This Is It, Michael Shayne

Chapter Five

Shayne stopped shaving and looked at his watch as soon as the door closed behind Rourke. The time was two minutes past eleven. He hurried out and turned on the small radio on the bedside table, switched to a local newscast and heard:

“… death weapon was identified by Timothy Rourke, well-known reporter for the Miami News and close friend of the murdered woman, as a highly prized possession of Miss Morton’s, a testimonial gift presented to her by the Better Citizenship Bureau of Akron, Ohio, two years ago, in gratitude for her outstanding public service in exposing criminal conditions in that city.

“At this time there are no new developments in this sensational case, but keep tuned to this station for on-the-spot bulletins for which we will interrupt any of our regular programs.

“Police are still seeking Michael Shayne, nationally famous private detective of this city, and the dead woman’s private secretary, Miss Beatrice Lally, for questioning. It is known that Mr. Shayne and Miss Lally left the hotel together, shortly after nine o’clock, to search among her favorite nightspots for Miss Morton, apparently unaware that she was dead at that time. It is known that Miss Morton sought professional advice from Mr. Shayne shortly before her death, and police are confident that information in his possession will point to the identity of the killer as soon as he can be reached.

“Do you wake up feeling irritable and sluggish in…”

He snapped the dial and, returning to the bathroom, shaved hurriedly, showered, and padded to a chest of drawers in the bedroom as he toweled his rangy body. He was buckling a belt around the waist of gray flannel slacks when the telephone rang. He answered on the bedside extension: “Mike Shayne speaking.”

A cultured masculine voice said, “Please listen carefully, Mr. Shayne. I’m calling from a public booth at a roadside tavern, so don’t try to trace this call. I will be miles away before anyone could get here if you notified them.”

“Fair enough. Who are you and what do you want?”

“I heard the eleven o’clock newscast,” the voice went on, “and learned that Miss Sara Morton has been murdered.” He spoke with breathless intensity and a note of desperation.

“That’s right.” Shayne waited, tugging at his ear lobe, his eyes narrowed thoughtfully as he tried to identify the voice.

“When was she murdered, Shayne? The newscaster didn’t say, and it is vitally important to me.”

“Why?”

“Because-” His voice faltered, and Shayne could hear his heavy breathing; then he went on urgently, “Was she alive as late as seven o’clock?”

“I don’t know why I should give out such information,” said Shayne impatiently.

“Would you like to earn ten thousand dollars, Shayne?”

“I wouldn’t turn it down.”

“I didn’t think you would,” he said, “from what I’ve heard about you. Have you told the police what Miss Morton consulted you about today?”

“No.”

“And the secretary? Has she talked to the police since learning of Miss Morton’s death?”

“I have her stashed away where the police can’t get at her until I say the word,” Shayne told him. He paused briefly, then added carefully, “I had a hunch you might be willing to pay a little something to keep this quiet.”

“Then-you know who I am?”

“I think I know your name,” Shayne lied tranquilly.

“I assure you that I did not kill her, Shayne.” His voice broke on a falsetto key like the changing voice of a teen-aged boy.

“But you have no alibi for before seven?” Shayne said.

“Precisely. And even if that alibi is sufficient, you can readily understand that a police investigation would bring the whole story to light-and ruin me.”

“Naturally.” Shayne scowled heavily, wondering how long he could keep the man talking without giving away the fact that he hadn’t the faintest idea what he was talking about.

“If you and the secretary could be induced to listen to reason-that is, I infer the secretary knows all about it. She must have typed the script.”

“I think I can handle Miss Lally,” Shayne broke in, “but there’s no use discussing a thing like this on the phone.”

“My thought exactly, Shayne.” His tone held a hint of hope. “I suppose I’ll have to trust you to come alone. If you will give me your word of honor-”

“That’s no good,” Shayne broke in again, harshly, and sweat dripped from his face. “If you make arrangements now and something goes wrong-the police get onto you from another angle or manage to follow me-you’d never believe I hadn’t turned you in… Let’s do it this way,” he continued, improvising swiftly. “Can you be in the barroom of the Golden Cock on Biscayne Boulevard in half an hour?”

“I can just about make it. But if this is a trap-”

“How can it be trap?” Shayne interrupted. He took a chance and added, “I don’t know what you look like, so it’ll be safe enough for you to go there. Do you know me by sight?”

“I’ve seen your picture in the papers.”

“I want to handle this so you’ll know I haven’t double-crossed you no matter what happens. The Golden Cock bar will be crowded, and I’ll mingle in the thickest of the crowds. The police may tail me and be watching. Don’t speak to me or give yourself away in any way. Have a brief note wadded up to slip into my right hand, telling me where to meet you. I’ll stay in plain sight after you give it to me, and won’t communicate with anyone until I go out to my car and read the note. You can follow me to make sure I’m not being tailed. Then you’ll know I’m on the level.” Shayne paused, feeling uncertain, yet hopeful. He knew it wasn’t very good, but it was the best he could think of on the spur of the moment.

“That sounds like a lot of melodramatic hocus-pocus,” his caller complained.

“That’s the way it has to be if you want to see me tonight,” he said flatly. “At the Golden Cock in half an hour.” He cradled the receiver before the man could make further protests.

There was no rush now. The Golden Cock was only ten minutes away. Shayne selected a gray and red tie, tied it carefully, then put on a Palm Beach coat a shade darker than the slacks. He combed his wet hair and pulled a clean gray hat down over it, determined that the genial manager of the Golden Cock should not have to apologize for his appearance.

