Murder Spins the Wheel (7 page)

Her eyes misted over. “We’d be great! I know just the things I’d like to do with you.”

She was beginning to move about excitedly and she was breathing more quickly. She slid forward so her knees touched his.

“But I’m not going to do them!” she said, her eyes shining with excitement. “So never mind asking me. Because I love Vince! I don’t believe in cheating on the guy you love, with all his faults. But
how I’d like to!”

He took hold of her knee to hold it still. Her flesh was cool and smooth under his hand, and she moved her leg between his so his hand slid along it. Using both hands, he closed her knees firmly.

“Betty, you and Vince came in here and locked the door. You made yourself a drink. What did he do?”

“What do you think he did?” Little lines of tension gathered around her eyes. “Why do they have to do it? Do
you
know? Shoot themselves full of that crap and pull out of the human race? I get a kind of—you know”—she seemed embarrassed—“sexy feeling when he puts in the needle, and what good does it do me? I know he’s going to be nodding in thirty seconds. What could I do but get stinking?”

“When was this, Betty, about seven or eight?”

“What’s the point of all the questions? We both know what happened. They sold him a bad bag. They cut it all the way down so it didn’t give him much of a charge. He woke up sick and he had to get dressed and go out looking for somebody with five or ten bucks so he could hunt up a connection and get himself right again. You want some advice about how long to wait? You know better than that. He could walk in this minute, or he might be gone a couple of weeks. That’s what it is with a junkie.”

“There’s a watchman on duty,” Shayne said. “He says nobody’s passed him.”

“A watchman? Don’t be dense, honey. He dozed off. Get me another drink. One more, and then I’m going to eat those baked beans if they strangle me.”

“And Vince didn’t get dressed,” Shayne went on.

He went back to the closet. One section was labeled “Hers,” the other “His.” He pulled a lightweight blue blazer off a hanger. It was longer, more narrow and more rakish than Al Naples’ clothes.

Betty said, “He was sick, he didn’t wear a jacket. Now you’re going to stop being polite? I’ll pour my own drink.”

She misjudged the corner of the bed and went headlong on the crumpled blue sheets. Shayne sorted through the slacks until he found a pair that was too long for Al Naples, with tapered legs into which the older man could never have forced his heavy thighs.

“And he forgot his pants,” Shayne said. “His shoes must be here somewhere.”

Betty groaned. “Why does he do those things? He’s always been so wild—”

“No, this was fairly intelligent,” Shayne said, “and maybe somebody else thought it up for him. He cooked his shot and put it in his arm, and he probably let out a groan to make you think he was getting a jolt of the real thing. It was probably only sugar. He knew you’d knock yourself out with the Johnny Walker as soon as he closed his eyes. And that’s what happened. He hung his clothes in the closet so they wouldn’t get wrinkled. Then he went out the window.”

Shayne pulled the sliding window open as far as it would go. A narrow rope ladder was fixed to two cleats beneath the sill.

“Yeah,” Shayne continued. “He wouldn’t want to dive because somebody might hear the splash. The south shore of Normandy Isle is about an eighth of a mile away. He didn’t have to hurry. The door was locked and no one would bother you. He could swim back half an hour later, unfasten the ladder and let it go. Then he’d dry himself off, get back in bed and give himself a real shot of heroin. He’d be in the clear all the way.”

Betty stared at him, the uncapped whiskey bottle in one hand. “Where is he, then?”

“Probably still in the bay, don’t you think?” Shayne said.

“Vince?”
She gave a high giggle. “You’re so wrong. He’s a marvellous swimmer. He could swim to Palm Beach and back.” Her face changed. “Unless somebody—”

“That’s what I was thinking,” Shayne said.

He took the bottle out of her hand and drank from it. He gave it back and left her on the bed, looking after him with a dazed expression.

11.

IN THE OTHER ROOM STEVE WAS on his hands and knees, loops of loose film around his neck and across his back.

“I can’t find either end!” he cried. “It’s a nightmare.”

“It has to be there somewhere,” Shayne said.

“You promised you’d help me!” the boy called after him as he let himself out.

The other girl was waiting on deck for him. She was still barefoot, but she had put on a blouse, a skirt and lipstick. Her hair was up in a knot in back, and with her elbows out and her small breasts poking against the front of her blouse, she was shaping the knot and driving pins into it.

“Well?” she said.

“Well what?”

“I want to get you a drink and start over.” She jabbed in the last pin. “There. Now I look a little more civilized. Did I tell you my name? It’s Lee Ewing, and I know it was silly to jump on your back that way. What’s your name?”

“Mike Shayne,” he said abstractedly, listening.

