Too Friendly, Too Dead

12

Back in his own apartment for the first time that day since Lucy Hamilton’s early morning call had taken him away, Shayne shrugged off his jacket and loosened his tie, poured a small drink of cognac and set a glass of ice water beside it on the center table, and settled himself comfortably beside the telephone.

He had to think for a moment to remember the name, but then it came to him. Angelo Fermi, fingerprint expert for the New York police department who eagerly hoped Shayne could help him get a television series on the air.

It was Saturday, but he hoped Fermi would be on duty. He put in a person-to-person telephone call for the New York detective, and sipped his drink and waited a couple of minutes while persons at police headquarters in New York shunted the call around, and finally got Fermi’s voice over the wire.

“Mike Shayne in Miami, Angelo. Did Brett Halliday contact you about your television series while he was in town last year?”

“He did that.” Fermi’s voice sounded enthusiastic “He is a nice fellow. It is difficult to sell the networks a new idea, but I now have an option. Can I help you here?”

“If you’ve got a pipeline into City Hall. I know it’s Saturday, but this may be important.”

“We have pipelines, Saturday or not,” Fermi assured him.

“This should be relatively simple. I want all the dope on a wedding performed on…” He checked the date on the menu to be sure. “… November nineteenth, nineteen sixty-one. I don’t know the names of either bride or groom, but one of the witnesses was a man named Jerome Fitzgilpin. Do you think you can get that for me fast?”

“It shouldn’t be more than fifteen or twenty minutes,” Fermi told him. “Shall I call you back?”

“Please. Collect, of course.” Shayne gave him the number. “Everything from the record on that particular wedding.” He hung up and settled back comfortably to wait for the detective to call him back.

The telephone rang much sooner than he expected it to. He answered it, but instead of Fermi’s voice, it was Lucy Hamilton on the wire.

“Michael.” Her voice sounded worried and strained. “Are you getting anywhere on the Fitzgilpin case?”

“I’m beginning to move. Right now I’m waiting for a phone call from New York which may help. What gives with you?”

“I’m dreadfully worried about Linda. I brought the children home from the park a little while ago and she’s… well, she’s lying on her bed fully-dressed and passed out cold, Michael. She seems all right,” Lucy went on doubtfully. “I guess it’s just liquor because her breath reeks of it, but I never knew her to drink too much before, and I know she does take sleeping pills…” Lucy’s voice trailed off doubtfully.

“I think I’d just let her sleep it off,” Shayne advised. “She was well on her way to passing out when I saw her a little before noon. Another drink or two would have done it.”

“Poor woman,” said Lucy disconsolately. “It’s such a terrible thing. Have you found out anything important?”

“Quite a lot. Where are the children?”

“I brought them downstairs with me. I told them their mother was sick and couldn’t be disturbed and they accepted that explanation without question. They’re such darling kids, Michael.”

“Yeh,” he said gruffly. “Hang onto them for a time, Lucy. Do you know any other friends of hers whom you might call on to help out?”

“Well, I don’t know really.”

“There’s a couple down the street whom she mentioned to me. Let’s see. Cahill. Ernie and Emily Cahill. Do you know them?”

“Of course. I have met Emily Cahill. She’s very nice. Has a little boy of her own.”

“You might call her to help if the kids get restless.”

“All right. And, Michael… keep on trying.”

“I will. Hold the fort.” Shayne hung up and sat back to sip his drink and tug at his earlobe while his somber gaze kept going back to the menu and the rosebud in front of him.

When his phone rang again five minutes later, it was Detective Fermi in New York. “I’ve got the information you wanted, Shayne. Ready to take it down?”

Shayne said, “Sure,” and reached for a pencil.

“The bridegroom was Rutherford G. Rodman, thirty. Address: The Commodore Hotel, New York City. Bride: Rose McNally, three-two-six West 89th Street, City. Twenty-six. It was the first marriage for both of them. Witnesses, Jerome Fitzgilpin, also the Commodore Hotel, and Blanche Carson, same address as the bride. Have you got all that?”

“Got it,” Shayne said. “Thanks a million, Angelo.”

“I hope it’s what you wanted. If there’s anything else…?”

“If there is I’ll call you. If not… be seeing you on television, huh?”

“Well, I don’t know how soon. I’ve got this option from a Hollywood producer, but you know how they are.”

“I certainly do know,” Shayne agreed emphatically. “Thanks again.”

He hung up and frowned at the information he had jotted down on a scratch pad. Three names and a wedding date a year and a half ago. He glanced from the names to the photograph of the happy newly-weds. Now he had names for them. Rutherford G. Rodman and Rose McNally. How and why were they important in Jerome Fitzgilpin’s life?

Maybe they weren’t, of course. He had damned little to go on. But the nagging hunch persisted. If only one of them were named Kelly.

A young couple whom Fitzgilpin had met once in New York by the merest chance and had bought a wedding dinner. Had he been in contact with them since, or had that been the end of it? Would he have mentioned it to his secretary if he had? Possibly, and quite possibly not.

Shayne frowned and drummed fingertips impatiently on the desk. Was this a dead-end? He hated to think so. Impulsively, he lifted the telephone, got the operator and said, “Will you please check with New York Information and see if they have a telephone listed under the name of Rutherford G. Rodman. I don’t know the address. Not even which borough it might be in, but it’s vitally important.”

