Before the hatch closed Shayne leaned out and pointed to tell Sally and her father that the excitement was over and to go home. Brady was moaning on the floor. Shayne found that he had held onto the wig and the jacket. He threw them down.
A young Coast Guardsman was examining Brady’s face. “Funny kind of burn.”
Another Coast Guardsman entered the compartment. “Mike Shayne?”
“That’s right.”
“Ensign Gray.” They shook hands briefly. “Wasn’t there a woman in the water?”
“Yeah, but I lost her.”
“Any point in dropping a buoy?”
Shayne shook his head, looking down at Brady’s face. The eyelids were partially gone, showing the whites of his eyes, startlingly white in the blackened face.
“Give him a shot,” Gray said.
The enlisted man dragged out a first-aid box. The officer stooped to look down at the burning boat.
“We ought to get this guy back. Can we be sure there were only two of them aboard?”
“That’s all,” Shayne said. “Can you loan me a pair of binoculars?”
The Nefertiti’s engines had stopped and she was dead in the water, on fire along her entire length. The pilot wheeled the big bird around, hovering near the edge of the cloud of smoke. Shayne leaned out. The heat was intense. He focused the binoculars on the top of the wheelhouse. The planking had burned through. He waited for a shift in the smoke, then returned the binoculars to their case and nodded to the officer.
A little fireboat from Fisher Island was on its way, coming fast.
“Not a hell of a lot they can do at this point,” Gray said.
“Can I get a phone connection through your radio?”
“They can’t hook you in. They can pass along a message.”
They went up to the cockpit, where the pilot was completing a transmission. “Hold it,” Gray said, and handed Shayne the mike.
“This is Mike Shayne,” Shayne said. “I want to call Peter Painter, Chief of Detectives on the Beach. It’s urgent. You’ll find him at the St. Albans Hotel, room 1421.”
The radioman chuckled. “Since when have you been on speaking terms with Painter?”
The officer took the mike and said sharply, “Put that call through.”
“Yes, sir.”
The helicopter rose, turned, and the jets cut loose. Soon the column of smoke was only a smudge on the horizon.
The voice announced, “I’ve got Painter on the line. Shayne? He wants to know where the hell you are and why the hell you had the goddamn nerve to walk away after you found the body. Over.”
“I’m not receiving you too well,” Shayne said. “Tell him-”
“I say again. Chief Painter wants to know-”
Ensign Gray grabbed the mike and snapped, “Use some intelligence. Relay Shayne’s message.”
“Oh, I get you, sir. Go ahead.”
Shayne said, “Tell him to pick up a woman named Katharine Brady. Katharine Brady. I think she’s registered in a Beach hotel, one of the expensive ones. Check with the airlines, and if they have her listed for an outgoing flight, get there before the plane leaves and pull her off. Don’t let her get out of town. Check the parked cars at Haulover Beach. He’ll find one with rental-agency plates and a man’s clothes in it. I want to know who rented it. Wait a minute.”
He looked at the officer. “Where do you take your casualties?”
“We have an aid station at the base.”
Shayne went on, “Tell him we’ll collect at the Opa Locka aid station. As soon as possible, because I’ve been up all night.”
“Are we still having the same transmission difficulties?”
“Yeah, getting worse.”
He handed the mike back. The officer grinned.
“If you’ve been up all night, maybe you’d like a small nip. We carry brandy as part of our medical stores.”
“If you’ll join me.”
“Maybe I can find you some clothes.”
A long time ago, Shayne had left his shorts on Katharine Brady’s boat, and the rest of his clothes on the Panther. He was naked, not for the first time that night.
He dropped into the main compartment, where the enlisted man gave him a cigarette. Brady was unconscious, breathing heavily.
Shayne picked up the tawny wig and the cotton jacket. There was a small hole in the front of the jacket, the kind made by a.25 slug. His face blank and dangerous, Shayne ran the tip of one finger into the tiny hole. He had never been fooled this badly, but he was about to start collecting some of his outstanding accounts.
