“Don’ worry ’bout him. ’Sall right. Le’s us girls hava drinky-winky.” She giggled and tried to draw him into the room.
He shook her harder this time. “Not until you tell me where Roger is.”
“Hospital. I been tellin’ you an’ tellin’ you. ’S perfec’ly safe. Nobody here but us girls.”
“Is he sick?”
“Course he’s sick,” she responded indignantly. “What you think? You be sick, too, if they sliced half your stomach out.”
“When?” demanded Shayne. “When did they cut his stomach out?”
“Week ’go. Two weeks. Whasit matter?”
“Where?” Sweat was beginning to stream down Shayne’s face. “What hospital?”
She named a local hospital, reeling back against his supporting arm and blinking her round eyes at him coquettishly.
He helped her forward to a chair with a tray containing liquor and glasses on a table beside it. He thrust her down into the chair and put a glass in her hand. “You have a drink,” he told her grimly. “I think I may be needing one in a minute.”
He turned away from her and strode to a telephone, dialed a number and said, “I’m a friend of Roger Poole’s and I just this minute heard about his operation. Can you tell me how he is?”
He waited with the telephone pressed hard against his ear, sweat streaming down the deep trenches in his cheeks while the normal hospital routine was observed at the other end. After checking their records and discovering they did have a patient named Roger Poole, he was blandly informed that his condition was good.
“When was his operation?” Shayne asked doggedly. “Earlier tonight?”
“Oh, no. More than a week ago. And he is making good progress. He sat up for more than an hour today.”
Shayne replaced the receiver. He tugged at his earlobe as he went back to stand in front of Mrs. Poole. He reached down and picked up the whiskey bottle beside her chair and began drinking from it in long, satisfying gulps.
18
Michael Shayne wasn’t exactly reeling when he closed the front door of the Poole house behind him some fifteen minutes later, but neither was he in perfect shape for walking a chalk line. He was a trifle unsteady on his way to the convertible, swayed a little as he got the door open and started to get in.
He stopped and blinked owlishly up at the moon with his hand on the door. First off, with everything kicked out from under him by the disconcerting news that Roger Poole had been confined in a hospital room while Lydia Kane was getting herself killed, Shayne had decided that was definitely the end of the trail for him and that he might as well go ahead and give himself up.
Now, after a few clarifying drinks of Mrs. Poole’s excellent whiskey, he wasn’t so sure. There was one more possibility. It wasn’t a very possible possibility, but it was the only one left to him. By this time there was almost certainly an alarm out on the stolen Chevrolet, and there simply wasn’t any use passing up this last possible possibility.
So instead of getting into the convertible and driving away—and thus risking a quick pick-up—Shayne reached in his hip pocket and drew out the automatic he had taken from the guard at Big Tim’s crap game and tossed it onto the front seat. Then he closed the door quietly and started down the driveway afoot. From now on, he had no need for a gun. Those drinks from the neck of Mrs. Poole’s whiskey bottle had cleared his head to an extraordinary degree.
There was one thing left for him to do if he could manage it before encountering a quick-triggered Beach cop on the lookout for him, and if he did encounter such a cop Shayne knew his chances of staying alive were much better if he didn’t have a gun in his hip pocket when it happened.
He reached the sidewalk and turned left toward the oceanfront. There was only one thought in his mind. To get back to the strip of beach in front of the Kane house and try to locate his own gun on the sand before he was pulled in by one of Painter’s men. That was the last out he had. The only positive evidence in existence that his gun had not fired the bullet that killed Mrs. Kane.
If he didn’t find the gun and turn it in, he had a very strong hunch it would never be found—or, at any rate, would never be introduced as evidence in his favor.
He walked doggedly eastward toward the ocean, stopping and crouching in the shadows of shrubbery when a car drove past, making his way slowly to the main north and south roadway fronting the beach estates, and then turned north to the dead-end street leading to the ocean just south of the coral rock wall marking the limit of the Kane estate.
