Murder by Proxy

10

The office of the Professional Answering Service was located on the ground floor of a building on 14th Street. The anteroom was presided over by a pleasant-faced, elderly lady, and there were no switchboards or telephone operators in evidence so Shayne concluded that the actual work was done elsewhere.

When she turned from her desk to ask what she could do for him, Shayne put on his most disarming smile and told her, “It’s probably against all your rules, but I’m a detective trying to locate a woman who has been missing for several days from one of the hotels here. I think one of your customers can give me information about her, and it’s imperative that I contact him at once. The woman may be in great danger,” he added gravely.

“Does his telephone number not answer?”

“Your service answered when I tried to call him a short time ago. I know that he hasn’t been home for several days, and I assume you have been transferring calls to some other number.”

“Not necessarily. Mostly, we simply take any messages that are left for a subscriber, and give them to him the next time he calls in.”

“You mean you wouldn’t know how to reach him in the interim?” Shayne showed his disappointment clearly.

“Normally not.” She hesitated. “Of course, if he knew he was going to be away from his own telephone for several days, and could be reached at some other number, he might inform us in advance, so that calls could be transferred at once and he wouldn’t have to be continually calling in to check. That’s one of our regular services.”

“In that case, would you give the caller his new number, or simply take the message and then call him?”

“Whichever way he preferred it handled.”

“Would you have a record of it here if this subscriber had made such an arrangement?” Shayne persisted.

Her eyes twinkled faintly. She said, “Yes. But I could not possibly give the information out unless I were authorized to do so.”

Shayne said ingratiatingly. “But you could check, couldn’t you, and see if my hunch is right. This may very well be a matter of life and death,” he urged her. “Just knowing that he had arranged to be reached at another phone would be of great importance.”

She said, “I don’t see… that that would be a violation of privacy.”

“His name is Gene Blake,” Shayne told her quickly, and added the telephone number of Blake’s apartment.

She turned to a large alphabetical card-file on the left side of her desk and efficiently took out a card. Shayne moved slightly and unobtrusively so he could look over her shoulder at the card carrying the name: BLAKE, Gene. There were several notations on the card behind penciled dates on the left side, and Shayne concentrated on the last one. He couldn’t interpret the cryptic notation, but it ended with a local telephone number followed by #410.

He memorized the number and looked down guilelessly into her eyes as she replaced the card and turned to tell him, “Mr. Blake did ask us to transfer any calls to another telephone number last Tuesday until further notice. He asked that the new number not be given to anyone, and it would be a breach of confidence for me to give it to you.” She spoke with firm severity and Shayne didn’t know whether she realized he’d read the number over her shoulder or not. He rather suspected she did, and he thanked her gravely. “You’ve been a great help, and I certainly wouldn’t want to urge you to give away your client’s secrets.”

He hurried out to the nearest telephone before he forgot the hastily memorized number, and dialled it. A dulcet voice said, “Good afternoon. Seaspray Hotel. May I help you?”

Shayne said, “You have, honey,” and hung up.

The Seaspray was one of the huge, rambling hotels that had been built during the first boom of the Twenties. There was some sort of convention in progress, and the lobby was athrong with milling delegates and lines of guests who were checking in and out.

Shayne made his way through them to the elevator and squeezed in. It let him out on the 4th floor, and he found #410 and knocked on the door. It opened after about thirty seconds and Shayne faced a man wearing slippers and slacks and undershirt and holding a towel in his hands. His brown hair was damp and uncombed, muscular arms and shoulders were deeply tanned. He fitted Tiny’s description of Gene Blake perfectly.

He held the door half-open and frowned at the rangy redhead, and said aggressively, “I think you have the wrong room,” and started to close the door.

Shayne stepped into it and shoved the door and the man back. “Right room… right guy,” he said, looking around the large sitting room of an expensive suite. The bathroom door stood open, and beyond it was a closed door leading into the bedroom. There was no one else in sight.

“What sort of deal is this? You can’t force yourself into a man’s room, and…”

Shayne growled, “I have, Blake. Who’s in the bedroom?”

“My wife, and I don’t propose.”… Blake dropped the towel on the floor and doubled up his fists, getting in front of Shayne and jutting his jaw belligerently.

