Michael Shayne's Long Chance

Chapter fourteen

Shayne found a barbershop with two idle barbers staring disconsolately through plate-glass windows on either side of the door. He went in and slumped into the nearest chair. When one of them hurried to him with a patronizing smile, he said, “I want everything you’ve got except conversation.”

“Shave and haircut? Shampoo?” the man asked.

Shayne moved his head affirmatively. “And hot and cold packs behind my right ear.”

An hour later he pulled himself reluctantly from the comfortable barber chair. A Negro boy who was sweeping dropped his broom and hurried toward him with a clothes brush as Shayne put on his coat.

“Do the best job you can,” Shayne admonished.

“You bet,” the boy said, and went to work.

Shayne looked at a square piece of paper which the barber handed him. He took out a bill, and when the young Negro finished, Shayne put the money and the ticket in his hand and said, “Pay the bill and keep the change.”

“Yassuh, boss,” he said. “Thank you, suh.”

Shayne went out the door, made his way to a liquor store, said to the clerk, “A bottle of your best cognac. Wrap it up. Where’s your phone?”

“Right here, sir.” The clerk shoved a telephone toward him and went to the liquor shelf.

Shayne called Lucile Hamilton’s number, whistling a low, off-key tune while he waited for her to answer. Presently he said, “Hello, there. I’ll be up in fifteen minutes. I’ll bring half the ingredients for an antidote for doped Tom Collins.”

“What on earth—” Lucile began.

“You’ll see,” Shayne said jovially, and hung up as the clerk shoved a package toward him. He paid the bill and went out with a long-legged jaunty stride.

When he arrived, by taxi, at the neat brick building of efficiency apartments he paused in the tiny lobby to push a forefinger on Lucile Hamilton’s bell, and was ready to open the door with the first admission click.

The door of her apartment was open a crack and he went in. Lucile was propped up on the studio couch. She had changed to a blue satin negligee that brought out the copper shades in her freshly brushed brown hair. There were dark circles under her brown eyes, and her skin looked too pale.

Shayne said, “You look like the canary who flew the cage for a night out with a humming-bird.” He frowned immediately, noting the Times-Picayune spread out on her lap.

She smiled wanly. “You look as fresh as a dewy daisy,” she said, “and don’t say anything trite about compromising me. It wouldn’t be funny.”

“Not me,” he said. “I guess we’re already compromised to the hilt.” His gay mood was gone.

“What’s it all about, Mike? I’ve been reading the paper about Evalyn. And what about us? It was all my fault. I shouldn’t have listened to Henri — the louse! What happened last night?”

Shayne said, “It wasn’t your fault. I egged you on because I wanted to contact Henri. We made the mistake of walking into something we weren’t supposed to walk into. How about something to eat?”

“Oh, God! No!” She shuddered with revulsion. “I’ve got a splitting headache and my mouth tastes like I’d swallowed a dead rat.”

“Mickey Finns do that to you, but I’ve got something here that’ll fix us up.” He set the package on the smoking stand and took off his coat. “Any coffee in this dump? I told you I had half the remedy. The other half is coffee.”

“There’s plenty in the kitchen. I eat out a lot and don’t use much. But — don’t make any coffee for me. I can’t bear the thought of it.”

He called from the kitchen, “Pipe down. Doctor Shayne is prescribing.”

He found a small percolator, filled it three-quarters full of hot water from the faucet and set it on the gas flame, then filled the perforated top with coffee and returned to the living-room.

Lucile thrust the newspaper impatiently aside. “I’ll go crazy if you don’t start telling me things. Was Margo really Barbara Little, living here under an assumed name? Are you honestly a private detective?”

Shayne nodded to both questions, his eyes averted. “We’ve got lots of talking to do. Let’s save it to go with our coffee.” He tore the wrapping from the bottle of cognac, held it up to the light and said, “This is the best I could find in town on short notice. It doesn’t compare with Monnet, but it’ll pass.”

