Weep for a Blonde Page 10

  She let her head turn slowly and easily as his fingertips pressed gently against her left cheek, and her mouth came against his, opening warmly and wetly, lips clinging to lips, and retaining contact while lithe young bodies turned slowly to each other so that flesh was fused against flesh, and the moon looked down benignly and there was the low swish of wavelets against the edges of the float, and twenty feet to seaward, unknown to the young couple, a desperate man kept himself afloat by treading water while he inwardly cursed the amorous impulses that drove young people away from the lights of shore to practice dalliance on a deserted diving raft.

  Wholly unaware that they were under observation by a man who was wanted for murder, Allen and Florine writhed against each other in a kiss that lasted for minutes and which left both of them breathless and shaken with desire.

  When their bodies fell apart they turned onto their backs and lay silently looking up at the moonlit sky. Allen’s left hand played gently with a shoulder-strap of Florine’s suit, sliding it down over the smooth roundness of her shoulder and back again, his fingertips caressing the flesh and leaving a burning trail behind them.

  He spoke in a hushed whisper. “Florrie.”

  Lying flat on her back and looking straight upward, she whispered back, “Yes, Al?”

  “Florrie … didja ever … swim in the moonlight naked?”

  “Once,” she said dreamily. “One time I did, Al. It was a long time ago. At summer camp. There were just us three girls …” Her voice lapsed into reminiscent silence.

  “Nice, huh?” His whisper had turned unaccountably gruff. He had the shoulder-strap well off her shoulder and was sliding it down on her bicep.

  “Real nice. Like … oh, I just don’t know … like nothing else in this world.”

  “I know.” His voice was softer now. It caressed her as his fingertips had been doing. “It’s like being born again, huh? Sort of?”

  Florine said, “Sort of. I guess.”

  His hand slid under her arm and his fingers moved over the uncovered swell of her breast. There was unexpected urgency in his whispered, “Could we now, Florrie? You want to?”

  “We daren’t, Al. Out here in plain sight.”

  “It’d be something.”

  “I know.”

  “Something big, Florrie. I dunno why.”

  “I don’t either. But it would, Al.”

  “There’s no danger, honey.” Allen withdrew his left hand and lifted himself on his elbow to look down at her upturned face in the moonlight. His right hand peeled the other shoulder-strap down, tugging gently, and to her amazement she found herself lifting her body a bit to help him.

  He said huskily, “We can leave our suits here on the float. Just swim around a little. That’s all. You know, Florrie, it’d be like … well, like we were married. Like we’d been married a long time. You know? Just to swim like that here together. Nothing else.”

  She said, “Yes.” Then, vehemently, “Yes, Al. I know.” She sat up and started to reach behind her back for the zipper, but Allen laughed softly and caught the metal tag and pulled it straight downward, then turned on his side away from her and slipped his own trunks down off slim hips and long legs and left them lying in a heap behind him as he slid into the cool water.

  Florrie was in the water beside him before he took two strokes away from the raft. The length of their naked bodies touched momentarily beneath the surface of the water, and her laughter was excited and wanton.

  “The water’s like silk and champagne. Oh, Al! Let’s swim like this forever. Let’s never come out again.”

  He laughed and ducked her so she sputtered wildly, then sank beneath the water and close to her, and she twisted and pushed her bare foot in his face and eluded him for a moment, and then let him come up to her and wrapped her arms tightly about his neck and sank her teeth into the flesh of his shoulder so that a drop of blood mingled with the taste of salt in her mouth, and they sported together like two young seals while the moon looked down with approval and there was the faint sound of distant music in their ears that might have been the hand-clapping of the gods who look after the destinies of private detectives.

  12

  From his vantage point in the water beyond the raft, the flat surface was clearly silhouetted for Michael Shayne by the beach lights, and he felt like a lousy Peeping Tom as he kept himself afloat in the darkness and watched the amorous gyrations of the young couple who believed themselves safe from prying eyes.

