The blonde cried murder ms-28

by Brett Halliday

  They were below 79th Street now, rapidly approaching the side street that led to her apartment.

  He turned his head briefly to study her profile in the street lights, and she met his gaze intently. For a moment there was a queer sense of strain between them. He broke it by turning his attention back to driving and saying lightly:

  "Maybe time has caught up with us, angel. I feel this is a matter for serious discussion over a drink. Any cognac at your place?"

  "You know there is. Whatever was left in the bottle the last time you were there."

  "I never feel sure. Can't get it out of my thick head that one of these days you'll start feeding some other guy the stuff."

  "Maybe I will. One of these days."

  He slowed, approaching her comer, slanting over into the left-hand lane, gauging approaching trafi amp;c to cut through it without coming to a full stop.

  Neither of them said anything more until he drew up to the curb in front of her apartment building and got out. He went around to open the door for her, took her elbow to help her out, then put his other hand under her other elbow and held her a moment looking down into her lightly flushed face. She made no move to push closer or to draw back. She stood quiescent, waiting.

  His fingers tightened on the soft flesh of her arms and his voice was unaccountably husky as he said, "Lucy?" i

  She said, 'Tes, Michael?"

  He bent to brush his lips across her forehead just below the tendrils of brown hair, then turned to tuck her arm into his and led her toward the entrance.

  There was a small foyer, and Lucy unlocked the inner door with a key from her purse. He held the door for her to precede him inside and up the single flight of stairs. Following her closely, Michael Shayne's red head remained level with her slender waist.

  There is something peculiarly intimate, he thought fleetingly, about a man following a woman up a flight of stairs. Something almost decisive about it. As though, somehow, a die had been irrevocably cast It was a crazy thought and he tried to brush it aside. He had often followed Lucy up these same stairs for a night-cap after spending a pleasant evening together. But unaccountably it was different tonight, and he felt a surge of gladness within him that it was different.

  She turned aside at the first landing to unlock her apartment door. He waited silently until she turned on the light, and then followed her inside. She wore a semi-evening gown of very dark blue silk that had a sort of glitter to it. It was perfectly simple, cut low in front and back and with narrow straps over the shoulders that left a good portion of creamy flesh bare.

  He watched her speculatively as she crossed the long pleasant room toward the kitchenette, saying over her shoulder with a faint smile, "Make yourself comfortable while I get out the makings."

  It was easy to make oneself comfortable here, he conceded as he dropped into a deep chair beside the sofa and lit a cigarette. The room was uncluttered, but nicely and intelligently furnished.

  He stretched his long legs in front of him, leaned his head back and closed his eyes and let smoke come out through both nostrils.

  AU right. Why didn't he marry Lucy? Tonight, he decided grimly, he was going to face the question squarely. He was going to ask her to face it squarely with him. Something neither of them had done before, though they had been on the verge of it many times.

  He straightened up in the chair as he heard the swish of her full skirt re-entering the room. She carried a tray with a squat bottle of cognac, a four-ounce wine glass, a tumbler with ice cubes in it for herself, another tumbler filled with ice and water for him to sip while he drank cognac from the wine glass.

  She set the tray down on a low table in front of the sofa, seated herself in the comer close to Shayne's chair, and filled the four-ounce glass with cognac. Then she poiu-ed an inch in the bottom of her tumbler, and held his glass out to him.

  Her telephone rang before he could take the glass.

  An extraordinary change came over Lucy's face. The shrill, insistent ring of the phone shattered her placidity as the glassy surface of a still pond is shattered by a stone tossed into the center.

  She continued to hold the glass out for him, and said hotly, "I shan't answer it. It'll be for you, of course. No one would be calling me at this hour."

  "All the more reason for you to answer it," said Shayne. "It might be important."

  "A blonde?" she asked tautly.

  He said easily, "Or a brunette." The telephone kept on ringing. With a gesture of impatience, he rose and crossed to it in two strides. He swept it up with his back to her and said, "Miss Hamilton's apartment," into the mouthpiece. Then he said, "That's right," and listened, his right hand going up to rub his jaw absently.

