Dividend on Death

CHAPTER 10

An intern helped Shayne get his clothes on the next morning. His wounds had been freshly dressed, and it was evident that no complications were likely. His collarbone and shoulder were in a plaster cast, his right arm in a sling.

With the exception of a painfully stiff right side Shayne felt pretty good. He bummed a ride in an ambulance to the corner of Flagler Street and Second Avenue, where he bought a morning Herald and sauntered up to Child’s Restaurant for breakfast. Ordering bacon and eggs, buttered toast, and lots of coffee, he spread the newspaper out with his left hand and began to catch up on the events of last night.

The murder of Charlotte Hunt had pushed the attack on Michael Shayne out of the headlines, for which he was duly grateful. He read the account of her death slowly and with great care, grimacing at the repeated mention of a possible love angle and the reiterated assumption that she was returning from an assignation in Miami when killed.

The only real basis for this assumption was the small caliber of the “death weapon,” which suggested a woman and probable jealousy. It wasn’t much but it was all the authorities had to work on. At the time of going to press the taxi driver who brought her home had not been located, having driven away from the estate before his passenger was murdered. Peter Painter was prominently quoted as positively asserting the murder would be solved as soon as the driver was located and it was learned from him where he had picked up the nurse for her last ride.

There was nothing at all in the front-page story to indicate the police believed there was any connection between the murders of Mrs. Brighton and Charlotte Hunt, but merely a brief paragraph commenting on the apparent coincidence of the two deaths. Another brief item on the front page mentioned that Phyllis Brighton had not yet been apprehended and was still being sought for questioning in connection with her mother’s murder.

The waitress brought Shayne’s order as he began reading a somewhat casual account of the attack upon him. According to the story, newspaper reporters had been turned away from the hospital where he lay at the point of death. There were no clues to the identity of his attackers except their method, which pointed to a gang reprisal. Mention was briefly made of his anti-criminal activities, and it was suggested that he had been put on the spot by persons whose enmity he had aroused in the past.

Shayne munched a piece of toast and ate a strip of bacon as he turned to the second page which was given to pictures of the Brighton estate and photographs of the various persons involved in the two killings, together with statements by local and state officials. The state, it appeared further, offered a thousand-dollar reward for the arrest of Mrs. Brighton’s murderer or murderers. Shayne chuckled aloud as he read another lengthy, obviously dictated statement by Peter Painter promising an immediate arrest and offering two hundred and fifty dollars as a personal reward for information leading to the apprehension of the miscreant or miscreants. But his face was grim as he laid the paper down and belatedly went on to eat the rest of his breakfast. He reflected that things were beginning to get interesting. There had been over a grand laid on the line so far. And those offers, he reminded himself, had all been made before the second murder. If they hooked the two killings together and still didn’t get an arrest, he calculated the chances were good for the amount of the rewards being doubled.

When he had finished his eggs and ordered more coffee he turned to the editorial page. A scathing editorial there took cognizance of the double murder on the Beach; asked pointedly if there might not be some connection between the two; and sarcastically inquired what, if anything, the man in charge of the Beach detective force intended to do to make the lives of the other residents safe.

Shayne pushed the paper aside and chuckled grimly. He drank his second cup of coffee, paid his bill, and went out. It was only a block and a half to his hotel.

The staff and guests of the building gathered excitedly about him in the lobby, but he brushed aside their questions with the smiling assertion that he would live and that he was on the trail of the persons who had shot him down.

There was a lengthy night letter in his mailbox. He read it as he went up on the elevator. It was from a customs officer in Laredo, Texas.