He turned off on the narrow, empty street, and the sound of the surf was loud in his ears as he approached the dead-end where he knew the murderer’s car had been parked tonight while Shayne was having his interview with Mrs. Kane.
There were white-washed posts at the top of the cliff, and the steep flight of wooden stairs leading down—the same flight of stairs on which Shayne had seen wet footprints leading upward a few hours previously.
He went down the stairs to the damp stretch of sandy beach, now some forty feet wide at low tide. The Kane house loomed darkly above him on the edge of the cliff as he moved slowly in the moonlight, seeking to orient himself by discovering again the half-buried branch that had tripped him the first time.
His unfired gun had to be there. Somewhere within a radius of twenty feet, say, of the spot where he had tripped. Before, when he searched for it under the guns of Painter’s men, the tide had still been high enough to cover most of the beach. Now the water had receded so that the gun should certainly be visible if it hadn’t already been found.
He stumbled over the branch again before he saw it in the shadow cast by the cliff to the westward. He went to his knees and then stood up—and stood stock-still as the entire strip of beach was brilliantly illuminated by twin spotlights on the edge of the cliff above him.
A harsh voice called to him triumphantly from above: “Put your hands in the air, Shayne, and keep them there.
He put his hands high in the air and kept them there. In the pitiless light of the spots converging on the beach, the wet sand in front of him stretched out smooth and hard—and there was no sign of the gun that had flown out of his hand when he stumbled here earlier. Either it had already been found and secreted by one of Painter’s zealous men, or the falling tide had washed enough sand over it to hide it from view.
Either way, Shayne knew that the last possible possibility was now an impossible hope.
“There are three Tommy-guns on you, Shayne,” the voice told him from above. “Keep your hands in plain sight and walk to the stairs coming up to the Kane kitchen. Or, try to take another swim if you’re still feeling lucky.”
Michael Shayne didn’t feel particularly lucky. He turned with his hands in the air and trudged along the sand to the bottom of the Kane stairway where he was met by two grim-faced men in uniform who spoke not a word while they efficiently snapped a steel cuff on each of his wrists, linking him to both of their wrists by steel links.
Then the three of them climbed the stairs and entered the kitchen where they were confronted by a strutting Peter Painter who preened his thin mustache at the redhead and explained triumphantly, “I knew you’d try to make it back here, Shayne, to plant another gun out there on the sand in place of the one you claimed you lost earlier. It was real sweet of you to walk right into my trap like this.”
Shayne said, “Think nothing of it.” He looked questioningly beyond Painter at Timothy Rourke lounging in the doorway to the hallway from the front. The reporter carefully closed one eye and said rapidly, “Did you drive my car away from where it was parked beside my place, Mike? Painter’s got a crazy idea I’ve been in cahoots with you.”
“Sure, I took your car, Tim. It was parked there where you always leave it, with the keys in it. Sorry if I got you in any trouble.”
Shayne looked from Painter down at the cuffs on his wrists. “How about one last drink before you lock me up, Petey?”
Painter backed away from him,
still strutting triumphantly. “It’ll be your last one for a long time, Shamus. Sure, we’ll all have one together while we wait for the paddy-wagon to carry you off.” He nodded to the policeman linked to Shayne on either side, and led the way back to the living room where Lydia Kane had been murdered a few hours previously.
The brandy bottle and the glass Shayne had drunk out of still stood on the low coffee table. Timothy Rourke hurried in front of the others to pour several ounces of amber fluid in the glass and hold it out to Shayne. His cadaverous face was deeply worried as he asked,
“Got nothing new to go on, Mike? Painter’s been telling me how you claimed there was some other guy been playing around with Mrs. Kane. If you could locate him …?”
Shayne took the proferred glass in his handcuffed right hand and ducked his head to drink from it deeply. The liquor bit the interior of his throat and was better in his belly than the whiskey he had drunk with Mrs. Poole. He shook his head bleakly at Rourke and said, “That’s washed up, Tim. Sure, I found him, but the bastard’s got an unbreakable alibi for tonight.”
“So that washes you up, too,” Painter said happily. “Ready to sign a confession, Shayne?”
