still three-quarters full.”

“I’d better start working on that,” Shayne said.

A cool black piano player in a tuxedo, the only member of his race and the only tuxedo in sight, was playing show tunes in an alcove between the bar and the large room beyond. Most of the drinkers on either side of Shayne had their elbows out, as though to discourage conversation. They looked straight ahead in silence at the dim mirror and the pyramids of bottles.

“Isn’t that Kate Thackera down there?” Shayne said.

The youth beside him tucked in his elbows and half turned, eager for contact. “In the flesh! And in the flesh she looks even better than in the movies.”

“Quite a bit of flesh showing.”

The youth laughed. “Man! A picture of hers came out when I was in college. On Fire: Did you ever see it? And she was so marvelous in it. I saw it eight times. Funny and sexy both; and in my book, that’s an unbeatable combination.”

“Who are the guys, do you know?”

The youth studied the group. “The small one, don’t you think he has something to do with show business? He has that sort of sneaky look. Somebody said the big guy is linebacker for the Dolphins, Doc something. I don’t follow the game.”

“Doc Black,” another drinker said.

“Sure,” Shayne said. “And you can tell from looking at him that he really likes contact.”

“He also likes to break up bars,” the expert continued. “I’ve got my track shoes on. The minute the argument starts I’m getting out of here.”

“She came in by herself!” the youth said. “I mean, Kate Thackera by herself, when she must know thousands of people in town. I thought I’d go over and introduce myself, but what a draggy scene it must be for somebody with any sensitivity at all. Fans,” he said. “That must be the worst thing about being a star.”

“I hear she’s trying to get the lead in that pirate movie,” Shayne said.

“No kidding!” the young man exclaimed. “Who told you that? I was thinking of hitching down to see if I could get on the set, but I don’t suppose they’d let me. They’ve got a couple of ships that are absolutely authentic replicas. A good, old-fashioned, slam-bang pirate picture. I think the public is going to eat it up. Do you agree with me?”

Shayne was willing to agree. The bartender brought his brandy and joined the movie discussion. Kate, talking with animation, used her glass to emphasize what she was saying and set it down only when it was empty. Going out of balance, she tipped sideward against the chest of the large man, who was heavily muscled, tall, and nearly bald. The other man, younger and narrower, with a nervous mustache, looked like a hustler. If he was in show business, as the youth suspected, it was on the fringes.

Shayne drank and watched. The youth beside him was trying to get Shayne to persuade him to go down and shoehorn himself into the conversation.

“Why not?” Shayne said agreeably. “If you really saw one of her movies eight times.”

“Minimum. I chased it around all over Boston. Whenever I went to a party in those days, I picked out the girl who looked most like her. And I got stung a few times. That crazy kind of look can fool you. Sometimes they really are crazy.”

He studied Kate. “It’s that quirk at the corner of her mouth. You know she’s bright, with a good sense of humor; and at the same time, she could be very loving. That’s her big asset—that little dint she gets when she smiles.”

“Not to speak of a great pair of tits,” Shayne added.

“Oh, the one thing she radiates is sex. Look around you. There isn’t a soul along this bar who isn’t thinking the same thing—involving Kate Thackera, a clear night, a bottle of wine, a sleeping bag.”

“She’s smaller than I expected,” Shayne said, keeping the conversation going.

“I like them small,” the youth assured him. “I like the top of their head to come up just about to my chin. I know if I spoke to her she’d be nice. She wouldn’t put me down. But the thing of it is, do I want to invade her privacy?”

“No harm in trying. I think she came in here looking for a little impromptu action.”

“Oh, I don’t agree. She’s not that type. My trouble is, I’ve never walked up out of the blue and started a conversation. That’s why I’ve missed out on so many things.”

The heavy-set football player, swaying, dropped one meaty hand on Kate’s thigh, as though to help her stay on the stool. The other man looked anxious and edged away. Kate didn’t seem to object to the hand. The big man shifted and came in against the bar and upset his drink reaching for it.

“Another round down here! Will you kindly snap it up and give us a little service?”

“Oh-oh,” the youth at Shayne’s end of the bar said. “Now if I wasn’t so chicken I’d go down and get everybody interested in something else. That creep is over the edge. Big son-of-a-bitch, isn’t he?”

“It’s simple,” Shayne said. “You just do it. Like this.” Pushing off the bar stool, he went down to the little group and told the linebacker coldly, “Take your hand off the lady’s leg.”

They looked at him. The football player seemed three feet across, and approximately as solid as an anvil. He was shorter than Shayne, but fifty pounds heavier. He carried a ridge of scar tissue over one eye, a jagged scar along the side of his nose. One of those specialized mutations who have been bred and trained for the single function of getting through to cripple the quarterback, he had the air of a man who considered himself a success.

“What did you say?” he asked incredulously. One of his important front teeth was missing.

“I said to put your hand back in your pocket. This is a public bar. People have a right to drink here without being groped.”

Kate recovered first. “Baby, this is nice of you, I suppose; but do I look like a damsel in distress?”

Shayne ignored her. “The moral standards in this town are going to hell, in my opinion. People seem to think that if they’re big enough and drunk enough, they can do anything they feel like doing; and nobody’s going to call them on it.”

The girl put one hand on his shoulder. “Before this thing escalates, will you let me say something? I make a point of not getting mixed up in brawls. I’m flattered, I honestly am. But I don’t need your help. I’m Kate. This is Max,” she said, indicating the smaller man, who had pivoted and taken a full step backward away from trouble. “And this is Doc; and believe me, that isn’t fat you see; it’s meat and muscle. Have a drink on us. I’m paying for this round. What’s your pleasure?”

He shrugged off her hand without looking away from the linebacker, who was blinking and breathing heavily through his mouth. “I’m still not making myself clear. This isn’t just a moral question. If anybody puts his hand on this lady’s ass to find out how much she’s got on under her dress, it’s going to be me.”

Kate looked for help. The bartender sauntered toward them.

“Come on, guys,” she said, “let’s negotiate this with the help of more of this nice booze. Football. That’s a neutral subject. What do you consider your greatest thrill on the football field, Doc?”

Doc, bubbling quietly, was clearly about to blow. The whites of his eyes were flecked with red. Shayne was crowding him, giving him no room to get set.

“Stop shoving,” Doc said, “or by God…”

Shayne dropped his hand onto the bar, palm up. The bartender reached under the rim of the bar, took out a flexible, black rubber club and put it in Shayne’s hand. At that moment Doc’s face went into a quick spasm. He grunted and swung his heavy forearm at Shayne’s face. Shayne stepped back and around and whipped the rubber club against his head behind one ear. There are worse places to be sapped, but this was bad enough.

The impact was hard and flat and cut sharply through the bar noises. The piano player broke off and looked over his shoulder, ready to jump. The big man’s forearm dropped of its own weight. His eyes had iced over, and his brain was in temporary short circuit. As he tipped forward, Shayne caught him under the arms and leaned him into the angle between the bar and the girl’s stool.

“Do we want to wait until he comes back?” he asked her. “I’m a big fan of yours. I saw one of your pictures eight times.”

Doc swayed, and Shayne wedged him in more securely. This was familiar country to football players. Doc had been here before. He kept moving his head, trying to understand what had happened. Apparently the rules had been changed—the quarterback had retaliated.

Shayne motioned to Max. “He’ll be okay if nobody breathes on him. If he asks about us, tell him we had to meet some people.” He dropped the rubber club on the bar. “Thanks, Jimmy. Very good timing.”

Kate slipped off the stool. “He’s going to want to tear off some heads. I feel it. Goodnight, everybody.” She clicked off, with everything moving. Shayne followed, and heads turned to watch them. Passing the bespectacled young man at the end of the bar, he remarked, “See how easy?”

“You saw her picture eight times,” the youth said bitterly. “That was going to be my line.”

The hotel lobby, into which they emerged, was crowded with plumbing supply salesmen, all wearing badges shaped like toilet plungers. The light was better here, and Kate raked Shayne with a quick appraising glance.

“I said goodnight everybody.”

Shayne grinned at her. “After sticking my neck out to keep you from being mauled? That’s not how the movies do it. The girl is grateful. She says let’s go someplace and find out if we swing the same way.”

One of the salesmen came twisting up out of the crowd. “Aren’t you Mike Shayne? Who always gets his man? Or his woman, as the case may be?”

“Move it along,” Shayne said harshly. “I’m trying to talk my new friend into having a drink.”

The salesman looked drunkenly at Kate. “Aren’t you Shirley MacLaine? You should do it. Have a drink with him. Don’t stand on ceremony. Life is too short. Do it.”

“Mike Shayne,” she said as the salesman weaved away. “That was how a sap happened to jump into your hand.”

“I operate around here. They know me.”

“I still don’t get it. I could have handled that guy.”

“Doc Black? You don’t know him. He was going to sit down after the next drink. Once down, those guys have a tendency to stay down. He’s been pushing that tackling sled around all day, and the club would have to send a tow truck for him. You don’t want to waste the evening.”

“Listen, do I hear a faint implication…”

“Nothing unnatural about it,” Shayne told her. “Doc comes in a bar, and the groupies gather. He’s so damn big. So solid. But usually they go to bed disappointed. He gets excited by all the attention and starts knocking over drinks.”

“Let’s make it more specific,” she said evenly. “Goodnight, Mr. Shayne. I have to make a phone call.”

“There’s a booth over there. Do you have change?”

She continued to look up at him. “I can’t stand smug people, even when they’re right. And you don’t happen to be right. I don’t pick up men in bars—not because it’s morally repulsive, but because it’s so damn chancy. I met Doc when he was in L.A. with the Rams. He was okay then.”

“He’s been unconscious a lot of the time since,” Shayne said, shifting ground slightly. “I thought he was about to start throwing bottles, and that’s the wrong kind of publicity for people in your line of business. If I made a mistake, I’ll go back in and apologize.”

“Better not,” she said with a laugh. “Let him recover.”

“You don’t really want to phone anybody. I don’t want to go on hitting people.”

“Well…”

“That’s a step forward. You’re thinking about it.”

She touched him suddenly under the arm. “Are you the kind of detective who carries a gun?”

“Not tonight, why?”

“I just wondered. Where would you like us to go?”

“That’s a problem. There are other bars in this hotel, and the town is full of hotels. But we’ll be bothered by people who want to tell you how many times they’ve seen your movies.”

“Mike, slow down. We’re off to a shaky start; and from now on, let’s do it like ordinary people.”

“Ordinary people have time. We don’t.”

He took her arm and drew her into a cleared space in front of a closed travel agency. “This is a pitch. I’ve just been discussing you with one of your fans, and he says the reason you’re in town is to get a part in a picture. If you get it, you won’t have any time for social drinking. If you don’t get it, you’ll take a plane out. Tonight we’re both free.”

“Damn you, will you give me a minute to think?”

“I’m trying to be realistic. A psychiatrist told me once that the reason actresses don’t like to sleep alone is that they’re used to performing in front of an audience.”

She made a fist. “One more remark like that and I’ll slug you. You’ll notice I’m wearing rings.”

“Say we go to the Deauville to see the comic who’s there this week. I’ve been told he’s good. The place will be full of tourists. ‘There’s Kate Thackera; let’s pester her for her autograph. Who’s the jerk with her, is he anybody? Do you think they’d mind if we join them?’ Or you’d run into somebody you’ve known longer than you have me…”

“Which is less than five minutes.”

“That’s what I’m saying. Which is less than five minutes, and you don’t know anything about me. What if I like to beat on my girls with high-heeled shoes? So you’ll try to slip out when I’m not looking, but I’ll catch up to you on the sidewalk and throw the other guy through a plate-glass window. Cops. Headlines.”

She was laughing. “You’re getting at something.”

“Let’s take a shortcut and go to my apartment. You’ll be fresher in the morning.”

“Or,” she said in a resigned tone, “you could stay here and have a drink in my room.”

“That would be even more practical. Then if I do anything too freaky, you can call the desk and have them come get me.”

She waited a moment and touched his arm. “I’ve been having a rough time lately. I won’t get maudlin or anything. But will you be… easy with me?”

“Yeah,” Shayne said. “We’ll hoist a few and stay off the serious subjects; and then if you’d like some solitude, I’ll empty the ashtrays and go home.”

“You may turn out to be a nice man, after all. I have bourbon upstairs. You’d better get ice.”

Chapter 4

Kate, as a celebrity of sorts, had been welcomed to Miami Beach with flowers, fruit, and a quart of bourbon in a fancy package.

“Old Grand-dad,” she said approvingly. “They bothered to find out my brand—now don’t you think that was sweet of them? But we’ve got another bottle to finish first.”

She kicked off her shoes and went to check her appearance in the bathroom mirror. She improved her lipstick and did something additional to her eyes before coming back. Shayne handed her a glass.

“Some people think I drink too much of this stuff,” she said. “But I’ve always thought it was good for me. Which picture of mine did you see eight times?”

“I forget the name of it now. Cigarette?” He held out a package.

“I thought as much.”

“But if there’s anything of yours on TV tonight, I’m willing to watch.”

“Baby, thanks. Fans like you make all the difference.”

She piled pillows against the head of one of the beds, arranged herself, and took the top off her drink.

“It’s been a rough, rough day; and now I’m going to do some vigorous drinking.”

He lit her cigarette for her. She held onto his wrist and leaned forward to blow out the match.

“I just had a sensational idea, and I don’t know why I didn’t think of it earlier. You seem to be a pretty competent guy. Poor Doc—but maybe it’s just as well. Because I not only need somebody tonight, I need somebody tomorrow. A private detective might be just the thing. Are you available?”

She released him, and he went back for his drink. “Available for what?”

“I know nothing’s going to happen, but just to be on the safe side. Well, I need sort of a bodyguard, Mike. But there’s no point in going into it if you’re tied up.”

He waited a moment.

“I’m afraid I’m working for somebody else. It’s never a good idea to take on two clients at the same time.”

“You’re working for somebody else tomorrow, or right now?”

“Right now.”

She put her glass on the bedside stand and took a short-barreled revolver out of the shallow drawer. Leaning forward, she pointed it at Shayne.

“Would that other client be Larry Zion by any chance?”

Shayne laughed. “What will you do if I tell you the truth—shoot me? That gun’s loaded with blanks.”

The muzzle wavered, pointing toward a Van Gogh print on the wall before coming back to Shayne.

“Are you willing to bet on that?”

“Sure. You’re smart enough not to fool around with live ammunition in a car moving at eighty-five miles an hour.”

A look of disgust crossed her face. She pointed the little gun at her own forehead, decided against that, and aimed it at a lamp and pulled the trigger. There was a sharp report, but the lamp stayed together.

“I knew it was loaded with blanks. How did you know it?”

“There weren’t any bullet holes in Larry’s car.”

She threw the gun. It sailed past his head and hit the wall. As she changed position, her tight, red skirt rode higher on her thigh.

“So that was a con job downstairs. I should have known. What’s going to happen to me now?”

“I hope nothing much. I’m working for Marcus Zion, not Larry. I took half the fee in advance; but if anything bad happens to you, I don’t get the rest of it. He hired me to keep the peace for thirty-six hours. After that you’re on your own, but he thinks you’ll be all right. You might as well lean back and finish your drink.”

She stayed as she was, giving off static. “Larry told Marcus about the gun? That means he’s conscious again. I couldn’t find out from the hospital.”

“He came out of the coma talking. And then he thought better of it and clammed up. This is all according to Marcus. Some of it didn’t have quite the right smell. Why don’t you give me your version?”

She breathed in and out slowly, then reached for her drink again. “Why did you blow it? You had me fooled. I really thought you made that move in the bar because you wanted to go to bed with me.”

“I do intend to go to bed with you. But later. He didn’t really tell me a hell of a lot. I’m in the middle, and that can be a bad place to be. I need to know more about it for my own protection. If a bellboy knocks, should I open the door or not? Should we stay here and eat on room service or get out of town? Marcus wanted to make sure I realized that his father’s a tough and determined man who got to be head of the studio by slamming everybody else out of his way.”

“God knows that’s true.”

“Marcus himself wasn’t coming across to me too well. But I think he wants to prove he can be just as ruthless as his old man, even though they’ve had him out in the back room counting money all these years. Sometimes that kind can be scarier than the real thing.”

“Marcus Zion? Scary?”

“He tried to get me to take a gun. The way he described the setup, a gun wasn’t called for. Guns make more problems than they solve, except in the movies. But maybe he doesn’t know that. What kind of a guy is he?”

“Marcus,” she said slowly. “He’s one of those people who are always leaning over backwards. I mean he’s more cautious than he has to be. Being Larry’s only son can’t be easy, but people don’t exactly feel sorry for him—he’s too cold a fish.”

He had given her something to think about. She was rattling the ice in her glass and frowning.

“Is Larry out and around?”

“I think so. There’s some kind of business reason why he doesn’t want to stay in the hospital. Marcus was being so careful not to be overheard that I didn’t catch all of it.”

She hit the bed with her open hand. “He was doing sixty at least when he went into that barrier. Ordinary people get killed if they run into a pole at five miles an hour. That car was spattered all over the landscape. And he came out of it with a broken leg and a concussion.”

“The Zion luck,” Shayne said. “Marcus thinks it may win him some votes.”

“Great; I’m delighted. But that wasn’t my object.”

Suddenly she came off the bed, bringing her drink. Stooping above Shayne, she kissed him lightly on the mouth. When she straightened, she moved slightly so her breast touched his face. Then she drew away.

“You hit a nerve, Mike… I wish I hadn’t had so many drinks… We’ll figure out a way to handle this. Ask me some questions.”

“Were you trying to kill him?”

“Of course not. Not that I look on him as an actual human being. Wiping out Larry Zion would be on the same ethical level as swatting a mosquito. The things he’s done…”

She returned to the bed and sat down with one foot tucked up under her. “I didn’t know that exit thing he ran into was going to be where it was, around the bend. All I wanted to do was convince him I wanted to kill him, Mike.” She concluded doubtfully, “There’s a difference. There really is.”

“You mean you wanted to scare him into giving you a part in this movie?”

“That’s right. He used to shoot lions in Kenya, and my theory about that is that he did it because he’s a coward.”

“What makes a part in this particular movie so important?”

“He promised it to me. That’s the only reason he bought the novel. And I need it badly right now. Dear God, I need it. And it’s a gorgeous part. The one woman on a ship filled with mangy, heterosexual pirates. It’s a gamble, a pirate picture in this day and age; but even if it bombs, whoever plays Doña Isabella is going to get great reviews. And Mike, it was set! The contracts were all drawn. Then all of a sudden…”

She drew the flat of her hand across her throat.

“Who got it instead?”

“His current discovery. Her name is Alix Hermes; and she’s half-Greek, half-Italian, and all bitch. She’s made a couple of artistic pictures in Europe which I’ve seen, unfortunately. Don’t expect any objectivity out of me. I’m told the New Republic critic adores her.”

“Do she and Larry travel together?”

“Everywhere. And Larry’s one endearing trait is that he always believes his current bed companion has great box-office potential. The idea is: if he wants to ball her, so will the audience.”

“Were you on that list?”

She gave him a quick glance. “Did Marcus say something? No, the girls I’m thinking about have been bracketed with him. Nobody thinks of Alix as anything but Larry’s girlfriend. It’s a long-standing thing, six months at least. By playing my cards very carefully, I stayed out of the category. Of course when I broke into pictures, it was a lot like the Middle Ages: the master had first refusal on every virgin on his property. I didn’t have the leverage to set a precedent and say no. It isn’t that important to me anyhow. We had one or two tepid weekends in the desert. Boat trips and so on. All I tried to be was barely adequate, no raptures or convulsions; and pretty soon he stopped phoning me.”

“Marcus says the director wants you for the part.”

“Baby, because he wants the picture to make money! He’s worked with me. He knows what I can do. There’s a big fight scene. I’m in man’s clothes, which get torn, naturally. I’ve got a pistol in one hand and a cutlass in the other, and I could be absolutely tremendous! Nobody wants to take a chance with that Greek stick. They’ve argued and argued, but Larry’s in charge of production, and he makes the decisions. He switched me out, and he can switch me back in, but only if he’s really persuaded that I want it badly enough to kill him to get it.”

“And if he’d died in the wreck…”

“I’d be on the set tomorrow. I can see you think it sounds a bit extreme. Mike, let me tell you what that man did to me—and the fact that he’s done worse to other people doesn’t make me feel any better. He doesn’t have quite as much muscle as he had in the old days when he didn’t have to explain to anybody. He couldn’t yank me out at the last minute and drop Hermes in because she’s the new girl in town. But if he could make me look bad up there on the screen, where it counts… So he killed me in my last picture; and that’s the exact, literal truth. You know how movies are made. They shoot miles and miles of film, cut it up into slivers and put them back together in the cutting room. The dailies were marvelous. Everybody said so. But the cutter was under orders to make me look like a bum.”

“Are you sure you’re not imagining some of this?”

“Oh, I’m crazy,” she said seriously. “I admit it. You have to be slightly nuts to make it in this business. I grabbed the head cutter and gave him some of the best sex he’d ever enjoyed; and at the end of the weekend, he admitted that some of the really bad cuts had been made by Larry himself. You know—where there were four possible takes, he picked the one that put the wrong shadow in the wrong place or the one in which the way I spoke a line would make me sound slightly unpleasant. Damn it, Mike! You’re still looking skeptical. I know I can’t prove it. But I’m convinced it’s true; and that’s the important thing, isn’t it? And Larry knows I’m convinced because I told him so in Chasen’s and accidentally tipped a bottle of burgundy over on his new suit. That picture did terrible business, and I haven’t been working since. I did a little television at first, and then that closed down. There’s a rumor around that I drink Old Grand-dad for breakfast instead of coffee and orange juice. I think that rumor started in the New York Consolidated-Famous office, but there’s no way to fight it. All right, Mike, what would you do? Use your imagination. Somebody ruined your reputation so you couldn’t go on being a private detective. Would you give up and go to work as a short-order cook?”

She added, “Which doesn’t mean I wanted to murder the son-of-a-bitch. I’ll say that again. I was just trying to get a point across.”

“Did you know about his heart attack last year?”

Her eyebrows went behind the screen of her bangs. She asked for more bourbon.

“I keep forgetting I’m talking to a detective. I thought I might get away with suppressing that in the interest of a warmer relationship. Of course I knew about it. It happened in my house. He was trying to come twice in one night, and he’s too old for that sort of thing. Stop looking at me like that. I was not, I repeat not, trying to black him out so he’d lose control of the car. He’s completely recovered as far as that goes. But heart people are the world’s worst hypochondriacs. They think about it all the time. Larry’s carrying this big, vulnerable thing around inside his chest. I was trying to bluff him, that’s all; and the person you’re bluffing has to believe you mean it. Why aren’t you drinking?” she said nervously. “Let’s kill the bottle and open the other one and get stinking. Then maybe I can explain it to you.”

“I may be a little slow tonight,” Shayne said. “I don’t get these distinctions you’re making.”

“The main distinction,” Kate said, “is between Girl A, who tries to kill somebody and doesn’t succeed and is therefore automatically a loser, and Girl B, who’s merely trying to make her position clear. Now which of these two would you rather have sex with?”

“One at a time.”

She gave him a steady look. “Do you mean it? You aren’t going to get lofty and moral with me?”

He shrugged.

“Then will you help me, Mike? I don’t mean just help me stay alive. Help me make him give me the part. No, it’s too soon to ask you that. First I want to show you something weird.”

While she was on her feet, she poured them more bourbon. “Isn’t it lovely to know there’s an unopened bottle? Like money in the bank—not that I’ve ever had money in the bank.”

She pulled open a bureau drawer, empty except for a magazine which she handed to Shayne.

“This was left at the desk sometime this afternoon.”

It was a back issue, eleven years old, of a hugely successful magazine whose publisher, Oscar Olson, had made his reputation and fortune by creating a vast readership for a peculiar editorial mixture: blue cartoons, passable fiction, strong editorials on behalf of sexual freedom, and photographs of female nudes. This copy was smudged and dog-eared, as though it had passed through many hands. As Shayne took it, it broke automatically to the gatefold, a double page that opened out of the magazine so it could be unstapled and tacked on the walls of country stores and gas stations. It showed a naked girl lying on one hip on a bed under a canopy. The picture had been doctored. Her face had been replaced with Kate’s; and a comic-strip balloon came out of the lips: “How I wish I’d known when to stop.” A drooping white lily sprouted from between her buttocks.

“This happens to be a famous picture,” Kate said quietly. “Keko Brannon before she made her first movie.”

“Keko Brannon,” Shayne said. “According to Marcus again, Larry thought that was who was shooting at him.”

“I wanted to get that effect. There’s a famous story about how they met, and I was trying to confuse the bastard and upset him. Now as an expert witness, Mr. Shayne, what do you make of that goddamn lily?”

“It’s a threat. You’re being told to stop whatever you’re doing unless you want to end up dead.”

Kate shivered lightly. Shayne went on, “Somebody went to a lot of trouble. You can buy the current issue of this magazine for a buck, and it’s full of naked broads. Why go back eleven years for this particular one?” He closed the gatefold and checked the caption material. “Pussycat of the Month, Suzy Flynn.”

“Larry changed her name when he hired her. But millions of people would recognize the picture even with a different face. If you look hard, you can see a wisp of her pubic hair. We all have it; but in those days if it showed in the photographs, the magazine couldn’t be mailed. There was a big civil-liberties case that went on for years. When Keko turned into such a box-office smash, the picture got to be a collector’s item. Mike, I don’t know how much you know about this proxy fight. Has anybody told you that Oscar Olson is bankrolling the opposition?”

“I thought he was a magazine man. What does he know about movies?”

“Just that you can make money with them if you’re lucky. He’s been trying to finagle his way in for years. This is his big effort.”

Shayne tossed the magazine back on the bureau. “Now we start making connections. How well do you know Olson?”

“Nobody really knows Olson. I’ve been to his parties. When you’re in San Francisco, that’s one of the things you do. They run around the clock, and they get very dreary. Now the inevitable next question. I haven’t seen him undressed, and I don’t know if he has three balls instead of the usual number. He stops appreciating girls after they pass their twenty-first birthday, and I met him too late. I’m not fooling. Twenty-one is the age of compulsory retirement.”

“How old was Brannon when the picture was taken?”

“Seventeen, I think, a very young seventeen. She was part of the entourage for a while after that, but she never talked about it.”

“‘Entourage’?”

“Haven’t you read the articles? He likes to have chicks around. Secretaries and so on—some of them can actually type.”

“Keko Brannon and you. Were you friends?”

“Something else first. I talked to Oscar yesterday. I thought twice about it because even before I got that magazine I knew this whole thing was heavily booby-trapped. But I have a beau in New York who’s trust officer in a bank, and he has the voting of twelve thousand shares of Consolidated-Famous. I can influence which way he votes. I asked Oscar, if his people win control of the board, will I get the Buccaneer lead? He checked with the director and a few other people. The answer was yes.”

“Twelve thousand shares out of how many?”

“It’s a tiny percentage, but some people think this is going to be close. I wanted to try it both ways, via Larry and via Oscar. The reason I’m bringing it up is I guess it’s possible that Larry found out I’d gone to see Oscar. But—‘How I wish I’d known when to stop.’ It doesn’t fit. Stop what? It almost sounds as though I know something and I’m trying to blackmail somebody. I don’t, Mike; and I’m not.”

