The blonde cried murder

by Brett Halliday

  Arms—where they knew us and all.

  "So I jumped in my car and drove down as fast as I could."

  "What time did you leave Jacksonville?" interjected Shayne.

  "A little before four o'clock."

  "You weren't in much of a hurry to reach her." said Shayne dryly. "Anybody can do it in four hours."

  "I had an accident the other side of Fort Lauderdale. Crazy driver smashed into my rear-end when I slowed for a light."

  Paulson rubbed his forehead vaguely. "Slammed me against the windshield. Broke my glasses and half knocked me out. I had to drive slow coming on in. That delayed me a couple of hours, so it was about nine-thirty when I got to the Hibiscus."

  "And?" prompted Shayne when Paulson stopped again, his gaze withdrawn and inward as though the memory rankled horribly.

  "Well, I went to the elevator and up to the third floor. As I walked down the corridor toward three-sixteen, I saw the door stood open and light was coming out. And when I was about eight feet away, Nellie stepped out and turned toward me. She gave one scream and started running in the other direction. I've thought and thought about it," he ended wearily, "and I admit the hall light was dim and she'd just stepped out of a brightly-lit room, so maybe she didn't recognize me in one glance. That might explain-"

  "It wouldn't explain," said Shayne sharply, "her story about being registered at the Roney Plaza Hotel with her brother, and going to the Hibiscus at nine-thirty in response to a call from him and finding him lying on the bed in three-sixteen with his throat slit wide open."

  "But there wasn't anybody in the room—dead or alive," protested Paulson. "I'm positive. I glanced in through

  the Open door as I ran past after Nellie. The room was empty."

  Shayne nodded slowly, draining his glass and setting it on the tray. "I know. That fits her story, too. About the body of her brother disappearing from the room while she was telephoning for help from another room."

  "But I'm her brother," fumed Paulson helplessly. "Let me see her, Mr. Shayne. Let me talk to her. You can be right there and listen. Don't you see she needs help-making up a crazy story about me being murdered and then running away at the sight of me?"

  "Somebody," agreed Shayne, "is sure as hell making up a crazy story." He drummed blunt fingertips on the arm of his chair indecisively. "Couple of things we can check without too much trouble."

  "Then start checking them, for God's sake I" burst out Paulson. "Call yourself a detective? Get to the bottom of this. You claim Nellie is all right and you can produce her any time, but how do I know. Prove it."

  Shayne said equably, "You'll have to take my word for it." He went to the telephone and called the number of the Hibiscus Hotel which he had looked up earlier. When the switchboard answered, he asked, "Do you have a Miss Paulson registered? Nellie Paulson from Jacksonville?"

  "Three-sixteen," Evelyn replied at once. "But Miss Paulson isn't in just now."

  "I know. Look, anything more on bodies appearing and disappearing from her room?"

  There was a long pause. Then Evelyn said primly, "I'm sure I don't know what you mean, sir. Who is calling?"

  Shayne said, "Never mind," and hung up. He nodded to Paulson who had risen and was looking at him eagerly. "That much checks. Miss Paulson has three-sixteen and she isn't in."

  "Well—what are you waiting for?"

  "One more detail." Shayne called the Roney Plaza

  J

  number from memory. He asked again, "Do you have a Miss Paulson registered? Miss Nellie Paulson from Jacksonville?"

  It took quite a bit longer to get an answer this time. And it was decisively negative: "Sorry, but we have no Miss Paulson."

  Shayne hung up with a shrug. He told Paulson, "I guess it's about time we tried to straighten this out." Without further explanation, he strode to the kitchen door and knocked on it. "Nellie. This is Mike Shayne. It's all right to come out now."

  Bert Paulson ran toward him, his face contorted with anger. "Damn iti Do you mean to say she was in here all the time you were stalling me along? Why didn't you—?"

  "Shut up," warned Shayne angrily. "I promised her I'd get rid of you before I called her out. If she hears you're still here—"

  He turned and knocked more loudly on the door. "It's okay, Nellie. Unlock the door. I give you my word it's all right to come out."

