Dividend on Death

CHAPTER 4

Will Gentry came in first. He was a heavy man with a face the color of raw beef who walked solidly on the thick soles of square-toed black shoes and wore a dark suit and a black felt hat tipped back on his perspiring forehead. A stolid, persevering man who ran the Miami detective bureau as it had been run for thirty years. He said, “Hello, Mike,” and went past Shayne to stand by the table.

His companion was Peter Painter, “dynamic and recently appointed chief of the Miami Beach detective bureau,” as the press had been describing him. Shayne knew him slightly. He was medium in height and slender, a few years younger than Shayne, and his appearance at the moment was characteristic. He wore a double-breasted Palm Beach suit and a creamy Panama hat. White-and-tan sport shoes, a pin-striped tan shirt, and a brown-and-red four-in-hand tie completed his ensemble. Shayne’s eyes flickered as he took in this sartorial tour-de-force, but not from admiration.

Painter had flashing black eyes, a thin face, and mobile lips across the top of which there ran the narrow line of a beautifully trimmed and exceedingly black mustache. He had been a New York detective for three years, and had resigned to head the Miami Beach detective bureau. He nodded and followed Gentry into the room.

Shayne closed the door and moved toward the table. His eyes were hard but his manner affable. He stopped at the cabinet and took down two clean wineglasses, set them on the table, and unstopped the brandy bottle. “Have a drink?”

Gentry nodded absently, his eyes going around the room.

Painter drummed on the table top with hard finger tips and said, “I don’t drink while on duty.”

Shayne lifted shaggy eyebrows in quizzical inquiry as he poured two drinks. “I thought this was out of your territory.” He handed Will Gentry a glass and poured fresh ice water from the pitcher.

“That,” Painter told him, “is why I asked Gentry to come along with me.”

Shayne nodded and drank. Then he drew up a straight chair and motioned toward the two easy chairs close together in front of the table. “It isn’t against your principles to sit down, is it?”

He sat down, as did Gentry. The older man shook his head slightly at Shayne. Painter did not move. He said, “I want that girl, Shayne.”

Shayne shrugged and sipped from his glass. “There are lots of girls,” he said softly.

“I want only one of them. Phyllis Brighton.”

“Christ,” murmured Shayne, “you’re welcome to her.”

Painter’s eyes were fixed on his face. “Where is she?”

Shayne gravely patted the pockets of his dressing-gown and looked at Painter with guileless eyes, murmuring, “Gracious. I seem to have mislaid her.”

Painter’s dapper figure grew tense. He leaned forward angrily.

“Now, now,” Gentry interposed. “Cut out your horsing, Mike. Painter thinks you had something to do with her disappearance from her home.”

Shayne asked, “Has she disappeared?” His tone was noncommittal.

The Miami Beach man said, “That won’t get you anywhere, Shayne. Maybe you can get away with your kind of stuff on this side of Biscayne Bay, but you can’t on my side.”

Shayne grinned and said, “Can’t I?”

“No. By God, you can’t.” Peter Painter’s dark eyes flamed dangerously. “That girl’s guilty as hell, and I’m going to break that case tonight.”

“Fair enough.” Shayne lit a cigarette and smiled mockingly at the little man. “Cherchez la femme.”

“You,” said Painter, “have got her hidden out.”

“Want to search the dump?”

“Hell, no. I don’t think you’re dumb enough to have her here. Where is she?” The question crackled at Shayne.

“She was in bed when I left the Beach.”

“What have you been doing since you drove away?”

“Sitting here drinking some very excellent cognac and cogitating upon the devious ways of murderers and the like.”

“Why,” asked Painter savagely, “did you run away from the scene before I arrived?”

“That’s your bailiwick,” Shayne reminded him. “I wanted to give you plenty of room for your schoolboy antics.”

Painter stiffened and said, “By God-”

“Now, now,” Gentry interposed again. “There’s no use getting tough,” he admonished Shayne.

“Why the hell shouldn’t I get tough?” Shayne flared at him, disregarding Painter. “This mail-order detective busting in here with his damfool questions and accusations. To hell with him! I was all set to give him what dope I had picked up, but now he won’t get a thing from me.”

Through tight lips, Painter said thinly, “I’ll jerk you in as an accessory if you don’t watch your step.”

Shayne didn’t pay any attention to him. He went on talking to Gentry.

“What’s the angle? Suppose the girl has disappeared? Does that make her a murderess? And what am I supposed to do about it? If he can’t keep tabs on his suspects am I supposed to do it for him?”