“Monnet?” she asked. “What’s that?” Before he could think of an answer she shuddered and buried her face in the pillow. “Honest, Mike, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to take another drink.”

Shayne swore softly under his breath. It must have been the vivid dream while he was unconscious that confused him. It was Margo who knew about Monnet — not Lucile. He went to the breakfast nook and set the bottle down, rummaged through a drawer in the adjoining kitchenette for a corkscrew. The percolator was bubbling and he sniffed the aroma of coffee.

After wresting the cork from the cognac bottle he took two cups from small hooks in the china cabinet and filled them with hot water. When they were thoroughly warmed he poured the water out and filled them half full of cognac.

He tested the coffee and found it to his liking. He poured it into the liquor until the cups were brimming full, then asked, “Will you have your coffee royal in bed or at the table?”

“I can’t,” she wailed. “It makes me sick to even think of food.”

“This is medicine,” he said sternly. He pulled an end table up to the couch and set a cup on it. “I know what I’m talking about. Drink it as hot as you can stand it.” He brought his cup to the smoking stand.

Lucile had turned on her other side and lay facing him. “It doesn’t smell so bad,” she confessed.

Shayne cuddled his cup in his hands. “It tastes better than it smells,” he assured her.

She took a sip and grimaced, then took a big swallow. “I can feel it spreading all through me.”

Shayne nodded. “When you’ve drunk half of it you’ll be ready for a cigarette.”

There was a short silence during which they sipped from the steaming cups. Shayne lit a cigarette and offered her one.

“Thanks,” she said, “I believe I can smoke one. Bring your cup over here.” She made a place for him.

“I’ll get a refill first,” he said. “Want a second?”

“Not after this. I don’t want to push my luck.” She smiled. The color was coming back to her cheeks.

Shayne returned with a fresh, steaming cup and made room on the small table to set it, then eased his lanky frame down on the edge of the couch.

Lucile said, “I feel warm and glowy. I feel like what-does-anything-matter — my job—”

“I had forgotten about your job,” he said. “What about it?”

She nestled her head against the pillows, “I don’t know. The phone has rung several times since I’ve been here, but I didn’t answer it at first. I must be psychic — when you called was the only time I answered.”

“You took a hell of a long time.”

She laughed. “I was afraid it was the office manager and I wouldn’t know what to tell him. How does one explain spending the night in a honky-tonk with a man — and doped at that?” Her lashes were curled up from her closed eyelids and her cheeks flamed.

“Don’t worry too much about that. There needn’t be any publicity.”

“But — we gave our right names to the clerk. And that picture—”

“The raid won’t be reported in the normal course of newspaper routine. The picture is nothing but blackmail. Denton won’t use it unless I force his hand.”

She propped her cheek on one elbow and reached for her cup. “You were going to tell me. Remember?”

“You’ve let your coffee royal get cold,” he said solemnly, as though she had failed in a sacred ritual.

She sipped the lukewarm drink. “I like it better this way. I always put cold water in my coffee.”

Shayne groaned and asked, “How much do you remember about last night?”

“Nothing — not after I drank half my drink. I was sort of nauseated when I went to the restroom, and felt woozy. I must have passed out.”

“Your Tom Collins was doped. I didn’t drink mine, but I was a fool not to notice the taste when I took a sip. I thought it was just the rotten gin they used.”

“What happened — after I passed out?”

“I don’t know what they did with you, but when I went to find you I walked into a blackjack. None of it was Henri’s doing,” Shayne went on honestly. “He asked you there in good faith. That is, he was frightened because your testimony and Evalyn’s might point to him as the murderer and he wanted to bribe you to keep it quiet. But he never had a chance to talk to you. Captain Denton spotted me and thought I was sticking my nose in where he didn’t want it stuck.”

“Oh,” she said, “Captain Denton,” and wrinkled her forehead.

