The Careless Corpse Page 7

  There was no roadway beyond the gates, and Shayne made his way carefully to avoid the sharp fronds of dwarf palmettos and the cunning thorns of briars that sought to waylay him.

  The solid stone wall had been built all the way to the very edge of the steep-banked canal, and then continued at right angles along the bank for fifty feet or so, where a boat-house jutted out a few feet into the swiftly moving current.

  At this point the bank had been concreted to prevent erosion, and the wall was simply a continuation of the concrete, leaving not even a foothold on the outside, above the water, where one could possibly reach the boathouse.

  If you were hell-bent on getting in, you could slip into the stream and swim those fifty feet to the boathouse, but the chances were it would be firmly locked against ingress from the water side, so that wouldn’t do you much good either.

  Shayne shrugged his wide shoulders and turned around and started back.

  With the headlight beams in front of him this time, it was easier to pick his way among the wild growth, and he arrived back at the graveled turning-area with only mild damage to his trouser-legs and ankles.

  He was headed directly toward Rourke’s coupe, disgusted with himself for having wasted time stopping here, when a sound from his right attracted his attention and he stopped in mid-stride, drawing Rourke’s automatic from his hip pocket.

  It was the sound of the wooden gates swinging inward on their well-oiled hinges. The side-glow from the car’s headlights revealed a brawny figure standing menacingly in the opening. He was bareheaded with an unruly shock of thick hair standing up in wild disarray. He had a square, brutal face and a thick-lipped mouth, and he held a double-barreled shotgun with twin sawed-off barrels pointed directly at Michael Shayne’s mid-section.

  Both barrels of the lethal weapon were cocked, and the man’s right forefinger was crooked menacingly about both triggers.

  Shayne stood very still, facing him, glad that the pistol was hanging loosely at his side and in full view of the other man.

  He said, “Hi,” and sincerely hoped that his tone was casual and light. “Mind pointing that thing just a little bit away from my belly?”

  “Why should I?”

  Shayne shrugged and said, “I’d feel much more like carrying on a light conversation if you did.”

  The man with the shotgun said belligerently, “To hell with that light conversation stuff. Throw that gat on the ground over here.”

  Under the circumstances, Shayne was glad to get rid of the pistol. It was a poor match for the more lethal weapon in Brad’s hands, and this was a case in which discretion was much the better part of valor.

  He tossed it forward carefully at the feet of the caretaker, who grunted, “Now you step back about six more feet.”

  Shayne did so. Brad shifted the shotgun firmly into his right hand, and picked up the pistol by its barrel. He rested the short-barreled shotgun loosely in the crook of his arm to leave both hands free, and released the loaded clip of the automatic and let it drop to the ground. Then he thumbed the safety off and expelled the loaded cartridge from the firing chamber, tossed the useless weapon back to Shayne contemptuously, and growled, “Now, Mister. What the hell are you doing here?”

  Shayne stooped to scoop the unloaded gun up and slide it back into his pocket.

  “Looking for Felice.” Shayne tried to make his voice sound as though it were the most natural thing in the world for him to be looking for Felice here and at this time of night… as though it were the only reason why anyone could reasonably be expected to be prowling around outside the grounds of a deserted house.

  “What’s that?” The twin, sawed-off barrels of the shotgun wavered slightly, but not nearly enough for Shayne to seriously consider trying to take advantage of it.

  “Felice,” Shayne explained patiently. “Miss Perrin, you know.”

  “What about her?” The bores of the shotgun, which looked as big as cannon barrels to Shayne, came back to steady themselves on his belly.

  “Isn’t she here?”

  “Why should she be here?”

  “She works here, doesn’t she?”

  “Look, Mister. I’m the only one that works here. The caretaker, see? My boss don’t like night-prowlers around his property.”

  “Wait a minute. I don’t get this at all. Isn’t this the Peralta residence?”

  “No. That’s the next house back.” Brad jerked his head toward the rear.

  Shayne said, “I don’t know how I could have made such a mistake. If you’ll point that thing the other way, I’ll get into my car and apologize for bothering you.”

