Mink Is for a Minx Read online

  MINK

  IS FOR A

  MINX

  edited by LEO MARGULIES

  an original volume

  A DELL BOOK

  Contents

  DEATH OF A DEAD MAN by Brett Halliday

  PARTNERS OF THE DARK by Alson J. Smith

  TRUCK DRIVERS LIKE GIRLS by Dorothy Madle

  MURDER SLICK AS A WHISTLE by Arthur Porges

  THE MARROW OF JUSTICE by Hal Ellson

  MAN ON THE RUN by Dennis Lynds

  DEATH, MY LOVE by John Douglas

  MINK IS FOR A MINX by Tighe Jarratt

  MURDER OF AN UNKNOWN MAN by James Holding

  CORPUS DELICTI by Talmage Powell

  DEATH OF A DEAD MAN

  by Brett Halliday

  MICHAEL SHAYNE JAMMED ON the brakes of his car, his eyes glinting with sudden anger. In the dark summer night the other car was slanted across the highway in his path at the center of the small drawbridge. Shayne got out of his car and strode toward the stalled vehicle.

  The car was a four-year-old black sedan. For a moment Shayne thought there was no one in it. Then he stepped closer and saw a figure slumped over the wheel. The car was jammed against the guard rail of the small bridge. Apparently the driver had passed out for some reason, perhaps a heart attack, and the car had slewed across the bridge and been stopped by the guard rail.

  The car’s engine was still running, giving it even more the look of a tragic accident. But it was not an accident. It was a trap. Shayne, becoming careless, reached through the conveniently open car window to raise the head of the slumped man. The man came to life and gripped the detective’s arm.

  A second figure appeared from the shadows of the drawbridge. Shayne had a glimpse of a thin, dark-haired man with a mustache. With his arm held fast Shayne could not pull free in time to defend himself.

  The second man hit him on the back of the head. The blow was the work of an expert. Shayne slumped to the roadway of the bridge.

  Shayne was stunned but not quite knocked out. That and the fact that the two men were in a hurry saved his life.

  The other man had gotten out of the car, and Shayne had a confused recollection of seeing both men move to the edge of the bridge and back again before they slipped their hands under his armpits, lifted his big frame clear of the road, half-carried, half-dragged him to the edge of the bridge, and threw him over. The exertion wrenched a grunt from one of them.

  Shayne hit the water hard. He went under. He went down and down until his feet sank into mud. For a second or two he lay unmoving on the bottom. Then, revived by the water but still groggy, he kicked free of the mud and swam upwards, fighting against the tug of the current. His lungs seemed on fire and he was afraid for a moment that he would never make it.

  He came up gasping and choking. It was pitch dark. Vaguely, he saw far-off lights that could have been the bridge in the distance. In the narrow channel of Great South Bay the tide was coming in fast. He had been carried half a mile.

  Painfully, he struck out for shore. He seemed to swim weakly for hours. At last his feet touched a slippery rock and the loose gravel of a sloping beach. He fell three times before he reached solid ground and collapsed. For a long moment he lay stretched out flat on his stomach, barely breathing.

  2.

  Lucy Hamilton told Mike Shayne over the intercom at nine-ten that morning that Alistair Finch was on the long distance phone—calling from Westhampton, Long Island. Shayne’s pert, brown-eyed secretary sounded awed. She knew Shayne had known Alistair Finch a long time, and that they were old friends, although they had not seen each other for many years. But the name of the industrialist still awed Lucy.

  “He sounds very nervous, Michael,” Lucy said over the intercom.

  “Finch is always nervous,” Shayne said. “It goes with all that money and success.”

  “That wouldn’t make me nervous,” Lucy said.

  Shayne laughed. “Okay, Angel, put him on,” he said, and reached for the desk phone and uncradled the receiver.

  The industrialist’s voice was tense with anxiety. “Mike? Thank God I got you. Can you fly up right away?”

  “Whoa, Ally, one thing at a time. Fly where? Remember, I’m a Miami detective!” Shayne said.