HENDERSON ARRIVED LAST EVENING BY TRAIN AND CHARTERED PRIVATE PLANE TO CONTINUE TRIP TO JACKSONVILLE FLORIDA WHERE HE WILL MAKE CONNECTIONS WITH PAN AMERICAN AT NOON TO MIAMI STOP HE DECLARED FOR ENTRY ONE PAINTING VALUE FIVE HUNDRED BY R M ROBERTSON WHO IS WELL KNOWN IN ART CIRCLES AS IMITATOR OF RAPHAELS WORK STOP COMMUNICATE IF I CAN HELP FURTHER

Shayne unlocked his door, went into his apartment, and laid the message on the table. Everything was as he had left it last night. His first, almost inevitable action was to go to the cabinet and take a stiff drink of cognac. After that he sat down, uncomfortably, and lit a cigarette. Things were evidently coming to a head, but the pattern as he saw it didn’t make any sense. After a time he read the message carefully a second time, then got up and went to his coat in a closet. There he got the cablegram he had taken from Mrs. Brighton’s handbag the night of her death. Back at the table he laid the messages side by side and read first one and then the other while he finished his cigarette. Finally he got up decisively and went to the telephone.

He called a number and waited. A hoarse, accented voice answered. He said, “Tony? This is Mike-Shayne.”

“Mike? I read in the papers that you was dead, maybe.”

“Not quite. I’ve got a job for you, Tony. Get this straight. It’s plenty important.”

“Yeah. I get it, Mike.”

“There’s a man named Henderson coming in on the Pan American plane that leaves Jacksonville at noon. You can check on what time it gets in here.”

“I’m listening.”

“He may not be using his right name on the passenger list. I’ll leave a picture of him in an envelope in my mailbox downstairs. You can pick it up this morning. There’ll also be five C’s in the envelope. This guy has got a painting that’s worth that much to me. Get it from him and leave it down at the desk for me.”

“A painting, boss?”

“Sure. A picture. You know-painted on canvas.”

“What kinda picture, boss?”

“Hell, I don’t know. Maybe it’ll be a picture of a man, maybe a mule. Or a mountain, or maybe a Goddamned apple. He’ll only have one picture with him. Get it for me.”

“Yeah.” Tony sounded doubtful. “Is it a big picture? In a swell frame, maybe?”

“I don’t know. It may not even be framed. It doesn’t matter. Doesn’t half a grand talk?”

“Oh, sure, boss. I get it for you. No rough stuff, huh?”

“No more than necessary. I don’t want him hurt. And don’t, for God’s sake, let me show in it at all.”

“Oh, sure not. You know me, Mike.”

“Yeah. I know you. That’s the reason I’m warning you to go easy. This is dynamite, Tony.”

The voice assured him again that he would be very careful in carrying out the assignment, and Shayne hung up.

He took another drink, put the cablegram and telegram in his pocket, got the photograph of D. Q. Henderson which Gordon had given him and the two bills which the square-faced man had paid him as a retainer. Going down to the desk he got an envelope and scrawled Tony on the front of it with his left hand. Putting Henderson’s picture inside, he passed the unsealed envelope and the two thousand-dollar bills across to the clerk.

“Get one of those bills broken and put five hundred in the envelope and seal it,” he directed. “Leave the envelope in my box for a mug named Tony who will be in to get it sometime this morning. Put the other fifteen hundred bucks in the safe for me. Tony is supposed to leave a package for me sometime this afternoon. I don’t know how big it’ll be. Put it in the safe if it’s not too big-and put it some place where it’ll be safe if it’s too big.”

“I understand, Mr. Shayne.” The clerk took the envelope and the two bills.

“And forget it,” Shayne instructed further.

The clerk said he would, and Shayne went out to the hotel garage and got into his car. By devious maneuvering he backed it out with only his left hand, got it in second gear and left it there until he had passed all the traffic lights and was headed north on Biscayne Boulevard.

Then he shifted to high and drove across the causeway to Miami Beach.

At the Brighton estate he parked his car where he had on previous occasions, but did not go up to the front door. He followed the driveway instead, going along the south side of the house to the garage. One of the doors stood open, and he could see a car inside, but the chauffeur did not make an appearance as Shayne stalked directly to the stairway and climbed up to the chauffeur’s quarters.