Shayne was finishing breakfast in the officers’ mess when Painter’s party arrived, in two cars, using both sirens. Shayne had been given a denim coverall, a size too small for him. He finished his coffee without hurrying, postponing the moment when he would have to confront the little chief of detectives. He was in for a painful couple of hours. Shayne didn’t mind being asked questions, but one of Painter’s biggest troubles was that he rarely took time to listen to the answers.
The wall phone rang.
“Your call to New York, Mike,” Ensign Gray said.
“Thanks. Would you mind telling Painter I’ll be with him in a minute?” He took the phone. “Joshua?”
“Michael. Good news or bad news?”
“Pretty bad. For one thing, Tom Moseley’s been murdered.”
Loring sucked in his breath. “No!”
“He was bludgeoned in a hotel room early this morning. I can’t give you much on it now. A cop’s waiting for me, and he burns on a very short fuse. One thing I need to know-did Moseley go to Harvard?”
“Yes,” Loring whispered.
“In the same class as De Rham and Brady?”
“I think so. They’re all about the same age.”
“Can you check it for me? The other thing is, will you find out what company wrote the insurance on Winslow’s Massachusetts plant? I want to talk to the official who okayed that claim. I’ve picked up some evidence that the fire was set. I took a bad beating getting it, and there’s no reason I shouldn’t get some compensation.”
“You mean that Dotty-”
“I’m sorry, but you must have known it was in the cards. Tell him to call me at this number as soon as possible.”
“Mike-is she all right?”
Shayne waited, considering various answers, and then depressed the bar, breaking the connection.
Painter, told to meet Shayne in the aid station, was on his way out to look for him. The two men met in the doorway. As in every collision between Shayne and Painter, the smaller man got the worst of it. He was immaculately dressed, even now, with the points of a carefully folded handkerchief peeping from the breast pocket of an Italian silk suit. He had found time to shave, and his little hairline mustache was neatly trimmed.
“This isn’t a one-way transmission now, Shayne!” he fumed. “Can you hear me? Am I talking loud enough for you? Not that you took me in with that one-way dodge! I’ve known you too long.”
“Petey, slow down a minute.”
“And just what do you think gives you the authority to issue orders? Go there, do this, pick up so-and-so. I’m the one who gives the orders, do you understand? The sooner you get that through your head the better.”
“Orders?” Shayne said mildly. “I hope that radioman didn’t misquote me. All I said was that if you had nothing better to do, I’d appreciate it if you stopped by the Opa Locka Airport. I’m glad you could make it.”
“You don’t fool me for a minute, Shayne! I know the way you talk about me behind my back. People have told me. I’ve had verbatim quotes.”
“Petey, is this getting us anywhere? Did you locate Mrs. Brady?”
Painter held up one hand. “Do I have your permission to speak? Before I tell you what I’ve done about your polite request to locate a certain Mrs. Katharine Brady, would you kindly tell me who the hell Mrs. Katharine Brady is and why you want her?”
“She killed Moseley,” Shayne said.
Painter had a habit of hearing only the things he wanted to hear, but he heard that. He gave his mustache a quick flick in both directions.
“She killed Moseley, did she?” he said sarcastically. “Here I’ve been going on the supposition that you killed Moseley. Rourke gives you an alibi for the crucial time, but everybody knows about you and Rourke, you’ve been co-conspirators for years. This wouldn’t be the first time somebody killed a man, then came back an hour later and found the body. What makes you think you can pin it on this woman?”
They were alone in the anteroom except for a Coast Guard yeoman on duty at the desk. Sometimes there was only one way to make Painter stop talking. Shayne gathered a handful of his suit in one fist and walked him backward against the wall.
Painter took it well. “I warn you, Shayne,” he said pleasantly. “Take your greasy hand off my suit.”
“Did you find Katharine Brady?”
“Why should I answer your questions when you don’t answer mine?” He called over his shoulder, “Richardson! Foster!”
Shayne pulled him away from the wall and walked him to the inner door. Two Beach detectives held up in the doorway.
“It’s you, Mike,” Richardson said.
Shayne was grinning. “We do better in front of an audience, don’t you think, Petey? I can usually keep my temper when we have witnesses.”