  There was a sound like a deep breath at the other end of the telephone. “Sorry, Mike. I’m at the Westhampton house, the beach cabana. I have guests.”

  Shayne saw a mental picture of Alistair Finch’s “beach cabana.” He had been a house guest there once ten years ago. The “cabana” was three stories high, had thirty-two rooms, and looked like a Newport mansion covered with ivy—which, in fact, it was. Its only claim to being a beach house was its location—on a slight elevation overlooking the water.

  Finch had spent a sizeable sum just on a sunporch extension.

  “Tell me the story,” Shayne said.

  “There isn’t any story, Mike,” Finch’s voice said. “Just a pretty gruesome fact. I found a body in my garden. The police say he was murdered.”

  “How do they figure that?” Shayne asked.

  “He had been stabbed three times in the back.”

  “I’d be inclined to agree with the police,” Shayne said. “Who did it?”

  Finch sighed far away. “I don’t know. I’ve got police all over the grounds. You’ve got to help me, Mike. I know we’ve been out of touch for a good many years. But when this happened, I thought of you at once.”

  “I’ll bet you did,” Shayne said drily. “Who is the man—a guest?”

  “No, Mike. No one here has the least idea who he is, except—” Finch’s voice hesitated.

  “Do the police suspect you?” Shayne asked, abruptly.

  “No,” Finch said. “Mike, the man is a total stranger. He doesn’t have any identification papers on him. No one knows who he is—”

  Shayne was more acutely aware of the hesitation this time. “Except who?”

  “Except me, Mike. But no one knows that I’ve ever set eyes on him before. At least, no one in this country.”

  “Who is he?”

  Finch was very nervous now. “A man I knew in Italy, Mike—during the war. He was a Partisan leader in a unit I worked with.”

  “How did he get to your beach house?”

  “I don’t know that either,” Finch said. “The last time I saw Pietro Corelli was in Italy in nineteen forty-four. That was nineteen years ago.”

  “You had no idea he was in this country?” Shayne asked.

  This time there was a very deep breath on the other end of the line. “Mike, I didn’t even know he was alive.”

  “You mean you hadn’t heard from him—or anything at all about him—in nineteen years? That’s not so unusual is it, Ally?”

  “Mike,” Finch said, “Pietro Corelli was killed by the Germans in nineteen forty-four.”

  Shayne let a long count of ten pass through his mind. Finch seemed to be doing the same thing on the other end of the telephone. Then Finch spoke again.

  “I saw them take him,” Finch said, “so did two of my men. He was shot two days later. There’s no doubt at all in my mind he’s been dead for nineteen years.”

  “Until a few days ago,” Shayne said.

  “Mike, I can’t take anything like this. You know how important my business is and the kind of company I run. Mostly Government work. I’ll pay you well, Mike.”

  Shayne considered his work calendar. He could hire people to cover two routine jobs. One major job he could let go for a few days.

  “I’m on my way, Ally,” he said.

  Shayne took the first jet north after arranging for his work to be covered. Before he left he asked Miami Police Chief Will Gentry to give him a letter of introduction to t
he New York Police. Shayne had met New York State Police Lieutenant Edwin “Ed” Masters ten years ago in Westhampton, but Will Gentry was in a position to help him secure further cooperation from the New York authorities.

  He also stopped off at Tim Rourke’s office to see if he could get a file on Alistair Finch. Fortunately the man was of sufficient national importance to be of reference-file interest to a good many newspapers.

  Shayne read the material on Finch on the jet north. He knew Finch, but it had been many years, and he wanted up-to-date details. Finch was president and owner of a large chemical company. He had inherited the company and his money. What Finch had not inherited was a special chemical additive for rocket fuel. The chemical was vital, and Finch had grown much richer since the war.

  Finch was also a war hero. The industrialist had been a Major in the OSS behind enemy lines for most of the war. That would be where this Pietro Corelli came in, Shayne told himself. Finch had a perfect war record, and after the war had come up with his special rocket additive. Finch had a full partner—Kurt Berger, a German.

