Murder in Haste

Chapter Fourteen

The Coast Guard station at the end of the MacArthur Causeway turned out three patrol boats, and turned them out in a hurry. They crisscrossed the bay from the mainland to the southern tip of the Beach, but Shayne, watching their searchlights from the side porch of the nursing home, knew that they were too late. It was impressive, the kind of massive effort that couldn’t be mounted by a single private detective, but if the bomber had slipped through before the boats were in position, as Shayne was sure he had, it was wasted effort.

Dr. Shoiffet had patched Shayne up, removing several fragments of broken glass and taking several stitches in the worst gash, over one eye. He had wrenched his left shoulder, and it was beginning to stiffen. Lieutenant Wing and an explosives expert were working in the bombed-out room. Apparently the bomber had known the exact location of Chadwick’s bed. Looking at the twisted wreekage, Wing congratulated Shayne dryly on not having been in it. Morton, hearing Shayne’s call, had rushed out, and the bomb had gone off when he was wrenching at the doorknob. The door was blown off its hinges and came back in his face, shielding him from the full force of the blast.

Rose and most of the patients had gone back to bed and things were beginning to quiet down. The night had four hours to run and Michael Shayne was feeling the pressure. He was pacing restlessly up and down the porch when a car drove up to the front steps and Tim Rourke piled out. His face was puffy with lack of sleep, and he hadn’t taken the time or trouble to button all the buttons of his shirt His skinny chest could be seen through the gaps. He ran his fingers through his hair, which was all the maintenance he usually gave it.

“Hey, Mike,” he said. “You look grisly. Fighting again?”

“You should see the other guy,” Shayne said sourly. “Not a mark on him.”

“You had an explosion out here, they tell me.”

“Second floor,” the redhead said briefly. “You can’t miss it.”

“Don’t go anywhere, Mike. Any chance of a drink in this place?”

“I had a bottle of cognac upstairs,” Shayne said. “But I don’t think there’s much left of either the cognac or the bottle.”

“There must be a doctor around. This is a nursing home, isn’t it? I’ll hit him for some prescription stuff.”

Shayne went on pacing while Rourke visited the scene of the explosion and phoned his paper. He came out fifteen minutes later, an unlighted cigarette dangling from his lips.

“This quack they have here doesn’t think he’d advise a drink. Let’s go to my place, Mike. I keep a couple of pints in the bottom of the laundry hamper, for emergencies.”

“Later,” Shayne said.

“Later! Two nights in a row is a little too much. I’m an old man. I get tired.”

“Sit down,” Shayne said.

Something in his friend’s tone seemed to surprise Rourke; he sat down obediently in one of the wicker rocking chairs. Shayne planted himself on the broad porch railing.

“I’ve picked up a few things,” Shayne said, “but there’s still a long way to go. You said something this morning — no, hell, yesterday morning — that might ring a loud bell if I could only remember what it was.”

Rourke scowled. “That’s about the vaguest remark I ever heard from you.”

“I know it’s vague!” Shayne said angrily. “But let’s see if we can find it. I think it was when we were talking about the Truckers’ election. Anything new on that?”

“They’ve been wheeling and dealing all day,” Rourke said, lighting his cigarette. “They pulled me off the story to cover a knifing in the county jail. And I understand you were on the premises at the time, far too busy to put in a phone call to your old pal Tim Rourke. I’m not complaining. I’m not asking questions. I’m just touching lightly on one of those areas where the press would like a little explanation.”

“Keep your mind on the union election. Does Plato still look good for the Welfare Fund?”

“The last I heard. There’s a bunch of sub-bosses who’d like to dump him because he’s been getting such lousy publicity, but they don’t have a chance unless they can get Quinn to go along. My informants tell me he’s been getting some handsome offers, but he’s still in Plato’s corner.”

“Baltimore. That’s come up a couple of times now. Are the Baltimore delegates part of any faction?”

“I’d have to ask. It’s part of the Eastern district, and that’s Quinn’s. But Plato’s got strength all over the country. He’s in Washington a lot of the time, which isn’t far from Baltimore.”

“This goon named Al Cole, the boy with the Lüger. Does he fit anywhere?”

“That was attempted murder, Mike. I’ve got a couple of cooperative sources in the union, but they don’t talk to reporters about things like that.”

“The guy who tossed the bomb upstairs was wearing a skin-diver’s outfit. You’ve probably read the biographies of all the top men. Do you remember anybody with that kind of hobby?”

“Not offhand. When these guys relax they usually do it in a nightclub, with a couple of babes to improve the scenery. Of course they all have boats. That’s the big status symbol these days. The bigger the boat, the bigger the status. But when they put to sea they take along a case of liquor and the usual couple of babes, so it’s not much different from going to a nightclub.”

