Murder and the Wanton Bride

6

Seated at his private office in the hotel Donchester, Steve Frazel looked as unlike the conventional hotel house dick as was possible. He was a slender, upright man with thinning gray hair and ascetic features. He wore horn-rimmed glasses through which he regarded Michael Shayne with wary distrust as the redhead sat down across the desk from him.

“As though,” he said wearily, “I didn’t have troubles enough this morning. What’s on your mind, Shamus?”

Shayne’s eyes glinted. “Troubles? What in particular?”

“Nothing in particular. Particularly, nothing for you.” Frazel removed his glasses and blinked wearily. Then he replaced them and said pointedly, “That was merely to indicate that I am quite busy with certain minor matters of routine. So if you’ve just dropped in for a chat...”

Shayne said, “I don’t want much, Steve. Just the dope on one of your guests, W. D. Carson. A banker from Denham, I think.”

“What about him, Mike?”

Shayne spread out his hands on the desk. “Anything. Everything. A quick run-down before you and I go up for a look at his room.”

The Chief Security Officer of the Donchester nodded and pressed a button in front of him and spoke into an intercom. He leaned back and removed his glasses again. “Has your banker from Denham absconded?”

“I don’t think so,” Shayne said truthfully. He lit a cigarette and added, “I’ll give you the story after I see what you’ve got.” He exhaled twin streams of smoke from his nostrils and said idly, “Understand you had a killing nearby last night.”

“Down the street, you mean?” Frazel nodded. “Someone mentioned it this morning, though I haven’t seen a paper. It tie in?”

Shayne said cautiously, “I don’t believe Painter has managed to identify the victim yet.”

Impatiently, Frazel said, “Painter! Sometimes I doubt whether he could identify his own grandmother. Jesus! The things I could tell you about lack of cooperation I get when I try to feed him something on the Q. T.”

Shayne nodded and said easily, “Petey does have a way of getting out of line sometimes. That’s why I’m going to give this to you straight and let you handle it the best way for the hotel.”

Frazel said, “I appreciate that.” He turned his head as there was a light knock on an inside door and a young man entered with a sheet of paper in his hand. He took it and said, “Thanks, Jim,” adjusted his glasses and told Shayne doubtfully, “There isn’t much. Carson has been with us overnight twice in the past three years. Always alone. He checked in at five-thirty yesterday. Reservation made in advance for one night by letter dated January fifth. One telephone call from his room at six-fifteen.” He read off a local number to Shayne. “One dry martini from room service at seven-fifty-two, for which he signed. Room is vacant and unslept in this morning, and key in the slot.”

Shayne made a note of the telephone number and asked, “That mean anything to you?”

Steve Frazel shook his head. Shayne lifted his eyebrows inquiringly and reached for a telephone on the desk. Frazel nodded and pressed a button for an outside connection as the detective lifted the receiver.

He dialled the number Carson had called the preceding evening, and after a moment a bright feminine voice caroled, “Park Plaza Apartments. Good morning.”

Shayne said, “Sorry. I have the wrong number.” He hung up and told Frazel, “The Park Plaza Apartments. Isn’t that nearby?”

“About five blocks. What should I know about this, Mike?”

“Let’s go see his room first.”

Frazel said, “Three-oh-eight,” and stood up. Shayne followed him through the inner door to a narrow corridor that led around to the lobby and the elevators. They went up to the third floor and Frazel selected a key from a ring as they went down the hall. It unlocked Number 308 after he knocked on the door and got no answer. The two men walked in and looked about the room that was exactly as the banker had left it the preceding evening when he went out to have his solitary dinner at the Chez Dumont. Shayne wrinkled his nose at the still half-filled cocktail glass on the tray, leaned over and sniffed it and asked incredulously, “Did you say he ordered a dry martini?”

Frazel said, “The hotel has to make a buck where it can.” He crossed the room to look at the hairbrushes on the dresser and the soiled shirt on the foot of the bed, and followed Shayne into the bathroom to find one crumpled hand-towel and a toothbrush on the lavatory. They both went back to the open pigskin bag and Frazel watched carefully while Shayne lifted out the folded pajamas and disclosed a pair of clean socks rolled into a ball and a suit of clean underwear. There was nothing more in the bag.

