Murder and the Wanton Bride

by Brett Halliday

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  Murder and the Wanton Bride

  A Mike Shayne Mystery

  Brett Halliday

  MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM

  Dedicated to Chloe Dresser

  Because she asked me to

  1

  The hotel lobby was large and brightly lighted, and small groups and couples stood about chatting animatedly as he slid unobtrusively through the revolving door from the street and stepped to one side to peer about nearsightedly.

  He was medium height, with rather full cheeks that were quite pallid in contrast to the suntanned countenances of the majority of the other guests. He wore a dark gray business suit and carefully polished black shoes and a neat, black bow-tie that also contrasted strongly with the white dinner jackets and gaily colored sports attire gathered in the lobby of the Hotel Donchester at the height of Miami Beach’s winter season.

  No one paid him the slightest heed as he settled rimless glasses on his nose and surveyed the room studiously. He swallowed after a moment and touched the tip of his left forefinger to his short, graying mustache, and a curious expression flitted across his face momentarily. It might have been a look of relief or of disappointment.

  He removed his glasses and placed them carefully in a metal case that snapped shut, then crossed the lobby to a wide desk with a big clock behind it whose hands pointed to 7:40.

  An austere, frock-coated clerk behind the desk regarded him with studious disinterest. He cleared his throat and said, “Three-oh-eight, please.”

  He laid both palms flat on the polished mahogany surface of the desk as the clerk turned and reached into a numbered cubicle for his key. His blue eyes squinted slightly as he said, “No, ah, messages for me?”

  “Sorry, sir. Nothing tonight.” The clerk slid the key across to him and he lifted his right hand to cover it and began deprecatorily, “I wasn’t really expecting anything tonight, but then.…”

  The clerk’s gaze slid past him and he smiled unctuously and exclaimed in a warm voice, “Good evening, Mr. Baxter. You’re looking exceedingly well.”

  He turned away from the desk clutching his key and made his way to the bank of elevators at the rear. “Good evening, Mr. Baxter.” His mind mimicked the clerk’s voice. Not: “Good evening, Mr. Carson.” Oh no. Never that. Just: “Nothing tonight.”

  He stopped in front of one of the elevators where a long bronze hand swung slowly to the left in an arc indicating the floors as the cage descended. A group of three young people stood in front of him laughing and chatting gaily, and just to his left was a couple no younger than himself who appeared to be more than a little drunk and very happy about it, with their arms tightly about each other’s waists and their flushed faces pressed together while the man whispered in the woman’s ear. It was something obscene that was whispered, he was certain of that from the way she twisted against her companion and giggled, and he compressed his rather full lips primly and stared away from them, straight ahead, until the elevator door opened and the occupants got out, and he waited there until the others entered before stepping inside and facing front and telling the operator, “Three, please.”

  He could hear the others whispering and giggling behind him as the elevator went up three floors and stopped. He stepped out into an empty corridor and went down it stiffly with the key held ready in his right hand.

  When he switched on the overhead light the hotel room was empty, as impersonal as any modern hotel room can be. He closed the door firmly behind him and double-locked it; and then slid the end of the short brass chain into its slot.

  There was his strapped pigskin bag on the luggage holder across the room, and a slight shiver ran over him as he stood just inside the door. The shiver was not from cold. The two west windows of the room stood open, overlooking Biscayne Bay, and a balmy breeze fluttered the white curtains at the windows.

  The shiver came from within, from something that had lived within him for many years. It was this damnable aloneness. This aloneness among people.

  He unbuttoned his jacket and slid it from his shoulders and went across to a closet where he hung it meticulously on a wooden hanger. Then he unsnapped his bow-tie and removed it, laid it on the dresser as he went by, and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt and stood in front of the open windows looking over the shimmering surface of Biscayne Bay to the jagged and boldly lighted skyline of Miami.

  He stood like that for several minutes and then he sighed deeply and turned back into the room to sit on one of the neat twin beds and lift the telephone from the table between them.

  He said, “Room Service, please,” and then, “This is Mr. Carson in Three-oh-eight. I’d like a martini, please. Ah, very dry, if you don’t mind.”

  He replaced the receiver and sat erect on the bed, placing one hand on each knee with black-shod feet firmly on the floor parallel beneath him. His expression was mildly contemplative now. He looked like a small-town banker, or perhaps a minor executive in a large insurance agency. He blinked several times and a faint smile quirked his lips and they moved slightly, forming unspoken words.

  He got up hastily when there was a tap at the door, hurried around the beds to silently unfasten the chain and undo the double lock with a faint click.

  He opened the door and stepped back to let a tall and beautifully uniformed bellboy enter holding a small round tray balanced on the flat of his right palm with a single long-stemmed cocktail glass in the exact center of it.

  The bellboy said, “Good evening, sir,” and turned to his left to deposit the tray on a glass-topped table.

  He said, “And a good evening to you,” enthusiastically, and stepped forward, rubbing his pudgy hands together and looking at the cocktail delightedly. “It is, ah, very dry, I trust?”

