Murder and the Wanton Bride

15

The highway from Denham to ft. Pierce on the coast led through a thinly-populated area with few villages along the way and very little traffic at that time of night. Shayne pushed his car hard to reach Ft. Pierce before Harvey Barstow was discovered and an alarm could be got out to intercept him on that stretch of highway because he knew it would be worse than useless to stop along the way and attempt to switch cars.

But from Ft. Pierce to Miami was the main North-South highway patrolled by state and local police, and he knew it would be running a dangerous gauntlet to try and cover that stretch in his own car whose description must certainly have been broadcast during the afternoon.

Accordingly, he turned off on a side road approaching Ft. Pierce, followed a circuitous route into the northern outskirts of the city and stopped at the first parking lot he reached. With a parking ticket in his pocket, he breathed a sigh of relief as he hailed a taxi outside the parking lot and asked to be driven to a rental car agency. His luck was still holding. Behind the wheel of a rented car he had a fair chance of reaching Miami unmolested.

With his driver’s license and enough cash to lay on the line for a sizable deposit, it took him only ten minutes in the agency before driving away behind the wheel of a flashy new-model sedan. From there southward, he obeyed the speed laws and traffic regulations meticulously, and was relaxed enough in the driver’s seat to do some serious thinking for the first time since he had left the Carson house in Denham.

The flesh wound in his left bicep didn’t actually bother him, but the stinging of it was a constant reminder of the bullet that had broken up his tete-a-tete with Belle. He had a vivid memory of that one glimpse of the pale, hawklike features of his attacker (or, had he been Belle’s attacker?) and he knew very well he had never seen the man before.

Who was he, and how did he fit into the picture? Had he been stalking Belle outside her side porch, or had he been hiding there in wait for Shayne to return? In either case, why?

There were other questions bothering him as he drove steadily in the stream of night traffic toward Miami. Who, for instance, was the “Whitey” to whom Belle had referred? She had said that she thought at first that Whitey had “sent” him to Denham.

Somehow, the name took his thoughts back to that afternoon in Atlanta and the conversation with the Peases. He didn’t know why, but somehow there seemed to be some vague connection in his subconscious mind that took him back to that scene each time he thought about a man named “Whitey.” Yet, he was positive the name hadn’t been mentioned by either Mr. or Mrs. Pease. Nor by anyone else in Miami.

But there was something about a lumber magnate named Barnett who had been Richard Watson’s employer. A kidnapping that had made the headlines at the time. That statement had struck some chord in Shayne’s memory at the time, but the Peases had assured him it had nothing to do with the Watsons, and he had pushed the nagging recollection away from him.

Now he tried to get it back. Whitey and the kidnapping of a boy named Barnett some years ago! There was some connection between the name of Whitey and Barnett, but he couldn’t pull it out of the depths of his subconscious in which it was buried.

He made the drive to Miami without incident, and turned off the Boulevard at 79th Street to avoid city traffic. Pulling into a filling station at the intersection, he went into a telephone booth and dialled the number of the Daily News. He caught Timothy Rourke in the City Room, and grinned wryly at the exclamation that came over the wire when he said casually, “Hi, Tim.”

“Mike! My God, man, where are you? Wait a minute. Don’t tell me,” the reporter went on hastily. “Latest flash here is that you gunned a banker’s widow in Denham, and slugged a cop there. Have you gone hog-wild crazy, Mike?”

“Not quite. Does the name Whitey mean anything to you, Tim?”

“Just... Whitey? Wait a minute. Yeh, but I don’t know what.”

“How about Barnett? A kidnapping in Atlanta a few years ago.”

“Sure. I did a local story on that. They arrested the guy here. Wait... another... minute, Mike. There was something on that recently. Whitey? Damned if I know, Mike.”

“Check on it,” said Shayne swiftly. “The whole story is in the morgue. Get everything and sit there, Tim, until I call back. It won’t be long.”

“Hey, wait! Just what in hell...?”

But Shayne hung up fast, hurried out and drove across the Bay and followed the shoreline south to the Park Plaza apartments.

There was a man at the desk tonight, and a different girl before the switchboard. Shayne held his breath as he stopped at the desk and asked casually, “Is Jeffery Walsh in?”

He could be wrong so easily. This was a wild shot in the dark, but it was the only thing he had to go on. If Walsh wasn’t the man whom Carson had telephoned the previous night...?

But his hunch paid off. He exhaled a long satisfied breath as the clerk said briskly, “I believe Mr. Walsh is in. Would you like to phone up?” He nodded toward a house phone. “Number six ten.”

Shayne lifted the instrument and asked for 610. A man’s voice said, “Yes?” and Shayne said swiftly, blurring the words together, “Hi, Jeff. Glad you’re in. Be right up.”

