This Is It, Michael Shayne

Chapter Eleven

He waited several minutes before anything happened. A faint glow finally showed through leaded panes of glass in the door. He took his finger off the button. The ceiling porch light came on and the front door was opened a few inches to allow Harsh to peer through.

The opening widened immediately and the financier greeted him with a disapproving frown. “Shayne! Why are you disturbing me here at this hour? I delivered the money to your hotel as agreed.”

“Have much trouble getting that amount of cash?” Shayne asked pleasantly.

“Not a great deal. I had to stop at three places before accumulating the full sum.”

“What three places?”

Burton Harsh’s frown deepened. “What possible reason can you have for asking a question like that? I’ve met your demand, Shayne, and I fail to understand-”

“I have a good reason,” Shayne interrupted him. “Have you any special reason for not telling me?”

“No-but I don’t see-”

“Then quit stalling and tell me.”

“Very well-if you insist. I cashed a check for two thousand at the Flamingo, one for twelve hundred at the Silver Crescent, and procured the last eighteen hundred at the Eldorado. Does that satisfy your curiosity?”

Shayne reviewed the locations of the three widely separated night clubs. If Harsh was telling the truth, it was fairly certain that getting the cash together and delivering it to his hotel would have required all the time that had elapsed since they separated, leaving him very little spare time to have arranged or taken part in Miss Lally’s abduction.

“It satisfies me for the moment,” he said evenly, “subject to checking the truth of your story by inquiring at those places.”

Harsh bristled visibly. “See here, Shayne, I don’t like your tone,” he complained. “I don’t understand any of this. Why should you doubt me, and what earthly difference does it make?”

“Why don’t you invite me inside for a drink, and I’ll explain why it all matters a great deal.”

“Really-it’s quite late,” he hedged, “and I confess I’m pretty much worn out. I was on my way to bed when you rang.”

“There are things we need to talk over.” Shayne moved forward and Harsh reluctantly stepped back to allow him entrance to a wide hallway.

“Very well, then,” said Harsh, covering his irritation with a casual tone and a poker face. “There’s a small sitting-room off here if you really feel it’s important.” He turned right and had his hand on a doorknob when Shayne stopped him:

“Wouldn’t the library be more comfortable? The one back this way on the other side of the house.”

“Really, Shayne-don’t you think you’re taking advantage-ah-being somewhat rude?

“Not at all,” Shayne answered imperturbably. “As my host, it seems to me you’re being rude if you don’t ask me back to your private study to join you in a drink-and to meet your other guest,” he added as though it were a casual afterthought.

Harsh’s hand dropped nervelessly from the knob. His strong, irregular features appeared to turn into wax and melt into a mass of wrinkles. He was suddenly a frightened old man, and the solid bulk of his body seemed to shrink under the impact of Shayne’s words.

“How did you know?” he faltered, the hint of a whine breaking through. “I don’t understand how you knew I had another guest,” he continued, controlling his voice with an effort and managing to show slight indignation.

“Never mind that now.” Shayne took his arm and turned him toward the rear of the hall.

With slumped shoulders, Harsh went with him, gradually forcing himself erect. After a dozen or more steps he suddenly halted and faced Shayne:

“I don’t know what you suspect, but I assure you that Carl’s visit is the most natural thing in the world. We’ve been discussing the effect of Miss Morton’s death upon the possible publication of the story, Shayne. Carl is in a position to help me prevent publication, and we’ve merely been trying to devise some method of getting hold of the manuscript.”

Harsh had stopped less than ten feet from a door on the right. It stood ajar and light shone through. He spoke in a firm tone which would easily carry inside the room, and Shayne realized that if they had been discussing anything else, Carl Garvin was now warned not to continue the discussion.

“I have several questions to ask Garvin,” Shayne told him. “Several points in this whole thing which you and he can clear up for me, now that I’ve got you together.” He went on to the door and shoved it open, and Harsh followed him reluctantly.

Garvin was sitting tensely erect in a wing chair near the closed fireplace. He was in his mid-twenties, with a high forehead that bulged slightly below a thinning hairline. He wore rimless, pinch-on glasses, and his upper teeth protruded enough to give his face a faintly fatuous grin. He was smoking a cigarette and trying nervously to balance a highball glass on the irregular weave of the wicker chair arm.