  “Won’t do you any good to go to Peralta’s either,” the man told him.

  “Why not?”

  “She used to work there, but not any more.”

  “Is that so? Do you know where she can be reached?”

  “How would I be expected to know?” Brad asked easily. He stepped backward slowly, still holding the gun steadily on Shayne. “Get lost,” he growled, and slammed the wooden gates shut.

  Shayne went slowly to the coupe and got in. The door to the glove compartment stood open. He reached inside and fumbled around and found an extra loaded clip for the pistol. He got it out of his pocket and slid the clip in, but did not throw a cartridge under the firing pin. He put it back in the glove compartment and started the motor and backed around to head out into the street. On the other side of the wall the big house showed no lights in any of the windows as he drove away.

  EIGHT

  The Green Jungle was not at all the sort of place Shayne would have expected a wealthy woman like Laura Peralta to frequent. It had none of the swank and glitter of the showplaces on the Beach, offered no floor-show or entertainment of any sort, did no advertising, and made no effort whatsoever to attract socialites or theatrical celebrities.

  It was a solid, substantial establishment that had been in operation under the same management for more than two decades and made no pretense of being anything other than what it was: a place where people could go to spend a quiet evening dining exceedingly well on a simple but excellent cuisine at extremely moderate prices, with good drinks cheerfully served at one-half the normal charge in Miami bars, and with sedate gambling rooms where two-bit bets were welcomed at the roulette tables and no eyebrows were raised if a crap-shooter risked only a buck on his turn with the dice.

  Thus, over the years it had become almost a family sort of place, catering to a substantial, middle-class clientele which enjoyed the excitement of gambling without being high-pressured into losing more than they had budgeted for an evening’s entertainment.

  There were no drinks served in the gaming rooms, and no rowdiness tolerated. Professional gamblers gravitated to the place by instinct, and the pace of the games was kept leisurely enough to encourage system players to keep their notes and figure their odds without being rushed into making reckless bets.

  It was, in other words, a comfortable place in which to lose one’s money, and Shayne wondered about Laura as he parked Tim Rourke’s battered coupe among a hundred other lower-priced cars. His brief encounter with her had not given him the impression that she was the type of woman to choose a “comfortable” place in which to lose her money. Her nightly stake of five hundred dollars was far in excess of the amount most habituees of the Green Jungle could afford to lose, and that might be the answer, he mused, as he got out and threaded his way among parked cars toward the entrance of the low, rambling building almost hidden by a luxuriant growth of untended tropical shrubbery.

  Here, a woman with half a grand to drop at the tables every night would be marked as a V.I.P. and treated with every consideration and respect, while the same half-grand would be disdainfully considered peanuts at the more publicized Beach joints.

  The front doors were invitingly open, and Shayne entered a low-ceilinged hallway with a bar and cocktail lounge on the right. Directly ahead at the end of the hall was a sign that said, “Dining Room,” and halfwa
y down, on the left, was a large archway leading into the gambling rooms. There was a winsome-faced and adequately dressed hatcheck girl behind a counter on his left as he entered, and he exchanged his hat for a numbered check and a smiling “Good evening, Sir.”

  Shayne returned the smile and went into the barroom where there were booths along the left wall and a long bar with half a dozen bartenders behind it at the right.

  No more than half the stools at the bar were occupied, mostly by men hunched quietly over their drinks, and less than half the booths were in use.

  Shayne stood for a moment in the doorway, glancing down the bar at the backs of half a dozen women on stools without recognizing Laura Peralta. Then he strolled past the booths, looking into each one that was occupied with the same negative result.

  Glass doors at the end opened into a pleasantly-lit cocktail lounge with well-separated tables and an air-conditioning unit that kept the atmosphere clean and fresh. Again, Shayne paused on the threshold to study the room carefully without seeing Laura. A smiling waiter came up and asked, “One, Sir?” but Shayne shook his head and said, “Later.” He strode through the room to a side entrance into the large dining room that was being well-patronized at this hour; and turned left to meet the maitre d’ whom he knew by sight, but not by name.

