Weep for a Blonde

by Brett Halliday

  Shayne got up and crossed over to the reporter. “She give you Gans’ home number?”

  “Right here.” Rourke showed his notation.

  Shayne nodded and took the phone from him. He dialed the number and listened to it ring five times. A woman’s voice answered. He said, “Mrs. Gans? Is Charlie at home? Tell him Mike Shayne.”

  He waited until a deeper voice said excitedly, “Mike! What in hell kind of a mess you in this time?”

  He grinned at the phone and said, “Hi, Lou. Don’t believe half what you hear on the radio or TV. I haven’t killed anybody … yet. But I am in just a little bit of a spot. Did Worldwide act for Richard Kane tailing his wife for adultery evidence a couple months ago?”

  He listened, tugging at his left earlobe thoughtfully. “Sure of that, huh? Okay, Lou. Thanks a million … and I’d just as soon you didn’t report this conversation.”

  He hung up, shaking his head. “That leaves Jenson, Gatsby and Sentor. You know any of them personally, Tim?”

  “Max Sentor,” Rourke said, “hates my guts and wouldn’t give me the time of day. I think I talked to Jenson once on the phone. Gatsby I never even heard of.”

  “You haven’t missed much,” Shayne told him. He frowned down at the page in the classified section in the book. “Sentor and Gatsby both give home numbers where they can be reached after office hours. Try Gatsby first. If you can get him, tell him who you are and ask him to meet you at his office in half an hour. Don’t mention my name or Kane’s, but tell him you’re working on a story that should put him in the headlines. He’ll bite on that.”

  Rourke nodded and dialed a number. A woman’s voice answered and he said, “Mr. Gatsby, please.” He listened a moment and said, “I see. Is there anyone else available who might be able to give me certain very important information tonight?”

  He listened again, then said politely, “Thank you, Mrs. Gatsby. Sorry to have been a bother.” He replaced the phone and told Shayne:

  “Gatsby’s out of town until tomorrow afternoon. He runs a one-man deal and there’s no one can give us any dope.”

  Shayne’s lined face remained expressionless. He said, “Try Sentor.”

  Rourke checked the book and dialed another number. After a couple of rings, he said, “Sentor? City desk on the Daily News. We’re on the trail of a hot story that involves one of your clients. If you’ll cooperate by meeting one of our reporters in your office in about half an hour for an interview, we can offer you a cash bonus of a hundred dollars and practically guarantee you a big black headline tomorrow. Will you play ball?”

  Rourke waited while a voice rumbled over the wire, nodded and said curtly, “Half an hour. Our man will meet you at your office.” He hung up and told Shayne. “That bait worked. Now, how do I get the information from him?”

  “You don’t,” Shayne said. He doubled his right fist and studied it bleakly. “He’ll open his files for me.”

  “Aren’t you forgetting Painter’s boy outside in the hall?”

  “Not exactly.” Shayne went back to his chair and his drink. Rourke followed him with a worried frown on his cadaverous face.

  “If you were to take off in a hurry,” said Shayne, “would he tail you or stay here to watch for me?”

  “I don’t know what his orders are.”

  Shayne took a swallow of cognac and chased it down his throat with some ice water. He turned the glass around and around in his hands, said thoughtfully, “I think I remember your phone rings pretty loud.”

  Rourke nodded agreement. “I had it set loud so it’d wake me in the bedroom no matter how soundly I’m sleeping.”

  “So he’d hear that out in the hall. And if you had a call and hurried out a few minutes after, he’d be very likely to think I’d phoned and you were slipping out to meet me,” Shayne went on.

  “He might. If I had a call.”

  Shayne said, “That’s simple enough. So, if he does follow you out … okay. Where’s your car parked?”

  “Around the corner on Fourth Avenue. His car is right behind mine.”

