Michael Shayne's Long Chance

by Brett Halliday

  “Contact the girl’s father?”

  “That’s right. Joseph P. Little.”

  Quinlan scribbled a notation which read, Joseph P. Little, Dixie Flyer.

  “It’s somewhere between Jacksonville and New York,” Shayne said. “Either Drake or Little is a damned liar,” he mused aloud. “If Little sent me down here on a phony build-up—”

  “If Little backs up your story when he gets here you’ll be in a much better position. In the meantime, you’re my only suspect.”

  “Do you mean you’re going to hold me?” Shayne asked.

  “Why not?” Quinlan leaned forward and pointed a finger at a button on his desk.

  “Wait,” Shayne said hastily. “You don’t think I killed the girl.”

  “I’m not paid to think on a murder case.” Quinlan’s finger hovered over the button.

  “You know damned well,” Shayne said strongly, “that I didn’t beat that girl’s head in. Denton doesn’t believe it, either. He saw a chance to put Chief McCracken on the spot through me. You’re playing stooge for Denton if you lock me up.”

  Quinlan drummed his finger tips on the desk top. “Go on,” he said.

  “Give me a few hours. You let Drake walk out of here. Give me a chance to clean this thing up before Little gets here. How do you think I’m going to feel if he walks in and finds out that I not only fell down on the job but am actually accused of murdering his daughter—a girl I never saw before yesterday?”

  Inspector Quinlan asked, “What do you think you can accomplish by yourself?”

  “A lot,” Shayne said hotly. “You know how a private op works. I’m not hampered by any rules. Go ahead with your own investigation. You’ve got your angles, and I’ve got mine. You’ve got Drake under surveillance—your only other suspect, and if you’ve checked on me, you know I’ll be around.” He lifted his hip from the desk. “Hell,” he continued, “we stand around here chewing the fat when we should be at work. What about the two girls who had dinner with Barbara tonight? They might know something.” He put his big hands on the desk and bent toward the inspector. “Did you notice that the murderer struck several blows before killing the girl? Maybe somebody who wasn’t very strong had to strike again and again before she was dead.”

  Quinlan said, “I observed the body. I don’t need to be taught my business by you.”

  “You may be a smart cop,” Shayne said. “I think you are. But you know the handicaps of an official investigation.” Quinlan studied the pad on which he had written Drake’s admissions, riffling the small sheets with his thumb. He said, “If you’re in the clear, Shayne, you’ve nothing to worry about,” and did not raise his eyes. “But you shouldn’t mind sticking around until Little arrives to verify your story. Your interest in the case ended when the girl died—presumably.”

  Shayne took his hands from the desk and backed away. His gaunt features were tight and his gray eyes glowed. He said, “Maybe you won’t understand this, but that girl was murdered while I was being paid to keep her alive—while she was waiting to keep a date with me. That would make it my case, even if J. P. Little wasn’t paying. If you can’t see it you’re a bigger damned fool than I figured you to be.”

  The corners of Quinlan’s mouth twitched in a cold smile. “Will John McCracken vouch for you?”

  “Call him and find out,” Shayne said wearily.

  Quinlan lifted the receiver and asked the switchboard for a number. Shayne’s taut face relaxed and he stalked over to his chair and sat down.

  Presently the inspector said, “This you, Mac? Sorry if I waked you up, but this might be important. I’ve got a man named Mike Shayne here—holding him on suspicion of murder.”

  He stopped talking. Shayne could hear a crackling coming through the receiver. He saw Quinlan nod and the corners of his mouth go up.

  Then Quinlan said, “I see, Chief. No, I haven’t too much on him. Sure—I’ll be glad to release him conditionally, until something else pops up. Good night, Mac, and thanks.” The inspector cradled the receiver and turned to Shayne. He said, “Chief McCracken says he wishes you’d get out of town or get drunk or go to bed.”

  Shayne grinned and said, “Before too long I’ll grant two of his requests—the last two.”

  The inspector was not smiling when he said, “I’m releasing you for the time being, but watch your step. Denton isn’t just a precinct captain. He’s got an in with the papers and he’s shooting for McCracken’s job. This will make a sweet smear if we don’t dean the murder up fast. You’re not the only one on the spot. Think about that when you walk out of here, and, for God’s sake, keep your nose clean.”