“Let’s get the dates straight. When did she die?”

“Seven years ago. You wanted to know if we were friends. I was her stand-in in one of her pictures, not one of her good ones. She was already starting to flake. The marriages were over; and there was a steady flow of men, terrible men. She was in a daze much of the time. What a stand-in does is wear the star’s costumes and move through her scenes so the crews can block out the breaks and angles. Keko was always nice to the stand-in, even when she was being awful to everybody else. She kept asking me to trade places with her. I would have been delighted! When the picture was over, she asked me to move in and take charge of her phone calls. It didn’t turn out to be too bad. Afterward, after she killed herself in the middle of a picture, some PR genius thought of reshooting her scenes with me in the role. The old show biz story—the stand-in takes over for the star on opening night and gets an ovation. It was strictly a salvage job to capitalize on the publicity. And a little grisly—the picture was supposed to be a light-hearted sex comedy. But for some reason it worked. I’ve always thought the fact that I was the leading lady had something to do with it.”

She finished her drink and said briskly, “Now come to bed.”

“Not yet.”

“I’m tired as hell. Fighting the bourbon. I don’t feel like talking any more.”

“You go to bed. I’ll join you later.”

“Hmm.” She set down her glass and slid off the bed. She pushed back an imaginary pair of sleeves and spat on her hands. “You’re going to make me work for it, are you?”

“You can’t be in the mood for making love. I want to start through this again. There’s still a lot missing. I’ll have some more questions for you, but I have to get it in some kind of sequence first.”

“So I can’t be in the mood, can I? I’ve been in the mood ever since you crowded Doc Black up against the bar. When two males battle over a female, she’s supposed to mate with the winner. I call your attention to the moose.”

“Kate, were there ever any rumors that Keko Brannon’s death wasn’t a suicide?”

“None that I heard. Mike, baby. Stop thinking.”

“Did Oscar Olson go on seeing her after she made it in Hollywood?”

“Probably, but not after she got to be twenty-one. He wasn’t part of the scene while I was around. Those guys were on a different level, very sleazy. Mike, to continue what I was saying: I take it that your assignment calls for spending all day tomorrow with me. So we have time. I have a very vague, very foggy hunch about that Pussycat of the Month picture. I want to lay it on you and see how it sounds. There might be money in it for both of us; and don’t give me that two-client crap, because this would be perfectly moral and ethical and in the nature of a public service. But right now…”

She turned away slightly, and her tone was suddenly less assured. “I feel so jammed up and jangly. I’ve been in a vise all day. I kept telling myself that the world would be a prettier place without Larry Zion in it, but I didn’t really want it to happen. The hospital wouldn’t tell me a thing. I couldn’t go there in person. It was nervewracking.”

“I see that. You were hoping he’d pull through.”

“Sarcasm, Mike—watch it. No, I wasn’t exactly hoping that, because if he still wouldn’t give me the part I couldn’t back down, could I? I’d have to raise the bet and try something else. Mike, I’ve been faking a little. You’re sexy, yes; but I can resist you if I have to. It’s funny about sex. I’m beginning to feel the way Keko did at the end. Yes, no, who cares.”

“What did that job of yours consist of—hiding the bottles and getting her to work on time?”

“How could I do that? I didn’t have any authority. Mainly I listened and tried to keep her looking halfway presentable. Now that’s really all about Keko for now. I had her full-time when she was alive, and people still think of me as that kooky funny-face who took her place in On Fire.”

She touched his neck. “You’re the male. In our society, the male decides. But can I tell you what I’d like?”

“Go ahead.”

“I’ll shower and get ready. If you decide you want to get in with me, I’ll make you welcome. Just don’t delay too long. My doctor tells me I use sex for reassurance, and tonight a little uncomplicated reassurance is what I need. I’d make it nice for you, Mike. Sincerely. Then we’ll sleep for a time; and when we wake up, I’ll bore you with various guesses and theories. And you can advise me.”

Before he could answer, she turned quickly and went into the bathroom. Presently the shower started.

Shayne picked up the eleven-year-old magazine and turned to the mutilated gatefold again. Kate’s head was askew, a trifle out of scale. Her expression was wrong for the pose. She was smiling, her eyes alive with humor and intelligence. Shayne wished he had seen her on the screen. What was there about that kind of success that made them so greedy for it?

She finished in the shower, and he heard her moving around. She came out in a dressing gown, her face scrubbed of makeup and seeming to be lightly oiled. She shrugged off the dressing gown as he watched, meeting his eyes unself-consciously.

“Any time at all, Mike.”

She opened the bed and got in. Before settling herself, she turned off the light between the beds. Shayne watched her settle herself.

“In a moment,” he said.

The Miami papers, in their original folds, were arranged on a low table. Starting with the Herald, Shayne found a lengthy account of the Consolidated-Famous proxy fight on the financial page. Larry Zion was predicting victory for his slate by a two-to-one margin. He had some harsh things to say about the pressure tactics being used by the professional solicitation firm retained by the opposition. Oscar Olson’s name wasn’t mentioned.

Both groups had taken half-page ads. The main points made against Zion were his advanced years and his insistence on absolute, one-man rule. He was pictured as a crotchety relic of another era, out of touch with the realities of the entertainment business. No one denied that he had once been superb, but recent balance sheets told a more somber story. Nepotism (his son) and favoritism (his mistresses) were alluded to obliquely. He paid himself an extravagant salary while he was producing pictures that lost oceans of money at the box office. He had committed two and a half million dollars to a pirate movie, exactly the kind of escapist nonsense that had emptied moving picture theaters all over the world. Only someone in the grip of senile nostalgia would have made such an astounding decision.

On the amusement page, Zion was interviewed about his plans for this picture. Audiences, he declared, were hungry for romantic entertainment. They were fed up to the teeth with ugliness, misery, and smut. The enthralling, real-life story of Florida’s own José Gaspar, known as Gasparilla, a pulse-quickening account of one man’s battle against injustice and oppression… It was press agent prose, and Shayne stopped reading after a few sentences and picked up the Daily News.

The News, too, carried both ads and a rewrite of the opposing press releases as well as a small boxed announcement that the stockholders’ meeting the following day would be covered by a team of reporters headed by Shayne’s friend, Timothy Rourke.

Putting the papers aside, Shayne reviewed what he had been told by Kate and Marcus Zion. There were discrepancies and holes. Any number of blinking neon arrows pointed toward the short, tragic career of Keko Brannon. But that had been long in the past, on the opposite edge of the continent. Shayne’s assignment was simple and clear-cut. If he could control his impulse to rake over old scandals, it could also be easy and pleasant. He was here to stand between Kate and trouble. With Shayne on the scene, she must know that she wouldn’t be given a second chance to get to Larry Zion. The best she could hope for now was to stay out of the way until he retired from the business or another heart attack carried him off. Would she agree to leave town? Probably not. That could wait until morning.

But there was an undercurrent of menace somewhere that wouldn’t let him relax. He smoked three cigarettes, lighting each from the stub of the last.

He got up quietly. Kate seemed to be asleep. She lay on her side with one bare arm flung up over her eyes.

Leaving only one lamp burning, Shayne began to undress, piling his clothes on a chair. Suddenly Kate exclaimed and sat up.

“Who is it?”

“A friend,” he said. “Go back to sleep.”

She stared at him. She was sitting bolt upright, her fists clenched so tightly that her fingernails dug into her palms. He waited without moving until she recognized him. Her hand came up to brush back her hair.

“Mike. Is it going to be all right?”

“Why not?”

She looked at her watch. “I conked out. My God, I was tired. I nearly went to sleep in the shower.”

He pulled off his shirt and tossed it on the back of the chair. She slid down in bed, pulling the sheet back over her breasts.

“You know, you’re beautiful, Mike? What’s that scar on your shoulder?”

“Knife wound. I’ll tell you about it tomorrow.”

“Baby, people have really worked you over, haven’t they? Can I apologize now? I must have sounded like a madwoman. Make love to me; and I’ll give you a reward, a couple of morsels of information… Hey, will you scratch what I just said?”

“Sure.”

“It’s the way I automatically think, that lovemaking is something you bargain with. I never used to be that way.”

“Do you understand now that there’s nothing more you can do? You’re going to let Larry Zion alone?”

“I’ve made myself an enemy there.” She sighed. “Nothing like a refreshing half hour’s sleep. The awful thing is that I would have been good in that part! Adios, Doña Isabella. Now we concentrate on survival. And as for you and me, would you be willing to start over? You sleep in that bed; and I’ll sleep in this one, the way we used to do in pictures in the days of family entertainment. And tomorrow let’s not say a word about the movie business for the entire day.”

“We don’t have to stay in Miami.”

“No, we don’t, do we? Let’s go to the Bahamas and gamble. Mike, get the ice. We’ll have one last, innocent drink, in separate beds; and then we’ll sleep.”

Rolling on one elbow, she reached for the gift bottle of bourbon. The ice bucket was on the floor by Shayne’s chair. He bent down to get it; and at that moment, there was a terrific, slamming explosion in the room.

Chapter 5

He felt a surge of warm air wash over him. Stunned, deafened, he went forward on one hand and one knee. The pain was so general that he believed at first that he had been blinded. His head filled with the crash of heavy surf.

The ice bucket had been knocked over, and what brought Shayne back was a burning sensation in one hand. He was holding an ice cube. His grip tightened, and it squirted away.

He straightened slowly.

The light had been blown out. There was a harsh, acrid smell in the room.

“Kate?”

He groped for the lamp, but it was no longer where it had been. Reaching behind him, he pulled the short cord on the Venetian blind. The room was on the Collins Avenue side of the hotel, and enough light came in so he could pick his way to the bathroom. The bed in which Kate had been lying seemed to be empty. He stepped in a wet mess on the carpet and swore savagely.

He ran his hand along the bathroom wall and located the switch. Bright light streamed out across the beds.

His upper lip came back. The bed’s pale satin headboard was flecked with red.

He moved back more carefully. Kate had been blown into the narrow space between the beds. Scraps of the scarlet paper in which the presentation bottle of Old Grand-dad had been wrapped lay on the crumpled sheet and on her body. Shayne stepped on a twisted fragment of metal. It was warm. What had happened was clear as soon as he saw the way she was lying. Instead of a bottle of bourbon, she had opened a bomb. It had gone off against her chest, tearing her face and the front of her body cruelly.

Shayne moved the foot of the unmade bed aside so he could reach her. After a moment he came erect, his face hard. He wiped his fingers on the sheet.

There was a sudden scrabbling sound on the floor, and he pulled back quickly. It took him a moment to understand that the phone had been blown off the table and the switchboard operator was trying to get in touch with somebody.

“Hello? Yes. Hello? Can I help you?”

Shayne needed help, but not the kind she was offering. He weighed the phone for a moment, thinking. He heard excited voices outside in the corridor. Doors were opening.

He put the phone back on the table and closed the connection. Stepping across the bed, he looked for his clothes. They had been fully exposed to the blast. The chair he had put them on had been knocked over. For some reason, the pants, which had been on top, were only slightly torn. Everything else was shredded and soggy with Kate’s blood and bits of her flesh. He pulled on the pants, checking for his keys and money-clip and the wallet buttoned up in his hip pocket. He found one shoe easily but had to hunt for the other. He slipped them on without bothering with socks. Then he gave himself a quick inspection in the bathroom mirror and rinsed a spatter of blood off his bare shoulder.

Much had happened, but no more than two or three minutes had passed since the explosion.

Before he let himself out, he went back for the magazine and tore out the gatefold. He folded it into squares and buttoned it into the pocket with the wallet.

Bundling up his clothes—one sock was all he could find—he pushed them all the way back on the closet shelf. Then he unlocked the door and went out.

The people in the corridor were all talking at once. Shayne broke in, “Did you people hear a loud bang?”

A woman who had come out of the room across the hall cried, “It sounded to me like it came from your room. Somewhere in there.”

“No, from below,” Shayne said. “Definitely. It came up through the floor. Damn near knocked me out of bed. If I didn’t know we don’t have earthquakes around here…”

The woman was barefoot, in striped pajamas. Her face had been creamed for the night, and her hair was an explosion of rollers.

“I was brushing my teeth. The toothpaste shot all over.”

An old man in an undershirt declared, “I say it was on this floor. Don’t you notice a funny smell? I don’t know about anybody else, but I’m getting out of here!”

“I’m with you,” Shayne said quickly. “These hotels are supposed to be fireproof; but if you get caught in an elevator, it’s goodbye.”

Other doors along the corridor had opened.

“I smell smoke!” Shayne shouted. “Stay out of the elevators.”

They looked at each other. Shayne yelled again, and they broke for the red light marking the fire stairs. But before Shayne himself had taken more than a step, the elevator door opened and the security party appeared. Shayne knew the officer here, a hard-drinking Swede named Lindholm. Two others were with him. Shayne had no chance of getting as far as the stairs without being recognized, and that would be that for the rest of the night. He swerved toward an open door. The woman in the pajamas and curlers sighed heavily. Her eyes rolled up, and she fell into his arms.

He took her full weight. One of her rollers scraped his face.

He pivoted, walked her back into her room, and kicked the door shut. He felt her stiffen in his arms before he had her as far as the bed. She wrenched herself away and looked at him in horror.

“If you scream,” he told her, “I’ll knock your teeth down your throat. I mean that.”

“I can’t stand the sight of…”

Rather than say the word, she fainted again. He guided her down onto the bed. Inside the baggy pajamas, her body was firm and well muscled.

He picked up the phone and gave the operator a number. She reported no answer. After two more attempts, while the unconscious woman sprawled on the bed continued to breathe raspingly, he located Tim Rourke at a bridge game in Bal Harbour. Rourke had recently discovered the narcotic pull of this game. He played it erratically but with passion, sometimes losing half a week’s pay in one all-night session. He kept claiming that his luck was about to improve, that it couldn’t continue this bad, and that meanwhile he was meeting a lot of very bright people.

“Tim.”

The tone was enough. They had been friends for years and had been in and out of various kinds of trouble. Rourke answered quietly. Shayne picked up the woman’s hotel key and read the room number.

“Right away.”

“My friends here won’t like it,” Rourke said. “Bridge is a four-handed game. And there’s a lady who I think may be getting interested in me; so will you guarantee that it’s important?”

“Do you remember Keko Brannon?”

“Yeah?”

“What if that wasn’t a suicide?”

“Be right there,” Rourke said hastily. “Don’t disappear.”

Putting the phone back, Shayne found the woman on the bed staring up at him, her mouth still open. Shayne took out his wallet and showed her his license, but her eyes didn’t leave his face. She made a whimpering sound.

“Through no fault of my own,” Shayne said, “I happened to be in the room across the hall when a bomb went off. A woman was killed. I didn’t kill her. I’ve just phoned a friend of mine, a reporter on one of the papers. I’ll explain everything when he gets here. Right at this moment, I don’t want to tangle with the Miami Beach cops. Some of them are halfway intelligent, but people expect them to be stupid, so they make you repeat everything a dozen times. The truth is, there isn’t much I can tell them.”

“I can’t stand the sight of blood.”

“Then close your eyes,” Shayne told her. “Did you hear one word of anything I just said?”

“Are you Michael Shayne?”

“Yeah, is that good or bad?”

“I’ve heard so many conflicting stories. You’re supposed to be so… I don’t know, so…”

Her hand came up and touched her curlers.

“Where are you from?” he said.

“New York. I was in the bathroom brushing my teeth. I’m down on vacation. I’m a phys ed teacher. Booker T. Washington Junior High.”

“That’s nice. Do you have anything to drink here?”

She came up on her elbows. “I don’t drink. You probably think it’s funny that someone in my business has this thing about blood. But if one of my girls skins her knee, I’m likely to keel over. I shouldn’t even be talking about it. If you’re going to be staying here—and it seems you are—will you please, please, rinse off your shoes?”

“In a minute.”

He went to the door and listened to the commotion outside in the corridor. Checking rooms, Lindholm and his people had found the dead girl. Shayne turned.

“They may be banging on the door in a minute. Then again they may not. We were all pretty excited. I need a shower; and don’t try anything, because some of my pleasantest memories are of beating up lady gym teachers.”

“Phys ed,” she said. Looking determinedly away so her gaze wouldn’t be drawn to his bloody shoes, she said, “Go ahead, I won’t yell for help. I’m not that easy to beat up, as a matter of fact.”

He moved the phone to the end of its cord and left it on the floor where he could see it from the bathroom. He didn’t close the bathroom door or that of the shower stall.

“I’ve seen naked men before,” she called. “It isn’t that big an experience.”

He soaped up quickly and rinsed off. He came out a moment later with one of the skimpy hotel towels knotted about his waist. The woman had removed the curlers, wiped off her face cream, and put on lipstick.

She wasn’t bad looking, Shayne observed. She laid two crumpled cigarettes side by side on the bedside table. Her eyes flicked to Shayne.

“I can guess how tense you feel; and if you’d care to join me in a joint…”

“But you don’t believe in drinking.”

“These are better for you. They really are.”

She lit one and passed it to him after filling her lungs. She breathed out luxuriously.

“That feels so good. This is my first trip to Miami Beach; and it hasn’t been so marvellously exciting, frankly. If you don’t know anybody… People are basically shy; and when, like me, you’re not much of a boozer…”

Shayne was at the door, listening, his eyes slitted against the smoke. She had already lit the second joint.

“Of course to get the full benefit, you’re supposed to let go—sorry, you want to think; go right ahead, I understand.”

He kept checking the time. Rourke in a hurry was a menace in an automobile, and Shayne hoped that all the other drivers between Bal Harbour and the St. Albans would see him coming and get out of the way. He began pacing about the room.

The woman on the bed, crossing and uncrossing her ankles, said finally, “I wonder if I ought to be so trusting. You could be a total impostor. And even if you’re genuine, how do you think you’ll get out of here without any clothes on? With the corridor swarming with fuzz? I think you’ll have to spend the night and hope they won’t be looking for you in the morning.” She added thoughtfully, “And I hardly know you.”

“I have a change of clothes in my car. Tim Rourke’s going downstairs to get it for me in return for the inside track on a very big story. Thanks for the pot. I needed it. She was lying to me some of the time; but by the end, I was actually beginning to like that girl.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about; but I’ve been pretty good about not asking questions, haven’t I?”

“You’ve been fine.”

“What I’m wondering is—will anybody believe any of this when I get back to New York?”

There was a knock on the door. Shayne opened it carefully and admitted Tim Rourke, a tall, bony individual with the more usual type of cigarette in his mouth. As was often the case with Rourke, he looked as though he had spent several days in the same clothes. He walked in eagerly, his head thrust forward at the end of his long neck.

“Are you involved in that thing across the hall?”

“I’ve just been washing off the blood.”

“Please,” the girl on the bed said faintly.

Shayne waved at her. “Introduce yourself. She’s been very hospitable, but she hasn’t told me her name.”

“Jane.”

Rourke sniffed the air. “Hospitable is the word. Here I went to the trouble of bringing you some booze. What was that on the phone about Keko Brannon?”

“I wanted to get you here fast; so I used the hottest name I had. All I know is what two people told me. What have you got—whiskey?”

“Yeah. I didn’t know you’d moved on into dope.”

“That was Jane’s contribution. She doesn’t believe in drinking.”

“It’s the worst thing for you,” she said. “Like you, Tim—your eyes are bloodshot; you have no muscles that I can see; you’re terribly, terribly underweight…”

“I know,” Rourke agreed affably, producing an unopened pint of bourbon from his side pocket. “How are we fixed for glasses? If you’ve only got one, I’m willing to drink from the bottle.”

“Go ahead if you want to poison yourself.”

She rummaged in her purse and brought out another joint. Shayne came back from the bathroom with two glasses. Rourke poured and took his glass to the foot of the occupied bed, where he sat down gingerly.

“Mike Shayne, all right,” he said. “You started the night with one girl; and when that didn’t work out, you moved across the hall.”

“Jane’s down on vacation, and she hasn’t met many people,” Shayne said, “so she decided not to scream.”

“You threatened to knock out my teeth, if I remember,” she pointed out. “You were leaving wet footprints on the carpet, and you looked pretty murderous. Knots of muscle at the hinges of your jaws. Naturally I didn’t scream; and on the whole, I’m glad now that I didn’t.”

She gave Shayne a relaxed smile, which he returned.

“Jane’s a gym teacher—excuse me, a phys ed teacher—and the only other thing I know about her is that she gets queasy if you mention blood. It’s going to be hard to tell you what happened without doing that because there was a lot of it.”

“I’m better now,” she said. “Blood. See—I can say it.”

“Who was she; who was she?” Rourke said impatiently. “I thought you were in such a hurry.”

“Kate Thackera. An actress.”

“Did you say Kate Thackera?” Jane exclaimed. “I’ve seen every picture she ever made.”

“A bomb went off in her face. Have any of the demolition people got here yet?”

“They wouldn’t let me in, Mike. I had enough trouble getting off the elevator.”

Shayne swirled the bourbon in the hotel tumbler, drank it at a gulp, and waited for it to hit him. He was still too restless to sit down.

“You’ve always done a lot of complaining about how I don’t tell you things as they happen,” Shayne said. “I keep it all to myself so I can tie it up in a neat package and throw it at somebody.”

“That’s your pattern, man. And it’s infuriating, believe me. Don’t tell me you’re about to change the tactics of a lifetime.”

“I read that you’re covering the Consolidated-Famous story. You must have done some advance work on it. At this point, you probably know more about this than I do.”

“Consolidated-Famous. Kate Thackera. Keko Brannon. This is heady stuff for a newspaperman. Do go on.”

“And we mustn’t forget the other big event of the day: Larry Zion’s accident on Interstate 95.”

Rourke leaned forward in growing excitement. “That red convertible. Was that Thackera?”

“That’s one of the few things everybody agrees about. They don’t agree about what she was up to. She pulled up alongside at eighty or ninety miles an hour and pointed a pistol at him. She said she wasn’t really trying to kill him, she was only trying to convince him that she was crazy enough to kill him. She tried to explain that there’s a difference. He has a bad heart, which nobody’s supposed to know about. She knew about it because he had the heart attack in her bed. To the Zions, it looked like a murder attempt which came pretty close to succeeding. He ran into an exit abutment. That isn’t the kind of activity the heart doctors recommend.”

“Did anybody tell you why she did all this?”

“She wanted the lead in The Last Buccaneer. If you read the movie page today, you know about it. The director wants her; and according to Marcus, he’d have enough clout to get her in if Larry were out of the way. By out of the way, he didn’t mean in a coma or multiple traction. He meant dead. If this all sounds very unlikely, all I can say is that these seem to be unlikely people.”

“Who’s your client?”

“Marcus. Larry had recognized Kate, and now they were both going to be gunning for each other. If I’m moving too fast for you, ask questions. She tried to make me believe she’d given up, but there was a glitter in her eye when she said it. She was thinking in terms of giving me so much sex and bourbon that I’d fall asleep, and she could sneak out. If that didn’t work, she would have tried some other ploy in the morning. My game-plan was to stay awake and get her into my car after breakfast, handcuff her to the dashboard, and keep driving.”

“And instead of that, you lost her.”

“I lost her,” Shayne agreed bleakly. “The bomb was planted in the room before I got there. Maybe I should have spotted it; I don’t know. It was camouflaged in a gift package of bourbon. How many people could have known that Old Grand-dad was her favorite brand? She didn’t think there was anything funny about it, and neither did I. Do they still have that same jerk doing bomb work here on the Beach?”

“Sergeant Lovejoy. Head of the bomb squad,” he explained to the girl. “He only has one finger left on his right hand, and people give him plenty of room when he works.”

“Ugh,” Jane said. “You guys have nice friends.”

“It’ll take him hours to figure it out,” Shayne said. “Maybe you can help. There are little scraps of red paper scattered around, and there was a gold label on the package. She had her own bottle. We finished that first. She made a couple of passes at opening the hotel bottle, but she wanted to be sure I’d help her drink it. I was leaning over getting ice when it blew. Thirty seconds later and I would have been in the same bed, or sitting on it. So that gives me a personal incentive.”

“It sounds simple, Mike. Larry Zion. Retaliation. You don’t try to kill Larry and stay rich and healthy.”

“He’s been in the hospital. I know that doesn’t mean anything—he could have gotten it underway as soon as he heard she was in town. She’d already threatened him. Marcus made sure I’d catch all these implications. However…”

He had left his pants in the bathroom. He brought back the eleven-year-old gatefold and showed it to Rourke, who recognized it at once.

“Hey… with the pubic hair, proving that Keko wasn’t a natural blonde. I remember it well.”

Shayne repeated Kate’s story of how the magazine had come into her possession.

“What was she doing—blackmailing somebody? Who knows? I think I’ll have to show it to Olson and see if he gulps and changes color. But first, I need a quick briefing on this proxy fight.”

“How quick? There are lots of angles.”

“Quick. These are important minutes before they sort out what happened. I left most of my clothes in the back of the closet, and some nosey bastard is going to notice them sooner or later. I was with her in the bar downstairs. That’s going to be reported. I was seen coming out of the room after the explosion. As soon as they put these items together, I’m going to be in demand and I won’t have room to maneuver. What do the experts think? Does the Olson slate have a chance to win?”

“Experts? What experts? The guys at the paper are as mystified as anybody. There are so damn many scattered holdings, nobody really knows. The Zions together have something like twenty-eight percent. In ordinary circumstances, that would be more than enough to give them working control. But Olson’s been buying for a couple of years through different kinds of fronts and nominees, and some of that was tricky and possibly illegal. The SEC and the Internal Revenue are both interested. He’s put together a pretty impressive coalition—TV money and so on. Both sides have been making the usual accusations…”

“I read the ads.”

“A lot of money’s being spent. For the Zions, it’s company money. Oscar’s using his own. The beauty of it is that, if he wins, his people get to sign the checks and he can pay himself back.”

Jane put in, “Would either of you be interested in going dancing?”

“Ordinarily,” Rourke said. “But we’ve got a problem here. Mike’s been done out of a fee, and he doesn’t take that lying down.”

“Lying down,” she said thoughtfully, looking at Shayne in his insufficient towel.

Rourke laughed. “Mike has to leave as soon as I bring him some clothes. But I might as well stick around. I can phone the story in from here, if that’s okay with you.”

“What story?”

“Honey, you’re a bit zonked, I think. Let me finish this up, and I’ll explain it to you. What I was about to say, Mike, is that the newspaper ads and the official mailings are just to make a record. The real fight is bloodier. Consolidated-Famous is just a shadow of what it used to be, but it’s a shadow with assets. Those assets are what everybody’s after. Money. Both sides have hired proxy solicitors, and those guys are tough. I mean, they don’t usually put bombs in bottles of Old Grand-dad; but otherwise, anything goes. Olson’s using one of the dirtiest firms in the business. Larry’s people have a dossier they’ve let me look at, a list of cases where the worst kind of pressures have been used. Of course they aren’t exactly Boy Scouts themselves.”

“Olson is definitely the long shot in this proxy fight?”

“Definitely. I’ve been giving four-to-one odds against. That’s what I’d like to have explained. Up to now, he’s had an unbroken string of successes. So why did he get mixed up in this nest of rattlesnakes? The movie guy on the paper has a theory that if Olson wins three seats, the Zions will give him his own production unit. His magazine is number two in the country. His key clubs and soft-cover books are coining money. Now he wants to prove he can do it in movies the way Hitler wanted Czechoslovakia. I haven’t been able to get in to talk to him. His publicity men, yes. Oscar, no.”