He came stiffly to his feet as Harsh pushed in behind Shayne and said, “This is the detective I told you about, Carl. Michael Shayne. His coming at this time is quite fortuitous, because we can all three discuss this thing.”

“How do you do, Mr. Shayne,” Garvin said cordially. “I’ve known you by reputation for some time.”

Shayne acknowledged the introduction tersely, then said, “I’ve some questions to ask you before we go into your problem, Garvin.” He turned to Harsh. “Remember what I told you earlier tonight? The only way in God’s world for me to keep your name out of this murder investigation and prevent the entire story from being made public is to solve the case fast before the police get around to you.”

“I understood it was solved.” Garvin’s voice was reedy and tremulous. “Aren’t the police convinced that Miss Morton’s husband killed her?”

“They’re looking for Ralph Morton,” Shayne agreed impatiently, “but I’m not at all sure he won’t have an alibi. It may develop that she was still alive at seven-thirty-more than an hour after he was seen entering her room.”

“That will clear me, also,” Harsh reminded him. “Sit down, Shayne.” He waved toward a chair and sank into his own with a sigh of relief. “I told you that Carl and I met for dinner at seven.”

“I know.” Shayne sat down and looked at Garvin, who was standing beside the mantel again. He said evenly, “How deep is Leo into you?”

“Leo Gannet?” The gambler’s name came out in a surprised squeak, and Garvin’s pale gray-green eyes popped with astonishment.

“Don’t try to stall,” said Shayne harshly. “I know you’re in over your head, but I want to know exactly how much.”

“I don’t see what that has to do-that it’s any of your business,” he said, switching his answer hastily.

“Maybe not,” Shayne admitted, “but it’s one of the things bothering me right now. How much, Garvin? Ten grand?”

Garvin’s expression told Shayne his guess was not too high. His flushed face and general manner revealed that he had had too much to drink to be quick-witted, and as he hesitated in replying, Burton Harsh broke in impatiently:

“Aren’t Carl’s finances his own business, Shayne? If he has been gambling beyond his resources, I’m sure he can work it out for himself.”

Shayne gave the financier a sharp look, recalling that Harsh had given him the impression earlier that Garvin’s gambling was restricted to social games with comparatively low stakes.

“Then the question is,” he resumed, “what sort of collateral did you put up to get that kind of credit from Gannet?” He addressed his words to Garvin, but included Harsh with an occasional glance as he continued. “Leo doesn’t let anyone get into him that deep unless he’s sure of collecting. I’m not forgetting that it was worth twenty-five grand to Leo to induce Miss Morton to leave town without completing her assignment. When she turned down his money, I’m wondering if he didn’t offer you at least a part of that amount to help get rid of her. Wasn’t that it?” he demanded.

Garvin had dropped into a chair. “Certainly not,” he answered. His high-pitched voice was steady now, and he explained: “Miss Morton was on assignment from New York, and the local office had no control over what she wrote. Good Lord, don’t you think I would have killed the story she was doing on Mr. Harsh if I had any such power?”

“I-don’t know.” Shayne was silently thoughtful, undecided whether to pursue that line further. “Whether you had the power or not,” he said, “it wouldn’t be difficult for you to make Gannet think you did.”

Garvin re-enforced his nerves by finishing his drink. “Suppose I did let him get some such idea?” he argued. “Is that a crime? All I wanted was a chance to recoup my losses. If I had been able to get square with him-”

“But you kept getting in deeper,” Shayne interrupted, “until it reached the point where he was refusing you further credit and you were faced with the necessity of making good on your boasts. Where were you between six-thirty and seven tonight?” he ended abruptly.

“Good Lord!” Garvin’s glass was knocked to the floor by a nervous jerk and shattered on the tiles. His thin face grew white and he gasped, “You can’t think that I-you’re not actually accusing me of murder?”

“You had a motive. Do you have an alibi?”

“No. But I assume the elevator man can verify the time I left.” He paused, extremely agitated, and moistened his short upper lip with the tip of his tongue.

“Where? What elevator man,” Shayne pressed him.

“I was at my office until a quarter of seven. I went down in the elevator at that time, then drove to the Seven Seas to meet Mr. Harsh for dinner.”

“Was anyone in the office with you?”

“No-”

“You can’t be serious about this, Shayne,” Harsh interjected angrily, tactfully easing his voice back to normalcy as he interceded in Garvin’s behalf. “I’ll vouch for Carl personally. He’s practically my son-in-law. If he needs money to pay off some foolish gambling debts, he knows he has only to ask me.”