In the living-room he poured a stiff drink and sat down to wait.

The case was breaking even faster than he had anticipated. He wondered who the devil his caller was, frowning because he hadn’t been able to trick him into giving his name. But there was no way he could have found out without revealing the fact that he had not talked to Sara Morton.

That was his one trump card, the supposition that he knew a great many things he didn’t know. If word got around that Miss Morton had been unable to reach him for consultation the case was apt to drag out interminably.

He finished off the cognac and went down in the elevator and out through the side entrance without seeing any of Gentry’s men. He got in his car and drove leisurely to the Golden Cock, watching through the rear-view mirror, but seeing no car that appeared to be tailing him.

He drove past the doorman and parked his car where he could find it in a hurry and as near the exit as possible, got out and sauntered back to the entrance.

The manager hurried to greet him, saying, “Well, well, back again, Shayne. Miss Morton hasn’t showed up yet, but I have a nice table where you can-”

“Thanks, Harold,” he said, “but I just dropped in for a drink. Miss Morton has been located.” He turned from the dining-room entrance and went into the crowded cocktail lounge, stopping just inside the doorway to light a cigarette and letting his gaze wander slowly over the faces toward him, hoping to spot the man who should be watching for him if he had already arrived. He nodded to several acquaintances who lifted a hand or voice in greeting, then moved into the room. He noted the presence of three plainclothesmen who had the unmistakable brand of homicide squad stamped all over them. He wondered idly whether they anticipated the coming contact or merely hoped to pick up information because Sara Morton was known to frequent the Golden Cock.

He forced his way in as close to the bar as possible, caught the bartender’s eye, and held up two fingers. “Cognac coming up, Mr. Shayne,” he said with a smile of recognition, and less than half a minute later, Shayne stretched a long arm past two rows of shoulders to exchange two one-dollar bills for the double shot. He transferred the glass to his left hand and let his right arm dangle at his side with the palm turned outward as he moved casually into the crowd. Twice he paused to chat with friends, grinning to himself when the headquarters men followed him, keeping a wary eye on his movements, but not coming in close enough to prevent a note being slipped into his hand.

Twice he stiffened and held himself ready to close his hand when knuckles touched his palm, but nothing happened. He relaxed and moved on to give the man a better chance to step in beside him unobtrusively.

A girl in a red dress, with big breasts and hopeful eyes, caught his left arm and began chattering vivaciously:

“Mike Shayne! Of all things! It’s been ages, darling. Still chasing murderers and blond gun-molls-and catching the molls?” She squealed with delight at her witticism.

Her stooped, gray-haired escort said mildly, “Don’t mind Ethel, Mr. Shayne. She’s had six bourbons, and if I don’t get her out of here-”

Shayne didn’t hear what he was saying. Two men stood close to his right side, their backs toward him. A waiter passed in front of them with a laden tray balanced precariously in his right palm. Both men stepped back to avoid him, bringing them in contact with Shayne’s hand.

He felt the sharp corner of a wadded bit of paper pressed against his palm. One of the homicide dicks he had spotted stood in front of him and not more than three feet away, eyeing him with poorly concealed interest.

Shayne suddenly developed a chummy interest in the chatter of the girl in the red dress and her gray-haired companion, not moving a muscle except to grip his right hand into a fist.

He laughed heartily when the girl laughed, turned his head casually to glance at the two men who had been momentarily close enough to pass a note.

One was tall with a hook-nosed profile and not much chin. All he could see of the other man was square shoulders and the round back of a partially bald head.

Shayne excused himself, saying, “Nice to have seen you again, Ethel,” and began moving casually but definitely toward the exit, his right hand clenched at his side.

Forcing himself to walk slowly as he neared the door, he was ready to step out and increase his speed through the lobby when a tall, quiet-faced man straightened from a lounging position against the wall and caught his right arm just above the wrist. At the same instant a bulky man pushed in on the other side to wedge him tight against his brother officer.

“We can do this without any fuss,” the tall man said quietly, “or we can have fuss and cuffs.”

Shayne set his teeth hard together. “You boys must be new,” he grated. “I don’t remember seeing you around.”

“We’ve seen you around, shamus,” the bulky man assured him. “Do you walk in the manager’s office quiet, or do we make it a pinch?”

“Is it a pinch?” Shayne demanded hotly. He twisted his right wrist unobtrusively and strained to free it, but the tall man gripped it solidly and brought his other hand across to close over Shayne’s fists as though he guessed the redhead wanted to drop something from it.

“It’s a pinch if you want it that way,” he said.

“What charge?” Shayne growled.

“Drunk in a public place will do long enough to go over you,” said the bulky cop implacably.

They started forward, and Shayne went with them. “Wait’ll I see Will Gentry,” he said bitterly. “You two mugs will be pounding the pavement by this time tomorrow. You must be damned new in Miami, or you’d know Will and I are just like-” He tried to lift his right hand to demonstrate.

“Don’t get your guts in an uproar, Shayne,” the tall man advised. “You’ll get your chance to complain to the chief.”

They reached a paneled door marked Manager. It stood slightly ajar. They pushed it open and shoved Shayne inside.

“Hello, Mike.” Will Gentry sat solidly in a swivel chair behind the manager’s desk.

Shayne’s eyes glittered with anger. “So this is the way you decided to play it,” he said savagely.

Gentry shifted his dead cigar to the other corner of his mouth and agreed imperturbably, “This is the way I’m playing it.” He narrowed his eyes at Shayne’s clenched fist and added, “Open it up and let’s see the note, Mike.”