  There was still no response from the kitchen. Paulson shoved Shayne aside and rattled the knob frantically. "Nellie! Do you hear me, Nellie? It's Bert, darling. Bert! Don't you hear? Everything's all right. I swear it is. I've been so worried."

  Shayne stood aside with a bleakly saturnine look on his face while Bert pleaded through the closed door for his sister to come out. After a few minutes attempted cajolery got them nowhere, Shayne said, "If you'd kept your damned mouth closed until she unlocked the door, everything would have been all right. As it is—the way she seems to feel about you—she's probably run out the back door and down the fire escape by this time."

  "The fire escape?" Paulson whirled about, his scar standing out strongly on his cheek. "You mean there's a back way out of that room?"

  Shayne said sardonically, "That's what I mean. If you'd let nie handle it—"

  That was as far as he got before Paulson whirled and threw his weight against the door. The hook and eye holding it on the inside gave under the impact and the door crashed open.

  One glance showed them the kitchen was empty. Paulson jumped for the back door and found it unlocked, jerked it open and stepped out onto the fire escape landing to peer anxiously downward.

  He reappeared with his face dark with rage. "She's gone," he panted. "God only knows where. Or what she'll do next. Damn your soul to hell, Shayne. It's your fault. If you'd told me at the beginning—"

  Shayne caught his shoulder and whirled him about as he started to run out. "Take it easy. Maybe she had a hell of a good reason for ducking out before you broke that door down. You and I are going down to police headquarters and—"

  An extraordinary change came over Bert Paulson's face. He backed away and his right hand darted inside his jacket buttoned in front and reappeared holding a Colt's .45 Army automatic aimed squarely at Shayne's belly. His lips drew away from his teeth in a wolfish grin as Shayne hesitated, trying to decide whether to jump him or not.

  "Don't do it. Mister Detective. I'd just as soon kill you as any of those men I killed in Korea, and don't forget it. You can go down to police headquarters if you want, but I you'll go alone. I've had enough talk. You don't seem to realize Nellie's out there in the night alone somewhere. With God knows what sort of hallucinations running through her head. ||

  "I'm going out to find her, by God." He was backing away steadily toward the front door as he talked, the big gun held unwaveringly in line with Shayne's middle.

  "Don't make a move forward," he warned. "Not one

  10:20 P.M. , 55

  step or I'll let you have it. I swear I will. She's my sister and I'm responsible for her."

  He fumbled behind him with his left hand for the doorknob, his eyes feverishly bright on Shayne. "Don't try to follow or stop me. Somebody will sure as hell get hurt."

  He opened the door and glided out, closed it behind him fast.

  Shayne sighed and walked slowly to the tray and poured himself out a drink. Nellie should be perfectly safe with Lucy by this time—or at least in a cab on her way to Lucy's. And there was no possible chance for Bert to find her there. In the meantime, Shayne had a lot of questions to ask in different places.

  EIGHT: 10:28 P.M.

  The girl stood inside Shayne's kitchen with her ear pressed hard against the thin wooden panel trying to hear what was going on beyond the door.

  As soon as she had thrown the flimsy latch on the door behind her, she had frantically reconnoitered for a possible means of escape if it became necessary, and had unlocked and opened the back door leading out to the fire escape. With it standing invitingly open, she had returned to the other door t
o do her utmost to comprehend what was being said inside.

  She wasn't really frightened now, she kept telling herself, trying to stop shivering as she did so. Michael Shayne's big frame and his placid way of taking things had been most reassuring. But had he believed her story? That was the crux of it. Or would he believe whatever fantastic story the man in there with him would tell to explain why he had followed her to Shayne's hotel?

  She could hear only isolated words from the other room. Sometimes one or the other of them would raise his voice momentarily, and she would catch a detached phrase. But it was only gibberish that way. It didn't make sense at all.

  Her mouth was dry and her heart was beating frantically and she felt faint as she clung there trying to hear.

