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

Chapter six “Murder is my business.”

Michael Shayne was sound asleep. He roused when his phone rang in the outer room. He grunted and turned over on the second ring. On the fourth ring he swore under his breath and sat up. He had had an arrangement for several years with the night man on the switchboard in the apartment hotel. Three rings if the matter appeared to be trivial — a continuous assault on his eardrums if the night clerk deemed it important enough to waken him no matter how soundly he slept.

On the tenth ring Shayne yawned widely, switched on the light on his bedside table, and looked at his watch — 4:20 a.m. Not yet daylight, though there was a faint hint of dawn outside the bedroom window.

He lit a cigarette, and on the twelfth ring swung his long legs over the side of the bed and stood up, a bigboned, gaunt-faced man in tan cotton pajamas. He ran knobby fingers through his bristly red hair as he strode into the room which he maintained as an office and picked up the receiver.

The night clerk’s voice came immediately over the wire. “Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Shayne, but there’s a man here says he’s a friend of yours — in trouble.”

“What’s his name?”

“He doesn’t want to give me his name. You’d better talk to him, I reckon, Mr. Shayne. He’s got the look of a man in real trouble, I’d say.”

Shayne said, “All right, Ellis,” resignedly. “Put him on.” He puffed drowsily on his cigarette and waited.

“Michael Shayne? This is Arthur Devlin. I don’t know whether you remember me—”

“Devlin?” Shayne interrupted. “Insurance. Yeh. That Moody thing a couple of years ago. What’s the trouble this time?”

“It’s a personal matter. May I see you now?”

“Come on up.” He gave Devlin his apartment number and hung up, turned away tugging thoughtfully at his left earlobe. He remembered Arthur Devlin. During the Moody case he had judged him to be a clean-cut young fellow and a competent insurance adjuster. He had been very helpful on the case.

Shayne padded in bare feet to the front door and opened it wide, turned on the ceiling light on his way back to the bedroom to get a robe.

Devlin was standing in the doorway when he returned, the too-big felt hat pulled well down over his eyes. He stepped forward quickly, forcing a smile that quirked one side of his mouth upward. “I didn’t know where else to go, Shayne,” he said. “I didn’t know anyone else who might listen to me. I’m — afraid I killed a man last night.” Shayne’s gray eyes showed nothing of the shock he felt. He took Devlin’s outstretched hand in a firm clasp, keenly searching his face and noting the signs of near-hysteria in his whole expression. He said, “Murder is my business, Devlin. Have a seat.” He indicated a chair and pulled one up for himself.

“I didn’t want to disturb you at this hour of the morning,” Devlin began apologetically, “but—”

“Let’s have it,” Shayne interrupted. “What do you mean by saying you’re afraid you killed a man last night?”

“That’s it exactly.” Devlin’s voice was husky. He took off the felt hat and leaned forward to show Shayne the lump on his head. “I came to a little after midnight with this.” He touched the swelling gently. “I was alone in a furnished room with a dead man…”

His voice grew stronger and more assured as he recounted the story to Shayne. In the telling, part of the burden was shifted to Shayne’s wide shoulders, and the horror of it lessened. Shayne’s receptive expression and calm manner helped him, and he told the story in detail, with correct continuity, and ended by saying: “I really intended to give myself up to the police in spite of Doctor Thompson’s advice, Shayne. Or, if they came for me, I was determined to tell them the truth. Then I remembered you. I tried to phone you earlier, but the clerk said you were out. What — what do you make of it, Shayne?”

Shayne frowned heavily, crushed out a cigarette, and said, “One thing I don’t like at all is your medical friend’s diagnosis.”

“We’ve been friends for years. As I told you, I felt he was the only person I could go to. I’ve known Tommy ever since he hung out his shingle in Miami.”

“That’s what makes it look bad,” Shayne pointed out. “I know very little about the medical aspects of a case such as this. If he were just a doctor — some stranger passing an objective judgment — I’d be much less inclined to listen to him. Doctors are a queer breed. I’ve seen them make some bad mistakes while stubbornly insisting they know all about something they don’t understand at all. But if this man wanted to believe you — if he knows you and likes you, and yet—” Shayne flung out one big hand in a gesture that said, There you are. What can you expect me to believe?

