Michael Shayne's Long Chance

by Brett Halliday

  Shayne relaxed and sipped cognac from the bottle and reviewed the work he had done and that which was awaiting him. He decided there was nothing left now except to await the outcome. He had his hunch, and that was about all. He had never approached the end of a case with so little actual evidence, yet he had never approached the end of a case with such complete and satisfying certitude that it would come out right. It had to. He couldn’t be wrong. There was a certain pattern—

  Lucile came through the archway carrying a small glass in her hand. She settled herself in the armchair opposite the couch and said, “I need a stimulant. I nearly had heart failure when I thought the hamburgers were burning.” She held out the glass, and Shayne reached a long arm out to pour it half full of cognac. She said, “That’s much too much, but I’ll drink it. I’ve always said that only a thoroughly disreputable wanton ever drinks before four o’clock in the afternoon.” She held her glass for a toast and said, “Here’s to the wage slaves who drudge all day in an office and sleep in loneliness all night.” Her laughter floated gaily through the room before she took a swallow of the liquor. “Everything will be ready in a few minutes,” she added sensibly. “I’ll bet you’re starved.”

  “I am,” Shayne confessed, then asked, “Will you be back with the slaves tomorrow?”

  “Oh, no. I’m not working any more.”

  Shayne offered her a cigarette. “Did you resign?”

  “By request—with two weeks’ pay. Wasn’t that nice of them? The office manager feels that there’s something essentially indecent about a girl getting herself mixed up in murder.”

  “That reminds me,” Shayne said hastily. He reached in his pocket and brought out the picture Soule had given him. He handed it to her. “That’ll be on the front page of the Item tonight if things go wrong this afternoon.”

  Lucile studied the photograph and unconsciously sucked in her breath sharply, but she said in a gay voice, “It’s a very good likeness, isn’t it—of both of us.”

  She got up and went to the kitchenette, leaving half her drink on the end table.

  Shayne got up from the couch, looked at his wrist watch, and went to the telephone. He called police headquarters and asked for Inspector Quinlan. When Quinlan answered, he said, “This is Mike Shayne. Heard anything from Joseph Little?”

  “Yes. He arrived a few minutes ago by plane and telephoned me. I put him in touch with Henderson from the insurance company and they’ve gone over to identify the body. I promised to try and have you meet them here about one-thirty to sign that affidavit you promised Henderson.”

  “I’ll be there,” Shayne assured him. “Say—how big is that office of yours, Quinlan?”

  “What did you say?”

  “I asked you how big your office is.” Shayne’s wide mouth spread in a grin close to the mouthpiece.

  “Why, about twelve by fourteen, I guess. What the devil are you driving at? Drunk?”

  “Sober as an Inspector,” Shayne told him. “You see, I’ve taken the liberty of inviting quite a few others for a one-thirty conference in your office, and I wanted to make sure there’d be room. There’ll be—let’s see—Soule, Henri, Denton, Drake, Little, Henderson, Lucile, Tim, Veigle—that makes nine besides us. Is there another office where we can gather?”

  “Look here, Shayne,” Quinlan asked angrily, “what have you got up your sleeve?”

  “Rabbits. White ones with pink eyes.”

  Quinlan groaned. “If you’ve held out evidence—”

  “I haven’t, Inspector,” Shayne assured him. “I’m doing a lot of wild guessing, and God help me if I’m wrong. There’s only one thing—will you arrange to have Edmund Drake there at one-thirty? He’s the only one who hasn’t been issued a personal invitation.”

  “The girl’s uncle? Why, he’s to meet Little here. Little talked to him on the phone before he called me.”

  “He did? So Drake was telling the truth,” Shayne said slowly. “How does Little explain the cock-and-bull story he told me in Miami?”

  “I haven’t discussed it with him. I thought you’d want to do that.”

  Shayne’s voice was grim when he said, “I do. One-thirty, then.”

  When Shayne hung up and turned from the telephone he saw a platter of hamburgers in the center of the small table, flanked by a large wooden bowl of tossed salad and a dish containing three baked yams. Lucile came in with a bowl of gravy spiced with barbecue sauce and set it beside the platter. She apologized for baker’s bread, saying, “I’d like to have made cornbread but my oven’s so small I can cook only one thing at a time.”