  “Give me your keys.” Shayne extended his hand. “If he does fall for it and follows you down, walk down the street to the corner cab-stand and jump in one fast. He’ll grab another cab if there’s one waiting, or rush around to get in his car and follow you. Either way, pretend you’re trying to get away fast, but give him a chance to stay on your tail. Then all you have to do is drive all over hell and back with him behind you. Have the cabbie make like he’s trying to shake him, but be damned careful he doesn’t. As soon as it’s clear, I’ll drive down to Sentor’s office to meet him, and from then on I’ll be on my own. You can wind up back here in half an hour. If I don’t get what I want from Sentor, I’ll have to go after Jenson and hope he’s it.”

  “Jenson doesn’t list a home number,” Rourke objected. “Where’ll you find him this time of night?”

  “I’ll find him,” Shayne said grimly, “if I have to. Got everything straight?”

  “We’ll have someone phone me. I’ll let it ring several times, answer it, and then rush out in a hurry.” Rourke ticked the items off on his fingers. “If Painter’s man plays along, I lead him away in a taxi until you get loose in my car to meet Sentor. Okay. But suppose he doesn’t take the bait and stays on duty outside?”

  “Then we’ll have to do it differently,” Shayne growled. “Here’s how. You hurry out after the call. Rush to the elevator and see if he follows. In the meantime, your phone rings again. You hear it ringing, but disregard if he’s going along. If you see he isn’t, you shrug and come back to take the second call instead of going down in the elevator. Act resigned and tell him for Christ’s sake to come in and have a drink while you answer the phone.”

  “And?”

  “I’ll be standing here against the wall beside the door when he comes in,” Shayne explained. “And I’ll slug him. Okay?”

  Rourke sighed and ran long fingers through his thinning hair. “The things I do in the name of friendship,” he muttered. “So, you slug him. Here in my apartment. Where does that put me when he comes to?”

  “I’ll slug you, too, to make it look good,” Shayne offered kindly. “You can say later I must have been hiding in the bedroom all the time and you didn’t know it.”

  “Who’ll believe that story?” Rourke asked in disgust.

  “Nobody. But they can’t prove differently.” Shayne paused, his lined face hardening. “I guess that is too much to ask in the name of friendship. Why don’t you call the guy in right now, and.…”

  Rourke said, “Why don’t you shut your big mouth? I’ve got it all straight. But who can you depend on to make the two calls to this number just when you want them?”

  Michael Shayne said, “That’s the least of our worries.” He drained his glass and set it down. His gray eyes were bright with a hint of moistness and his voice was curiously soft as he said, “So we’re both crazy like hell. You ready to take off?”

  Rourke drained his own glass and set it down. He said, “Sure.”

  The detective went to the telephone and said over his shoulder, “Maybe you don’t know it, Tim, but every phone has a combination of numbers which, if dialed with the receiver down, causes that phone to start ringing. Repairmen use it for testing. Each exchange has its own special combination of numbers. So I can make your phone ring any time I want.” He stood in front of the instrument with his finger pointed at the dial. “Come over and answer it naturally when it rings. Thirty seconds after you answer it, I’ll start it ringing again. Then I’ll stand by the door and it will keep on ringing until you come back in or I’m sure you’ve led Painter’s man away. All set?”

  Rourke nodded to indicate that he understood and was ready. Shayne dialed three numbers and stepped back. The telephone started ringing loudly.

  Rourke got up from his chair and crossed to it slowly. He picked it up on the fifth ring and said huskily, “Hello? Mike? My God, fellow. Where are you?” He pretended to list
en, though no voice came over the wire. Then he said excitedly, “Sure. Just as soon as I can get there. Wait for me.” He replaced the instrument, hurried past Shayne to the door with a nod, switched off the light at the same instant that he jerked the door open.

  Standing back by the phone in the darkened room, Shayne saw the waiting figure of the Miami Beach plainclothesman across the hall through the open door as Rourke went out. He slammed the door shut and Shayne struck a match to lean over the instrument and dial the same combination of numbers he had used before.

  The telephone began ringing again.

  Shayne moved across the dark room to press himself against the wall beside the closed door and wait to see whether Rourke would disregard this second call or would return and re-enter and lure the Beach detective into the room behind him.