  After all, the story she had told Shayne must have sounded more like hysterical raving than the truth. Because there wasn't any way to prove a word she'd told him. Without the evidence of her brother's body to back it up—

  And she had heard him call the police and the Hibiscus Hotel herself. Of course, they'd told him there was no body. She had known that already.

  She stiffened as she heard one of them moving toward the kitchen door. Then there was a knock and Shayne's voice: "Nellie. This is Mike Shayne. It's all right to come out now."

  And the other's voice shouting angrily as he neared the door: "Damn iti Do you mean to say she was in here all the time—?"

  She waited to hear no more. She dared not hesitate longer. She whirled and slithered across the room and out the open door, drawing it silently shut behind her.

  It was quite dark, but she could see the spidery iron steps leading down the single flight alongside the building to a dimly lit side street.

  She went down swiftly without looking back, and at the bottom ran with all her speed toward the more brightly lighted street ahead. She had his secretary's address in her suede handbag. He had sworn she would be safe there. No matter what story he had been told, she felt she could trust him not to betray her whereabouts. He would know where she had gone as soon as he found the kitchen empty, she told herself thankfully. If she could only find a taxi now.

  Reaching Southeast 2nd Avenue, she turned unhesitatingly toward the brilliantly lighted section of the city and away from the bridge across the river. She knew Flagler Street was only a block or so in this direction. There would be people and taxi stands—and safety.

  She slowed to a fast walk on the avenue. There was a single loitering female figure on the sidewalk ahead of her. She had a large red handbag swinging carelessly from a strap over her shoulder and was strolling along as though she hadn't a care in the world.

  And she probably hadn't, thought the distraught girl to

  herself as she came up on her rapidly. Miami must be full of people who hadn't a care in the world. Who could stroll unconcernedly along any street in the city without fear of pursuit. Without fear, period.

  She was abreast of the other girl who turned curiously to see who was passing in such desperate haste. She caught only a brief glimpse of her face as she was going by without slackening her pace, and had a brief feeling of recognition.

  She heard a surprised exclamation, and then the footsteps slightly behind her quickened and a moment later a hand seized her arm firmly.

  She turned to shake it off, and then she recognized the features of the girl who had been so nice to her in the taxi-cab about letting the driver pick her up and take her to Shayne's hotel.

  "Goodness!" the girl exclaimed. "It is you, isn't it? I was so utterly surprised to see you. Is everything all right?" she went on anxiously. "Did you find your detective all right? My, that was so exciting in the cab. Nothing ever happens to me," she added resentfully.

  Her first impulse was to rudely snatch her arm away from the other's grasp and run on toward Flagler. But she glanced swiftly over her shoulder at the empty street behind them, and forced herself to slow down instead. After all, wasn't this better? Two girls walking along sedately together. Practically running and alone as she had been, she was much more conspicuous. And the girl had been nice to her in the cab. She did owe her some explanation. It wouldn't be very polite to brush her off now.

  She caught her breath as best she could, and said, "I never expected to see you again, either. How on earth do you happen to be here?"

  "I stopped to see a friend on Brickell the other side of the bridge, and when I started back there weren't any taxis. So I thought I might as well walk the few blocks."

  She linked their arms together tightly as they neared the intersection, and steered the other girl across the street, saying happily, "Let's sit on a park bench for a minute and you've got to tell me all about it. You need to catch your breath anyway, and I'm just torn to pieces with curiosity. Is Michael Shayne half as attractive as they say he is—with that red hair and all?"

  "Attractive?" the other asked dazedly, letting herself be led into a palm-lined path in the park, and then dropping wearily onto a bench. "Yes, I guess so. He's nice."

  "Why on earth were you in such a hurry to get away from him then?" purred the other.

  "I—I—oh, it's all so mixed up. I don't know what to do. That man followed me there somehow, you see. And I was out in the kitchen while they talked. And I got frightened and—ran away."

  "You poor thing. You mean the same man who was chasing you when you jumped in the cab with me?"

  "Yes. With the scarred face. Oh, it's all so impossible I just can't make anybody understand. Even Mr. Shayne. I don't think he believed me at all."

