The blonde cried murder

by Brett Halliday

  It was there. He knew it was. Hidden away in his subconscious. He had no idea what it was nor how to go about searching among the half-truths and irrelevancies to dig it out.

  Yet it had to come. He had a feeling that time was running out. He glanced down at his watch, wondering absently why he felt that way. While the girl had been missing from Lucy's—before her body had been found in the park —it was natural that he had felt fiercely he must find her before something happened.

  But that was over now. The pressure was off. She was dead and no power on earth could make that part of it right again. He had let her slip away from his apartment-had stood supinely by while a man with a .45 walked out to look for her—had cleverly concealed her whereabouts from Will Gentry because he had felt capable of handling the thing himself.

  For those reasons, she was dead. Why did he feel time

  was running out now?

  His watch said 11:46.

  And then he knew suddenly. Fourteen minutes to midnight. He had promised Lucy, that was it. That he'd be back by midnight for the drink she had poured out for him.

  Salvadore came up beside him and laid the photograph down with a sigh. "No soap, Shamus. Not one of them will say positively yes or no."

  Shayne looked down at the picture wonderingly. As though he had never seen it before. Because now it didn't matter. Because now he knew what had been nagging at him.

  He slid ofiE the stool without even thanking Salvadore, went toward the door in long strides, his face bleak with anger at his own stupidity.

  He didn't hear the check girl call out to him as he stormed past her. He broke into a trot as he went out the door, ran to his parked car and jerked the door open. A moment later it was roaring away from the curb.

  TWENTY-THREE: 11:47 P.M.

  The Tropical Arms Hotel on North Miami Avenue was located between a liquor shop and a delicatessen. The liquor store was still open when Shayne pulled up in front of the hotel and leaped out.

  The Tropical Arms was an old hotel, very much gone to seed. There was a big, empty lobby with shabby, rococo decorations, yawning chairs and wilted potted palms.

  A drop-light over the desk was the only illumination, and there was no one behind the desk.

  A hand-printed card propped against a mechanical push-bell instructed Shayne to "Ring for service."

  He hit the button sharply with his palm and a loud, metallic "ping" echoed through the empty lobby. Nothing happened, and he kept on pinging until a door opened in a side wall behind the desk and a fat man in his shirt-sleeves emerged. He had pouting lips and he smelled strongly of gin as he waddled up to the desk and grunted, "I heard you the first time. Mister. No need to wake up all the guests."

  Shayne skipped the obvious retort. He demanded, "Do you have a Miss Paulson?"

  "Miss Paulson?" The fat man belched as he shook his head. "No siree, we sure don't."

  "Mr. Paulson? Bertr

  "Well, yes, now. Mr. Paulson is with us for a fact."

  "Since when?"

  "Just this evening checked in. Not more'n an hour ago."

  "What's his room number?"

  "Well, I'll tell you, Mister. You wanta talk to Mr. Paulson, I reckon—"

  "What number?" Shayne's voice rasped like a file on tempered steel.

  "Two-ten. But I'm trying to tell you—"

  Shayne turned away fast and went past the closed door of an elevator to stairs on one side. He climbed two flights and found 210. He knocked loudly and tried the door. It was locked and his knocking brought no response.

  He cursed at the delay, studied the lock as he got a ring of keys from his pocket. The lock yielded to the first key he chose. Shayne flung the door open on a lighted bedroom. He stood glaring at the huddled figure of a man on the floor beside the bed. An Army automatic lay on the floor beside him. But there was no smell of gun-powder in the tightly closed room.

  Shayne pulled the door shut and walked over to look down at the man with the scarred face. His cheeks were very red and his mouth was open and he breathed ster-torously. Just beyond his right hand lay a corked pint bottle of whisky about a quarter full.

  Shayne leaned over and shook him roughly, calling, "Paulsonl Wake up, Paulson," in his ear. He got no response.

  He stepped back with narrowed eyes and kicked the drunken man hard in the buttocks. There was still no response.

  Sighing, Shayne went into the bathroom and turned on the light. There was a rust-stained tub with a shower apparatus on the wall at one end.