  Shayne said, “Don’t apologize,” and helped himself to a hamburger and ladled the sauce over it as she poured the coffee. He sniffed the sauce, then tasted it, raised his bushy brows and asked, “Garlic?”

  “Just a smear. And lots of other things. It’s my own concoction. If you don’t like garlic—”

  “I do,” Shayne said emphatically, and broke a hamburger easily with his fork. Juice flowed from it and he said unbelievingly as he tasted it, “Do they have a special brand of hamburger cows here?”

  She laughed delightedly and sat down opposite him. “I call it poor-girl steak. It’s neck meat, the cheapest cut, and I have the butcher grind it twice with a little piece of bacon for extra flavor.”

  “You’ve been wasting your talents in an office,” he told her as he speared a yam. He sighed with contentment and went to work with knife and fork.

  They were relaxed over the third cup of coffee when the telephone rang. Shayne reached out a long arm and lifted the instrument and said, “Hello.”

  Timothy Rourke’s voice answered him. “Just hit the airport, Mike. What’s the schedule?”

  “What time is it?”

  “Twenty after one.”

  “The hell it is!”

  “Listen, Mike,” Rourke said earnestly, “do you know of any openings for a good leg man in this town?”

  “Why?”

  “If your story isn’t a whingeroo there’s no use of me going back to Miami. Do you know what this trip cost the office?”

  “It’ll be worth it,” Shayne told him. “Meet me at Inspector Quinlan’s office in ten minutes, Tim.” He gave specific directions and hung up.

  “We’ll have to get started,” he said to Lucile.

  “We?”

  “Sure. Didn’t I tell you you were invited?”

  “Oh, no, Mike—I’d rather not.”

  Shayne said, “Sorry. We’re going to need you for a quorum.” He pushed his chair back and stalked into the living-room.

  “But why?” she wailed, following him in. “You know everything—”

  “Well, for one thing, there’s an insurance adjuster trying to make an issue of the identification of the body. Tim brought a picture of Barbara Little and I want you to back me up in identifying her.”

  “Oh—that’s why you asked him to bring the picture. I meant to ask you.”

  Shayne had his coat on and was striding to the telephone. “I’ll call a taxi. Get your hat on and your apron off.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  WHEN THE TAXI PULLED UP TO THE CURB at police headquarters, three men were getting out of a tan sedan just in front of them. Shayne grinned at Captain Denton and asked, “Ready to go into your spiel?”

  Denton’s only answer was a scowl. Shayne saw his black eyes narrow with surprise and speculation when he assisted Lucile from the taxi. Henri Desmond darted a frightened look in their direction, and Soule’s eyes glittered coldly beneath his odd, puffy lids.

  Lucile gripped Shayne’s arm as they followed the trio inside. She whispered, “I’m frightened, Mike. Who’s the man with the evil eyes and the mustache?”

  “That’s Rudy Soule. Hasn’t Henri ever told you about his big-shot boss?”

  “I don’t think so. Are you sure—”

  “I’m not sure of anything,” he answered blandly. “Keep quiet when we get in Quinlan’s office unless I ask you something.”<
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  Soule, Henri, and the police captain stopped on the threshold leading into the inspector’s office. They went in as Shayne and Lucile came up behind them. Quinlan was alone. He said, “Hello, Denton,” and nodded curtly to Soule.

  Shayne pushed in behind them and said breezily, “I suppose you know Rudy Soule, Inspector, but maybe you haven’t met Henri Desmond.”

  Quinlan said, “I’ve heard about him.” He looked past Shayne at Lucile.

  “Miss Hamilton—Inspector Quinlan.”

  Quinlan nodded and asked, “The missing witness?” He had a harried look.

  “She hasn’t been missing, Inspector. I’ve kept close contact with her since I left your office this morning.”

  Quinlan said, “Little and Henderson are waiting for us in there,” indicating an open door leading into another office. He added significantly, “Henderson has heard Little’s story and is willing to accept it.”