Shayne said, “We both know you don’t have a wife, Blake. I’m taking a look.” He put the flat of a big hand on the man’s chest and shoved. Taken off balance, Blake staggered back two paces, and then unclenched his fists and got a half-shamed smile on his face.

“Can’t we handle this differently?” He fumbled for his wallet and made his voice placating.

Shayne said, “This isn’t a shakedown. I just want a look at the woman in your bedroom.” He moved forward purposefully, and Gene Blake got out of his way, still protesting weakly, but not as though he cared too greatly. When Shayne rapped on the door, he called out, “It’s okay, Peggy. Don’t be worried.”

Shayne opened the door and looked in the bedroom. On the other side of the room a woman sat in front of a dressing table with her back to him, calmly putting on lipstick with a tiny brush. Meeting her reflected gaze in the mirror, Shayne saw that she in no way resembled the photograph of Ellen Harris in his pocket.

He said gruffly, “I’m sorry, Ma’am,” and closed the bedroom door. Blake had backed away toward the center of the room and was lighting a cigarette with trembling hands. “What kind of Peeping Tom stunt is this?”

Shayne asked, “Where is Ellen Harris, Blake?”

“Ellen Harris? I don’t think I know anyone named that.”

“Maybe this will refresh your memory.” Shayne took the picture from his pocket and held it out. Blake studied it wordlessly, and then licked his lips. “I guess maybe that was her name. Ellen something. I met her at the Beachhaven bar last Monday. That the one?” He looked at Shayne curiously, but apparently without fear.

Shayne said, “That’s the one. Where is she?”

“How in hell should I know? I haven’t seen her since Monday night. She ditched me at the Gray Gull for another guy.”

Shayne said, “Sit down and tell me all about it.”

“Why should I? Who are you and what’s all this about?”

Shayne said uncompromisingly, “Sit down and talk to me, or get a shirt on and we’ll go to headquarters. My name is Shayne,” he added impatiently. “I’m a private detective looking for Mrs. Harris.”

“Oh, Christ. You’re Mike Shayne. Sure. I should have recognized you right off.” Blake looked crestfallen. “What’s happened to Mrs. Harris?”

“That’s what I hope you can tell me.” Shayne sat down and lit a cigarette. “I know you picked her up in the bar and she signed the chit for a couple of drinks, and you went out with her through the rear door to the hotel parking lot. You take it from there.”

Gene Blake seated himself and drew thoughtfully on his cigarette. “There was something funny about her. In the beginning, it looked like a real hot deal. She was damned attractive and all out to have a good time… with no reservations as far as I could see. We used her car, rented, I think, and I suggested dinner first, but she didn’t want food. Wanted to gamble. I remember particularly because I never did get dinner that night, and had a hell of a hangover the next day as a result.

“As I look back on it now, I got the impression she was sort of forcing herself. As though it was a completely new role for her. That she was trying to act wanton, maybe.”

“Did she suggest the Gray Gull, or did you?”

“Damned if I remember. Probably I did, though there are a couple other places I’d just as soon steer a woman into. She just bought fifty dollars worth of chips to start with, and she settled down at a roulette table to make small bets. They gave me five hundred to go on… I suppose you know that sort of deal?” He mashed out his cigarette and looked at Shayne inquiringly.

He nodded and said, “I talked to Willy this afternoon.”

“Yeh, well he’ll bear me out that she wasn’t much of a gambler. I stayed with roulette for awhile, and then began to get bored and drifted over to the crap table, but I kept going back to her… you know… and she stayed about even without doing any real betting at all. Then I saw her getting real friendly with another guy who’d sat down beside her, and I didn’t mind because about that time I started talking to Peggy at the crap table.” He paused and arched his eyebrows at the closed door. “She was alone and out for a good time and we started hitting it off, and I’d already decided there wasn’t too much percentage in Ellen, so I went back one last time and she practically cold-shouldered me… flirting with this other fellow.”

“Do you think she knew him, Blake? That maybe she had got you to take her there so she could meet him?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t think anything like that at the time.” Blake looked honestly puzzled. “Why would she have bothered? She had her own car and could have gone there alone.”