  He went back and got a grip under Paulson's armpits, dragged him into the bathroom and tumbled him inside the tub. He lay there, an inert mass, still breathing loudly and steadily.

  Shayne drew the tattered shower curtain to protect himself from the spray, reached a long arm past it and turned

  on the cold water.

  The spray hit full on Paulson's legs, and Shayne reached up to the adjustable head and moved it so it hit him in the face.

  Paulson moaned and feebly lifted one arm to ward off the cold water. Shayne turned it on full force and moved the head slowly, sending the stinging spray up and down the length of Paulson's body.

  He twitched and jerked and moaned, then sat up suddenly with his eyes wide, grunting, "I'm drowning. Turn it off, I tell you."

  Shayne moved the head so the spray took Paulson squarely in the face. He blinked and shuddered and put his hands up, then squirmed to a kneeling position and turned his back on the tormenting water.

  Shayne turned it off and reached in to gather up a handful of Paulson's water-soaked coat between the shoulder-blades. He pulled the sodden man upright and slapped him viciously, first on one cheek and then the other.

  Paulson cried out in surprise and hurt, then cursed thickly and twisted away.

  Shayne let him go and stepped back grimly. Paulson slid to a crouching position, opening and shutting his mouth without uttering a sound, his eyes gleaming madly.

  Shayne leaned forward and slapped him again. He asked coldly, "Can you hear me, Paulson? Understand what I'm saying?"

  "I'm c-cold. I'm f-freezing."

  Shayne said, "To hell with that. Let's see if you can stand up." He got a grip on his arm and heaved. Paulson helped himself a little and made it to his feet. Shayne dragged him over the edge of the tub, gave him a hard shove through the doorway. He staggered and went fiat on his face on the bedroom floor.

  Shayne followed and rolled him over on his back, jerked him up to a sitting posture. The madness was going out of

  Paulson's eyes, being replaced by fear.

  Shayne got the whisky bottle and uncorked it. He held it up to Paulson's open mouth and ordered, "Swallow."

  Paulson swallowed two gulps. He coughed and retched and then looked up miserably.

  'Tou're Shayne?" His voice was thick but he sounded rational. "Where's Nellie?"

  "We'll know after you answer some questions." Shayne moved aside to pick up the .45 automatic. He stood over Paulson with the heavy weapon negligently in his hand. "Hesitate just once," he said pleasantly, "and I'll break this over your head. Now then. When you reached Jacksonville from Detroit, you found your sister gone. Is that right?"

  Paulson nodded dumbly.

  "And you nosed around and discovered she had run out on a badger game rap that she'd been pulling with some guy who she pretended was her brother. Right?"

  Again, Paulson nodded. He looked down and his fingers scrabbled for the whisky bottle where Shayne had dropped it on the floor. He got it to his mouth with difficulty and drained it. Then he threw it away and put his hands in front of his face and said brokenly, "My fault. All my fault. If I hadn't gone off and left her alone—"

  "Shut up and listen to me," said Shayne inexorably. "WTiile you were away, she'd been living with some man and passing him off as her brother. Who was he?"

  "Don' know." Paulson's head weaved from side to side. "I don' know. Hired detective to find her. Then I came here-"

  "And had a car accident
and broke your glasses as you neared Miami," Shayne filled in for him. "You had your sister's room number, and when you reached the Hibiscus you went straight up. And you saw this blonde come running out of her room and you thought it was Nellie afraid to face you because of what she'd done, although you actu-

  ally couldn't recognize her in that dim light without your glasses."

  "Was Nellie," Paulson insisted stubbornly. "I told you—"

  "I know what you told me," Shayne cut him off fiercely. "If you'd come clean in the beginning and told me it wasn't her brother who'd been living with her in Jacksonville, a hell of a lot of things would be different right now. Including one dead girl who might well still be alive."

  "Nellie?" Paulson cringed away from Shayne's hardhitting words. "You mean she's dead? My little sister?"

  "Frankly," said Shayne, "I don't know who's dead at this point. But we're going to find out. Get on your feet and let's go to headquarters."