  He was welcomed pleasantly, but not effusively. “Mr. Shayne, isn’t it? A table for dinner?”

  Shayne said, “I’m meeting someone. Mrs. Laura Peralta. Have you seen her tonight?”

  “Mrs. Peralta? No, Mr. Shayne. Not yet tonight. Have you tried the roulette tables?”

  Shayne said, “I will. If she turns up, tell her I’m here.”

  He went out into the entrance hall and sauntered through the archway to the main portion of the building and its reason for being.

  The large room was brilliantly lighted and luxuriously carpeted, with no whirring clatter of slot machines to distract the players from the serious business of losing money at the tables. Just inside the archway was a cashier’s grilled window where chips could be cashed on leaving, and beyond were six well-separated roulette tables, four of which were getting a good play at this hour, and three huge revolving wheels where a player could get as much as twenty to one if the arrow on the wheel stopped in the right slot.

  Opening off the main room on the right was the Card Room with its black-jack, poker and baccarat tables, and four crap layouts were in a similar room on the left.

  It was a quiet and orderly scene that Shayne surveyed as he stopped inside the archway. Each of the four operating roulette tables had from four to six players seated about the rim, with half as many spectators standing behind the chairs watching the balls go around with intent but not feverish interest.

  Shayne’s first casual glance did not discover Laura Peralta at any of the tables. He lit a cigarette and started forward over the thick carpet and was intercepted by a tall, ascetic-faced man wearing a dark business suit and a black bow tie. It was Alexander Griffin, manager of the Green Jungle, and he held out his hand to the detective with a faintly wary smile.

  “Feel like trying your luck, Mr. Shayne?”

  Shayne shook hands cordially and shrugged wide shoulders. He said, “I may donate a few bucks, Alex. Actually, I’m looking for someone.”

  “No trouble, Shayne.” It was part question, part statement, and part plea. “Not inside? If you got to make a pick-up, just tell me and we’ll handle it quiet.”

  “No pick-up,” Shayne assured him. “At least not the kind you mean. I was to meet Mrs. Julio Peralta here.”

  “Her?” Griffin looked and sounded relieved. “Sure. At the far table with her back to us.” He jerked his chin to the right and Shayne’s eyes followed the gesture to see Laura’s piled dark ringlets above bare white shoulders that leaned forward eagerly as she watched the bouncing ball slow and drop into a slot.

  “Mrs. Peralta, huh?” The manager’s voice dropped on a note of questioning. He sucked in his lower lip and put a persuasive hand on Shayne’s arm. “Why don’t we go in my office for a drink? She’s just starting on her second C-note and wouldn’t want to be disturbed just yet.”

  Shayne said easily, “Sure,” and turned with Griffin toward a closed door on the left marked PRIVATE.

  The manager opened the door on a lighted and orderly office. He crossed the room and opened the sliding door of a wall cabinet, revealing a well-stocked bar. He hesitated, asking over his shoulder, “Cognac, Shayne?”

  “Please. And don’t bother with a snifter. A straight slug… with ice-water on the side, if it’s handy.”

  Griffin said, “I should have remembered.” He selected an old-fashioned glass and filled it halfway from a bottle of Martell. Then he opened the freezing compartment and took out two ice cubes which he dropped in a tall glass and filled it with water from a decanter. He set both glasses on the desk and Shayne pulled a chair up and sat down while the gaming house manager made himself a Scotch highball.

  He brought it to the other side of the desk and sank into a swivel chair and lifted his glass. “Here’s to crime.” His voice was blandly expansive, yet it seemed to pose a question. Shayne lifted his cognac glass to return the salute, took a sip and set the glass down.

  “What are you worried about, Griffin?”

  “Worried?” The manager blinked at him owlishly.

  Shayne said, “This is good cognac. I appreciate it. What’s on your mind?”

  Griffin looked past him at the open door. He got up, circled the desk and closed it firmly. Then he went back to the swivel chair.