Shayne said, “Maybe she didn’t know that,” recalling that Tiny had said she didn’t know whether she would be allowed at the bar unescorted. “Maybe she felt she needed an entree.”

“Maybe,” Blake conceded. “Could be, I guess. That would explain why she cooled off so fast after we got there. Anyhow, I just thought to hell with it and went back to Peggy. We played a little more and then hit three or four more spots… and ended up at my place in the morning.” He shrugged. “We moved in here the next afternoon, and it’s been a ball ever since.”

“Can you describe the man Ellen Harris was making up to?”

Blake narrowed his eyes and appeared to be thinking hard. “Sort of neutral, the way I remember him. Forty, maybe. Heavy-set, I think. One thing… I don’t think he’s a native. Not enough tan and he was wearing a dark suit.” He paused and got to his feet as the bedroom door opened and Peggy came into the room. She was short and a trifle on the dumpy side, and her hair was almost certainly dyed that shade of red. She was completely self-possessed, as she sauntered in from the bedroom, and she looked at Shayne curiously as he remained seated. “Who is this man, hon?”

“He’s a detective, sweet. Private,” Blake added hastily, “and not interested in our love-life. He’s trying to trace that dame I ditched for you at the Gray Gull last Monday night. Remember the one…?”

“Hold it,” Shayne interposed. “I’d like to hear Peggy’s story of that evening without any prompting from the sidelines. How do you remember it, Peggy?”

“Shall I tell him?” She settled herself in a chair and smoothed a short skirt down over thick thighs.

“Sure. Tell him just how it was. I got nothing to hide. He’s got a reputation around town for being a square shooter.”

“Well, I was at the crap table there at the Gray Gull and being bored. It was about nine o’clock, I guess.” She glanced at Gene and he nodded and said, “About that. Maybe a little after.”

“We got to talking, Gene and me, and… we hit it off right away.” She gazed at him fondly. “I knew right off he was a good sport, and… well, the chemicals were right, if you know what I mean.” She gazed boldly at Shayne and tittered slightly.

“And he told me he’d brought this other woman playing roulette, but he’d just as leave ditch her anyhow, and so why didn’t we go some place else.”

“Did he point her out to you?”

“Sure. That is, I watched him go over and speak to her. A sort of horsy blonde wearing a bright red dress cut all the way down to here.” She made an exaggerated slashing motion down to her navel. “So you didn’t have to do too much guessing about what was underneath the red dress, if you know what I mean. Some men go for that kind of thing, but Gene admitted he preferred to make his own discoveries.” Again, she gazed fondly at her room-mate. “Anyhow, she was already making up to some other guy, and so we slipped out.” She shrugged. “That’s all there was to it.”

“Did you notice the man you say she was already making up to?”

“I can’t say that I did. I wasn’t too interested in either one of them right about then.”

“Is this a picture of the woman at the Gray Gull?” Shayne showed her the picture of Ellen Harris.

She nodded disinterestedly. “I guess. She wasn’t really near that pretty, but I guess it’s her all right.”

“Are you prepared to testify that you haven’t seen the blonde since then, and that you and Gene spent the rest of that night together… and have been together ever since?”

“Hey! What’s this about testifying? You don’t have to drag Peggy into this.”

“She’s already dragged into it,” Shayne told him coldly. “So far as anybody knows right now, you two are the last people who have seen Mrs. Harris. You’ll have to come down to police headquarters and sign a statement.”

“Police headquarters?” It was an anguished cry from Gene’s outraged lips. “You’re private. What you got to do with the police? Look, I came clean with you thinking we could keep the whole thing nice and quiet.”

“This woman has been missing for five days. Her husband is here from New York raising hell all over the place. This picture is going to be reproduced on the front page of tonight’s News with a headline asking for information about her. You can’t get away from it, Gene. If your story checks out, the chances are it won’t have to be made public. Let me take you in and give you to Peter Painter right now, and your chances for keeping it quiet will be just about doubled. He hates my guts enough that he’s going to be so damned sore I got to you first that he’ll do practically anything to prove your innocence. So, let’s go.

“Besides, you haven’t got any choice,” Shayne ended grimly, getting to his feet. “Either get dressed and come along with me like a good citizen, or I’ll call in and have them send the wagon around for both of you.”