Still grinning amiably, he backed the smaller man into a room in which Paul Brady lay, his head heavily bandaged. A Coast Guard medic was with him.
There was only one chair, and Painter took that, more at ease now. Shayne looked out in the anteroom.
“Can we get some more chairs in here?”
The medic at the bed looked around. “This may not be such a good idea, Shayne. Better wait.”
Shayne went to the bed. “Paul, this is Mike Shayne talking. Did you hear the doctor?”
“Yes,” Brady whispered. “What happened to-”
“Mrs. De Rham? That’s what we’re going to be talking about. If you mean did we recover her body, the answer is no. I got my hands on her but I couldn’t hold her. You’re probably curious about what happened. I have to explain a few things to Chief Painter, who’s sitting here trying to control himself. There’s no reason why you can’t listen. Otherwise you’ll get it in bits and pieces over the next couple of weeks, which would be bad for your peace of mind. It’s up to you. If you’d rather do it later-”
Brady’s lips moved. “Get it over with.”
“I thought you’d prefer that. Any time you want us to clear out, let us know.”
Shayne heard a familiar screech of tires on the asphalt, and Tim Rourke came running in.
“The traffic in this town, I mean it. I’ll have to get the paper to buy me a siren. Who loaned you the jump suit, Mike? Too small, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” Shayne said wryly, easing the pull on his crotch. “Painter doesn’t want to answer any questions, for some reason. Something about protocol. What did he find out about Moseley?”
The reporter looked skeptically at Painter. “Let’s put it this way, Mike. Nothing.”
“How about Mrs. Brady? Did they locate her?”
“Easily. She checked out of the St. A. at six to make a seven-o’clock New York flight. It’s five after seven now. They had a good description of her from the hotel people, and they shouldn’t have too much trouble identifying her. I mean, with the seat number and her name on the reservation. Of course with Miami Beach detectives you never know.”
“Birds of a feather,” Painter remarked bitterly. “Now that you have the information you wanted, Shayne, will you kindly return the favor? It’s time to do some talking.”
Chairs had begun to arrive. After they were distributed Shayne sat down close to the bed and said in a low voice, “Some of this may not hit you the first time, Paul, and if you want me to repeat anything, move your hand. Remember you have no obligation to say anything. You’re entitled to a lawyer if you want one.”
There was a slight answering movement from Brady to show that he understood. Painter, across the room, had the sense to remain silent.
Shayne said, “You’ll have to make a full statement to the Coast Guard about the circumstances of the fire. Right now I want to tell Painter how I think it happened. This is all hypothetical. You can indicate assent if you feel like it, but it’s not important.”
He lit a cigarette. “The people at the marina were awakened by loud noises on your boat. Mrs. De Rham was seen drinking gin from the bottle. Gin, or tap water in a Beefeater bottle. You’d been sitting in that berth for two weeks, and now all at once she wanted to go for a sail. You tried to talk her out of it, but she was a hard woman to talk out of things when she really wanted to do them.”
“Yes.”
“She wanted to see the sun come up over the water. And it turned out to be a very nice sunrise. I hope you noticed, Paul. It may be the last you’ll ever see.”
Brady’s hand moved.
“Yeah,” Shayne said, his face impassive. “It’s a bad acid burn and the chances are that nothing can be done about it. But maybe everything else worked out. Let’s see.” He turned to Painter. “There’s somebody else we’re going to need, a guy named Raphael Petrocelli. He’s at a motel in Biscayne Park, the Dunmovin, registered under the name of Sam de Angelis. Will you send somebody to get him? Or Tim will be glad to go.”
“I will not,” Rourke protested. “I want to hear this.”
After thinking about it longer than necessary, Painter nodded and one of the detectives went out.
“To continue, Paul,” Shayne said. “You made so much racket getting away that it makes me wonder if you wanted to be sure plenty of people saw you go. At this point, if you were being questioned in the usual way, you’d point out that Mrs. De Rham was making most of the noise, and she was well known to be a drunk.”
Brady’s hand moved.