Shayne shrugged as he replaced the pajamas. He said abruptly: “I’m pretty sure W. D. Carson is dead. Shot down on the street last night about eleven o’clock. Don’t ask me why. All I know is that he had an old newspaper clipping about me in his pocket, and a notation indicating that he had a nine o’clock appointment with me this morning. Painter dragged me across the Causeway and hauled me over the coals when I couldn’t identify the body for him and denied having any such appointment with anybody. But a letter came to my office this morning from Carson, wrongly addressed so it had been delayed. He said he’d be staying here. I haven’t the faintest idea what he wanted to see me about, Steve.”

“You haven’t notified Painter yet?”

“Hell, no,” said Shayne savagely. “He practically called me a liar after I levelled with him last night, and warned me not to come around later with information pretending I hadn’t known it all the time. Then the scummy little louse had the guts to get a search warrant and go through my office files looking for evidence that I knew who the guy was and had held out on him. Would you give him anything under those circumstances?”

“Probably not,” said Frazel soothingly. “How do you want me to play it?”

“It’s up to you and your civic conscience,” said Shayne. “I’ve got a retainer from Carson in my pocket and I’d like to find out who murdered him before he could get to my office this morning, and before Painter gets in my way and messes things up. For that, I’d like a little time. A few hours is all.”

“Then you’re asking me to hold out on Painter?” asked Frazel uncomfortably.

“I’m not asking you, Steve. Call him now if you think you have to.” Shayne gestured toward the telephone. “I am asking you to keep me out of it. Can’t you work it this way?” the redhead went on swiftly:

“Say one of your guests hasn’t shown up and hasn’t slept in his bed last night? Mention the fact that his description coincides with that of the dead man, and offer to send over a bellboy or maid to look at the body and identify it?”

“Sure,” Frazel said. “I can do it that way.” He led the way out of the room. “Two-three hours, huh? No reason I should get such a report on a guest before noon... and no damned reason why I should do Chief of Detectives Painter’s work for him.”

Shayne said feelingly, “Thanks, Steve. I’ll be moving fast.” They went down in the elevator together, and Shayne long-legged it across the lobby with a farewell wave of his big hand, got in his car and drove around the few blocks to the Park Plaza Apartments.

It was a large, severe and very modern building, and Shayne had little hope of learning anything there, but it was the one stone he had and it could not be left unturned.

Inside was a small modern lobby with an information desk and switchboard behind it. A benign-faced, gray-haired woman sat behind the desk and a younger woman operated the switchboard behind her.

Shayne leaned an elbow on the desk and used his most ingratiating, small-boyish smile as he said, “I know I’m going to ask the impossible of you, Ma’am, but that’s my job. I’m trying to trace a call that was made to this number at exactly six-fifteen last evening. Is there any chance in the world that anybody might recall it? Who received it?”

She looked interested and cooperative, but completely unhelpful. “I don’t see how there would be a chance in the world,” she declared. “Mercy, we have more than sixty-tenants... and with the phone ringing all the time... well, you can see for yourself.” She turned to look over her shoulder at the switchboard where the operator was busy putting plugs in holes and taking plugs out of holes.

Shayne said, “I know. And I don’t suppose this girl was even on duty last evening?”

“No, that would be Elise. From four to midnight.”

Shayne nodded and said, “Tell me this. What sort of clientele do you have here?”

“The very finest people. I can assure you...”

“I’m sorry,” Shayne said quickly at the note of umbrage in her voice. “I’m sure you do. What I meant was... are your apartments mostly large or small efficiency ones? Do you have mostly, well, professional people? Employed couples? Tourists or year-round residents?”

“Very few tourists. We have a few larger units, four, five and six room. But mostly singles and doubles.” She turned away with a bright smile for an elderly couple coming in from the street, and Shayne said, “Thank you very much,” and hurried out.

His next stop was at the News Tower in Miami, where he went up to the City Room and was lucky enough to find Timothy Rourke at his typewriter in one corner of the busy room.

The reporter leaned back and folded his arms and regarded Shayne with a saturnine twinkle in his eyes as the redhead dropped into a straight chair in front of him. “What the hell’s with you and Painter?” he demanded. “I been calling your office, but Lucy refuses to give out.”

Shayne said, “You tell me.”

“All I know, it’s got something to do with Petey’s murder last night. I wasn’t in on it, but the grapevine says he’s got evidence you and the body were palsywalsy and you refuse to admit it for reasons best known to yourself. I do have it straight that Painter got himself a search warrant this morning and hied himself to your office to search for enough evidence to hang you.”

“And?” Shayne asked as he stopped.

