“I think that dead man on my doorstep is sufficient proof. Isn’t it perfectly obvious even to an imbecile like you that he came here to make the third attempt after his first two had misfired?”
Peter Painter’s mobile features tightened with rage. “To an imbecile like me, Mr. Henderson, the nasty thought occurs that those two previous incidents could have been stage-managed just to set up this kill as it happened tonight.”
“My God,” groaned Henderson. “How devious can you get?”
“I’ve known some pretty devious murderers in the past. Isn’t that so, Shayne? Doesn’t this setup look phony to you?”
Shayne waved his cigarette lazily. “Sure. I’ll buy it. All you have to do is turn up a strong enough motive for Henderson wanting the man dead.”
“We’ll probably get that as soon as we identify him.”
“For God’s sake, Shayne,” protested Henderson wonderingly. “You can’t be serious about accepting Painter’s fantastic theory. The reason I wanted you to come here was to testify that you had pertinent information indicating that someone is definitely out to kill me.”
“You mean the letter you showed me this afternoon?”
“Exactly.”
“What’s that about a letter?” snapped Painter.
“An anonymous letter threatening my life,” said Henderson hastily with a warning look and a shake of his head at Shayne. “Mr. Shayne can testify that he read it this afternoon.”
“And you withheld it from the police? It’s a felony to withhold evidence in a homicide.”
“But it wasn’t a homicide this afternoon,” protested Henderson weakly. “It was just proof that those were real attempts on my life.”
“It’s homicide now,” said Painter stiffly. “Let’s have the letter. If the dead man wrote it, it may clear you of suspicion.”
“I… I destroyed it after showing it to Mr. Shayne.”
“You destroyed it, eh?” Painter rocked forward happily on his toes. “Why, may I ask?”
“Because… well, I just didn’t think it was important any more. Mr. Shayne did read it and he can swear to its existence.”
“Can you, Shayne?”
“I can. I’m not at all sure that I will.”
“What do you mean by that crack?”
“Just what I said.”
“I don’t like your attitude.” Painter strutted forward with his chin thrust out aggressively, both hands planted on his hips. “If you can throw any light on this affair, it’s your duty to do so.”
Shayne said pleasantly, “You know something, Petey?”
“I know a lot of things and don’t call me Petey.”
“The something I’m wondering about is this,” said Shayne equably. “How much is your attitude toward Henderson influenced by the fact that you know you’ll be out of a job if he’s elected mayor of Miami Beach next election?”
“In the first place I don’t know that’s so. In the second place I didn’t even know he was a candidate. In the third place I don’t give one good goddamn who or what anybody is when I’m investigating a homicide. Does that answer your question?”
“Then why are you badgering the guy? Stop me if I’m wrong, but the way I get it is this. Some character comes ringing his doorbell at two o’clock in the morning, and because he’s nervous and frightened, he arms himself before going to the door. Whereupon the man pulls a gun, and he’s lucky enough to shoot first. Is that the picture, Henderson?”
“That’s it exactly. I never saw the man before… haven’t the faintest idea who he is.”
“So why don’t you quit barking up that tree, Painter, and start finding out who wants Henderson dead… and why? If the dead man is just a hired hand, the chances are this won’t be the end of it.”
“Hired gunmen,” said Painter stiffly, “don’t generally go out on jobs with a twenty-two automatic.”
“That what he was carrying?”
Painter nodded. “Henderson, on the other hand, was equipped with a forty-five. Made it sort of unequal. Have you got a permit for that cannon?” he added abruptly, turning away from Shayne.
“Certainly. Issued by your own police department. Does the dead man have a permit for his gun?” he probed acidly.
Painter said, “We’re checking the serial number.” He rocked forward on his toes and then teetered back on his heels. “Right now, Henderson, I want to question the other members of the household.”
“There is no one else.”
“You telling me you don’t have any servants with a layout like this?” Painter looked about the room appraisingly.
“There’s a regular housekeeper and a maid, of course,” Henderson told him stiffly. “But neither of them sleep in.”
“So there’s no one except you who can say what went on here tonight?”
“I don’t concede that my word needs verification.”
“I know you’re a widower,” Shayne put in. “But isn’t there a grown daughter, Henderson?”
Henderson looked at him angrily for bringing the subject up, but said, “A stepdaughter. She’s out of town at present.”
“Where?” Shayne pressed him.
“In New York.”
“I think you should get her back here.”
“I don’t see why. She’s been gone for days and can’t possibly have any knowledge of this affair.”
Shayne shook his head sternly. “I’d be careful about the impression you give Painter. If he gets the idea you don’t want your stepdaughter brought back to testify, he’s likely to get official about it and insist that she return. And even though you do think Chief Painter is an imbecile, I wouldn’t underrate him if I were you. Once he gets an idea, he’s hell on wheels about carrying it through.”
Painter said, “I don’t need any testimonials from you, Shayne. What about your stepdaughter, Henderson? Why don’t you want her to come back?”
“I didn’t say I didn’t. I just don’t see any reason for it at this time.”
“Isn’t the fact that you’re under suspicion of murder reason enough to want your family around you?”