“All I can do is tell you the truth,” said Devlin wretchedly. “It may upset all the dogmas of medical science,” he went on, rising to his feet and walking nervously around the room. “I don’t claim I’m insane. How would any man know when his mind has been blacked out for days?” he went on, his voice rising hysterically. “I simply say I’m telling you the truth as I know it. It’s up to you as a detective to discover what actually happened — and to a board of medical experts to decide on the effects of amnesia on a man’s mind. If there’s actually anything to this lie detector the police use, I’m not afraid to take the test.” He turned to face Shayne with agonized eyes, then slumped into his chair again.

Shayne was thoughtfully silent, a crease drawing his heavy red brows together. He said, abruptly, “Let me see that letter from the girl named Janet.”

Devlin took the envelope from his pocket and handed it over without a word. Shayne read it carefully, then asked, “Where is this cruise ship now?”

“At Key West. She’s due to anchor off Miami tomorrow to discharge passengers who joined the cruise here.”

“This girl — this Janet — what’s her last name?” He dropped the question casually.

Devlin looked at him quickly, surprised. “I’ve told you — I don’t know,” he said flatly. “I know it sounds crazy,” he went on, irritation creeping into his voice, “but it’s not really so queer that I’ve forgotten. There are a couple of letters from her in my office files — in the Masters file,” he amended.

“Bert Masters,” Shayne muttered. “I don’t believe I’ve ever met his wife. Was there anything queer about her death?”

“Nothing except that it seemed queer she’d commit suicide,” Devlin answered. “There seemed to be no motive, and she didn’t leave a note. People who knew her well can’t imagine why on earth she would take her own life. Lily was much younger than Bert,” he added.

“Did you know her well?”

“Fairly well. I’ve visited in their home a few times. I’ve known Bert Masters a long time — handled his insurance. It was quite natural that his wife came to me a couple of years ago when she wanted insurance.”

“How much?”

“Ten thousand. She made her sister the beneficiary.”

“Janet?”

“Why, yes. I thought I explained that was how I originally got in touch with her.”

“Then you must know her name,” Shayne insisted. “It was on the policy. Your company paid the money over to her.”

Devlin’s face lighted up as though a memory was breaking through. “Of course I remember her maiden name. It was Elwell — Janet Elwell—” He repeated the name over and over, sighed heavily, and said, “She married after the policy was issued and neglected to inform me or have the policy changed. After her sister’s death our New York office tried to get in touch with Janet Elwell at the address we had. It took them a couple of days to trace down her married name and find her.” He sighed again. “Her married name almost comes back to my mind — but I can’t grasp it.”

“Couldn’t Bert Masters tell you what it is?”

“I’m certain he could.”

“Do you know him well enough to wake him at this time of the morning to ask a favor?”

Devlin hesitated only momentarily, nodded, and said, “Of course, but I don’t like to call anybody at this—”

“Go to it.” Shayne motioned toward the telephone. “Tell him it’s extremely important that you have his wife’s sister’s married name at once. If we can get a message to her at Key West we might solve a lot of things fast.” He settled back and lit a cigarette while Devlin called.

Devlin asked, “Is this Bert Masters’s residence? I’d like to speak to Mr. Masters, please. It’s very important.”

He waited a moment, then said, “Is this Morgan? This is Arthur Devlin, Morgan. That’s right. Yes — I’m back, and I must talk to Mr. Masters.”

He listened again and his shoulders began to sag. “Maybe you could help me, Morgan,” he said. “I need to know the name of Mrs. Masters’s sister, Janet. Her married name.”

He waited, and after a moment said dejectedly, “I see. Of course, if you refuse to wake him.” His voice trailed off and he cradled the receiver.

“Who’s Morgan?” Shayne asked.

“Bert Masters’s secretary,” Devlin told him. “A rude, officious and overbearing person. He refused to bother Masters. I’ve never understood why on earth Masters keeps the man.”

“Her name is in your office file,” he reminded Devlin. “We could go there now and find it.” He started to his feet but Devlin shook his head.