He replaced the phone, nodded to the clerk and went back to a self-service elevator and up to the 6th floor. A lot depended on whether Barstow had been found yet, whether Shayne’s conversation with him had been transmitted to Painter, and how fast the detective chief would be to connect the name of Jeffery Walsh with the telephone call Carson had made to the Park Plaza the preceding evening. It was a cinch that Painter had a record of the call and would have made the same sort of routine check Shayne had tried that morning. And it was an obvious deduction, once he had the name of Walsh entering into the case, to reach the same conclusion Shayne had reached. It was all a matter of timing, and if the Beach cops had reached Walsh first there was sure to be a stakeout which Shayne would walk into as soon as he opened the elevator door on the 6th floor.

He opened the door and stepped out into a wide, well-lit, and empty hallway. An arrow on the wall in front of him pointed to the left with the numbers, 600–620.

He strode to the left and around a corner and rapped lightly on a door numbered 610.

It opened immediately and a tall, thin-faced man stared out at him. Walsh had brown hair that was getting thin on top, crafty blue eyes in a cadaverous face with flaring ears on each side. He was in shirtsleeves and without a tie, and clutched a highball in one hand. He squinted at the redhead and blocked the entrance, demanding, “You the guy just phoned? I don’t know you, do I?”

“I know you, Walsh.” Shayne pushed forward and the thin man gave way reluctantly. The apartment was small, with a couch that could be opened into a bed. Ashtrays overflowed with cigarette butts, and a whiskey bottle and pitcher of ice cubes stood on an end table by the couch.

“Who do you think you are, busting in here like this?” asked Walsh in a reedy, aggressive voice.

Shayne pulled the door shut and pushed his hat far back on his forehead to glower at the other detective. “Take a good look, Walsh, and then get ready to do a lot of talking fast... before the cops get here.”

Walsh took a good look and pursed his lips tightly, taking a backward step. “Mike Shayne! I remember meeting you once...”

“That’s right. That was before I knew you weren’t fit to be a scab on a decent private detective’s butt,” Shayne said harshly. “So that takes care of the preliminaries. We haven’t got much time, Walsh. A Mrs. Barstow from Denham hired you a few months ago to investigate a certain Belle Carson, married to the local banker. You went to Atlanta and sucked your client for all the money she could pony up, and then disappeared without making a report to her. I want to know what you found out about Belle Carson in Atlanta.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” snarled Walsh. “If I did, I sure wouldn’t tell you...”

Shayne slapped him hard, knocking him back against the wall and spilling his highball over the front of him.

“I’m talking about murder, Walsh.”

“Murder?” He straightened himself with twitching lips, his blue eyes hotly venomous and avoiding Shayne’s. He set down the empty highball glass and began backing away toward the center of the room.

“Carson’s murder,” said Shayne flatly. “The man you were blackmailing.”

“Carson?” Walsh stopped backing away, stood flat-footed with his lower jaw drooping laxly. “I swear I don’t know what you mean,” he said in a tone that Shayne instinctively believed.

“You don’t deny you were blackmailing Carson?”

“Of course I deny it. What do you mean coming here and accusing me...?”

Shayne doubled his right fist and took a step forward. Walsh cringed and scrambled backward toward a table along the wall, reaching desperately behind him for the handle of a closed center drawer.

Shayne reached him before he got the drawer open, slammed a hand down on his shoulder and flung him spinning toward the couch where Walsh collapsed. Shayne strode after him and stood looking down at the frightened man with bleak eyes.

“I know you got something on Belle Carson in Atlanta and doublecrossed your client by not reporting back to her. I know you used the information to extort money from Carson. I know Carson came to Miami last night and telephoned you here from his hotel before he was shot to death. And I’m telling you, Goddamn it, that the cops are going to know all of that very shortly and be up here asking you the same questions I’m asking. I haven’t any time to waste, Walsh. Either tell me, or I’ll beat it out of you.”

Walsh lay back half on his side and whimpered, “I don’t know anything about any murder. The rest of it... all right, so maybe I did dig a few bucks out of a banker. Why not? It was worth it to him.”

“What was worth it?”

“To hush up the fact that his wife committed bigamy when she married him. He was a big-shot in Denham and couldn’t afford a scandal, and God knows I didn’t tap him hard. Just five C’s a month. Hell, he could afford it. You’d done the same, I betcha, if you ran onto an easy thing like that. Christ, if a man don’t feather his own nest in this lousy racket, who’ll do it for him?”

“So we’ve got that straight.” Contempt grated in Shayne’s voice. “Let’s get a couple of other things straight. How can you deny knowing Carson was murdered last night a couple of blocks from here? There’s a paper right there on the floor with his picture on the front page.” He pointed down at a crumpled newspaper.

“But it said... it said an unidentified body,” quavered Walsh, sitting up and drawing back to the other end of the couch with all the dignity he could muster.