He tried the knob at the top without knocking. The door opened inward. He went in and looked around. It was not a large room, plainly furnished with an old couch, several chairs, and a rough writing-desk.

Two doors opened off the rear of the room. The one on the right was closed. The other stood open.

He went to the open door and peered in at an accumulation of odds and ends of discarded and broken furniture. Grimy rear windows looked out over the Atlantic Ocean, and cobwebs were festooned on the ceiling and walls. A thick layer of dust lay on all pieces of furniture.

There was a small clear space directly in front of the door. It had been swept clean of dust very recently.

Shayne stood on the threshold and studied the interior of the room a long time, finally getting down on his knees and examining faint scratches on the newly swept boards. They extended across the threshold, and he moved out on his knees, following the dim marks across the floor to the outer door. They appeared to have been made by dragging some heavy object recently from the storeroom out to the steps.

He got up, dusted off his knees, went to the closed door and jerked it open.

It was Oscar’s bedroom, but the chauffeur was not to be seen.

Shayne went in and looked things over. It was furnished with a single bed, an old dresser, two straight chairs, and there was a lavatory in one corner. A closet in another corner held two cheap suits, an overcoat, a raincoat, a chauffeur’s uniform, and a pair of much-washed coveralls. There was a cobweb clinging to one of the coverall sleeves, and the knees were dirt-stained since it had been laundered. Shayne knelt stiffly and turned down the wide cuff at the bottom. Sand spilled out. Not dirt. Fresh, clean beach sand.

Shayne backed out of the closet, breathing hard. A wooden tool chest stood at the foot of the bed. It opened readily. Inside was a bewildering assortment of wrenches, hammers, hacksaws, and the accumulated nuts, bolts, and odds and ends which a mechanic tosses into his tool chest. Shayne fumbled through them, lifted out a cloth-wrapped roll which he untied and spread out on the floor. His expression did not change as he found himself looking down at a complete set of burglar’s tools.

He tied the roll up again, replaced it, and put down the lid. In the front room, he hesitated a moment, then went out. A deep scratch led from the doorway to the top of the stairs.

He started down and saw Oscar come around the corner of the garage. The chauffeur stopped and stared when he saw Shayne.

The detective paused on the bottom step and awkwardly got a cigarette between his lips with his left hand. He lit it as Oscar moved nearer.

Oscar’s face was a curious study in conflicting emotions. Fear and anger were there, but they were overlaid by a placating smile. He wet his thick lips, and his gaze was fixed on Shayne’s injured arm in its sling.

“Say,” he rumbled, “I didn’t do that, did I?” All of Shayne’s face except his eyes smiled. He said, “I don’t know. Did you?”

He stepped off onto the ground and looked levelly into the eyes of the man who had kicked him in the face yesterday.

“I-didn’t think so,” Oscar mumbled. “I didn’t see that your arm was hurt when I left you in your car on the causeway.”

Shayne said placidly, “Your foot’s pretty heavy, Oscar. It’s dangerous business, kicking people around like that. You can’t tell what complications will develop.” The smile left his face. His nostrils flared at the base as his breath came faster.

“Well, say, I–I guess I got mad yesterday.” He dropped his gaze. “I-hadn’t oughtta done that.”

“No,” said Shayne softly, “you really hadn’t oughtta, Oscar.”

“Well, I–I’m sorry.”

“You’re going to be a hell of a lot sorrier,” Shayne said in the same level tone.

Oscar’s big hands doubled into fists, and he took a step forward.

Shayne said, “Better not, Oscar. Don’t push your luck too far.”

“I hate cops that come messing around,” Oscar said heavily.

“I hate lugs who don’t keep their feet where they belong.” Shayne turned and went toward the house while Oscar stood and looked after him with his mouth open.