Shayne shook his head doggedly. “Not quite yet.” He lowered his lips again to the glass and emptied it. He was more than a little drunk, now, and his brain was beginning to work more clearly.
“Two unbreakable alibis,” Painter crowed, “for the only two others even you claim might have had a motive for killing Mrs. Kane. What does that add up to in your lexicon, Mr. Shayne?”
“That’s right, Mike,” said Rourke bitterly. “All you’ve managed to do tonight is dig up alibis for others. Leaving you the one guy without any alibi at all.”
Shayne licked his lips and the chain on his right wrist tinkled as he thrust the empty glass out toward the reporter, “Give me a refill, Tim.” His voice was decidedly fuzzy. “One more good drink and I’ll tell you who killed Lydia Kane.”
“Now we’re getting down to it,” said Painter happily as Rourke refilled the detective’s glass with a shrug. He turned his head to the police stenographer who had taken Shayne’s earlier statement, and ordered crisply, “Get your notebook ready and get every word of this.”
Shayne accepted the glass from Rourke. He ducked his head for a small sip, and when he lifted it his eyes were very bright and challenging. His gaze rested for a long moment on the sofa in front of him where a small round hole in the slip-cover showed where the bullet Richard Kane had fired at him had lodged.
A curious expression settled over the detective’s lined face. He ducked his head again, but this time it was to lift his manacled left hand to tug at his earlobe. In a thickened, incredulous voice, he said, “You know, by God, I believe that’s just what I’m going to do.”
“Give us a full confession?” said Painter happily. “Best way to handle it, Shayne. Might cop a second-degree plea, if you make it good.”
Shayne paid no attention to him. He asked, “Have you got that fingerprint report from the going-over you gave the house?”
“You bet we have, Shayne. Signed, sealed and delivered. Not an alien print in the house. My man will swear to that on the stand.”
“That’s just what I need. Did a real job, huh? Made a note of every print he found?”
“Absolutely. This time there’ll be no sliding out from under, Shayne.”
Shayne said flatly, “Can I see that report?”
“Why not?” Painter was in high good humor. He extended his hand to the stenographer. “Let me have it.”
The man riffled through sheets of paper and extracted three closely-written pages. Painter presented them triumphantly to Shayne, crowing, “See for yourself how airtight it is. According to your own testimony, if the killer came along the beach he had to have been inside the house at least half an hour before the job was done. But there’s positive negative evidence on that score. No smudges in any likely spot. Just Mr. and Mrs. Kane’s and the maid’s.”
Shayne frowned at the sheets, bringing his hands close together in front of him to shuffle through them while he read the detailed report on the identification of fingerprints that had been found on the various surfaces dusted.
He nodded after a time and said quietly, “This does it. You be a witness to this, Rourke. Among the other clear prints, Richard Kane’s were found on the upstairs telephone extension. Proving beyond any possible doubt that he killed his wife.”
There was complete and protracted silence in the living room after Shayne’s statement. Painter broke it with a chuckle.
“Better finish that brandy before the wagon gets here. Hell! Richard Kane is the one man in the whole damned world who couldn’t have shot his wife. You’re my authority for that.”
Shayne said gravely, “Nevertheless, he did the job. I’ve been a complete fool not to see it.”
“But you alibi him.” Painter’s voice was high and thin. “I’ve got your statement that the shot was fired within a couple of minutes of the time she hung up the phone after her husband called her. Are you going to deny it was Kane on the phone?”
Shayne shook his red head. He said somberly, “I’m not going to deny that. But if you’ll dig that thirty-eight bullet out of the sofa there and make a ballistic test with the death bullet, you’ll know it came from his gun.”
“Wait a minute, Shayne. I’ll quote from your statement again. The backstairs were dry and showed no wet footprints when you ran out. Right?”
Shayne said, “Right.”
“Proving that the killer … if he entered that way … had been hidden in the house for at least half an hour. Right?”