“Where’s he staying?”

“I see you’re not up on the Oscar Olson myth. He’s at the Pussycat Club. He keeps a private apartment in each of his clubs, and I think there are ten of them now around the country.”

“What’s it like? Have you ever been there?”

“Mike, old friend, this is no time for insults. Of course not. I like my sex without leers. You must have read about his private airplane. It’s the dream of every American adolescent: wall-to-wall girls. His local staff meets him at the airport and whisks him off to the club in a fleet of Pussycat Cadillacs. But if you’re thinking of asking him any questions, take along a flamethrower. When he doesn’t want to be bothered, as a rule he isn’t bothered. Now can we come back to Keko? I’ll get somebody to dig out the clippings. It would help if we had some idea of what kind of thing we’re looking for.”

“I don’t know any more than I’ve already told you.”

Rourke opened the gatefold and looked at it again.

“You’re obviously beginning to think she was murdered. But what the hell have you got to go on?”

Scraping his thumb nail across the side of his jaw, Shayne didn’t answer.

Chapter 6

Shayne gave Rourke the key to his Buick, and the reporter let himself out. Jane had moved from the bed to the floor, where she was waving her arms gently. “How are you feeling, Mike?”

Shayne looked down after a moment. “What?”

“That answers my question. I’m feeling wonderfully relaxed; and there you are, tight as a drum. I’m sorry for anybody who gets in your way the next couple of hours. Would you like me to teach you some exercises while we’re waiting?”

“Not now, Jane. Maybe you can do something with Tim. Now there’s a real challenge.”

“Mike, will you give me your autograph before you go?”

“What?”

“My friends won’t believe it unless I have something in writing.”

He laughed shortly and took the “Do Not Disturb” sign off the doorknob, reversed it, and wrote, “Anything Jane says happened really happened.—Michael Shayne.”

When Rourke came back with the suitcase, Shayne took his clothes to the bathroom and dressed quickly. Other questions had occurred to him while Rourke was gone, and the two men talked quietly for a moment.

“I want to know where to reach you,” Shayne said. “Find out what Jane thinks about your staying here. You can keep track of what’s going on across the hall.”

She heard that and came out of an intricate twist.

“I was planning to get to bed early tonight; but of course if it’s a question of catching a killer…”

Rourke had brought ice cubes back from the outside world. He raised his glass to Shayne, who nodded to him and went out.

The corridor was jammed with media people and uniformed police. A television unit was waiting. Reporters attempting to buttonhole police officials as they went in and out were getting nothing but rebuffs. The one-fingered bomb expert, Sergeant Lovejoy, had just arrived and was trying to force his way through the crowd.

“Now boys, what can I tell you? A bomb went off; that’s all I know. Let me look at it first.”

The cop at the elevator knew Shayne and remarked that he hadn’t seen him when he came in.

“Nothing I can do here till the crowd thins out. I’ll be back.”

“Was it really Kate Thackera?”

“It really was.”

He took the elevator to the basement garage. An attendant brought him his Buick. As soon as he left the hotel, he opened his car phone and signalled his mobile operator. She had trouble getting the number he wanted, and he pulled over to the curb and waited.

Presently a man named Jerry Lewellyn answered. Lewellyn worked for the telephone company; and although articulate enough in person, he was seldom willing to say anything on an open line except hello and goodbye. Without giving his own name, Shayne suggested that it might be a nice night to go bowling. A little late, but they wouldn’t have any trouble getting a lane.

“Bowling,” Lewellyn said without enthusiasm. “Just what I wanted to do.”

Shayne crossed on the Venetian Causeway and parked near a bowling alley. Lewellyn drove up in a panel truck. A light-skinned black with a degree in electronics, he was one of the phone company’s least loyal employees. Shayne explained what he wanted.

“Have to give you a no on that, Mike,” Lewellyn said. “A slow no, I could use the bread. But I know that Pussycat operation. They’ve got that whole island organized.”

“Come out with me, and look it over. It can’t be that tight.”

“It is, though. I put in their PABX for them, and I was watched every minute. They’ve got a guy running a dice game. Of course it’s protected, but the customers don’t know that. So they keep a bunch of hard white boys standing around. You need a key to get in. You’d think something sinful went on there. But what, outside of the crap game? The waitresses aren’t allowed to massage the customers. You can find bluer entertainment in any hotel on the Beach.”

“For five hundred bucks. That’s good money. How about cutting in where the line comes out of the building?”

“With the right kind of equipment—which I don’t have. And I’d be only too visible. Ma Bell doesn’t approve of this kind of moonlighting. Sorry. I was watching a basketball game when you called. I’ll get back.”

“Wait a minute. Olson is having some kind of tax trouble. Would IRS have a tap on him?”

“I’ve known cases. But they wouldn’t do business with us.”

“How would they work it? They wouldn’t do anything crude, like putting transmitters in each phone.”

“Man, what are you saying? That the phone company would cooperate with government snoops? Our big mission is to preserve the integrity of the customer’s messages; and if some dirty person sneaks in and puts in a crossbar shunt, we don’t want to know anything about it.”

“Can you check?”

“Easily.”

He went back to his truck. Shayne stayed behind him and waited outside while he went into a fortress-like building on Second Avenue. He came out some minutes later, smiling.

“This is actually going to work. We tap in on the tappers. Why not? It’s practically legal.”

“Where’s their setup?”

“In Buena Vista, and I think it’s a street of two-family houses. That’s the easiest kind.”

He moved off in his panel truck, with Shayne behind him. They stopped in a residential neighborhood a block or two from the noisy swath torn through the city by the big north-south expressway.

Lewellyn disappeared between houses with a bag of tools. This was a quiet street, with little traffic. Cars were parked along both curbs. Lewellyn came back into view, unreeling wire. Where it crossed the sidewalk, he ran it into one of the transverse cracks and glued it down with a quick-setting adhesive. After carrying it into the back of his truck, he climbed in to check the installation.

“Couldn’t be clearer,” he said, coming back to Shayne. “If they were all as easy as this, I’d go into tapping full-time. Can you let me know by midnight if you want all-night coverage? I have to work in the morning. I can get somebody else or cut in a tape recorder and sleep in the truck.”

“I have your number. I’ll try to call you.”

Pelican Island, one of the man-made lozenges in Biscayne Bay off the Julia Tuttle Causeway, had been bought by Olson Enterprises and turned into an entertainment complex. After appropriate sums had been contributed to the campaign funds of office holders on both sides of the bay, its name had been changed to Oscar’s Island on the official maps; but everybody still called it Pelican.

It was an island dedicated to the pursuit of pleasure. To rent one of the efficiency apartments or a room in one of the motels, it was necessary to be single. Marriage—the word itself was in disrepute here—was cause for expulsion. Naturally the entire operation was regularly denounced from all the pulpits within a hundred miles; but as Lewellyn had pointed out, everything that happened there also happened elsewhere, if less self-consciously.

The Pussycat Club, where Shayne hoped to find Olson, had been built with a vaulted glass roof that emitted light like a beacon for incoming airplanes. Its walls were of concrete, unbroken by windows, with the rough grain of the wood used in the forms still showing on the surface. The entrance was unobtrusive, without a sign or marquee.

Shayne parked and waited until a raucous party arrived in three taxis from the Beach. Several of the men wore badges in the shape of rubber plungers, identifying them as salesmen from the convention meeting in the St. Albans. Shayne joined them. He claimed an acquaintance with a plump, unsteady man whose true home, according to his badge, was Omaha, Nebraska. He was glad to acknowledge Shayne as an old friend, and they all went in together. The two guards inside the door, dark, smiling boys in suits, didn’t notice that the group had picked up a hitchhiker.

Inside, Shayne stopped at the long bar with his new friends and paid for a round of drinks. Then, a brandy glass in his hand, he moved on.

All the female help—and except for the guards all the help seemed to be female—were extraordinarily pretty and well filled out, wearing a minimum of clothing, cats’ tails and unfailing smiles. The murals were semipornographic cartoons by artists whose work appeared in Olson’s magazine. There was a poker room and a dice room, an amplified rock group, and a well-known girl singer. One person at each table, on an average, appeared to be enjoying himself. The others were waiting for the evening to run its course.

Shayne intercepted one of the lightly clad waitresses. “I seem to be lost. Which way to the man’s apartment?”

“Now what man you-all talking about?” she said, giving him a dazzling smile.

“Oscar. We’re old army buddies.”

“Sure enough? You better cut that out, because Oscar Olson never spent a single day in any army.”

“We had our own army. I’m not trying to bust in on anybody. I just want to send my name in so he’ll know I’m here.”

She shook her head, her smile undimmed. “You know that just isn’t possible. If he opened himself up to any old body who wanted to see that revolving bed, I mean he’d be mobbed.”

“Would money persuade you?”

“Certainly,” she said promptly. “It could get me in hot water, too; but I’m not fixing to stay in this job forever. For an old army buddy, I believe I’ll just charge you a miserable twenty-five dollars.”

“That’s fair.”

He counted out the bills. They disappeared in the pocket between her breasts.

“Thanks, honey,” she said. “Now you understand this is just going to get you an interview with one of the secretaries.”

“How much will she cost me?”

“They’re on another level. They don’t take tips. I had a chance to audition for it, but you really have to dig the concept, and I’m not ready to commit myself yet.”

She went off with a flirt of her behind. Presently she was pointing him out to a tall, dark-haired girl in pink-tinted glasses. She was equally gorgeous but more conventionally dressed. She bore down on Shayne, her unfettered breasts like cannon beneath her loose shirt. She was the first Olson employee Shayne had seen without a smile.

He spoke first. “I don’t know him. I’m Michael Shayne, and I’m working for Marcus Zion. That doesn’t automatically make me an enemy. I’m not part of the proxy fight.”

The girl gave him a close inspection. She had gray eyes and looked alert and competent.

“Did you tip her?”

“Yeah, twenty-five bucks.”

“It’s getting harder and harder to find suitable girls. What do you want, precisely?”

“There’ve been a few late developments I don’t think he knows about. She told me not to offer you money.”

“She was right. Hold still.”

Her hands slid under his arms and patted him for weapons. Stooping in such a way that he could see her breasts down to and including the nipples, she ran her hands down both his legs.

“Lucky I’m not ticklish,” he said. “I’ve got a gun in the car if you think I ought to take one in with me.”

She came erect and said coldly, “Oscar doesn’t like private detectives. And that means anybody who works for him doesn’t like private detectives. Michael Shayne. Didn’t I read a piece about you in one of the news magazines?”

“A couple of years ago. It was eighty percent wrong. I’m not that good.”

“I’m Mandy Pitt. Tell me about these late developments.”

“What’s the point?” Shayne said impatiently. “I’m not going to bite off his nose. He’ll want to hear this, I promise you.”

She shook her head. “It goes through me first. That’s the way Oscar wants it to be. He gets certain shots in the evening, and one of the effects is to make him drowsy.”

Shayne broke in. “An actress named Kate Thackera has been offering him a deal on Consolidated proxies. She was killed in her hotel room about an hour ago.”

Mandy Pitt’s breasts lifted as she drew a sudden audible breath, a quick gasp.

“Killed!”

“And tell him I was with her most of the evening. We had a long confidential talk. His name came up a few times.”

She breathed out slowly. “You’re right; that’s news. But why do you think he’ll want to hear about it tonight? He has a hard time getting to sleep.”

“Tell him I’m older than I was when Newsweek ran that piece about me. Older and more venal.”

“Venal?”

“That means I’m willing to listen to any reasonable offer.”

“I know the word. I don’t understand how you’re applying it here.”

“You’ve done your duty, baby. You’ve convinced me that he’s a major personality who doesn’t like to be disturbed unless it’s important. This can have a bearing on the vote tomorrow, and of course it’s important.”

“All right, Mr. Shayne. We’ll do it like this.”

She signalled with a movement of her head. A rumpled man with ears that had taken a battering in the prize ring separated himself from the drinkers and closed in on Shayne.

“We want to use the office, Louis,” Mandy said. “If there’s anybody there, ask them to step out for a minute.”

He tapped on a closed door and looked in. A small, glistening man in a tuxedo came out, moving sideward to get out of Mandy’s way.

“We’ll only be a few minutes.”

Shayne and the girl entered a small room which was filled to capacity with two people in it. Like all offices of this kind, like certain restaurants and celebrity barber shops, all four walls were crowded with framed, inscribed photographs of entertainers, few of them of any particular luster. Any new additions would have to go on the ceiling.

She perched on a corner of the desk and waved him to a leather sofa.

“I did this to establish something.”

“Okay,” he said agreeably. He had brought his drink. He shook it in his glass to raise the bouquet and drank. “What do we talk about?”

“This is the Oscar situation. He doesn’t want anybody to think he’s really trying. But you know, don’t you, that he didn’t build Oscar Olson Enterprises out of thin air without a certain amount of application? He worries, like the rest of us. He’s been worrying about this vote. He’s committed a good deal of capital. Now if he stays up the rest of the night worrying about Kate Thackera, he won’t be able to look casual at the meeting tomorrow; and that would be out of character.”

“Maybe he ought to worry. There are things he could be doing tonight.”

She pushed her glasses back on her nose. “He’s put Consolidated-Famous out of his mind. He’s had sex. As soon as he gets his testosterone shots and a massage, he’ll drift off. Now if you barge in and jolt him out of this routine—and he decides it wasn’t necessary—he’ll brand me and cut off my ears. On the other hand, if I’m overly cautious, that can be bad, too. That’s why I have to hear about it.”

“He sounds like a pain in the ass. Why do you work for him?”

“An interesting question, and you don’t really want to know the answer. From all I can gather, if Marcus Zion didn’t happen to be the son of Larry Zion, he’d be the manager of a supermarket or a CPA. If we take over the board, he’ll be given thirty days notice; and he knows it. You’re not necessarily an enemy? Of course you’re an enemy, and I think the reason you want to talk to Oscar may be to unsettle him and knock him off balance so he’ll make some mistake tomorrow.”

“How well did you know Kate Thackera?”

“Not at all. She had two conversations with Oscar: one in San Francisco, one here. I talked to her before she got in, the way I’m talking to you. A trifle unstable, wasn’t she?”

“She tried to give that impression. Was she blackmailing Olson?”

“I haven’t heard that word in years.”

“It’s called different things. This was delivered to Kate at the hotel this afternoon.”

He unfolded the composite Brannon-Thackera nude torn from her employer’s magazine and let her study it.

“The face is Kate’s. You may not recognize the body, but Oscar will. It’s Keko Brannon. You hadn’t even started to menstruate when this was taken.”

“And you’re hoping to sell it to him?”

“It’s not for sale. I just want to see what kind of rise I can get out of him. You did it very well. Very cool. No vibrations at all.”

“Why should I vibrate? It means nothing to me.”

She pushed off from the desk and sat down beside him. “I’m not catching much of this, as a matter of fact. You do realize that I’m a girl?”

“You made sure I’d realize that by frisking the top of my socks and not wearing a bra.”

“Oscar writes editorials against bras. He enjoys the aesthetic harmonies of a moving breast; and when the breast starts to sag, he loses interest in the lady it’s attached to. I shouldn’t have to tell you this.”

“What are you telling me? That in addition to a great figure, you’ve got a mind?”

“I’m sorry,” she said, still poker-faced. “Did that sound pretentious? I just don’t think the size and shape of the female breast is the only thing that matters. Shall we start again?”

“How far back?”

She removed her glasses. Switching around on the couch so she faced him, she touched his leg and said in a completely different voice, almost whispering, “You’re a Taurus, aren’t you? That wonderful combination of strength and gentleness.”

“Baby, time’s passing.”

“Too fast.”

She moved her fingers on his leg. The look she was giving him was vague and unfocussed.

“You’ll try to understand, won’t you? I know it’s absurd, because all I am is a secretary; but I have to screen people. He’s such a tyrant. The chances are he’d go into hysterics and call for the bouncers and have them bounce you down the stairs. And I don’t want any bruises on your sexy body. Talk to me instead. Tell me about it. Maybe I can persuade you to come for a dip in our pool. We swim naked, of course.”

She moved her hand on up Shayne’s leg and gave him a quick intimate caress. “Would sex be a better way to do it? Would you prefer that?”

He laughed. “Baby, you’ve got a real chip on your shoulder.”

She put her glasses on. Her voice was back to normal.

“I made a mistake about something minor this afternoon, and he gave me a verbal flogging. It’s true I’m feeling a bit militant. I know Kate Thackera saw him. I don’t know what about. But he’s pretty much wrapped up in himself, and I don’t think he’s going to mind that she’s dead.”

“Have you decided to let me in?”

“No. What can he do about anything tonight that he can’t do just as well in the morning?”

“If he talks to me now, if he gives me something I can use, there’s a chance his name won’t be mentioned. Not much of a chance, but he’ll want to take it. I was hired to keep that girl out of trouble. Somebody got past me. That’s bad publicity in my business. It makes me look dumb. The only way to handle it is to blanket it. I expect to be up most of the night. I don’t have to get a solution, just some names for the lead. Keko Brannon’s a good name. So is Oscar Olson.”

“I don’t see what you mean.”

“Toss me out, and I’ll call a press conference and show this picture. The newspaper guys can take it from there. Oscar’s magazine. Keko Brannon used to share his wonderful bed. She died. Kate Thacker went to Oscar’s parties and saw him privately, and she died. Oscar has money; Kate needed money. She wanted a part in a movie. Oscar could get it for her if he won.”

“You think she was blackmailing him and he killed her? You’re insane.”

“Somebody killed her.”

“He’s been here all day, and sixty or more people can testify to that.”

“Did he know what brand of bourbon she drank?”

“How do I know? What difference does it make?”

“She opened a gift package of Old Grand-dad, only it wasn’t Old Grand-dad. It was a fragmentation bomb.”

This time if he had had her wired to a polygraph, all the needles would have leaped into agitated motion. Outwardly she changed very little. A muscle flicked at the corner of her mouth. Some change in her inner chemistry caused her pupils to contract.

“It blew up in her hands?” she whispered. “How awful. Are they sure?”

“The cops are still trying to figure it out, but I’m sure. I was there. I was close enough so I got some of her blood on me. We were about to start making love.”

“Oh, Mike. I’m sorry I’ve been so obnoxious. How awful. I liked her pictures.”

Chapter 7

Oscar’s private quarters were reached by going outside to the parking lot and back inside by a separate, unmarked entrance. Whenever Oscar was in residence, the Pussycat flag flew; and all his Miami friends, the friends of his Miami friends, and his friends elsewhere who happened to be in Miami were called to Pelican Island to a party. That didn’t mean that when they arrived they would invariably find Oscar himself. He made his own social rules.

He provided live music, Pussycat service, plenty to drink and smoke, numerous unattached women. The main party room, on three levels, was large enough to hold a sizable bar mitzvah. The furniture was soft and close to the floor. There was statuary, most of it erotic, and plaster replicas of dirty bas-reliefs from certain Indian temples. As for the food, it was plain but abundant: a ham, a turkey, Polish sausages, black bread. It was always possible that something interesting might happen; and once there, the guests had a tendency to stay.

When Shayne came in with Oscar’s secretary, heads turned toward them to see if they were famous.

He knew a few people. Somehow the Omaha plumbing supply salesman he had met in the parking lot earlier had made it. He was delighted to see a familiar face, having been persuaded by Shayne himself that Shayne was an old friend. He was enjoying himself immensely, he told Shayne, looking not at Shayne but down into Mandy’s shirt. Shayne made the introductions, and they moved on.

Two well-dressed young men, clearly not guests, lounged in a doorway. They moved aside and let Shayne and the girl pass into another series of rooms. She took him along a carpeted corridor and into a narrow, windowless cell, where Oscar’s inert body was being handled by two pretty girls. In pajama bottoms, he lay face down on a narrow rubbing table, apparently asleep.

Mandy motioned the girls aside. She stooped beside him, laying one hand familiarly at the base of his spine, and whispered to him. Shayne heard his own name; and as she continued to whisper, he saw her hand tighten slowly until she had him in a fierce grip, her fingers digging into the relaxed flesh through the pajama fabric. She was telling him in this way that what she was saying was serious, and he should tighten up and come back.

“Get me a drink,” Shayne said to one of the young girls. “Four fingers of cognac in a snifter, and bring me some ice water.”

She was used to orders from men. She bobbed slightly and left the room. When Shayne started a cigarette, the other girl said in a shocked voice, “Nobody’s permitted to smoke in here.”

“Nobody?” Shayne said.

He blew smoke over the rubbing table. The smell of burning tobacco had an immediate effect on Oscar. His nostrils wrinkled. He pulled out of Mandy’s grip, rolled over, and sat up.

“Put that out.”

“In a minute.”

People around the publisher usually jumped when he spoke. He looked more puzzled than angry. His hair, which lay flat on his scalp, was possibly dyed. Several days had passed since he last shaved. His skin had a spurious look—like the blush on artificial fruit—the result of massage as a substitute for willed movement. He had a narrow, imperious nose, a compressed mouth.

He looked at Mandy for an explanation.

“This is Mike Shayne, dear,” she said. “The private detective. He’s working for the Zions. The first thing he said to me was that he’ll listen to any reasonable offer.”

The words didn’t seem to penetrate. “What time is it?”

She told him. “He has some news for you, and he finally persuaded me that you’d want to hear it. He seems to think that if he’s not going to get any sleep tonight, nobody else should either. He has a photograph to show you. Kate Thackera has been killed.” She repeated gently, laying her hand on his shoulder, “Oscar… Kate Thackera has been killed.”

Her employer did nothing but breathe in and out.

“Wake up now,” she said. “He promises to make trouble if you don’t talk to him tonight. I believe he can do it. Oscar…”

She put her mouth against his, her tongue in his mouth. She worked on him silently for a moment.

“Oscar, he’s trouble. You have to talk to him. Listen to what he says. Don’t answer right away.”

“This guy is a zombie,” Shayne observed.

“No, he’s coming.”

“Tell him a bottle of bourbon blew up in the girl’s face. That got a good response out of you. Blood, brains, flesh, hair. Kate Thackera,” he said, leaning forward and speaking distinctly, as though to someone barely able to understand English. “Old Granddad. She wanted a nightcap, and the damn thing went off and spattered that nice face all over the room.”

Oscar’s eyes worked. He pushed feebly at Mandy’s hand on his back.

“Stop it. Who are you talking about?”

Shayne repeated Kate’s name, and it finally woke him.

“Who the hell are you?”

They went through that again while Oscar breathed more quickly and flexed himself back into daytime shape.

“Do you want something to drink, Shayne?”

“I’ve already ordered.”

“I’d better have the inhaler,” he told Mandy.

She nodded and left the room. Oscar swung down from the rubbing table. He was short, lean, and compact. He passed both hands over his hair. The remaining girl held up a rough bathrobe, and he put his arms in it.

“What’s happening to that drink?” Shayne said; and turning abruptly, he walked out.

The carpeted hall was silent and empty. Mandy had gone to the right. He tried the first door and found it locked. From the other side of the door, he heard the faint stutter of a telephone dial. He wasn’t ready for this to happen.

He knocked sharply and called, “Mandy, are you in there? I’ve got to talk to you.”

The dialing stopped, and there was a rush of water. The door opened, and Shayne saw a glowing Princess phone in a recess in the wall, on a long cord so it could be moved within reach of anyone in the tub or on the toilet.

Mandy was holding a plastic hood and a large benzedrine inhaler. “Mike, you shouldn’t be out here. He doesn’t like it when people whisper behind his back.”

“He still doesn’t know if he’s coming or going. Now that I’ve seen him, I want to know how far I can push him. In this take-over thing, is he going to insist on a clear-cut win? If it begins to look shaky, will he take a deal?”

She shook her head. “Mike, will you please remember who I am? I’m a minor female employee. I don’t get let in on the strategy. But I’ll tell you one thing. He was tough once. Don’t be fooled by the manner.”

“Baby, you’re kidding.”

“No,” she insisted. “When he started out, he had to battle for space on the newsstands; and I mean that literally. Trucks were tipped over. People were slugged and shot. I can’t advise you where to draw the line. My policy with Oscar has always been to tread carefully. Now for God’s sake, let’s get back.”

Oscar and his little party had moved on into his bedroom. He was lying in state in a huge, round bed The hangings were white. All the surfaces were either very hard or very soft: terrazzo floor and a thick white goatskin rug, a glass-topped table, low upholstered chairs. There was one conspicuous piece of sculpture on a tall stand lit by a beam from a concealed spotlight. Shayne recognized it only after a second look. It was a phallus carved out of an elephant’s tusk.

One of the girls handed Shayne his drink. He sat down and lit a fresh cigarette. Oscar threw his inhaler aside after taking a dozen deep shuddering breaths. He looked much better.

“Do you absolutely have to smoke? The smell is offensive to me.”

“The air conditioning’ll take care of it.”

At a sign from Oscar, the two lesser girls drifted out.

“Now,” Oscar said to Mandy. “Condense it for me. What’s he want?”

“I don’t believe he could tell you himself exactly what he wants,” she said crisply. “It seems to me that he’s improvising. He wants to stir things up and see what comes to the surface.”

“Now, about Kate.”

“She’s dead, Oscar. Shayne was there when it happened, and it’s possible that he’s going to be suspected of having something to do with it. I imagine the police are anxious to get hold of him. He says his client is Marcus Zion. He came to you because he has a gatefold from an old issue of the magazine. I think he’ll show it to you in a minute. He made it clear to me that he considers this a bidding situation, but I think that was partly to get me to wake you up.”

“I also told you,” Shayne said, “that I’m not sure I have anything to sell.”

He handed Oscar the photograph, and Oscar’s eyebrows came together over the fierce nose.

“Keko.”

“I told Mandy you’d recognize her.”

“What does it have to do with me?”

“I’m hoping to find out.” Once again he repeated what Kate Thackera had told him. “I had to leave the magazine. Everything in that room is going to get close attention, and somebody’s going to notice the date and wonder about it. But not tonight, probably.”

Oscar retired under the hood for more help from the inhaler. Coming out, he told Mandy, “No need for you to stay up. Go to bed now.”

She rose obediently. Shayne said, “No, I want her here.”

Oscar swung around. Shayne explained, “Nobody likes to be sent out of the room just when things start getting interesting. Look at it from her point of view. Either she made a mistake waking you up, or she didn’t. If she guessed wrong, it’ll cost her her job. She doesn’t want to wait till morning to find out.”

“God knows I wouldn’t get much sleep,” she said.

“And if she’s as important as she’s been trying to tell me, there may be some questions I’ll need to ask her.”

“If you want me to leave, Oscar,” she said, “you know I don’t mind a bit.”

Shayne laughed. “She’ll burn.”

“Then stay, for Christ’s sake,” Oscar said irritably. “I have a feeling that we won’t be going very far beneath the surface.”

She sat down again, her knees together and her hands in her lap. “Give me a cigarette, Mike.”

He brought her one and let her light it from his. She was careful not to look at her nonsmoking employer, who was smoothing his eyebrows in a gesture he clearly believed to be urbane.

“How did a winner like you get suckered into this Consolidated-Famous mess?” Shayne said.

