Blood on Biscayne Bay Read Free Page A

the lobby for an evening newspaper.

 
Chapter Two: OLD FACES—NEW ANGLES
     
    BACK IN HIS APARTMENT, Shayne found a story about the Belton murder case in New Orleans about which Lucy had wired him, on page two of the evening newspaper. He settled himself comfortably and read the press association account of the affair with deliberate care and with mounting interest.
    Mrs. Belton was described as the “lovely young wife” of Jason T. Belton, New Orleans industrialist and sportsman. Her body had been discovered in the back room of a dive in the French Quarter chastely described as “a lower class night club noted among the frequenters of the Quarter for the amorality of its habitués which included members of both the Negro and white races.” Mrs. Belton’s nude body lay on the bare wooden floor at the time of discovery. There were no outward marks of violence. A near-by table held a variety of “curious objects” supposed to be indispensable to the practice of voodoo.
    Mrs. Belton had left home earlier that evening in the company of a young business associate of her husband’s who was still missing at the time the story was written. No one knew why she had gone to that particular spot in the Quarter; and none of the customers or employees of the dive would admit knowledge of her presence there. Captain Denton of the French Quarter precinct had told reporters that a dragnet was out for every person present at the club that night, and intimated that many socially prominent people might be dragged in for questioning.
    Altogether, Shayne mused as he laid the paper aside, the Belton affair had many luscious angles. It was the sort of case a man could get his teeth into, and another chance to make a public fool out of Captain Denton.
    He took Lucy’s telegram from his pocket and reread it carefully. A thousand-dollar retainer wasn’t the least of the alluring angles.
    His time was running short in Miami. He sat for a moment looking at the chair where Christine Hudson had been sitting only a short time before, remembering the terror in her eyes and in her voice. By turning his head he could see the headlines of the Belton murder story in New Orleans. He got up and paced the floor briefly, a frown of indecision deepening the line between his eyes.
    Pacing into the kitchen, he went to the refrigerator and pulled out the hydrator, pushed the lettuce leaves aside and stood staring at the moist, gleaming string of pearls. His mouth tightened into a grim line, and he shoved the hydrator back, closed the refrigerator door, and stalked into the living-room.
    He poured a small drink, gulped it down, then moodily dragged out an empty Gladstone bag, put it on the table, and began carelessly packing the few clothes he had acquired on his vacation in the Magic City. His gaunt face held a look of abstraction, as though his thoughts were far away from the business at hand.
    He had almost finished his packing when he suddenly straightened, moved swiftly to the telephone and called the airport to check on the reservation Lucy Hamilton had made for him on the midnight plane to New Orleans. After being assured the reservation was in order, he asked, “When is your next plane leaving for New Orleans?”
    He was told that there was another flight at noon the next day, and he asked curtly if he could exchange the midnight reservation for space on the noon flight. After a slight delay, he was told that it might be arranged but that the airline could not guarantee the vacancy on the noon plane.
    “I’ll take a chance on it,” Shayne said, hung up, then lifted the receiver again and asked to be connected with Western Union. When the connection was made, he said, “I want to send a straight message to Miss Lucy Hamilton in New Orleans.” He gave his New Orleans address, and continued, “Departure delayed until noon tomorrow. Keep a tight hold on retainer. Stall Belton until I arrive. Sign that ‘Mike.’”
    Sweat was standing in the