Fit to Kill

by Brett Halliday

  “Now what has been—” Gentry began.

  Malloy interrupted. “One more thing, Shayne. What about the diamonds?”

  Rourke was leaning against a bookcase, smiling smugly, and suddenly it leaped out at Shayne. The bookcase was filled with leather-bound volumes. Just to Rourke’s left, in plain sight on top of one of the rows, was a flat paper-wrapped parcel about nine by twelve inches in size.

  He remembered Carla’s description of the package she had entrusted to Rourke, and he remembered that Malloy had told him previously about leaving the reporter alone in this very room for a short period just before Shayne had met him carrying the portable typewriter. So now he knew why the package hadn’t been inside the typewriter case when the cabbie returned it—and why Rourke was looking so smug as he said: “Maybe I can find those diamonds for you, Jack, if I put my mind to it. It seems to me there’s a ten percent informer’s fee for information leading to the recovery of smuggled goods?”

  “That’s true,” Malloy said cautiously.

  Rourke, still smiling, began to swing around toward the package.

  Shayne said quickly, “If I had anything to say about it—”

  “Which you don’t,” Rourke said. “Which you don’t.”

  Shayne continued, not to be put off, “I’d think twice before I turned them over to Malloy. This isn’t ordinary contraband. It’s stolen property. It would be confiscated and returned to its proper owners.”

  Rourke looked at him, his head lowered. “So no dough for the finder, is that it?”

  “That’s right, Tim. But there might be a little something if the return was handled through private channels.”

  The reporter shook his head ruefully. “And I thought this was one time—How much would it bring, have you any idea?”

  “It’s all been taken care of, Tim,” Shayne said lightly. “In the neighborhood of forty-five thousand.”

  “That’s not a hell of a lot,” Rourke scowled.

  Shayne was at the phone, dialing Lucy’s number. “Of course there’d be a slight handling charge for me. Say fifty percent?”

  “Fifty percent!” Rourke exploded. “Talk about bandits, Mike—”

  “Just a minute, angel,” Shayne said into the phone, and covered the mouthpiece. “What was that, Tim?”

  Rourke repeated the inarticulate sound he had just uttered, made up of equal parts of disgust and unwilling admiration.

  “I said it’s a deal, I guess.” He turned away from the package to avoid drawing Malloy’s attention to it until the opportunity came to pick it up unnoticed. “Ask her if I’m still invited to supper.”

  Shayne looked at his watch. “It isn’t supper now. It’s breakfast.”

  The reporter gave him a knowing glance. “What kind of breakfast does she serve?”

  “How would I know?” Shayne said, and he asked Lucy, “Could you feed two hungry men?”

  Her voice came back to him with a rush. “You know I can, Michael. I can give you plenty of eggs and toast and bacon, and I have enough coffee, even for you, because I just bought a new can; but don’t forget the cream and cognac.”

  “No biscuits?” Shayne said, grinning.

  “No biscuits. I burned up two batches, and I’m all out of mix.”

  Gentry said plaintively, “Will somebody please tell me what the hell has been—”

  Shayne was still grinning into the phone. “Make that three hungry men, angel. And to hell with the mix. Haven’t you got some flour and baking powder?”

  Turn the page to continue reading from the Mike Shayne Mysteries

  1

  With his tie off and collar loosened, Michael Shayne had just settled himself with what he expected to be the final drink of the evening when his telephone rang.

  He hesitated before answering it, tightening big-knuckled fingers about the glass of cognac and lifting it deliberately to take a long swallow, rumpling his coarse red hair irritably before lifting the instrument with his left hand and growling a hello into it.

  Lucy Hamilton’s voice came over the wire, eager and lilting as always, yet sounding a trifle strained as she asked, “Michael? Are you still up?”

  “Just. As soon as I finish this drink …”

  His secretary didn’t let him finish the sentence. “Finish it fast, Michael, and come over here. I’m across the street from my place. The Boswick Arms on the corner.”

  Shayne took another long swallow of cognac and set the glass down, reaching for a tumbler of ice water beside it. “What’s up, angel?”