Shayne lit a cigarette and blew several puffs of smoke toward the ceiling. Harsh, by his own admission, could vouch for Garvin’s gambling debt only if the story failed to appear in print. Sara Morton had been in a position not only to ruin him financially, but bring disgrace upon his family, and, alive, she could with one stroke leave Carl Garvin at the mercy of Leo Gannet’s thugs, also. Harsh and Garvin could have been together since a quarter of seven. The exact time of Sara Morton’s death was not established. Did Harsh meet Garvin immediately after Garvin left his office and go to Morton’s apartment, kill her, and then go on to the Seven Seas for dinner to establish an alibi?

During the short silence, Harsh sat solidly in his chair. Garvin mixed himself another drink at the chromium-plated bar against the wall and walked nervously around the room, clutching the glass tightly in an effort to keep his hand from shaking.

Shayne rubbed his jaw reflectively and turned to Harsh. “When did you learn that your future son-in-law was gambling considerably heavier than the dollar limit you mentioned tonight?”

“Tonight-just a short time ago,” he answered stubbornly. The heavy lines were still in his face and the natural, determined set of his square chin was at variance with the haggard look in his eyes.

Shayne considered this briefly. Tonight meant tonight, but a short time ago could mean a day-a week. He took a casual puff on his cigarette, turned to Garvin, and asked bluntly:

“Where did you go after leaving Gannet’s office tonight-after he put the screws on you for money or for some action on Sara Morton?”

Garvin dropped limply into his chair, sloshing the liquor in the half-filled glass over the rim. “Why-I went home,” he stammered, avoiding Shayne’s hard gaze. “I had encountered Miss Lally earlier, and Gannet told me she had been there with you. I knew nothing of Miss Morton’s death at that time. I heard it over the radio when I was getting ready for bed, and I thought I should come here at once and discuss it with Mr. Harsh.”

Shayne ground his cigarette in an end-table ash tray and growled, “We’d all make out a lot better if you’d stop lying to me. I know you didn’t go directly home from Gannet’s office and I know you promised to get hold of some cash and take it back to him tonight. Where did you expect to get cash at this hour?”

“I don’t know where you get all your information,” Garvin said sullenly. “I told Gannet I’d pay up as soon as I could. I was worried-and suppose I did stop for a drink or so on my way home,” he ended defiantly.

“Did it take you an hour to get a drink or so?”

“What if it did?” he flared. “Why are you cross-questioning me like this?” He brought the glass shakily to his lips and drained it.

“Where were you at twelve-fifteen?”

“I-don’t-know.” He spaced the words evenly and spoke with shrill vehemence. “I don’t keep a timetable of every move I make. But I would have if I’d realized I was going to be put on the witness stand and grilled like this.”

“See here, Shayne,” Harsh cut in impatiently, “you stated a moment ago that Carl had a motive for killing Miss Morton. Did you mean that? Do you think for one moment he’s the type to commit murder to curry favor with a gambler and get a small debt canceled?”

“Someone has been writing Miss Morton letters threatening her life unless she left town at once,” Shayne answered Harsh, but for the benefit of Garvin, whom he watched narrowly for some reaction, “Who? It’s not the sort of thing Leo Gannet would think of. The letters were prepared by someone with access to a paste pot and sharp scissors such as are used in an editorial office. If Garvin didn’t send them-”

“Which I didn’t,” he broke in caustically. “It’s preposterous. But I–I think I can tell you who was sending her such letters.”

“Who?”

“Ralph Morton-her husband. He came to my office several days ago and asked me what hotel his wife was stopping at. I knew nothing about the strained relationship between them, so I told him. Then he became abusive and wanted to know exactly how long she had been in Miami. I looked up the date for him. He began to rave, and told me of her intention to divorce him.”

Carl Garvin grew more and more excited as he continued to relate the incident. He took off his glasses and gesticulated with them. “Morton mentioned the fact that a few more days would complete the legal residence requirements, and had the effrontery to offer me money if I could devise some subterfuge to induce the syndicate to send her to some other state immediately-before her Florida residence was established. I told him, of course, that such a thing was entirely beyond my power to arrange, and finally got rid of him.”

Shayne considered this briefly, remembering also that Garvin showed no surprise upon hearing of the threatening notes. He said, “So Ralph Morton and Gannet were both offering you money to get Sara Morton out of town. What was Morton’s offer?”