  The bellboy said, “I guess so,” indifferently, “if that’s the way you ordered it.” He had a slip of paper on a salver and he offered it with a pencil.

  After signing “W. D. Carson” in precise handwriting, the occupant of the room jangled coins in his pants pocket and said jovially, “Here’s one perhaps you’d like to tell your bartender. There was this customer went into a bar and ordered a martini. Very dry, you see. And he told the bartender he had a special recipe for martinis and he’d like to.…”

  The bellboy was waiting with a pained expression on his smooth young face. He looked down pointedly at the empty salver in his hand and said, “If that’s not dry enough, Mister.…”

  “Oh, I’m sure it’s perfectly all right. It looks delicious as a matter of fact.” A hand came out of his pocket hastily and he dropped one quarter, and then after the most momentary hesitation, a second one on top of the signed slip. “I was just going to tell you.…”

  The bellboy said, “Thank you, sir,” and wheeled about with military precision and went out of the room.

  The tentative smile went away from Mr. Carson’s lips as the door closed firmly and he was alone again. He relocked the door and refastened the chain and sipped from the martini glass, realizing at once that there was more vermouth than gin in the mixture.

  He set the glass back when it was half empty, crossed to unstrap his bag and lift out a freshly laundered shirt, a pair of silver-backed hairbrushes and a toothbrush. He laid the shirt on the foot of t
he bed, arranged the brushes neatly on the dresser and went into the bathroom to brush his teeth.

  Returning, he rummaged in the suitcase beneath a pair of carefully folded pajamas and lifted out a folded newspaper clipping. He sat on the bed again and unfolded the clipping, extracting a small sheet from a memorandum pad which he laid aside while he read every word of the fine print. He nodded and compressed his lips with satisfaction, folded the memo sheet back into the clipping and crossed to the closet to insert it in the inner pocket of his jacket. He grimaced slightly as he paused beside the cocktail with his hand outstretched, glanced at his watch and found it to be almost half past eight.

  He left the half of the insipid cocktail standing there as a mute reproach to whoever cleaned his room, removed his shirt and went into the bathroom to wash hands and face carefully.

  Fifteen minutes later he left his room and went down the corridor to the elevator. In the crowded lobby, he unobtrusively slid his room-key across the mahogany counter and went out into the Miami Beach night without speaking to anyone or being spoken to.

  He walked three blocks through the streets thronged with holidaying sunseekers, withdrawn from those whom he brushed past, wrapped in the mantle of his aloneness until he reached the marquee of the Chez Dumont where he turned in.

  The small foyer of the popular Beach night-spot was crowded with couples and small parties waiting for tables, and he insinuated his way past them to a harried maitre d’ guarding the dining room entrance with a velvet rope while he consulted a penciled list of reservations.

  He said to the maitre d’, “Mr. Carson, please. I have a table reserved for nine o’clock,” glancing significantly at his wristwatch as he spoke.

  The maitre d’, checked his list and sighed unhappily. Lone male diners at the Chez Dumont did not represent their best source of income, but the reservation was undoubtedly in order. He held the end of the rope back to allow Mr. Carson to pass, snapping his fingers at a passing waiter, “Number Thirty-eight for this gentleman.”

  Mr. Carson threaded his way through the crowded dining room behind the waiter to a tiny table in the rear where he was squeezed in between two other tiny tables each occupied by a young couple who had no eyes for the lonely man between them.

  Mr. Carson sat erect and placed his glasses on his nose and studied the room carefully until his waiter returned with a glass of water and a menu.

  He removed his glasses and said precisely, “I would like to start with a martini, please. Very dry, if you don’t mind. Which reminds me of a story you might like to repeat to your bartender,” he hurried on breathlessly, but the waiter had already turned away, and he let the final words subside into a sigh.

  But he was determinedly prepared when the waiter returned with his cocktail, and as it was being placed before him he went on:

  “It’s about this customer who went into a bar and wanted a very dry martini, see? And he told the bartender he had his own recipe for making one.”

  The waiter stood in front of him with a folded napkin over his arm and a look of mild impatience on his face, but Mr. Carson held his gaze and spoke rapidly with a strangely fey sort of exuberance:

  “He said to put three cubes of ice in a mixing glass and then pour in three full ounces of gin. Then stir it twice with a spoon and lean over the glass and say ‘Vermouth’, not too loudly, and then stir it once more and pour it out.

  “Well, the bartender shrugged and went ahead as directed. But when he leaned over and said, ‘Vermouth’, the customer said, “Oh my God! you’ve ruined that one. You said ‘Vermouth’ too loud.”

  Mr. Carson smiled happily as he concluded, and added, “I just thought you might enjoy repeating it to your bartender.”

  The waiter said, “Sure. You want to order now?”

  Mr. Carson said crisply, “In a moment, please,” and lifted the large menu to study it carefully.

  He chose jellied madriléne and sweetbreads à la financière, and savored his cocktail and found it much drier and more to his liking than the one at the hotel.