  Shayne asked, “Shall we join them?”

  Captain Denton cleared his throat, glanced at Shayne, said doggedly, “I’ve got to tell you something, Inspector. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking—”

  “Save it,” Shayne muttered, “until we can all hear you at once.”

  Edmund Drake entered the office hurriedly, and Timothy Rourke dashed in behind him. Drake looked perplexed and wan as his red-streaked eyes darted over the little group filing into the inner office.

  Shayne met Rourke with a wide grin and an outstretched hand. He introduced him to Lucile, then to Inspector Quinlan, explaining, “Timothy Rourke has helped me bust a lot of cases in Miami and I think he’ll help me bust this one.”

  Quinlan nodded without enthusiasm. The others had passed into the conference room. He asked, “Is this the crop, Shayne?”

  “Everybody except Veigle. You know Harry Veigle?”

  “I know Veigle, but I didn’t know he was working on this with you.” Quinlan went on in a tone of suppressed exasperation, “What kind of monkey business is this, Shayne?”

  “Let’s go inside,” Shayne suggested, “and I’ll do some explaining. We don’t need Veigle right away.” He gave Tim Rourke a little shove toward the open door, took Lucile’s arm, and Quinlan followed them into a much larger office.

  There was a long bare table with chairs ranged around it. Henderson and Joseph Little sat at one end with some papers spread out in front of them. Denton, Soule, and Henri were at the other end. Drake stood against the wall just inside the door looking at his brother-in-law with tight-lipped disapproval.

  Shayne drew a chair a little apart from the others and invited Lucile to sit down. He then moved toward Joseph P. Little, holding out his hand. The magazine editor wore his pince-nez and a harassed frown. His mild features showed strain and sleeplessness, but his collar was fresh and his bow tie primly in position. He put a limp hand in Shayne’s and murmured, “We meet again under the shadow of tragedy.”

  Shayne held his hand firmly. “I’m sorry, Mr. Little. If I’d done my job it wouldn’t have happened.”

  Little shook his head sadly. “I feel you did all you could.” He made a limp gesture of defeat.

  The others were seating themselves around the table. Henderson shuffled some papers in front of him and said impatiently, “I’m a busy man, Mr. Shayne. If you care to sign this affidavit I’ve prepared—”

  “Are you satisfied with the identification?” Shayne interrupted sharply.

  “Perfectly,” Henderson said. “Mr. Little has made a definite identification of the girl as his daughter and has fully explained the peculiar circumstances which led to her adoption of a pseudonym.”

  Shayne swung on Joseph Little and said grimly, “You have some explaining to do. Come with me a moment.” He led Little to the other end of the table to face Edmund Drake. “I believe you two know each other.”

  Little winced at Shayne’s tone. He said, “Yes, we—how are you, Edmund?”

  Drake said stiffly, “I’m very well, thank you.” Neither of them offered to shake hands.

  Shayne said irritably, “I want the truth, Little. Why did you lie to me in Miami?”

  The editor’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. He wet his lips. “I’m not certain I know what you mean.”

  Shayne turned to Timothy Rourke. “You heard our discussion in Miami, Tim. Does Mr. Drake remind you of anyone described by Little at that time?”

  Rourke came closer and carefully surveyed Drake. “Sure. He’s the menace Little warned you against.”

  Joseph P. Little burst out, “He is, indeed. You must understand, Mr. Shayne, that I couldn’t bring myself to explain that he was actually Barbara’s uncle.”

  “You made up the whole story,” Shayne snorted, “about him being a dope peddler and a threat to your daughter’s life.”

  “Yes, I did. All of it except that last statement, Mr. Shayne.” Little appeared to grow in stature and his pale eyes glittered. “I sent you here to protect Barbara from Edmund Drake. I believed then that her life would be in danger if he found her. And I would believe now that he murdered her if the crime had not been confessed by another person.”

  “You’ve always hated me, Joseph.” Drake’s tongue dripped venom. “You wouldn’t let us see Barbara because you knew she preferred her aunt and me—to you.”