  He would have given a great deal to be able to avert his eyes and swim away and leave Allen and Florrie to their own devices, but it was now practically a matter of life or death to him to be able to reach the raft for a short period of respite and he ruthlessly cast aside all moral and ethical considerations while he waited to see exactly how far they planned to go with their love-making.

  When Allen rose on one elbow and leaned over Florrie and slid her shoulder-straps down, Shayne thought it was all over and he might as well give up any idea of reaching the raft to rest himself, but when Florrie sat up, too, and he saw her slide the suit down to her hips and wriggle out of it while Allen got out of his trunks and slid back into the water, Shayne exhaled a great sigh of thankfulness and cautiously edged in toward the farther side of the raft.

  He reached it and caught hold of the edge moments after Florrie joined her fiance in the water. He edged around hand over hand, carefully on the far side from the happy swimmers, listening to their giggling and splashing with intense satisfaction, and drew his body out of the water to stretch full-length on the canvas and get his strength back.

  He knew he was safe for the moment. Even if the two nude young people sporting in the water nearby saw him on the raft, modesty would prevent them from swimming back to reclaim their bathing suits. They were the ones in a bad spot now. It was tough, and he honestly felt sorry for the embarrassment he was going to cause them, but that was the way things went and right now Shayne needed a pair of bathing trunks a lot more than Allen did.

  He sat upright after a moment and clawed at the buttons of his shirt, stripped it off and dropped it in the water and tossed his undershirt in beside it.

  Then he stood up and unbuckled his belt, got his wallet from a hip pocket and stepped out of trousers and shorts, kicking them off into the water too. For just a moment before doing so, he debated whether or not to leave them behind in lieu of the trunks he was about to borrow, to give the lad a chance to get back to shore decently, but he realized this was no time for compromise. His one chance to reach shore safely for a possible getaway was to completely immobilize the unlucky couple to prevent them from giving the alarm too soon.

  He stooped and picked up Allen’s trunks, stepped into them and pulled them over his hips. They were uncomfortably tight, but would have to do. He again hesitated momentarily about also consigning Florrie’s discarded suit to the water, but again told himself grimly this was no time to go soft. They were young and could stand a little embarrassment. Let them withdraw in their nudeness to one of the dark ends of the beach until the lights were turned out and they had a chance to get back to their cabana without being seen. They could doubtless find something to do in the darkness to pass the time.

  He stooped for his watersoaked wallet and tucked one-half of it inside the tight belt of the black trunks, felt the cabana key in the small buttoned pocket. He had known it would be there.

  Without bothering to look for Allen and Florrie in the water, without knowing whether they had seen what was happening on the raft or were happily unaware of the theft that had taken place, he stepped off into the water and swam lazily toward shore, mingling with the other swimmers as he neared the lights, standing up and wading in when he reached the shallow part.

  No one paid him the slightest attention as he strode out of the water and got the key out of its pocket. He held it up to the light and saw the number “10”, went directly to the row of cabanas and found the door bearing that number, unlocked it and stepped inside, s
witched on the light and pulled the door shut behind him.

  It was an eight-by-ten cubicle with two canvas lounging chairs, a round metal table, and a folded beach umbrella in one corner. One of the chairs held a neatly folded pair of dark gray slacks, underwear and a yellow sport shirt, with two-toned sport shoes standing beside it and argyle socks stuffed into them. The other chair held Florrie’s clothes, and there was a heavy, folded towel over the back of each chair.

  Shayne stripped off the trunks hurriedly, wiped himself dry, and tried on Allen’s underwear. The undershirt was tight across his shoulders and the shorts too small in the waist, but the fit wasn’t too bad and he told himself he was damned lucky his unknown and unknowing benefactor wasn’t a spindly 32.

  He got into the sport shirt and pulled on the slacks, buckling the belt tightly and leaving the two top buttons unfastened, slid his wallet into a hip pocket and sat down warily to try on the socks and shoes.

  The shoes were a full size too small and would not go on over the thick socks. He discarded them and managed to wriggle bare feet into the shoes, laced them loosely and stepped out fast without a backward glance. He left the key in the door for the couple to use if and when they were able to reach the cabana again, and strolled nonchalantly in front of the cabanas to the boardwalk leading down from the dancing pavilion and parking place.

