Shayne hesitated with his hand on the door-knob, carefully studying the situation. The worst thing that could possibly happen would be for Kane to come tearing back and find them in the house together. Lydia had mentioned his use of a gun in similar circumstances. Someone was bound to get badly hurt if he stayed until Kane had time to get back.
On the other hand, it would be madness to leave Lydia behind to face her enraged husband alone. But if he wasted time trying to take her with him by force, it might be too late.
He made a fast decision and jerked the front door open, slammed it shut behind him and trotted down the steps and around in front of his car to the driver’s seat. By pulling away fast and getting his car down to the narrow gateway, he could stop there to effectually block the driveway and prevent Kane from reaching the house. If he could disarm the man and talk to him.…
Shayne switched on his motor and lights, and at the same instant there was the unmistakable sound of a gunshot from inside the house. Shayne straightened in the seat and listened intently for a few seconds, but there was no other sound. With a curse deep in his throat, he slid across the seat, jerking open the glove compartment and grabbing a .38 that was there.
He lunged out and up the steps, shoved the door open and ran into the silent sitting room that now held the acrid smell of burned gunpowder.
Lydia Kane lay on the rug not more than ten feet from the front door. There was a bullet-hole high on her right temple and she was manifestly dead.
7
Michael Shayne stood very still a few feet in front of Lydia’s crumpled body, staring down at her grimly. His first instinctive thought was that she had shot herself rather than face her husband’s wrath. Only moments had elapsed between his hurried exit and the shot. So far as he knew, she had been alone in the house.…
But there was no weapon in sight. She lay partially on her side with both hands flung out in front of her. Of course, she might have fallen on the gun.…
He stepped closer and leaned down to study the small, round wound in her temple. There were no powder burns, and it was placed at an angle that made it impossible for her to have fired the shot.
As Shayne leaned over her he became conscious of a change in the temperature of the room since he had left it. There was a chill breeze blowing in from the back, and he whirled away from her in that direction with gun in hand, ran down the wide hallway past the stairway to the open door of the kitchen from which the breeze was coming.
The room was dark and he hesitated on the threshold, finding a wall switch that lighted the kitchen brilliantly. Directly in front of him, a back door stood wide open and the wind swept through it from the ocean.
Three strides carried Shayne across the room and he flipped another switch beside the rear door that turned on an outside spotlight focussed on a steep, narrow stairway leading down to the beach.
Shayne leaped through the open door and plunged down the stairway, recalling Lydia’s story of how her lover had once sneaked in this way when the tide was low and the strip of the beach below the house was dry.
Now the tide was full, and the floodlight behind him showed small waves breaking over the bottom step. That’s all the light did show, and Shayne stepped down into eight inches of water, turned to his right to follow the base of the cliff southward.
In two long strides he was out of range of the floodlight, but the moonlight was bright enough to show that the beach in front of him was deserted.
But Shayne trotted on with the waves sloshing up to his knees, convinced that this was the route by which Lydia’s killer had escaped. And he was only moments behind him. He had no idea how far it would be before there was another stairway leading up to the top of the cliff.
He increased his strides to top speed, staying as close to the cliff as possible where the water was shallowest, striving to pierce the moonlit haze in front of him for sight of a fleeing figure.
Then his left foot struck a hole in the sand or a submerged piece of driftwood and he sprawled full-length in the water, his gun flying out of his hand as his grip instinctively relaxed on it.
He struggled to his feet instantly, blinking salt water out of his eyes and spitting sand from his mouth. He realized at once that if he wasted time now searching for his gun under the surface of the water he would surely give the killer time to escape, so he ran on again, slowed down somewhat by watersoaked clothing.