“Denton has hated me for a long time,” Shayne explained. “I’ll tell you about it sometime. Yesterday he got the idea that I was back in New Orleans to stir up trouble for him because of his connection with Rudy Soule and the dope racket.”

“Do you mean that an officer of the law — a captain is mixed up in the dope racket?” Lucile’s eyes were round with wonder.

Shayne stared at her for a long time before he said, “Are you trying to kid me?”

Lucile’s brown eyes misted. She said, “Maybe you won’t believe me, but I’ve never come in contact with the police before. I’ve always thought they were people who protected the public.”

Shayne laughed harshly, but he laid a big hand gently on her covered shoulder. “You’re learning.”

“You don’t mean that Denton had me doped — and had you knocked out?”

“Yeh, that’s right,” Shayne told her. “Then when he learned that you were a witness in the Little case — against Henri — he was still more worried. It’s my guess that Denton owns a piece of the Daphne Club. When something like that gets tangled up in a murder investigation a lot of dirty linen is likely to get washed out.”

“Why did he — think up such an awful thing?”

“Because it was the smart thing to do,” Shayne told her with a scowl. “It cuts all the ground out from under us. In the first place, he’ll hold that picture as a whip to keep me in line. If I should choose to disregard it, let him publish it and let your reputation be damned, I’d still not be much better off. It would knock your testimony against Henri into a cocked hat. No one would believe a woman like that, and there’d be the added suspicion that I had connived with you to get you to testify that way. That’s why Denton had us caught in that raid together — that’s why he checked up and forced you to give your right name.”

Lucile said, “It must be terribly funny to you — remembering that I told you I learned the facts of life a long time ago.”

Shayne said softly, “No. It isn’t funny. I knew what you meant.”

Wriggling to a sitting position, she said, “You can forget about me and my reputation — if that will help.”

“It won’t,” Shayne muttered. “With Evalyn dead, there’s no one to corroborate your story. And even if it should be believed, what of it? It points to Evalyn as well as to Henri, and Evalyn has confessed.”

“Do you think she did it? I can’t believe it.”

“Denton got a deathbed confession,” he said. “That closed the case as far as I can see.” He went to the breakfast table and took a long drink from the cognac bottle.

When Shayne returned, Lucile was sitting rigidly upright on the couch. Her young face was tense with thought. “I’ve been thinking. From what you’ve told me, Captain Denton is thoroughly dishonest. Do you suppose he made up that story about Evalyn confessing?” She picked up the newspaper. “It says here that he was the only witness. No one else heard her confession. If he walked in and found her dying—”

“Or dead,” Shayne supplemented harshly. “Sure. Denton’s an opportunist. It would have been too perfect to pass up. But we haven’t any proof.”

Shayne paced the length of the room and came back to sink into the comfortable chair opposite the couch. He closed his eyes and massaged his left earlobe gently.

Lucile watched him, but said nothing. Perfect quiet was in the room until Shayne hunched forward and said, “I’m going to use your telephone.”

“You know where it is,” she said.

Shayne stalked to the instrument and called Harry Veigle. When a voice answered, he said, “Mike Shayne, Harry.”

“Mike — where the hell have you been hiding? Wherever it is, I hope you’re well hidden.”

“Is it that bad?”

“It is, Mike. Your prints are all over the bottle.”

“And?”

“The girl’s, too. But there’s one thing, Mike — all the prints on the neck of the bottle are blurred. A smart lawyer might do something with that in court. Looks as if the killer wore gloves when he swung it.”

“No other prints?”

“Well — I did bring out another partial set,” Veigle said cautiously. “Enough for identification, maybe.”

“Can you bring them out clear enough to do any good?”

“Hell, you know how this experting goes. For a goodly fee I could point out reasons for believing the murderer made them. But I’m fairly certain they’re not a woman’s prints, Mike. According to the morning paper—”

“Yeh. I know. Get hold of Evalyn Jordan’s prints, Harry. Check them and call me back.” He gave Veigle Lucile Hamilton’s telephone number.