Henderson wet his lips and protested weakly. “You can’t be serious about that, Chief.”
“Suppose you let me decide whether I’m serious or not. You’ve been making a nuisance of yourself demanding police protection from some nebulous danger, though you’ve insisted all the time that you haven’t an enemy in the world.”
“Now wait a minute,” protested Henderson.
“You wait a minute and listen to me.” Painter was warming up now, and he strutted forward two paces, thrusting his pointed chin aggressively in Henderson’s face. “You’re building your whole defense for this killing tonight on the assumption that the dead man came here planning to murder you, yet you want us to believe that no one has a motive for wanting you dead. You can’t have it both ways, Henderson. The police may be stupid, but, by God, we’re not that stupid.”
“I didn’t mean to imply…”
“You may as well understand right now that I’m the one who’ll decide who’s to be questioned and who isn’t. Perhaps I won’t be chief of detectives after next election, but, by God, I am now, and I don’t let anybody tell me how to run my department. Now, this stepdaughter of yours who’s supposed to be in New York. Did you ship her out of the city just to avoid having her questioned?”
“What a preposterous ideal She’s been planning the trip for months.”
“I think I want to talk to her,” grated Painter. “Where can she be reached by telephone?”
“I have no idea.”
“Nonsense. You must have.”
“But I don’t. She’s visiting various friends and I don’t know where she is tonight.”
“Can’t you call some of the friends and find out?” put in Shayne, taking a sadistic pleasure in watching the householder squirm.
“Just what I was going to suggest. Either arrange to contact her at once or I’ll put a call through to New York
to have her located and brought back here immediately.”
“On what grounds? I simply don’t understand…”
“There are a lot of things you don’t understand about police work, Henderson,” Painter told him witheringly. “On the grounds that she is an important witness in a homicide and is suspected of fleeing to avoid questioning.”
“But how can she be a witness to something that happened in Miami Beach tonight?”
“A killing that must have roots in your own life. You can’t expect me to believe that a complete stranger just wandered up here to your front door by the purest chance… armed with an automatic pistol which he drew the moment you opened the door. If this was the third attempt on your life, it’s self-evident that you do have an enemy who wants you dead. If you can’t throw any light on that, we’ll have to go to the people closest to you. Your stepdaughter is certainly the most logical person to question on that point.”
“Yes… I begin to see your logic,” Henderson admitted unhappily, not able to refrain from a baleful look at Shayne’s impassive face. “I’ll contact Muriel’s friends in New York, and ask her to return at once.”
“Do that. And if you don’t, I’ll show you that we’re not so stupid and insular here as you think. I want to talk to that girl.”
A detective came hesitantly through the archway and said, “If you got a minute, Chief…”
“I’m through here.” Painter faced Henderson again and told him, “I’m not arresting you… yet. But don’t try to leave town, and get your stepdaughter back here in the morning.” He turned and went away stiffly on hard heels, and Henderson turned to Shayne, mopping perspiration from his face.
“Why did you bring Muriel into this? It was entirely your doing. If you hadn’t mentioned her name, Painter would never have thought of questioning her.”
Shayne said, “Because I’d like to ask her some questions myself, and Painter has the facilities for locating her which I don’t. I didn’t one goddamn bit appreciate the way you tried to use me to pull your chestnuts out of the fire tonight,” he went on harshly.
“You’re not my client and I had no moral obligation to conceal the fact that the letter you showed me this afternoon positively named your stepdaughter as the instigator of the attempts against you. If that dead man on your doorstep was hired by her, she’s the one who’s really responsible for his death. Goddamn it, Henderson,” he went on angrily, “don’t you realize that every bit of dirty linen in a man’s life comes out in a homicide investigation? This thing may look cut and dried to you, but Painter is a stubborn cuss when he gets started and he won’t stop digging until he finds a motive. If your stepdaughter has a secret motive for hating you, you’d better spill it to me right now. I might be able to do something for her if I know the truth before Painter has a chance to dig it out.”
“But I swear as God is my judge that there’s nothing, Shayne. It’s not that I’m afraid to have her questioned, it’s just that the publicity will ruin me politically and socially if such rumors ever get out.”
Shayne said, “This is your last chance to come clean with me before I walk out of here and start doing some digging of my own.”
“But I have nothing more to tell you. I swear that as…”
“I know,” Shayne interrupted with a disgusted snort. “So you’ll have nothing to complain about when God does start judging you.” He turned and stalked out.
13
“Now then, Mike. How does all this tie in?” demanded Timothy Rourke, following the detective as he emerged from the house and circled around to his parked car.
Shayne paused with his hand on the door handle. “All what?”
“I’ve been patient,” said Rourke bitterly. “I’ve been a good boy and refrained from digging into things or asking questions when you asked me not to. But now you’ve got your corpse. It’s time you came clean. Remember me? I’m the guy who started you on this. Handed the whole thing to you on a silver platter.”
“What did you hand me on a silver platter?” Shayne grunted uncompromisingly, opening the door and sliding his rangy frame beneath the wheel.