  He felt conspicuous under the lights with his bristly red hair, and wished the guy had worn some sort of hat or cap. He knew there would be cops about with his description, but they wouldn’t be looking for him to be clad in dry clothes. He knew there would be cabs waiting in the parking place, and with any luck at all he should be able to find one and get away from the beach unnoticed.

  And just then his luck ran out.

  There were two couples ahead of him on the boardwalk, also making their way to the parking lot, and Shayne fell into step behind them. There was a row of dwarf palms on the left, and beyond on the right was the brightly lighted Casino and Pavilion, and the muted sound of the dance music.

  Following the two couples up the walk, Shayne did not see the man lurking in the shadow of the palms where he had a perfect view of every person coming from the beach. His first intimation that his luck had run out was the sound of a gruff voice from his left that said happily, “Mike Shayne, by God! Just like shooting fish.”

  Shayne stopped on the boardwalk. A burly man stood in the shadow on his left not three feet away. He had a Police Positive in his hand and the muzzle was directed unwaveringly at the redhead’s mid-section. Shayne scowled as he recognized the Miami Beach detective and said, “Hi, Grayson. Late for you, isn’t it?”

  “Not too late to earn a promotion for this.” Grayson’s voice was exultant. “Don’t move, Shayne. I’ll jump two grades if I have to blast you.”

  Shayne didn’t move. He knew Grayson too well for that. In his twelve years on the Beach force, Grayson had shot and killed three “escaping” prisoners. He said flatly, “All right. It was a good try anyhow.”

  “A damned good try,” Grayson congratulated him. “How in hell you come out of the ocean and got in dry clothes and all beats me.”

  Shayne said, “It’s a long story. Do we stand here making conversation?”

  “Not for very long, we don’t.” Grayson’s voice was cheerful. His gun was steady and he did not move closer to Shayne. Instead, he lifted his voice to call, “Okay, Harry! We got us a red-headed Shamus. Down this way.”

  Shayne continued to stand very still with his hands at his sides. Another couple came up the walk behind him, paused curiously as he blocked the way, then passed him on the right in single file.

  Another plainclothesman materialized from the direction of the Pavilion. He was tall and hatchet-faced, a stranger to Shayne who knew most of the Beach detectives by sight. He had his coat pushed back and a hand on his gun in a shoulder harness, and he came up quietly, asking Grayson, “You sure you got the right one? I thought.…”

  “Meet Mike Shayne,” said Grayson exultantly. “Put a cuff on him, Harry, and link it to your wrist while I stay ready to blow his guts out. Don’t forget he’s a murdering bastard and has already got away under four guns tonight.”

  “Sure,” said Harry gravely. “But I guess we can handle him okay.” He buttoned his coat over the shoulder holster, removed a pair of handcuffs from a side pocket and locked one steel circlet about his left wrist. Then he moved close, taking care to stay away from Grayson’s line of fire, and snapped the other link tightly over Shayne’s right wrist. Then he exhaled raggedly and said, “Okay, Shamus. We’ll take a ride.”

  He started up the walk and Shayne went docilely beside him, unpleasantly conscious that Grayson was a few paces behind with his gun ready.

  They reached the crowded parking lot and circled around to the exit where a marked patrol car was parked, headed out. Harry stopped beside the left rear door and said over his shoulder, “We’ll take the back and you drive, huh?”

  Grayson said, “Right,” as he came up behind them. “I’ll call in the good news first.”

  Harry opened the rear door with his right hand and shoved Shayne toward the opening as Grayson passed behind him. Shayne saw him from the corner of his eye as he leaned forward to enter the police sedan.

  He kicked back with his right foot, catching Grayson’s gun-hand against his lower guts to knock him sprawling and winded, and at the same time he straightened and drove his left fist to the point of Harry’s long jaw.