“And that’s one angle the cops are going to third degree you on. You admit you saw his picture and knew he hadn’t been identified. Why didn’t you identify him?”

“But I didn’t know it was Carson. Don’t you understand? I don’t know it now except you say so.”

“You admit you were blackmailing him... talked to him on the telephone last evening?”

“Sure, I admit that. I got nothing to hide,” said Walsh virtuously. “But I didn’t know that was Carson’s picture in the paper. Don’t you get it? I never saw the man in my life. I didn’t want to see him. I wrote him a letter and said five C’s a month was all I wanted. So he mailed the checks to me. When he didn’t show up last night, sure I wondered, but I had no reason to connect him with a dead man. I figured he changed his mind or something.”

“What did he say on the phone?”

“That he was in town for the night and wanted to see me. It was early in the evening and I had a date. I said fine and how about a little later. He said fine that he was having dinner at the Chez Dumont a couple of blocks down the street and how would eleven o’clock be? So I made it back at eleven, passing up a hot piece, if you know what I mean, just to be here. And he didn’t show, damn it. Made me sore as hell.”

“So you knew he was eating at the Dumont and was headed here after dinner,” said Shayne coldly. “That’s all Peter Painter is going to want, Walsh. That, and the fact that you were blackmailing him. You’re the only man in Miami who could spot him on that street corner at eleven o’clock. Maybe you didn’t pull the trigger yourself,” said Shayne disgustedly. “I give you credit for setting up an alibi. But once Painter gets you in his back room, it won’t take him long to bust that down. Where’s your telephone?” He turned to look around the small disordered room and saw it on a stand near the door. He went to it swiftly and was lifting the receiver when Walsh ran to him and jiggled his arm, demanding frantically, “Who you gonna call? I swear to God, Shayne...”

“I’m calling Painter,” said Shayne shortly. “Who else? I’m out on a limb on this, and you’re my peace offering to Painter.” He grinned down wolfishly at the frightened man. “And it’s a pleasure to turn you in, Walsh. For once in my life, I feel real civic-minded.”

“Don’t do it,” protested Jeffery Walsh, dancing up and down with impatience and fright. “I swear I didn’t. If you’re out on a limb now, like you say, it won’t help you any to call in the cops. Not to give them me. Where’s my motive, for God’s sake? Suppose I do admit he was paying me five hundred a month? That makes me the last guy in the world to kill him. You ought to see that.”

Shayne replaced the receiver slowly. In a sense, Walsh was right. No use going off half-cocked and calling Painter in too soon. If Walsh couldn’t be made to fit for the killing, Shayne would still be very much on the spot.

He said gruffly, “The way I see it, and the way Painter will see it... Carson was tired of paying hush money to you and threatened to expose you. That’s what he came to town for. That’s a plenty good motive for you.”

“But it wasn’t like that at all,” said Walsh frantically. “In fact, he hinted over the phone that he wanted to make one big cash settlement with me instead of paying out money each month. I told him that about ten grand would fix me up just right, and that’s what he was going to talk over with me. Think I would have killed a guy who was about ready to kick over ten grand?”

Shayne said, “No. I certainly don’t think that of you, Walsh. On the other hand, that’s only your story. You can’t prove a word of it with Carson dead. It’s a lot more logical to assume that he was cutting you off and threatening to turn you in for blackmail at the same time. Which gives us one hell of a motive for your gunning him. We’ve still got you marked as the only person in Miami who knew Carson would be leaving that particular restaurant a few minutes before eleven o’clock. I think you’ll look very good to Painter.”

He reached for the telephone again, but Walsh grabbed his arm and tugged at it frantically. “Wait a minute, Shayne. Don’t go off half-cocked. You just walked into this case this morning. Maybe there’re some things I know about that you don’t. Remember, I been working on the deal for several months.”

“Such as what?” growled Shayne, holding the phone lifted and his finger hovering over the dial.

“Such as Whitey Buford and a kidnapping rap. But you haven’t even heard of Whitey.” There was a smirk of triumph in Walsh’s voice and Shayne hesitated, studying his face with bleak eyes. Then he shrugged and began dialling a number.

Walsh tried to pull him away from the phone, exclaiming angrily, “Damn it, Shayne. I’m trying to tell you...”

Shayne tucked the receiver between his chin and shoulder, released his left hand to give Walsh a backhanded slap that sent him reeling. He kept on dialling the number he wanted, growling, “Keep out of this until I ask you to come in.”

A dulcet voice over the telephone said, “Miami Daily News. Good evening,” and Shayne asked for the City Room.

A moment later he had Timothy Rourke on the wire, and the reporter told him excitedly:

“I don’t know how this fits, but one Whitey Buford, convicted of kidnapping the Barnett boy in Atlanta a few years back, escaped from the Georgia state pen last week, killing a guard while he made his getaway. That mean anything to you, Mike?”