He tried to get around her, but she sidestepped, putting herself between him and the gangway. “You don’t have to go. I want to tell you how that happened. I couldn’t see why for once two people couldn’t do something simple. Why waste a lot of time talking about the weather and the movies and who do you know and so on? What I forgot was that I was way ahead of you as far as whiskey consumption went.”

Shayne frowned. Something was bumping at regular intervals against the side of the boat.

“At least you’re thinking about it,” Lee said approvingly. “That’s a step. I won’t say another word until you’ve had a few drinks and we’ve taken care of the weather. Isn’t it a pleasant evening? Warm, and all that crap? What’s your favorite TV program?” She leaned her forehead against him. “Mike, you’re so
big.”

“Yeah.” Shayne went around to the other side of the boat and looked over the rail. By leaning out he could see a few rungs of the rope ladder beneath the window of the main cabin, and below that, nothing but black shadow. The thumping sound came again.

Lee had followed him. “Honey?” She drew his arm against her breast. “Did I say anything wrong?”

“The big trouble is, Lee,” Shayne said, moving away from the rail, “we’re in different time zones. You’re relaxing. I’m working.”

“What kind of work?”

“I’m a detective.”

Gently but firmly he moved her out of his way. She let him go, but called after him, “And does that mean you’re not human?”

Steve was sitting helplessly on the floor, surrounded by film. “I’m licked,” he told Shayne. “My old man tells me never to start something and not finish it, but this—”

Shayne stepped over a loop of film and entered the cabin. Betty was back in front of the mirror, twisting from one side to the other, to get different slants on her stomach and hips.

“Fat as a pig,” she said with disgust. “And I hardly eat anything. I just nibble at a piece of dry toast for breakfast.”

Shayne looked for the light switches and turned them on. There was a tiny expandable tensor light on one of the bedside tables. Extended to its full stretch, it just reached the window.

“You decided to come back,” Betty said, recognizing him. “Tell me. You don’t have any axe to grind, one way or another. Am I too big back here?”

She slapped herself resoundingly. From the resonance, there was nothing but flesh under the half-slip.

Shayne directed the concentrated beam of the little lamp downward toward the water, without replying.

“All I want is an opinion,” she complained. “I didn’t say you had to flatter me or anything.”

A passing boat had sent out a long wake, which was now beginning to subside. The bottom of the ladder was taut where it went into the water, as though something was weighing it down. Shayne shifted the lamp’s beam. A long black shadow swam up from below, knocked lightly against the boat’s planking and sank out of sight.

Lee’s voice called from the rail, “What was that?”

Shayne waited, playing the light back and forth along the slick black surface. The shadowy object came up again. It was unrelieved black along its entire length. This time it barely nudged the boat, not quite breaking water before it was gone. It looked shiny and hard, and was about as long as a man’s body.

Shayne wedged one of the joints of the lamp over the sill and slipped off his jacket.

“Why not?” Betty said approvingly. “I’m not going to bed with you, and don’t try to persuade me. One man at a time is my motto, irregardless. But go ahead, take off some clothes. It’s stuffy in here.”

Shayne kicked out of his shoes and swung one leg over the sill. Betty watched open-mouthed.

As his foot found the top rung of the ladder and he swung his second leg after the first, she cried shrilly, “You don’t care how you upset people, do you? Come in here and say those things about Vince—I’m just beginning to forget I heard them. Then you come in again and climb out the window! How much can a person stand?”

Shayne redirected the lamp’s beam before starting down. His big rangy body cut off the light. When one of his feet went into the water he twisted aside, flattening himself against the boat, to let the beam thrust past him. The jet-black shadow glided up silently, grazed the planking and was sucked back down, twisting. Shayne’s teeth grated together. He reached down and tried to grasp it when it rose, but he was blocking the light again and he couldn’t see what he was doing.

His fingers slipped across a hard, rounded surface, cold and unpleasant. Under his touch, the object rolled in the water and a narrower shadow separated itself from the main bulk. It was a black-clad arm. Immediately the menacing shape changed into the figure of a man, clad in a black diver’s outfit, with a narrow canister of oxygen strapped to its back.

Shayne went down two more rungs, going into water up to his knees. When the body rose this time he caught it by one arm and brought it up. The other arm was hooked around a rung of the ladder, over and under. The fingers in their black glove were locked on the rope. With difficulty, wet to the thighs, Shayne rolled the body over on one side, supporting it across his knee while he tried to free the rope from the clutching hand. The further it came out of the water, the heavier it was. He decided against going back on board to look for a line. He was afraid he had dislodged the body just enough so the next swell would carry it away.

The face mask was ajar, and apparently the airtight suit had filled with water. For an instant the powerful beam struck a cold cheek and a staring eye. That was the only glimpse Shayne was ever to get of the face of Vince Donahue.