Oscar let the urbane expression stay on his face. “Have you read our proxy material? That says it all.”

“I’m told by somebody who knows that the odds against you are four to one. I’m also told that you don’t generally buck the odds.”

Oscar looked at the girl for a translation. She said doubtfully, “I think he’s trying to find out how serious you are, how far you’ll go to protect your investment.”

“Not as far as murder, Shayne,” Oscar said. “You’ve been misinformed. The odds are about even. I won’t give up girls if I lose. I just think it might be amusing to run a motion picture company.”

“Did you promise Kate the lead in this pirate picture?”

“After satisfying myself that she wouldn’t do the picture any harm. The director seems anxious to get her. She’s a bit of an alcoholic, supposedly; or should I say, she was; but I think Larry was responsible for most of those rumors. I thought she seemed reasonably okay, didn’t you, Mandy?”

“Within limits.”

“Have any of your proxy solicitors been working on her?” Shayne said.

“You’ll have to ask them. She was in a situation to swing a sizable block of shares. I imagine they knew that. Ferreting out this kind of information is the reason we’ll pay them a hundred percent bonus if we win. They sail pretty close to the wind at times; they do things they don’t tell the client. But does that include killing people? You know it doesn’t, Shayne.”

“Did you sleep with Kate?”

He gave his secretary an amused glance. “I don’t know—did I?”

“If so, it was before my time.”

“I may have,” he said, “but does it matter? I’ve gotten rid of my hang-ups in that area. I don’t let sex interfere with a relationship. I remember we suggested a pictorial feature to her once. She tried, but it didn’t come off. That ticky personality just didn’t register nude. Too bad, because we could have helped her.”

Still another blonde, one Shayne hadn’t seen before, entered quietly.

“Mandy, phone. Do you want to take it?”

Her eyes slid from Shayne to Oscar.

“Better find out,” Oscar said with a sigh. “We don’t want to get all our information from Shayne. I’m not sure we can trust him.”

As soon as she was out the door, Shayne made a flat gesture, cutting off the publisher before he could speak.

“Never mind if you can trust me. Can you trust her?”

“Shayne, you’re wonderful. Trust her not to do what?”

“She’s a smart girl, a little old to be hanging around here. She must know she hasn’t much time.”

“I don’t keep them a quarter of a century and give them a gold watch. It’s a fluid arrangement. They flow in and out.”

“And before she flows, I have a feeling she’s going to take you for as much as she can carry. This is a liberated female, not one of your slaves.”

“A ‘liberated female.’ She chose this. I didn’t drug her to do it.”

“I nearly had to scrape her off the ceiling when I told her what happened to Kate. Did they know each other that well?”

Oscar shrugged. “For all I know, they were lovers. But when would she have the time?”

“What kind of financial deal do you have here? How much do you give her every month for spending money? She’s taking too much interest in this, Oscar. I’ve been picking up signals for the last half hour.”

The publisher said softly, “You’re trying to disturb me, Shayne. I think it’s time for me to tell you to lay off.”

“Lots of people have told me to lay off. Most of them are dead, broke, or in jail.”

“Don’t be childish. I’m giving you some advice so you won’t waste valuable time. She had nothing to do with this killing, and I’m ready to back my judgment with the full resources of my organization. She has no stake in this. No financial stake, no emotional stake. Do you think I don’t know she dislikes me? All the girls do. I couldn’t care less. But she’s been around me long enough to know what would happen if she tried to pull anything.”

Shayne had been timing this carefully. He finished his cognac, stood up, and tossed the empty glass on the bed.

“Don’t go to sleep. I’ll call you.”

Oscar threw back the silk sheet and sprang between Shayne and the door.

“You had questions to ask me. I was just beginning to feel like cooperating.”

“That’s a good feeling. Hang onto it. She’s finished with the phone call, and I don’t want her to disappear.”

“What are you talking about—‘disappear’? She’s with me. She’s on call.” His voice climbed; the façade was rapidly chipping away. “Damn it, I’ve finally got my metabolism back into some kind of balance. You come busting in here like a runaway freight train and drag me out of a sound sleep; and now that I’m riding the benzedrine, you think you can walk out and leave me jangling…”

“This is a small thing, Oscar.”

“I’m the one who’ll decide what’s small and what’s big.”

When Shayne took a step forward, Oscar made a sudden dart and pulled the ivory phallus off its pedestal. He drew it back; but before he could start the swing, Shayne crouched and gave the goatskin rug a quick pull.

Oscar flung out both arms, his mouth wide. He went down hard. The phallus flew out of his hands and broke in two on the terrazzo floor.

“You can glue it back together,” Shayne said. “I agree; we were just getting started. I’ll be back.”

Chapter 8

He saw one of the girls ahead. Picked out by the ceiling spotlights, she was easing along in the walk they all had. Overtaking her, he asked if she had seen Mandy.

She waved her eyelashes and turned on a big, sexy, meaningless smile. “Does Oscar want her? She went out to get somebody.”

Mandy had been right. As usual, Shayne was improvising. His only purpose in coming here had been to show his incriminating photograph and see what kind of glances were exchanged, whose receptors started pulsing. A pattern was taking form. He had learned two things in the last few minutes: that Mandy Pitt was something more than a secretary and that her employer knew it.

He returned to the public party. The atmosphere in the big room was no more lively than when he passed through earlier. An ex-client, a widow whose stolen jewels he had recovered by buying them back at twenty percent of their insured value, seized one of his arms in both hands. He kissed her lightly and told her he was working.

She didn’t let go. “Mike, when are we going to have a chance to have a real conversation?”

“Soon,” he promised, without meaning it, and freed himself before having to knock her down.

The lady and Oscar had delayed him a minute too long. He reached the parking lot in time to see a pair of taillights dwindling in the direction of the causeway.

His plump friend, the plumbing supply salesman, came out of the shadows and said sulkily, “Shayne, that broad you were with…”

“Yeah, did you see her?”

“To my sorrow, I must say. I thought she was friendly enough before. All I did was ask if she wanted to dance—is that so awful? She’s one of the house girls, right? What do I have—bad breath?”

“Did you follow her out?”

“Yes, I made the mistake of following her out; and she unburdened herself of a couple of choice obscenities, which surprised the hell out of me. Now I predict they won’t let me back in.”

“Did she take off in a car?”

“With a screech of rubber. Listen, sponsor me, will you, Shayne? I was beginning to make a little headway in there.”

“I wasn’t invited, either. Did you notice what kind of car?”

“One of those Detroit monsters. What’s going on? Because I know something is. A couple of guys in another car chased her out.”

Shayne had started toward his Buick. He turned back.

“Cops?”

“Cops,” the salesman repeated, interested. “It didn’t strike me, but you know they did look a little like cops… They were already in their car when we came out; and that always looks funny in a parking lot—two guys just sitting. But it wasn’t your typical cop car—one of those low-slung MG’s—my kid has one just like it and does he go roaring around the streets of Omaha!”

“What color?”

“Shayne, I’m color-blind, sorry to say. But an MG. Those wire wheels. Say,” he said as Shayne started off again, “are you going anyplace interesting? Because I don’t feel like going back to the hotel. I’m sick of those late-at-night talk shows.”

“Sorry.”

The salesman stayed with him, dropping off only when Shayne reached his Buick, shook hands, and said goodnight.

Starting the car, Shayne flipped the switch for the mobile operator and gave her the number of Jerry Lewellyn’s truck. Lewellyn, in Bueno Vista tapping Pussycat Club calls, picked up promptly.

“Incoming call three or four minutes ago,” Shayne said. “Somebody asked for Mandy Pitt.”

“Right,” Lewellyn replied. “A man. And he told her to meet him at the drive-in the minute she could get away. He didn’t ask her; he told her.”

“A drive-in movie?”

“He just said the drive-in. She said, ‘Ten minutes,’ and slammed the phone down. It could be a hamburger place or something, but would they be open this late?”

Shayne thanked him and clicked off. He reached over to the back seat for a stale copy of the Daily News and, turning on the dome light, checked the movie listings. The drive-ins were widely scattered around the fringes of the city. All but one, the Sky-Vue in Northeast Miami, were considerably more than ten minutes away.

Shayne hurried and reached the Sky-Vue twelve minutes later. The second feature was well underway, a big Italian-made western starring a reserved young man whose icy expression never changed whether he was pistol-whipping an enemy or fondling a beautiful girl.

“I hear they’ve got a great gunfight at the end,” Shayne said as he paid his admission to a watery-eyed old man.

“They must have,” the ticket taker said. “We’re getting a lot of late business tonight.”

“I’ve got a date with somebody. Did a woman just come in by herself?”

“I’m in a kind of stupor here,” the old man said apologetically. “It’s the only way I can stand it. I’m looking right at you, but I don’t see you—know what I mean?”

Shayne cut his lights and parked in the last row. He bought a box of popcorn at the snack bar. Moving along the rows of cars on foot, he looked for an MG and a domestic sedan containing a single girl.

Warm weather drive-ins perform a useful social function, one that has little connection with the fact that movies are being projected on the big screen. There were few single spectators, male or female. At one point, seeing a girl’s head silhouetted against the glow, Shayne thought he had found Mandy. A closer look showed that she had a friend kneeling on the floor. Her eyes were partly closed, but she actually seemed to be following the movie.

It was a slow night. Fewer than half the spaces were filled. Shayne angled forward slowly.

He spotted the MG first, a yellow convertible with a black top. The microphone on the driver’s side still hung untouched on its post He couldn’t see through the raked rear window. He kept moving until he made sure there was a man in each bucket seat; then he stepped between two cars. The man at the wheel of the MG lifted his wrist into the light so he could see the time.

Mandy was parked two rows away, several cars over. Unless she too had a man on the floor, she was alone. Her car was a black Cadillac, with the club’s insignia over the license plate—a kitten sitting in a champagne glass surrounded by bubbles.

A boy put his head out of the car next to Shayne. “What do we have here—one of those ‘lookers’?”

“Go on with what you were doing,” Shayne said absently.

The boy’s girlfriend leaned over to inspect him. “Be tolerant,” she said. “We can’t all be normal. Let’s invite him to get in back and watch.”

Shayne offered his box of popcorn without looking away from the MG. “Have some popcorn on me.”

The bodies rearranged themselves. Peering out, the boy said, “Man, are you sick?”

“I’m checking the voice levels. Something wrong with the wiring through here.”

The girl said, “Darling, come back. What do we care? I’m beginning to lose the feeling.”

“No, he bothers me. We don’t have to put up with it. I’m going to get the manager or somebody.”

He turned on his lights. Shayne reached in and turned them off.

“Those two guys in the MG followed a girl in here. She’s in the black Cad; do you see her? I think she’s meeting somebody. You didn’t come here to watch the picture. If you’re interested in real life, zip up and see what happens.”

A girl in the car at his other elbow said, “What’s the hassle?”

“Weren’t you listening?” Shayne said. “I don’t like to say everything twice.”

“What are you anyway, fuzz?”

“No, no. I’m married to the goddamn girl. Those guys are narcs, and I think they’re setting her up for a bust. Give it a couple of minutes.”

The first boy said suspiciously, “Narcs in a yellow car?”

“Aren’t they entitled to use a disguise?” his girl said. “He’s cute. He wants a couple of minutes. Give him a couple of minutes.”

Above on the screen, the deadpan hero was slaughtering men and women in a matchstick saloon. In the MG, the driver looked at his watch again and turned his head to say something.

“They’re getting impatient,” Shayne said.

“So am I,” the boy said, “so am I.”

“How long till the picture’s over, another half hour?”

Both the MG doors opened at once. The group around Shayne was now giving the problem full attention.

“There they go,” somebody said.

A girl suggested, “Let’s bug the bastards. Blow our horns.”

She leaned on the horn in her car, but it didn’t catch on. The two men who had come out of the MG walked directly to the Cadillac and got into the front seat from opposite sides. Shayne moved to the next line of cars. There was a quick flurry of activity in the Cadillac’s front seat. Shayne saw an upraised arm. From the mikes in the nearby cars came a mutter of dialogue and a sudden clatter of hoofs.

The boy who had spoken to him first came partway out of his car. “Hey, they’re creaming her in there!”

It was fast movielike action. The men were inside the Cadillac for no more than thirty seconds, time enough for one exchange of pistol shots on the screen. One man came out, then the other. Doors slammed.

They walked quickly to the MG, separating to go to opposite sides. Shayne came in on the driver. He was still holding the half-empty box of popcorn. He threw it in the man’s face and nailed him with a right to the head. There was a click of bone meeting bone, and Shayne knew from the pain in his hand that the man would drop. As he telescoped, Shayne brought his knee up hard, then kicked him in the head after he was down, wanting no more trouble with this one.

The second man, in a partial crouch, was already three quarters of the way into the low car. Shayne was on the other side in time to push the door as he came out, setting him up for a left. It went in high. He kept coming.

Shayne had made the wrong choice, for this was the one with the weight and the muscle. Shayne dragged him the rest of the way out, lifting him by the head, and banged him against the windshield. As he came off that, Shayne pivoted, lifting, and the canvas top crumpled inward under the man’s weight. An arm was flung out at Shayne’s face, almost carelessly. Shayne took it on his forehead and felt it all the way down to his heels.

He let go of the heavy shoulder and fell back amid a dazzle of lights. The hand came up again, and Shayne saw that it was wearing knuckles.

He told himself that he had to move fast. Before the message arrived, the artificial knuckles crashed against his cheekbone.

A pair of headlights flashed on behind him. Pinned in the bright beam, the big man swung around. He was unbelievably ugly: a heavy, underslung jaw; tiny features in a face marked with acne scars; ridges of bone over malevolent eyes. His legs were short and bandy.

“Old friend,” Shayne said thickly. “Turkey Gallagher.”

His hands hung at his sides. Being called by his name seemed to confuse the big man. Instead of striking again while Shayne was helpless, he blinked into the light; and his unarmored hand came up to wipe his mouth. He had been a professional wrestler once—a good one—but his muscles had seized up; and now the only jobs he could catch were occasional collections for the Miami Beach loan sharks. After one look at his face and torso, the debtor was usually quick to pay up.

“Take off the knucks, Turkey,” Shayne said, “or I’ll break your hand.”

A voice from the MG’s cramped interior said sharply, “Get in the car, both of you.’

So there was still a third man, crowded into a back corner, where Shayne hadn’t seen him from the rear. The long barrel of a Luger equipped with a silencer came into the light.

“Are you pointing that at me?” Shayne said. The sight of the heavy pistol partially cleared his head. Turkey was still staring at him stupidly. Shayne caught his arm and brought him around, forcing his heavy belly against the gun muzzle.

“You bastard, this is no business of yours,” the voice said from the car.

The Luger was withdrawn. The man tried to flop the other seat forward and get out the opposite door.

Turkey protested, “I didn’t know it was you, Mike.”

Shayne shifted his grip and forced Turkey’s fist downward. Turkey folded slowly. When the hand touched the ground, Shayne stamped on it viciously.

The third man, out of the car, fired over Shayne’s head to make him hold still. The sharp pop was almost lost in the rattle of unsilenced gunfire from the mikes.

Turkey grabbed Shayne’s leg. Shayne twisted free and jumped. The headlights blinked off. The man on the other side of the MG may have fired again; but if so, Shayne didn’t hear it.

He sliced into the next row three cars down, passed through, and came back. Both couples he had talked to were out of their cars. The boy who had performed the useful trick with the headlights held out a tire tool. Shayne took it.

“Who are those guys?” the boy said.

“Pros.”

Shayne dodged away and waited, crouching, between cars. Near him, he heard a girl’s muffled moan. The man with the gun came into view. He was tall and thin and must have been cruelly contorted in the back seat of the MG. He was holding the Luger along his leg.

When he was two strides away, Shayne came out of concealment, close to the ground. The tire tool was already moving. It hit the tall man below the knee and cut him down. He fired at Shayne as he rolled. The shot went low and into somebody’s fender.

Turkey stayed out of it; but the man Shayne had attacked first appeared beyond the MG, wavering. He, too, had a gun. Shayne threw the tool. It hit the asphalt and skittered away.

He reached the protection of the next line of cars. Lights were coming on behind him. Two cars starting out of their spaces at the same time collided with a rending of metal. A thought flashed into Shayne’s mind, cutting into the fuzziness that had been hanging there since Turkey hit him with the knuckles. All these cars had keys in the ignition. He looked for one with an empty front seat.

Sidestepping, he wrenched open a door. The couple in back pulled apart. Shayne was twisting to enter the car when a bullet from one of the guns caught him in the meaty part of his shoulder and spun him around.

He dropped but was up again at once, trying to lose himself among the parked cars. This part of the lot was untouched by the spreading excitement. He dived beneath a car, wriggled on to the next, and lay still. Quick footsteps passed. People were dying on the screen. He heard the simulated smack of bullets into flesh.

The car he was lying beneath eased slightly from side to side. Five minutes passed. He pressed his hand hard against his shoulder and followed the proceedings in the car overhead. He thought in the end that both participants had made it.

The picture was still far from over. Nevertheless, after too brief an interval, the driver of Shayne’s car separated himself from his girl and climbed into the front seat. Shayne rolled free as the motor started.

The pain was suddenly much worse, and he felt a rush of blood down his arm. He started toward his Buick; but after a few steps, he veered and went down. After a moment, he managed to bring his knees up under him and crawl into the weeds on the far side of the big screen.

Chapter 9

The picture ended.

Headlights came on, and the cars lined up for the slow creep to the exits. Shayne smelled grass and dirt, and the side of his face ached. He raised his head.

He forced himself to his feet and caught one of the uprights supporting the screen. Blood was running down the back of his hand. Headlights swept over him as the cars came around. When he released the wooden support, the ground tilted and sent him staggering into the moving line of cars. A horn blatted at him.

“Too many martinis?” somebody called.

The yellow MG was gone. His Buick sat all by itself in a clearing, and he slanted toward it. He had the trunk rigged so he could open it with a hidden spring. He reached in and brought out a loaded .38, which he stuck in his belt.

He waited, supporting himself on the fender, until enough other cars had left so he could be sure that the men in the MG hadn’t waited for him to reappear. The pavement had emptied around the black Cadillac from the Pussycat Club. Shayne made it without having to lean on anything or without falling down again. The overhead light flashed as he opened the door.

Mandy’s face was hidden in a tangle of hair. She was off the seat, one knee up and the other foot caught by the brake pedal. He moved her carefully.

His face tightened, and the broken skin on his cheek throbbed a warning. Her glasses were caught in her hair. One lens was broken. The eye that had been behind it no longer looked much like an eye. Her skin was the color of death.

Her purse was wedged beneath her. He forced her legs apart so he could get it. Then something tapped him on the shoulder, and he jumped aside.

“Show’s over,” a voice said. “Everybody’s going home.”

It was the slow-moving old man who had sold him his ticket. Seeing the look on Shayne’s face, he backed away, one hand raised.

“But take your time, take your time. All the time in the world. I’m knocking off for the night, is all. Most people appreciate it, being told.”

Shayne moved and let the old man look into the lighted front seat. He made a sound as though he had been hit in the stomach.

“We were mugged,” Shayne said, holding up his bloody hand. “Stay here. I’ll notify the cops.”

He let the door swing shut and walked away. Back in his own car, he took a flask filled with cognac out of the glove compartment and drank deeply. He opened a bandage and stuffed it into his shirt, holding it in place by leaning forward against the seat belt.

The exits were no longer blocked by departing cars. He turned west on Seventy-ninth Street, north on the expressway, and then left it at the next exit. At the North Shore Hospital, he swung into the emergency dock. He had been all right while he was driving; but as he left the car, there was a sudden blaze around him; and he went headlong, falling painfully on the gun.

Then he found himself in the emergency room being worked on by a Cuban resident. Shayne was known here; he had visited them before.

“Remember the last time, eh?” the Cuban said. “That broke the monotony. But this one—nice and clean. Does that hurt there?”

“It’s okay.”

“I’m glad it’s okay for you. For me, it would hurt. I would say to myself, enough. Enough for one day. I would have a few drinks. I would listen to a Mozart concerto and try to forget that a cheap gun can be bought on a street corner for less than a bag of heroin.”

“How do you know it was a cheap gun?”

“There are too many guns of all types in this town. Now you’ll have one more small scar on your body. For a few weeks, you’ll feel it each time you lift that arm. But do you know that a few small inches this way or that, into the head or the chest, and you’d be dead, Mr. Shayne?”

“Hurry it up, doctor. I’ve got a lot to do.”

“I’m sure.”

When the bandage was placed, a nurse brought a clean shirt that was only a size too small. She buttoned it for him. They watched him come off the table. The room clouded briefly; the outlines of the doctor’s sardonic face blurred and dissolved; but he found he could stand.

“Do you want a wheelchair to your car?” the doctor said.

“I’d better get used to walking by myself.”

“By the way, Mr. Shayne…”

He held out Shayne’s .38. Shayne took it.

“But I still say there are too many of these things floating around.”

“Hell, I agree with you.”

Shayne signed a paper, thanked them, and walked out slowly. He rested after reaching his car, bothered by the feeling that there was something important he was neglecting. Remembering, he emptied Mandy Pitt’s purse on the seat beside him. Out of the loose litter, he picked a St. Albans room key. There was no number on the tag, but Shayne had little doubt that it would unlock the room in which Kate Thackera had been killed.

He locked the key and the Brannon gatefold into the strongbox welded to the floor beneath the seat. He hesitated, his hand on the phone switch. More bits had fallen into place; but before he gave any of this to the police, there were several more important things he needed to know.

He returned to the expressway and headed south into the city.

All the windows and vents were open. He drove carefully at first; but by the time he came off the causeway onto Pelican Island, the cognac had taken hold; and he thought he was nearly back to normal. That didn’t mean he felt up to forcing his way in; and when the guard at the entrance to Oscar’s private quarters took a half step forward and gave him a hard look, Shayne stopped with a sigh.

“You recognize me. I was here with Mandy Pitt.”

“The party’s closing down. I’m not letting anybody else in.”

“Make an exception in my case.”

The guard gave him a disagreeable smile. “I was specially told not to make any exceptions in the case of Mike Shayne. We don’t like your type of troublemaker.”

Shayne’s acquaintance, the plumbing supply salesman, was watching from a distance. Shayne called him.

“I’ve been hanging around on the off-chance,” the salesman said. “Are we going back in?”

“I hope so. Give me a hand here. I only have the use of one arm. They told him not to let us in; and that’s ridiculous, isn’t it? I know for a fact that the parties go on and on.”

The guard was in his early twenties, with an unruly shock of blonde hair and a complexion problem. Having decided he could handle Shayne, he had resumed chewing gum. He wore a whistle on a cord around his neck, a light blue uniform, and a broad leather belt, into which his thumbs were hooked. Now he moved back a step, and his fingers went to his whistle.

Shayne caught the cord and yanked, pulling the guard forward into the salesman’s arms, who danced backward with him. The two men held each other to keep from falling. Shayne rapped the guard twice with his pistol: first in the kidneys, and then alongside the face.

“I didn’t bargain for…” the salesman cried.

“It’s all right; it goes with his job.”

He told the salesman what to do, and they walked the semi-conscious man backward and tumbled him into a parked car. There they tore his shirt in strips and tied and gagged him. After that, the salesman decided it was time to say goodnight, really goodnight.

“My company doesn’t promote people with police records. Say hello to the chicks for me. And now there’s the problem of getting a taxi.”

He started for the public entrance; and by the time he reached it, he was running.

Inside, Shayne made his way through the party without being ambushed again and entered the inner rooms, locking doors behind him as he went. He passed one of the girls, who let him get by before calling, “If you’re looking for Oscar…”

Shayne stopped. “What’s your name?”

“Sandra,” she said with a smile. “If you’ll tell me what you want, I’ll do my best to try and help you.”

“Mandy Pitt’s been murdered. We can’t wait till tomorrow to tell Oscar.”

She took the news calmly. “When he really falls asleep, you couldn’t wake him up with dynamite.

“Let’s try.”

She came with him. “Don’t walk so fast. Weren’t you here to see him before?”

“Yeah. Michael Shayne.”

“I thought you looked familiar. What did you say happened to Mandy?”

“She was murdered.”

She shook her lovely head. “It’s getting so it isn’t safe to go out on the streets any more.”

They met another uniformed guard at the turn of the corridor. He, too, had been told about Shayne; and his mouth opened. Shayne pulled his pistol in a quick motion and jammed it into the guard’s stomach.

“I don’t want to shoot him, Sandra.”

“No, don’t. He’s sort of a boyfriend of mine. Let’s see; where can we put him?”

She found a bedroom with a key, moved the key to the outside of the lock; and they put the guard inside.

“I would have said Mandy was the last person. She always gave us the feeling that she knew what she was doing. Did you know she had two years of college?”

They continued to Oscar’s bedroom. When Sandra touched a switch, all the dramatic spotlights came on at once. Oscar, in pajama bottoms, lay spread-eagle across the huge bed, as though he had been dropped from a height.

“I think it’s too late,” the girl said.

“He uses some kind of inhaler. See if you can find it.”

Shayne gripped the rough thatch of graying hair on Oscar’s chest and pulled him erect by it. His head flopped like a doll’s. Shayne shook him a few times and let him fall back.

He took a wastebasket to the bathroom and filled it with cold water which he emptied over Oscar’s head. Oscar slept through it all.

Sandra returned with the inhaler and the hood. Shayne worked the hood over the sleeping man’s head and filled it with vapor. Oscar looked obscurely troubled and began waving one hand, as though conducting an orchestra which only he could hear.

“Sometimes if you hurt him,” Sandra said.

Shayne went on working the inhaler. She slid her hand inside the front of Oscar’s pajamas and dug in with her sharpened fingernails.

Oscar said clearly, “Keko, I told you not to.”

“Waking you up, sweetheart,” Sandra said. “There’s a man here.”

Shayne touched her wrist. “Hold it. Oscar, wake up. Keko’s dead. Hurry.”

Oscar came out all at once, in one bound. He went backward so fast, banging his head against the padded headboard, that the girl’s hand was caught in his pajamas. She extricated it.

“Playing with you a little, honey, okay?” she said.

He looked up at the figures above him. “Shayne? How did you get in?”

“I used a gun. Mandy’s dead.”

“Is she really dead?” Sandra said. “I can’t take it in. I saw her only a half hour ago.”

“Bring me a bottle of cognac and a glass, baby,” Shayne told her. “This is thirsty work.”

“Certainly. Do you want anything, Oscar? Coffee?”

“No.”

When she reached the door, he called, “Yes, coffee.” He swung his legs out of bed. “Twice. I was fairly nice about it the first time. But twice in one night…”

Shayne grasped the mat of chest hair again and stood the shorter man on his feet.

“I’m doing you a hell of a favor. She didn’t die a natural death. She was beaten up in a drive-in theatre. Think back. She was called out to take a phone call. A couple of minutes later, she went off in one of your Cadillacs in too much of a rush to worry about being followed. She was followed by three guys in an MG. I know one of them. His name is Turkey Gallagher, and he stands out in a crowd; he’ll be easy to find. The Cadillac has the Pussycat trademark on it. That means the cops will be showing up shortly.”

He released Olson with a push that sent him sprawling. “Are you listening to me?”

Oscar sucked air and came up on his elbows. “Not willingly.”