She said, “Certainly,” and he listened in while she got New York Information and he was finally informed they had no such listing in any of the boroughs.

He got up to refill his cognac glass, came back and reseated himself, still deep in thought. He finally decided that having gone thus far he might as well go on to the end of the line, and he again lifted the phone to ask the operator if there were a New York number for Blanche Carson at the West side address Fermi had furnished.

This time he had more luck. He wrote the number down as New York gave it, and asked his operator to connect him with it.

The telephone rang in New York four times before a woman’s voice answered.

He asked, “Is this Miss Blanche Carson?”

“No. This is Doris Young. Who’s calling?”

“This is long distance from Miami, Florida,” Shayne said carefully. “Do you expect Miss Carson in soon?”

“Yes. She should be back about six o’clock. Who in Miami?”

“I’m a detective. Perhaps you could help me with some information, Miss Young. It’s in reference to a girl who used to live at that same address with Blanche Carson before she married. Her maiden name was Rose McNally.”

He heard a sharp intake of breath at the other end of the wire. “Has something happened to her?”

“What makes you think that?”

“Well, you said you were a detective, didn’t you?”

“Do you know Rose?”

“No. Not personally. I never met her. But I know she was Blanche’s room-mate until she got married and I moved in with Blanche.”

“And Blanche has talked about her?” Shayne encouraged the girl.

“Some. You know. Not very much, really. There was something happened a month or so ago. I know Rose called up one day unexpectedly and Blanche had dinner with her. I know she came home worried about her, and there was something said about Miami, but I don’t remember what. And so when you said you were a detective from Miami calling about Rose, I wondered.”

“I understand,” said Shayne patiently. “And that’s all you can tell me?”

“That’s about all. Has something happened to Rose?”

“We’re not sure,” said Shayne cautiously. “You’re sure Blanche will be home by six o’clock?”

“She said she would. Shall I tell her you called?”

“Yes. And that I’ll be in touch with her about six o’clock.” Shayne hung up, and sat back, musing over this information. Excitement was beginning to churn up inside him. There was some connection, damn it. Blanche had been at the wedding with Fitzgilpin. The bride was her former roommate, and must have confided in her. They had remained in touch after Rose’s marriage… as lately as a few months ago. And there had been something about Miami…

How those bits and pieces added up to the murder of Jerome Fitzgilpin last night, Shayne couldn’t possibly guess. But he was suddenly convinced that Blanche Carson held the key to the mystery. She was the only contact he had.

He looked distastefully at the telephone as he considered calling her at six o’clock. People were apt to clam up over the telephone. If she suspected Rose were in some kind of trouble in Miami…

Blanche and Rose must have been close friends. Blanche would probably be inclined to cover up for her if a detective started interrogating her over the phone.

On the other hand, you could learn so much more asking questions face to face. Not so much by what the witness said sometimes, but how she said it. How she evaded direct answers to certain questions.

Shayne looked at his watch and made a quick decision. Jet flights to New York took less than two hours. If there were one leaving soon he could be there before six o’clock.

He called the airport and found there was a nonstop flight scheduled to depart in forty minutes. He made a reservation and hung up, then called Lucy Hamilton’s number and asked her, “Everything under control?”

“Oh, yes, Michael.” She sounded calmer than before. “I called Emily Cahill and she was very nice. She’s coming over in about fifteen minutes to pick up the children. And I peeked in upstairs a few minutes ago. Linda is still dead to the world, but sleeping peacefully as far as I can tell. Her pulse is strong and she’s breathing easily.”

Shayne said, “Fine. Just keep a check on her, Angel. I’m off to New York in about forty minutes. You might let Tim Rourke know. I hope to be back before midnight with something definite to work on.”

“To New York, Michael? Whatever for?”

“I’ve got hold of something,” he told her cautiously. “Right now, I’m not sure what. Stay sort of close to Linda, huh? Personally,” he added slowly, “I wouldn’t be too much upset if she remained incommunicado to Peter Painter. What I mean to imply is… if she should come out of it and feel like another drink, I wouldn’t discourage her too much if I were you.”

“Michael Shayne! You mean you want me to keep her so drunk she can’t talk to Chief Painter?”

Shayne grinned at her indignant voice over the telephone. “I didn’t say I want you to keep her drunk, Angel. Just don’t keep her from staying drunk if she wants to. When Painter does get around to talking to her, she’s going to tell him some things that he’s likely to misconstrue. That’s all I’m saying. So if she feels like another drink when she wakes up, just be sure it’s handy and that you pour with a lavish hand. As long as the children are out of the way and being taken care of,” he added.

Lucy said doubtfully, “All right, Michael. I’ll… do my best.”

“It’s for Linda’s sake,” Shayne said sharply. “Very frankly, I think Painter will put her under arrest when he hears her story. Right now, I don’t want that.”

“Arrest her? Oh, no, Michael! Nothing in the world could make me believe Linda had anything to do with it.”

“I told Painter that,” Shayne said blithely, “and he’s considering putting you on his payroll as psychological consultant.”

“What?”

Shayne laughed. “I don’t think he’d pay as much as I do. I’ve got to get out to the airport. I’ll try to call either you or Tim from New York… around seven or so.”