“The office is closed and locked. I haven’t even a key to get in with,” he reminded the detective. “Can’t it wait until they open in the morning?”

“I suppose it will have to wait,” Shayne conceded. “Now, when Janet wrote you about her sister’s letter, exactly what did she say?”

“Not much. She didn’t know me personally, you see, and she was cautious about putting anything down on paper. She did say that Lily had mentioned my name once or twice — in friendly terms, I gathered — and she knew no one else with whom she might discuss her sister’s blackmailer. I replied somewhat guardedly, also, suggesting to Janet that she let me know more fully exactly what she suspected. In her second letter she mentioned the cruise she was going on, wondering if it would be possible for me to spend the evening with her aboard the ship while it was anchored off Miami.”

Devlin paused and Shayne asked sharply, “Are you going to tell me it was sheer coincidence that you were going to be on the cruise ship together?”

“No. I’m not going to tell you that.” Devlin flushed and he went on doggedly: “I didn’t decide to take the cruise until after receiving Janet’s letter. My vacation was coming up and I had no particular plans. The idea of a Caribbean cruise appealed to me, and — the tone of Janet’s letters — some indefinable part of herself that she managed to convey — gave me the impression that it would be pleasant sailing on a vacation cruise with her.”

“Without her husband?” Shayne asked idly.

The flush deepened on Devlin’s cheeks. “Haven’t I mentioned that she lost her husband? Less than a year after she married.”

“No,” said Shayne affably, “you didn’t mention that.” Devlin started to say something, but Shayne hurried on: “About Lily Masters’s death — you say you’re sure it was suicide, but without apparent motive? How did you feel about the question Janet raised — of reopening the case?”

“I was curious,” said Devlin slowly. “I wanted to see the letter Lily had written Janet before I passed judgment. From what Janet said I gathered her letter was vague and rambling. That wasn’t like Lily Masters at all,” he ended, his eyes puzzled and thoughtful.

“What I’m getting at is this,” said Shayne impatiently. He tapped the letter on his desk. “It’s quite evident that you — or someone posing as you — reassured her completely about her sister’s suicide. Could that man have been you — without your remembering it now?”

“Before God, Shayne, I don’t know. How can I know? And if it was not I — who was it?”

“Someone who knew enough about you and Lily Masters to convince the girl he was Arthur Devlin,” said Shayne promptly.

Devlin was aghast. “You mean it was done purposely? That someone slugged me the night of the party and went aboard to pose as me — just to reassure Janet and prevent a new investigation into her sister’s death?”

“That’s a possibility,” Shayne agreed. “Though not necessarily the motive. I do mean that the imposture could have been carried off successfully only by someone who knew you intimately — well enough to send Doctor Thompson the reassuring radiogram the next day. And probably by someone who knew Janet was aboard and had enough facts about Lily Masters to satisfy her.”

“Then you believe it was an impostor, Shayne. You don’t believe I was aboard the Belle — and left the cruise in Cuba without an explanation?”

“I don’t believe anything yet,” Shayne told him. “For a starting point, I’m willing to accept Doctor Thompson’s opinion that loss of memory could not be retroactive. So, if you’re telling the truth about all this, there must have been an impostor on board who convinced this Janet that he was Arthur Devlin.”

“Then prove it,” cried Devlin wildly.

“I’m willing to try. It’ll take some digging to find out exactly what happened after you passed out at the party.” Shayne opened a drawer, took out a pencil and a pad of paper. “Where was the party?”

“At Masters’s house on the Beach. It’s a big estate.”

“I know the place,” Shayne interrupted. “Who else was at the party?”

“Tommy. And Joe Engals. He’s a bookie, I guess. A great one for practical jokes. And Ryerson Thomas. Runs a night club on the Beach. Then there was Bill Pierson, a fellow insurance man, and Masters’s private secretary — Morgan is the only name I know for him.”

“All right. Now let’s go back to the girl who called you Joey on the telephone and asked if you had killed Skid. She told you her name was Marge?”

