Read Online Dolls Are Deadly by Brett Halliday - Free Book Online

and addressing no one.
    At last, a child’s thin voice sounded, first far away, then coming closer. “Mother… Daddy… At last I have gotten through to you. It is so far. For two hours and thirty-six minutes I have traveled… through the forty-eight outer worlds…”
    Mabel Thain breathed, “It’s Jimsey!” and tightened her grip on Shayne’s finger.
    On his right, Ed stirred restlessly, the grip of his little finger loosening, then tightening. What, Shayne wondered again, could be the attraction here for this man who seemed to be only a pleasure-bent tourist? If he had come to please his wife, or only for casual amusement, why the tension? On the other hand, what kind of mystically inclined person drank hundred-and-fifty proof rum, drooled idiotically at a girl doing a hooch dance on a Cuban boat and put a dirtied-up, souped-up engine in Sylvester’s fishing boat?
    The child’s voice continued: “I am well… and happy… but when I lay dying Friday night, I spoke your name eight times…” A blue light wavered across the ceiling, then disappeared, “Mother… Daddy… Good-by.”
    Madame Swoboda sighed, sat quietly for a long moment as though all strength had left her, then shivered and opened her eyes.
    “That is all.” Her voice had a deep, unworldly timbre. “The spirits are tired. The séance is over.”
    She rose quickly, passed through the sliding doors, walked down the hall and disappeared. The lights went on, two dim yellow bulbs in a wall fixture. Everyone blinked against the sudden light, released each other’s fingers a little sheepishly, scraped back their chairs and got to their feet. Shayne looked at Ed. His lips were moving soundlessly, his brows knit in concentration.
    Ed rose finally and pushed through the low-voiced crowd to reach his wife at the other side of the table. Shayne caught Tim Rourke’s cynical eye, then moved between the stragglers to intercept Ed and his wife, who were pushing with the others to the door.
    Clapping Ed on the back, the redhead said, “So we meet again. You never can tell where a tourist will turn up in this town.”
    “Or a detective,” Ed retorted. Turning to his wife, he said, “Dear, this is the detective I was telling you about who was on the boat today. Mike Shayne. Mike, meet the wife.”
    “It’s a pleasure, Mrs.—”
    “Woodbine.” She poked Ed playfully. “Didn’t you even tell Mr. Shayne your last name?”
    “We were all on a first name basis,” Shayne said. “It was only by accident that Sylvester happened to mention my name. Where are you folks staying?”
    A quick glance passed between the man and woman, then Ed said openly, “Blue Grotto Hotel. Know it?”
    “Very well.”
    “At one of the cabanas,” Mrs. Woodbine said. “Number sixteen. Come and see us, Mr. Shayne.”
    “Maybe I will. Thanks. How did you enjoy the séance?”
    She shrugged matronly shoulders. “It’s something to do—I get so tired of canasta—but I don’t think I can ever drag Ed here again. He was bored stiff.”
    Shayne said, “Maybe if you feed him bonito again it’ll put him in the mood.”
    “Bonito?” She looked genuinely puzzled.
    “I started to bring a fish home, honey,” Ed explained, “but I couldn’t face cleaning it, so I gave it away.”
    She sighed in exasperation. “You fish all day and then give away what you catch! It makes more sense to play canasta.”
    Ed shrugged and winked, probably thinking of the Demerara he had consumed that afternoon, then took his wife firmly by the arm and faced her toward the door, asking, a little brusquely, “What are you doing here, Mike? Casing the joint?”
    “You might call it that.”
    “As far as I can see, it’s harmless. I don’t go for this out-of-the-world stuff, but the Madame puts on a good show. If this is what they want, they get their money’s worth.” He propelled his wife to the door.
    The desk in the arch next to the waiting room was now covered with voodoo dolls, boxes