Murder and the Wanton Bride

5

Michael Shayne awoke at eight-thirty the next morning. He reached for a cigarette on the bedside table, lit it and lay relaxed while he smoked it and thought about the banker from Denham who had planned to see him at nine o’clock this morning. He wondered if Peter Painter had identified Carson’s body yet, and why a smalltown banker had been gunned the preceding evening in such a professional manner. Had it been to prevent Carson from keeping his appointment with Shayne at nine? That hardly seemed to fit with a small case of sexual two-timing such as Mrs. Barstow had outlined last night. Yet that had merely been Mrs. Barstow’s own idea, he reminded himself. She had no proof that Carson had planned to see him for that reason. In view of his death last night it seemed probable that her husband’s assumption was more correct — that the banker’s appointment had to do with business rather than personal affairs.

He rubbed out his cigarette and swung long legs from under the sheet, stood up and yawned in his pajamas and then padded into the kitchen to start breakfast in the mechanical, single-minded manner of any man who has established a routine over the years and sees no reason to ever deviate from it.

Hot water in a teakettle to boil for coffee. (Sometime, somewhere, some woman had carefully explained to Shayne that one should never run hot water from the spigot into a kettle to boil for coffee. He couldn’t remember why, although it was supposed to have some sort of bad effect on the flavor, but Shayne had once tried using cold water and the longer wait before he had his first cup of coffee had made it seem bitter to him and he hadn’t experimented further.)

A can of chilled tomato juice opened like a beer can and sucked at lingeringly while he put a heavy iron frying pan on the stove and turned the heat high under it, and covered the bottom with four strips of bacon.

Four heaping tablespoonfuls of coffee measured into the top of the dripolator, and turn the fire low under the bacon as it began to crackle.

Boiling water in top of the dripolator when the kettle whistled, and two slices of bread in the toaster, turning the slices of bacon between each operation, getting a carton of eggs from the refrigerator and opening it to sit in readiness on the stove.

Crisp bacon forked onto a folded paper towel and most of the hot grease poured off, four eggs dropped into the remaining grease just as the toast popped up.

Butter for the toast while the eggs began to set, salt and pepper on top of them and then a fast stir with a fork to complete the cooking exactly the way Shayne liked them.

Onto a plate with bacon and toast on the side, and the coffee had just finished running through and the first cup of deeply golden elixir ready to be poured.

It was exactly seven and one-half minutes from the time he entered the kitchen until he emerged with a loaded tray which he carried to the center table and set there.

When the food was wolfed down and a second cup of coffee reheated and poured, Shayne returned with it and added a noggin of brandy, then settled back to enjoy his second cigarette of the new day.

It was a few minutes after nine o’clock when he finished his second coffee royal and his third cigarette — and his telephone rang.

He reached out a long arm for it, and Lucy’s indignant voice came over the wire:

“Michael! Peter Painter is here with another policeman. They were waiting outside when I got here, and insisted on pushing in with me and Mr. Painter wouldn’t let me go to my desk until the other one looked it all over and searched my appointment pad for any notes I had there. And they keep on trying to get me to admit that you had a nine o’clock appointment this morning. What shall I do?”

Shayne’s eyes glinted. He said, “Tell Petey that I’ll be there in ten minutes and if he hasn’t got a search warrant I’m going to knock his teeth down his throat.”

“But he has, Michael,” wailed Lucy.

“Has what?”

“A search warrant. And right now he’s in your private office going through your files.”

Shayne grinned in spite of the anguish in Lucy’s voice. “Hell of a lot of good that’ll do him, angel. I can’t find anything in those files myself. Stand by to see he doesn’t steal anything and I’ll be right down.”

He didn’t break his neck getting dressed and down to the office. There was nothing in his files that had to be kept secret from Painter, and he was glad, in a sense, that the Miami Beach chief of detectives had taken this overt action. Up to this point, Shayne had been vacillating about whether to identify Painter’s dead body for him or not.

Basically, he didn’t like to withhold information from the authorities, and as a matter of policy he avoided doing so unless there were a large fee involved. In this case it didn’t seem likely there would be any money involved, and if Painter had left him alone Shayne knew he would probably have told him about Carson this morning.