Rourke moved swiftly to stand against the door and prevent it from closing. “Jane Smith. For God’s sake, Mike! Don’t you know that from that first evening I knew Saul Henderson was in it somehow, and it didn’t take any great deductive powers to figure that Jane Smith was Henderson’s stepdaughter. From that, it was an easy jump for my agile mind to deduce that Henderson was the man she wanted bumped off. But I stayed away from it, Mike, because you asked me to. I trusted you to let me in when the time was right. I got you over here to meet Henderson this afternoon and you slipped off for a private talk with him and never gave me a word of it. But now Henderson has killed a man on his doorstep. You know how it looks from where I stand?”
“How does it look to you?”
“As though that dead man is the substitute killer Jane Smith dug up after you turned her proposition down. If that’s true, you can’t sit on it any longer, Mike. I’m a reporter, goddamit. I’ll have to start working on that lead unless you give me the dope. And if I do it on my own, Peter Painter will be third-degreeing Miss Muriel Graham before you know it.”
“He’ll be questioning her in a few hours at any rate,” Shayne told him tonelessly.
“I understood she’s in New York.”
“I put a bug in his ear tonight, and he’s having her brought back pronto.”
“You’re tossing her to Painter?” Rourke asked incredulously.
“What else can I do?” grated Shayne. His voice softened. “Not exactly, Tim. And I’m not going to hold out on you much longer. I have one fast call to make over in Miami, and then I’ll have a pretty clear picture. Go back to the office and file your first story without pulling Muriel Graham into it,” he went on persuasively, leaning forward to switch on the ignition. “Then come straight to my place and I’ll meet you there and we’ll decide exactly where we’re going.”
“All right, Mike. I’ll wait another hour if you say so. But no more than that.”
Shayne said, “An hour will do me fine.” He leaned forward to switch on the motor, then hesitated and asked, “Any identification on the dead man?”
Rourke shook his head. “Not a damned thing. A few bucks in his pocket and a matchbook from the Lucky Tiger Bar on First Street in Miami.”
Shayne nodded and his motor roared to life. Rourke stepped back to let him swing the door shut, and Shayne cut his front wheels sharply to pull past the reporter’s car and the police vehicles in the driveway.
The first faint streaks of dawn were breaking in the sky behind him when Shayne pulled off the Causeway onto the mainland and drove directly to the same two-story stucco house he had visited earlier that same night. The street was deserted and no lights showed in any houses of the block as he pulled in to the curb.
He got out and went up the walk to the front door, found it unlocked and entered a small hall where he groped around and found a light switch. A forty-watt bulb overhead lighted the hallway and the flight of stairs leading up. He climbed the stairs quietly, not tiptoeing but avoiding unnecessary sound. The upper hall was faintly illuminated from the light below, and he went directly to number 5 where he knocked lightly. There was complete silence in the old house as he waited. He tried the doorknob when there was no response, and found it locked as he expected.
He knocked again, longer and more loudly, and was rewarded by the creak of bedsprings inside the room. Then Hilda’s voice, slurred with sleep, came from beyond the locked door, “Who is it?”
“Mike Shayne.” He kept his own voice low, but loud enough to penetrate the thin wooden panel. “Open up.”
He heard a click, and light showed around the door casing. There was silence and a momentary wait, and he could envision Hilda Gleason (or was it really Moran?) standing on the other side of the door trying to make up her mind whether to unlock it for him or not.
Then he heard the click of a latch
, and the door opened inward a few inches and her composed voice came through the crack. “Please wait one moment, Mr. Shayne.”
He waited, and through the crack could hear her movement across the room. In a very brief time he heard her coming back, and the door swung wide to admit him. He stepped inside and faced her as she closed the door tightly.
Without make-up, her face was white and strained. Her light brown hair was straggly, and her eyes were round and frightened. She was barefooted and wore a shabby, light flannel robe which she clutched tightly together in front, and the two-inch hem of a white nylon nightgown showed around the bottom of it. There was a double bed with rumpled sheets and covers at Shayne’s right, beyond it a single window that was open all the way from the top.
She said, “What is it? I was sound asleep when you knocked. It must be very late indeed.”
“It’s practically morning.” There was one upholstered chair and one straight chair in the room. Her Angora jacket was draped carefully on the back of the big chair, and there was a brassiere and garter-belt on one arm of it. Shayne turned to gather them up and put them on the straight chair. With his back to her, he said casually, “Why don’t you get back into bed? We have a lot of talking to do.”
“Have we, Mr. Shayne?” He sank down into the chair while she settled herself near the head of the bed with both pillows propped up behind her, a sheet and coverlet modestly pulled up to her waist.
“Where have you been tonight?”
“Asleep.”
“I came by to see you after I left Henderson’s, but you weren’t in.”
“Then it was you my neighbor across the hall described so glowingly.” The hint of a smile dimpled her face, and then a faint blush crept over it and she dropped her eyes from his direct gaze. “I assure you I did not know exactly about the girls who live here when I took this room. But then it didn’t seem to matter because I didn’t expect visitors.”
Shayne lit a cigarette and settled back to watch her through hooded eyes. “Why were you at Henderson’s this afternoon?”
The Homicidal Virgin ms-38 Page 10