  "Can't stand up," groaned Paulson, sinking back on his elbows. "Gotta—be sick."

  "Then get the hell in the bathroom and be sick." Shayne stood back and swung a number twelve shoe. The toe of it crunched into Paulson's ribs.

  He grunted with pain and rolled over and was sick on the floor.

  Shayne stood back, gimlet-eyed and restless, until the retching subsided somewhat. Then he reached down and hauled Paulson up impatiently, half-marched him and half-supported him to the door. Little puddles of water and a pile of foul vomit lay on the floor behind them as they went out.

  TWENTY-FOUR: 11:53 PM.

  Chief of Police Will Gentry was deep in conversation with a tall blond man when Shayne unceremoniously shoved the hulking bedraggled figure of Bert Paulson into his office at headquarters.

  Gentry looked up disapprovingly, and then his eyes widened as he saw the scar on Paulson's cheek. He said, "So you found him, Mike? What the hell have my men been doing?"

  Shayne said wearily, "I had the jump on them. It finally came to me that he mentioned he and his sister had always stayed at the Tropical Arms when they were in Miami." He jerked his thumb savagely toward Paulson who had subsided into a chair and sat there with a vacant expression on his face. "Meet Bert Paulson in the flesh. Will."

  "You're wrong, Mike." Gentry shook his head and turned to the man seated beside him. "Meet Lieutenant Neils from Jacksonville. Mike Shayne. He brought down a picture of the girl and her brother." He gestured toward a blown-up eight-by-ten photograph lying on his desk. "Looks a lot more like the bird we pulled out of the bay than this guy."

  Shayne leaned over his shoulder and studied the picture of a smiling girl and a young man in bathing suits with their arms intertwined about each other. The man whom he had dragged out of the Tropical Arms definitely did not resemble the one in the picture. He couldn't be so sure about the girl. The sun was in her face and she was squint-

  ing as she smiled and her image was blurred a trifle.

  Shayne said flatly, "I realize that's the guy you're after. Lieutenant, but you're mistaken thinking his name is Paulson. Bert will tell you the whole story," he went on impatiently to Gentry. "Right now, I want to know just one little thing. That girl in the park. What sort of purse did she have, Will?"

  "Purse?"

  "Handbag. You know."

  "Hell, it was just a bag, I guess. The kind of bag any girl carries around with her."

  "What color?" Shayne demanded savagely. "Red or black?"

  Gentry pursed his lips thoughtfully. "I don't know. Come to think of it, I'm not sure I even saw her bag. They had all the stuff out of it looking for identification—"

  As he paused uncertainly, Shayne reached past him and snatched up his telephone. He gave Lucy Hamilton's number, and this time she answered before it rang twice.

  "Lucyl Think a minute before you answer this. What sort of handbag was the girl carrying when she came to your place?"

  "Why—I don't know for sure, Michael. I—"

  "I told you to stop and think it over," he exploded. "Was it red or black? Damn it, you ought to remember a simple thing like that. Start thinking about it while I'm on my way over."

  "Don't you dare come here at this time of night, Michael. I won't let you in if you do. I'm going to get some sleep. As far as the bag goes, it was black suede. Good night."

  Her voice rang in his ears for seconds after he heard the decisive slam of her receiver breaking the connection.

  He replaced the phone slowly, shaking his head and glancing at his watch. It was still five minutes to midnight. What the hell had got into Lucy?

  He straightened his shoulders and told Gentry absently.

  nodding toward Paulson, "He's all yours. Will. He'll explain all about the guy Lieutenant Neils has got staked out as Paulson." There was a curious look of concentration on his face as he turned to go out.

  "Hold it, Mike. Where you going now?"

  "I've got a date with Lucy," Shayne said over his shoulder without slacking pace. "Promised her I'd be back by midnight to have a night-cap with her."

  He was out the door without bothering to close it, and he lengthened his stride almost to a run down the corridor and out the side door.

  It was something like sixteen blocks from police headquarters to Lucy's apartment, and Shayne covered the distance in something like sixty seconds.

  He cut his motor ofiE while swinging into the block that held her apartment building, cut off his lights and slid silently to a stop directly across the street.