  Finch also had many friends, but only a few close ones. Finch had always mixed business and pleasure, and Shayne expected that the industrialist’s business and personal friends would be at the Westhampton house.

  Shayne studied the names and backgrounds of the four or five of Finch’s friends who were mentioned in the material Rourke had given him. By that time his jet landed at Idlewild.

  The redhead found a car waiting for him at the airport, and smiled when he saw it. With all his money, Finch had not sent a chauffeur with the car. The industrialist had remembered that Shayne preferred to drive himself.

  He drove the car into New York City to Center Street, and showed a high-ranking police officer Gentry’s letter. He left the building with a letter in his wallet to the State Police in Suffolk County.

  Shayne drove out of the city through the Queen’s Midtown Tunnel and along the Long Island parkways. The weather was clear and warm in July. He drove with his window open and the wind blowing his thick red hair.

  By the time he reached Patchogue it was night and dark. The salt odor of the sea was pleasant in the night. Shayne watched the moon rise to the south over Fire Island. Perhaps that was why his guard was down as he turned onto the drawbridge from Westhampton to Westhampton Beach and saw the black sedan across the roadway.

  3.

  The moon was high above the dunes when Shayne at last staggered to his feet. He stumbled through the sparse shrubbery and knee-high tangles of prickly thorns, keeping close to the shoreline until he came to the single road of Westhampton Beach. He walked slowly along the road until he reached the “cabana” of Alistair Finch.

  The big house loomed large in the night. It was blazing with light. There was a police car at the door. Shayne saw his own car, the one Finch had sent for him. They were obviously looking for him. He walked in and fell into a chair in the giant hallway.

  “Mike!” Alistair Finch cried. “What happened?”

  “I went for a moonlight swim,” Shayne said wryly.

  His grey eyes searched all the faces in the room. He did not see the men. There were seven people in the house, in addition to the police.

  “What happened, Shayne?” a State Police officer said.

  Shayne recognized Ed Masters. Ten years was a long time, and Masters was heavier and a captain now. But it did not surprise Mike Shayne that Alistair Finch would rate the State Police, and a captain.

  Shayne greeted the police officer and told him what had happened. Masters went away to give the descriptions of the two men who had tried to kill Shayne to his men.

  “Who do you think they were?” Finch asked.

  “You tell me,” Shayne said. “Who knew I was coming?”

  “They don’t sound familiar, Mike,” Finch said.

  “Two more men nobody knows,” Shayne said. He had the strange feeling that Finch was lying. The redheaded detective tugged on his left earlobe and narrowed his grey eyes. “Get me a large cognac, a change of clothes, and then tell me your story.”

  In Finch’s study, Shayne, a Martel in his hand and his clothes changed, listened to Finch’s story. The study was a large, book-lined room furnished with leather and polished wood. The wide window overlooked the sea where a white line of surf was clear in the moonlight.

  “That’s all there was, Mike,” Finch said. “We were there behind the German lines up near Milan. Corelli was our Partisan leader. Gerry Olney, Marty Maltz, and myself saw them capture him. There was nothing we could do. Corelli had planned a real suicide mission for two days after he was taken.

  “Maybe he was getting careless. We heard a few days later that he had been shot. Of course, there were the usual charges of betrayal. Those Partisans were mostly Communists and they always said we betrayed them. We were cleared.”

  “What do you think Corelli wanted here?” Shayne said.

  “I can’t imagine,” Finch said.

  “Does anyone in this house have an idea?” Shayne said. “By the way, who are your guests?”

  “Not one of them knew Corelli except me,” Finch said. “There are five guests: Kurt Berger, of course; Max Helpman, one of my vice-presidents and an old friend; Sally Helpman, Max’s wife; Paul Macadam, you know him, the yacht man who spends a lot of time in Florida; and Myrna Mix the actress. My wife too, of course.”

  Shayne went down the list in his mind. All the names had been prominent in Tim Rourke’s file on Finch. They were all old friends of Finch.

  “Kurt Berger’s your partner?” Shayne said.

  “That’s right. We own all the companies together. I run the American operation and Kurt has charge of the European companies.”