Shayne had been watching the searchlights move across water. Now he swung around on Rourke. “That’s it! When you were telling me about Plato you said he had a boat.”

“It’s no secret. I forget how many she sleeps, enough to keep one man busy, anyway. I can remember the name if I think hard enough. The Panther! He sailed down on her. The Washington reporters all wanted to talk to him about the convention, but Plato, who in some ways is a very smart apple, couldn’t be reached. He was at sea.”

Shayne was snapping his fingers silently. Rourke said, watching him, “An idea?”

“You’re goddam right! That’s where he took Painter!”

Rourke screwed up his eyes. “So that’s who’s got Painter. Thanks for telling me.”

“I don’t know for sure,” Shayne said impatiently. “But Petey was last seen going up Collins last night with four of Plato’s huskies behind him in a rented Chevy.” He stood for a moment looking down at the reporter. “Let’s go find the boat.”

Rourke didn’t answer for a moment. “Taking a few cops with us, of course.”

“Not taking any cops. You know what the rum-runners used to do when they saw a revenue cutter. They dumped their cargo. I wouldn’t want that to happen to Petey, and it’s what will happen if a few carloads of cops show up at dock-side with their sirens going. First we find him. Then we look the situation over. Then we’ll talk about how much help we’ll need, if any.”

“If any,” Rourke said. “That’s what I’m afraid of. And how do we find this needle in the haystack? There are more marinas in town these days than motels. And it is now, unless my watch has stopped because of all the excitement—” he consulted the time — “three o’clock in the morning.”

“He’d use a marina on the Beach or one of the islands, to be handy to the St. Albans. I doubt if they’d let him in a yacht club, so we can skip those. If he owns a luxury boat, he’d tie up at a luxury dock. That cuts it down. If the name is the Panther she’s probably painted black.”

“That’s sound reasoning, old man, except that we ran a picture when he came in, and she’s painted white. A couple of decks amidships, I don’t know what they’re called, plenty of cabin-space and a big mast. And one of those forward platforms over the bow for catching tuna. She’s not as big as the Queens, but in the ordinary marina I admit she’d tend to stick out.”

“Now you’re being helpful, Tim. You start at the south end of the Beach, I’ll start at the north, and we’ll meet in the middle.”

“Tell you what, Mike. This is more your idea than it is mine. I don’t want anything too bad to happen to Painter, but I don’t want anything to happen to me, either. I’ll be home. If you find the boat and decide you need help, call me.”

“Sure,” Shayne said carelessly. “If you want to know how it turns out, buy a Herald in the morning.”

“You’re mixed up, Mike. The News is my paper.”

“I’m not mixed up.”

“Mike! How can you do a thing like this to me?” He struggled up out of the rocking chair. “You mentioned four goons. You and me make two. We’re outnumbered. Couldn’t we take a couple of cops? If they promise to walk tiptoe?”

“No,” Shayne said curtly.

“Do I say goodnight to Wing?”

“He’s busy. Let’s not disturb him.”

They started down the steps. Rourke shook his head. “Mike, did you really dive headfirst out of a second-floor window?”

“Yeah, I really did.”

“I wish I’d been here to see it You must have made quite a splash.”

Shayne backed his Buick out of the garage. Rourke let him pass, and followed. Speeding down Biscayne Street with Rourke’s headlights gleaming in his rear-view mirror, the big redhead went back over everything he knew about the case, skirting the large gaps in his knowledge and those places where experience told him that he had been listening to lies. Harry Plato, he knew, would kidnap a policeman only if it was absolutely vital to him, but the conviction was growing in Shayne that his sudden hunch had been right, that Plato, a stranger in town, surrounded by enemies, could find no better place to hide his prisoner than aboard a boat And at that point Shayne put the unanswered questions aside for consideration later, and with characteristic concentration, planned the search.

At the corner of Collins Avenue, Tim Rourke blinked his lights and turned to the right. Shayne continued all the way north on Collins, making good time in the light traffic. Reaching Haulover Beach Park, he parked and walked over to the bayfront, where he began the slow, laborious process of checking marinas. He would walk casually past on the promenade, keeping to an easy saunter, as though he was a guest at one of the big hotels further south, unable to sleep and out for a stroll in the moonlight. One eye was cocked for a tall white boat with a mast and a tuna-rig. Part of the time the moon was behind clouds, but when it was out the visibility was good. He saw white boats of the shape Rourke had described, he saw radio masts, he saw several of the awkward tuna platforms, looking like afterthoughts, but he didn’t see them all together.