“You sure you don’t want me to ditch this bottle? A smart D. A. could make an awful lot out of it. I’ll smash it—”

“No!” Shayne said sharply. “Hang onto the bottle. Make enlarged sets of all three prints and call me as soon as you check with the Jordan girl’s.”

“All right, Mike,” Veigle said mournfully. “Monkey business, is it? But if you’re smart—”

“I’m not. I’m dumb enough to stick my neck out a mile.” He hung up and returned to the living-room, a set look of decision on his gaunt features.

“What’s happened?” Lucile asked hastily. “You look as though you’d had a reprieve.”

Shayne said slowly, “This may be it, Lucile.” He strode across the room and back pounding his hard right fist into the palm of his left hand. “If Denton faked that Jordan confession I may have him wide open. It may be crazy, but—” He stopped suddenly and stared at her. “Have you got the guts to play along with me? If I play my hunch and it fails, Denton won’t hesitate to use that picture. You’ll be publicly branded as a prostitute. Do you want to take that chance?”

She started to answer at once, but he held up his hand, said, “Wait — this isn’t any time for heroics. You don’t know anything about me — except that I’ve got you into a hell of a jam.”

She met his gaze squarely. “I think I know you better, Michael Shayne, than I’ve ever known any man.”

He said hoarsely, “Don’t make a mistake, Lucile.”

“I won’t.” Her eyes were shining.

He resumed his pacing. “We’ve got to decide right now,” he warned her. “There won’t be any quitting if I start. I can call it all off — let the whole thing go as it stands. Get out of town this afternoon — or I can take a long chance.” He stopped beside the couch and looked down at her. “And it’s just that — a long chance,” he warned her harshly. “I’ve got a wild hunch I can prove Denton deliberately faked Evalyn Jordan’s confession,” he went on. “There’s only one way to do that — by producing her real murderer. But — it’s only a hunch.” He emphasized the last sentence heavily.

“You’ve played hunches before, haven’t you?”

“Always. But that was when only I was involved. You’re in this with me — up to your neck. It won’t be any picnic if things go wrong. We won’t have a leg to stand on. It’ll be a stinking mess and you’ll be square in the middle of it.”

“You don’t think Evalyn killed Margo?”

“No.”

“Then I don’t see that there’s anything to decide. There’s only one right thing to do.” She caught one of his hands and pulled him down to sit beside her.

“I’m not a child, Mike,” she said quietly. “And I haven’t any folks — no one who’ll be hurt by the scandal if things go wrong. I have to keep on living with myself. How do you think it would be if I said no, and all my life lived with the knowledge that a murderer may be walking the streets free because I was afraid to take a chance with you?” Her soft finger tips caressed the back of his hand. “You wouldn’t be very proud of me if I did that. It’s strange that what you think of me matters, but it does.” She laughed softly. “I’m not making love to you, but I’d hate myself forever if I forced you to do something for which you’d hate yourself.”

Shayne said huskily, “I’ve known one other girl like you, Lucile.”

“What became of her?”

“She died.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, and gave his hand a final pat.

He continued to sit on the edge of the couch. “New Orleans has been good for me. I’ve been here about sixteen hours, and I’ve been beaten up by the cops, arrested on a drunk and disorderly charge, accused of murder, blackjacked, Mickey-Finned, given a suspended sentence on a frame, and, by God, I feel fine.”

“And had your picture taken,” she reminded him.

“I needed something to wake me up,” he confessed. “Twenty-four hours ago I didn’t believe I’d ever be interested in another case.”

“I’m glad if I’ve helped.”

“You’ve helped plenty.” Shayne went into the breakfast nook to get the cognac bottle, asking, “Want some of this stuff straight?”

“No, thanks. That hot mixture was pretty insidious. If I had another drink I’d probably insist that you make an honest woman of me.”