“When I tried to go after her, you made a big thing about getting in my way. Didn’t you even try to hit me with something? You don’t usually do anything that stupid. You knew she was selling you out. She was supposed to be meeting somebody, but the picture was almost over, and your guys were too nervous to wait. It was quick and efficient and over before I could do anything about it. But Gallagher was a bad choice for this job. He was wearing a set of knuckles, and he doesn’t have that little cut-off switch in the brain that tells people when it’s time to stop.”

“You actually think these men were working for me?”

“I actually do.”

Oscar wagged his head helplessly. “I went through a series of moves to slow down for the night. Now I have to claw my way back; and believe me, it’s inch by inch. What’s your theory? What do you think happened?”

“Mandy Pitt,” Shayne said patiently. “Her nose was smashed, and there’s a gross fracture of the frontal bone over one eye. There are bone fragments showing. The eye is gone. She was brutally beaten and killed. Is any of this getting through?”

“I hear the words.”

Sandra came in with a bottle of cognac tucked under one elbow and other things on a tray.

“It’s instant, Oscar; do you mind?”

“Leave it; leave it!”

She put down the tray. “Cream. Sugar. Spoon. I don’t think I forgot anything. Oscar, you may not want to think about this now, but about Mandy’s job? I mean, I’d like to be the first to put in for it.” The look on her employer’s face told her that this wasn’t the time. “But if you’ll bear it in mind? I used to be pretty good at typing—seventy words a minute.”

Oscar forced himself to take a mouthful of coffee. Shayne could see some of his daytime shrewdness and toughness beginning to come back.

“Are you sure about the brass knuckles?”

“Gallagher’s in his late forties. He’s out of shape. And it’s hard to do much damage in the front seat of a car. With knuckles, a tap is enough. He put a little too much on it. That’s happened before with this guy, and I’m wondering if you knew it would happen this time.”

“Too subtle, man… All right, we’ll talk. A good place to talk would be the pool. I want to be sure you aren’t carrying a transmitter. I’ll be sure when I see you naked.”

He juggled the empty mug for a moment, then threw it across the room. He looked sick, and he almost lost his balance as he came off the bed, but he controlled it and walked out of the room. Shayne picked up the cognac bottle and followed.

Chapter 10

Seeing the bandage on Shayne’s shoulder after he undressed, Oscar said, “What’s that?”

“Gunshot wound. The mark on my face is where Gallagher hit me. That’s how I know he was wearing knuckles.”

Oscar examined the bandage. “Not that I’m calling you a liar, but I’ve seen transmitters no bigger than the tip of your little finger…”

Satisfied, he slipped into the kidney-shaped pool. There was a fountain at the opposite end—a stainless-steel girl with water spouting from each enormous breast. Oscar swam two lengths in a floundering crawl. Shayne, at the edge of the pool with his cognac, watched him come back to the shallows, seriously out of breath. He reached for a hairbrush.

“If you’re that worried about transmitters,” Shayne said, “it must mean you’re going to tell me something. Go ahead. I’ve got other people to see.”

“I’m still trying to put it together. Why aren’t you here with an Assistant D.A. and cops?”

“It isn’t time for them yet.”

“If it were somebody else with this problem, I’d say bring in the lawyers.”

Shayne laughed. “That’s worse than talking into a tape recorder.”

“Give me a drink.” He took the glass out of Shayne’s hands and emptied it in one, long swallow. He shuddered. “That’s really vile. What do you want from me, Shayne?”

“What did Consolidated-Famous close at yesterday?”

“Twenty-seven.”

“I want two hundred shares. All you’re going to be buying with that is a few hours’ jump. A chance to do a little straightening up before they get here.”

“Two hundred shares… All right, you’ve got it. How many other people saw this beating?”

“Dozens. I’m probably the only one who can identify Gallagher. Most of them were either watching the movie or making out. I’m not offering to forget about it. When people shoot at me with Lugers, when some retarded creep kills a girl with brass knucks, when somebody else blows up another girl I’m about to get into bed with, I want somebody slammed for it. It’s my business. I know you realize that. Did you send the bomb to Kate Thackera, Oscar?”

“Obviously not.”

“Then it’s to your advantage to find out who did. It’s going to be hard to pin this on anybody. Here’s what we have. The gatefold. The fact that Kate had been seeing you. Your secretary had Kate’s room key in her purse. Add Turkey Gallagher; and you’re going to look bad in tomorrow morning’s paper. If any of the stockholders are still undecided, they’ll vote against you. This could be the turn, Oscar. The banks might not be so anxious to lend you money from now on.”

“It’s exaggerated, but I see your point. Go on.”

“I’m hoping you’ll decide that you can’t lose anything by giving me some leads. This is the best time of night for me. When you jolt people awake, they say things they wouldn’t say in the daytime.”

“Stick to the beating for a minute. You think I ordered it. Why?”

“If the Zions had a chance to buy Oscar Olson’s secretary, wouldn’t they do it? Of course they would. Her days in the job were numbered. She had no reason to feel particularly loyal. She was in a position to know most of your plans. How much money would that be worth? A lot, probably; and given the way she was feeling, she may have considered it more or less her duty. But she wasn’t careful enough. Your proxy outfit has some arm-twisters on its payroll, I’m told; and you passed the word to hit her a few times. Turkey misunderstood, or he got carried away. He doesn’t get many chances to beat up good looking girls who go to a drive-in alone in a loose shirt with no bra. Or you wanted her dead, and you knew that with Turkey there was a good chance it might happen. Or somebody on the other side wanted her dead and paid him under the table to put in that one extra lick.”

“Again, why?”

“To make it look as though you kill people.”

Oscar climbed out of the pool, towelled himself off, and put on his robe.

“I think I have to take a chance and do it your way, Shayne. The birds around here think I can’t tell them apart. Sometimes I mix up their names, and I told you I believe in a fast turnover so they won’t get the idea that any of this is theirs. But I need a few people with brains; otherwise I’d be nibbled to death.”

“You mean Mandy.”

“Like Mandy. The brainier they are, the quicker they start thinking how they can rob me. When this proxy thing came along, she was ready. But she was just a touch too eager, and I noticed it. I planted some items where she’d have to trip over them; and the next morning, Larry and Marcus had countermoves underway.”

“Why didn’t you get rid of her then?”

“Because when you’ve got somebody feeding stuff to the other side, there are ways it can be used. But now it’s the last night, time to stop kidding around.”

“So you brought in Gallagher.”

“I didn’t bring in Gallagher. I’ve never heard the name. But I gave the sign. I’ll deny this if anybody else asks me, but the situation called for an object lesson so nobody else in the family would get the same idea. And as a message to Larry Zion that I’m not as dumb as I look. But brass knuckles were not part of the deal. That’s all on the subject.”

“We have other subjects. Drink some more cognac. It’s having a good effect on you. Were you paying Kate Thackera blackmail?”

“No. I don’t pay blackmail, and she had nothing to blackmail me with.”

“Then why was the Brannon picture used?”

“I hope you can find out for me. Naturally, I don’t like it.”

“Larry Zion’s tongue slipped when he was waking up this afternoon. He meant to say Kate. He said Keko. You did the same thing a minute ago.”

“I was thinking about her when I fell asleep.”

“But that’s where this whole thing intersects. Kate’s big aim was to make it in the movies. She was living with Keko. Keko died. Larry Zion replaced her with Kate, and that made Kate a star. Did Kate find Keko’s body?”

“No, Evie Zion. Marcus’s wife.”

“I have somebody looking up the clippings. Were you ever questioned about it?”

“No, thank God. Never mind about clippings. In those days, the studios really ran that part of the country. Evie didn’t call the police; she called the Consolidated flacks, and the money began to flow. It’s ancient history. It’s been plastered over.”

“Here.”

Oscar accepted the glass Shayne held out. He looked at it with distaste but drank it like medicine.

“I’ll have a hangover in the morning. I know—there are worse things than hangovers. You want me to tell you how it was with me and Keko.”

He was a cool performer. During the day, with everything working, the transitions would have been smoother; and it would have been harder to determine what he was actually saying. But he was still not all the way back, and Shayne understood that he was going to be given just enough to keep him occupied while Oscar was making his own moves.

“Were you with Keko the day she died?” he said.

“Yes. But did I kill her? No. Do I know anything to indicate that somebody else killed her? No.”

“Kate knew you were there.”

“Yes; and frankly, I’m glad it didn’t get to be part of the record. That was a crucial year. I was thinking of trying a TV show. The publicity would have been a little messy. That doesn’t mean I paid Kate to keep her quiet. I offered her space in the magazine, and that was all. We gave her some good reviews. I can see how it looks: she was threatening me with it, and I had Mandy killed so she couldn’t testify that I sent her to Kate’s room with the bottle of bourbon.”

He shook his head. “I’ve borrowed money on my magazine stock to buy into Consolidated-Famous, and I’ve put up those Consolidated shares as collateral to buy more shares. So here we are. What I seem to be saying is—thanks for waking me up.”

“It wasn’t easy. You and Keko.”

“The thing is, she claimed to be my daughter.”

“Your daughter,” Shayne repeated without inflection.

“She wasn’t. I hired a team of investigators and established that to my own satisfaction. We could have clobbered her if she’d decided to go into court with it. I knew her mother when I was just getting started. Fifteen, for Christ’s sake. I met her; we messed around. Everybody knows my philosophy. Birds are part of the air I breathe, part of my act. Something like this happens to me all the time. Somebody comes up and says wasn’t that a great trip to Yugoslavia, what a fantastic two months. I may remember Yugoslavia, but the chances are I won’t remember that particular bird. It used to scare me. Now I’ve made it an asset. I don’t know if you see what I mean—but they can’t touch me.”

“You remembered Keko’s mother?”

“Well—she was one of the first. And seventeen years later, a seventeen-year-old kid turned in some glossies; and we decided to use her on the gatefold. You know that body. The female body has always been important to me, and Keko’s was very much to my liking. Later she had the good luck to hook into Larry Zion, and he made her famous. When I saw her in her first movie—you’ll be surprised to hear this—I decided to marry her. And that’s when she broke it to me. She’d found her mother’s diary. Naturally, she couldn’t marry me if she were my daughter.”

“Did you believe it?”

“The dates weren’t that convincing, and you can’t tell me I was the only possibility. Maybe Keko had somebody forge the whole thing. She was in orbit most of the time. Her big object was to make herself hard to predict. I thought at the time that she really did want to marry me, in a way, and that she pulled out that diary to give herself an excuse to say no. The psychological ins and outs of that girl. As far as incest goes—I don’t advocate it, but it doesn’t totally turn me off. I didn’t lose any hair. But I couldn’t marry her after that. I’m known for some far-out positions, but I doubt if my public would back me in that one.”

“How well established was she then? Did she want anything else from you?”

“She wanted to cut me down. I suppose she was carrying a kind of grudge. As much as I love to ball, I’m considered a male supremacist—do you realize that? I’ve had complaints that sex for me is a form of reverse castration. That I don’t give a damn if they come or not. I deny that—I like it better when it’s mutual, and I’ve got a good stable of actors around here. She stayed a couple of months with me. When it’s time for them to go, I give them a check and a pat. It’s the best way. I remember Keko wanted to hang on. The only way I could get her out of the pad was convince her I was an uncharming heel, and I think she held it against me. She showed me the diary after we’d been in bed for eighteen straight hours. After. Do you see the point? She didn’t show it to me at the start. Draw your own conclusions. I took it in my stride, as they say.”

“She didn’t want a cash settlement in exchange for being left out of your will?”

“She already had cash. She was getting a hundred and fifty G’s a picture. She wanted satisfaction, which I was careful not to give her.”

“Could she have hurt you with that diary?”

“Oh, yes. She was one of the top box-office stars that year.”

“Did Kate Thackera know about it?”

“She never said so. But Kate did need cash at various times; and yes, I think I would have heard about it if she did know.”

“How long after Keko showed you the diary did she die?”

“Two or three years. She was getting nuttier by the week. All her marriages flopped. Funnily enough, I think if she’d married me, it might have straightened her out. She kept getting in worse and worse trouble with the studio. Slipping at the box office. Her mother had died of cancer, and she thought she had it. She was deep into drugs—three suicide tries in a year. That was nothing new. She tried it when she was with me, and that’s why I threw her out. If they want to kill themselves, do it elsewhere is the way I look at it.”

“The last day, Oscar.”

“Yes. She phoned me and said if I wanted that diary and some pictures, to come and see her.”

“What pictures?”

For the first time, Oscar showed traces of embarrassment. “The kind of bird who’s attracted to me sometimes likes to get pounded a little, Shayne. The punishment thing. Well, if they want me to belt them, I’m glad to oblige. I’ve never used whips. And Keko had the kind of skin you could bruise with a dirty look. That’s well known—her makeup people had to be creative artists. These were gag shots from the old days. They looked worse than they were.”

“Pictures of Keko after a beating?”

“A beating! Don’t be silly. After a little strenuous sex.”

“And she wanted to give them back to you before she killed herself.”

“She was closing the books. That was the line she used. She played it like a bad movie.”

“Did Kate see those photographs?”

“I keep telling you. The only thing she knew was that I was there. That was bad enough, because there was plenty of excitement around that suicide. I didn’t want the world to know I was balling Keko a couple of hours before she gobbled sleeping pills and got in the tub. People would think I had something to do with it.”

He reached for the bottle. “I’m going to be bombed in another minute, and that’s uncharacteristic. I told you all this so you’ll know the kind of case they can put together. And you’re right; they can murder me with it. The trouble with the kind of cover-up job they did on Keko is, if there’s a slight shift in the wind it can blow away overnight. The first one to get to the D.A. buys himself out. Consolidated-Famous has no clout at all any more. Larry Zion couldn’t fix a ticket for speeding.”

He drank. “Are you selling me that gatefold?”

“Hell, no.”

“The price would be higher than two hundred shares, but you know that. Do you ever do contingency work?”

“Often.”

“Then what kind of deal can we cut? I didn’t have a damn thing to do with blowing up Kate Thackera. Find out who did before eleven o’clock tomorrow morning, and I’ll put a thousand shares in your name. You’ll want that in writing. I’ll be glad to do it, unless I’m too drunk to hold a pen.”

“Has anybody told you that Kate was the one who tried to kill Larry Zion on the highway yesterday?”

Clearly nobody had. “You mean she was driving that red car? Work on it, Shayne, work on it! Larry doesn’t go in for turning the other cheek. And if you want something else—he saw Keko Brannon that same afternoon.”

“How do you know?”

“I saw a script he left for her, and it was dated that morning. The cops don’t know this—somebody ripped off the top page; and to them, it was just a mimeographed movie script. All right, it’s your baby, Shayne. You figure it out. Now will you get out of here and let me get some sleep?”

Chapter 11

Oscar had one more drink while Shayne dressed. The cognac was slipping down more smoothly. At least he wasn’t making faces.

“One more of these will finish me,” he said. “I absolutely have to sleep. But I’m interested. Where do you start on a thing like this?”

“First, I make a few phone calls.”

“In other words, Oscar, mind your own business. I accept that. So long as you understand that only one thing matters to me, and that’s results.”

Oscar had forgotten his promise to put their deal in writing. Shayne reminded him. Oscar wrote it out on a sheet of yellow paper and signed it.

“I had trouble getting in,” Shayne said, putting the agreement in his wallet, “and I may have trouble getting out unless you’re with me. I want everybody to know we’re friends.”

Oscar brushed his hair again and came with him, wearing only his terrycloth robe. The party quickened as he passed through, though none of the guests looked at him directly. The blonde guard tied up in the parked car began flopping around and making gobbling noises when the door opened.

“You untie him,” Shayne said. “I want to get started. If I find out anything, I’ll call you.”

“Don’t call me, I’ll be asleep. Call me in the morning at seven-thirty.”

Shayne walked away. He started his Buick and left the parking lot without hurrying. But as soon as he made the turn onto the causeway and was out of sight, he came down hard on the gas, at the same time signalling his operator. If Oscar sent somebody else out to untie the guard, there was little chance that Shayne could reach Lewellyn’s truck in time to monitor Oscar’s first outgoing call.

“Shayne,” he snapped when Lewellyn answered. “There’s a call going out any second now; so start your recorder. I’m on my way.”

He cleared the last of the Venetian Islands, using the full roadway. He touched his siren and went through the tollbooths with emergency lights flashing.

Reaching Buena Vista, he parked behind Lewellyn’s truck, opened the rear door, and stepped in. Lewellyn, wearing earphones, lifted one finger in greeting. He was bent forward over a small console, which squeaked faintly. The tape recorder was going.

“Coming in right now, Mike. The guy’s name is George. Olson couldn’t get hold of him right away.”

He turned the volume knob; and Shayne heard Olson’s voice: “Where the hell did you dredge up this Gallagher?”

A voice answered. “He may be a little punchy; but he’s okay, Oscar. But I mean, do we want to talk about it on the phone?”

OLSON: “I had the whole system here debugged. If it’s all right at your end?”

GEORGE: “As far as that goes; but if you’ve got any changes to give me, couldn’t you get in a car and come over? I’d come out to the club, but I’m not getting around too good.”

OLSON: “What’s the matter with you?”

GEORGE: “I don’t even like to discuss it. Some bugout clonked me in the knee, and it hurts like a son of a bitch. The doctor says to take plenty of aspirin and keep off it, and we’ll get it X-rayed in the morning.”

OLSON (sharply): “That was supposed to be very quiet and easy. Now I hear you thought you had to do some shooting.”

GEORGE: “Oscar, to tell you the truth, I don’t know what happened! This big looney came up out of nowhere and started throwing punches. I had to decide off the top of my head. We just that minute put the arm on the chick; and it wouldn’t benefit anybody if we were busted for disturbing the peace at that point, right? The guy had to be crazy. I think I put a slug in him. There was blood on the ground.”

OLSON: “In front of all those people…”

GEORGE: “Oscar, I know. I know! But that was a bad place to be cornered. There was only one way out—the way we came in. Maybe I made a mistake, but I thought we ought to take him along and find out who he was. I shot at his legs.”

OLSON: “He has a bullet wound in his shoulder.”

GEORGE: “Okay, the light and all. We didn’t want to take the time to look into every car. You know I’m sorry, because I don’t like to be associated with any kind of goof. But no real harm was done, was it?”

OLSON: “Don’t you realize you killed her?”

Lewellyn looked at Shayne. A crackling came from the loudspeaker.

GEORGE: “No, Oscar. No. You’re wrong.”

OLSON: “Your man used a pair of brass knuckles.”

GEORGE: “I know that. He asked if it was okay. But he’s careful. He came to me recommended. Are you sure? Is it official?”

OLSON (after a moment): “No; this is according to Shayne. I believed it.”

GEORGE: “Shayne! Was that who that was? Is he working for Zion?”

OLSON: “He thinks he’s working for me now. He woke me up and threw it at me. And he’s just tricky enough… Find out if she’s really dead, George, and get back to me. Fast.”

GEORGE: “I don’t know where they took her.”

OLSON: “Call one of the papers. If she’s dead, they ought to have it by now. Say you were there at the drive-in and saw the fight. Give them Shayne’s description. And don’t, for God’s sake, give your right name.’

They clicked off.

Shayne said, “Was that the voice that called Mandy Pitt and told her to meet him at the drive-in?”

“Nothing like it. I didn’t have the recorder going then; so I can’t play it for you.”

“I’ll wait for this next call; then I’ve got to be moving. Can you stay awake if I pay you another two hundred and fifty bucks? I want to get everything Olson says on tape. I’ll call in every hour or so.”

He was facing the rear of the truck, and he saw the rear handle turn and unlatch. He reached inside his coat; but before he could do anything more, the door slammed back; and an unshaven, dark man with a bristling haircut poked a gun into the truck.

“All right,” he said curtly. “If you’ve got a court order for this setup, I want to see it.”

Lewellyn said lazily, “Did we remember to get a court order, Mike?”

“We don’t need permission to tap somebody else’s illegal tap.”

“Get out, and put your hands against the side of the truck,” the man said.

Lewellyn looked at Shayne. “You know I’d rather not do that, Mike…”

Shayne came forward, unable to stand erect under the low ceiling. “No, we’re caught. We can pass the fine along to the client. But we’d better see some identification. People have been going around impersonating police officers lately.”

“United States Treasury,” the man said and reached for his hip. There was a faint pulse from the loudspeaker as a call entered Oscar’s line. “Turn that off,” the man said, bringing out a leather folder. “I’m closing you down.”

Shayne uncoiled, throwing himself feet-first at the open door. Still in the air, he kicked upward with one foot, across with the other. He was aiming at the gun. He didn’t get it completely, but his flying body carried the man backward to the street. They landed together. The treasury agent got the worst of it, being underneath. Shayne relieved him of the gun.

“Now shut up. I want to listen to this.”

Lewellyn stepped up the volume slightly. George was telling Oscar that the bad news was indeed true: Mandy Pitt had been dead before she was removed from the car.

OLSON: “Now I really believe it.”

GEORGE: “But it was an accident! That’s all in the world it was. She must have jerked the wrong way. Oscar, I’m sick about this.”

OLSON: “You’ll be more than sick if you can’t do something about it. Think for a minute.”

GEORGE: “Oscar, I am. I wish it hadn’t happened. I wondered about Turkey, but he begged me for a chance. He’s the one who has to take the consequences.”

OLSON: “Don’t be dumb. You’re all three in it. Whose car did you use?”

GEORGE: “We stole it. At least we took that precaution.”

OLSON: “How many people know you’ve been working for me?”

GEORGE: “You said to keep it between us. I didn’t even tell my girlfriend. I’m like the grave; you know that about me. Did you ever have anything to complain about on that score?”

OLSON: “The best plea you could get on this would be manslaughter.”

GEORGE: “That’s what I’m afraid of. I was thinking our best bet might be if Turkey and me start travelling. But I can’t get in touch with him right away. He’s already started that other thing. I could meet him down there, and we could head across to Fort Myers…”

OLSON: “Think about it some more. This took place in the dark. Shayne’s the only one who knows anybody’s name. He works by himself.”

GEORGE (unenthusiastically): “I follow your reasoning, but that could be easier said than done. It’s a big town.”

OLSON: “I steered him in the direction of the St. Albans. You can beat him there. He won’t be expecting anything. He has a piece of paper on him with my name on it. Get it.”

GEORGE: “Oscar, with somebody else I might entertain it; but you don’t know this cat’s reputation. Not to speak of the fact that with this knee…”

OLSON: “Do it, George. It’s your one possible out. You made a mistake. This is the only chance you’ll get to correct it. If you strike out on this one, don’t expect any help from me. Legal, financial, or otherwise.”

He broke the connection. Lewellyn said, “You seem to be hot, Mike. Didn’t you say you were going?”

Shayne took some of the pressure off the treasury man and read the name on the card inside his leather folder.

“Henry Morrison. Did you recognize the voices, Morrison?”

“Oscar Olson. I don’t know George’s last name. Olson has been paying him two thousand a week for the last four weeks. You’re Mike Shayne? I’m sorry, but I’ll have to ask you to pick up your wire and move along.”

“Not yet, Morrison. Things are beginning to pop.”

“I gather that. Nevertheless, you’re calling attention to my installation here. Our case on tax evasion isn’t quite complete.”

“If we’re too conspicuous here, we can move inside with you.”

Morrison shook his head primly. “Out of the question, I’m afraid. I could get into serious trouble if I made any informal arrangement of that kind.”

Lewellyn put in, “Don’t you realize they were talking about a murder?”

“That has nothing to do with us.”

“Then I’m afraid we’ll have to put you in restraint,” Shayne said.

“I expected it. I don’t leave you much choice, do I?”

He climbed into the truck by himself and allowed them to tie him up. “From your point of view, wouldn’t it be a good idea to get me drunk? You want me to be thoroughly helpless. Force it on me.”

“Have you got anything to drink here, Lew?”

Lewellyn admitted to a fifth of blended whiskey.

“Give him a drink,” Shayne said, “but don’t let him fall asleep. If we can’t get this bastard Olson on anything else, I want to be sure they hit him with a tax rap.

Chapter 12

Lewellyn called while Shayne was still on the causeway to Miami Beach.

“Outgoing call from Olson. Female voice says hello. Olson says, ‘Is he there? Put him on.’ Sleepy male voice says hello. Oscar: ‘Let’s be careful. This phone is okay,’—little does he know—‘but I don’t know about yours. I think we’d better talk.’ Pause. ‘Where?’ ‘Same place. I’m leaving now. Don’t say anything to what’s her name.’ ‘Do you think I’m out of my mind?’”

Shayne had a cigarette in his mouth. He lit it while he was thinking.

“That doesn’t give us much. All right, thanks.”

“One thing, though. The voice at the other end—the guy Olson was talking to. It’s the same guy who called the girl at the club earlier. Mandy Pitt. Told her to meet him at the drive-in.”

Shayne hit the brakes. “Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

“Let’s have that dialogue again.”

Lewellyn repeated the conversation. Shayne swore softly. He was on the wrong causeway, the Julia Tuttle. The Venetian Causeway to Pelican Island lay a mile and a half south, and he would have needed a helicopter to pick up Oscar as he left the club.

Throwing his cigarette away, he told his operator to get him the St. Albans and ask for the room where he had left Timothy Rourke with the physical education teacher from New York.

As soon as Rourke heard his friend’s voice, he said quickly, “Are you using the car phone? Hang up; I’ll call you back.”

Shayne continued to Miami Beach and parked on Arthur Godfrey Road. The phone buzzed.

“It’s okay now; I’m in a booth,” Rourke said. “I’ve been seen going into that room, and it’s known that you’re a friend of mine. Your name hasn’t come up yet, as far as I know; but they’re working on it.”

“How far have they got?”

“They know Kate was drinking downstairs. They’re talking to the bartender now. I’d say there’ll be a call out on you before too much longer.”

“I was hoping for a couple more hours. What else?”

“Lots of talk. I don’t think they’ve come across your clothes in the closet yet. But about that bottle of bourbon. You know—the gift-wrapped quart of Old Granddad. The hotel definitely didn’t supply it, just the fruit and the flowers. Sometimes they toss in a bottle of champagne to the big names. Never whiskey. But! A room-service waiter saw a broad in the corridor yesterday at like five P.M. carrying that kind of package. She had glasses on. Long hair. Does this help?”

“I know who it was. Her name’s Mandy Pitt, and she was killed in a drive-in movie an hour ago. I don’t have time to fill you in. Did you talk to anybody about Keko Brannon?”

“Yeah, I’ve been on the phone, neglecting my social obligations. Jane’s watching an old Brannon movie on television; and what a female that was, Mike. Even on that little screen, she lights up the goddamn room. How do they get so screwed up? I’ve got one small nugget out of all that telephone time. It was only a rumor, and it may not be true. That Marcus Zion was banging her. Not Larry—that would be forgivable. The accountants aren’t supposed to sleep with the stars; and that’s what Marcus is basically—an accountant. The connection was completely kept out of the papers. It’s very stale gossip… Hold on, one of the Beach detectives.”

Shayne heard a muffled off-mouthpiece exchange.

Rourke’s voice: “Shayne? Sure, I run into Shayne all the time. I think he said something about a poker game tonight. I’m talking to the paper. Let me finish, and I’ll give you some numbers you can call.”

The door closed. “Did you hear that, Mike? You are now officially wanted.”