“See here, Shayne.” Painter sat down, making it evident that he controlled himself with difficulty. “Do you want to answer my questions now or shall I swear out a warrant for your arrest and drag you in where you’ll have to talk?”

“I’ve been in better jails than yours.”

“All right. Come clean and you needn’t get in mine.”

Shayne added, “And worse.”

“Now wait,” Gentry said hurriedly to Painter. “You’re off on the wrong foot. I’ve worked with Mike Shayne before. He’ll rot in your Miami Beach jail before he’ll answer any questions he doesn’t want to answer.”

“And I’ll stink like hell while I’m rotting,” Shayne added sardonically.

Painter compressed his lips and said, “I’ll take that drink you offered me.”

Shayne emptied the bottle of Martell into the third glass and handed it to him. “Off duty,” he said, “you might not be a bad guy.”

Painter drank half the liquor and set the glass down, fiddling with its slender stem. He said slowly, “I understand you were retained on the case by Doctor Pedique.”

“I was.”

“Because he feared the girl might murder her mother.”

“Right.”

“And you arrived this evening too late to avert the expected tragedy.”

“You’re getting ahead of yourself,” Shayne told him. “A tragedy, if you’re talking for the headlines.”

“The girl had already killed her mother when you got there, hadn’t she?”

Shayne emptied his glass and grinned wolfishly. “Had she?”

“Well, damn it!” Painter exploded. “She was dead, wasn’t she?”

“She was dead,” said Shayne carefully, “when Doctor Pedique took me to her room.” He gazed benignly into the Beach detective’s angry eyes.

“Which makes a strong case against the girl,” said Painter harshly.

“Admitted.” Shayne paused, then added casually, “Did they tell you we found the girl’s door locked-on the outside?”

“There might be a dozen explanations for that.”

“Sure,” Shayne agreed soothingly. “The kid might have bumped her mother, gone back and locked her door, and then crawled into her room through the keyhole. Only trouble with that theory,” he added, “is to figure how she got the key back into the keyhole after crawling through.”

Gentry choked on the last of his drink while Painter snorted, “Being funny isn’t going to help.”

“Then your methods,” Shayne told him, “aren’t going to solve the case.”

“For God’s sake,” implored Gentry, “you two guys quit knifing each other.”

Shayne said, “I’ll get another bottle,” and went out to the kitchen. When he came back with a full bottle of Martell neither detective had changed his position.

“I should be getting almost drunk enough to do some real detecting,” said Shayne pensively as he opened the bottle.

Painter rubbed his sharp chin and asked, “Then you don’t think the girl did it?”

“When you grow up enough to shave that silly mustache off,” Shayne muttered, “you’ll maybe have learned not to indulge in too many theories on a murder case.”

Peter Painter stood up, quivering with indignation. “I didn’t come here to be insulted.”

Standing, Shayne towered over the dapper detective chief. “No? Then why did you come?”

“To give you a chance to clear yourself,” Painter snarled.

Shayne poured himself and Gentry a drink, held the bottle invitingly over Painter’s glass. He muttered, “You’re hell on duty,” when Painter shook his head.

Painter turned away indecisively, and Shayne sat down, asking in an interested tone, “Did you find whatever they used to kill Mrs. Brighton?”

Painter swallowed hard and looked back over his slim shoulder. “I have a hunch you know more about the murder weapon than anyone else.”

“You’re giving me a lot of credit,” said Shayne mockingly. “Hell! Didn’t they tell you I wasn’t alone in the house a minute?”

Painter turned about with his jaw rigidly jutted. “I know your record, Shayne. You stay out of my territory hereafter or I’ll throw you in the can on general principles-and keep you there.”

Shayne stood up. His fists were knotted, and his eyes were mad. “You’re in my territory now,” he said softly, and moved around the table toward Painter.

Gentry lurched up and got his solid bulk between them. “No, Mike. No.” He pushed the redheaded detective back and said out of the corner of his mouth to Painter, “Scram, for Christ’s sake. I’ll see you in my office later.”

Shayne said thickly, “The little twerp. I’ll wring his neck.” He pushed Gentry aside and moved toward Painter, breathing heavily.

Painter whirled before Shayne reached him, went out the door, and slammed it shut.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Gentry said when Shayne came back.

“Why not?” He poured out a drink, held the glass up to the light and peered through it, shook his head unsteadily, and poured the liquor back in the bottle, spilling a few drops on the table.

Gentry said, “He’s a smart little guy.”

“He can’t push me around without getting pushed.” Shayne dropped into the chair Painter had vacated and lit a cigarette.