Shayne took a drink and replied seriously. “A little while ago I was going to suggest that as a possible out if things go wrong this afternoon.”

Lucile laughed lightly. “It won’t be necessary. I feel completely honest.”

Shayne looked at his watch. The time was ten o’clock. “I’m going to make a long-distance call.”

He dialed the operator and said, “I want to get Timothy Rourke in Miami, Florida. Person to person.” He gave her Tim’s residence number and waited, explaining to Lucile, “Tim Rourke is a reporter who’s always played ball with me in Miami. If this story breaks the way I hope it will—”

He was interrupted by the operator. “Here’s your party — go ahead.”

“Tim?” Shayne said into the mouthpiece.

“Mike?” Rourke groaned. “You’ve been leading with your chin again. I might have known.”

Shayne said, “Shut up and listen. This is costing me money. Will your expense account stand a plane hop down here for an exclusive on a hell of a story?”

“Your hanging isn’t that important. You can give me your last words right now—”

“I’m not horsing. If your paper isn’t interested—”

“Who said I wasn’t interested? What about a plane?”

“Charter one,” Shayne said shortly. “It shouldn’t be more than a three-hour hop that way.”

“I don’t know about chartering one. The expense account may not stretch that far.”

“It’s the only way. I’ve got a deadline to meet. Yes or no?”

“Yes, if you say it’s worth it.”

“I’ve never given you a bum steer, Tim. Bring a picture of Barbara Little if there’s one around.”

“There is — one that we ran on the suicide scare.”

“Bring it. Call me from the airport the minute you land.” Shayne gave him Lucile’s number and hung up.

“Tim Rourke,” he continued to Lucile, “is a sort of ex-officio press-relations council. And God knows we’ll need all the drag we can get from the press if my guess goes wrong.”

“It won’t,” she told him confidently.

Shayne combed his hair with his fingernails, leaving it standing on end. “I’ve got two or three things to do,” he said. “Why don’t you try to get some sleep?”

“I won’t have to try.” She yawned prettily, patting her open mouth with her palm. “When I think of those poor wage slaves at the office, not knowing the luxury of a life of sin—”

Shayne said, “You’re a shameless hussy. If anyone calls for me it’ll be Harry Veigle. Take the message. He’ll tell you whether or not Evalyn’s prints are on the cognac bottle that killed Barbara. If not, ask him to meet me at Quinlan’s office with the bottle and prints at one-thirty.”

“What about that bottle? I meant to ask you when I heard you phoning before.”

“It’s the one we drank out of yesterday afternoon. I found it before the police did.” He put on his coat and hat and started toward the door, saying, “I’ll be back before Rourke can call me from the airport.”

“Where are you going, Mike? Not — into any more trouble,” she cried anxiously.

“God forbid.” He grinned. “I’m going to see if I can find a rat hole for Denton to crawl into if it comes to that.” He paused with his hand on the doorknob, stalked back to pick up the paper Lucile had discarded and glanced through the front-page story again. He asked, “What was Evalyn Jordan’s address?”

She gave him the street number and added, “It’s an old house made over into apartments on Ursuline just off Royal.”

Shayne dropped the paper and thrust his hands deep in his pockets. “Do you happen to know anyone else in the same building?”

“Yes. There’s another girl from the office living right next door to Evalyn — the corner apartment in the right rear upstairs.”

“What’s her name?”

“Celia Gaston. She and Evalyn were close friends.”

Shayne pushed his hat back and tugged at a lock of hair. “Does she live alone?”

“Yes, I’m quite sure she does. She’s much older than most of the girls in the office. Sort of an old maid. But she’s not there now — what on earth are you up to?”

“Not there? Are you positive?”

“Of course I am. She’s away on a two weeks’ vacation. She left last Saturday.”

Shayne muttered, “That’s a break I didn’t hope for,” and strode from the room.