  Watching him, Lucy Hamilton compressed her lips tightly and set his untouched glass of cognac back on the tray. It was a limp gesture of surrender.

  With his back to her, he said incisively, "All right, Pete. I'll be there in five minutes."

  He replaced the phone and turned, shaking his head sadly though his gray eyes were alert and not at all unhappy.

  "Sorry as the devil, angel. But that was-"

  "A blonde," she supplied for him. "A blonde in distress, no less. Just dying to weep on Mike Shayne's broad shoulder."

  "Pete didn't say," he returned absently, looking around for his hat and then remembering he hadn't worn one. He suddenly became conscious of the bitterness in her face, and stepped contritely forward to touch her cheek with his fingertips. "This really sounds important. You know I've told the hotel never to bother calling me here unless it was."

  "I know," she said dully, looking down so her eyes would not meet his. "So why don't you get on your white charger and ride? What's keeping you?"

  "You know I'm sorry," Shayne said again. His jaw tightened when she still refused to look up. He turned to the door, saying calmly, "Keep that drink for me. I'll be back before midnight."

  FIVE: 10:00 PM

  The lobby of Shayne's hotel was deserted except for the night clerk behind the desk and one young woman nervously smoking a cigarette in an over-stuffed chair on one side facing the doorway as Shayne entered.

  He glanced at the woman briefly as he went to the desk. She appeared quite young and pretty, wore a dark skirt, a white blouse with a light gray jacket over it, and had a i red patent-leather handbag in her lap. Her eyes followed him as he strode to the desk where Pete leaned forward eagerly, his thin face screwed up in a grimace, pale eyebrows moving up and down with excitement.

  "I didn't know whether to call you at Miss Hamilton's or not, Mr. Shayne." He kept his voice furtively low, as though he feared being overheard. "But you did give me that number once, for me to try if I thought it was important, and this time I decided it was. She said it was, see? And acted scared to death. You know, looking back over her shoulder like she thought she was maybe being tailed- like the devil himself might be after her. And you told me once before it was all right to send somebody up to your room to wait for you to come back, and so I thought-"

  "If she were pretty enough," Shayne reminded him with a grin. "Is she?"

  "Yeh. Real pretty." Pete's answering grin was relieved by Shayne's evidence of good humor, and it took on a sly man-to-man quality. "Not, that is to say, for my money, anything like as hot a piece as this here other one sitting yonder." He jerked his thumb toward the girl with the red pocketbook. "But then she didn't come in till later, see, so I couldn't very easy send her up, too. Could I?" he asked anxiously.

  Shayne rested one elbow on the counter and pivoted to look at the girl across the lobby. Watching them closely, it must have been evident to her that she was under discussion, for she promptly got up and hurried toward them.

  She was extremely well filled-out for her age, which didn't appear to be more than twenty, and her hips twitched provocatively as she approached. Her eyes were very light blue and had a peculiar glassy quality, lashes and brows so thin and light as to seem almost non-existent. She had too much lipstick on a very fu
ll and pouting mouth which she spread in a hopeful smile as she came up fast, asking, "Are you Mr. Shayne?"

  Shayne nodded without speaking, studying her through narrowed eyes as she looked past him at Pete and demanded viciously, "Well, why didn't you say so? You promised me as soon as he came in-"

  "And I just came in," said Shayne quietly. "I'm afraid I haven't time for-"

  "You've got time for me." Her fingers caught his arm and tugged at it, pulling him away from the desk toward a corner where they would be out of ear-shot. "It's terribly important," she hurried on in a too-consciously throaty voice for one so young. "I've been waiting and waiting and just about going crazy wondering what I'd do if you didn't get back in time. But it's all right because I know he'll still be there if you go right away. He was there fifteen minutes ago. The Silver Glade. It's right down the street."

  She had her leather bag open as she spoke, and was digging into it. Her hand came out with a four-by-six photograph of a young man which she thrust into Shayne's hand.

  "That's him. Please hurry so you'll be waiting outside when he comes out. Then follow him wherever he goes."

