Murder Takes No Holiday by Brett Halliday Page A

sad and discouraged.”
    Shayne waited a moment. “Don’t throw me any bouquets. Any other time I’d be one of those ninety-nine other guys. In fact, in that dress you almost make me forget that I’ve got my own troubles.”
    “Troubles,” she said, smiling. “What kind of troubles can you have?”
    “Never mind, I wouldn’t want to spoil your evening,” Shayne said. He reached for a cigarette and said casually, “But I’m as anxious to get off this island as you are.”
    “Impossible.” Then she looked at him intently. “Do you happen to be serious?”
    Shayne struck a match. “Is there a guy around here they call the Camel?”
    Another group of Americans had arrived, noisier than the first. They were being taken to tables. Four couples were dancing, filling the little dance floor almost to capacity. A door had opened beyond the orchestra’s raised platform, and a man had come out. He was of middle height, balding, with pouches beneath his eyes. He wore a dark double-breasted suit, and as Shayne mentioned his nickname he half-turned, and Shayne saw the small hump on his back. Having made the identification, he was willing to let it drop, but the girl said softly, “Yes, Alvarez. The owner. He has a boat. But such a service, you know, is expensive.”
    Shayne grinned. “You don’t mean he’d take advantage of somebody in a jam?”
    She repeated her elegant little shrug. “But naturally, who would not? Still, there is this. I know only what is said about him, but it is said that when he gives a promise he will keep it, within reason. Shall I tell him your problem?”
    “No, I’d better introduce myself,” Shayne said.
    He signalled a passing waiter.
    “None more for me,” the girl said. “But I have a sudden idea. I would like to dance with you.”
    “Another triple and more ice water,” Shayne told the waiter, and said to the girl: “I can’t dance to this music.”
    “Certainly you can,” she said. “It is very simple, I will show you.”
    Springing to her feet, her eyes alight, she seized his hand.

 
5
     
    After several extremely embarrassing minutes, he began to get the hang of it. When the music stopped, the girl waved at the orchestra leader and it started again. The musicians grinned broadly. The other dancers had backed off to make room.
    “You see how easy?” she said. “Again. One—two—”
    She was beginning to introduce variations. He kept on moving his feet in the same basic pattern while she circled provocatively before him, smiling demurely as though she didn’t suspect what her body was doing. It was typical of Michael Shayne that while he was watching the girl, concentrating hard on keeping to the beat the drummer was giving him, he was fully aware of everything else that was going on in the room. Luis Alvarez, carrying the little hump that had given him his nickname, had gone into the bar. More customers arrived, first a large group, then a couple, then a single man. Shayne saw with surprise that it was the Englishman from the Lodge, Cecil Powys, with his tape recorder. The head waiter gave him a table near the orchestra.
    When the music stopped there was a spattering of good natured applause.
    “You see?” the girl said triumphantly.
    Her breathing was normal, though the redhead was badly winded. Powys caught his eye and waved as he came off the dance floor. Shayne waved back and continued to his own table. The girl picked up her bag.
    “Presently I give my performance. You will watch me, no? And here is an idea. Only an idea!” she said, holding up one hand. “If you get the Camel’s boat, perhaps you would like a passenger?”
    She came even closer to him, so she was touching him lightly at several points. “Think about it, eh?” She turned and walked quickly away.
    Shayne waited, watching her thoughtfully, till she disappeared backstage. He drank his rum in one long pull without sitting down.
    “Telephone?” he asked a nearby waiter.
    “Yes, sah,”