  “It’s Mrs. Groat in number four-fourteen at the Boswick Arms. I know her slightly, Michael, and she’s terribly worried about her husband being missing. I think you should come and talk to her.”

  Shayne said, “Groat?” with a frown. “Do I know him? The name sounds familiar.”

  “You must have read about him in the paper, Michael. Please come over at once.”

  There was no denying the urgency in Lucy’s voice. Shayne sighed and said, “Fifteen minutes.” He replaced the telephone and scowled at it, absently tugging on his left ear lobe while he tried to recall what he might have read about a Mr. Groat in the newspaper. The name seemed tantalizingly familiar, but that was all. He shrugged and tossed off the rest of the cognac, chased it with ice water and got up, buttoning his collar and going into the bedroom to pick up the discarded tie he had tossed on the back of a chair a few minutes previously.

  It took him five minutes to get his car out of the apartment hotel’s garage, and another five to drive east to Biscayne Boulevard and north to the side street where Lucy’s apartment was located between the boulevard and the western shore of Biscayne Bay.

  The side street was empty in front of the Boswick Arms, a modern eight-story apartment building that had been completed just two years before, and he parked in front of the canopied entrance and went in.

  There was a small, well-lighted foyer with a desk and a switchboard behind it, a gray-haired woman facing the switchboard who did not turn around as Shayne strode past her to a pair of self-service elevators. One of the cages was waiting, and Shayne got in and pressed the button for 4. It rose smoothly and he stepped out into a well-carpeted and well-lit hallway leading in both directions with arrows painted on the wall in front of him indicating the direction for different numbers. A quiet, discreet and well-managed building, he thought to himself as he walked down the hall looking for 414. The impression was strengthened when his brown-haired secretary opened the door to his knock. There was a large, square, tastefully decorated sitting room with serviceable gray carpeting from wall to wall, an overstuffed sofa with comfortable matching chairs; an impersonal sort of room, yet with an air of quiet dignity that was friendly and welcoming.

  Lucy wore the same tan blouse and dark skirt that she had worn to the office that day, but her brown curls were tousled and her face was washed clean of make-up. She put an impulsive hand out to Shayne’s forearm and said warmly, “Thanks for coming right over, Michael,” and turned toward a dumpy, middle-aged woman standing behind her. “Mrs. Groat, Michael Shayne. She knows I work for you, Michael, and when she began to be worried about her husband half an hour ago, she telephoned me to ask what I thought she should do.”

  Wisps of graying hair escaped from what Shayne felt sure was a normally sleek coiffure, and Mrs. Groat’s blue eyes were red-rimmed and frightened behind rimless glasses. She wore a black silk dress that managed to look slightly girlish on her, and she twisted plump beringed fingers together nervously as she said, “I begged Miss Hamilton not to bother you, Mr. Shayne. A busy man like I know you are. But she insisted.…”

  “Of course, I insisted,” Lucy said warmly. The three of them moved into the room together and a young man got up from a deep chair at the other side. He was square-shouldered and square-faced with one of the deepest tans Shayne had ever seen on a man, and white teeth showing behind sulky lips. His eyes were gray and unsmiling with heavy black brows a straight line above them, and the redh
ead had an immediate and distinct impression that he was both ill at ease and not pleased by Shayne’s arrival. His cheap gray suit was obviously new and too tight across the shoulders, the sleeves showing bony wrists with big, blunt-fingered hands dangling from them. There was a look of newness also about the light tan shoes and the heavily starched collar of a soft white shirt, and his coarse black hair was freshly barbered in a short crew-cut that left a narrow line of white skin around the back of his tanned neck where it had been shaved that day.

  Mrs. Groat said, “This is Mr. Cunningham,” and with the name things clicked into place in Shayne’s memory. He crossed the rug, holding out his hand to the younger man, saying heartily, “I remember it all now. You and Jasper Groat were the only crew members rescued from the plane that was lost at sea a couple of weeks ago.”

  Cunningham dropped his eyes and muttered, “That’s right. I was the steward and Mr. Groat was the copilot.” He clasped Shayne’s hand briefly and dropped it.

  Shayne said, “It must have been tough. Weren’t you on a life raft all that time?”