  Shayne shook his red head bluntly. "Sorry, but I'm already working. And if it's a divorce job-"

  "What does it matter to you what sort of job it is? I can pay you. How much? Please. It probably won't be more than half an hour." She was digging in her bag again, and j came out with a roll of bills. She began to peel twenties off it, pausing on the fifth to look at Shayne hopefully, then detaching two more as he kept on shaking his head stubbornly.

  He held the photograph out for her to take back, but she pushed it away, saying fiercely, "You can't refuse. He'll be gone before I can get anyone else." Her voice became tremulous with supplication, and she pressed herself close | to him, looking up into his eyes beseechingly and pouting ' her too-red lips invitingly.

  "Pretty please." She tried to force the seven bills into his hand. "I'll be waiting for you to report. At my place, i Alone." She cooed the last four words throatily, giving them a thoroughly seductive connotation.

  He said, "No," shortly, wishing she were old enough to realize her too-blatant perfume wasn't at all as seductive as she probably imagined it to be. He pushed the man's photograph back into her hand and turned away impatiently, but she clung to him and tried to pull him back, sliding the photo into his jacket pocket and continuing to try and force the bills into his hand.

  He kept on toward the desk, thrusting her aside impatiently, and she finally gave up and stood still, staring at him with both hands on her ample hips, her pale blue eyes glittering with fury.

  Shayne didn't look back at her, and Pete was grinning widely. "Sure got 'em fighting over you tonight, Mr. Shayne. Now if that there one was to push up to me like that-"

  "Is the one up in my room anything like her?" Shayne interrupted impatiently.

  "Not a bit of it. Well, she's pretty all right, but you couldn't tell much about her, she was so scared." He lowered his voice and looked past Shayne. "This'n came in a few minutes ago, and she wanted to go up to your room to wait for you. But I wouldn't tell her the number no matter what kind of eye she gave me. Didn't tell her you already had one client waiting up there."

  "Fine," said Shayne impatiently. "Don't give her my number." He turned to the elevator where there was a car waiting, and lengthened his stride when he saw her start moving toward him again.

  Her running heels clacked loudly behind him as he strode in past the grinning operator and snapped, "Shut the door fast."

  The operator got it shut before she reached the car. Shayne mopped sweat from his forehead with his sleeve and answered the operator's grin with one of his own. He said, "Up, Jack. And no matter what methods of persuasion that doll tries to use, don't bring her up to my floot. You got that?"

  "You bet, Mr. Shayne. Might be fun at that-her trying to persuade a guy."

  Shayne grunted noncommittally and got off to go down the corridor to his suite.

  SIX: 10:06 P.M

  Shayne's first impression of the girl who cowered away from him at the other end of his sitting room was that she was quite young and pretty, a honey-blonde, and practically frightened to death by his abrupt entrance.

  Her face was dead white, her eyes as round as two marbles, her mouth slack and quivering as she shrank back against the wall staring at him.

  She straightened herself, still tremulous as he closed the door firmly behind him, and asked quaveringly, "Are you Mr. Shayne?"

  "Of course I'm Shayne," he said irritably. "You came here asking for me, didn't you? This is my room. Who did you think would be coming in?"

  "I didn't know. I've been so horribly frightened waiting. I thought he might have followed me here somehow."

  Shayne said, "He?" She still stood flat against the wall as though she were afraid she couldn't stand up without some support, and her whole body trembled as though gripped by an uncontrollable ague. He moved toward her slowly, with a feeling that any sudden movement on his part might frighten her into complete hysteria.

  "The man who-killed my brother," she gasped out. "That is, I guess he did. I know he must have. If-if my brother is really dead. But he is. He must be. I saw him, I tell you. You'll believe me, won't you, Mr. Shayne? You won't think I'm crazy when I tell you?"

  Shayne was close to her now. Close" enough to stretch out a long arm and take hold of one of her wrists and pull her gently away from the wall. He held her wrist very tightly as he guided her to a deep chair and pressed her down into it. He made his voice calm and soothing as he said, "Of course I'll listen to you. Just take it easy now. What you need is a drink first. Close your eyes and relax. Stop worrying about anyone getting to you in here."