“And not just by the cops. I’d better talk to my client and find out what he wants me to do now. That’s if Marcus still considers himself my client. Will you give him a message for me, Tim? Wake him up if you have to. I’ll be in Lummus Park, just past the auditorium. If anybody follows him out, tell him to go back to the hotel room; and I’ll call in fifteen minutes.”

“Right. You’re back in that rut again, I see, not telling me anything. I thought you said this time was going to be different.”

“I’m in a hurry. Everybody’s awake and moving.”

“You mean awake or dead. Two, so far—not good. I’ve been worrying about you. Don’t give me a long spiel, but how’s it been going? In one word.”

“Lousy. People are lying more than they actually have to, and I don’t know why.”

He crossed to Collins and drove south, nearly all the way to the tip of the Beach. There was only one car in the parking lot near the Ocean Front Auditorium, a Ford with a flat tire. Shayne reversed and backed against the seawall.

He cut his lights.

Five minutes later, a Chevrolet with a license number identifying it as a rented car turned in from Tenth Street. The headlights moved across Shayne’s face. A woman leaned out. This was the lady who had found Keko Brannon dead in the bathtub—Evie Zion. Marcus’s wife.

“Marcus is out twisting arms. Perhaps I can help?”

“Let’s find out. Turn off your lights.”

“I’m getting a little jumpy, Mr. Shayne. Let’s not park side by side.”

Although she spoke pleasantly, it was obvious that she was very much on edge. She came about in a long arc and stopped at the opposite end of the lot. Shayne walked toward her.

He was halfway there when the rented car swung around and came at him with a roar. He was caught in the open. The headlights came up to full beam. She was accelerating hard. Shayne broke for the seawall.

She corrected course slightly. Shayne was running at full tilt, his emergency glands pumping. He faked one way; and when she took the fake and her headlights twitched in that direction, he dug in and cut.

The plunging car missed him by feet. He fell awkwardly.

He was up again at once, his gun in his hand. The Chevrolet was coming around, tires squealing. When it straightened, he could probably get a tire; but she could still knock him down driving on the rim. The only effective thing he could do was kill the driver, and first he wanted to know why she was doing this.

The parked Ford was the nearest stationary object, and Shayne ran for it. She was on a shorter slant this time, too short to build up full power. Shayne wheeled to face the oncoming car. He fired and blew out a tire. The Chevrolet swerved, and Shayne jumped. He slammed down on the hood and began to slide but stayed on by grabbing a windshield wiper. The Chevrolet, out of control, rammed the parked Ford. The wiper blade came loose and Shayne was thrown free.

Evie had jammed the shift into reverse and was trying to back off. Shayne slapped her with the flat of the gun through the open window. Reaching in, he killed the laboring motor.

She had strapped herself in. He waited for her to turn her head to look at him. When she did, he told her to get out.

She freed herself. When she stepped out, she fell on her hands and knees.

He didn’t kick her, but he gave her no help. She shook her head, looking at the ground, and then gathered herself and managed to stand.

“We’ll talk in my car,” Shayne said.

“I don’t know if I can… she said weakly. “I feel… drained.”

“I’m expecting a call. Move.”

She took a few steps. Then she swayed toward him, almost falling again, and took his arm. He stood still until she released him.

“Do it all by yourself.”

When they reached his Buick, he put her inside and went around to get behind the wheel.

“It’s the first time anybody’s tried that in years,” he said. “You didn’t miss me by much.”

“What are you going to do to me?”

“Let’s leave that open.”

He snapped on the overhead light and told her to look at him. Except for false eyelashes, she was without makeup; and the gun had knocked one set of lashes askew. She was still a very good looking woman, with the wide-set eyes and sweet mouth that had gone with the roles she had played on the screen. She had come out in a hurry, in a sweater and skirt, her feet in sandals.

“I don’t suppose there’s any point in apologizing,” she said. “You can’t apologize for trying to run over somebody in a car.”

“Do you have much Consolidated stock in your own name?”

“You don’t think I’d do that for anything so stupid as money?”

“People who don’t have money don’t think it’s stupid,” Shayne said and snapped off the light. “All right, a small explanation. I’ve been working for you people for seven hours, and I’ve nearly been killed three times.”

“Mr. Shayne…” she said miserably.

“You must think I’ve found out something that can damage you. Or that can damage your husband, if you have that kind of marriage. I use a tape recorder. Three or four people know everything I do; and frankly, it isn’t a hell of a lot. But it’s beginning to come. I learn more from what people do than from what they tell me. Where’s Marcus?”

“I don’t know.”

“Tim Rourke knows you came to meet me. If you’d connected with me a minute ago, how were you going to explain the dent in your left front fender?”

“This isn’t a chess problem! I didn’t think it out ten moves ahead.”

He turned on the light for another look. “Or did you miss me on purpose, to make me think your husband has something important to hide?”

“No! I saw you walking toward me, and I was scared, and I had to do something…”

She made a broken gesture. He turned off the light.

“When you say you don’t know where Marcus is, do you really not know; or is it just that you don’t want to tell me?”

“I really don’t know. And I really am scared, Mr. Shayne. I can’t get what happened to Kate out of my head.”

Shayne lit a cigarette. “Kate is a good place to start. Who do you think was nice enough to make her a present of her favorite brand of bourbon?”

“I know nothing about it. Really. I really don’t.”

“Then you must think Marcus knows something.”

“Marcus? Mr. Shayne, I’ve lived with Marcus for eleven years, and I know a little about him. Marcus is incapable of killing anybody.”

“You sound as though you don’t approve.”

“Nonsense. I’m talking about his psychological makeup. There are things he’s capable of. Certain… meannesses, tricks. Murder’s not one of them.”

“Sometimes wives aren’t the best judges of their husbands’ character. I understand you’re the one who found Keko Brannon.”

She filled her lungs and looked at him in the darkness. “Keko. So that’s what this is all about.”

“That’s where it starts. How did it happen that you were the one? Was she a friend of yours?”

“She didn’t have friends. Do you really want that story again? I’ve told it millions of times.”

“I don’t mean that story; I mean the real one. Did she send for you, or did you happen to drop in? Did you think you’d find Marcus with her?”

“That old rumor.”

“Yeah. But was it a true rumor or a false rumor?”

“Don’t push me! I’ll tell you. You can’t realize what it’s like for a person like Marcus… to have so much power of that kind. A thousand women think that all he has to do is nod in their direction, and they will automatically become rich and famous. Of course it isn’t true! He has to get everything approved by that show-business wizard, Larry Zion. And anything Marcus really wants, Larry takes a fiendish pleasure in seeing that he doesn’t get. But the women keep trying. Marcus wouldn’t be human if he didn’t succumb occasionally. In spite of what you may have heard, he’s definitely human. I haven’t let it worry me. Usually it’s a trip to New York or an hour in somebody’s guest room at a party. Keko was the only one who managed to reach him. She reached him; and if she’d lived, she would have cut him up into little strips, like bacon. How much do you need to know about this?”

“That may be about enough. Get to the day she died.”

“I told the police she’d asked me for a drink, but that wasn’t true. She wanted to be found by the cleaning woman the next morning. Kate was supposed to be away, but she came back early. She called me. She never came into the publicity at all. She was very clever about it until—well—until tonight, of course.”

“Did she know Marcus had been there?”

“I think she’d been watching the house. She knew Keko as well as anybody could, and Keko wasn’t the kind of person who kept things to herself. Kate had been through some really monumental bouts with her. She knew it was building up to some kind of climax. So she was there, in a position to do the studio a big favor. After the dust settled, she asked for a test for Keko’s part; and naturally, she got it.”

“If Marcus had been tied in, would it really have hurt him? People have been telling me she had sex with ninety percent of the males in Los Angeles County.”

“It wasn’t just sex. It wasn’t just that he was there a few hours before she died. There was some… movie footage. Just take my word for it that if the police had found it, Marcus couldn’t have stayed in that particular job, in this particular industry. I’m telling you this in the wrong order. Marcus wasn’t the only one. Keko was a classic case of woman as a sexual object. She had a long, long history of being hurt and used and exploited. I don’t think poor Marcus could have done anything too horrible to her, but that’s not important if Keko thought it was horrible. And along with everything else, she was a very tough girl. It would have been inconvenient for us all if her plan had worked; but as a matter of fact, I think I admire her a little for that. I couldn’t ever do anything like that.”

“I’m beginning to see it. She made a list of all the people who had done something to her over the years.”

“Yes—Marcus, Larry, Oscar Olson, two of her three husbands, her first agent, one or two others. A director. She made them come to see her—one at a time, of course, so they wouldn’t overlap. And she left various things lying around to incriminate them, to put them all in the same spotlight with her. All the horrible things they’d done to her had made her decide to kill herself, do you see? It was a marvelous scheme. It would have done serious damage. A great blow on behalf of all women who have been discriminated against.”

“Larry was there?”

“Even Larry would have been hurt. He didn’t treat her any worse than he treats everybody else, but the others didn’t commit suicide, and they weren’t Keko Brannon.”

“Did you have a key to the house?”

“No, I used Kate’s. I told the police I found the door unlocked. As soon as I made sure Keko was dead, I looked around and picked up. I missed a few things, but nothing too bad.’

“Were you satisfied that it was actually a suicide?”

“There was never any doubt about that.”

He turned on the light again. She met his look without wavering.

“Oh, there was talk. But we turned every available screw and kept it under control.”

“Did you tell Marcus about the films you found?”

“I’m not a saint, Mr. Shayne. Yes, I told him. They were very poor quality. They must have been taken in a motel, through some kind of air-conditioning grill. I looked at a few frames in a Moviola; and after I got the drift, I cut it up into little pieces and flushed it down the toilet.”

The phone buzzed. Shayne picked it up and said, “Hold it.” To the woman: “Stand out in front of the headlights where I can see you.”

“I understand, yes. You have no reason to trust me.”

He snapped on his lights and waited till she came into them. He waved her further away. She stared into the light and put her hand flat against her stomach in a sudden gesture, as though she was feeling a sharp pain there.

Shayne told his operator to go ahead.

“It’s a woman named Alix Hermes. Do you want to talk to her?”

“Damn right!” Shayne said and cut a tape recorder into the transmission.

“Go ahead, please,” the operator said in her formal voice. “I have Mr. Shayne.”

“Hello,” a voice said, misplacing the accent slightly “Do you recognize my name?”

“You’re Larry Zion’s girlfriend.”

“Is that what I am? I cannot talk on the phone. There is something important. But I have people watching me. If I say a certain place, can you meet me?”

“Where?”

“At the Miami Yacht Basin.”

“Okay. Give me fifteen minutes.”

She told him what kind of car she would be driving, and then she was gone. Shayne motioned to Evie to come back.

“I’ll drop you at a cab stand,” he said, snapping the ignition key. “If you have anything more to tell me, say it fast.”

“I suppose I don’t, really. I made my usual mess of this.”

He wheeled around. Lights blazed in his eyes; he was running on adrenalin, hoping he could get the job done before exhaustion took over. Reaching Collins, he headed north.

“When your husband was involved with Keko, did he want a divorce?”

“Oh, yes.”

“What does he really think about his father?”

She didn’t answer at once, and Shayne tapped the wheel impatiently.

“Well, he admires him, of course.”

“Of course. Does he think Larry’s ever going to retire and give him a crack at the top job?”

“Larry’s not the type to retire, is he?”

“Would Marcus take the job if it were offered to him?”

“That’s so hypothetical, you see. We haven’t discussed it.”

“Did he give Kate Thackera the idea for running Larry off the highway?”

That startled her. “Mr. Shayne, stop this fantasizing.”

“Have you ever thought about going back to work?”

“As an actress? Heaven forbid.”

“No children… you don’t care about money. What does that leave? Your husband, your husband’s career. That’s old-fashioned. There aren’t many of you left.”

He braked to a stop on the approaches to the first of the big Beach hotels. Turning, he said more roughly, “This is as close as I go. I’ll give you one more minute. I still don’t know why you were trying to run me down. If you thought you were doing it to protect Marcus, here are some of the choices: that he killed Keko Brannon, and you and the studio covered it up for him; that he talked Kate into trying to kill Larry and then killed her in a way that would make people think Larry did it; that he’s the one who set up a hungry girl named Mandy Pitt for a fatal beating.”

“Who?” she exclaimed. “Oscar Olson’s secretary? She’s dead?” She put a hand on Shayne’s sleeve and said urgently, “Was that Marcus on the phone?”

“No.”

She went on, her grip tightening, “One minute. I can say a lot in a minute. Like any normal, American Jewish boy, he despises his father. Naturally! I came in late on that, but you just don’t know! Larry really does try to humiliate Marcus more than he does other people. And Marcus thinks Larry killed Keko Brannon. He thinks Larry physically killed her with his two hands. He waited till she passed out from sleeping pills and put her body in the tub.”

“You can have more than a minute if you’re going to tell me anything.”

“I couldn’t persuade Marcus he was wrong. He was bewitched by that creature, dead or alive. Do you believe in sorcery? I do. She was a witch! She could convince anybody that he was the one human being who could make her stop drinking and start being happy. She was a big event in Marcus’s life. He isn’t rational on the subject even now.”

“Why does he think Larry killed her?”

“Because he couldn’t let Marcus have the one thing he wanted. And, then, she was running up costs on the picture terribly. They were already over the budget; and it was getting worse and worse. If she’d waited another three weeks, the whole thing would have been beyond salvage—a disaster. She had an insane contract—he had to pay her percentage even if he replaced her.”

“That’s a rational motive, money.”

“For a monster, which is what Larry is; and Marcus wanted to do something violent! But, Mr. Shayne, by violence I mean walking into Larry’s office and throwing his tennis trophies through the window. I don’t mean gunfire or fistfighting, the way everything used to be resolved in pictures. How can I convince you? You’ll ruin everything. He doesn’t want to kill Larry, he wants to outvote him! He wants to abolish his job. He wants to take over as head of production. And he wants Larry alive and well so he can know what’s happening to him!”

“You mean Marcus is going to vote his shares for the opposition?”

“That’s exactly what I mean! With Oscar and Marcus voting together, they only need a two-to-one break in the small holdings; and Oscar’s solicitation has been going better than that.”

“You don’t think Larry has caught on to any of this?”

“God, I hope not. He’d pull some last-minute rabbit out of the hat.”

“Who killed Kate Thackera, Evie?”

“I don’t know!” She threw her head from side to side. “I don’t want to know! I know you’re a marvel at finding out these things; and after tomorrow, it won’t matter. But tonight I don’t want anything to upset the balance. That’s all I was trying to do—hit you hard enough to send you to the hospital. Does all this sound crazy to you? But this is sort of a last chance for Marcus. If he loses tomorrow, Larry will take him and squeeze out the rest of his juice. Well, I did my best. Do you want me to get out?”

“Yeah.”

She put her hand on the door handle. “I’m a dyed-in-the-wool moviegoer. It might be a little more… satisfactory if Marcus handled things in the John Wayne fashion, but that’s not the way he functions. Really. Goodnight. I won’t wish you luck.”

She got out of the car and walked quickly toward the taxis.

Chapter 13

Shayne drove slowly south on Biscayne Boulevard, looking for a black, two-door Chrysler. He continued to Third Street, circled the block, and came back. A black car turned into Bay Front Park and stopped.

Shayne blinked his headlights. A woman got out of the car and walked toward him.

She was blonde, with a carefully blank expression and of course a marvelously maintained body. Shayne had heard that Larry Zion was a small man, and this girl must top him by half a foot. In this light, she looked as cold as stone.

She checked him through the window before getting in beside him. “Mr. Michael Shayne. I have heard you described. You have a comforting look, I assure you. I have been frightened half to death.”

Her English was good, with a slight accent. Unlike some of the other women Shayne had met in the last few hours, she would become better looking with the passing of years. She was pale.

“Does Larry know you’re meeting me?” Shayne said.

“I fervently hope not! I was careful; I think nobody followed. Now that I am with you, I finally think there is a chance I will not be killed.”

“Who wants to kill you?”

“People from both sides, it seems.” She gave a low, breathless laugh. “I am considered a danger, and with some reason! I want you to take me somewhere, please. Find a safe place where we can talk… You are not completely disinterested in money? I can show you a way we can both make a great deal. You have a gun?”

“Everybody seems to be carrying guns tonight.”

A heavy car approached on the other side of the street. Swinging suddenly, it cut in ahead of Shayne, its front wheel riding up over the curb.

Shayne had left his engine running. He rammed the shift into reverse before the other car had shuddered to a complete stop and came back hard, knowing without checking the mirror that somebody else had pulled in to block him from the rear. Bumpers clashed. Shayne went back into low, pressing the button that ran up the bullet-proof side windows. His front and rear bumpers had been built to his own design; and unlike factory-built bumpers, they actually gave a degree of protection to the car. He used the Buick like a powerful double-ended bulldozer, battering the front car several feet, then reversing to come back and slam against the rear car.

The girl beside him was talking excitedly in Greek. She was jolted forward, then backward; and the next forward move threw her against the dashboard. Having made room, Shayne cut the wheel hard, broke out of the ambush, and shot south on Biscayne.

Recovering, the girl pressed the muzzle of a small pistol against Shayne’s nearest knee. Her carefully arranged hair had been jarred forward, partially obscuring her face.

“Damn you, you walked on my lines. I rehearsed them so thoroughly. Stop, please, or there will be a bullet in your knee, and that is not a pleasant place to be shot.”

“Are you sure you don’t want me to get a little farther away?”

“No, stop at once.”

“You were lying to me about people wanting to kill you. There goes my last illusion.”

He slowed almost to a stop but continued to drift around Biscayne Boulevard Way toward the river.

“There’s no place to turn here. Wait till we cross the bridge. Reach in and get my gun. I’m not trying to win any war. I need that knee.”

He committed the Buick to the Second Avenue Bridge. After a moment, carefully shifting hands, she snaked his .38 out of its holster.

“Who are you working for?” Shayne said.

“You identified me as Larry Zion’s girlfriend, and it is true. Among other things, I keep count while he does his push-ups.”

“How high does he get?”

“One hundred with two hands, forty with one. For someone of his age, that is considered fantastic.”

“I look forward to meeting him. Why all this rigamarole? I’ve destroyed two cars. And all you had to do was ask me.”

She found the light knob and turned up the dashboard lights, still being careful with the little pistol. “He’s been getting calls about the things you’ve been doing. He thought if he asked you, you would say no.”

Shayne laughed shortly. “Why? I’m a stockholder in his company, and one of the things I’m trying to figure is which way I should vote my shares.”

“You are a stockholder?”

“Olson gave me two hundred shares outright and an agreement for a thousand more if various things can be made to happen.”

He swung onto the Dixie Highway, and Alix eased back.

“In that case, I can relax a little; and we won’t go back for my clumsy friends. Just keep going in this direction. They can follow in a taxi. Will you promise not to wrestle me for the gun?”

“I’ll try asking you some questions first.”

“Oh, don’t waste your time or your breath. I am completely unimportant.”

“He seems to trust you with a gun.” He gave her a long, travelling look. “Are you in love with him?”

“We are fond of each other. He has a marvelous, explosive force.”

“How long have you been together?”

“A bit more than a year. Why are you interested in this?”

“Kate Thackera wanted the part he gave you. I don’t know why she thought she could get it, unless you’re on your way out with Larry.”

“Oh, she was a little crazy.”

“She claimed to be. I’ve made a short list of people who would have less to worry about with Kate dead, and you’re on it.”

“Perhaps I will have to shoot you after all.”

“I’m told the director wanted her.”

“She had some odd hold over him.”

“Did he have any connection with Keko Brannon?”

If the question surprised her, she didn’t show it. “He directed her in several pictures, actually. They once had a famous fight in a restaurant. But, you understand, I was still a schoolgirl in Athens at the time.”

“Does Larry ever talk about Keko?”

“He frequently runs her films, but he talks about very little except business.”

The pistol was still pointed at Shayne, but he could tell that he had started her thinking behind it. She might be sharing the same sheets with Larry Zion, but that didn’t mean she was a friend of his.

Shayne waited until they entered the access ramp onto the Palmetto Expressway.

“I don’t understand chicks like you. How much is he paying you for this? You got a movie contract out of going to bed with him, but this is extra. You were taking a hell of a chance for a girl who has to be on the set tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow, I just have some costume fittings.”

“I had the feeling that you really would have put one of those slugs in my knee if I didn’t do what you said. But I’m not supposed to be too impressed with these little guns. I’m not supposed to take orders from girls your age. I have my reputation to think of. And I’m sorry to say I’ve done a certain amount of fighting in the front seat of cars.”

“You might win, Mr. Shayne. But I would shatter your knee.”

“I don’t think so. I have my belts on, and I’m controlling the car. And if you end up with your face through the windshield, are you a hundred percent sure he’ll pay your hospital bill?”

“I think I know what I’m doing.”

He made a scornful noise. “You’re as bad as Oscar’s girls, all tits and ass. ‘Hit me again, Oscar, how I love it.’ I’ve just had a painful session with Evie Zion. There’s the ideal American woman. No personality of her own at all. I’m sure she sees to it that Marcus’s meals are ready on time and his clothes get taken to the cleaners. In bed, always willing to serve. But she has her agreement in writing. If Marcus decides to toss her out, it’ll cost him some money.”

“Evie Zion is not that much of a mouse.”

“What’s your setup down here? Does he let you listen to his phone calls?”

“Why should I trouble myself? I don’t understand stocks and proxy fights and boards of directors.”

“They aren’t that complicated. What time did he get back from the hospital?”

“Five o’clock; and since then, he has been coming and going.”

“And talking to people. The various things you know are worth money, do you realize that?”

“Worth money to whom?”

“Let me handle you. But it’s risky enough so I think I ought to get twenty-five percent.”

“Handle me?” she said, amused. “But if I don’t know any of Larry’s thoughts, and I don’t, what would you have to sell?”

“I think I can find a buyer; but it has to be now, tonight.”

“Mr. Shayne, I think you’re teasing me. Do you know who killed Kate Thackera?”

“I think so, but I can’t see any way to prove it. I’ve been giving you a hustle on some of this, but that’s one thing I mean. All the killer has to do is stay reasonably cool, and we won’t be able to touch him. So the hell with it. If I can’t come up with a murderer, I hope to come up with some money.”

She seemed puzzled. “Remember, English is not my principal language. Can you say it more plainly?”

“This thing is wide open. I’ve been itching to move in and go for the cash. There are three main groups; and if we move fast and get them bidding against each other…”

“I think you are trying to… what is the word you used? Hustle.”

“There’s a chance of that. But think about it. If the pirate picture hits, you’ll be big enough so you won’t need Larry. If it bombs, he won’t be able to use you again. So what can you lose?”

“My life,” she said seriously.

Shayne nodded. “Yeah. That’s why you need me. You wouldn’t want to try it alone.”

The pistol barrel wavered. Then it came back to bear on Shayne.

“Take the next exit.”

He slowed down. “That’s right, play it safe. You’re in a foreign country.”

“I don’t know the first thing about you, really.”

They came off onto a paved road that ran east to a small broken-down village on the bay. An improvised sign—“Consolidated-Famous”—pointed them into a dirt track that had been bulldozed through the thicket. This led to the set that had recently been constructed at the water’s edge by Consolidated technicians: a nineteenth-century colonial square, a governor’s palace, docks, fortifications, part of a town. Two ships were riding at anchor in the bay.

There was a clearly defined frontier between reality and pretense. A guard stopped them; but recognizing Alix, he waved them on into a trailer encampment.

There could be no doubt which of these trailers belonged to the company head. Still linked to the heavy tractor that had hauled it here, it was nearly as long as a railway car. A large American flag was painted on one side. A recessed spotlight picked out the company crest and Zion’s tiny initials beside the door.

“He’s gone again,” Alix remarked as Shayne put the Buick into a parking space. “I think the secret is that he runs on atomic power. He’s tireless.”

She indicated with the pistol that Shayne was to go in first. The interior of the trailer wouldn’t have seemed out of place in one of the new Collins Avenue condominiums or in a big-budget Hollywood movie of an earlier decade. The angora carpet was as white, as nubbly, as any of Oscar Olson’s. There were several oil paintings of famous actresses. Keko Brannon was there, but not Alix.

“Larry?” she called. “As I thought, we have the house to ourselves. A drink?”

“Would you like to go on with the conversation we were having?”

“No. I think you are merely trying to cause trouble.”

“I’m ready to go into more detail. You aren’t going to stay with this son-of-a-bitch forever. Why not split in a way that means something?”

“I understood your suggestion, Mr. Shayne. But I know Larry, and I’m not fooling—I am frightened by him. You’ll find everything in that cabinet. Give me a bourbon and soda, with lots of soda.”

Shayne made the drinks.

“Can you call him? I’ve got a couple of things to finish in town.”

“I could call him on his car phone; but when he is thinking, he doesn’t like to be interrupted unless it’s important; and he likes to decide himself what is important and what isn’t. You still don’t seem to understand. You are to remain here.”

“Am I?”

“Yes, so drink, and try to stop hustling.”

She made a few repairs to her makeup. Shayne was watching; but as an actress, she was used to being watched.

Presently, a car growled into the parking space; the door was unlocked from outside; and Larry Zion stumped in, wearing a walking cast on his left leg.

Reminding himself that this man was in his sixties and had been in a bad accident eighteen hours before, Shayne checked his face for signs of weariness and pain and had no trouble finding them. The flesh was pinched at the corners of his eyes. The good tan covered other things. He looked amazingly fit, but Shayne didn’t think he could stay in motion much longer.

He had removed his dark glasses to give Shayne a quick going-over. Having done that, he put them on again.

“What happened?” he asked Alix. “Where are the boys?”

“On their way, I expect. Mr. Shayne smashed up the cars.”

Shayne smiled. “But Alix held a gun on me. This is a well-rounded girl, Larry. Sexy as hell, too. Congratulations.”

“And he pointed out something to me,” Alix said. “That I was taking a certain risk and that I ought to be paid for it.”

“I’ll write you a check in the morning.” Zion took two steps and collapsed into a chair, easing the cast out in front of him. “They made this damn thing too tight. Get me a drink.”

“I have a deal for you, Mr. Zion,” Shayne said. “If I can guarantee the success of your slate, will you step aside and let Marcus take over the company?”

Zion loosened his dark glasses to rub his nose. He accepted a glass from Alix.

“Am I willing to let Markie take over? Is that a serious question?”

“Everybody has to retire sometime, and you’re years overdue. Movie people ought to keep in touch with the public; and in your case, there’s too big a gap.”

Alix circled past to sit in a chair where she could watch them. Zion continued to drink calmly, but the dark glasses didn’t entirely mask the wariness in his eyes.

“Shayne, what the hell do you think your role is? Bringing you in was the stupidest move the kid ever made, and he’s not exactly known for his I.Q. He thought he was protecting me from the Thackera kook! Looking out for the health and welfare of the doddering old man! I need protection like I need a cast on my other leg. What excuse did he give you? And whatever it was, it was phony!”

“I get used to that. I don’t think he was really worrying about your health and welfare. He thinks you killed Keko Brannon. He seems to hold it against you.”

Zion’s response to that was a sidelong glance at Alix, who was studying her fingernails.

“He thinks I killed Keko. I think he killed her. We can’t both be right. And have you heard the story that Oscar Olson did it? That was also going around. I think I’m going to say one thing to you; and then I’m going to fall into bed, finally.”

