The Dolphin Bar on the riverfront was old and dark and smelly. It was frequented mostly by the crews of small fishing boats tied up at the docks nearby, and it smelled of fish and sweat from the work-stained clothing of these men; native Crackers, all of them, mostly recruited from the Keys where fishing for a living was the natural way of life.
Lucy Hamilton forced a faint smile onto her trembling lips as she clicked the receiver back into place on the wall telephone at the end of the bar. She turned to the sullen-faced young man standing directly behind her and assured him, “He’s bringing the money right away.”
“He better.” Ralph Billiter’s close-set eyes glittered meanly. “You take it real easy when he comes. One wrong word outta you, an’ you know what’ll happen.”
Lucy said simply, “I know.” She winced as he took her upper right arm roughly and turned her back to the rear booth where they had been sitting before she made the call. He pushed her in against the wall facing the front, and settled his body solidly beside her.
There was a shot-glass of whiskey in front of him, and a beer chaser beside it. It was his fifth since they had come to the bar, and he was showing the effects of the drinks in his increasing aggressiveness.
“I still got that li’l ole persuader right here handy, an’ if he tries to pull a gun like last time or anything like that it’ll be just too bad for you. You know what I mean.”
Lucy said, “I know what you mean,” without attempting to repress a shudder. She knew all about the needle-sharp conch shell in his left hand coat pocket, and hadn’t the faintest doubt that he would use it fatally on the slightest provocation. He had been dangerous enough when he returned to the Bright Spot, enraged but sober after having had a fortune snatched out of his hands. Now, inflamed by liquor and by the aroused hope of getting his hands on the money again, she knew instinctively that he would kill without compunction if anything happened to thwart him.
So what would happen when Michael walked in, instead of Baron McTige whom he expected? What could she do to warn Michael?
Waves of fear swept nauseatingly over her as she sat beside Ralph, crammed up against the wall by his heavy body, waiting for Michael Shayne to come.
She was positive it was Shayne’s voice that had answered McTige’s telephone, though she knew he was trying to disguise it. But it had taken her so utterly by surprise. And she had her speech completely memorized before she picked up the receiver. She had simply, helplessly, repeated the words by rote with Ralph pressed threateningly against her and her sure knowledge that death was clasped in the palm of his hand if she said one word wrong.
Michael knew it was she who had called, of course. He couldn’t have failed to recognize her voice over the wire. Not after all these years and all the telephone conversations they had had together. So what would Michael think or suspect? What would he do?”
“It ain’t none of his business you an’ me are here friendly-like,” Ralph said angrily. “None of his business what you do with the money. He said it was yourn, an’ he’d see you got it. Him holdin’ a gun on me like he was…” His voice trailed off sullenly and he tossed off the contents of the shot-glass, slammed it down hard on the wooden table to attract the attention of a waiter for a refill.
“It’s none of his business at all, Ralph,” Lucy placated him. “I’m sure he’ll give it to me all right.”
“He better. Kinda soft on you, ain’t he?”
“Baron McTige?” Lucy couldn’t hide her astonishment.
“That’s the way I figgered it in the cabin when him an’ his pal started fightin’ over it. Like you and him had planned to get hold of the money together. So if he’s got ideas like that when he comes here, you change his mind quick… you hear?”
“Of course I will,” Lucy said faintly. All this time she had been staring fixedly over the low wall of the booth in front of her at the swinging doors in front, dreading to see Michael Shayne push them open, and yet thinking she couldn’t stand it another minute unless he did.
Now she saw a tall, rangy figure shamble through and her heart missed a couple of beats.
It was Michael Shayne, but only his best friend or his secretary would have recognized him. He wore a sloppy canvas fisherman’s hat rammed down over one eye to cover his red hair, and had a streak of black grease on his face. His shirt was open-throated and tieless, with a shabby corduroy jacket buttoned over it that was at least two sizes too small for him and left his wrists dangling out of the sleeves.
In this costume, he fitted perfectly into the Dolphin background and was indistinguishable from a dozen habituees of the place clustered at the bar, and no one accorded him more than a passing glance as he bellied up to the bar and ordered beer on draught.
He put down a dollar bill to pay for the beer, and leaned one elbow on the bar, looking slowly down the length of it and the men drinking there, then shifted his gaze aside to the row of booths, and suddenly he was looking directly into Lucy’s eyes, separated by a distance of about thirty feet.
The waiter had put a fresh drink in front of Ralph Billiter and he was toying with it, looking down at the table with a sulky frown.
Lucy kept her chin lifted, and met Shayne’s gaze squarely. She realized he could have no idea who her companion in the booth was, but some of the icy fear went out of her and she relaxed a trifle when she saw her employer’s right eyelid come down in a slow and unmistakable wink for her. She fluttered her own eyelids down when she saw Shayne gather up his change and pocket it, swallow some of his beer, and then begin weaving his way slowly back toward the rear of the room, simulating a slight degree of drunkenness as he passed behind the other drinking men.