  15

  The phone rang steadily and monotonously in the dark room behind the tense detective pressed against the wall beside the door. As it rang, he mentally calculated Rourke’s progress down the hall to the elevator. If the car were still waiting on that floor, he would be entering it by now. But if he had to ring for it from another floor.…

  Still, after the twentieth ring, Shayne felt sure Rourke would have been back at the door had the Beach detective stayed behind instead of following him down, and he flipped on the light, stepped quickly to the phone to lift it and stop its clangor, then replaced it and went back to the door, turned out the light again and went out.

  The hallway was empty and Shayne went casually to the elevator, saw the car stood on the first floor and pressed a button to bring it up.

  He didn’t hurry down, wishing to give Rourke plenty of time to lure the Beach detective well away from the building before sticking his nose out.

  But when he crossed the empty lobby below and saw the sidewalk in front was deserted, he long-legged it down to the corner and was happy to see the reporter’s familiar car standing alone at the curb.

  That meant the Beach detective had taken his own car to tail Rourke in a taxi, and the way was definitely clear for Shayne to keep the midnight appointment with Max Sentor.

  The private detective had agreed to meet Rourke at his office in half an hour, and twenty minutes of that interval had elapsed by the time Shayne pulled away from the curb in Rourke’s car.

  Shayne swung around to Miami Avenue and drove south at a leisurely pace to 2nd. Street. He parked on the Avenue between 2nd and 1st, got out and strolled a quarter of a block to the dingy entrance of a small office building crammed between a fruit shop and a lighted bar-room. There was a dim light in the small foyer and the outer door was unlocked. Shayne strode in briskly and paused to consult the directory of tenants, went back to a self-service elevator waiting on the ground floor.

  He went up to the 3rd and found another dim light in the empty hallway there. Directly in front of the elevator, frosted glass bore the legend MAX SENTOR—PVT. DETECTIVE. The office was dark, but Shayne tried the door and found it locked. The elevator descended as he stood in front of the locked door.

  He stepped back to stand beside the elevator, watched the indicator reach bottom and hesitate there briefly, then start swinging up.

  He flattened himself against the wall and stood motionless when the cage stopped beside him and the doors slid back. A short, thick-bodied man stepped out and crossed the corridor without noticing Shayne. He was bare-headed, with glossy black hair pomaded smoothly down to his scalp, wearing a black and yellow checked sport jacket and fawn-colored slacks and tan loafers. He had a key ready in his hand as he stepped from the elevator, and he turned it in the lock of the door opposite and pushed it open.

  Shayne crossed silently to stand directly behind him as he hesitated on the threshold to switch on a ceiling light. He said in a conversational tone, “Nice of you to come down, Max.”

  Sentor stiffened and paused in mid-stride. He jerked his head around to peer over his right shoulder with beady, black, frightened eyes. His thick lips parted slackly to disclose discolored lower teeth and he breathed, “Mike Shayne! I thought.…”

  Shayne said, “I know what you thought, Max.” He pulled the door firmly shut behind him. The office was a small, one-room affair, with a littered desk in the center and two steel filing cabinets behind it.

  “In fact,” he went on pleasantly, “I know exactly what you’re thinking now, and you’re right, Max. It’d put you in real good with Petey Painter if you were to turn me in single-handed. But don’t try it.”

  Beads of perspiration stood on Sentor’s forehead and he smiled weakly, licking his lips. “You got me all wrong, Mike. Hell! we’re in the same racket, ain’t we? Live and let live, I say.” He moved on heavily to the swivel chair behind the desk and sank into it, clasping pudgy hands in front of him. “You took me by surprise is all. I thought some reporter was coming up.…”

  Shayne said, “I’ve got no time to waste.” He slid one hip onto a corner of the desk and leaned forward to hold Sentor’s flickering gaze with a hard stare. “You know the spot I’m in and I know you’d love to double-cross me, but don’t do it tonight, Max. Just don’t. That’s all. I want the name of the man who’s been playing footsie with Mrs. Richard Kane on Miami Beach.”

