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.