  “I run a quiet, decent business here, Shayne.”

  “I know you do.”

  Alexander Griffin sighed and squirmed uneasily in his chair. “Mrs. Peralta is a respectable, respected, and always-welcome customer here.”

  Shayne took a sip of cognac and chased it with ice-water. “I’m sure she is,” he agreed calmly. “Anyone who drops half a grand an evening at your tables would be characterized in just those words.”

  “That’s a high estimate.”

  “Is it?” challenged Shayne.

  “Quite high. On the other hand…” Griffin sighed deeply and spread out his hands. “She’s a woman, too, Shayne.”

  “I have a certain feeling about that.” Shayne kept his eyes hooded as he turned the old-fashioned glass around and around on the desk in front of him. “Want to volunteer any information?” he demanded abruptly.

  “About one of our steady customers?” Griffin sounded properly shocked.

  Shayne said, “There’s an emerald bracelet missing.”

  “I heard about that.”

  “Is that all?” Shayne threw at him.

  Alexander Griffin lifted one hand defensively. “I’m not a fence, Shayne.”

  “Then you do think she had a hand in lifting it?”

  Griffin hesitated a long time as though seeking exactly the right words with which to answer the detective. He took a long, contemplative pull at his highball, opened the center drawer of the desk and took out a blunt cigar. He lit it carefully and slowly.

  “Mrs. Laura Peralta has been coming here two or three nights a week for the past six months, Shayne. She plays roulette exclusively. She buys twenty five-dollar chips and plays them, and then buys another twenty. Never more than five batches. She walks away from the table… a perfect lady… any time she has dropped her half grand. If she gets ahead and stays ahead, she cashes in around midnight. I’ve kept track… as we do in a place like this… and when she goes away ahead one night, she doesn’t buy extra chips the next time she shows up. Never any more than five hundred.”

  Shayne frowned thoughtfully. “You say she cashes in around midnight, if she’s ahead. What if she’s behind, but still has some of her original stake at midnight?”

  “Then she keeps on spreading chips around until she breaks or gets ahead,” said Griffin, promptly.

  “Do you keep such minute records on all your customers, Alex?”

  “You know
we don’t. But you notice a woman like Mrs. Peralta. The house-men all get to know her and they begin talking about her. In all my years in the business I’ve never known another player who followed a line so exactly.”

  “A good customer,” mused Shayne. He took a sip of cognac and made a rapid calculation. “Dropping several grand a month.”

  “That’s about it.” Alexander Griffin’s voice was bland. “So you can see why we wouldn’t like it if… you did anything to disturb the set-up.”

  “By ‘we’ you mean Joe Locke?”

  “Joe’s the owner,” agreed Griffin. “I just work on a salary. Does that satisfy you?”

  Three horizontal creases indented Shayne’s forehead. His left hand went up to the side of his head, and thumb and forefinger tugged, at his earlobe. His gray eyes were very bright and interested, and they fixed themselves on Griffin’s austere face across the desk from him.

  “I don’t think so. You’re trying to tell me something, but I don’t know what it is.”

  “I’m telling you to stay away from her, Shayne.”

  “Why?” The redhead’s voice was dangerously calm.

  Griffin started to reply angrily, but checked himself. He spread out his hands, palms upward, placatingly. “You can start asking questions, Shayne. I can’t stop you… I wouldn’t try to stop you. But, don’t.”

  Shayne said, “Nuts. It’s good cognac, Griffin. I appreciate it.” He drained his glass and took a sip of ice-water, and then stood up.

  “I’m going to ask Mrs. Peralta the questions. There’s only one answer I want from you, and I want it straight, Griffin. During the time Mrs. Peralta’s been coming here… has she ever gone over the line and plunged deeply?”

  He replied flatly, “No. She’s never dropped more than five C’s any one night. She’s got ice-water in her veins, Shayne.”

  “When it comes to gambling,” Shayne amplified harshly.

  “Yeh. That’s what we were talking about, isn’t it?”