“That’s right. I didn’t tell Thompson about the phone call — about Marge — or the money,” he admitted. “Somehow they both seemed so horribly damning.”

“They are damning,” Shayne said flatly. “If you’re sure she recognized your voice correctly over the phone and that she has known you during the past several days as Joey.”

“Insofar as I know,” said Devlin, “that’s the way it is. You see, I went through that gray suit again after Tommy left and found a rent receipt wadded up in the change pocket.” He took the slip of paper from his pocket and handed it to Shayne with trembling hands.

Shayne spread it out and studied it. “And?”

“So I went there,” Devlin burst out. “To room two-oh-nine. She was there — waiting for me. Marge. She — it appears that I am married to her,” he ended weakly.

Shayne settled back with a grim smile twitching his wide mouth. “You must have worked fast while suffering from amnesia.”

“I don’t understand it at all,” Devlin confessed. “A girl like that.” He shuddered, clasping and unclasping his hands.

“Tell me all about her.”

Devlin tried, striving to recall every incident. He repeated the conversations as exactly as he could recall the words, including the fact that as Joey Jerome he had become a gin drinker. He described Marge and her emotions, her moods — told how he had felt drawn to her and yet repelled by her at the same time.

“I had to get away from there,” he ended wildly. “It’s perfectly clear that she exerted some uncanny power over me while I was blacked out, and that I went to meet that man with the intention of killing him. She’s no better than a murderess, and yet — yet—” He paused, covering his face with his hands.

“And yet you knew if you stayed there a few minutes more you’d bed down with her,” said Shayne harshly. “What of it? Sexual attraction hasn’t anything to do with moral character. In your normal state, even, you’re attracted by a woman like that, and disgusted with yourself for it, so it seems perfectly natural to me that she’s just the sort you might turn to in amnesia. She’ll be able to clear up one point,” he went on briskly. “When we learn exactly when you first met her we’ll probably know for sure whether you ever went aboard the boat.”

Devlin grew calmer under Shayne’s matter-of-fact acceptance of the situation. “I thought about that, but I didn’t know how to ask her. How do you go about asking your wife when you met her?” he ended with the semblance of a smile.

“You’re going on the theory that she doesn’t know you were in a state of amnesia when you met,” Shayne pointed out. “That may not be true at all. She may have been perfectly aware of it all the time and simply didn’t care. Several things she said indicate that: your lapses of memory and what she called ‘spells’ — the sickness that had caused you to sleep in different beds.”

“I hadn’t thought about it that way. Perhaps if I had had the courage to tell her the truth tonight — put her on the spot and make her tell me—”

Shayne shook his head emphatically. “It’s probably much better that you didn’t. I can see her today and find out more things without frightening her. Now: You mentioned a roll of money.”

“Ninety-nine one-hundred dollar bills.” Devlin took the roll from his pocket and handed it to the detective. “You can see the blood on the outside and realize how I felt when I found that in my pocket in the taxi — and not another dime. I took one of the bills and got the clerk at my apartment to change it.”

Shayne nodded, unrolling the bills and laying them out on the table. “And the shabby clothes you had on? You say you went through them carefully?”

“I went over every piece. There was absolutely nothing — no mark to identify a laundry or dry cleaner.”

“They’re still in your apartment?”

“Lying in a heap on the floor. All except this hat. I wore it to hide the lump on my head. I haven’t owned a hat for years.”

“I’ll have to get hold of those clothes,” said Shayne decisively. “They’ll have to be gone over by a police chemist.”

“The police?” asked Devlin anxiously.

Shayne nodded again. “Gentry has a lad who’s a modern miracle man. Let me have the key to your apartment.”

Devlin took it from his pocket and passed it to Shayne. “The clerk let me have the extra key. Mine was in the suit I was wearing that night.”

“Are there back stairs?” Shayne asked. “Any way that I can get up to your place without being seen by the clerk?”

“There’s a service entrance and stairs in the rear. And a fire escape at the rear door of each apartment.”

“Now let me have that rooming-house address again — the one where the dead man is.”

“Eight-nineteen Palmleaf Avenue,” Devlin told him. “The baldheaded man downstairs mentioned room three-oh-four, so I presume that’s the number.”

