Dolls Are Deadly by Brett Halliday

thinning a little on top, and lidless eyes, like a snake’s. His skin had that peculiarly dry look which comes as the result of a bad case of acne at puberty. He wore a wilted seersucker suit and no hat. Under Shayne’s gaze, he shifted uneasily, lifting one hand to wipe self-consciously at his long upper lip. The hand was thin and bony, with big knuckles and visible veins.
    Shayne waved genially, wryly amused at the startled and defensive look the gesture brought, turned and strode to his own car.
    Speeding along Biscayne Boulevard, he turned east to the Causeway leading to the Beach. The morning was already hot. Sun beat on the road, making a mirror of it and intensifying the vivid flower colors along its edge. There was no wind, Spanish moss hung stiffly from the trees.
    Through the rear-view mirror Shayne kept an eye on the tailing Buick, realizing suddenly that a green car which had pulled out from the curb too when he left his apartment was holding close behind the Buick. Was it possible that, this morning, he had two tails?
    He crossed the Causeway and turned south, the two cars still with him, finally pulling in the parking lot at the head of the long slip where Sylvester’s boat was moored. Most of the other boats were already out, leaving the Santa Clara almost alone.
    Near her on the wharf, a tall man was bent over, concentrating on something. As Shayne strode closer he recognized him as Slim, the lazy one from Philadelphia, who had lain on his back all day without doing anything more energetic than tilting a rum highball. He was the do-it-yourself man whose hobby was mechanics, according to Sylvester. This morning he had a different hobby. He was cleaning a fish.
    He looked up from the mess of blood and guts as Shayne’s shadow fell across him. “Oh, hello, Mike.”
    “Good morning. Is Sylvester around?”
    “No, he’s down the coast somewhere. Be gone a day or two, he said.”
    “What did he do, walk?” Shayne eyed the Santa Clara.
    “Nope. Got a lift.”
    “Boat or car?”
    There was an instant’s hesitation before Slim said, “Car.”
    “What did he go for?”
    “There’s a boat he wanted to look at.”
    “How come?”
    “I think he’s considering a trade.”
    “What’s the matter with this boat? You boys just put a new engine in her, didn’t you?”
    “Turned out to be a dog.”
    “Since yesterday?”
    Slim shrugged and went on scraping his fish with the thoroughness of a good Dutch housewife.
    “I thought the engine sounded pretty good,” Shayne persisted.
    “Doesn’t develop the speed it ought to. Sylvester said his old one was faster. Sylvester’s hell for speed.”
    “How’d he know? You boys never let him let it out?”
    “He did, I guess. When we weren’t with him.”
    “Yesterday he was telling me how good it was.”
    “That was yesterday. Today he didn’t like it. You know how these Portuguese are.”
    “He’s not Portuguese. He’s Cuban.”
    “Same difference.”
    Shayne was silent. The only sound was the rasping of Slim’s heavy knife against the fish scales. Without looking up, Slim said, “This is that grouper you caught yesterday. Hope you don’t mind.”
    “I don’t mind.”
    “Want a piece of him?”
    “No.”
    “Got to thinking—” Slim seemed to feel it necessary to explain—“it’s kind of silly to be down here in the world’s fishing paradise and never eat any fish. So I came down this morning to get this one. I’ll clean it up and have the chef at the hotel cook it for me.”
    “It’s a pretty big fish.”
    “I’ll need it. Some of the boys are coming in to play poker this afternoon. Fish and beer and poker—that ought to be a good combo, hull?”
    “Pretty good.” Shayne frowned down at the bloody mess on the wharf planks. “You know, they’d clean it for you at the hotel as well as cook it, if you asked them.”
    “Yeah, but I’ve got a thing about fish. I got to know they’re cleaned good. Never eat ’em unless I clean