  “Nine days before we were picked up.” Cunningham retreated moodily and sank back into his chair, and Shayne turned to the sofa and sat down with Lucy, getting a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and asking, “You say your husband is missing, Mrs. Groat? Since when and what are the circumstances?”

  “Missing makes it sound so formal, Mr. Shayne.” She sat down carefully in a straight chair and took off her glasses, looking bewildered and nervous. “It’s just that … this one night, you see. After all this time when I’d just about given up Mr. Groat for lost.… this first night after the Lord gave him back to me.…”

  “You have a right to be worried about him,” Lucy said warmly. “He went out at eight o’clock, Michael, without telling Mrs. Groat where he was going. Just that he’d be back in about an hour. And he had a definite date with Mr. Cunningham, too, for dinner, and he didn’t show up for that. So she telephoned me about it and I told her she should call the police, but she hated to do that.”

  “It’s just that … Jasper has been acting queer all day,” Mrs. Groat said nervously. “He sat around without talking much, worried and moody, you might say. He expected those Hawleys to telephone him after that story in the paper and all, and he wouldn’t move away from the phone. But he wouldn’t call them when I told him to. Made him angry and he said you couldn’t understand people like that.”

  “The Hawleys?” Shayne turned to lift ragged red brows at Lucy sitting beside him.

  “You’d know if you’d read the News carefully. The plane that crashed was bringing a load of soldiers back from Europe and Albert Hawley was the only one who got out on a life raft alive with Mr. Groat and Mr. Cunningham. He … died before they were rescued.”

  “We did our best for him,” Cunningham said sullenly. “Jasper nursed him like a father. Gave him way over his share of water and emergency rations. They can’t blame us for him dying like that.” He lifted his head and stared at them defiantly as though answering a spoken accusation.

  “I’m mortal sure Jasper did everything he could for the poor boy,” Mrs. Groat said heatedly. “You would think they’d have had the decency to call up and thank him and ask about their boy. He brooded about it when they didn’t.”

  “The Hawleys live in Miami?” Shayne asked Lucy.

  She nodded. “They’re an old pioneer family. Rich as all get-out, I guess. Refused to even see a reporter this morning after Mr. Groat and Mr. Cunningham were landed and the whole story came out about the Hawley boy dying at sea.”

  “And you have no idea where your husband went this evening, Mrs. Groat?”

  “Not an inkling. He acted queer, like I say, and I didn’t ask him when he went out. Bitter and withdrawn, he acted. I know he made a long-distance phone call late this afternoon, but I don’t know who to. I came in from the kitchen just as he was telling the operator to charge the call. Then later he seemed to make up his mind to something and went out, saying he’d be back in an hour.” She tightened her lips and looked at a clock on the mantel. “That was almost three hours ago.”

  Shayne leaned forward to grind out the butt of his cigarette in a china ash tray. “Did he drive his car?”

  “We don’t have a car. With Jasper just home between trips we don’t have much need for one.”

  Shayne shrugged and said, “I’ll check with the police.” He got up and looked around for a telephone.

  Mrs. Groat rose swiftly, her plump face contorted with fear. “The police? Do you think …?”

  Shayne said carefully, “I don’t think anything, Mrs. Groat. They’ll have a record of any accidents.”

  He saw the telephone on a stand near the door and went to it. As he lifted it and dialed a number, Cunningham said abruptly, “I know something bad’s happened to him. I told Mrs. Groat so when Jasper didn’t show up for dinner. We’d planned it, you see. Night and day, on the raft, we planned what we’d eat the first night we got ashore. You tell the police that.”

  Shayne nodded absently, and spoke into the mouthpiece. He asked for Sergeant Piper and gave Groat’s name and address. He listened gravely for a moment, then said, “Thanks, Sergeant. Do that.” He hung up and said, “There’s nothing reported yet. I assume he did have identification on him, Mrs. Groat?”

  “Oh, yes. All kinds of cards in his wallet.”