He went back to the Buick and moved it down to Bal Harbour. Here there were fewer possibilities and he made better time. Passing the 79th Street Causeway, he parked again and walked the short block to the water, where he knew he would find one of the largest and best-equipped marinas in the North Bay. There was a large clubhouse in the middle of a plaza, with four long docks sticking out in the water like the outstretched fingers of a hand.

He went to the water’s edge and his eye ran along the long rows of berths, all but a few of them filled. The boats were every size and shape and color. His eye was caught by a white boat near the end of the northernmost dock. The silhouette was right, but there was no tuna platform. He looked past, but kept coming back. Those platforms could be unbolted and stowed, and perhaps, Shayne thought, it had been taken off after Plato’s arrival in Miami. Certainly this pretentious monster was just the kind Harry Plato would choose when he was shopping for boats.

Shayne moved on to the north, avoiding the clubhouse. Again he looked out over the water. Clouds were scudding across the moon. He was too far away from the white boat to make out her name, but he saw the capital P, counted letters and saw the rise of the “t” and “h” in the middle. Panther!

He threw away his cigarette and crossed the street at an angle, heading for the place where he had left his Buick. He passed between two parked cars. As he came out on the sidewalk, two men stepped in against him from either side, and one of them hit his injured side with the muzzle of a gun. The redhead straightened his arms in an instinctive reflex, getting both hands out in the moonlight where they could be seen.

One of the men said, “Do something stupid and we’ll use you for target practice. I’m going to get your billfold. Keep your hands where they are.”

Shayne turned his head carefully to look at the man who had spoken. He was about Shayne’s size, six feet two and built as solidly as a professional football tackle. There was a ridge of scar tissue over his eyes. The other was the bald man Shayne had seen in Plato’s sitting room. He kept jabbing Shayne’s side with the gun. The door of a parked car opened and somebody else came out. The redhead didn’t look that way, but saved him for later.

“Stop pushing me with that thing,” Shayne said evenly, “or you’ll have to shoot me with it.”

“I won’t mind,” the man told him.

The big man patted Shayne lightly on the hips and under the arms, slid one hand inside Shayne’s coat and took out his wallet. The man holding the gun stepped backward while the other held the wallet to the moonlight.

“I told you it was Mike Shayne,” he said.

“You boys owe me ten bucks apiece,” a voice said behind Shayne. He looked around and saw a small, neatly dressed man with a badly eroded face, who was smiling cheerfully. “When I heard you were in on this I knew you’d turn up, Shayne. Just a matter of time.”

“Yeah, but how in God’s name did he—” the man with the gun said.

“Maybe I tipped him off so I could collect the twenty bucks,” the small man said. “What difference does it make? Do you like boats, Shayne? We’re having a little party aboard. I know you’ll enjoy it.”

“I’m in no mood for a party,” Shayne said.

The big man with the gun grinned. “The party’s in the mood for you.”

“Turn around, Shayne,” the small man said. “There’s three of us, and you’re the only one here without a gun-Draw your own conclusions. Keep holding your hands just that way.”

Shayne said, puzzled, “I don’t get it. How much money is in this Welfare Fund Harry’s trying to get hold of?”

“Plenty. Stick it in his ribs again, Whizzer. Give him a jab with it now and then. One thing I’ve heard about him, he’s not too impressed with being on the short end of the odds.”

Whizzer started forward, and Shayne said quickly, “Somebody’s been telling lies about me. I’m realistic. Put the gun away.”

He stepped off the curb, between the cars. This was the only chance he’d get to deal with them one by one. He stumbled and went headlong, landing on his hands. Twisting, he lashed out with one foot and caught the man named Whizzer in the soft flesh above the knee. In the same motion he doubled forward, coming underneath the gun as it swung down at him. His big hand glanced from the barrel and knocked it skyward, and his other hand fastened on Whizzer’s wrist.

Shayne’s powerful body uncoiled in one continuous, fluid movement, driving upward beneath the gun, and slammed a hard right against the side of Whizzer’s jaw. The blow had started from the pavement, picking up speed as it went Whizzer went sideward against the front grill of the nearest car, making a sound like air escaping from a balloon. Shayne still had him by the wrist. He swung him like a door, aiming at the big man, who was trying to get in position to make his size and weight count.

“Grab him, Jack!” the small man cried.

Whizzer’s feet left the ground. He crashed into Jack, the big man, who tripped against the curb and went down. Shayne whirled. The small man had danced away. He had a gun out and was waving it back and forth.

“Stand still, you dumb Mick,” he said softly.

Shayne snarled. The big man had thrown Whizzer off and was coming up at him. Shayne sidestepped, to get the man’s bulk between him and the gun. He evaded a high punch to the head, blocked another to the body, and catching the other around the waist, wrestled him backward, trying to force him against the gun.