Shayne made a note of the address. His gaunt face was expressionless as he picked up the receiver and called a number, waited a moment, then said, “That you, Harry? Mike Shayne. Yeh, I’m really out after the worm this morning. Any homicides last night?”

He tugged at his left earlobe as he waited. Devlin watched him, fists clenched hard and his face white.

“Too bad,” Shayne said into the mouthpiece, “some ginzo didn’t get himself bumped just to keep you from being bored, Harry. And one more thing — any disturbance reported at eight nineteen Palmleaf?”

He listened again, nodding his head. “No particular reason for asking. Been playing with my ouiji board and must have got the wrong address.” He chuckled and added, “Being a quiet night, I suppose Chief Gentry is home sleeping off an overload of beer. Thanks, Harry.”

He hung up and immediately called for another number, looked reassuringly at his client and said, “Nothing at headquarters on the Skid Munroe murder. If I’m lucky—” He said into the mouthpiece, “Will? Mike Shayne. Can you meet me on Palmleaf Avenue in about half an hour?”

Arthur Devlin sprang up angrily, his face white and his lips drawn tight. “Damn you,” he sobbed, “I thought I could trust you. I should have known—”

Shayne’s gray eyes were blazing. “Hold it just a minute, Will. There’s a little misunderstanding here.” He put a big hand over the mouthpiece and said, “What kind of an act is this, Devlin?” His voice was hard and cold.

“I thought you believed me,” Devlin cried angrily. “I thought you were taking my case as a private detective, but you called the police. That was Chief Will Gentry you were talking to.”

“So what?” Shayne’s tone was harsh and uncompromising.

“Is that any way to help me?” Devlin asked shrilly. “Sick the police on me? I told you they’d be after me as soon as the body was discovered and the taxi driver heard the story.”

“So what?” Shayne demanded again.

“I thought you’d cover up for me — go there and move the body. Anything except tell the police about it.” Devlin slumped down and covered his face with his hands.

Shayne’s eyes were bleak as he gazed at the slumped, quivering body. He said, quietly, “I’ll handle things my way or not at all, Devlin. Either you pull yourself together and keep your mouth shut while I make this call, or get out of my apartment.”

“Where will I go if I leave here?” he moaned. “What can I do?”

“That,” said Shayne, “is for you to decide. Make up your mind fast. Do I tell Gentry it was all a mistake and apologize for waking him up?”

“I–I—” Devlin sputtered through chattering teeth, dragging himself up straight. “Handle — it your way, Shayne,” he said, calming his voice with an effort. “I’m in your hands.”

“All right.” Shayne took his hand from the mouthpiece and said, “Sorry to keep you waiting, Will. Eight-nineteen Palmleaf Avenue. I’ll meet you there in thirty minutes.” He paused to listen, then growled, “You know I wouldn’t do this if it weren’t important. And Will — as soon as you hang up call headquarters and put a call on the short wave for the cabby who picked up a fare close to the Palmleaf address a little after midnight. Ask him to report in. A lot of those all-night hacks tune in police calls.” He cradled the receiver and got up and strode into the bedroom without a glance at his client.

Devlin sat stiffly erect, his red-rimmed eyes staring vacantly into space. Presently he got up and went to the bedroom door. Shayne had his trousers on and was buckling his belt.

“You really are cutting the ground from under me, aren’t you, Shayne?” he said. “If you had let things take their normal course the cab driver wouldn’t have read about the murder until this afternoon at the earliest.”

Shayne flung a tie around his neck and started tying it. “Do you want me to handle this or don’t you?” he growled.

“I do want you to,” Devlin told him. “You must have some reason—”

“Keep on thinking that,” said Shayne cheerfully. “It’ll save wear and tear on your nervous system.” He sat down on the bed and put his shoes on. “I’m not in the habit of explaining, Devlin, but I’ll do it this once because you’re so upset. If you’ve lied to me about this, God help you. But if you’ve told the truth, the best thing is for me to get in on it fast. I’ll get a lot more working with the police. Sure I want you traced to your apartment. I want Doctor Thompson traced so we can hear his story. This way, I can get the cops to do it for me without letting them know I represent you or where you are.”