  “I guess. I’ll be going.” Cunningham got up diffidently. “If you do hear from Jasper, Mrs. Groat, you tell him I couldn’t wait any longer to eat. And I’ll call tomorrow.” He walked across the rug toward the door, pausing to pick up a new brown fedora which he turned around and around in his hands absently. “I can’t help thinking maybe it’s got something to do with Jasper’s diary he kept all the time we were on the raft. One of those reporters got him all hepped up this morning about maybe printing the diary in a paper and paying him a lot of money. You think that might be it, Mrs. Groat?”

  “I think he would’ve told me, if it was. He talked to me about the diary and how much the reporter might pay him for it … but he was kind of funny about that, too. Like as though maybe it wouldn’t be right to take money for something like that. Though I told him, for goodness’ sake, why not?”

  “You think it’s worth much, Mrs. Groat?”

  “How should I know? I didn’t read it. Seems to me he said he gave it to the reporter this morning. I read some of his other diaries years ago and I didn’t think they were so much.”

  Cunningham said vaguely, “Unh-huh. I’ll be saying goodnight. Mr. Shayne and … Miss Hamilton.” He opened the door and slid out unobtrusively.

  “What’s this about a reporter and his diary, Mrs. Groat?” Shayne asked the dumpy woman after the door closed behind the airlines steward.

  “Land sakes, I don’t know much. Jasper was some excited when he first came home. Said they might print it in the paper and pay him for it. I think he was expecting the reporter to call him this afternoon, but he didn’t. Then it seemed like he lost interest in the diary when he got to brooding more and more about those Hawleys not even wanting to know about their boy.”

  “What reporter was it, Mrs. Groat?”

  “I don’t know. Daily News, I think he said.”

  Shayne swung on Lucy. “Was the rescue story in the News by-lined?”

  “I don’t think so, Michael.” Lucy puckered her smooth brow. “Why don’t you ask Tim Rourke?”

  Shayne said, “I will.” He turned back to the telephone and dialed another number. After waiting for some time, he hung up, shaking his red head.

  “I don’t know much more we can do tonight, Mrs. Groat. If you haven’t heard from your husband by tomorrow morning, call me at my office and I’ll do everything I can to help you locate him. Coming home, Lucy?”

  “I … guess so.” The brown-haired girl hesitated. “Unless Mrs. Groat feels she wants me to stay.”

  “Land sakes, no.” Mrs. Groat replaced her glasses on her nose and said firmly, “I’ve
got the feeling now that all this is what you might call a tempest in a teapot. I shouldn’t have got upset, and Jasper won’t be any too happy if he knows the police have been called in and all. You run along and get a good sleep,” she urged Lucy, walking to the door with them, “and I do thank you, Mr. Shayne, for coming over and talking to me. Made me feel a mighty sight better somehow.”

  Shayne said reassuringly, “I think tomorrow morning will be time enough to really get worried, Mrs. Groat. Just be thankful tonight that you have him back safely.”

  He held Lucy’s arm firmly as they walked toward the elevators, and she glanced up into his rugged face and sighed. “Shouldn’t I have bothered you about it, Michael?”

  He pushed a button to bring the elevator up, and said, “Of course, you should, angel.” He opened the door when the cage stopped on the fourth floor, and followed her inside. “Something funny about Cunningham’s attitude,” he added.

  “He’s scared to death,” Lucy said flatly.

  “How well do you know Jasper Groat?”

  “Just to say hello to him. I’ve known Mrs. Groat casually for a couple of years … ever since they moved into this building. That’s why she called me tonight when she didn’t know what else to do.”

  The elevator stopped at the bottom and they got out. As they approached the desk, the gray-haired operator at the switchboard swung about to look at them inquiringly.

  Shayne stopped in front of the desk and put both palms down flat on top of it. He asked, “Do you keep a record of long-distance calls?”

  “Outgoing … yes.” Her tired eyes questioned him.

  He said briskly, “Police business,” opening his wallet and giving her a glimpse of his credentials as a private detective. “Mr. Groat in four-fourteen made a long-distance call this evening. Can you tell me who he called?”

  She said, “The police? Well, I … just a moment.” She swiveled away from him and consulted a clipboard. “It was person-to-person to Mrs. Leon Wallace in Littleboro.”