He had almost reached the southern boundary of the Kane’s private beach when he heard the sound of an automobile motor starting on the cliff above him, and it roared loudly and then faded into the other night sounds. He continued on doggedly another ten paces to the bottom of another wooden stairway leading up the face of the cliff just south of the Kane’s wall. Moonlight clearly showed the dripping wetness of footprints leading upward. He hesitated a moment, looking up grimly and hearing nothing, decided against following up the stairs and ruining the wet footprints that might be a clue to the murderer’s identity.
He turned back instead, trotted along through the water again without wasting time to search for his gun, and wearily climbed the dry flood-lighted stairs to the kitchen door which he had left open. He left a trail of water behind him on the stairs, entered the lighted kitchen and strode directly through the hall to the front room.
Everything was exactly as it had been a few moments before. The front door still stood open as he had left it, and Lydia’s body lay on the floor as it had been.
He went past her with only a brief downward glance, to the telephone beyond the sofa, lifted it to his ear and dialed a number.
Salt water dripped down from his soaked figure and spread out on the thick rug beside his feet as he waited; and when a voice said, “Homicide,” he spoke sharply into the instrument:
“Michael Shayne speaking. Murder at the Richard Kane property.” He gave the address and went on swiftly, “The killer escaped in a car a few minutes ago. Get out a radio alarm to stop all cars in the vicinity. Look for a man with wet shoes and trouser legs. I’ll hold on while you get that on the air.”
The official voice at the other end wasted no time with questions, but said efficiently, “Right, Shayne. Back to you in a minute.”
Shayne waited, holding the receiver to his ear with his left hand, his right mechanically going up to his shirt pocket to pull out a pack of water-logged cigarettes. He glared down at them distastefully and dropped the useless pack into a coat pocket, and stiffened when the brisk voice said, “All right now, Shayne. Let’s have all of it.”
“It’s Mrs. Richard Kane,” Shayne said precisely. “Shot in the living room of her house six or eight minutes ago while I was parked outside just leaving. I ran in and found her, chased the killer out the back door and down to the beach where he escaped. He’s got to be wet up to his knees, so concentrate on that.”
“That call is out. Stay there, Shayne, and don’t touch anything.”
Shayne put down the instrument without replying. He went slowly to the coffee table and got a filter-tipped cigarette from a small silver urn that had been in front of Lydia while she sat there and talked with him, flipped a lighter beside it and grimaced slightly as the thin-bodied smoke entered his lungs. He replaced the lighter on the table, moved another step to his right to pour cognac into the glass he had emptied earlier. He drank half of it and stood there morosely, shivering in his wet clothing and not wanting to sit down and ruin any of the furniture.
The night breeze continued to blow through strongly from the open back door, and with it was the intensified sound of the sea outside.
Yet, strangely, it seemed more quiet to Shayne as he stood there than it had been previously when Lydia was alive and the back door was shut.
Death had that effect somehow. The presence of a corpse on the floor seemed to spread an aura of stillness in the room that more than counterbalanced the louder sound coming through the open doors.
Basically, Shayne knew there was no physical reason for this phenomenon, but some
how he had never learned to shake off the psychological impact of sudden death. He stood by the table sipping his brandy and morosely looking down at Lydia’s body and blaming himself for what had happened.
He should have insisted that she go with him after the telephone call from her husband. But how the hell could he know that a killer was lurking in the house waiting for him to go out and leave her alone?
Had Lydia known? Not that death was imminent, but that there was someone else in the house waiting for him to leave? He tugged at his earlobe thoughtfully while he considered the question and waited for the police to come. He could remember nothing in her actions to give the slightest indication that she had not thought they were alone in the house. She hadn’t mentioned servants, but he had somehow gotten a strong impression that if they did have servants who slept in, they were out for the evening.
But had she been putting on an act for his benefit? Could she have had someone concealed in the back or upstairs while she talked to him in the sitting room? A lover, perhaps? The same one whom she had called Roger—who had at least once before (by her own admission) slipped along the beach while it was dry and entered by way of the kitchen stairs?
But why? It didn’t make sense. It was she who had telephoned and begged Shayne to come. Would a woman do that while entertaining a lover—or expecting a lover to visit her?
