Dolls Are Deadly by Brett Halliday

read into the phone an address in the remote northeast section of the city. “Better start now. She’ll be getting home soon.”
    “Righto, Mike. Until further notice. Thanks, Mike.” Typical of a young comer, he mentioned Shayne’s first name too often.
    The redhead hung up and reached for his hat. “Call Tim Rourke and ask him to meet me at Swoboda’s at exactly quarter to eight tonight. And, angel—” He ran a hand thoughtfully over his lean jaw—“Tim was telling me the other day about a transistor recorder, pocket size. I don’t remember the trade name, but he’ll know what you mean. It’s a new import from West Germany. Tell him to come loaded with that.”
    Lucy nodded, then said, “Take me, Michael. I’ve heard so much about Madame Swoboda.”
    “Sorry.” Shayne shook his head. “Two women are all I can handle tonight.”
    “Two?”
    “The Madame and Clarissa. But don’t look so hurt. Maybe I’ll take you next time. How do I know it’s a fit place until I look it over?”
    “Don’t think I’ll buy that, Michael Shayne! After all the joints you’ve lugged me in and out of—”
    “Can’t risk it any more. You’re too good a secretary.” He grinned, bent down and pressed a firm kiss on the bridge of her nose, directly between her eyes. At the door he turned. “Why don’t you take in a movie?”
    “Maybe I will. And a new gentleman friend too.”
     
    Shayne stopped at The Angus, grabbed a quick meal of rare steak and brandy, got into his car and turned toward the Miami River and Southwest Sixth Avenue.
    At a little before quarter to eight, he drew up in front of a ramshackle house that had once been painted yellow. One side was propped on stilts precariously bedded in the Miami River, the roof shingles were damp and mildewed, and the stone sidewalk leading from the curb to a small railed porch was muddy and, in places, gave under his weight as he walked up to the door.
    Several cars, some with out-of-state licenses, were parked in front and across the street. Among them he recognized Rourke’s beat-up coupe. Yet from outside there was little evidence that the house held visitors. Except for a dim bulb in the front hall and a diffused green glow coming from beneath one of the drawn drapes, no light showed.
    Shayne paused for a moment on the small porch, his nostrils flaring, trying to place a sweet, indefinable odor. The front door was of heavy pine, with a stained glass transom through which light from a yellow bulb shone.
    A small card above the bell read Walk in in letters crudely penned with black ink. Shayne turned the handle of the door and opened it. Inside, the odor was stronger.
    On the right of a small entrance hall was a sliding door, tightly closed. On the other side an open arch was half-blocked by a desk behind which a middle-aged woman wearing brown, horn-rimmed glasses sat guard over a green cash box and a pad and pencil. Over the pad stood another crudely inked card, saying Messages.
    “To the other world?” Shayne nodded toward the card.
    “To the departed,” the woman affirmed in a voice as unctuous as an undertaker’s. “If this is your first time here I’d better tell you that we allow few questions—inside.” The faint pause before the last word and the drop in her voice gave full and relevant value to it. However, the reverence with which she pronounced the next words, “That’ll be five dollars,” took away some of the effect.
    Dropping a five on the desk, the redhead walked past her into the next room. It was furnished like a doctor’s waiting room except that there were no magazines. The furniture consisted of benches on which three people might sit with only small discomfort, and straight wooden chairs. A round pine table in the center was bare except for an incense burner from which the sickening odor of sandalwood emanated. The only light came from a green-shaded lamp.
    Shayne spotted Tim Rourke seated alone on a bench, bent over, his lean legs