Going in the rear door, Shayne passed an open door leading in the kitchen. He stopped and spoke to a fat Negress who was rolling out pie crusts and humming “Jesus Loves Me.”

“Hello, Mammy. I’m looking for the gardener.”

She ceased humming and rolled her eyes at him. “Dey ain’ no gahdner heah dat I knows ’bout.”

“Who takes care of the lawn and flowers? Does the chauffeur do it?”

“Dat Oscah man? Lawsy, no.” Her fat body shook with mirth. “He don’ do nuffin, ’cep’ walk aroun’ lookin’ mad an’ skeerin’ folkses.”

He thanked her and went on thoughtfully, meeting no one on his way to the library where he peered in. Clarence was sprawled out in a deep chair with his back to the door. Shayne stepped back and went on without being observed. He went up the rear stairway that Phyllis had shown him that first night. At the top he stopped and listened. An oppressive silence gripped the house. A heavy, unnatural silence. The silence of death, Shayne told himself wryly.

He went quietly down to the sickroom at the end of the hall and opened the door without knocking. A girl in a nurse’s uniform was sitting in a rocking chair by the window.

She didn’t hear the door open. She was leaning forward with her chin in the palm of her hand, looking out the window. Shayne stood there staring at her profile. It was a nice profile but that wasn’t why he stared. There was something strikingly familiar about her. He didn’t know where he had seen her before, but he knew it was important.

She turned to face him as he stepped inside then sprang up briskly.

Shayne recognized her as soon as he saw her full face. The severe white uniform made quite a difference, but it could not wholly disguise her. The absence of make-up also gave her a much younger, fresher appearance than when he had seen her before, but there wasn’t any doubt in his mind concerning her identity. She was the girl whose reflection he had seen in the mirror in suite 614 of The Everglades. The girl who was registered as Mr. Ray Gordon’s daughter.

It was a little too much for Shayne to digest all at once. He stood and stared at her and wondered what the hell while she tilted her head and moved toward him.

She said, “No visitors are allowed here. The patient is very ill,” in a controlled tone which managed, somehow, to be brisk and hard at the same time.

Shayne leaned against the door, studying her eyes and trying to determine whether she recognized him or not. It was impossible to deduce anything from them; they were curiously light, hazel he supposed, of the type incapable of expressing any emotion. Her manner was grave, professional, and questioning. She was, Shayne mentally conceded, a hell of a good actress if she recognized him.

He said, “Are you the new nurse-replacing Miss Hunt?”

“Yes.” She kept her voice low, coming close to him and making a gesture of caution toward the screen behind which the sick man lay.

“I’m Shayne,” he told her. “The detective who is supposed to keep people from getting killed around here.”

She did not smile pleasantly at this. Her manner indicated that she was totally devoid of a sense of humor. She said, “Yes?” again and lifted her eyebrows. They were beautifully plucked and arched.

Shayne asked, “How’d they come to get you on the job, sister? And why didn’t I get here sooner?”

“I was called from the Nurses’ Registry.” She disregarded the implication in his second question.

“What’s your name?” he asked. “And I could use your telephone number, too.”

“Myrtle Godspeed.” She shook her head dubiously. “You wouldn’t have any use for my phone number.”

“You don’t know me, sister. Of course”-he glanced deprecatorily toward his bandaged arm-“I’m in pretty bad shape right now.”

He stared levelly into her eyes. She stared back, her gaze cold and remote. He pushed past her, and she got out of his way, watching him with low-lidded eyes as he leaned against the wall by the dresser.

“This damned place is like a morgue. Where is everybody?”

“They’re asleep, I think. I was called this morning early to relieve the other girl who had been on duty all night. I don’t believe anyone here got much sleep last night.”

Shayne moved impatiently. His right elbow brushed against the dresser and knocked off a handbag lying near the edge. It fell to the floor with a dull thump. He bent over awkwardly and picked it up. The girl started forward impulsively to help him, but he straightened with a grimace.