Timothy Rourke shrugged his thin shoulders and his deep-set eyes gleamed beneath overhanging brows.

“So far as I know he retired in confusion. So, give.”

Shayne shook his red head, taking out a cigarette and lighting it. “That’s why I’m here. For information. What is the latest dope on the Beach killing?”

“Hell, there isn’t much. Shot on the street about eleven last night. Through the forehead with a Thirty-Two S. and W. Sometimes known as a Bulldog.”

“Sometimes known as a Banker’s Special,” interrupted Shayne sardonically. “Any chance of suicide, Tim?”

Rourke looked mildly surprised and consulted some notes in front of him. “It hasn’t been suggested. Nothing about powder burns. You got anything?” he asked eagerly.

Shayne shook his head. “Nobody tells me anything. I was just struck by the coincidence of his being shot by that gun.”

“Coincidence? Like what?”

Shayne continued to shake his head. “I’m doing a lot of guessing at this point. Body still unidentified?”

“At latest reports. No wallet. No nothing. Ready-to-wear clothing with some laundry marks they’re trying to trace. Fingerprints to Washington and the usual crap. Except rumor says there was something on him that pointed the finger to you.”

“I’ve got an alibi,” Shayne told him gravely. “Besides I hardly ever gun prospective clients.”

“That what he was, Mike? For the paper?”

Shayne shook his head. “Not until Painter decides to give it out. Nothing else, huh?”

“Not a damned thing.” Timothy Rourke cupped his chin in one emaciated hand and studied Shayne’s face with hotly glowing eyes. “What angle are you working on?”

“Anything to get the jump on Painter,” Shayne told him cheerfully. “And, as usual, I have.”

“Have what?”

“Got the jump on him.”

Shayne stood up. “Here’s a tip, Tim. Stay close to Painter the next few hours. A break is due, and you better follow it up.”

“What about you?” Rourke was following him eagerly across the City Room to the door.

“Don’t mention it, Tim, but I’m going to be out ahead of it. And I do mean... don’t mention it. I’ll be in touch later.”

Shayne swung out and to the elevator, went down and drove directly to his office.

Lucy Hamilton was alone when he walked in. She demanded, “What is all of this about, Michael? That letter from the banker this morning with the check enclosed! As soon as I saw that about the nine o’clock appointment, I knew it must be what Chief Painter wanted to know. What sort of accessory of what am I for giving you the letter without telling him?”

“God knows, angel. At the moment, it’s nothing more than a murder rap... but it may get worse. I’m headed for Denham, but you don’t know it.”

“Michael Shayne, you’d better tell me something.” Lucy Hamilton was close to tears. “What’s the hussy who called you at midnight last night got to do with it?”

“Hussy?” Shayne shook his head gravely with a look of incomprehension on his angular face. “You know me better than that.”

“The Marilyn type,” she broke in stormily. “The one who was doing a strip tease in your hotel room while you dashed over there away from me.”

“The way you do take on, Lucy.” Shayne’s voice was gently reproving. He clawed fingers through his hair. “Hold down the fort, angel. I’m on my way to Denham, but you don’t know it. You didn’t see that letter from Carson this morning.”

“Why are you doing this, Michael? Why don’t you tell Chief Painter the truth and let him solve his own cases?”

“Because it’s my case now,” Shayne told her angrily. “I’ve got a retainer in my pocket, and, by God, I don’t like it when people murder prospective clients before they can get to me.”

Lucy put her hand over her mouth. “Is Mr. Carson the man who was shot on the Beach last night?”

“From all outward appearances. And to prevent his keeping an appointment with me. So, I’m headed for Denham.”

Lucy came out of her chair swiftly and through the gate in the railing to detain him with both hands on his shoulders.

“Is she there, Michael?”

“What she?”

“The one... you left me for last night?”

For a long moment Shayne looked down into her agonized brown eyes and restrained an impulse to laugh as he recalled Mrs. Harvey Barstow. Then he said gently, “Some day I’m going to learn to keep my big mouth shut and stop kidding you, angel. As soon as I leave, do this for me and for your own peace of mind. Call up Pete at the hotel and get him to give you a blow-by-blow description of my visitor last night. In the meantime, I’m on my way.”

He leaned forward to brush his lips across her forehead, then put her aside and went out of the office fast. Although he knew Steve Frazel shared his own aversion of Peter Painter, he wasn’t sure how long Frazel would feel he could afford to stall with the information Shayne had given him.