  Shayne held out his hand, and the inspector stood up to grasp it. He warned, “Don’t hold out on us, Shayne. If there’s anything else lying around that Denton can get hold of, tell us about it now. If he’s got anything to frame you with, he’ll use it.”

  Shayne said gruffly, “Don’t think I don’t appreciate this. I’ve been inside on too many frames to stick my neck into one.” He turned and went out.

  Shayne stopped at one of the public telephone booths in the police building, went in and closed the door, then sat for a moment tugging at his left earlobe. He frowned in indecision before thumbing through the directory until he came upon the name of Veigle, H. F.

  He dialed the number and listened to the monotonous, insistent buzzing of the phone at the other end. After three or four minutes the ringing stopped and a sleepy voice said, “Yeh—what the devil?”

  “Harry?” Shayne said.

  “Who’s talking?” the sleepy voice asked.

  “Mike Shayne. Wake up and start thinking nine years back, Harry.”

  “Mike? I don’t believe it. Where the hell are you?”

  “Police headquarters.”

  “Oh, so it is you, Mike.”

  Shayne laughed. “I’ve just talked myself out of a murder rap—that is, almost. Are you awake, Harry?”

  “Ever since you mentioned police headquarters and murder raps I’ve been awake. What do you want me to get you out of this time?”

  “Still got your private lab, Harry? And are you still so broke you’d frame your grandmother for half a C?”

  “Still got my lab, but I’ve raised my price. It’ll cost you a whole C to get my grandmother framed now.”

  “Fair enough. Listen, Harry, this is important. Got a pencil and paper?” Shayne squirmed in the narrow telephone booth, got a small slip of paper from his shirt pocket, and spread it flat on the wall.

  Harry Veigle said, “Shoot, Mike, my pencil is poised.”

  “Take this down, Harry, and get it right. Tonight about eleven o’clock you got in a City Cab on Dumaine just off Charles. You rode three blocks and suddenly remembered something important you had to do and got out. Get it?”

  “No, but go on,” Veigle snapped.

  “You gave the driver a buck for this trouble, but you left a bundle on the floor of the cab—a round bundle about ten inches in diameter tied securely in brown wrapping paper and white string. No writing on it. It feels like old clothes, but is heavier than that. Got it?”

  “Almost—wait a minute.”

  Shayne waited until Veigle said, “Okay, shoot. What’s it all about?”

  “It’s a cognac bottle,” Shayne went on, “wrapped in a bath towel and in wrapping paper, but don’t open it in the claim office when you pick it up. The clerk might be allergic to the sight of blood.”

  Veigle said, “What the hell?”

  “It killed a girl tonight,” Shayne told him calmly. “I want you to get the bottle right away, Harry. The cab number is one-two-six. Take it to your lab before you unwrap it. It’s got the dead girl’s fingerprints and mine all over it, and, I hope, the murderer’s prints. My prints are on file at headquarters and the girl’s will be in a couple of hours. If the bottle has any other prints, bring them out. If it hasn’t—get rid of the damned thing, Harry. I might beat the chair that way.”

  “Wait a min
ute, Mike. How’d your prints get on the bottle? If it’s murder evidence—”

  Shayne said, “There was a time when you trusted me without asking questions.”

  In a resigned tone, Veigle said, “Check. I claim this bottle from the cab office, try to bring out a set of prints other than yours and the dead girl’s. If I fail, I destroy the evidence and face a rap for accessory after the fact. That it?”

  Shayne said, “That’s it.”

  “Who pays for the job if you burn?”

  Shayne chuckled and hung up. He mopped sweat from his face and riffled through the directory again, turning to the H’s and frowning at the long column of Hamiltons. Near the top was a Becky Lucile on Chartres Street. He dialed the number, and a female voice said, “Hello,” after the fifth ring.

  “Lucile Hamilton?”

  “Uh—yes. Who’s calling?”

  “This is a friend of Margo’s.”