“It’s still early.”

“For me, it’s late. If Markie killed her, it didn’t do anything for him. Afterward, he was still a schmuck. There are times when I like the kid. He’s a competent tennis player—merely competent. As far as I know, nobody has criticized his table manners. He knows wines. But he would be a total flop as the head of a major motion picture company. His judgment on picture material is atrocious. He has little or no iron in his backbone, which may very well be his father’s fault. If for any reason I should be forced to submit my resignation, I would use any influence I might have to make sure that Markie didn’t succeed me. Nothing personal. It’s just that I’ve become attached to those dividends.”

“I’m told there haven’t been many of those lately. Why did you pull Kate Thackera out of the pirate picture?”

“For the same good reason. Financial. I’m in business to make money. Stick to something you know, Shayne. We thought for a while that she was going to be big. But there was something slightly unpleasant about that broad. I don’t know what, but you couldn’t miss it up on the screen. It built from picture to picture. No, Buccaneer is my personal plaything. We have a two-million budget. If it grosses two million one, I’m the savior of the industry—and not for the first time. If it grosses one million nine, I’m out on my keister.”

“Do you think it’s possible that Marcus promised to put her back in the picture if she could succeed in giving you another heart attack?”

Alix stirred; it was possible that she was learning something new about her friend’s medical history. Zion emptied his glass and put it on the floor.

“If so, they didn’t do a very good job of it, did they?”

“One more question before you leave us… You’ll like this one.”

Zion maneuvered himself onto the edge of his chair. “Shayne, I’m tired of you already. It didn’t take long, did it? What’s your question?”

“Do you think all the bad luck you’ve been having lately has been accidental?”

Zion rocked to his feet. His dark glasses looked blankly at Shayne.

“What bad luck?”

“You know better than I do. Somebody mentioned it. If people start thinking of Consolidated-Famous as a bad-luck outfit…”

Zion moved impatiently. “What’s your point?”

“There are still some undecided shares. Maybe they could put Olson over if they all went the same way. I think you’ll ride out this Thackera bombing. Oscar’s going to catch most of the trouble on that. There’s an interesting gatefold from his magazine, which I won’t go into. His personal secretary delivered the bomb to Kate’s room.”

“Is that known for a fact?”

“I’m not talking about facts. I’m talking about how things are going to sound on the morning news. A girl was seen, and the description seems to fit. She didn’t have to know she was delivering anything but a bottle of whiskey. She’s dead now, after a beating. The people who beat her up were definitely working for Oscar. How is this all going to affect those undecided votes?”

Teeth flashed in the tanned face. “I’d say it favors the management, otherwise known as Larry Zion.”

“Are you sure? Oscar comes out looking tough and clever. He rigged things so that if the girl weren’t seen, you’d be the one the cops would want to talk to in the morning. You’re the logical man because Kate did try to kill you, didn’t she? And the idea would be that you got to her before she could try again. Knowing Oscar just by his reputation, I’d be tempted to think he’s a bit soft. That revolving bed, all those willing girls. He likes to make himself too comfortable. Now he reverses all that with one move. I’m told it’s going to take real toughness to pull the company out of the hole.”

“I’ll make a bet with you. We’re going to clobber the guy”

“The night isn’t over yet. There’s time for some last minute spectacular to show the shareholders that the famous Zion luck is finally gone. If Oscar looks not only tougher and smarter but luckier…”

“You’re getting at something. Say it.”

“I’ve been listening hard all night. I get a faint rumble that something important is still under way. Some big, dramatic, last-minute catastrophe. I’m hoping you’ll have some idea, because a man named Turkey Gallagher is involved in it; and I want to talk to Turkey and get a deposition from him.”

“Something important,” Zion repeated. “Some catastrophe.”

“I know it’s vague. But that’s the way this whole thing has been all along. What can happen in the next five hours? You’ve got money invested in this set. What if it burned? What if your leading lady drank too many scotches before bedtime and didn’t get out?”

“Mike Shayne, you’re a devil,” she murmured.

Zion took off his glasses. “Do you have some definite indication that such a thing…”

“I didn’t say definite. I said vague.”

Zion sighed. “I was hoping to get some sleep. Evidently not.”

A car arrived outside, hurrying.

“There they are,” Alix said. “They must have had to steal a car.”

Zion unlocked the door and called in two men. One of them wore glasses; the other, a heavy, drooping mustache. They were both about five ten, in their middle twenties, with medium haircuts. They probably thought they kept themselves in fair physical shape; but in any competition involving push-ups, Zion would undoubtedly have won.

“We’re sorry, Mr. Zion,” one said. “We just didn’t get a chance to establish position.”

“Alix handled him. Give me another splash, baby.” She took his glass. He said to Shayne, “You should have come to me first. We could have worked something out.”

“I was told you were under sedation.”

“They thought I was under sedation. You’re going to spend time with these guys. This is Art. This is Jackie. They aren’t too good at bringing people in, but they should be able to see that you stay in one place. And for their sake, I hope so. There’s liquor. If you want to see a picture, tell Alix; and she’ll run one for you. Or you can sleep, which is something I wish I could be doing.”

“Why don’t you use me?” Shayne said. “We’re on the same side.”

“I doubt it. I’m afraid your main interest is locking somebody up for murder. That’s not my main interest. I want to hang onto the company and report a ten-million profit in the next fiscal year. I don’t want you bulling around. Talk to me after the meeting, and I’ll smile more.”

“You’re making a mistake,” Shayne told him.

“I don’t think so. Will you stand up now, Shayne? I want Jackie to give you a fast clean-up. Take his money, Jackie, his identification, and anything he can use as a weapon. We’ll give it back to him tomorrow at noon. Make that one o’clock, to be safe.”

“Why don’t we tape him up?” Jackie said.

“Just the ankles so he won’t be thinking about jumping you. All we want to do is sideline him. We don’t want to make him sore. Tomorrow afternoon, we’re going to talk business; and I don’t want him to come into that conversation unhappy.”

Taking Alix by one breast, he drew her aside and gave her instructions in a low voice. Jackie emptied Shayne’s pockets. Gathering everything up, he knotted it inside a pillow case. Larry took it with him when he left.

“I thought for a moment that you would succeed in persuading him,” Alix said. “But he is a man of his own ideas. Let me say something about these two. Jackie, I don’t know. He has worked in studio security. As for Art, he has been in jail a good part of his life. What was your crime, Art?”

Art laughed. “You could look it up.”

“And he will go back to San Quentin prison automatically the minute Larry becomes dissatisfied with him. As for me, you know that I am dedicated to the prosperity of Larry Zion; and I will shoot you gladly if you make any trouble for me.” She crooked her finger at him. “Bang, bang. Outside there is a fence. There are guards along the fence with dogs. There are people sleeping in the trailers. So, be nice, please.”

She went into the bathroom and came back with a spool of one-inch adhesive tape. At her suggestion, Shayne took off his shoes and socks. She knelt at his feet.

“We’ll have some more drinks, listen to music. We won’t talk about murders or the motion picture industry.”

She did a careful job. When she was finished, she came to her feet, put one hand on his shoulder, and kissed him hard. As she broke away, she bit his mouth.

Shayne took her by the breast as Zion had done. “Is that how he usually hauls you around?”

She withdrew from his hand. “It means nothing.”

She put a string quartet on the record player and made drinks for herself and Shayne. Jackie asked for a beer.

“No,” she said. “You are to stay totally sober. Mr. Shayne, I see that you feel a little unfriendly toward us; and Larry doesn’t want that. To get in your good graces, I’ll give you one of Larry’s special cigars.”

She went off into the bedroom and came back with a cigar box, which she opened and offered to Shayne. “He imports these from Portugal. Cuban, of course.” The raised lid of the box concealed its contents from the other two men. Something Shayne had said had convinced her, or perhaps she had been intending this all along and had only delivered him to Zion as a way of protecting her foothold in Zion’s life. The box contained two cigars individually wrapped in silver foil and Shayne’s .38. She had snapped the revolver open so he could see that it was loaded.

Chapter 14

Shayne took one of the cigars; Alix, the other. She closed the box and put it on the table at Shayne’s elbow. They dressed the cigars and lit them from the same match.

He breathed out smoke. “Will he still be able to afford these when he’s ex-chairman of the board?”

“He has a large supply put away.”

“We’ve got time to kill. Anybody want to play some gin?”

Art said he was willing. Alix brought a deck of cards and moved a low table. She retired to the white sofa, where she curled up and blew expensive smoke at the ceiling. Jackie, more nervous, kept moving from one perch to another. Shayne gave his full attention to the cards and within half an hour had won $150 on paper.

Meeting Shayne’s eyes, Alix consulted her watch and gave him a steady questioning look, which he shrugged away.

“Larry said something about a movie. What’s the choice?”

“We don’t want to watch a movie. They give me a headache at this time of night.”

“I haven’t been to the movies in months,” Shayne said.

They all discussed it, and the vote went against her. She dug out some flat film cans and read the titles. They picked a mystery about a few fast days in the life of a fictional member of Shayne’s own profession.

She pressed various buttons. A projector came out of one wall; two panels on the opposite wall parted to reveal a screen.

Art turned his chair. Jackie took a position with his shoulder to the screen so he could continue to watch Shayne. Testing their alertness, Shayne made a quick movement forward for his drink. Both men responded. Art’s hand slipped inside his jacket.

Alix touched Shayne’s neck from behind. “Comfortable?”

“One foot’s gone to sleep, but never mind. Too bad you’re so attached to the man, I have a feeling we could get to appreciate each other.”

“Impossible. Unfortunately.”

“Do you think I gave Larry any new ideas?”

“The only thing I know, he is thinking about the small amount of time between now and tomorrow morning. And I think the same.”

“Patience, baby.”

He asked for more cognac. She brought the bottle to him; but before she could open it to pour, a shot was fired suddenly outside.

In the trailer, everyone froze. The shot was followed by a splash, the sound of people running.

Both Art and Jackie came to their feet. Alix returned to the projector. The on-screen detective, who had infiltrated the Mafia by pretending to be broke, bitter and drunk, was walking into a gambling casino to approach the Mafia boss. Art, at the window, drew back a curtain carefully. Jackie was watching Shayne with a .45 automatic.

Alix turned up the sound; and Shayne, without looking at her, reached for the cigar box. On the screen, an excited girl with a knife attacked the Mafia boss. Shayne took out the .38 and flicked the chambers into firing position with a hard turn of the wrist. The movement was concealed by the open lid, but some change in his manner alerted Jackie, and he started to bring up his gun. Shayne fired through the cigar box lid.

Jackie fell back, clutching his elbow. Alix swung the projector so that when Art turned, he had the beam in his eyes. Seeing that his companion had been hit, he moved toward him; but it must have seemed to him that the shot had come from the outside. Broken movie images flashed across his face.

Jackie pointed toward Shayne, his shout of warning swallowed by the noises on the soundtrack. As Art moved, Shayne shot him twice—once in the thigh, a second time high on his arm.

Two quick hops took Shayne to the wounded man. The second shot had knocked him against the window; and he was beginning to slide, a look of disbelief on his face. Shayne plucked the gun out of his hands and let him fall. He swept Jackie’s big .45 off the rug.

“Stay out of this,” he told Alix. “I don’t like to shoot women, but I’ve done it when I’ve had to. Turn down the goddamn sound.”

She reached for the knob. Earlier, she had snipped off the ends of the Cuban cigars with a tiny pair of golden scissors; and now Shayne used them to cut the tape between his ankles. The men he had shot were complaining.

“I want you to listen to this,” Shayne said. “I know it hurts, but think of the people who are starving in Pakistan. Hang on for a few minutes. I’m taking Alix with me, and I hope they think she’s valuable enough so there won’t be any more shooting. Hostage—do you know what the word means, baby?”

He looked for his shoes and socks, but they had been taken somewhere. Three shots in quick succession were fired near the trailer. Shayne waved a gun at the wounded men.

“Don’t open that door. I won’t be taking off until I’m sure it’s clear. I’ll be outside, and I’ll be jumpy.”

“A doctor,” Jackie said.

“There’s probably an aspirin in the bathroom.”

He motioned to Alix to walk ahead of him. Before she unlocked the door, he touched her spine with the muzzle of the .45.

“I’m serious about this. Cooperate.”

“All the way. It is Larry’s battle, not mine.”

They stepped out. She locked the door behind them and threw the key away.

The other trailers were alight. The headlights on all the trucks and construction vehicles were on. A bank of floodlights lit up the shore. There were moving lights on the deck of one of the pirate ships.

Shayne put the smaller guns in his pockets, the .45 in his belt.

“That was neatly done in there,” Alix said. “What is taking place, do you understand?”

“I have a general idea. We’re being raided by Oscar Olson’s people.”

“I must telephone. I was worrying, and I had nearly decided Larry would win. Now I believe you will smash it for him. Do you really need me as a hostage?”

“I’m not leaving yet.”

“Be careful, Michael. Larry has given orders at the gate. But I think it will be hard for anybody to stop you. Shall we have a drink tomorrow afternoon to exchange ideas?”

“That’s a long way off.”

“It is, and much will happen in the meantime. But one last thing I must tell you. How he has worked it I don’t know, but Larry has known almost from the beginning what the opposition has planned. So why is he surprised by this tonight? And one further thing still. The thing he is so good at in a story conference—I have seen it—when a roomful of brilliant men are wondering how to put life or interest in a story, is that he comes up with some marvelous twist that stands everything on its head and solves the difficulties. So expect something. Bye-bye.”

She touched him and walked off.

The motor of a powerboat sprang to life, and an open-decked motorboat careened into sight between the two anchored ships. Two men were standing in the waist of the boat: one with a rifle, the other with a swivel-mounted searchlight which he pointed straight downward into the water, as though looking for sharks.

Moving from one shadow to the next, Shayne made his way to a spidery construction of aluminum girders supporting a platform for overhead camera shots. He was out in the open for a moment as he went up the ladder. He wriggled to the edge of the platform and shifted the .45 in his belt so he could lie prone. Shielding his eyes against the floodlights, he peered toward the ships.

Turkey Gallagher, the thug who had beaten Mandy Pitt with brass knuckles, had had a further assignment tonight, Shayne remembered. Shayne had been guessing, but Larry Zion had caught on instantly. He was counting on this picture. If something happened to the set or delayed the shooting schedule, it might convince the waverers that the producer had finally and definitely lost his magic.

Men at the rail of the pirate ship were shouting and pointing.

The rifleman in the motorboat fired into the water. His boat heeled over and came about sharply.

It was a clear night, with a half-moon. The powerboat was going around in noisy circles. After a moment, Shayne noticed a second boat, without lights, its engine idling, rocking halfway between the shore and the ships. Light glinted from a rifle barrel.

A golf cart carrying a driver and one other man—it was Larry Zion—passed beneath Shayne and entered a cobblestoned alley leading to the waterfront.

A dog began barking. After checking the perimeter fence, Shayne located a man in a green uniform, wearing a sidearm, being pulled by the barking dog toward the water. A voice carried clearly from the ship. “There’s something. Do you see it?”

The motorboat came about in a long sweep. The rifleman sighted at an object in the water but failed to fire.

Zion’s golf cart came into sight again on the hard sand at the water’s edge. Zion was standing, gesturing like a combat commander. The cart turned toward the fence, stopping there to permit Zion to confer with the guard. While they talked, the dog kept barking and trying to pull away.

A pick-up truck honked for admittance, and the gate opened. Men, presumably armed, jumped out. Zion’s golf cart came up from the water to meet them.

The guard hauled the dog around and made him come back, but the animal continued to argue. Shayne blocked out the bright light with both hands and looked carefully along the water’s edge to see what the dog had been barking at. He saw something dark and solid rolling in the water. It glistened briefly with reflected light; then the lapping waves pulled it under.

Alix came out of a lighted trailer. The golf cart was approaching, but she saw it in time and stood still until it passed. Then she crossed a lighted space and disappeared.

The new men fanned out. Several had flashlights.

Before climbing down, Shayne made another quick reconnaissance of the area beyond the fence. He knew he couldn’t get his own car through the gate without shooting. But unless Larry’s men were firing at imagined targets, someone from the Olson camp was around somewhere; and he hadn’t walked from Miami. Off to the north, Shayne saw a rough woods trail leading from the movie company’s road to the water. A heavier darker shadow at the end was perhaps a parked car.

He looked around once more, then wriggled backward to the ladder.

Back on the ground, he circled the public square, keeping to the shadows. The pattern of streets and alleys made little sense; but having seen it from above, Shayne had a clear idea of how everything connected. He crossed a street of shops and taverns and entered an alley a minute before Zion’s golf cart turned into the alley from the other end.

The headlights caught him. He turned quickly, hearing the motor baying behind him. Coming into the main street at a hard run, he saw two of the new men with flashlights; and he wrenched at the nearest door. It was fixed in the wall. He tried another. It looked real; but it had been built to fool a camera, not to open and let people through.

The two men across the street had separated and had Shayne bracketed. When the golf cart, rocking, burst out of the alley’s mouth, Shayne stepped into the light, his hands out from his body. The cart swerved to a stop.

“What are you doing, Shayne, damn you?” Zion demanded.

“Gunfire makes me nervous,” Shayne said mildly. “I thought you might need some help.”

“Where’s Jackie? Art?”

“Around. Who are you shooting at? Gallagher, I hope.”

He had lowered his hands as he spoke; and now he bent forward, seized the flat running board, and spilled Zion and the driver out on the cobblestones.

He jumped for the alley and was out of sight before his pursuers had time to reorganize. Now that they knew he was loose, he needed a diversion. He circled back to the heavy-equipment park. There was no one around; the interesting things were happening closer to the water.

He chose the biggest bulldozer. Swinging into the driver’s seat, he started it up and lowered the big blade. It came around snorting, and he aimed it at the flimsily built set. He put it in gear and opened the throttle, jumping clear as it started to roll.

He was concealed in an alley when it met its first opposition, an apparent stone wall that was actually made of lath and painted canvas, and tumbled it down.

The hunt turned in that direction. The alley he was in came to a dead end. He came back and went into a tavern. After adjusting to the darkness, he felt his way toward a lighted window. Nearly there, he heard a faint movement. He took a quick sideward step so he wouldn’t be framed by the lighted rectangle.

A figure passed. Shayne lunged. His hands closed on a woman’s breast, and he recognized the perfume.

“Alix.”

She whirled as he released her and sliced at him with some kind of sword. He caught her arm.

“Put it down, baby. People used to get killed with these things.”

“Mike.”

The cutlass fell to the floor, and her arms came around him. “I’m glad to see you, Michael; but how are we going to get out of here?”

“You’ll be all right. Tell him I was trying to use you as a screen, but you got away from me. He’ll believe it. I’m the one who needs help. Have you got that .22?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Here’s some more firepower.” He drew her to a trestle table and laid out his guns: his own .38 and the two others he had taken from Art and Jackie. “I don’t want to be bothered for a couple of minutes. Wait till I get out the window, and then start shooting. But try not to hit anybody, because the casualty list is already long enough. I want them to think a real gun battle is going on in here. Use up the ammunition, and throw the guns as far as you can. Rip your dress and smear some dirt on your face. He’ll give you an Academy Award. Who were you phoning—Oscar?”

“No, not Oscar. I only talked to Oscar once, and he said he already had the information he needed. When I heard that, I called my broker and went short in Consolidated-Famous.” She laughed. “Tomorrow, for each point the stock goes down, I will be ahead by five thousand dollars. Continue the way you’re doing, and I’ll end up a wealthy woman.”

“As a stockholder myself, I’m sorry to hear it. Remember we have a date for a drink tomorrow—if we’re all still breathing. You didn’t tell me who you were calling.”

“I didn’t, did I? And I’m not going to.”

The runaway bulldozer bumped into something that was too solidly built to be knocked down and ground to a halt. Shayne eased out the window into a smaller square with a fountain. He found an outlet on the opposite side, a dirt path that took him to the water.

Fishnets were spread to dry on a huge reel. There was a rattle of small-arms fire from the tavern behind him: the little peck-peck of the .22, the sharp crack of a .38, then the authoritative report of the big Colt. He left cover, walking without haste along the hard sand in his bare feet.

The black, shiny package he had seen from the platform was now partly out of the water, rolling heavily as it was nudged by small waves set in motion by the motorboat’s wash. It took on definition as Shayne approached and turned into a prone figure clad in a black wet-suit, with an oxygen rig strapped to its back. It lay mask-downward. One hand, flung up on the sand, had three splinted fingers.

Shayne went up to his ankles in the water and hauled the figure into the shadow cast by a low shed. He flipped up the mask. There was just enough light to show the features of Turkey Gallagher. He had stopped getting oxygen some time before. There was a gout of blood at the corner of his mouth.

Chapter 15

A sudden boom that seemed to come from one of the anchored ships caused Shayne to look up.

The motorboat swung around and headed back toward the ship. A voice shouted, “On fire!”

A man pounded past. He glanced at Shayne but kept going. The lights on the ship’s deck were darting around. Shayne saw a flicker of flame, swallowed immediately by a rush of oily smoke. Another man ran out on a short finger of dock and dropped into a power launch.

Shayne snapped on his lighter again and located the zipper tab under Gallagher’s rubber-clad arm. He worked the zipper, and water ran out of the suit.

He stood the lighter in the sand and undressed the dead man. Under the wet-suit, Gallagher was wearing only shorts. His chest was sticky. Shayne brought water in his cupped hands and rinsed him off, finding the entry hole of the bullet under the left nipple, hidden in a matted tangle of hair. The bullet had remained in his body.

The gunfight Alix was having with herself in the tavern petered away. The loaded launch cut loose from the dock and headed out for the ship. From the noises that reached Shayne across the water, it seemed that the fire was being brought under control. A plume of water arced into the air. Men from the small boats swarmed aboard.

Shayne checked the oxygen tank. It hissed reassuringly. While Zion’s men were preoccupied with fighting the fire would be a good time for Shayne to depart. He skinned out of his clothes. The wet-suit fitted him snugly.

Someone on the ship called to the approaching launch. “We’re okay, Larry. It looks okay. I think we got it.”

Zion called up a question; and the voice answered, “One of those little stick-on bombs from the outside.”

Shayne adjusted the straps on the face mask. Keeping low, he rolled into the water. As soon as he was clear of the sand, he kicked out hard, driving himself along the shelving bottom, heading away from shore at an angle. After a dozen strokes, he curved to the left, trying to parallel the curve of the shore. But it was impossible to tell how deep he was in the black water. He swam blindly for a time, then took a deep breath, and stopped moving until he rose to the surface.

He came up too fast and broke water with a splash. He was beyond the end of the fence, off Consolidated-Famous property. Nevertheless, the dog was desperate to get out in the water and bite him.

Shayne remained quietly on the surface, working his flippers. The guard lost patience and batted the dog on the muzzle with his gloved hand.

Shayne bent forward at the waist and submerged. When he surfaced again, the guard had dragged the dog back to the gate; but Shayne continued to hear excited barking as he came ashore and stripped off the rubber suit.

He continued along the shore until he came to deep ruts where Gallagher had turned his car around so it would point in the right direction in case he had to leave in a hurry. It was the same yellow MG Shayne had seen him in earlier. Shayne turned on the inside light by opening the door. Gallagher’s clothes were on the driver’s seat, the ignition key in the pants pocket. Shayne dried himself with Gallagher’s undershirt and pulled on the shirt and pants.

He drove without lights and scraped bottom several times going out. Once, he slammed down into a pothole and thought he had snapped an axle. Presently, with everything still working, he reached the road that was maintained by Consolidated equipment; and in another few moments, he was on the expressway heading back to Miami.

He had three and a half hours before the stockholders’ meeting. He was setting up a list of things that had to be checked when he was overtaken by the highway patrol as he came off the Thirty-eighth Street ramp. The patrolman ranged up abreast, dropped back to check his plates, then came up again, blinking. Shayne pulled over.

The patrolman was very young, with an Alabama accent. All his clothes seemed a trifle too tight, including his hat and boots. He had never heard of Michael Shayne, and Shayne had no credentials to show him. He had Gallagher’s license; but that wasn’t good enough, inasmuch as Gallagher’s wallet proved to contain two other drivers’ licenses in different names. But what impressed the patrolman most was the fact that the car had been stolen.

Shayne asked to be taken to the barracks. These things could be explained, but he didn’t want to have to do it twice.

“Out,” the patrolman told him, picking at his holster flap. “Get out and turn around and stand there, like the book says. This is my first day in this job.”

“In that case, I’ll be glad to do what you tell me,” Shayne said.

The patrolman had him empty his pockets. Gallagher had been carrying a money clip holding $500 in fifties and twenties, a serrated set of brass knuckles, an airplane ticket to Las Vegas, gonorrhea pills, a hypodermic needle, and a glassine envelope filled with a white powder. The patrolman commented on these items individually as they appeared. He also noticed that Shayne was wearing a shoulder bandage, and there seemed to be bloodstains on his shirt. Very carefully now, his gun drawn, he walked Shayne to the patrol car and called for help.

The pace of events had been fast for some hours. Now, it slowed abruptly. He and the patrolman waited twenty minutes at the side of the road. To show what he thought of clapped-up junkies who carried brass knuckles and drove stolen cars, the patrolman refused Shayne a cigarette, although he smoked steadily himself. Two more patrolmen arrived at last, driving a sedan with wire mesh between back and front seats and no inside handles on the rear doors.

The sergeant at the Miami Springs barracks agreed that Shayne had a superficial resemblance to pictures he had seen of Michael Shayne, but he wouldn’t assume any further responsibility. Whoever Shayne was, he had certainly been carrying a great deal of incriminating stuff; and he deserved to be locked up for the rest of the night, until the day-shift lieutenant arrived.

Up to this point, Shayne had been doing his best to understand their problem.

“Did you listen to the news tonight, Sergeant?”

“Eleven o’clock, why?”

“A movie actress was murdered in a Beach hotel. Put in a call to the cops over there, and ask if they’d like to talk to Mike Shayne. A few minutes later, you’ll hear sirens.”

“In the morning.”

“Another very good looking girl was beaten up at a drive-in movie. That was in Miami. The guys who did it came to the movie in a stolen MG. It’s outside now. She was slugged by the guy who belongs to these clothes I’ve got on. He’s dead now, in still another jurisdiction. Those are the high spots. There won’t be much else on the front page tomorrow. Police work is your career. The spotlights are going to be on, and you don’t want to look too stupid.”

He leaned forward, his knuckles on the sergeant’s desk. “That’s one way to look at it. Here’s another. If you don’t pick up that phone and start dialing, I can guarantee that I’ll have your ass.”

He gave it just the right emphasis. The sergeant said evasively, “Everybody’s entitled to his opinion.”

He bit the end of his mustache and reached for the phone. Dawn was just breaking. Getting through to the Miami Chief of Police, the Chief of Miami Beach Detectives, and the Dade County Sheriff took half an hour. As soon as the phone was free, Shayne called his lawyer. Another half hour passed while everyone gathered. Shayne, without the benefit of coffee, a drink, or a cigarette, explained the situation as far as it had gone. But this was clearly not the full story. There were still major gaps. To fill them in, he had to be turned loose to ask some more questions; and these had to be asked in his own way. They could all be present, but he wanted everybody to keep his mouth shut and watch and listen.