Of course, he could have arrived unexpectedly between the time she phoned Shayne and the time he got there. In that case she might well have sent him upstairs to stay out of sight while she got rid of Shayne.
But she hadn’t seemed eager to get rid of him, he reminded himself. Quite the contrary. She had the liquor set out for him, and made him as comfortable as she could. Had insisted strongly, in fact, that he stay and talk to her after he had suggested they were running a foolish risk by being together where her husband might return and find them.
No. She had certainly shown no eagerness to be rid of him. So it didn’t seem likely he had interrupted an assignation. Unless it had all been part of some devious plot to involve him in her affairs somehow. Some plot that didn’t make any sense from where he stood.
But he couldn’t help remembering his suspicions of her motive for summoning him. Suppose all of it, beginning with the scene at La Martinique the previous night, were part of some plan that she had worked out in her disordered mind to force her husband and Shayne to clash publicly over her affections? It still didn’t make sense, but neither did anything else.
If that were the answer, what part had another man been supposed to play tonight? And what had gone wrong? Certainly, her plan could not have anticipated that she would end on the floor with a bullet in her brain. Had her husband’s telephone call been the upsetting factor? Had that been an unexpected development that led to her death?
Had it even been totally unexpected? Shayne simply could not be sure. She had acted surprised and frightened, but …? Had she been innocent and unknowing when she pressed the mouthpiece tightly to her bosom and spoke to Shayne? Or had that been planned, too?
Shayne knew many people were unaware that vocal vibrations can be conducted by the chest bones in that manner, and believed they were perfectly safe from being overheard when speaking in an aside with a telephone mouthpiece pressed against their chests. But, had Lydia known the truth?
He leaned down to crush out the filtered butt of his cigarette in an ashtray, and heard the distant keening of a police siren. Either the Beach cops stopping some automobilist to check his shoes and trousers, or Peter Painter rushing to the scene of the crime to see what he could pin on Shayne this time. Shayne grinned mirthlessly as the sound of the siren faded to a moan and then to silence.
So it couldn’t be Painter. Not yet. But the Miami Beach Detective Chief would be along soon enough. This was one murder investigation he would definitely handle in person. As soon as he heard that Michael Shayne had reported the crime.
In the meantime, Shayne wondered why the devil Richard Kane hadn’t shown up? Of course, he didn’t know where his telephone call had been made from, but if he had been anywhere on the Beach when he called, he certainly would have had time to reach his house by now.
Still, it hadn’t actually been very long since the call, Shayne reminded himself. It just seemed like a long time, standing there in his wet clothing with a dead woman on the floor while he waited for someone to come. In elapsed time, probably not more than ten minutes in all. Not more than a minute from the time Lydia hung up the phone until Shayne heard the shot from his car. Another minute for him to rush in and find her dead, realize the back door was open and run down the stairs. Another couple of minutes to dash along the shore and fall flat on his face, to realize the killer had escaped up the other stairway—and two more minutes to return.
Five minutes, maybe, since he had called the police. No more than that—though it seemed more like hours.
Say, eleven or twelve minutes in all, since Kane had telephoned and learned that his wife was entertaining the redhead.
He tensed and drank the rest of his cognac as he heard a car careen into the driveway on protesting rubber. No siren, so it wouldn’t be the police yet. That meant Richard Kane.
An enraged and probably drunken husband dashing back to confront his wife and the man whom he believed to be her lover.
As the car roared up the driveway toward the house, Shayne unhappily recalled that Lydia had mentioned Kane brandishing a pistol to drive another man from the house once before. How would he react this time at sight of his wife lying dead on the floor?
Shayne’s rugged features tightened as he reached down to pick up a stoppered fifth of bourbon a little more than half full. The car slammed to a stop behind his parked sedan in front, and he heard a door jerked open and then shut violently.