But coming to his office with a search warrant was an open challenge which the redhead could not disregard. It was a flat accusation that Painter believed Shayne had lied to him the preceding night, and the detective’s gray eyes were bleak though he grinned encouragingly at a perturbed Lucy when he reached the office some twenty minutes later.

She sat behind her desk beyond the low railing in the reception room with tightly compressed lips and brown eyes glinting fire at the plainclothes Beach dick who lounged uncomfortably in the open doorway leading into Shayne’s private office.

Shayne’s grin widened as he tossed his hat on a hook inside the door. “Only thing I’m worried about is my liquor supply, angel. If Petey starts swigging on that I’m really going to throw him out.”

He strode toward the door of his office as though the dick weren’t blocking his way, and the man stepped aside hastily to avoid physical contact, muttering over his shoulder, “Here’s Shayne now, Chief.”

Peter Painter jerked around from the open drawer of a steel filing cabinet against the wall and glared at Shayne as he came to a stop just inside the room. The drawers of the center desk were pulled open, but there was no other disorder in the room. “I’ve asked your girl to explain your filing system to me, Shayne, and she has refused. She claims you use your own system and not even she knows what it is.”

Shayne chuckled at the testy note in Painter’s voice. He said, “I always knew my private system would come in handy some day when a nosy cop came snooping around.” He crossed to the desk slowly and lowered his left hip onto one corner, got out a cigarette and lit it.

Peter Painter snorted his disgust and turned back to continue his desultory poking through the cardboard folders in the open drawer.

“If you’re looking for a drink,” Shayne told him cheerfully, “it’s in the next drawer down.”

“You know I’m not looking for a drink,” snapped Painter over his shoulder. “I’m searching for evidence to prove that you deliberately lied to me last night when you refused to identify the corpse who had an appointment with you this morning at nine o’clock.”

“My God,” said Shayne in simulated disgust, “haven’t you got around to identifying him yet?”

Painter turned to run a trembling thumbnail over his tiny black mustache. “We haven’t a single clue to work on except that notation in his pocket about his appointment with you.”

“Which I told you last night I knew nothing about,” Shayne reminded him blandly. He turned his head and lifted ragged red eyebrows at Lucy as she hesitated in the doorway with a couple of letters in her hand. “Don’t mind these guys, angel. Business as usual is our motto.”

“It’s the morning mail that just came. There’s a note from Mr. Detweiler of the Acme Insurance Company that you should see... and then a check on that other case.” Her slight hesitation before the second phrase and faint accent on “other” warned Shayne that she was conveying some hidden meaning to him.

He said, “Okay,” and slid off the desk to brush past Painter’s companion and take the letters from Lucy’s outstretched hand. Standing there with his back to the inner office, he glanced at the insurance company letter and handed it back to her, saying, “I’ll call Detweiler this afternoon.”

The other letter was in a white envelope with the return address: “The First National Bank, Denham, Florida.” The typewritten address was, “Mr. Michael Shayne, Bank of Bay Biscayne Building, Miami, Florida.”

From the address, his gaze flickered up to the stamped cancellation, and he noted that it was postmarked Denham, Florida, Jan. 5, three days previous.

Things added up clearly in his mind as he slowly drew out the single folded typewritten sheet with a check enclosed. It was evident, now, that the banker from Denham had relied on the incorrect address in the newspaper clipping in writing to Shayne for an appointment, and the letter had been delayed two days on that account.

The check was for $250.00, made out to Michael Shayne, dated Jan. 5, and signed W. D. Carson.

The letter was also dated Jan. 5, and read:

Michael Shayne read the letter from the dead man through swiftly, and folded it as Painter moved up behind him, demanding aggressively, “What is it, Shayne? Something to do with...?”

Shayne said easily, “Unh-uh, Painter. I don’t believe your search warrant covers my personal mail.” He replaced the letter in its envelope and handed it back to Lucy, telling her, “Answer it, angel, acknowledging receipt of the check with thanks.” He folded the check and put it in his wallet, told Painter over his shoulder, “You go ahead and waste the taxpayers’ money as you wish. Happens I have to work for a living.” He went out without a backward glance, telling Lucy as he reached for his hat, “Keep an eye on these birds. If they try to walk out with anything, call Will Gentry and have them arrested for burglary.”

He rammed the hat down on his unruly red hair and went out fast to the elevator, and down to his car that was parked in front.