  “Did you tell Masters that you knew Corelli?”

  “Yes,” Finch said. “I told him you told me to.”

  Shayne knew he had not told Finch to say that. But he let it pass for the moment. “Do the others know about Corelli now?”

  “I told them when I told Masters,” Finch said.

  Shayne nodded and said, “Those other two men who were with you when Corelli was captured. Has anyone talked to them since you called me in Miami?”

  “Olney and Maltz? I don’t think so. I didn’t mention their names to anyone,” Finch said.

  “Where are they?” Shayne asked.

  “I’m not sure,” Finch said. “We lost touch. Olney was my radioman, a Sergeant. Marty Maltz was my second in command, a Captain. They were both good men, Shayne.”

  “Men can change,” Shayne said. “Let’s talk to your guests.”

  4.

  The five guests and Finch’s wife sat in the giant living room. It was late and they seemed annoyed. Finch’s wife was a tall blonde half his age. She was his third wife. Her name was Laura, and she seemed to be rather friendly with Kurt Berger, her husband’s partner. She sat perched on the arm of Berger’s chair.

  Shayne came directly to the point. “Masters told me that the coroner fixed the time of death at somewhere around nine o’clock last night. Berger, where were you?”

  “Swimming,” Kurt Berger said. “I like to swim at night.”

  Berger was a tall, blond man of about forty-five. He was still handsome and had all his hair. The partner of Finch was Finch’s best friend, according to Shayne’s information.

  “You swam alone?” Shayne asked.

  “Laura was with me,” Berger said. Berger smiled a wolfish smile. “Mrs. Finch, I mean, Shayne. We swam from about eight o’clock until past midnight. Right, Laura?”

  “Yes,” Laura Finch said.

  “That was a long swim,” Shayne said.

  “We walked on the beach, too,” Berger said. “A long walk. Correct, Laura?”

  “Yes,” Laura Finch said.

  She looked at her husband who was red in the face by now. Shayne made a note of that in his mind. He turned to Helpman.

  “How about you, Helpman?”

  Max Helpman was nervous. The short, dark
man fidgeted on the edge of his chair. Helpman was almost completely bald. His tall, thin, acid-looking wife sat beside him and glared at Shayne.

  “Max was with me all night,” Sally Helpman said. “We were in our room. Do you want to know what we were doing?”

  “Shut up, Sally,” Max Helpman said. “We were in our room, Shayne. Sally didn’t feel well and we went up right after dinner.”

  “Anybody else see either of you?” Shayne said.

  “I don’t think so,” Helpman said.

  “We don’t usually have observers in our bedroom,” Sally Helpman said.

  A tall, grizzled man standing near the yawning fireplace said, “I saw you Max, about ten o’clock. You were out in the garden.”

  “Now you listen to me, Paul Macadam,” Sally Helpman began.

  Paul Macadam had the shoulders of a truck driver. A man in his fifties, he had the lined and leathery face of a man who had spent most of his life in the open air. His hair was grey, and his blue eyes were hard and amused as he looked at Sally Helpman. The tall, hard-faced woman stared at Macadam.

  “I came down for some air,” Max Helpman said. “I forgot that. I wasn’t down more than ten minutes.”

  “Ten minutes is enough,” Shayne said drily. “How about you, Macadam? If you saw Helpman, you were down here yourself. Suppose you tell me a little more about that.”

  Paul Macadam nodded. “I was down here. In fact I was down from after dinner until past midnight. I like to sit outdoors. No one saw me. I saw Max, and later I saw Berger and Laura, well after midnight. They did look like they had been swimming. But no one saw me. No alibi.”

  Shayne looked toward Sally Helpman. “Does that mean you were alone while your husband was down here? Did you see anyone?”

  “I remained in my room, Mr. Shayne,” Sally Helpman said coldly.

  The tall woman had square shoulders and a low, throaty voice. Shayne liked voices like that. The tall woman was a cool person, and yet, very sexy.

  Myrna Mix, the actress, giggled. “This is fun! Ask me my alibi, Mr. Shayne. Go ahead.”