Peter Painter, the Chief of Detectives from Miami Beach and an old adversary of Shayne’s, burst out when he finished, “I’ll be damned if I’ll be party to any more goddamned tricks, Shayne! I’ve been burned too many times.”

Everybody tried to talk at once. Shayne broke in to ask to be excused until they decided who had first claim on his time and whether or not his proposition was acceptable. Painter, less dapper than usual because he had dressed in haste and left home without shaving, ordered him to sit exactly where he was and provide specific answers to some specific questions. Shayne smiled and stood up.

“If you want to charge me with anything, I’ll let my attorney advise me how to plead. I can see you’ll have to talk about it some more, but do I have to be here? I’ve been up all night, and I’m sleepy.”

After a lengthy wrangle, Shayne was shown into an empty cell. Lying down on a bare mattress, he set his wristwatch alarm for eight-thirty and fell asleep, hearing the angry rise and fall of voices in the outer room.

When the buzz of his watch woke him up, the argument was continuing. He was given a bowl of oatmeal and a cup of bad coffee. He took one taste of each.

“There’s one other murder I don’t think I told you about,” he said. “Keko Brannon, seven years ago, outside Los Angeles; and that’s the big one. It’s been wrapped up in so many layers that I can only think of one way to get through. Sure, it’s a trick, Painter, a dirty one. But I’ve never heard you object to dirty tricks except when they didn’t work.”

Shayne’s lawyer announced that he was advising his client to say nothing further. Unless he was released at once and given a chance to eat a decent breakfast, he was applying for a writ of habeas corpus and calling a press conference.

“Keko Brannon?” Painter said speculatively. “Murdered? I’d be interested to hear more about that.”

“We all would,” Will Gentry, Miami Police Chief, put in. “What are you asking, Mike—a couple of hours?”

“That’s all. I have to stop on the way to change my clothes. And can anybody loan me a bulletproof vest?”

“Why not?” Gentry said. “Come on, Petey. I watched a Brannon movie on TV last night; and if anybody murdered that girl, I want to know about it.”

Shayne drove in with Painter and Gentry and explained briefly what he wanted to try. Painter, predictably, didn’t like it. He kept railing against Shayne’s methods all the way downtown on the Airport Expressway, while Shayne was changing, while Gentry stopped off for a bulletproof garment which Shayne put on under his shirt.

“But why?” Painter said. “We’ll protect you. I don’t want anybody to shoot you until you’ve done some more talking. A stockholders’ meeting. Do you actually want us to believe somebody’s going to jump up and try to shoot you?”

“I want to get into the meeting without stopping any more bullets,” Shayne said. “The guy who was in charge of Mandy Pitt’s beating is named George. I didn’t get a good look at him. He was hanging around the St. A. last night waiting for me to show up. He’s probably given up by now, but let’s find out. Pretend you don’t know me.”

“And how I wish it were true,” Painter said fervently.

The sheriff had already reached the hotel, with the help of his lights and siren. Shayne lit a cigarette and entered the lobby. He bought a morning paper and checked the board to see which of the public rooms had been assigned to Consolidated-Famous. He picked a chair from which he could see the entire lobby and opened the paper. They had used a publicity still of Kate Thackera, a wire-service shot of Oscar Olson alighting from his private plane at the International Airport. Turkey Gallagher’s death and his attempt to sink Gasparilla’s ship hadn’t reached the front page. Shayne checked inside, but apparently Zion had been able to bottle up the story.

The plumbing supply convention was still in full swing, and the lobby was crowded with delegates between events as well as a few more ordinary tourists. One of the salesmen, wearing the conspicuous rubber plunger, turned toward Shayne and reached out as though to shake hands. There was something ungainly about the movement. Shayne didn’t actually see the gun, which was hidden beneath a convention program. He flicked his cigarette at the man’s eyes and kicked him beneath the left knee. The man shouted thinly; this was the same spot where Shayne had hit him the night before with a tire tool. Shayne caught the gun as the man passed him and shook it loose. An empty space had opened magically around Shayne’s chair.

“George what?” he said, maintaining contact.

“Strickland,” George said. “Damn you. I knew I should get out of town. I knew it.”

Shayne surrendered him to two of Painter’s detectives, and he continued to the elevator.

The Consolidated meeting, in the number two ballroom, had been called to order half an hour before. Larry Zion was at the microphone, and Shayne was astonished at the way he looked. When Shayne saw him last, he had been ready to drop. Now he radiated health and energy, like a commercial for geriatric vitamins. He seemed to be listening to fast, exciting music. He was beautifully dressed in a white suit with a red carnation, a red scarf. On the microphone stand, there were two bronze replicas of the little Motion Picture Academy statuette. He spoke between them, exuberantly, manipulating one of his marvellous long cigars. His walking cast was below eye level.

Other officials were lined up along the dais, and Shayne was surprised to see Oscar Olson among them. In contrast to Larry, he looked exhausted. His face was set in the haughty expression he considered sophisticated, as though he didn’t want anyone in the audience to think he was listening.

For some reason, Marcus Zion was missing.

Shayne moved down the side aisle until he spotted someone familiar. Evie Zion, smiling to herself, was knitting a dog’s sweater. He assumed that, like everyone else, she was acting. Things weren’t that good for anybody.

There was a vacant seat in her row. Zion, spotting Shayne, swallowed a word but caught himself quickly and hurried on with the good news. Shayne forced his way in and asked the people nearest Evie to move over. He hadn’t shaved, and there was a look on his face that said he had been in too many fights and arguments, and he hoped nobody would give him any trouble. They gathered their belongings and made room.

“I’ve been wondering about you,” Evie whispered.

“Where’s Marcus?”

“Well, Marcus.”

Zion stepped up the intensity of his delivery to draw the crowd’s attention from the little disturbance beneath him. He slid an acetate sheet into an overhead projector; and a picture of Gasparilla’s ship, under full sail, jumped onto the screen.

“Sorry,” he said, his teeth flashing. “Wrong image.”

He replaced the ship with a Consolidated balance sheet.

“Marcus,” Shayne said to Evie.

“He’s resigned. He’s going with Twentieth Century-Fox as head of production.”

“That’s a surprise.”

She nodded, smiling her situation-comedy smile. “He’s not quite as big a fool as everybody thought. Larry’s signed a purchase agreement for his shares.”

“How much is he paying?”

“Yesterday’s closing.”

At the mike, Zion was giving off sparks, trying to keep his listeners from looking too closely at the numbers at the bottom of the balance sheet. He was leading up to an important announcement.

Shayne said, “What’s Oscar doing up there?”

“Oh, he and Larry have made a deal.”

There was a spatter of applause around them. It was picked up by others, and soon nearly everyone in the room was clapping hard. Shayne had missed it.

Evie explained in a whisper. “He’s selling the backlog to television for thirty million. Oscar is putting in another ten in return for a three-picture production agreement.”

Many of the shareholders were on their feet, showing how glad they were that the cash flow had been reversed and was coming their way at last. Zion waved happily, good for another twenty years. He reached back to shake hands with Oscar, who bobbed his head. Flash bulbs were popping like sex-mad fireflies.

“Do we get to ask questions?” Shayne said.

“Pretty soon. Mike, it’s the wrong time of day for it; but I have a little liquid nourishment in my bag. What with one thing and another, would you be interested in a small jolt of scotch?”

“Absolutely.”

She opened a silver flask and inserted a bent straw. He drank; then she drank. Then he had another, and she had another. This continued until she was sucking air.

“I told you Marcus would surprise people. Didn’t I tell you that?”

“Something like it.”

Zion held both hands over his head, shook hands with himself, gave the V sign, and finally succeeded in quieting the crowd. Now, he announced, he was prepared to submit himself to questions. As anybody knew who had ever attended a meeting chaired by Larry Zion, the management believed in keeping nothing secret from the stockholders. He was prepared to be completely open and responsive. He wanted everyone to go away satisfied. If need be, he was willing to keep the question-and-answer period going well into the night. He had a handball game later, but he was prepared to cancel.

“With a broken leg?” Shayne said.

“He hasn’t really played handball since his—shh!—heart attack.”

A man in the front row jumped up and accepted a microphone from a smiling girl in the aisle. He asked about Marcus’s resignation.

Zion managed to look regretful. Marcus had decided to accept an offer from one of their toughest competitors; and his parent, for one, was very, very sorry. But the terms of the offer had been so generous that, in the interests of his family, Marcus had been unable to turn it down.

“Yes, the interests of his family,” Evie observed.

A woman in a huge hat took the mike. This was a professional gadfly, a perennial meeting-goer, who wanted to know: 1) when Consolidated-Famous was going to adopt cumulative voting for the board of directors, and 2) what plans had been made by the company for increasing minority employment. Zion had quick, humorous answers for both. So far, he seemed to be enjoying himself. Perhaps Shayne could change that.

He pushed to the aisle and signalled for the mike. “Mr. Shayne?” Zion asked, peering down. “A private detective, aren’t you? Are you a stockholder in this corporation?”

Shayne didn’t get any amplification from the mike, and the girl showed him the button he had to press.

“I’ve got two hundred shares,” he said. “I had a deal with Oscar for another thousand, but I’m not sure I can make it stick.”

Zion gave the audience a long-suffering look. “You have a question.”

“At the time of Keko Brannon’s death, the company was able to suppress certain facts; and my question is—was one of these facts that she had bruises on her shoulders?”

“Bruises?”

“Yeah, that might have been put there by somebody’s hands?”

The room was suddenly quiet. Zion’s face was as impassive as the statuettes on either side. He was a moment in answering.

“That suggestion is ridiculous, and you know it.”

“Her picture was already over budget. If you’d replaced her, you’d have to go on paying her salary. How much would you say her death saved the company?”

“Something, of course. As it turned out, the Thackera version was exceedingly profitable. But we lost one of the great moneymakers in the history of motion pictures.”

“What does the name Mandy Pitt mean to you?”

“The same thing it means to you, probably. I’ve seen the newspaper.”

“When did she start working for Consolidated?”

“She never did.”

Shayne took Gallagher’s brass knuckles out of his pocket and waved them. He was glad to see that he was getting attention. Painter and Will Gentry, each with a little group, were at opposite corners of the room. He saw his friend Rourke at the press table with the other reporters.

“These are the knucks the guy used on her. But the funny thing is—” he looked up at the tanned face between the statuettes—“the funny thing is, the bumps and indentations don’t fit all her wounds.”

“That’s enough,” Zion snapped. “I said I’d be responsive to any legitimate question. Incredible! I wouldn’t allow this scene in any of my pictures. You are out of order, Shayne. Take your seat.”

Shayne smiled up at him. “I think my question’s in order, and I appeal the ruling of the chair. What happens to the price of our stock if the chairman goes to jail for murder?”

“I’ll ask the sergeants-at-arms to remove this man.”

Shayne shouted, “We’re entitled to an answer. Did you go to the Sky-Vue drive-in last night?”

There was considerable confusion around him. Painter’s detectives were shifting uneasily. Guards began to converge on Shayne: two coming up the aisle from the front of the room, two from the back. The woman shareholder in the large hat leaped into the aisle.

“Let him speak! Move the previous question! An appeal from the ruling of the chair calls for an immediate vote! You can’t railroad this meeting, Larry Zion!”

Shayne pushed back into his row, pulling the mike on its long cord. “What’s behind this last-minute deal with Olson? I’ll tell you.”

From the podium, Zion cut off Shayne’s mike. But one of the professional gadflies, in the row ahead of Shayne, had brought a bullhorn in case the same thing happened to him. Shayne reached over and took it. People were on their feet around him. Chairs had been kicked out of line.

Shayne’s bullhorn roared. “Did Marcus resign because he had reason to believe you murdered Mandy Pitt and others in a desperate attempt to maintain control of this corporation? Yes, or no? Were you at that drive-in?”

Zion looked from side to side, as though wanting to consult the statuettes. In another situation, he would have refused to answer. That was impossible here. He had assured the meeting that he had nothing to hide. Unless he answered, he would stand condemned in front of his stockholders. The thousands of proxies his side had solicited were to be voted by the group of officers behind him. They were listening with interest.

“Did I go to an outdoor movie,” Zion said with difficulty. “Not for years, Shayne. What are you theorizing?

“You needed a pipeline into the Olson organization. You made an arrangement with Oscar’s secretary, and one of the things the poor girl told you was that Kate Thackera was seeing her boss. You said you could handle Kate, you could talk her around if you hit her at the right time. But she was easier to talk to when she was well-oiled—you won’t understand much of this,” he told the audience. “It’s between me and Larry. The son-of-a-bitch persuaded Mandy to take a gift bottle of Old Grand-dad to Thackera’s hotel room. He gave her a key and arranged a room-service call to that floor so she’d be sure to be seen. Not yet, Oscar,” he said as the publisher tried to grab the dais mike. “We’ll hear from you later.”

“You’re lying, Shayne,” Zion said. “And what bothers me most is that I don’t know why.”

“Will somebody stop this?” Oscar shouted. “I want somebody to grab that man. Take his bullhorn away, and I’ll give you five hundred dollars. Anybody.”

“Don’t get excited, Oscar. This is mainly Larry. He called her last night and told her to meet him. But you knew she was selling you out, and you had three men follow her. Turkey Gallagher, George Strickland, and I don’t know the name of the other man. Larry was already there. They waited half an hour and decided something had gone wrong and that she wasn’t meeting anybody. They had orders from you to tap her a few times so she’d be sorry she’d been so greedy. They did that. I ran into the same set of knuckles a few minutes later. Shots were fired. While that was going on, Larry got in with her. She was on the floor of the front seat. He stamped on her head with his walking cast.”

Zion sagged, his teeth clattering against the mike. His eyes seemed all whites. The crowd had become more and more quiet. Shayne was able to lower the bullhorn.

“It was easy,” Shayne said in his ordinary voice. “She was unconscious. He couldn’t see her face. And of course he had to do it. That was the plan, and he had to do it quickly. He left Kate’s hotel key in her purse.”

Zion rocked, his color suddenly very bad.

“Don’t leave us, Larry,” Shayne called. “There’s more. The IRS has a tap on Oscar’s phones. Oscar won’t be glad to hear that. Oscar phoned you to set up a meeting. No names were used, but the voice he was talking to was the same voice that called Mandy and told her to meet him at the drive-in. And we have it on tape.”

Zion’s head rolled, and he dropped out of sight.

Shayne pushed out to the aisle. Shouldering the guards aside, he vaulted up onto the dais. Zion lay face down. Shayne pulled him over roughly. His tan had turned saffron. He was panting like a thirsty dog. He clutched the front of his shirt. The dais microphone had been knocked off the stand as he fell. Shayne moved it between them.

“It’s a good dodge, Larry. Another heart attack. The only way you can get out of answering questions. But do you think your stockholders are going to vote for a man with a weak heart? You’d be taking your own pulse all the time instead of thinking about their dividends. So even if you manage to beat everything else, you’ve lost the company. We can’t get you for Keko. I doubt if we can get you for Kate Thackera. Gallagher was shot in the act of committing a felony, trying to sink a valuable ship; so nobody can blame you for that one. But I really think we’re going to get you for Mandy if the metal brace on your cast fits her abrasions.”

“So it doesn’t matter,” Zion gasped. “Either way.”

“That’s right, Larry.”

Chapter 16

Zion fell away from Shayne, the side of his head hitting the lectern. His breath was coming hard, and he looked his full age.

Peter Painter was standing above Shayne. “Honest to God, Shayne. You could fall in an outhouse and come out covered with roses.”

Ignoring him, Shayne came forward on his knees. “Say something, Larry. Kate would have killed you sooner or later if you hadn’t killed her first.”

“I think he’s gone,” Painter said. “A typical Mike Shayne trick.”

“Don’t die just yet, Larry,” Shayne said. “There are still a couple of things we need to know.”

Zion was moving his head, his teeth bared. The upper part of his body arched suddenly, and his face twisted. Shayne was pushed aside, and a young doctor took over.

Shayne came to his feet.

“And I begin to get a feeling,” Painter said, “that you wouldn’t have done it this way if you’d had anything that would stand up in court. If he dies…”

“Get out of my way.”

Shayne brushed past him and sat down on the edge of the platform. Evie Zion was still in her chair, her head down, knitting very fast on the dog’s sweater. She was dropping stitches, probably; but that wasn’t the point. She felt Shayne looking at her and glanced up. He summoned her with a movement of his head.

“Is there any more of that scotch?”

“I brought another flask,” she said. “I thought I might need it.”

She opened it for him. He drank without using the straw.

“He always had a doctor with him, in case,” she said. “He had to pretend to be a masseur.”

She accepted the flask, inserted the straw, and took a long, bracing nip. Behind the lectern, the doctor-masseur had given Zion an injection and was now applying mouth-to-mouth respiration.

Evie spoke: “Mike, how did you know about those bruises on Keko’s shoulders?”

Shayne called one of the mike girls. She was still holding her portable microphone at the end of its long wire, but she wasn’t sure what to do with it. She had lost her earlier smile.

Shayne took the mike and cleared his throat into it. It proved to be alive.

“Will everybody sit down, please?” he said. “Go back to your places, and sit down. Everybody. The meeting hasn’t adjourned.”

Few people heard him at first, but he went on calling for silence, and gradually the meeting came back to order. On the platform, the doctor continued to work on the unconscious chairman.

“This is still the question period,” Shayne said. “Larry had a heart attack last year which few people know about. The big question in all our minds now is will he make it.” He glanced back. “The doctor’s still working, but he doesn’t look optimistic.”

No one in the crowd seemed to be weeping. He deadened the mike and asked Evie, “Where’s Alix? She’s missing a big scene.”

“I’ll tell you about that later.”

Shayne went back to the mike. “You all read the paper this morning. This is your corporation, and you have a right to know what’s been going on. I don’t know how much of this you heard. Larry’s problem was that if he answered me, if he said anything at all, he’d incriminate himself. But if he took the Fifth Amendment, he’d lose the election. It was too much for his heart to handle. That sounds callous, but did anybody really like Larry Zion? He never wasted much time making himself likable. A heart attack isn’t the same as a confession. But it’s something. At this stage, in an ordinary case, I’d spend a couple of hours with the cops; and we’d go over it a dozen times and work out a story to release to the papers. A partial story, with important parts missing. But we’re going to do something different this time. I’m going to give you my version. I think in places it comes pretty close to the truth. I’ll take questions as I go along. Evie, another drop of scotch, please. I didn’t get much breakfast.”

He drank and lit a cigarette.

“Start with Keko Brannon. This is Evie Zion in the front row. She just asked me how I knew Keko had bruises on her shoulders. I didn’t. But Oscar Olson told me last night, during a drunken conversation—” he glanced up at Olson, who was muttering angrily—“that it was an easy thing to put fingerprints on Keko. In spite of what I said to Larry a minute ago, I don’t think anybody killed her. She was an unhappy girl, and she couldn’t think of any reason to go on living. But she wasn’t a marshmallow, either. She’d been treated badly by most of the men in her life. There were six or seven she really wanted to hurt. They all had a reason for wanting her dead. For example, Olson. He used to hit her in the face when they were having sex. She had pictures of how she looked afterward as well as a diary indicating that she was his daughter.”

This was strong stuff for a stockholders’ meeting. The reporters were making notes. Rourke looked up and made a circle with his thumb and forefinger.

Oscar said softly, “Sweetheart, you are going to find yourself sued.”

“I didn’t say it was true, just that she was claiming it was true. There were similar things with the others. A lot of work and thought went into all this. So why wouldn’t she go one step further and make it seem that she’d been murdered? She bruised her own shoulders before she got in the tub. She splashed water around the bathroom so it would seem she’d put up a struggle. But Evie found her, and she and the studio publicity people took care of all that.”

“Shayne,” Painter objected. “You’re not serious. How could they suppress that kind of evidence?”

“By paying money. Only one part of Keko’s plan really worked. Both Marcus and Larry Zion had to know about the bruises, and each one was sure the other killed her. It made for bad feeling in the family… I have to start skipping now. Kate Thackera knew who had been with Keko that day, and she did a little mild blackmailing. It worked for a while. Then she wanted a part which Larry wouldn’t give her. I thought she was reasonably sane myself, but it’s clear now that Larry really thought she was crazy enough to kill him if he didn’t do what she wanted. And Larry wasn’t going to be stampeded into doing anything to risk the success of that picture. Too much was hanging on it. Now we come to something that may sound complicated, but it’s really very simple. There are three main stock holdings: Larry’s, Oscar’s, and Marcus’s. Any two in combination would win. The only reason Oscar took on the fight in the first place was because Marcus promised him his support. All of a sudden, Larry began to get unlucky. Things happened. I haven’t looked into it yet, but I’m sure it’s going to turn out that most of these things were arranged by Marcus and Oscar. They even tried to sink Gasparilla’s ship tonight.”

“I thought you said it was going to be simple,” Evie said. “More scotch?”

“Thanks.” He drank and handed her back the flask. “I was talking about Marcus. He had to have a story to justify his defection. From his own point of view, it made sense. It would be very satisfying emotionally to kick his father out in the street after all the years of humiliation. But Hollywood is the sentimental capital of the world. He couldn’t betray Larry just for money and personal satisfaction. But the insiders could point to the Brannon case—Marcus loved the girl; Larry killed her; and now, with the help of outside money, he was finally able to give his father the punishment he deserved. I hope you’re with me this far.”

He clearly had the full attention of his audience.

“The point to remember,” he said, “is that none of this was really secret because of the various spy systems. Larry’s girlfriend, Alix Hermes, was keeping Marcus posted; and I’m really sorry that Larry isn’t still around to hear it. Larry learned from Mandy Pitt that his son and Oscar were working together and that if he didn’t do something, he was sure to be beaten. It seemed to him he had to kill Kate Thackera. As long as she was alive, he couldn’t ever relax. But he wanted to kill her in a way that would solve his other problems. This is a man who spent a good part of his life in story conferences. In the great days, all the murder pictures had a first twist, a second twist, and finally a stinger. Kate’s murder had to look as though Oscar’s people did it. Not only that—fasten your seat belts—but did it in such a way that it would look at first as though Larry did it… I’ll say that again.”

“Slower,” Painter suggested.

“I didn’t expect you to get it, Petey,” Shayne said. “But these people are loyal Consolidated stockholders, and they go to the movies. Like this. Larry was gambling for two things. His life, number one, because he was convinced that Kate was determined to kill him. Control of the company, number two. Now imagine that Oscar was being blackmailed by Kate in connection with the Brannon killing. Blackmailers have never been considered good insurance risks. Imagine that he decided it was necessary to kill her. But how? She’d been threatening Larry, and that was the obvious place for the cops to look. You understand that without the testimony of Mandy Pitt to tell us which of these two connivers actually gave her the bottle to deliver, no one can be convicted for the killing. But Larry wasn’t going for a conviction. All he wanted to do was convince the insiders; and after that, there was no way his son could desert his father and ally himself with a scoundrel who had not only killed an ex-star but had tried to saddle Larry with the crime. It’s a great twist; and up to a point, it worked. Larry sent Kate an old copy of Oscar’s magazine, with the famous nude photograph of Keko Brannon. A lily was growing out of Keko’s buttocks. The body had Kate’s face, saying something like, ‘I wish I’d known when to stop.’ I knew the minute I saw the lily that Oscar’d had nothing to do with it. He wouldn’t joke about a girl’s buttocks, especially that particular pair, Keko’s. He’s built his career on buttocks. They’re too important to him.”

“Goddamn libel,” Oscar snarled.

“And while we’re on the subject of Oscar,” Shayne said.

“Watch yourself!” Oscar threatened.

“He didn’t kill any of these people, but that’s because somebody else got to them first. I woke him up a couple of times during the night, and he finally realized that Larry had outflanked him. Marcus was going to have to vote with his father, and that meant it was time for a deal. Alix passed this on to Marcus, and Marcus scuttled for cover. That’s about it. What do the bylaws say? Who takes over the meeting when the chairman falls down?”

A nondescript man, one of the blur of faces along the platform, came forward to take the gavel. One of the gadflies was immediately on his feet protesting. A period of confusion followed, during which Larry Zion was carried off the platform; Shayne remained where he was, swinging the mike at the end of the cord. He and Evie killed the second flask. She continued to knit, but no well-groomed dog would ever consent to wear that sweater.

Oscar approached. “I didn’t like that remark about buttocks.”

“Would it ever occur to you to use a lily that way?”

“Of course not.”

“That’s all I was saying. You weren’t threatening Kate unless she stopped blackmailing you, because she wasn’t blackmailing you. The tone was wrong.”

“Appalling. And speaking of taste, did you have to let the public in on that sick business about Keko being my daughter? That’s going to hurt me in the Midwest, and I’m going to make you scratch for those thousand shares.”

“What are they worth today?”

“Off seven at the opening. I hate to think what’s happening in New York now.”

The lawyers wanted him, and he moved off.

“Alix has a short position in the stock,” Shayne said. “Lucky girl.”

“So have I,” Evie said. “They were all so sure of themselves. I didn’t believe any of it for a minute.”

“You were going to tell me what happened to Alix.”

“She has a two-picture deal with Twentieth Century. It was part of Marcus’s package.” She sighed. “Marcus will have to marry her, I’m afraid. She learned her lesson with Larry—no more of these unofficial arrangements. She’ll eat him alive. But I’m not bitter.”

“I’m glad to hear that.”

“You were wrong about one thing. I don’t mind telling you now that it’s over. But there’s too much noise here.”

When she stood, she lost her balance and knocked against him, jabbing him accidentally with one of her knitting needles. He straightened her out. Confused, she touched her hair.

“All that warm scotch.”

She started toward an exit sign. They went through a swinging door into a kind of pantry.

“I’ve been pretty monogamous on the whole,” she said, “but that’s about to change. And if you’re interested, Mike, I’m available, starting today, because I think you’re too fantastic! And I’ll straighten you out on something because you put so much thought and effort into this.”

“About Keko?”

Evie came closer. Reaching up, she played with the hair over one ear.

“She was a schemer, yes. But she wasn’t as tough as you made her out. When I came in, she was just sitting there!”

“In the bathtub?”

“Up to her armpits in soapy water. She made all those arrangements; and then at the last minute, she chickened out. She was fighting the pills. And do you know, she actually tried to climb out?”

“And you stopped her?”

“I stopped her,” Evie said with satisfaction. “She really wanted to do it. I was carrying out her wishes.”

“And that’s how the bruises got on her shoulders?”

“No, they were already there—you were right about that. But I made them worse! How she fought, like a tiger. I really did it for Marcus. She would have destroyed him if that affair had continued one minute longer. I’ve never been able to tell him I drowned her.”

“And now he’s walked out.”

“Oh, well. Mike,” she said sleepily. “Did I make myself clear? When I said I’m available, I’m available right here, right now. I’m contracepted. I want to touch you.”

Her fingers left his face and moved down his chest to his stomach, where they stopped on the little portable mike which Shayne was holding between them. Her face changed. Her eyes flickered down. The long wire snaked out beneath the padded door. Shayne’s thumb was holding the switch open.

“Men are really and truly bastards,” she said. She pulled a gun out of her knitting bag and fired twice. The small caliber bullets struck Shayne two powerful blows, but they didn’t penetrate the thickly woven vest beneath his shirt. He continued to look at her, and Evie clutched her head with both hands and screamed.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16