Shayne said, “Right. And he did enter that way. And he was hidden upstairs while I was talking to Mrs. Kane, and slipped down and shot her as soon as I went out the front door … thereby using me, by God, to set up an absolutely unbreakable alibi for him.”
“Who, Shayne? Who?”
Shayne said, “Richard Kane, of course.” He drew in a deep breath and said kindly, “Don’t take it too hard, Petey. I fell for it, too. It was right there in front of my eyes and I didn’t have enough brandy inside me to see it.”
He turned to Timothy Rourke with a warning glint in his gray eyes and said, “Remember, Tim … one time a long time ago when I needed a telephone call to come on a certain phone at a certain time?” He named three digits slowly. “Why don’t you go upstairs and show Painter what I mean?”
Rourke’s pinched face glowed with sudden understanding. He nodded and hurried away and they heard him climbing the stairs.
Painter thumb-nailed his mustache nervously and complained, “I don’t know what in hell you’re talking about, Shayne. I swear to God.…”
“Go back to my first statement,” Shayne said coldly. “You’ll see I told you that when Mrs. Kane called me tonight she said, ‘I’m phoning from the upstairs extension. I can see my husband’s car going down the drive now.’ Remember that?”
Painter said irritably, “I don’t remember, but it may be there. I still don’t see that matters.”
“Think about it,” urged Shayne. “And try to figure out how-come Richard Kane’s fingerprints were found on the phone upstairs just after Mrs. Kane’s death. He must have used that phone after her last call to me, or his prints wouldn’t overlay hers. But he was right here with me downstairs all the time after he busted in the front door and found her dead and threw a slug at me. So … he must have handled the extension phone upstairs between the time she telephoned me and her death.…”
He was interrupted by the shrill ringing of the telephone. Everyone looked at it. Shayne told Painter, “Answer it and then you’ll know how Kane managed to murder his wife one minute after calling her on that telephone.”
Peter Painter’s face was a study in conflicting emotions as he crossed slowly to the shrilling instrument and picked it up. He said, “Hello,” and the look on his face turned to utter bemusement as he listened and then said disbelievingly, “Tim Rourk
e? How in the name of God …?”
He listened a moment longer, and then tremblingly replaced the receiver. He turned, shaking his head, and said, “I still don’t see.…”
Shayne held out his manacled wrists and said, “Unlock these damned things and go upstairs and put them on Kane. Lots of telephone subscribers … excluding detective chiefs, of course … know there is a certain series of numbers they can dial on an extension phone to make all the phones in that house ring. What makes me really sore is that the son-of-a-bitch set it up so I’d be his alibi … and damn near got away with it, too.”
19
The interior of Joe’s Diner was steamy and warm. There was the subdued clatter of heavy silverware from men seated on tall stools at the long counter busily wolfing down solid food, the sound of laughter and of hoarse witticisms, and the occasional thump of a heavy coffee mug on the bare wood.
There were four small tables ranged along the outer wall with red and white checked cloths on them. Lucy Hamilton sat across from Michael Shayne at the rear table. Her face was flushed and happy, and curling tendrils of brown hair clung to her damp forehead. Two round, thick water glasses stood in front of each of them. Two of the glasses held ice water, and the other two that had been empty when Joe placed them ceremoniously in front of them now held a couple of fingers of amber liquid from a flask which Shayne had produced from his coat pocket.
Lucy took a sip of cognac and followed it with a hasty gulp of ice water, and her brown eyes sparkled as she turned her head to survey the length of the diner. “Not a blonde in sight, Michael. Not a single damned blonde. I do like it here.”
“Better than La Martinique?”
“Much better,” she assured him gravely. She turned back to wrinkle her nose at him as he took a deep swallow of his drink. “Without the champagne and without the blondes.”
“And you still haven’t tasted one of Joe’s hamburgers,” he teased her.
“I’m going to. I’m starved. But this is the first chance we’ve had to talk, Michael, with you sleeping practically all day. I still haven’t got it all straight about last night. Did Mr. Kane have it all planned to murder his wife as he did, and use you to fix up his alibi for him?”
Weep for a Blonde Page 14