“It might. Is he still loose?”

“Nothing on him yet. Here’s the complete story, Mike. I told you I covered it locally and I’ve checked back on the files. Buford was arested by the FBI in Miami on Labor Day, nineteen fifty-four, on an anonymous tip. He had the Barnett boy with him, unharmed, and admitted the kidnapping. Hell, he had to. They caught him with his pants down. But he insisted he hadn’t got any ransom, and the family swore they’d paid off to the tune of fifty grand. But he didn’t have a penny of it when arrested, and they always figured he’d stashed it here in Miami some place just before the arrest. That hurt him at the trial because it looked like he was still holding the boy after the pay-off. So he drew life.

“Since his escape from the penitentiary last week, there’s been an intensive alert for him in Miami on account of the cops figure he headed back here to dig up the fifty grand ransom money. Any of that do you any good, Mike?” Tim Rourke’s voice was anxious as he ended.

Shayne said slowly, “It might, Tim. Got a description of Buford?”

“Yeh. There was a spread in the News a week ago with a picture of him. I got it here in front of me.”

“Let me guess,” said Shayne. “Long nose and sharp, thin features. About forty. Four years in jail would pale him up.”

Rourke said, “That’s as good as I could do sitting here looking at the picture. You got a line on him?”

Shayne said, “The bastard took a shot at me a few hours ago. Keep on forgetting I called you, Tim.”

He hung up and turned slowly to Walsh who was cowering back against the sofa and who had listened avidly to his end of the conversation. He said, “You were about to tell me about Whitey Buford and a kidnapping rap in nineteen fifty-four. Go ahead and tell me.”

Walsh was breathing hard. “I guess you got most of the same dope. I saw it in the paper last week where Whitey had broken jail and was maybe headed here where they always thought he’d hid the ransom money. One thing, though, I betcha don’t know. It never did come out in the newspapers and I dug it up in Atlanta when I was checking Belle out with the local cops.”

Shayne said, “What? It better be good if I don’t call Painter to pick you up.” He still held his left hand over the telephone.

“Belle’s husband was the pay-off man,” said Walsh thinly. “Not a word of that ever came out in the papers or at the trial, but when he drove away from his house that night before Labor Day he had fifty thousand dollars in small unmarked bills in the suitcase he carried. The kidnapper had designated him as delivery boy, and he was a trusted employee of the Barnett Lumber Company. The cops always figured Buford killed him here in Miami after he made the pay-off, but there wasn’t any proof of that at all.”

“Did Belle know it?” Shayne demanded savagely.

“No one knows. She denied any knowledge of it at the time. Claimed Richard Watson never told her a damned word. That he just up and disappeared for no reason at all.

“But who knows the truth about any of it?” Walsh went on eagerly. “Maybe Belle did know. Maybe Watson never did deliver the ransom like Buford claimed, and maybe he split it with Belle before leaving her like he did. Who knows? I heard you say on the phone that somebody took a shot at you a few hours ago. Whitey Buford? Did Belle Carson tell her second husband about Whitey after he escaped, and was Whitey out gunning for Belle and Carson because he figured she’d kept her share of the money he feels is rightfully his? There’s a better motive for Whitey gunning Carson last night than you can possibly build up for me.”

“The only difference is,” said Shayne slowly, “that there’s nothing to indicate Carson even knew who Whitey was or had any contact with him. But we do have you, Walsh.” He lifted the telephone again and started dialling. “I think Painter will be satisfied to nail you to the cross.”

Walsh sucked in his breath sharply and lunged at Shayne, his eyes wild with fear and anger.

The redhead again tucked the receiver between chin and shoulder, and this time he met the other private detective’s rush with a solid, jolting left to the point of the jaw.

Walsh went down in a heap on the floor in front of him, and Shayne stepped around him and calmly completed dialling the number he had started.

He said, “Homicide, please. Peter Painter, if he’s available.”

He listened a moment and said rapidly, “All right, Sergeant. Park Plaza Apartments here on the Beach. Number six-ten. A man named Jeffery Walsh is the man whom Walter Carson telephoned from his hotel room shortly before he was murdered last night. Walsh was blackmailing him, and had a date to meet him at eleven o’clock. If you get some men here fast, you’ll find Walsh passed out in his apartment waiting for you. Six-ten, the Park Plaza.”

He replaced the receiver, shutting off the squawking voice of the homicide sergeant demanding to know the name of the person who was calling.

He whirled and walked out, leaving the unconscious body of Jeffery Walsh on the floor behind him, went down the elevator and out through the lobby to his rented car parked in front.

He got in it and was pulling away from the curb when he heard the keening of a siren coming up fast behind him, and he knew that he could very well leave Jeffery Walsh to the tender mercies of Peter Painter.