Call for Michael Shayne [= Case of the Missing Twelve Days]

Chapter nineteen The two lost weeks

“I wasn’t able to get anything more out of Thompson,” Shayne told Chief Will Gentry the next morning after detailing the events that led up to the doctor’s arrest. “Roger Morgan came clean with everything he knew, but that wasn’t a great deal. I’m hoping you can get enough from Marge Jerome to tie him up tight on Skid’s murder, at least — and to set Devlin’s mind at rest about what happened during those two lost weeks,” he added with a grin at the insurance man who sat beside him.

“What did happen that night of the farewell party?” Devlin asked nervously. “How did I wind up posing as Marge’s husband?”

“We got the whole story late last night,” Gentry told them. “Suppose you give me what background you got from Morgan, Mike. That part of it Marge didn’t know — Thompson’s motive for going aboard the Belle as Arthur Devlin.”

“Morgan admits destroying the suicide note Lily Masters wrote before her death,” Shayne told him. “He denies having been in love with her, though they were close friends and he evidently admired her tremendously. He had known for some time that she was being blackmailed, though he didn’t know what for nor by whom.

“Her suicide note didn’t reveal the man’s name, but it did state she was a hopeless drug addict and had been systematically sucked dry of funds by the man who supplied the drugs.”

“Why did Morgan destroy the note?”

“He acted on impulse for two reasons. To keep the world from knowing why she had taken her own life, and with some idea of involving her husband in suspicion of murdering her. You’ll recall that the door into Masters’s bedroom was bolted on her side, but Morgan admits he intended to unbolt it after destroying the note — but was interrupted by Bert Masters coming into the room before he was able to do so.”

“Why did he want to involve Masters?”

“He’s hated his employer for years.” Shayne paused and shrugged. “It’s my opinion Morgan was in love with Lily Masters, though she may not have been aware of it. He went slightly nuts when he found her dead, and—” Shayne spread out his big hands.

“And it was Doctor Thompson who was giving her drugs?”

“He got her started on the habit while she was his patient. Later, after Masters suspected the truth and made her change doctors, she continued to go to Thompson for drugs and he charged her more and more for what she needed until she had paid out all the cash she could get her hands on, and finally took her life in a mood of desperation.”

“Thompson felt safe enough after her suicide,” Devlin put in, “until that evening at Masters’s party for me when I told about getting letters from her sister in New York and my arrangement to meet her on the cruise ship. Tommy didn’t know how much Lily Masters might have revealed in the letter to her sister — but was evidently afraid there would be enough for me to put two and two together if Janet told it to me.”

“So Doctor Thompson simply had to think of some way to prevent Devlin from going aboard that ship and meeting Janet Brice,” Shayne went on. “Thompson refuses to admit anything, so we don’t know exactly how he managed to have Devlin shanghaied while he went aboard in his place to meet Janet, and how Devlin ended up with Marge Jerome — and the actual details leading up to Skid’s death still have us guessing.”

“Marge gave us all of that.” Will Gentry settled back, complacently puffing on his cigar. “It goes back to Thompson hiring her as his nurse in spite of her past record as a dope addict. She swears he got her back on the stuff by making small quantities of it available to her and advising her medically that it would do no real harm. She probably didn’t need much urging, and he soon had her completely under his thumb by his power to regulate the amount she received.

“She claims he didn’t know about Skid Munroe that night when Devlin was going to sail, but he did know her husband was a convict, and he had a strong hunch she would have some underworld connections. At any rate, he telephoned her at home about ten o’clock and put the flat proposition to her: To get hold of some killer who would come to Masters’s house, pick Devlin up after he had passed out, bump him off and bring all his clothes and papers to Thompson’s house before midnight. He offered to pay five C’s for the job, and threatened to turn Marge over to the authorities the next day on a charge of stealing drugs from him unless she delivered fast.

“With her past record, this was a tough threat, and I guess it didn’t take Marge long to make up her mind. Skid was with her at the time and perfectly willing to earn five hundred. But Skid wasn’t a killer, and he balked at that.

“But they didn’t tell Thompson that. They drove out to Masters’s place and he got Devlin separated from the other drunks and loaded him into their car. Skid slugged you with a blackjack,” Gentry continued, turning to Arthur Devlin, “and they took you to Marge’s apartment and stripped you naked. Then Skid delivered your clothes to Thompson and collected his fee for killing you. And Thompson went aboard the Belle using your identity, and believing you to be dead.”

“And sent himself a radiogram signed Arthur Devlin,” Shayne growled, “just to confuse things later in case there was an investigation.”

“So it was a blow on the head that knocked me for a two weeks’ blackout,” Devlin said slowly, “and caused me to think I was married to Marge.”

Gentry rolled his puffy lids up, chuckled salaciously, and said, “Marge says your sex appeal was too much for her. You came to after a couple of hours without the faintest idea who you were. Marge has enough medical training to recognize amnesia, and it probably appealed to her to calm you down and comfort you by calling you her husband and making love to you. It was a natural thing for a man to do,” he ended lightly.

