Death Has Three Lives

Chapter Four

Michael Shayne’s car was parked in front of Lucy’s apartment house, and he gunned it around in a U-Turn with wholly unnecessary violence to head toward the 18th Street address he had been given when he made the anonymous call to police headquarters. He was seething inwardly, and his big hands gripped the wheel hard as he sent the heavy car leaping crosstown. Inside, he was all mixed up and in a turmoil about his feelings toward Lucy.

Part of his anger, he tried to tell himself honestly, was probably jealousy. He just didn’t know. He’d never taken time out to objectively define his feelings toward his secretary. Until tonight, he hadn’t’ realized just how possessive they were. When this was over, he promised himself, he’d sit down quietly with a long drink and think things out. But right now he had inadvertently assisted her to help a suspected murderer escape, and the pressing thing was to rectify that as best he could.

The Northwest section where the murder had occurred was one of the older sections of the city, one of the better residential sections many years previously, consisting mostly of old two and three-story residences which had beep converted into rooming-houses to meet the servant problem and the high cost of upkeep.

The block that Shayne sought was quiet and tree-shaded, inadequately lighted with street lamps two blocks apart.

Half a dozen police cars and an ambulance were parked at the curb in front of a big house near the center of the block. Little groups of curious onlookers were gathered on the sidewalk, and two uniformed men were in the street impatiently waving traffic onward.

As Shayne slid past slowly, he noted Chief Will Gentry’s private car wedged between two radio cars. His features tightened, and he continued to the end of the block, pulling in unobtrusively to the curb in the deep shadow of two trees.

He got out and sauntered back, wondering how best to explain his own interest in the case without revealing the truth about Jack Bristow. A policeman stood at the head of the walk leaning in to the house, waving back those morbidly curious who were intent on getting closer, and he recognized the redhead with a grin when Shayne came up.

“Chief Gentry’s inside, Mr. Shayne. You mixed up in this?”

Shayne halted and shook his head. “Heard a radio broadcast and was just driving by.” He dropped his voice. “You know the name of the girl that got it?”

“Heard someone say they called her Trixie.” The policeman lowered his left eyelid lewdly. “One of your girl friends?”

Shayne grinned and managed to look slightly abashed and a good deal relieved. “Trixie, eh? No friend of mine, thank God. How did it happen?”

“Nobody knows much, I guess. Another girl found her dead about an hour ago. Is this here a cat-house like they say?”

Shayne grinned and shrugged. “As if I’d know anything about that.” He slapped the man on the shoulder as a squat figure in plain clothes stepped out the front door and lit a cigarette. He said, “There’s Bentley just come out. Mind if I ask him about it?”

“Go ahead. Stand back, the rest of you,” ordered the patrolman as Shayne sauntered up the walk. “Nobody goes in that hasn’t got business.”

Detective Bentley scowled as Shayne walked up. “What’s on your mind, shamus?”

“Used to know one of the girls who lived here,” Shayne told him mildly. “She was a good kid and I hoped nothing had happened to her.”

“This one is new, I guess. Only been here a few weeks. Name of Trixie.” The detective drew in a deep gulp of smoke and exhaled slowly. “Not more’n twenty, by God. Supposed to be occupying the room alone, but looks like she was keeping a man with her.”

“He do it?”

“Nobody knows from nothing. He’s missing. May be the one a taxi driver reported picking up in front of here who acted hurt and left blood in the cab when he got out. Chief’s in there now. You got any ideas?”

Michael Shayne shook his head slowly. “Just so her name wasn’t Adele. Think she shot the guy while he was choking her?”

“Nothing to show it,” grunted Bentley. “No one heard a shot and no evidence a gun was fired in the room. But hell,” he went on disgustedly, “no one hears a damn thing in a joint like this. Girl gets beat up by some drunken bum, nobody interferes.”

Shayne agreed idly that it was tough on Homicide to work on a case like that, and when the detective spun his cigarette butt away and turned to re-enter, Shayne told him good night and crossed the lawn to walk toward his car.

As he neared the corner, he heard the light, fast clack of high heels on the sidewalk behind him. He crossed the street slowly and she came up behind him as he reached the shadows on the other side. A low, tremulous voice said, “Wait a minute, mister,” and Shayne turned to see a small, pinched face with big eyes and an over-lipsticked mouth.

She was thin and young and shabbily dressed in a gray sweater and short tweed skirt, and thin fingers clutched tightly at his forearm as she said, “I saw you talking to the cops back there. What’s happened? Nobody seems to know. For the love of holy Christ, mister, tell me what’s happened?”

Shayne looked down at her consideringly. “Why don’t you ask the police?”

“I can’t. I’m afraid to.” Her thin voice rose abjectly. “You know how cops are. They’d ask me all sorts of questions. Just tell me, mister. I saw the ambulance. Is there somebody — killed?”

Shayne said, “Here’s my car.” He opened the door and put a big hand under her elbow to urge her in. “Why don’t we go some place for a drink and talk about it?”