“I told him to take it easy,” Gentry rumbled. “But God, you know how these city guys are. Always got to be shaking a leg.”

“He’s not a city guy now,” Shayne told him. “He’s nothing but a chief of detectives.”

Gentry grimaced wryly but didn’t say anything.

“What the hell sent him prowling around here looking for the girl?” Shayne went on. “I haven’t started taking up with the screwy kind-or kids-yet.”

Gentry sipped his cognac. “She’s got to be somewhere, Mike.”

“Hell, yes. So has prosperity, but that doesn’t mean I’ve got a line on her.”

“Haven’t you, Mike?” Gentry did not look at him.

Shayne grinned amiably. “That’s a Beach case. Let him find out where she is.”

“I know. I’m just trying to make it easy on you. Painter’s not going to quit.”

“Thanks, Will.” Shayne’s tone was curt. “I’ll make it easy on myself.”

“Okay.” Gentry drained his glass and spread out his hands. “I’m not trying to put the heat on you.”

Shayne said, “Don’t,” in a remote tone.

Gentry studied him thoughtfully. “You’re plenty tough, Mike. But Painter-I wouldn’t push him too far.”

Shayne pushed the bottle toward his friend and grinned a mirthless, fleeting grin. “Drink up.”

Gentry shook his head. “No more, thanks. Painter will be waiting for me at my office.”

“How do you and he stand?” Shayne asked abruptly.

“Well-he’s only been over on the Beach a couple of months. I don’t know him so well but I guess he’s okay. Sort of hotheaded little rooster-and he likes to play hunches.”

“Tell him not to get any more hunches about me.” Shayne ground out his cigarette as Gentry got up.

“Play it your own way,” Gentry said. “But I’m warning you, Mike. Painter’s under pressure on that new job and he’s going to break this Brighton case or else.”

“Sweet Jesus,” groaned Shayne, getting up. “Between the two of you, you’ll have me believing I slit Mrs. Brighton’s throat. Who put the finger on me in the first place?”

“I wasn’t there,” Gentry reminded him. “I just came along with Painter when he said he was coming up.”

“Pedique told him my part of it,” Shayne growled. “That was finished when we walked in and found the old lady already croaked. What makes him think I stole the girl?”

“He’s going around in circles and had to end up somewhere,” Gentry said, moving toward the door.

“Sure,” sneered Shayne. “Just like all the rest of these boy-scout dicks. He hits a tough case and feels like he has to make a pinch whether he can make it stick or not. You can tell him for me,” he added as he opened the door, “that if I had the girl I’d keep her hid out just to get his goat.”

“I think he’s already figured that out,” said Gentry thoughtfully. He stood in the corridor and took off his hat, crushing it in his hands. “Well-g’night, Mike.”

Shayne said good night and stood in the doorway and watched the Miami detective chief go down the hall and board an elevator. Closing the door he went back into the room and stopped by the table to listen intently. No sound came from the closed bedroom.

He went to the door and opened it quietly. The gentle sound of relaxed breathing came to him. He went into the room and stood beside the bed. In the dim light he could see the girl lying on her left side with her face turned to the wall. Her left arm was curled up on the pillow, and her cheek rested on it. She was breathing evenly, and he wondered if she was asleep.

He said, experimentally, “Hey.”

She did not move. The spread was pulled down, and a bare shoulder was exposed. Shayne leaned over and said between his teeth, “It’s all right. They’ve gone.”

She still didn’t move. He straightened doubtfully, shaking his head. Then he said, “Hell,” in an undertone and went to the door. He stopped there, turned, and watched her for a full two minutes. If she wasn’t asleep she was doing a good job of playing possum.

He said, “Hell,” again and went out, closing the door behind him. Then he went over to the table, pulled out the drawer, and looked down at the nightgown-wrapped butcher knife with hard eyes.

His fingers groped in the pocket of his dressing-gown and came out with the. 25 automatic. He dropped that on top of the butcher knife and closed the drawer. Then he took the empty brandy bottle, glasses, and water pitcher to the kitchen, and remembered to open the kitchen window. It would be a hot night, and at least he might as well be comfortable. Then he went into the bathroom, opened that window wide, too, and left the door open for ventilation as he came out. In the living-room he pulled the studio couch out and spread it up to sleep on. For all his profession, Mike Shayne had something domestic in him. Years of hotel rooms had made him fond of his own brand of comfort. Moving a straight chair to the head of the bed he put an ash tray, cigarettes and matches on it, lit a cigarette, and turned out the light. Sliding under the sheet, he puffed lazily, thinking about the sleeping girl in his bedroom.