“I didn’t encourage him to mention any sum,” said Garvin with dignity. “You can see that it must have been Ralph Morton who sent the threatening letters you mentioned.”

“Maybe. Where is Morton staying?”

After a barely perceptible pause Garvin replied, “I don’t know,” too emphatically.

“He must have given you an address. How were you to get in touch with him?”

“I wasn’t going to get in touch with him,” said Garvin, growing sullen again.

“Look-he comes in and makes you a proposition,” Shayne said patiently. “Even though you turned him down as you claim, he must have hoped you might change your mind-and he wouldn’t have left without telling you where to contact him.”

“If he did, I don’t remember.”

“But you made a note of it,” Shayne said flatly. “It’s in your office some place.”

Again there was a faint hesitation before he said, “It may be,” in an overly indifferent tone. “I don’t see-”

“The hell you don’t,” Shayne burst out savagely. “You know the police are looking for him. Why are you holding out his address? Do you hope he’ll get away?”

Garvin’s apathy was shattered abruptly. “I hadn’t thought-I didn’t realize the importance-you’re right,” he stammered, coming to his feet and drawing his slender frame erect. “I should have thought of it at once. I’ll go to my office and see if I can find it.”

“I’ll go with you,” Shayne grated. “But before we go there’s one more thing I need, Harsh. That blackmail note you received from Sara Morton.”

“It’s right here.” All three men were standing, and Harsh went to a secretary and drew a square white envelope from a pigeonhole. He handed it to Shayne.

The paper was of the same heavy consistency as the special delivery he had received. The address was typed, and the envelope bore no return address. He took the single sheet of notepaper out and saw Sara Morton’s printed blue signature at the top. The final paragraph read:

I don’t wish to discuss this matter with you further, and suggest you mail this sum to me immediately with a signed note stating that I am to consider it full payment for services rendered.

Sincerely,

The signature was in blue ink and as nearly like the printed name as signatures usually run.

After reading it, Shayne glanced at Garvin and asked, “Have you seen this?”

“Of course. Mr. Harsh called me over to see it last evening.”

“Can you identify the signature as Miss Morton’s?”

“Why-I presumed it must be. It certainly looks the same as the printed name at the top of all her note-paper.”

“Which would make it a simple matter for anyone to forge a duplicate at the bottom.”

“What are you getting at?” Harsh broke in sternly. “Who else could or would wish to write a letter like that and forge her signature?”

“I don’t know,” Shayne admitted absently. He folded the note, replaced it in the envelope, and thrust it into his pocket. “Is the carbon of Morton’s story on you here?” he asked.

“I have it locked in a private safety deposit box.”

“Okay.” Shayne turned to Garvin and said, “Let’s go.”

Outside, the black clouds to the east were cut through with long streaks of lightning at frequent intervals, followed by distant rolls of thunder. They pushed against the sudden gusts of wind to Garvin’s shabby sedan, and Shayne said, “Get in and I’ll ride with you to the entrance.”

Garvin backed around and drove slowly, stopped before the entrance. Shayne leaped out, said, “Hold on a minute,” and ducked under the chain. He hurried to his car, made a U-turn and drove back past the high gateposts, got out and unhooked the chain. “Go ahead,” he yelled. “I’ll follow you.”

Back in his car, he slipped the idling motor into gear, fell in behind the sedan, and followed it a few blocks north, then across the bay on the 79th Street Causeway to the mainland. Here Garvin turned and drove past the Little River section, then south on Miami Avenue, and stopped in front of a dark and dilapidated four-story building on 46th.

Shayne pulled in behind him, parked, and got out to join Garvin, who waited with a key ring in his hand. “We’ll have to walk up two flights,” Garvin said nervously. “The elevator stops at ten o’clock.”

The building was in complete darkness. Garvin unlocked and opened the front door, switched on a dim light that showed a hall leading past a single elevator to a stairway in the rear. Shayne followed him two flights to another door. This he unlocked and reached in to turn on the light.

They entered a small, messy office with a teletype machine in one corner, a large desk littered with clipped news stories and pages of typed script that appeared to have no orderly sequence, and as he walked across the room his big feet stepped on or kicked aside wadded copy paper. He hoped earnestly that Garvin wouldn’t have to hunt through the scrambled papers on his desk for Morton’s address.