  “I’m sort of friendly, too.” The voice was cooing, fencing with him. “I’m all undressed. Would you like to see me?”

  Shayne said, “Some other time. When you are dressed.” He hung up and ran his finger down the column of names, stopped at a Lucile Hamilton on North Rampart.

  He tried that number and waited a long time while the ringing went on monotonously at the other end.

  His persistence was finally rewarded by a sleepy voice saying, “Miss Hamilton speaking.”

  Shayne said, “This is a friend of Margo’s.”

  “Margo Macon?”

  “That’s right. I’m sorry to disturb you at this hour, but it’s really important that I see you at once. May I come up?”

  “Why should you? It’s past midnight.”

  “I’m sorry. It’s still important.” He paused briefly, then added, “I gather that the police haven’t got to you yet.”

  “The police? Why should they?”

  “There’s no use discussing it over the phone,” Shayne said brusquely. “I’ll see you in ten minutes.” He hung up and went out to find a cab.

  CHAPTER NINE

  THE ADDRESS ON NORTH RAMPART STREET was a neat brick apartment house. Shayne found Lucile Hamilton’s name above a brass mailbox in the small entrance hall and pressed the button above it. He had his hand on the doorknob when it clicked. He opened the door and went up the carpeted stairs, turned right when he saw a girl peering anxiously from an apartment at the end of the hall.

  Lucile Hamilton had a sweet, rounded face, and her clear brown eyes were wide with anxiety as she greeted Shayne from the doorway. “Are you the man who telephoned just now?” she asked softly.

  “I’m the man—Michael Shayne.” He took off his hat and extended his hand.

  She hesitated an instant before offering her hand, her direct gaze flickering over his coarse red hair and his bruised face and on to the big hand he was offering. Her smile was sincere when she put her hand in his and said forthrightly, “You’re the man Margo told us about. And I’m sure she was right, too.”

  “That all depends on what she told you,” he said.

  “Now you’re fishing,” she accused. Her cool hand gave him back a firm pressure, and she invited him into a tiny efficiency apartment. She wore a flowered housecoat that zipped up the front and trailed the floor behind her. She was about 20, Shayne guessed, with a disarming simplicity of manner. Her brown hair was brushed back from her face and tied at the nape of her neck with a pink ribbon.

  “Please sit here,” she said, indicating the one comfortable chair beside which a tall metal ash tray stood. She curled up on the studio couch which was converted into a bed, making the small room appear crowded. “Now tell me what you meant by the police—and what about Margo? Is something wrong?”

  Shayne offered her a cigarette, took one for himself and struck a match to light both. “It’s bad news,” he said quietly. “Margo is dead.”

  “No!” She flinched as though she had been struck a blow in the face. Her brown eyes were probing at Shayne for the truth behind his stark words.

  “But—I saw her just a few hours ago,” she faltered. “Was it an accident?”

  Shayne got up and paced restlessly to the chintz-curtained windows, turned, and let his brooding gaze rest on the girl. “Margo was murdered. A short time after you left her. It looks as though you and your friend, Evalyn, were the last to see her alive.”

  “Murdered? Oh, no!” Her voice cried out vehemently against the unfairness of it. “Not Margo! She was so vitally alive. How terrible!” Her eyes flashed angrily when she realized the full import of his words. “Tell me how it happened. Who murdered her?”

  “I found Margo dead when I went to keep my date with her. I was detained until after eleven. It must have happened soon after you girls left. They don’t know who did it,” Shayne continued harshly. “Right now I’m the chief suspect. That’s why I want you to tell me everything you can—to help find her murderer.”

  “They think you did it?” Lucile gasped.

  Shayne nodded grimly. “They learned about our meeting this afternoon. The woman who served your dinner swears she saw a man leap from Margo’s balcony to mine just about the time the murder was committed.”

  Tears filled Lucile’s eyes and overflowed on her cheeks, but she made no sound. Shayne sat down beside her, put an arm around her shoulders, and said, firmly, “I know this is tough on you, but you’ve got to help all you can. You’ve got to tell me about Margo—about tonight.”

  She turned her face against him and cried for a while. After a few moments her slender body grew rigid. She lifted her face and said, “I’m sorry.”

