Blood on Biscayne Bay by Brett Halliday Page B

flexing its muscles to spring. She said, “We know so few people here. You didn’t mention what your business is, Mr. Shayne.”
    “I’m a detective.”
    “Oh?” Her eyes were veiled now and when she said, “Perhaps you’d like a drink,” her voice was not so warmly provocative. She reached toward a silver bell on the table.
    “A drink would be welcome.”
    She struck the bell sharply, then put the binoculars to her eyes to sweep the surface of the bay again. “My husband is coming in now. That outboard near the northward shore.”
    The maid came out from a side door and approached them, carrying her slim body haughtily. She did not speak when she reached the table beside her mistress’s chair, but picked up the empty glass and waited with a look of disdain in her blue eyes.
    Mrs. Morrison said, “Two Scotch and sodas, June,” glancing at Shayne for confirmation.
    He said, “Plenty of ice and not too much soda, please,” and the maid went back to the house.
    “So you’re a detective?” Estelle said. “It must be frightfully interesting work.”
    Shayne let his gaze move over her partly naked form. “I meet interesting people.”
    “Are you one of those detectives who make love to unwanted wives and get them in compromising situations for divorce evidence?”
    “I’ve avoided that sort of work,” he told her lightly. “When I get into a compromising situation I like to do it on my own time.” He grinned up at her from his cross-legged position on the grass. “Circumstances alter cases,” he added. “Now if the Victor Morrisons were having marital troubles, it would be a pleasure to help him get evidence.”
    She did not smile, but stared at him stonily, the green flecks in her eyes seeming to actually melt away, leaving them wholly yellow. “You are not amusing,” she said coldly. “What is your business with my husband?”
    “That,” said Shayne, “is between Mr. Morrison and myself.”
    She started to say something else, but the maid was approaching with the drinks on a tray. Estelle stood up and lifted the binoculars again, focusing them on the little sailboat occupied by the young boy and girl. She held them steadily while the maid set the tray on the table and went away.
    Then she said, “My God, those two kids—”
    Shayne grinned and picked up his glass. He asked, “Is that your husband’s boat docking down there?”
    She turned quickly, gave him a withering look, picked up her glass and said, “I’ll leave you to discuss your mysterious business with him, Mr. Detective Shayne.”
    She was as tall as most men, and she walked barefooted across the grass with sinuous grace, swaying slightly above the hips. Shayne sipped his drink and watched her until she went into the house, then got up and strolled down to the private dock.
    A lad of about fourteen, towheaded and bronzed, wearing only a pair of bathing trunks, was in the stern expertly handling the tiller and swinging the boat in a wide arc alongside the dock. In the bow was a man wearing a floppy straw hat, an old sweater and a pair of disreputable khaki pants. He had a square face and a smartly trimmed gray mustache. When he arose with the painter in hand, leaning over to grasp a stanchion as the boy cut the motor and the boat drifted in, Shayne saw that he had a strong, muscular body for his 50-odd years. His eyes were blue with a network of tiny wrinkles spreading out from the corners.
    When the man stepped out on the wharf, Shayne said, “Mr. Morrison?” and offered his hand.
    The millionaire took Shayne’s hand in a hearty grip and said, “Yes?” inquiringly.
    “My name is Shayne. I’m sorry to intrude like this, but I have some urgent business to discuss with you.”
    “No intrusion at all,” Victor Morrison assured him. He turned to the lad who was clambering out, a broad grin on his young face and a string of perch in his hand. “Better hurry those in to the cook, Howard. They should be put on ice right