But Garvin went confidently to the swivel chair and sat down, began pulling out drawers and pawing through them with a frown of concentration rimming the bulge higher up on his forehead, and muttering to himself as he searched.

The frown went away when he took a scratch pad from the bottom drawer and held it out to Shayne. “Here it is. I remember now. I tossed it in here after Morton left. The bottom drawer was open and I hit my shin on it when I got up.”

Shayne wasn’t listening. The Ricardo Hotel was scribbled on the pad. He asked, “Where is the Ricardo?”

“On Eleventh Street between First and Second Avenues. He didn’t give me the room number.”

“Let’s get out of here.” Shayne’s eyes were very bright. The address was within a block of the corner where Beatrice Lally had dismissed the cab. He whirled and started to the door, kicking balled paper aside, and reached it before realizing he heard no sound behind him.

He turned and saw Garvin settled back in his swivel chair lighting a cigarette. “I said let’s go,” he growled.

“Go on, if you want to. It’s not my business to chase murderers. Particularly one as unpleasant as Ralph Morton.” Garvin’s tone was cold, almost insolent.

Shayne strode back to the desk and leaned over it. A muscle quivered in his lean jaw. “You’re coming with me,” he grated, and his arm shot out toward Garvin’s face, palm open.

Garvin skidded the swivel chair back and took off his glasses a second before Shayne’s hand hit his face. He leaped to his feet and protested angrily:

“See here-you can’t use your high-handed-”

“I haven’t got time to argue.” Shayne started around the desk.

Garvin shrank back before the bleak and driving urgency in Shayne’s gaunt face. He began sidling away toward the door. Shayne backtracked and caught his thin arm in a hard grip and shoved him out the door, waited while he closed and locked it, then impelled him down the stairs and across the sidewalk to his car. “We’ll leave that crate of yours here,” Shayne said flatly. He jerked the door of his own car open just as a gust of wind caught Garvin’s hat and sent it sailing through the air.

“My hat,” panted Garvin. “Have you gone crazy? You can’t-”

Shayne held the door of his car open and leaned against it, half-lifted the slender man, and shoved him into the front seat. The door whipped shut with a bang when he took his weight from it. He hurried around to get under the wheel, gunned the motor savagely, lurched away from the curb, and was doing thirty in second gear before Garvin recovered sufficiently to drag himself erect.

“I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve such treatment,” he whimpered. “I’m willing to co-operate, but I certainly don’t intend-”

“Shut up,” Shayne snapped. He was in high gear now and the needle flickered past sixty-five as they roared south on the deserted avenue.

Minutes later he screamed to a stop in front of the Ricardo Hotel on 11th Street. “Get out and come in with me,” he ordered Garvin as he unlatched his door and got out.

He hurried into a small, shabby lobby and his heavy, rapid footsteps on the bare floor roused the drowsing clerk before he reached the desk.

The old man sat up, yawned, and closed his mouth with a click when Shayne leaned across the desk and demanded, “What’s Ralph Morton’s room number?”

“That’ll be-uh-three-oh-nine. Look here, mister-”

Shayne turned away impatiently. Carl Garvin was entering the lobby with stiff dignity in ludicrous contrast to his disheveled appearance. His thin hair was twisted by the wind, his clothes rumpled. He had his glasses in one hand and was rubbing his right eye. He walked a trifle faster when he saw Shayne waiting near the elevator.

“There’s something in my eye,” he complained dismally when he reached Shayne. “It pains me frightfully, and I’m afraid-”

“You forced me to push you around,” Shayne said grimly, pushing Garvin into the elevator. “Three.” The door closed and he went on to Garvin: “If anything has happened to Miss Lally, I’m holding you directly responsible for it.”

“Miss Lally? What has she-?” The elevator stopped. Garvin settled his glasses on his nose and stepped out in stiff, disapproving silence while Shayne said, “Hold the elevator here,” to the operator.

He hurried after Garvin, noting the room numbers, reaching his side just as he stopped in front of 309.

Shayne knocked loudly, then turned the knob and pushed the door open.

The room was dark and silent.

He felt inside for the wall switch and snapped on an overhead light.

A dead man was slumped across the bed, and as Shayne’s gaze slowly circled the room he saw a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles lying on the floor to the left of the door. The massive frame was twisted and one of the thick lenses was shattered.

Shayne knew before he stooped to examine them more closely that they were Beatrice Lally’s.