The inspector lifted grayish brows at Shayne. Cold blue eyes surveyed him with ironic detachment. “Nice of you to hang around for the pinch,” he commented quietly.
“I’ve got him dead to rights,” Denton blustered. “Name’s Shayne. Been in trouble here before. A two-bit private op who got run out of town years ago and just got up the guts to sneak back. Thought he could pull a fast one and get out before we heard about him being here.”
The inspector said, “Shayne?” He studied the redhead an instant longer, lifted one shoulder slightly and turned away. “Fair enough, Denton. You’ll get credit if it’s coming to you. What have you got on him?”
Denton went into details with great gusto. When he finished relating the incriminating evidence against Shayne the captain whirled on Madame Legrand and demanded, “This is the man you saw sneak out of here and leap across the balcony, isn’t it? Look at him? Isn’t he the one?”
“I cannot say, Monsieur. I cannot say yes and I cannot say no. It was not light, you understand.” She spread out her hands in a gesture of futility.
Parks came across from the hotel balcony and entered the room. He drew Denton aside and conferred excitedly for a moment. The captain nodded and chewed happily on his cigar, turned to the inspector and said, “My man has some more important dope. Mind if I ask Shayne a couple of questions?”
“Go ahead,” the inspector answered.
Denton pivoted until his blunt jaw was within six inches of Shayne’s gaunt face. He asked, “Where have you been all evening?”
Shayne said, “For the inspector’s benefit, I’ll tell you. A couple of your tough boys jumped me a little after dark—after you’d told them I wasn’t welcome in your precinct. They bounced me around and jugged me on a false d.-and-d. While I was in jail, this girl was deprived of my protection—and murdered.”
“That’s just too damned bad,” purred Denton. “Do you happen to know what time you were released?”
“Not exactly. About ten-forty-five.”
“It happens to have been ten-thirty-six. Parks just called headquarters and confirmed it.” Denton darted a glance at the detective inspector to be sure he was listening. “How long has the girl been dead?” he asked the medical examiner.
The doctor was getting up from beside the body. “Not more than an hour and a half. Not less than forty minutes.” He looked at his watch. “Say between ten and ten-fifty.”
Denton swung on Shayne again. “All right—you turned up here ringing Miss Macon’s bell at eleven-fifteen, mighty anxious for a witness to see you discover the body. Where were you during those forty-five minutes between the time you were released and eleven-fifteen?”
Shayne said calmly, “I needed a drink. And I had to clean up a little after my going-over before I kept a date with a girl.”
Denton’s black mustache quivered. “The clerk at your hotel says you haven’t been back to your room this evening. Where’d you go to clean up?”
Shayne said irritably, “I don’t know the name of every joint where I go for a drink and a crack at the lavatory. What the hell? The clerk’s testimony clears me. If I haven’t been back to my room how could I have jumped the railings and murdered the girl?”
“Suppose you tell us.” Denton stepped aside and motioned to Parks. “Here, Sergeant—let Shayne have a look at your stuff and explain how that got in his room.”
The sergeant knelt on the floor and solemnly unwrapped a newspaper from a bloodstained bath towel and wash cloth. When they were spread Out, Denton asked the inspector, “From the looks of things around here wouldn’t you say the murderer might have got some of the girl’s blood on him? He’d be in a hurry to wash it off. And that’s just what Shayne did. There’s the evidence. In his own bathroom not ten feet from the body. What more do you want?”
The inspector leaned over and poked his forefinger at the damp towel and wash cloth. When he straightened up his eyes were agate-hard. “Want to make a statement, Shayne?”
“Maybe,” said Shayne, “the murderer took advantage of an empty room and washed up with my towel.”
“We can find out by a chemical analysis,” the inspector stated.
“A blood test will only show the type of blood. If it’s the same as the girl’s you won’t prove anything,” Shayne protested. “Only that it might be hers.”
The inspector shook his head. “There are other tests. Perspiration, for instance. After we’ve made the tests we’ll know whether you used that towel or not, Shayne.”