“I made it all right.” He offered her the bag. “Yours?”

She took it from him and said, “Yes.”

“That’s a mighty expensive bag for a trained nurse to be toting around,” he said softly.

She compressed her lips and said icily, “I paid for it.”

Shayne’s chuckle was throaty. “I’ll bet. And how! Give me your phone number and you can have another one just like it.”

She gazed at him disdainfully. “What gave you the idea you were such hot stuff? If you haven’t anything else on your mind, I’ll ask you to go. I won’t weep any salty tears if I never see you again.”

Shayne grinned and said, “I’m beginning to think it was too bad the other doll got bumped. She liked her men big and tough and redheaded.”

The nurse turned away from him and said, “I don’t,” emphatically.

“Okay, sister.” Shayne’s manner changed. He lounged toward the door and asked, “Where’s Pedique?”

“In his room asleep, I presume.”

“Which is his room, angel?” he asked patiently.

“I thought you were a detective.”

“No wisecracks.” He stood in the doorway. “Show me Pedique’s room before I start knocking on doors and wake up every damn soul in the house.”

She peered around the screen and then came toward him. Shayne smiled and went slowly into the hallway. She passed him at a sprightly pace with her head high. He followed her to a turn, and down it to another door.

She stopped and pointed at it. “I was supposed to knock here if I needed the doctor.”

Shayne said, “Thanks,” and knocked. The girl went down the hall and vanished around the corner.

There was no response from within. Shayne knocked loudly. There was still no response. He tried the knob. The door was locked from the inside. He rattled the knob and cursed aloud.

A door across the hall opened, and Mr. Montrose peered out. He wore an old-fashioned nightgown and clutched a shabby robe around his thin shoulders. “What do you want?” he croaked. Then: “Oh! It’s you, Mr. Shayne?” He padded across the hall in his bare feet.

“I’m hunting the doc,” Shayne grunted.

“This is his room. I’m positive he’s in. Perhaps he’s sleeping soundly. Poor fellow. He was very much upset over the events of last night.”

“He must be sleeping damned soundly,” Shayne said. He banged on the door again and shouted, “Hey, doc!”

Silence was the only response. He stopped banging and rubbed his chin.

He said quietly to Mr. Montrose, “No man could sleep through that racket.” There was an open transom above the door. He stooped and put his left arm around Mr. Montrose’s thin shanks and said, “I’ll boost you up and you can have a look-see.”

He hoisted the small man, and Mr. Montrose clutched at the transom, peering into the doctor’s room. He shuddered violently and said, “Oh-my God!”

Shayne let him slide down and looked at his face. Then he set his teeth together, drew back, and lunged at the locked door with his left shoulder. He snarled with pain, as the impact shook his injured right shoulder, then drew back and threw himself at it again. The lock gave this time, and he crashed into the room as the door swung on its hinges. He staggered upright and moved to the side of the bed. Mr. Montrose followed him, making a curious whimpering noise as he stared at the doctor’s body.

Dr. Joel Pedique looked exceedingly peaceful in death. Fully clothed, he lay outstretched upon the bed. His thin features were composed, and there was a lurking expression of triumph on his lips. His left hand dangled down by the side of the bed. An overturned glass lay on the rug just beneath where it had dropped when his fingers relaxed their hold. On a bedside table there was an open cardboard box containing a number of pinkish wafers. A pink residue clung to the bottom of the glass. The top of the box was marked with the familiar symbol of poison.

Lying beside the box were a number of sheets of note-paper filled with evenly spaced script. Shayne picked them up and read the superscription aloud. “‘To Whom It May Concern.’”

He said wearily to Montrose, “For Christ’s sake, stop whimpering. You ought to be used to this around here by this time. Go and call Painter and tell him to bring the coroner along.”

Then he moved over to a window through which the sunlight streamed, slumped into a rocking chair, and began reading the strange document which Dr. Pedique had left behind.