  “Yes, Edmund, I’ve always hated you.” Mr. Little took off his pince-nez and spoke quite firmly. “I’ve hated you ever since you married my sister and squandered her substance. You ruined her life—sent her to her deathbed with a broken heart and a wrecked body. I kept Barbara away from you because I didn’t want her to learn what a loathsome thing you really are.”

  Drake’s flaccid features twitched. “You turned her against us—poisoned her mind against her aunt, who loved her like a mother. You exerted every bit of influence you could muster to force her to change the beneficiary of her insurance from my wife to you.”

  Dead silence pervaded the room during the few seconds before Mr. Little said, “I did urge Barbara to change the beneficiary of her policy after Elizabeth took to her bed and it became evident that she no longer wished to live. Certainly I shrank from the sure knowledge that the money would do nothing for her, but would inevitably pass into your hands to be dissipated as you had wasted her small fortune.”

  He stepped closer, shaking his pince-nez in Drake’s face. His anger gave him added dignity and poise as he resumed. “And, though I’ve been ashamed to confess the abhorrent suspicion, I have actually feared for Barbara’s life so long as that temptation remained before you. When you came through Miami and insisted that I give you her address, using your wife’s illness as an argument, I realized you were desperate as you saw that small fortune slipping through your clutches.

  “It was then that I called you in, Mr. Shayne,” he continued, stepping back from Drake and turning to the detective. “I didn’t know what Edmund Drake might attempt if he were successful in locating Barbara under her assumed name. Perhaps I should have confided in you fully, but I could not bring myself to do so. By giving you his description and warning you against him I felt Barbara would be safe until her aunt’s death. After that the danger would be past.”

  Drake started to say something, but Shayne cut him off. He asked Little, “Why—after her aunt’s death? Wouldn’t that clinch the insurance money for Drake?”

  “On the contrary. I took the policy out while my sister was unmarried and it was made payable to her. Not to her heirs and assigns.” Mr. Little’s voice rang with incisive triumph as he continued. “I understand that Barbara was pre-deceased by her aunt by a matter of several hours. Ample time, Mr. Henderson assures me, to prevent the face of the policy from going into Drake’s hands. Were it not for that fact I should certainly have considered her uncle a prime suspect and would have demanded a searching investigation.”

  Shayne nodded thoughtfully. He tugged at his earlobe and said dryly to Edmund Drake, “Maybe you’re lucky you didn’t have a motive.”

  He spoke to those at th
e table, rousing them from complete absorption in the scene between Joseph Little and Edmund Drake. “I think we can go on with our business,” he announced. “Captain Denton, have you something to say before I get started?”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CAPTAIN DENTON gave a start of surprise when Shayne addressed him. He looked aggressively around the table, cleared his throat, and muttered, “I didn’t know it was going to be a public meeting.”

  “Every person in this room,” Shayne assured him, “is intensely interested in what you have to say.”

  Denton squared his bulky shoulders and spoke directly to Inspector Quinlan. “I’ve been thinking things over, Inspector. I’ve been pretty much worried, thinking maybe there was a mistake made last night.”

  “What kind of mistake?”

  “In that suicide case. The Jordan girl. I think I might’ve—well, maybe I went off half-cocked. It’s been worrying me bad because it’s our job to see that justice is done no matter what we think about it ourselves.” Denton spoke in a self-righteous tone, and he sounded sincere.

  “Go on,” said Quinlan impatiently.

  Denton drew in a deep breath. “It’s this way, Inspector. The way it all happened, I might’ve jumped to a wrong conclusion. The girl was dying when I got to her, see? She was hysterical and kept moaning about not wanting to live because Margo Macon was dead. She kept saying it was her fault and that kind of stuff. So I—well, it sounded to me like she was confessing. And then she died without saying any more. But I’ve been thinking and thinking. She didn’t actually say she did it herself. Not in so many words. She could’ve meant something else. I just don’t want to have it on my conscience that maybe I was wrong and her confession cleared the real murderer—if it wasn’t her.”

  “This,” Inspector Quinlan exploded, “is a hell of a time to be thinking about that. You might as well admit the truth, Denton. You saw a chance to grab some publicity and make my department look bad. By God, I’ll see that this is taken up—”