Murder Takes No Holiday by Brett Halliday Read Free Book Online Page B

Shayne had played a similar part once or twice himself, and he was always surprised at how easy it was to get the confidence of a criminal, who logically ought to be more suspicious than an ordinary law-abiding citizen. All that was usually necessary was to drink in the right bars and look touchy and unsociable. But this took time, and time was something Shayne didn’t have. The Wanted circular had been an off-the-cuff idea, produced under pressure while the pilot of the Miami-St. Albans plane was straining to take off. There were many things wrong with it; it could easily backfire. On the other hand, it could just as easily work. If the police were looking for him, Luis Alvarez, proprietor of the nightclub known as The Pirate’s Rendezvous, would have no reason to think that he was anything else than the circulars said he was—a criminal wanted by the American police.
    Shayne leaned forward. “I thought I might take in a nightclub. Someplace with a good band and a floorshow.”
    The driver listed three or four before he came to The Pirate’s Rendezvous.
    “Somebody was telling me about that last one,” Shayne said. “It sounds o.k.”
    The driver grunted. Fifteen minutes later he pulled his horse to a stop in front of a huge sign that showed a peg-legged pirate with a patch over one eye and a parrot on his shoulder. A goombay orchestra was playing inside. The sign was brightly lighted, and there were other similar signs further along the block, but the narrow, cobbled street was empty. Two native policemen were stationed at the corner.
    “Looks kind of dead,” Shayne said.
    “Big crowd later,” the driver assured him. “If you don’t like, take you to Dirty Ed’s—very colorful, very pretty girls.”
    He gestured with his whip toward one of the other nightclubs. At that moment the two policemen started to saunter toward them, and the redhead said hastily, “No, I’ll try this one.”
    He crossed the wide walk while the cops were still half a block away. Inside, a head waiter greeted him cordially, and asked if he wanted a table. Shayne shook his head, turning toward the bar. The bartender was wearing a pirate costume, and there was a lurid mural with a pirate motif above the mirror on the back-bar; but with these exceptions the place resembled a hundred others Shayne had been in around the Caribbean. There were even some like it in Miami. In the dining room beyond, a few of the tables were occupied and one couple was dancing valiantly on the handkerchief-sized dance floor. The little orchestra played mechanically.
    “Is that all the cognac you’ve got?” he asked the pirate, nodding at an inferior brand against the back-bar.
    “Not much call for cognac,” the bartender said. He was squat and solidly built, with a powerful chest and shoulders. He had a long, drooping mustache, a several-day-old beard, a bandanna knotted around his head and a gold hoop in one ear. He spoke English with a New York accent. He went on, “But the boss may have a bottle down cellar. Do you want me to—”
    “No, the hell with it,” Shayne said. “Give me a triple rum. Ice water chaser.”
    When the bartender set the two glasses in front of him Shayne said, “You’re not doing much business.”
    “Still early,” the bartender told him. “We had a little trouble in the neighborhood, and not many walk in off the street. But we’re still getting the guided parties from the hotels and the cruises.”
    “I think I know what you mean,” Shayne said. “A gay, uninhibited tour of the exotic native night spots. Price includes two drinks.”
    “Also includes tips,” the bartender said sourly.
    Shayne grinned. “Doesn’t that get-up make you feel a little silly?”
    The bartender gave Shayne a hard look and put both hands palm down on the bar, one on either side of Shayne’s drink. “What do you think you’re trying to be, Jack? Funny?”
    “Hell, no,” Shayne said. “Just wondering. Let me buy you a