Arthur Devlin’s face flamed with embarrassment. “I thought — I gathered that we had been sleeping — in different rooms,” he stammered. “Some things she said when I saw her early yesterday morning—”

“That’s the way it was,” Shayne assured him gravely. “I have it on the word of the lady across the hall who used to keep an eye on you during the day while Marge was at work. Go on, Will.”

“That’s the way it got started. Marge stayed at the office that next week and answered the telephone — made arrangements for patients to be cared for by other doctors — until Thompson returned at the end of the week. He told her he had chartered a private plane in Havana to fly him to his fishing-lodge where he stayed in solitude until his mustache grew out again.

“Then Marge began putting the pressure on him. He believed Devlin to be dead, you see, and she threatened to tell all unless he agreed to turn over his entire supply of narcotics to Skid Munroe — for a thousand dollars. As you can see, aside from the money involved, this would put the Federal Narcotics boys on his trail.”

“But there was ten grand in that roll,” Shayne objected.

“Marge is quite a gal,” Gentry told him. “I imagine she was falling more and more for Devlin all the time, and Skid kept getting in her hair. She doesn’t admit she sent Devlin there to kill him, but just to get the money he had collected from his principals to buy the big lot of narcotics which Thompson was going to deliver.

“But something went wrong. I’m afraid we’ll never know exactly what happened in that room until Thompson breaks down and tells us. Marge’s plan was to have Devlin get there first, get the money, and beat it before Thompson arrived.” Gentry paused, and there was a long, thoughtful silence between them.

Shayne said, “I felt all along there must have been a third man in that room because of the manager’s story — and the hat. You remember, Devlin, Marge wanted to know why you didn’t go right up and wait for Skid. So you knew the room to go to. But Thompson had to ask for George Moore, and the manager just saw his back as he went upstairs — but later he saw you coming down wearing the same hat and got a good look at your face.”

“That hat,” said Gentry, scowling. “I never understood why you picked it out as being different from the other clothes Devlin was wearing.”

“Because he told me he’d never worn a hat — didn’t even own one. I don’t know much about amnesia, but I reasoned that a habit like that would still cling to a man. I also wondered,” Shayne went on, “why the third man had left Devlin alive, after killing Skid, with a ten grand roll in his pocket.”

“But from Marge’s story,” Devlin cut in, “Tommy thought it was only a thousand. He probably didn’t count it, but just stuck it in my pocket and left me lying there, thinking that if I did live it would be evidence that I had murdered Skid. In that way, I would be put out of the way without him actually having to murder me. We really were good friends,” he ended thoughtfully, “and I can’t help feeling that he regrets what he was forced, through circumstances, to do.”

“It must have been quite a shock to both of them,” said Shayne, “to have you suddenly reappear in the flesh when they both thought you were dead. Or did Skid know he was still alive?” he asked Gentry.

“Marge says he did. She claims she told Skid the next day that she dressed Devlin in her husband’s old clothes and got him out of her place onto the street before he came to.”

“I don’t understand how just a blow on the head could make a man wake up feeling the way I did in that room,” Devlin said wonderingly. “I was so sure it was a horrible hang-over combined with the ship rolling on a rough sea at first.”

Shayne’s big mouth spread into a grin. “I expect it was the gin Joey Jerome drank before Marge sent him up to Skid. And maybe she spared you a little dope from her private supply.”

“You don’t look any too good yet,” drawled Gentry.

“Then we can assume that Thompson went berserk when he saw you and Skid together in that room,” Shayne mused. “He thought Skid had double-crossed him and was keeping you alive — holding you as a witness against him. In the fight that ensued he got hold of your blackjack and battered Skid’s head in.”

“Thompson will tell us the whole thing,” said Gentry confidently, “after we put the screws on.”

“What about Marge Jerome?” asked Shayne.

Gentry looked at Devlin and chuckled. “I don’t know what the charge will be against her. If you want to swear out a complaint of abduction — or seduction—?”

“Not I,” said Devlin hastily. “I don’t ever want to see her again.”

“One thing,” said Shayne, “still isn’t explained. How she got to work so early yesterday morning — in time to be so nice to me before you and Painter got to Thompson’s office.”

“Thompson telephoned her to get there fast. He recognized you, Shayne, after knocking you out when you caught him in the midst of messing up his own office. By that time he was getting plenty scared. He didn’t want the death of a detective added to the other things against him. He needed her to take care of you while he rushed away to plan the dramatic little scene he pulled later on.”

Arthur Devlin came slowly to his feet. “It seems to me the worst thing in the whole business was his killing Janet.” He stretched his arms, yawned widely, and added, “I’m going home and get some sleep.”

“I think a cruise in the Caribbean would do you a lot of good, Devlin,” Shayne called after him as he went toward the door.