“All right,” Shayne admitted angrily, “like a damned fool I forgot I’d left that stuff lying there in plain sight. But hell, I didn’t know a murder had been committed next door. I did go up to my room to clean up before coming here to keep my date.”
“Don’t forget the blood test. If it’s the girl’s type and not yours—” The inspector’s voice was coldly warning.
“I’m not worried about that. I know damn well it’s my blood on that towel. Of course, if her type is the same as mine it’s not going to help my story very much,” Shayne conceded.
“Why did you lie about not going to your room?” Denton barked.
“What would you do?” Shayne flared. “Why shouldn’t I protect myself? I know I’m in a jam. People jumping from a death room to mine—and you eager to jump at anything to put me away because you’re afraid I’ll uncover some of your dirty stuff here in the Quarter. Sure I lied about it.”
“But the clerk says you didn’t go to your room all evening,” the inspector reminded him.
“I went up the back stairs. I looked like hell and hated to go through the lobby looking like that.”
“He’s fast on the trigger,” Denton warned the inspector. “He sneaked in the back way to his room, stepped over here and did the job he was paid to do in New Orleans, jumped back and slipped down the back way again and out to the front to put up a show of innocence and discover the body of the girl he’d murdered. Why, Shayne? Who is she? What’s this got to do with the cock-and-bull story you handed me at the station this evening?”
Shayne turned his back on Denton and appealed to the Homicide men. “Does a harness bull conduct murder investigations in New Orleans? Can’t you see he hates my guts and can’t see anybody in the picture but me?”
The inspector lifted one grayish eyebrow. “Thus far,” he confessed, “I fail to see anyone else in the picture either.”
“Hell, you’ve been influenced by Denton’s spouting off,” Shayne argued. “What earthly motive would I have for killing the girl?”
“That,” said the inspector curtly, “will be worth looking into.”
“She’s the daughter of a client,” Shayne growled. “I came here to look her up, sure. I had her address and I bribed the clerk to give me the room opposite hers so I could keep an eye on her. Everything falls into line if you look at it the right way.”
“The way you’d like to have us look at it?” asked the inspector in a mild voice.
“Put it that way if you want. Before your men go,” Shayne said wearily, “you might have them dust the railing of my balcony and the interior of my room for fingerprints. According to Madame Legrand’s statement, the murderer must have got away through my room.”
“Sure,” agreed the inspector. “How do you suppose he got into your room from the balcony and out of it into the hotel?” he went on casually.
“I left my French doors open for fresh air. And my room door has a snap lock that opens from the inside. When I came back to my room my door was closed and the shades drawn.”
“Just like I told you, Inspector,” Denton put in aggressively. “Shayne is plenty slick. He’s always got an answer ready even if it isn’t always a good one.”
The inspector nodded slowly. He made a slow survey of the room. His men had finished their work and two men from the coroner’s office were waiting to take the body out. He asked, “Did you find the death weapon?”
“Not a sign of anything like that,” one of the men told
him. “We’ve covered everything inside and out.”
The inspector said, “Remove the body,” and walked over to Madame Legrand. “And you, Madame,” he asked, “live in the adjoining apartment?”
“I do,” she answered stiffly. She stood up. “If that’s all, Monsieur, may I go now? I shall go to my bed but not to sleep. Not again tonight.” She shuddered and looked at the bloodstained carpet from which the girl’s body had been lifted.
“Just a few more questions,” said the inspector in a gentle voice. “I’d like to hear everything you can tell me about the murder.”
“I’ve already got her story,” Denton blustered. “It don’t amount to much. She cooked dinner for the Macon girl and two others, heard the girls leave about ten, and later woke up and saw Shayne jumping across from here to his hotel. Isn’t that right, lady?”
“The first part, yes. But I do not know whether it was this man I saw.” She studied Shayne, shook her head, and said, “I think it was not,” with conviction.
Denton laughed. “That’s the way dames are, Inspector. They tighten up just when you think you’ve got a case sewed up. Let me talk to her a little. I can maybe make her remember better who it was she saw.”