  The gangling detective went down like an axed steer. Shayne let his own body slump with him, and his left hand darted inside Harry’s coat to lift the gun from its holster. He spun around on one knee to Grayson who was dragging himself up, hugging his belly with both hands. His gun lay on the ground five feet away.

  Shayne said bleakly, “This is it, Grayson. Just keep in mind that I am a murdering bastard, and maybe you’ll live.” He rose to his feet slowly, stooping a little to ease the strain on the circlets of steel chain linking his wrist to Harry’s unconscious body.

  “Leave your gun on the ground,” he directed Grayson flatly. “Come here and get your partner’s key and unlock this thing.”

  Grayson was groggy and still winded, but he did not hesitate for an instant. He came closer, breathing hard, bent and fumbled in Harry’s pocket for a key-ring. Shayne shoved the gun hard against his ribs and held it there while he selected a small, flat key from the ring and unlocked the manacle from Shayne’s wrist.

  Shayne said, “Now snap it on yourself and throw away the keys.”

  Grayson did as he was ordered.

  Shayne stepped back and opened the front door of the car. “Shove him inside and you get under the wheel, Grayson. We’re driving across the County Causeway to Miami, and I’ll be in the back with his gun. When you come to a roadblock talk your way past it. If I don’t get to Miami alive, you won’t either.”

  13

  Timothy Rourke was alone and relaxed in his bachelor apartment when he got his first flash on the Kane case. In the shabbily comfortable and masculinely disheveled living room, the reporter was sprawled out in a deep chair with a highball glass beside him and a cigarette drooping from the left corner of his mouth. His eyes were half-closed and he was pleasantly bored with the prospect of bed and a long night’s sleep. He had kicked off his shoes and opened the collar of his shirt, and he was scientifically considering the color of the diluted liquor in his glass and wondering whether it was worthwhile to freshen it up once more when his telephone rang.

  He scowled at the sound and decided to let it ring. No one knew for sure he was home tonight. He didn’t have to answer the damn thing. There were younger punks on the News eager to handle any late-breaking story that came up. Let them write the headlines this time.

  The telephone continued to ring monotonously. Rourke’s scowl took on a baleful quality as he mentally counted the rings. It would stop at four. Anybody with sense would give up after four rings. It kept on without surcease and when it didn’t
stop after an even dozen, Rourke growled an unhappy oath and dragged his gangling body up out of the chair to answer it.

  More than a dozen rings meant Carl on the City Desk. Carl wouldn’t stop at twice or three times a dozen. Carl knew Rourke too well for that. The damned thing would ring all night if Rourke didn’t do something about it.

  He scooped the instrument up and said wearily, “All right, Carl. I’m awake and this is overtime.”

  Carl said, “This, you’ll want personally, Tim. Michael Shayne has just murdered a dame on the Beach. Get on your horse, fellow.”

  “What’s the gag?”

  “No gag, goddamnit. Straight from headquarters.”

  “Painter?”

  “Sure, it’s Painter. Mrs. Richard Kane. You like those onions?”

  Rourke said, “Nuts. You know damn well.…”

  “I know damn well you’d better get over to the Beach and cover it. Your red-headed pal is not only charged with first degree, but he’s also a fugitive with a shoot-to-kill out on him. Took off into the wide blue Atlantic under the guns of four cops. Get cracking, Tim.” Carl hung up.

  Timothy Rourke got cracking. Twenty minutes later he careened into the almost deserted parking lot behind Police Headquarters at Miami Beach. He realized he’d never seen the lot so denuded of official cars as he slid out and trotted across to a side entrance. The hallway was empty, and a quick glance to his right showed him the booking room also deserted except for a green-visored sergeant behind the desk. Rourke turned to the left and four long strides took him to a closed door marked PRIVATE.

  He turned the knob and walked in. Peter Painter sat happily alone behind a big bare desk. He was talking explosively into a telephone, his hairline mustache jumping as he spoke:

  “… absolutely no exceptions. Every car is to be searched from under the hood through the trunk. I mean it.” He slammed down the receiver and smiled thinly at Timothy Rourke. “He’s had it this time. Finally, he’s had it.”