  "That's a shame. What are you going to do now?"

  "He gave me an address. I've got it here in my bag. A note to his secretary where I can stay and be perfectly safe." She started up, fright seizing her anew. "I should go on. If he finds me here—"

  The other's hand was tight on her arm, pulling her down to the bench "It's dark here. No one can see us on this bench. If he does come out looking for you, you'll be safer sitting here until he goes by than out on the street trying to find a cab. And I'm just dying to have you tell me what it's all about."

  "Well, I—I guess maybe you're right." She allowed herself to be persuaded and sank back onto the bench, thinking it would be good to talk to someone else and see how her story sounded. Maybe that way it would come

  clearer and—

  "I'm Mary Barnes," she began. "I'm staying at the Roney Plaza, and—"

  It was dark on the palm-shrouded bench in the park with only a slim sliver of a moon overhead. Dark and silent except for the low murmur of the girls' voices as they sat close together.

  And after a time that murmur ceased and there was complete silence for a moment, then the sound of a brief struggle and a low, gasping, "A-h-h-h."

  And then more silence.

  And then a single set of footsteps, coming out of the darkness and the silence to the streetlights, to wave down a cruising taxi.

  And a girl getting in the rear seat and settling herself composedly in the corner and opening a black suede purse to take out a sheet of paper and read the address in Michael Shayne's handwriting aloud to the driver.

  i

  NINE: 10:34 PM.

  The parking place in front of the Hibiscus Hotel was still empty, and Paulson parked his car there in practically the same place it had been before. He sat behind the wheel for some time before getting out, lighting a cigarette and drawing on it strongly, his features showing brooding worriment each time he sucked in.

  He threw the cigarette butt away finally, and got out, indicating a certain reluctance and distaste for what he felt he must do.

  He hesitated beside the car for a moment, reaching inside his coat to settle the Army automatic snugly and inconspicuously against his left groin and checking to see that his coat was buttoned over it. Then he squared his shoulders and went toward the lighted entrance to the hotel.

  The clerk was behind the desk, leaning on his elbows with his sharp chin cupped in his hands. Beyond him, Paulson saw Evelyn's profile in front
of her switchboard, a discontented frown on her rather pretty face as she contemplated the sickening waste of these two hours during which she might just as well have been with Roger.

  At the elevator beyond the desk, the operator lounged outside the open door of his car in conversation with the only bellboy in sight.

  It all looked completely dull and normal, not at all as though there had been any murders or alarms of murder recently, and Paulson was encouraged to cross to the desk casually and lean one elbow on it in a negligent sort of way when Dick snapped to attention behind it.

  "Do you have a Miss Paulson registered here?" Paulson forestalled Dick's automatic motion of reaching for the registry pad and a pen.

  Dick said, "Yes, sir, we do," looking at the tall man and his scarred face with intense interest.

  "Is she in now?"

  "No, sir. I'm afraid she isn't."

  "Any reason why you should be so sure without trying her room?"

  Dick permitted himself a faint smile. There were several very good reasons why he was certain that the occupant of 316 was not in her room, but he had no intention of revealing them to this stranger. With a trace of hauteur, he said. "I'm quite sure she's out. However, there's a house phone if you wish to call her room."

  Paulson shook his head. "Any idea when she'll be in?"

  "None."

  Paulson ostentatiously grimaced at this. "I'm her brother," he explained carefully. "Just drove in from Jacksonville to see Nellie on a rather important matter. She had promised to be here when I arrived."

  "I see. I'm very sorry, but—" Dick smiled thinly. Her brother? He wondered.

  Paulson shrugged. "Doubtless she'll be in soon. I'm tired after a long drive. I suppose it'll be all right if I go up to her room to wait for her?"

  Dick hesitated. Normally, he would not have refused such a request—whether the man in question pretended to be her brother or not. After all, the Hibiscus was no different from any other respectable, middle-class hotel. They didn't attempt to ride herd on the morals of their guests. Nellie Paulson had had other men visitors in her room during her two-week stay.