The inspector ignored Denton. He asked, “These girls who were here for dinner, Madame—do you know them? Where they live?”
“No, Monsieur. One was Miss Hamilton. Lucile Hamilton. She has visited Miss Macon before. The other girl I think they called Evalyn.”
“You don’t know how we could get in touch with them?”
“No, Monsieur. I do not know.”
“What does it matter, Inspector?” Denton broke in. “You’re holding Shayne, aren’t you?”
The inspector said, “Yes. I’m holding Shayne. Come along Shayne.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
WHEN SHAYNE AND INSPECTOR Quinlan reached the sidewalk, police were holding back curious spectators while the covered body of the murdered girl was being placed in an ambulance on a stretcher.
A taxi pulled up behind the ambulance and a man got out hastily. He wore a pearl-gray derby and gray spats to match. He was slender, of about medium height, and he hooked a light Malacca cane over his left arm as he took out his wallet to pay the driver.
Shayne caught Quinlan’s arm and drew him back against the building, murmuring, “Let’s watch this.”
The inspector looked at Shayne with a puzzled frown. Shayne gestured toward the man who was turning away from the cab. Light from the street lamp showed the lined face of Mr. Drake beneath the brim of the derby. A policeman intercepted him as he started toward the apartment-house doorway. They were close enough for Shayne and the inspector to hear the bluecoat say, “Wait a minute, Mister. You got any business in there?”
“Naturally,” the man snapped in a high-pitched voice. For the first time, he appeared aware of the crowd and the cops, the waiting ambulance and the body on the stretcher. He stared about nervously, asked, “Has there been—an accident?”
The cop said, “A little accident—like murder.”
The foppishly dressed man repeated, “Murder? Dear me, how tragic.”
“For the gal, yeh. You live in this apartment?”
“No. A—girl, you say?” Drake sucked in his breath, drawing his lips tight to indicate complete disapproval. He stepped back, murmuring, “My errand isn’t really urgent.” He turned to see whether his cab had pulled away.
Shayne took a long step forward and called, “Mr. Drake!” sharply.
The man wheeled and looked around in confusion. Shayne stepped closer and said, “This is what the cops left of me.”
Drake stammered, “You’re the man—”
“The name is Shayne.” He lifted his voice to the white-coated orderlies who were sliding the stretcher into the ambulance, “Hold it a minute, boys. I’d like to have Mr. Drake see the victim.”
Inspector Quinlan had moved unobtrusively to stand beside Shayne. His cold blue eyes were puzzled, but he made no effort to interfere.
Drake’s jaw sagged at Shayne’s words. He shot a startled glance at Shayne and then at the stretcher which was being drawn from the ambulance. “I really don’t see why I should look at a—a corpse.”
“You will after you take a look at the girl,” Shayne assured him grimly. He caught Drake’s arm, felt it tremble in his grasp as he swung Drake about and led him to the stretcher.
One of the orderlies pulled the sheet down to expose the ghastly, bloodstained face of Barbara Little to the pitiless light of the street lamp. After one brief glance Drake shuddered violently and turned his lace away. “It’s—good gracious, it can’t be—Barbara!” he tremoloed in a high falsetto.
“Take a good look,” Shayne urged.
Drake turned his head back slowly. “It—it is Barbara, isn’t it?”
Shayne stepped back and said slowly, “I think Inspector Quinlan has a few questions to ask you.”
Drake turned. His lined features were haggard. “I don’t understand,” he faltered. “If that’s actually Barbara Little—but she called me just this evening. She asked me to come to her. I have the message right here.” He dug frantically in a vest pocket.
Quinlan nodded curtly to two of his men and said, “Bring him along—and let’s get going.” He went ahead of Shayne to his car and got in, left the door open, and started the motor. Shayne got in beside him, and Quinlan said, “You’d better start talking. I know you by reputation, so don’t waste time on past history.”