  Shayne got up and crushed his cigarette out in the ash tray. “Why don’t you try some cold water on your face? Then we’ll talk.”

  “I will.” She went to a door beyond the end of the couch, and before entering, said, “I won’t be long.”

  Shayne paced restlessly around the room, walking through an archway into a small breakfast nook and making a cursory examination of the tiny kitchenette.

  He resumed his seat when she came out. Her clear skin was flushed from the cold water and she hadn’t put on any make-up. She said, “I’m all right now. I’m sorry I went to pieces.” She made herself comfortable on the couch with two pillows propped against the end. “Margo’s death tonight struck me as being particularly horrible,” she explained quietly, “because she was happier than she’s been since I’ve known her. I think you did that for her. Just the couple of drinks she had with you this afternoon. Don’t get me wrong,” she went on, “I don’t mean she was in love with you. It wasn’t anything silly, but it was what she had looked for here in the Quarter. She’s had a couple of cheap substitutes,” Lucile ended with a grimace, “and she was sure you were going to be different.”

  Shayne asked, “What time did you leave Margo?”

  “About ten o’clock. We’d had such a perfect evening until Henri came. Margo was bubbling over about you, and Evalyn was so happy—I suppose because she thought Henri would be coming back to her. It was like things used to be—before Henri and Margo met.”

  “Who,” asked Shayne, “is Henri?”

  “Henri Desmond. Why—” A thoughtful light came into her eyes and she drew her breath in sharply. “Don’t the police know about him?”

  “Not that I’ve heard, but I’d be delighted to get hold of another suspect,” Shayne said.

  “Henri could have done it,” she said doubtfully.

  “Where does this Henri live?”

  “Why, I don’t know, but I’m sure Evalyn does. I’ll call her.” She started to get up.

  Shayne stopped her. “Wait,” he said. “Let’s get this straight first. You say Henri came to Margo’s apartment? What time was that?”

  “Just a few minutes before ten. I remember because the phone had rung about nine forty-five. Margo talked to someone—you, I guess, and told us she had a date at ten-fifteen and we’d have to leave.” She laughed, her eyes bright with remembering, and said, “I scolded Margo
about having an assignation with a redheaded stranger at that hour. Though I was glad for her,” she went on earnestly. “I’ve often told her that she needed to have an affair. A real one—and decent, of course. I honestly believe she was a virgin,” she ended pensively.

  “Let’s get back to tonight,” Shayne said firmly. “Margo received a phone call at nine forty-five, you say? She didn’t tell you from whom, but intimated some man was coming in thirty minutes. Is that straight?”

  “She didn’t actually say it was you who called. But she had been talking so much about you all evening, and she didn’t say it wasn’t. So I just supposed it was you.”

  “And then Henri came?”

  “Yes. It must have been about ten. Margo was terribly flustered when he knocked. I’m sure she thought it was you—ahead of time. She looked daggers at us for still being there when she went to the door. But it was only Henri.” Lucile sighed.

  “What happened?”

  “She didn’t ask Henri in. She talked to him in the hall, but the door was open a crack and Evalyn and I could hear them. She told him he’d have to go because she had this date with you, and he got awfully mad. He threatened her. He said he wouldn’t stand for any other man hanging around her.” She paused, then added thoughtfully, “I think it was only his pride—I’m sure he didn’t love Margo.”

  “Then Henri went away?” Shayne probed.

  “Yes. Evalyn was crying when Margo came back. She had heard it all, you see. Of course she knew about Henri and Margo, but I rather think she had pretended to herself that it wasn’t really serious. Then when she heard him talking like that—”

  “Did Henri know Evalyn was there?” Shayne interrupted.

  “No. I’m positive he didn’t or he wouldn’t have said what he did to Margo. You see, Evalyn has been supporting him for months, giving him money and letting him spend part of the time in her apartment. He wanted to hang on to Evalyn and try to have an affair with Margo.”

  “Go ahead,” Shayne said patiently. “What happened then?”

  “Henri’s coming spoiled our party. It was rather messy with Evalyn crying and all, so I came home.”