  “Mrs. Kane?” Max Sentor licked his blubbery lips. “From what I read in the papers.…”

  Shayne said, “To hell with what you read in the papers. She’s dead and you know it, and Painter’s got the rap set for me. You did a tailing job for Kane a couple of months ago. All I want is the name of her lover. Roger what? Give it to me and you won’t get hurt.”

  “Look here, now. You know my clients’ affairs are confi.…”

  Shayne leaned closer to slam the back of his left hand across Sentor’s cheek. “Give me his name.” His voice was controlled and deadly.

  Sentor leaned back, his face ashen, hands gripping the edge of the desk. “You can’t come in my office like this and.…”

  “I can do any goddamned thing I want tonight,” Shayne interrupted him flatly. He slid off the desk in a half-crouch, doubling a big fist and holding it up for Sentor to look at. “So help me God, I’ll knock your teeth down your throat if you don’t talk fast.”

  “I am talking, Mike. I swear I am,” Sentor gabbled. “I didn’t do the job for Kane. You got me wrong. I dunno.…”

  As he spoke, his left hand dropped to the edge of the partially open middle drawer of the desk, and he jerked it toward him. His right hand reached desperately for a stubby automatic in the drawer and Shayne’s fist smashed full in his face before he could grab it up.

  The swivel chair went over backward and he scrabbled on hands and knees into a corner in desperate haste, making sickening mewing sounds past the blood spurting from thick lips as Shayne strode forward and stood over him.

  The redhead stood over him with both fists swinging for a moment, disgust deepening the trenches in his cheeks. Then he muttered, “Nuts,” and turned to look at the steel filing cabinets, jerking open the second drawer of one that had a typewritten label in the slot, “Clients. J-L”.

  There were cardboard folders in the file, each with a tab lettered with a client’s name in alphabetical order.

  While Sentor crouched in the corner covering his face with both hands and making blubbery noises, Shayne swiftly thumbed through the folders under “K” without finding anything for Kane.

  He slammed the drawer shut and addressed the cowering man dispassionately.

  “Maybe you’re not lying, Sentor. Maybe. And maybe you think I’m through in Miami and it’ll be safe to throw the hooks to me after I walk out of here. Because that’s what I’m going to do. I’m walking out and going down the elevator, and if you handle the phone real fast you may get a squad car here before I can get away.

  “Think it over. Maybe I’m not through in Miami. Just maybe … in the next couple of hours I’ll come up with Mrs. Kane’s killer. Think about that while you’re reaching for the phone, Max.”

  He turned on his heel and st
rode to the door without looking back.

  The elevator still stood where Sentor had left it across the aisle. Shayne got in and pressed the down button. He knew he was a stubborn fool. He could have jerked out the telephone wires and assured himself that much leeway. Something had prevented him from taking that precaution. There was a driving pride inside him that refused to admit that a craven soul like Max Sentor could possibly have the guts to turn him in. Somehow, he was proving something to himself by walking out that way, though for the life of him Michael Shayne could not have put into words just what he was proving.

  The dim-lit ground-floor lobby was still deserted when he left the elevator. He strode to the door and out, turned left past the darkened fruit shop toward Timothy Rourke’s car a hundred feet away.

  He came to an abrupt halt after two long strides in that direction. A police radio car was angled in at the curb in front of Rourke’s car. A uniformed cop was getting out on the far side. An elderly couple on the sidewalk sauntered momentarily between the tall redhead and the police car. Shayne turned on his heel and walked southward past the inviting doors of the barroom toward the brighter lights of Flagler Street a block and a half ahead.

  16

  Michael Shayne turned off the Avenue onto 1st Street at the corner without looking back. He was positive there hadn’t been time for Sentor to phone in an alarm and get a radio car to the spot, so it looked as though there must be an alarm out on Rourke’s car and the cops he’d seen were staking it out. It was pure luck that he hadn’t got in it and driven away in time to be pulled in by the alarm.

  He drew a deep breath of night air into his lungs and grinned wryly as he strode along the street studying the parked cars for a likely heap that he might drive away without too much trouble. Yeh. The Shayne luck was still holding. And he needed a lot of it now. One more name on his list! One more chance to learn the identity of Mrs. Kane’s lover before it was too late to do him any good.