“Tell me one thing first.” Her voice was fierce. “Who was it? I got to know.”

Shayne closed her door firmly and went around to slide under the wheel beside her. “A girl who called herself Trixie was strangled there tonight.”

“Oh!” She exhaled a great sigh of relief and slumped limply back against the cushion. “Thank God, mister. I just didn’t know. You see, I’m a stranger here. Just hit town tonight. I didn’t know — what to do.” Her voice cracked on the final words and she compressed her garish lips tightly.

Shayne started the motor and the big car pulled ahead smoothly. “Where are you from?”

“New Orleans. I hitchhiked all the way. Look, mister, I’m just about nuts. I don’t know what to do. I was to meet my husband there tonight, see? We fixed it up two days ago. I had that address, and he promised to meet me there outside if I made it by tonight. So when I got there, there was cops all around. I was afraid to ask questions, and I just didn’t know. If he was there waiting and saw the cops, he’d of blown. So, now what do I do? How’ll I ever find him now?” Tears ran down her pinched cheeks and she made no move to wipe them away.

Shayne turned south on an avenue without saying anything, and stopped in front of a bar and lunchroom a few blocks away. He said gruffly, “Let’s go in and talk it over. Maybe I can think of some way to help.”

She laxly let him help her out, and went in beside him. There were a few men at the bar, an empty booth at the rear. Shayne steered her into it, told the waiter to bring him a double brandy and ice-water, and looked inquiringly at the girl across from him.

She looked doubtful and frightened and said, “I don’t drink much. I dunno — on an empty stomach—” Her voice trailed off thinly.

She was under twenty, Shayne thought, obviously undernourished and anemic. She would be quite pretty, he thought, with the hollows in her cheeks filled out, and her gray eyes were nice though now they were hauntingly remindful of those of a wounded fawn.

He said, “Better have something to eat first. Bring us a menu, waiter.”

“If I could just have a sandwich,” she said doubtfully. “And maybe a glass of milk. But I’m flat broke,” she went on fiercely with a swift pride in her voice, “and I can’t pay you back until I find my husband, and I don’t want you to be thinking—”

Shayne said, “I’m not thinking anything. How about hot roast beef — a couple of them,” he told the waiter when she nodded eagerly, “and a big glass of milk.”

“I don’t suppose you know how it is with a girl out on the road.” She dropped her eyelids and clenched her hands together tightly on the table in front of her. Her voice was low and throbbed with a genuine note of desperation. “Every man that picks you up thinks — you know? And if you let ’em buy you a meal they think they’ve bought you.” She paused and gulped, still with downcast lids. “I never... I never did try hitchhiking before. I don’t want you to think—”

“I’m not thinking anything,” Shayne told her heartily as the waiter set a platter in front of her with two open beef sandwiches smothered in steaming gravy, “except that you’ll feel better after a little food. And it’s not going to cost me any more than the price of a drink, so forget it.” He settled back and lifted his double brandy while she grasped her fork and wolfed into the food, washing it down with long gulps of milk.

He ordered her a second glass of milk, and she emptied that and scraped her plate clean before another word was spoken between them. She sighed deeply and rested both elbows on the table and confessed with a little-girl grimace, “That’s the first I had since a doughnut this morning. Honest, mister, I never was so hungry in all my life. I just thought if I could wait until tonight and meet — my husband — like he promised, that everything would be all right. He’s got plenty money,” she went on proudly. “He’ll pay you back double, I promise you that.”

“Is Jack in some trouble with the police?”

“Ja — ak?” Shayne couldn’t tell whether her involuntary start was from surprise or fear. “What do you mean — Jack?”

“Didn’t you say that was your husband’s name?”

“I didn’t say,” she told him with dignity. “Anyhow, it isn’t Jack. It’s — Pete. Peter Smith,” she added bravely. “And he’s not in any real trouble at all. It’s just that — you know how cops are. A person’s a stranger in town, he doesn’t want to get mixed up in a murder. If he was hanging around waiting for me, would they believe him?” Her lips curled derisively. “You bet they wouldn’t. They’d drag him right off to the hoosegow and work him over with rubber hoses and like that. They treat you different if you’re respectable and all.”

Shayne said, “I’ve heard about things like that, and I think it’s a lousy deal. The thing is now — what are you going to do about meeting your husband? Sure you don’t know any other place you might contact him?”

She shook her head decidedly. “I just had that one address. We fixed it up over the phone that I was to come, and the way he talked I thought he had a friend lived there. Neither of us have ever been in Miami before and he didn’t know where else to say. I guess I’ll just have to go back and hang around outside until he shows.”

Shayne shook his head. “That won’t be good unless you want to be picked up for questioning. There’ll be police staked out all around there tonight.”

“I don’t know what else I can do,” she said forlornly, tears creeping from her eyes again. “Why did it have to happen tonight? What’ll he think? What’ll he do when he can’t find me?”