“Everyone,” said Devlin, “will know where I am in a few hours. When a man is charged with murder it doesn’t remain a secret very long.”

Shayne got up to get his coat. “You won’t be arrested if you listen to me,” he told Devlin. “Stay here. There’s food in the kitchen, cigarettes and liquor. Don’t get drunk. Don’t open the door and don’t answer the phone. If you hear anyone at the door, come in the bedroom and close the door and be quiet.” He was moving about, talking swiftly, putting cigarettes and change in his pockets. He brushed past Devlin into the living-room, stopped to pick up the felt hat Devlin had worn, grabbed his own slouch hat from a hook near the door and went out hastily, leaving Arthur Devlin standing dazedly in the middle of the room trying to stammer his apologies and his thanks.

A crimson glow rimmed the eastern horizon when Shayne backed his car out of the hotel garage and drove rapidly across the causeway to the Clairmount Apartments. With only thirty minutes’ leeway before he was to meet Gentry on Palmleaf Avenue he was cutting it pretty fine, but he had his own reasons for wanting to pick up the clothing at Devlin’s place before the official investigation led the police there.

By taking the curves on the Venetian Causeway at fifty miles an hour he reached the Clairmount twelve minutes after leaving Devlin, parked down the street past the alley where an arrow pointed in and read Service Entrance.

He found the stairway at the extreme rear and climbed the two flights without being seen, went down the corridor to 3-B, and unlocked the door. After turning on the living-room lights he looked over the room reflectively.

The furniture and appointments were moderately expensive and masculine, the sort of neutral, unobtrusive background a man such as the Arthur Devlin he had met two years ago would select. He had come to realize that a lot could be learned about a man’s real personality by viewing his living-quarters.

He crossed the room and went into the bedroom. The discarded clothing lay in a pile on the floor beside the bed. He found a folded piece of brown paper in a partially denuded closet, opened it up and dumped the clothes onto it, and looked around for a piece of string. In one of the desk drawers in the living-room there was half a ball of twine. He went back to the bedroom and folded the clothing into a neat package and was tying the last knot when he heard a peculiar sound that caused him to stop and jerk his head around.

It came again. A faint and almost ghostly tapping in the early morning silence. Shayne straightened up and strode into the living-room, every sense alert as he went toward the front door and listened.

The sound came again, faint, cautious, and definitely from the rear door. He remembered then what Devlin had said about the fire escape. Shayne went on tiptoe toward the tapping, stopped to switch on the kitchen light, then moved across the linoleum to the door. There was a key in the lock. He put his hand on the key, leaned close to the crack, and said loudly, “What is it?”

“Devlin!” A harsh whisper came back. “Let me in. Quickly.”

Shayne turned the key and the knob at the same time. As the latch clicked the weight of a man’s body drove the door back hard against Shayne, catching him off balance and sending him back against the kitchen wall.

The intruder stopped in mid-stride with a gasp of astonishment when he saw the redhead’s face. He was squarely built and heavy-set. A Panama hat was pulled low over spectacled eyes and the upturned collar of a swagger raincoat effectually hid the lower portion of his face.

For a fleeting moment they stared into each other’s eyes with not more than a foot of space separating them. Then, as Shayne righted himself and gained his balance, the man whirled and leaped nimbly through the opening and jerked the door shut behind him.

Shayne sprang forward with a curse and opened the door, stepped out onto the steel landing of the fire escape, and looked down as the clatter of retreating footsteps came up through the silence. The man had almost reached the ground, plunging downward two steps at a time and with no regard for the noise he made.

With a grimace of disgust at his clumsiness, Shayne reentered the kitchen and locked the door.

Most of his allotted thirty minutes had been used up and he didn’t want to keep Gentry waiting. There was a nightmarish quality about the whole incident that would have been ridiculous if Shayne hadn’t felt it might be very important to know the identity of Devlin’s early morning visitor. But there was nothing to be done about it now, so he finished tying the bundle of clothing, tucked it under his arm, and went down the back stairs to his car.