“Don’t try to out-slug him, Jack!” the smaller man shouted. “Just hang onto him.”

The big man, cursing steadily, wrapped one of his long arms around Shayne and began working on his mid-section with his right. The small man darted past and cracked Shayne’s head sharply with the flat of the pistol. The big man drove two more hard rights against Shayne’s body. The redhead’s strength was beginning to go. Then the man with the gun reversed it and brought the butt-plate down on Shayne’s skull.

He didn’t go all the way out, but he came close. He sank to his knees. The big man continued to work on his body with his right. Shayne heard the small man’s voice: “That’s all, Jack. That’s all. We don’t want to have to carry him.”

Shayne’s brain turned over weakly. “What was the last name? Klipstone?”

It came out in a kind of mumble, but they heard him.

“What’s that?” the small man said sharply.

Klipstone said, “The bastard’s too educated. I want to work him over some more when we get him aboard. I won’t make any noise.”

“Let’s not start shifting strategy at this date, for God’s sake,” his companion said. “Get him up.”

“How about Whizzer?”

“He can lie there till he can move by himself. He deserves some hard pavement for hanging his jaw out like that. Jesus! I thought for a minute Shayne was going to get away from us, and that would really be something, you know?”

Shayne could hear what they were saying, but he didn’t have much command over his arms and legs. Klipstone lifted him to the fender of the nearest car.

“Hold him there,” the small man said. He came close to Shayne. “You made your point. You’re a big tough man and how you trailed us here without dogs I’d like somebody to tell me sometime. You’re probably a pretty good detective. Congratulations. Are you hearing me?”

“I hear you,” Shayne mumbled through numb lips.

“Act intelligent and maybe you’ll live through this. Act dumb and I can tell you for sure — you get dropped in the bay. It’s that simple. We’ve got something big going here, and there’s too much involved to kid around. Now on your feet.”

Shayne swayed away from the fender. With Klipstone no longer holding him, he pitched forward, turning as he fell so he would land on his uninjured shoulder. Oddly, the shock cleared his mind and he was able to look at the question soberly; should he try to walk by himself, or make them carry him?

The small man solved it for him. Stooping down, he slapped Shayne with his gun, just hard enough to sting him. Shayne lurched to his feet. Klipstone let him lean on him as they crossed the street to the marina entrance. Shayne swung his head toward the office as they passed. The watchman’s head and shoulders lay on his desk, an uncorked bottle of Scotch beside him. They headed down the long dock between the boats. The small man took Shayne’s arm to hurry him along. The dizziness was passing off, but he continued to lean on Klipstone, for any advantage it might bring him later. As they approached the large white boat, Shayne saw the lettering on the broad stern change from a blur to “Panther, New Orleans.”

Another man, wearing nothing but a pair of tattered shorts, heavily-muscled and tattooed, came out of the shadows of the deck-house. He caught Shayne as he was thrust aboard.

“Take a good look, Mac,” the small man said, jumping down on the deck. “This is the well-known Michael Shayne. He tried to take all three of us, and he damn near did it, too. Put him below.”

“Okay, Mr. Gray. In the same cabin?”

“Why not? Shayne seems to know all our little secrets. How is he?”

“I’d say he’s starting to slobber.”

“Well, he’s got a bigger capacity than I gave him credit for. Glad to have you aboard; Shayne.”

Shayne gave him a piece of rude advice, and he raised his eyebrows, pretending to be shocked. “Such language.”

The tattooed man spun Shayne around and thrust him into a companionway. The stairs were very steep, and Shayne descended them carefully. He had taken enough falls for one night. At the bottom, a tattooed arm reached past his shoulder and unlocked a door. Shayne was pushed into a small cabin. A light was on, but the porthole on this side faced toward the bay, which was why he hadn’t seen it from the shore. He heard the door being locked behind him.

The cabin’s furniture consisted of a double bunk, a table and a chair. Someone lay in the lower bunk, and Shayne was not really surprised to see that it was Peter Painter. His usual dapper figure was a shambles. He still wore a necktie, cinched up tightly, but his shirt was open all the way down to the beltbuckle. A highball glass was balanced on his chest. He wore no shoes and only one sock, the garter flapping. His head turned and he looked at Shayne. “Hi, Mike,” he said amiably.

Then he came up off the bunk as though he had received an electric shock at the base of the spine. The highball spilled and he cracked his forehead on the underside of the upper bunk. He clapped his hand to the injured spot and swung his feet out.

“Shayne! I’ve been looking all over. Where have you been, you bastard? You’re under arrest!”