“Under the circumstances, I should think he’d wait until tomorrow morning when it won’t look suspicious to be seen hanging around there — and expect you to do the same. Things will look better in the morning after you’ve had a good night’s sleep.”

“But I’m broke like I told your. I don’t know where—”

Shayne said easily, “I’ll stake you to a room for the night.”

“I couldn’t — not after all this.” She gestured toward the empty platter and glasses.

“Don’t be silly.” He made his voice sound fatherly and quite indulgent. “You can repay me after you’ve found your Pete. No strings attached,” he went on briskly, glancing at the check and laying bills atop it. “If my wife were wandering around a strange city, I’d hope some man would do the same for her.”

She looked at him with shining eyes. “I do believe you mean it. I thought every man—”

“Not every man,” he assured her. He got up and took her arm firmly to lead her out to his car. He got in and suggested, “Without any luggage, a tourist court is your best bet to avoid embarrassment. There are nice ones right on the edge of town.”

“Whatever you say.” She sighed and relaxed with her shoulder just touching his. “I was so frightened back there. I guess I just about went crazy. I couldn’t think what to do. All I could think of was... was—”

“Pete,” supplied Shayne without looking at her.

“Was Pete worrying about where I was,” she accepted quickly. “Me without a penny and not knowing where I’d ever find him again.”

Shayne drove east to Biscayne Boulevard and turned north in quest of a tourist cabin where he could install the self-styled Mrs. Peter Smith for the night. He didn’t know where or how she fitted into the picture — or whether she actually fitted in at all, but he had a strong hunch she did somehow. The wounded and missing Jack Bristow was from New Orleans according to Lucy, and this girl had just arrived from that city. It had been prearranged that she should meet her husband in front of the house where a murder had occurred, and from which spot Jack (with a bullet wound in his belly) had been picked up by a taxi about the time she had expected to meet him.

Strictly speaking, he knew he should turn the girl over to the police for questioning at once. But he was pretty much on the spot on that score. If, as he suspected, it was Jack Bristow whom she had planned to meet, the whole matter of Lucy’s hiding Jack in her bedroom, and of his unwittingly allowing the wounded man to escape by refusing the police entrance to Lucy’s apartment would certainly have to come out in the open if he gave her to the police now.

And he wasn’t ready, yet, for that to come out. Not until he was satisfied in his own mind that Jack Bristow was a murderer. In that case, it would have to, of course. From what Jack had told Lucy, it was quite evident that he was in some sort of trouble and wished to avoid contact with the police. That tied in with this girl’s words and actions. Although she had denied that her “Pete” had reason to fear the police, Shayne didn’t believe her for an instant. Just being a stranger in town and meeting by prearrangement at an address where a murder happened to occur didn’t put one under police suspicion.

Mostly, he believed she had told the truth. The few lies she had told had been rather transparent falsehoods. It couldn’t do any real harm, he reasoned, to put her on ice for a few hours while he investigated a little more. One thing he was certain about was that she had no money. No one could have watched her clean up her plate and swig down two glasses of milk and doubt that fact. So she would certainly stay put wherever he left her for at least the night, and by the next morning he would know better what to do with her.

He turned his car in at the first nice-looking motel that had a lighted Vacancy sign out, pulled up in front of the Office sign, and honked lightly. A man hurried out and came around to his side, saying cheerfully, “A cabin? Yes, sir. Got just one left. You want to pull ahead to number six, you and the missus can take a look.”

Shayne drove slowly to number six with the man walking beside him. Neither he nor the girl said anything as the man turned on the light and they got out. He let her precede him into a large, clean room with a double bed and shower bath, and he stopped in the doorway and asked, “Look all right to you?”

She turned slowly, biting her underlip and with a desolated expression on her pinched face, said, “I... guess so.”

“Seven dollars for the two,” announced a brisk voice at Shayne’s elbow. “You wanta come over to the office and register?”

Shayne left his car in front and walked back to sign the register, Mr. and Mrs. Peter Smith, Homestead, Florida, and to write down the make and license number of his car. He paid seven dollars and received a key and the information that if they stayed past noon the next day they would be charged for another night.

He said good night and went back to enter the room where the girl from New Orleans sat on the edge of the bed with her face in her hands. He laid the key on the dressing table and told her flatly, “We’re registered as Mr. and Mrs. Peter Smith of Homestead, Florida. There’s the key. Lock the door behind me and get a good night’s sleep. I’ll drop around in the morning to buy you some breakfast and take you wherever you want to go.”

She dragged her hands away from her face and looked up at him with a dazed expression as though she hadn’t understood him.

“You — you’re not — staying?” she faltered. “When you went ahead and pretended we were married—”

Shayne laughed shortly and turned to the door. “Get it out of your young head that every man in the world wants to make you. I registered like that to save questions and embarrassment. See you in the morning.” He went out, pulling the door shut behind him with unnecessary force, got in his car, and drove back to Lucy’s place.