The beam danced away. Betty’s voice called, “Don’t! I’m scared!”

One of Shayne’s arms was hooked through the ladder. With the other he kept the black-clad body from sliding away. He said calmly, “Betty, point the light down here.”

Lee cried from the deck, 
“Is that a body?”

“Leave it alone,” Betty said hysterically. “Let somebody else find it.”

Shayne kept his voice level. “It’s Vince. I want to get him out and see if there’s anything we can do for him. Turn the light this way.”

“No,” Betty whispered in horror. “It’s not Vince.”

“I’ll do it,” Lee said. “Hold onto him, Mike.”

He heard her footsteps leaving the deck. As he shifted his grip he touched a slack line. Following it through the water, he found it looped around Vince’s wrist. Perhaps he could lash the body to the ladder until he could get something more substantial down from on deck. He hauled it in, working carefully with one hand. It came easily, and something came with it. In a moment he touched a floating bait bucket. He unclamped the lid knowing what he would find inside even before his hand went in and felt the packages of bills.

He fastened the lid again and picked at the knot at Vince’s wrist until it came loose. Passing the free end rapidly around the rung of the ladder, he slipped it through the bight and made it fast with a quick pull.

The girls were arguing at the cabin window above him. Lee said angrily, “He needs the goddamn light!”

The beam drifted back toward Shayne, then abruptly winked out.

There was a scrabbling sound from the window. Lee said, “Betty, help me find the plug. Or get out of the way.”

“It can’t be Vince,” Betty said harshly. “He can swim like a fish. It’s somebody else. I can tell you one thing, I’m not going to look at him.”

Shayne jacked the body another foot or so out of the water. The ladder kept twisting under him. Without a block and tackle be couldn’t get the body on board unless he could open the suit to empty out some of the water. He wrestled with it in the blackness, swearing savagely. The black rubber was as slippery as though it had been polished and oiled.

He freed the tab of the zipper under the chin, carefully levered the body on one knee and worked the zipper down. Water spurted out. For a moment the swell became stronger and the ladder swayed away. He tilted the body at a steeper angle. Already it felt much lighter. In another moment, he thought, he could begin manhandling it up the ladder.

The light came on again. Lee’s voice said, “Get back inside, Betty. You can’t see anything.”

The beam wavered violently, coming to rest on the back of Vince’s head.

“What did I tell you?” Betty said triumphantly. “It’s a Negro. We can’t help if he’s already drowned. Why let it wreck the party?”

“Betty, watch out or you’ll—”

There was a sudden cry. The ladder lurched convulsively in Shayne’s hand, and Betty lost her balance and fell on him, knocking him into the water. He swallowed a mouthful of bay water before he came up, sputtering. He still had contact with the rubber-clad body, but the suit was rapidly filling with water. The zipper was out of reach. Betty was splashing frantically several yards from the boat. He wrestled the body upright and pulled it against the ladder, trying to get one of the arms in over the rungs. The weight of the water carried it under. Every time his grip relaxed it slipped again.

Betty seized him around the neck from behind in a frantic clutch. Vince’s body slipped again, and for an instant Shayne almost lost his hold.

“I can’t swim,” she said complainingly.

He swore at her, trying to fight her off with one elbow without letting go of Vince. Above at the window, the lamp had pulled out again and Lee was calling, “Betty?” From the stern, the man and the girl who had been smoking reefers looked down idly.

Thrashing around, Betty pulled him under. He wanted to find out what had happened to Vince, and he didn’t really care what happened to Betty. But between a dead man and a live girl, he had no choice. The body was now entirely submerged. Betty’s throat gurgled in his ear. He forced the body back to the surface for an instant, looped the loose line around its chest and tried again to catch one of the arms in the ladder. When he let go, the body hung precariously.

He pushed off with a powerful backward kick. In the clear, he quickly broke Betty’s grip on his neck, bringing his shoulder up hard beneath her jaw to make her easier to manage. He brought her back to the ladder with one sweep of his arm. He yelled at Lee. The light came back on. The beam stabbed downward, and he saw the black shoulder slide past the ladder. He grabbed for it. His fingers slid across the hard surface without finding anything to fasten on. Then it went under.

He whipped the light line around Betty’s arm, fumbling the end into a loose knot. He tried to wedge her against the rope with her head out of water, but it couldn’t be done. He made a sweeping motion with one arm, groping down and away, reaching as far as he could without letting go of Betty. The tide was running strongly. He felt the pressure of the current against his spread fingers, but there was no doubt now that the body was gone.

He gave the line a tug to be sure the bait bucket was still secure. Then he hoisted Betty’s limp body on one shoulder and climbed toward the light.