Shayne stepped quietly around the coffee table to the end of the sofa against the wall with the whiskey bottle swinging negligently from his right hand.
Kane’s feet pounded up the stone steps and his bulky figure slid to a stop inside the front door. Light glittered on a nickel-plated pistol in his right hand, and Shayne poised his weight on the balls of his feet as Kane stared down stupidly at the dead body of his wife on the floor in front of him.
Shayne had a fleeting moment to feel sorry for the man before Kane turned his bullet head slowly to survey the room and catch sight of the detective pressed against the wall.
Shayne said loudly, “Hold it, Kane!” then dropped his rangy body in a lunging dive as Kane’s arm swung up and the pistol barked loudly.
The bullet nicked the right side of Shayne’s neck as his impetus carried him head-on into the stocky figure and they went to the floor together. The gun skittered out of Kane’s hand, and Shayne let go of the whiskey bottle to get hold of Kane’s shoulders and pinion him down while he pantingly rose to his knees and leaned over him.
“Take it easy,” he grated. “Save your strength and your lead for the guy that did that to your wife.”
Richard Kane lay on his back beneath Shayne for a moment, his heavy features contorted, his eyeballs rolling up at him madly. Then with a twist of almost superhuman strength, he balled up his body and rolled away, breaking Shayne’s hold and scrabbling frantically on hands and knees toward the nickel-plated pistol.
Shayne lunged upward and got a big foot firmly on the gun before Kane could reach it. He stood on widespread legs and looked down implacably as Kane’s arms circled his legs and jerked him off balance.
Falling lightly to the floor, Shayne grabbed the gun-butt and swung the barrel of it not lightly against the side of Kane’s head.
He grunted dully and fell back on the floor, his eyes glazing momentarily while froth spurted from his slack mouth.
Shayne got to his feet wearily and pocketed the gun, a short-barrelled .38. Kane muttered something inaudible and shook his head from side to side and groggily tried to sit up. Shayne moved around him to retrieve the whiskey bottle from the floor, uncorked it and held the neck of it down to
Kane’s mouth, telling him not unkindly, “Take a drink of this and you’ll feel better.”
8
Kane grabbed the bottle with both hands and tipped it up to let a quantity gurgle down his throat. Shayne stepped back a few paces and said harshly, “Listen to me, Kane. Your wife is dead. I didn’t kill her. The police will be here any moment. So, relax and stay away from me. I’ll tell my story to them.”
“Who did do it? What in the name of God happened here? I just talked to Lydia a few minutes ago.”
“I know you did. I was standing here by the door when she answered your call. I went out to intercept you, and before I could start my car I heard a shot inside here. I ran in and found her … like that.” Shayne nodded toward Lydia’s body.
“I don’t believe a word of it,” Kane said hoarsely. He took another pull at the bottle and then set it on the floor. He hunkered forward onto his knees and stood up groggily. Shayne stepped back another pace, patting the gun in his pocket.
“I don’t give a damn whether you believe it or not. Stand back until the police get here.” His voice softened as Kane turned slowly to look down at his wife “She’s dead and I’m sorry. Get it through your head that there was nothing personal between us. She asked me out tonight to consult me professionally, and I came because she was an old friend of my former wife’s.”
“I don’t believe a word of it, Shayne. You were here alone with her. Did she try to break off the affair with you? Is that why you killed her?”
The shriek of an approaching siren came faintly through the front door, rose swiftly to peak volume and then died slowly as a police car turned in the driveway.
Shayne said, “I’ll do my talking to the police,” and he turned slowly to face Peter Painter as the Miami Beach Chief of Detectives trotted into the room with two detectives behind him.
Painter was a small, slender man, almost foppishly dressed, with small-boned features and a thread-like black mustache. He drew himself up aggressively and his black eyes glittered with satisfaction as they took in the scene in front of him. “Dead, eh? Which one of you …?”
Weep for a Blonde Page 6