  He let go her wrist and turned to the wall liquor cabinet near the kitchen. "Brandy or sherry?"

  "A little sherry, please." Her voice had lost its hysterical shrillness, was low and faltering. "You've just got to believe me."

  Shayne didn't reply. He got down a bottle of cocktail sherry and one of cognac, went into the small kitchen and reappeared a few minutes later with a tray holding wine glasses and a tumbler of ice water. He moved a small table close to the girl's chair, put the tray on it and poured her a glass of sherry.

  "Drink that first-all of it-before you say anything else." He filled his own glass with cognac and took a pleased sip of it, regretfully remembering the untouched glass he'd left in Lucy's apartment just to come over here and listen to some sort of loony story about a hysterical girl's brother who must be dead but maybe wasn't after all. He pulled another chair around so that it faced her, sat in it and waited patiently until she had completely emptied her sherry glass.

  "Now," he said. "Tell me about your brother. You say he's been murdered?"

  "Yes. I tell you I saw him. Lying there dead, right in front of my eyes. But he wasn't there when I came back. He was gone. Just vanished," She shuddered violently and flung out both hands. "But he couldn't be. Dead men can't just get up and walk away, can they?"

  "None of them I've met," Shayne agreed absently. "You'd better start at the beginning and give me all of it."

  "Yes. Of course." She nodded vehemently and brightly, as though she thought Shayne was just wonderful to have thought of that.

  "It began tonight, really. Well, 'way back before tonight, I guess you could say. With my brother being weak and foolish about girls, I mean. And I've always sort of looked after him. Ever since father died four years ago. He's two years older than I am, actually, but, well-he always needed looking after, sort of."

  She paused, biting her underlip fiercely, her light brown eyes looking past Shayne as though they gazed at something far-away or long-ago.

  "Let's get back to tonight," suggested Shayne.

  "Of course." She gave her head a little jerk and smiled timidly. "Well, we're at the Roney Plaza. For the past two weeks. And I've been seeing the signs. I knew he had some girl on the string and I'd have to be taking a hand soon, but- Well, tonight, about
nine o'clock he called me and he was terribly worried and frightened. He said I had to come over right away. To the Hibiscus Hotel here in Miami. To room three-sixteen. I made him repeat it and I wrote it down so there wouldn't be any mistake. So I got a taxi to the Hibiscus at once." She paused to swallow hard, and Shayne leaned forward to pour more sherry inj her glass. She appeared not to notice him.

  "So I went right up to the third floor," she continued in a strained voice, "and to room three-sixteen. Light came through the transom, but no one answered when I knocked on the door. I–I knocked three times and called out his name, and then I tried the knob. It wasn't locked. It opened right up. And the first thing I saw was my brother lying on the bed right across the room. He was in his shirt sleeves and his coat was rolled up under his head and there was b-blood. There was a big jagged hole in his throat. I–I knew he was dead. He had to be, Mr. Shayne. His eyes were open and glazed." She put her face down suddenly into her hands and began sobbing.

  Shayne let her cry it out. He lighted a cigarette and drank half his cognac and took a sip of ice water, and her shoulders began to stop shaking.

  He said quietly, "The sooner you get on with it, the sooner I may be able to do something."

  "I know. Of course." She lifted a tear-wet face and swallowed hard. "I didn't even go into the room. I didn't have to. I knew he was dead. I thought of using the phone in the room, but then thought of spoiling fingerprints on it- if they might be clues, you know, and I remembered that when I got off the elevator I'd noticed a door to a lighted room standing open. So I flew down there to ask them to report it, and the door was still open but no one was inside. So I grabbed up that phone and called down to the switchboard and told them. Then I went back. I couldn't have been gone more than two minutes. I know I couldn't. But the door to three-sixteen was shut when I got there- and I know I'd left it open. But the light was still on, and when I tried the knob it opened just as it had before. But he wasn't there any more. He just wasn't. And there was no sign of anything wrong. No coat. No blood. Nothing."