Murder Takes No Holiday Read Online Free PDF Page B

about people will sometimes surprise you. It’s true that Albert Watts seemed the most ordinary man alive, but I say that somebody, I don’t know who and I don’t know why, had a good reason for wanting him dead.”
    “I see you’ve given it considerable thought,” Shayne said.
    “Indeed I have. Unless you develop a personal theory about this murder, you might as well withdraw entirely from social intercourse. I’m a great reader of mystery stories, actually. It’s more or less my vice. If you run out of reading matter while you’re here, I have quite an extensive collection at the Lodge. Of course my taste inclines to the Agatha Christie school, and I know you Americans are likely to want a little more raw meat in your diet.”
    Shayne grinned down at her, which flustered her a little.
    “Well, don’t you?” she said. “Did I say something wrong?” She looked at her wristwatch. “Good grief, as late as that? I have a thousand things to do before dinner. Now if you want for anything, don’t hesitate to ask. We want to make your stay comfortable.”
    Shayne saw her to the door, then set about making his stay as comfortable as he could by himself. He threw his coat at one chair, his tie at another. He took off his shoes and socks, and sent them in four different directions. By this time the room had begun to look as though someone was living in it. Padding into the bedroom, he opened his suitcase and looked dubiously at the colorful sportswear which Lucy Hamilton had considered suitable for a tropical vacation. Most men Shayne had seen so far on the island had been wearing shorts, but he decided to put that off as long as possible. He pulled out the bottle of cognac he had bought at the airport (the low price in dollars had been a pleasant surprise), and took it to the kitchenette. He slid an ice-tray out of the little refrigerator unit, found two glasses and filled one with ice water.
    He took the bottle and the glasses to the terrace on the ocean side of the cottage, picking up the Island Times on the way. He sank into one of the long outdoor chairs and poured himself a drink. He tasted the cognac, sipped at the ice water and looked out at the palms, the white sand and the sparkling blue water. A sailboat tacked across the entrance to the bay. A half dozen fishing boats were coming in. An American family, two grown-ups and two children, had a little encampment at the end of the beach belonging to the cottage colony. The children were digging madly. There was activity beyond, in the sand in front of a resort hotel. Brilliant flowers grew amid the palms.
    The chair was comfortable, and Shayne felt himself beginning to relax. He sat up straight with an effort, drank some cognac and reached for the Island Times.
    For a moment his eye lingered on the fishing ads. These were illustrated with eloquent photographs of unimpressive-looking fishermen holding up some really impressive fish. Because of the state of his ribs, the game-fish had nothing to fear from Shayne on this trip, but he promised himself that he would get in some light-line bone-fishing if it killed him. He would have a full day before the Wanted fliers arrived.
    He reluctantly turned back to the first page, to the account of the murder. In an instant he was completely absorbed.
    Fifteen minutes later he laid the paper aside and poured himself more cognac. He sampled it thoughtfully, his red brows close together. He looked in the paper again to check an address. Then he took another look around at the pleasant scene, tossed off his drink and swung his feet down from the long chair. It cost him a considerable effort. Turning his back on the beach, he went into the cottage and gathered up his shoes and socks. He put them on. He changed into the least colorful of the sports shirts; perhaps, he thought, it was just barely flamboyant enough so he wouldn’t be conspicuous.
    He walked out past the Lodge to Bayview Road. He was looking for 1306½, and after