“And not only a drunk,” Shayne said. “She had a well-authenticated history of mental disturbance, in which fire always played quite a part. I found that tape, incidentally, just where you thought I’d find it, in a Volkswagen a couple of blocks from Jennings Park, and the only reason I was around to pull you out of the water was that I have a thick skull and a nice girl named Helen scared the boys off before they could do any permanent damage. The tape proved that Mrs. De Rham burned down the Massachusetts factory for the insurance. The watchman saw a woman driving a white Oldsmobile convertible, and I think we’ll be able to establish that she owned a white Olds at the time. I expect to sell this tape to the insurance company for five percent of the amount they recovered, which is why I sound cheerful, in case you’ve been wondering.”
Painter stirred. Shayne silenced him with a look.
“To come back to what happened this morning. The sun was about to come up, and Mrs. De Rham, poor mad Mrs. De Rham, started playing with matches. You’ve been a little in awe of her because she’s the one with the money, and by the time you realized you had a serious fire on your hands it was too late. Now here’s a funny thing. The Coast Guard tells me they didn’t get an alarm from your boat. Why not? Luckily for you, I’d already put in a May Day call and they were on the way with a helicopter. We managed to save you. Don’t comment on this yet, Paul. I’m sorry about Mrs. De Rham. I did my best, but all I came up with was her wig and her jacket. The jacket had a bullet hole in it.”
He pulled the jacket out of the capacious pocket of his coveralls and tossed it to Painter, who held it to the light and looked closely at the edges of the hole.
Shayne continued, “You had a gun, Paul, and one of the things that’s been bothering me is why you needed it. To protect your privacy? People who are looking for privacy don’t tie up at that kind of marina.”
“Brady killed Mrs. De Rham?” Painter said. “Is that what you’re saying, Shayne?”
“No, that’s not exactly what I’m saying. But if you want to arrest him for it, go ahead. You might be able to make it stick even without the body.”
“I’m not about to arrest anybody before I know a little more,” Painter declared. He snapped his fingers. “Let’s have the rest, Shayne.”
Shayne gave him a direct look. “Your men have been involved in this from the start. You talked to Brady and the woman, and you know the situation. I’ve been reporting to Richardson. If you want somebody else to take over, fine.” Before Painter could answer Richardson said hastily, “Don’t stop, Mike. I’m learning things all the time.”
“All right, Petey,” Shayne said. “You probably realized that the woman on the boat, the drunk you talked to, wasn’t Mrs. De Rham.”
“She wasn’t?” Painter exclaimed. “Who was she?”
“Paul could tell us,” Shayne said, “but he has a very good out. All he has to do is stop moving and we’ll think he’s gone under. He put on a fine performance, one of the best pieces of acting I’ve seen. Every time I felt a little twinge of suspicion, he came out with something so perfectly right for the situation that I couldn’t help believing him. Of course it tapered off. He was getting rushed at the end.”
“Will you try to be more specific?” Painter said.
Shayne smiled amiably. “I’ve really been talking more to Paul than to you, Petey. I want him to understand that the curtain’s come down and he’s in trouble. The first time I talked to him, he told me just where to go to find the missing husband. The next time I was looking for a reel of tape. Paul made what turned out to be an excellent suggestion. I would have swallowed one of these, but not both. There’s a funny thing about that tape. It’s going to cost Mrs. De Rham or her estate considerable money, and if she’s still alive, which by now I think we all doubt, it could put her in jail. I warned her that if I found it I’d have to turn it in, and according to Paul she said to go ahead. He had to be lying, or else the woman throwing up in the head at the time wasn’t the real Mrs. De Rham.”
He glanced at his watch. Painter tapped his toe impatiently, and Shayne knew he couldn’t stall much longer. The International Airport was seven miles away. If Mrs. Brady had been picked up as she boarded the plane she should be here now. He lit a fresh cigarette, wondering how long he could make Painter hold still. He thought of another diversion, but before he could get it underway he heard a car pull up outside.
He jerked his head toward the door. Painter followed him. They met Mrs. Brady in the corridor.
“Mike Shayne,” she said. “Damn you. I knew you had something to do with this.”