“Ain’t nobody puttin’ nothing over on me,” Ralph declared hotly. “I got there first and seen the money first. Rightly, it’s mine, by Christ onna cross. How long you reckon it’ll take him to get here?”
“Not very long. Maybe he didn’t have the money right there in his room when I called, and had to pick it up.” Lucy’s fascinated gaze swivelled slowly, marking Shayne’s progress toward them. Not more than four feet separated the booths from the bar, and by the time Shayne reached the end he would be less than ten feet from them.
Lucy raised her voice a trifle and put her right hand on Ralph’s muscular forearm. “You’re not going to do anything when he comes, are you?”
“Not if he don’t start nothin’, I won’t.” Ralph shook her arm off impatiently and raised his hand to run fingers through his tousled hair while he glared over the low wall of the booth toward the front of the saloon as though he dared Baron McTige to come in and start anything with him.
Michael Shayne had reached the end of the bar nearest their booth and stood slouched, now, with his back to the bar and both elbows behind him supporting his body. He had his stein of beer in his right hand, and he allowed his lower jaw to droop to give his grease-smeared face a look of blank stupidity.
“That conch shell of yours really frightens me terribly.” Lucy made her voice as loud as she dared without looking at Shayne, and tried to project it toward him so he might hear over the thick babble of voices in the background. “It’s really more dangerous for fighting than a knife, isn’t it?”
“It works real good, you bet. An’ there ain’t no law ag’in carrying a conch shell in yore pocket. That’s why we’uns down on the Keys like ’em better’n a knife.”
Shayne’s eyes were hooded, his face bleakly impassive, and Lucy didn’t know whether he could hear a word she and Ralph were saying or not.
She still didn’t have the faintest idea what she could do to resolve the impasse, and she didn’t see what Michael Shayne could do either.
Ralph emptied his sixth glass of whiskey down his throat, and put both big hands around his beer mug to lift it to his mouth.
Shayne straightened his body at the bar and hiccoughed loudly, and lurched away to reach out a hand and steady himself by grasping the partition of the booth in which they were seated.
He swayed there as though on rubbery legs, and grinned admiringly at Lucy Hamilton. “Hi-yah, doll,” he said thickly. “You know somepin?”
Ralph set his mug down on the table and glared belligerently at the tall stranger. “Get lost, Mister.”
“He’s drunk, Ralph.” Lucy put her hand on his forearm again, the arm that was attached to the hand which could dive into his coat pocket instantly to bring out the wickedly sharpened shell.
“Ain’t drunk either.” Shayne wagged his head from side to side solemnly. “Not too drunk to know a purty piece when I see one. How’s about it, Sister? Lookin’ for a little fun?”
Ralph set his teeth grimly and jutted his jaw and glared at Shayne. “She’ll get all the fun she wants with me, Mister.”
“Young punk like you?” Shayne waved his stein grandiosely. “Why’n’t you let the lady decide, huh?”
“By God, Mister, I’m tellin’ you…” Ralph half rose menacingly, and Shayne swayed back on his heels and laughed.
“Tell yuh what. I’ll fight yuh for her. Fair an’ square, huh? If you got the guts… a punk like you.”
“By God, Mister, I’ll fight you. Any time an’ any place.” Ralph’s voice rose loudly, and the babble of voices at the bar was stilled as heads craned in their direction.
Shayne threw half a mug of beer in Ralph’s face.
The two bartenders moved quickly and efficiently behind the bar. The one toward the front turned to lift a telephone from the counter and dial the police. The other one stooped and got the heavy end of a sawed-off billiard cue from beneath the bar and started back.
Ralph Billiter sputtered and bellowed with rage when the beer struck his face. He lumbered up in the narrow confine of the booth and shoved the table away from him, his big hand diving into his side pocket for the natural fighting weapon of a Florida Cracker from the Keys.
Shayne was poised on the balls of his feet with his right fist cocked and ready by the time Ralph stood fully erect. He moved in lightly, and swung his fist with the full weight of his body behind it as he moved.
It connected solidly with the side of Ralph’s jaw, driving him back into Lucy’s lap as she screamed.
Her scream was a warning to Shayne of danger from behind, but it came a split second too late.
The bartender had ducked under the end of the bar, and his two-foot length of weighted wood was already describing a vicious swinging arc as Shayne spun toward him.
It struck the redhead low on the side of the neck just above the collarbone, and he continued his spin like a pole-axed steer, crashing into the wall at the end of the bar and sliding full-length to the floor.
Lucy was fighting her way up from under the slack weight of Ralph’s body, and the bartender surveyed the scene dispassionately for a moment before turning back to the other occupants of the saloon and saying wearily, “Just sit tight everybody. We’ll let the cops clean this mess up for us.”