“God, man, can’t you understand I’m working on a case?” Shayne burst out with harsh impatience. “Drake is the man I’ve been looking for—the man I was warned against when I took the case. The girl is Barbara Little. Margo Macon was strictly a phony name. Her father sent me here to guard her against a man who answers Drake’s description in every respect. He’s a dope-head and has had a vicious influence over the girl in the past. She broke away from him, cured herself of the habit, then got frantic when she felt the urge returning. She ran away from home and came here. Her father was afraid he’d find her and drive her back into the habit or to suicide or worse. This man Drake contacted Captain Denton yesterday, asking where such a girl might go in the Quarter to get back on the stuff. Well, he seems to have got to her as soon as I did,” he ended angrily.
Quinlan drove slowly. The quizzical, puzzled expression seemed permanently fixed on his finely chiseled features. “How do you know Drake had contacted Denton?”
“Denton told me so. I went to ask him the same question—that is, to get in touch with the dope traffic in the Quarter. I already knew who the girl was and where she lived. Denton got scared, and mad, when I told him Chief McCracken had sent me, and threw me out.”
Quinlan drummed his finger tips on the steering wheel. “You say the girl’s father knew Drake was here?”
“I don’t think he knew it, but he was afraid Drake might try to follow her. He intimated his fear of rather horrible depravities the girl might be led into, without giving any details.”
Quinlan nodded. He said dryly, “Drake doesn’t look so sinister.”
Shayne moved his big hands impatiently. “You know as well as I that you can’t judge the morals of a narcotic user by his appearance. They’re sly.”
“Is it your idea,” Quinlan asked suddenly, “that Drake murdered the girl?”
“Somebody murdered her,” Shayne argued. “Mr. Little had some such fear. It seemed to be an obsession with him. He hinted Drake had threatened her life the other time she pulled away from him.”
Quinlan sighed and said, “It sounds like a ten-cent melodrama.”
“All murders have the tang of melodrama somewhere along the line,” Shayne reminded him.
“I know. And your story sounds like something you dreamed up on the spur of the moment to turn attention toward something else. Denton uncovered a lot of stuff against you, Shayne.”
Shayne laughed harshly. “Do you think I killed my own client?”
“I’m not thi
nking,” Quinlan said curtly. “I’m looking at evidence.” He parked in front of the police building.
Another car slid up to the curb as they got out. Two officers stepped out and Drake followed them, tapping his cane as he moved between the towering cops and looking smaller than Shayne remembered him.
Quinlan led the way into the office in the rear. Shayne pulled a chair over to the side of the room and lit a cigarette as Drake was ushered into the inspector’s presence. His face had an unhealthy, pasty look, and his body appeared to have shrunk inside his exquisitely tailored garments. His hands shook as he laid derby and cane carefully on the inspector’s desk. His head was completely bald, smooth and wax-white.
He placed the palms of his hands flat on the desk and bent forward to address Quinlan in a voice that shook with nervousness and wrath. “I demand to know why I have been haled in here like a criminal.”
“I want to ask you a few questions,” Quinlan said quietly. He settled himself in a swivel chair. “Sit down, Drake, and take it easy.”
Drake sank into a chair which one of the men pushed up for him. He looked bewildered and forlorn. “The shock,” he murmured. “I was completely overcome—at first. That girl, if it was Barbara—”
“What do you mean if it was Barbara?” Quinlan asked. “Didn’t you recognize her?”
Drake blinked his eyes and wet his thin, shriveled lips. He whined, “Actually, I didn’t look closely. That is—” His shudder was delicate, a slight tremor, and he lifted one hand. The nails were manicured and polished, with a faint rosy tint that hinted the application of artificial color. “The condition—you understand, Captain, that I couldn’t bear to—”
“Most men have a natural reluctance in such cases. They don’t relish looking at their dead victims.” The inspector’s voice was suddenly harsh.
Drake’s color changed from pasty white to gray except for a pinkish tint on each cheek. He stammered, “Surely you don’t think that I—that I—surely you can’t think that.”
Michael Shayne's Long Chance Page 6
