Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 12, No. 6, May 1963
Murder Most Unwelcome
by Brett Halliday
(ghost written by Michael Avallone)
Who’d want to kill a ninety-year old man just because he was worth millions? Mike Shayne’s defense against murder turned up a couple of rank amateurs playing a deadly game.
I
When he reached the highway, Michael Shayne pointed the nose of his car north and increased his speed to eighty miles an hour. The long white ribbon of concrete before him lay washed and new in the bright Miami sunlight. Visibility was perfect. Green rows of palm trees bordered the distant horizon.
Shayne wrinkled his eyes against the glare, fished out a cigarette and thought about Hat Raymond. It was a helluva long way to go to see a client.
The oldest living male resident of Florida had phoned him early that morning. The voice on the long distance line had been crackling, sere and ancient. Like a wheeze from the past. Shayne had been surprised that Hat Raymond was still alive.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Raymond?”
“From what I hear about you — plenty, son.” A pleasant Southern accent tinged Hat Raymond’s dry voice. “Fact is, I need a smart young feller to do some investigating for me, Shayne.”
“That so?”
“Yes. Somebody seems to have some ideas about killing old Hat.”
Hat Raymond sounded vinegary and hard-boiled. “I heard about you too, Hat,” Shayne said. “You once shot a man by way of expressing your disapproval of the way he was fleecing farmers.”
“That was way back — almost fifty years ago,” the old man roared. “And damn justifiable. Why, in those times, a man had to hang onto what was his like it was his last pair of shoes. That’s a fact, but — I didn’t call you to talk about that, did I?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
Raymond’s voice fell a register. “Shayne, you willing to come out to my place for a talk? It’s too much of a trip for me to go to Miami. And I’m thinking maybe I could use you right away.”
“It’s my business,” Shayne said. “But perhaps you ought to go the local law if you suspect someone is trying to harm you.”
“No,” the old man said, firmly. “Not yet. That’s why I want to see you first. I can pay. It’s worth a lot to me to ease my mind. I’m lame some. Sprained this leg of mine just two days ago. It could have been an accident but—” The voice got cautious. “I’d like it fine if you drove out, Shayne. Point Lomar. Know where that is?”
“I think so,” Shayne said. A good seventy miles from his Flagler Street office. Two hour drive. “What time?”
“Soon as you can make it. This won’t keep. Fact is, I’m expecting my granddaughter and her husband back from Tampa this evening and I’d sure like to clear this business up before they get here.”
“All right,” Shayne said. “I’ll leave in about a half an hour.” He checked his wrist watch. “Look for me about twelve thirty. That should do it. Anything else you want to tell me now?”
Hat Raymond chuckled.
“Nothing I tell you now would do anything for you. You have to talk to me first. See the place where the railing on the portico was busted. Then you can tell me. You’re bright, Shayne. I heard how bright you were. That’s why I want you. I think maybe you could help me and make yourself a pretty dollar while you’re doing it.”
“Fair enough, Hat. I’ll be seeing you.”
“And don’t forget your gun, Shayne.”
With no more than that and a click of the receiver at the other end of the line, Hat Raymond had hung up.
Shayne had sat at his desk in the office for a full five minutes, smoking a cigarette and thinking. His angular body and rangy shoulders hunched speculatively. He was well inured to the type of client who called up and talked of threats and attempts of murder. Sometimes, it was pure imagination, distilled by too many TV shows and lurid paperbacks. With an old man, there was never any telling, either. Still, Shayne had been a detective too long not to know that in a world of violence and greed, all inhumane things were sooner or later possible.
Anyhow, Shayne respected the oldest living male resident in Florida.
After the phone call, Shayne had briefed himself on Hat Raymond before setting out on the long drive. A call to Timothy Rourke of the Miami Daily News had been a gold mine as always. It was nice to have a newspaperman for a friend.
“Hat Raymond!” Rourke said. “The old gent dates back to the Seminoles. When this whole area was mostly swamp and jungle. That old timer hung onto land until he was a corner on real estate. No telling how much he’s worth now. You know how the Miami area is booming yearly. An inch of earth is worth more than uranium. I’ll bet he’s worth a few million right now as old as he is.”
“How old would that be, Tim?”
“Ninety if he’s a day. He came down from Georgia someplace and settled here way back when. Tried to find gold or the Fountain of Youth or something. But he hung onto his acres and I’ll bet Point Lomar is almost all his as far as the eye can see. With all the buildings gone up around there in the last ten years, the old boy must be worth a mint.”
“Why do they call him Hat?”
Timothy Rourke laughed. “It’s a bit of the Old South, Mike. He once shot the hat off a guy who didn’t take his lid off when he passed a lady. Became a legend up at Point Lomar. Hat Raymond’s first name was something like Ebenezer.”
“Gentleman of the old school, huh?”
“Hat Raymond is the old school, Mike.”
Shayne’s rangy body grew restive behind the wheel. The road was racing by as the car gobbled up miles. Hat Raymond’s strange call filled Shayne’s mind. His thoughts were full of oldtimers, Florida’s history and how the land had changed since the old man’s time. Modern buildings springing up all over the good green Florida soil; the population boom that had reached astronomical figures. Progress was rolling on, leaving the Hat Raymonds behind. Man, was indeed, not as permanent as concrete nor as durable as a palm tree.
Point Lomar sprawled ahead. Tall, white buildings formed on the horizon. As small as the area was, one had the impression of entering a vestpocket edition of a city. Before he reached the white billboards that proclaimed entrance, a fork in the highway proudly announced Point Lomar.
Shayne took the cut, finding a climbing road that left the Atlantic at his back. Through a mass of trees, he spied the house. It was a ranch type edifice set on a rise overlooking Point Lomar. Shayne shifted into low gear and cruised up to the sun-drenched lawn that bordered the place.
He realized how quiet everything was when he cut the engine. Silence settled over the scene. A hawk cried in the trees behind the house. Shayne dismounted and walked quickly toward the gate. There was no one in sight. He had rather expected the old man to be sitting on the portico in a wheel chair or a rocker, waiting for him.
There were screens on all the windows and the front door hung open. Shayne, vaguely curious, hurried his step.
He nearly stumbled over the old man’s body at the base of the steps leading up to the portico. He halted, his eyes taking in a quick survey of the scene.
Hat Raymond, if indeed it was he, was lying crumpled on the ground. A trickle of blood was coursing down the leathery old face.
But Hat Raymond was still breathing — and alive.
Mike Shayne bent over him quickly, his irritation dissolving into genuine anger.