  The curtains were drawn at her front windows, but edges of light showed around them.

  Shayne got out and closed the car door quietly, crossed the street to the foyer and went in.

  He had a key on his ring that opened both the downstairs inner door and also her apartment. Lucy had given it to him more than two years before all tied up with a pink ribbon, making a laughing ceremony out of it and jesting about the depravity of a girl who gives her employer a private key to her apartment.

  Shayne had been touched by the gift, and he had been very careful never to use it. He had a special signal he always rang on her bell from the foyer so she would know who was calling.

  Tonight, he didn't ring her bell. He got out his keys and picked out the shiny new one that had never been used, and carefully inserted it in the lock.

  It turned easily and he went in.

  He climbed the one flight of stairs slowly and cautiously.

  testing each tread for squeaks before putting his weight on it.

  At the top, he stopped in front of Lucy's door and drew in a deep breath. Sweat beaded his corrugated forehead and crept down the trenches in his cheeks.

  He still held the shiny new key in his hand. He stooped in front of the door and put his left hand on the lock, with thumb and forefinger pressed loosely together in front of the opening to make a sheath of flesh through which he inserted the key without the slightest scraping sound.

  When it was firmly bedded, he transferred his hand to the door-knob and pulled on it firmly while he turned the key. Thus, there was no sudden click to betray him when the catch was released.

  He turned the knob, keeping pressure on it, and then went into the apartment in a violent lunge.

  He caught one fleeting glimpse of Lucy seated in a chair beside the telephone as he went by, but his attention was centered on the other occupant of the room.

  Female and blonde and deadly, she sprang from the sofa to meet his rush, and there was the reddish gleam of dried blood on the short-bladed knife in her hand.

  Shayne went under the vicious arc of the knife and hit her brutally in the bosom with his shoulder and the full weight of his charging body.

  The impact slammed her back against the wall with a crash and she sank to the floor in an unconscious heap.

  TWENTY-FIVE: Midnight

  Shayne wasted one brief look at her face to assure himself that it was the girl with the red patent-leather bag who had thrust Charles Barnes's picture in his pocket in the lobby of his ho
tel earlier, and that she wouldn't be using her knife again for some time to come.

  Then he turned to Lucy with a reassuring grin.

  Her ankles and her right arm were bound tightly to the legs and arm of her chair with wide strips of cloth that had been torn from a sheet. Her other hand had been left free so she could lift the telephone receiver behind her. Her face was white with strain and her eyes had a glassy look, but she managed to twist her lips in a feeble smile and to ejaculate with spirit:

  "It's about time you were coming to the party."

  "Sorry I cut it so fine, angel." Shayne picked up the blood-stained knife from the floor and went to her to kneel and slash her bonds. "You all right?"

  "Sure. Just perfect. Aside from my heart being permanently lodged where my adam's apple used to be and a few minor things like that. She's insane, Mikel She's already killed two people with that knife tonight. She boasted about it to me. And she was going to cut my throat, too, just as soon as she got the call she was waiting for. She told me just how she was going to do it—and she giggled while she told me."

  Shayne rocked back on his heels and looked up at her sharply. "What call was she waiting for?"

  "Some man she called Lanny. He's in cahoots with her

  and pretends to be her brother. She left word two places for him to call here the moment he came in. That's all she was waiting for. So she could arrange to meet him. And she let me keep on living so I could answer the phone if you or Will or anybody called in the meantime and tell you not to come here."

  Shayne cut the last strip of cloth binding Lucy's wrist, and she stood up, wincing with pain as she rubbed circulation back into her arm.

  He lifted the phone and dialed the number that was a direct line to Will Gentry's office, and when the chief's grufiE voice answered, he said wearily:

  "Come around to Lucy's place to pick up your killer. Nellie Paulson. But do this first. Put a fast tap on Lucy's phone and stake this place out. Nellie's accomplice is supposed to call here any moment. When he does, Lucy will try to stall him long enough for you to trace it—or get him to come here, if she can. You got that?"

  "Nellie Paulson?" said Will Gentry. "I thought-"