  The waiter served his meal with grave dignity and in utter silence, and Mr. Carson ate with pleasure and also in silence. He indulged in crêpes suzette for dessert, and was inordinately disappointed to discover that the Chez Dumont did not make a practice of flaming it at the table in the presence of other diners.

  But he was well-satisfied when he left the restaurant at precisely five minutes before eleven o’clock. Perhaps the waiter had heard the martini joke before and that was why he hadn’t appreciated it fully. But the young couple occupying the table at his left had laughed. He was certain of it. Particularly the young man. They had whispered together afterward and Mr. Carson had caught a word or so which convinced him that he was explaining the point of Mr. Carson’s little joke to his female companion.

  The sidewalk outside the Chez Dumont was almost empty of pedestrains when Mr. Carson emerged. He hesitated a moment under the neon light before turning to the left.

  The figure of a man detached itself from a shadowed doorway directly across the street and cut casually and diagonally across the pavement to intercept him, but Mr. Carson did not notice anything.

  Outside the restaurant he was alone again, and fear walked with him as it had for so many years. So many long and dreary years.

  But there had been that brief moment in the Chez Dumont when he had made contact. He was sure that young couple on the left.…

  The man who was crossing the street diagonally behind him reached the curb at his right just as he passed into the shadow of a low-spread coconut palm. There were no pedestrians within half a block, and the lights of the nearest car were two blocks distant.

  He heard his name uttered sharply and he stopped and turned his head toward the voice.

  A lance of flame licked through the shadows and a round hole appeared in the exact center of his forehead. He sank to the sidewalk in a crumpled heap, and for the first time in many years he wasn’t afraid any more.

  2

  In judicial tones, Michael Shayne said, “Well.… if you insist, angel.” Leaning comfortably back on the sofa in Lucy Hamilton’s apartment, he stretched out a long arm for the uncorked cognac bottle and lifted it by the neck to tilt it over the empty wine-glass on the coffee table in front of him.

  Lucy Hamilton said promptly, “I don’t.”

  He paused with the bottle half-tilted, turning to look at her with ragged red eyebrows lifted. “You don’t what?”

  “I don’t insist.”

  The three vertical lines in the middle of his forehead deepened. “You don’t? You mean you’re not twisting my arm to induce me to have one more drink before I take off and leave you to your lonely bedchamber?”

  “I’m not twisting your arm, Michael Shayne. Frankly, that lonely bedchamber appeals to me right now.” Lucy leaned back against the cushions at her end of the sofa and ostentatiously pretended to stifle a yawn. “Pour yourself another slug of my liquor if you insist, but don’t pretend it’s on my account.”

  The redhead hesitated a long moment with the bottle poised over his glass. Then he tilted it higher until the four-ounce glass was filled to the brim with amber fluid, sighed and set the bottle down. “First time I ever knew you to begrudge me one for the road,” he said in a deeply injured tone.

  “I don’t begrudge it, Michael.” An impish smile danced over Lucy Hamilton’s face as she lifted one hand to brush the brown curls back. “I’m just not twisting your arm. That’s all.” She closed her lips firmly and there was a little silence between them while Shayne scowlingly sipped from his glass.

  Lucy broke the silence by saying brightly, “It just came to me all of a sudden that maybe I’ve twisted your arm too often. That, maybe, you’ve sort of come to depend on me to do the insisting. That’s not so good, Michael?”

  He turned to regard her incredulously, “Isn’t it?”

  She said levelly, “You know it isn’t. Drink up and let’s call it a night.”

&n
bsp; He nodded slowly and his voice became flat. “I guess I see what you mean, Lucy.” He tossed off the rest of his drink and reached for the chaser of ice water. “It’s been a very pleasant evening, Miss Hamilton,” he told her. “Thank you for giving me the pleasure of your company at dinner and for this brief interlude afterward.”

  In a stifled voice, Lucy Hamilton replied, “You’re welcome, I’m sure.”

  Her telephone rang.

  Both of them swung their heads around to look at the instrument on its stand across the room.

  “You answer it, Michael,” Lucy’s voice crackled.

  He shook his red head from side to side. “It’s your telephone, angel. How would it look for a man to answer your phone this time of night?” He glanced at his watch as he spoke. It was ten minutes after eleven.

  As the phone continued to ring monotonously, Lucy said, “You know it’s for you. Some damsel in distress. No one ever calls me at this unGodly hour.”

  “That’s still no reason why you shouldn’t answer it,” said Shayne stiffly. “You are my secretary.”

  “For eight hours a day, Michael Shayne.” Lucy’s voice rose angrily over the ninth ring of the telephone. “That’s enough. Get yourself a couple more secretaries if you expect twenty-four hour service.”

  The telephone stopped ringing in the middle of her final sentence, and her last words sounded shrill in the abrupt silence.

  Shayne shrugged and slowly got up. He said, “I’m sorry, angel. I think it was your idea that I should give this number to the hotel in case an important call came through and I wasn’t in. In fact,” he went on, spacing his words and making them more distinct, “I think I recall that it wasn’t so very long ago a call came through about this time from a friend of yours. One you were damned glad to answer … and damned glad I was here at the time.”

  “I know, Michael, I.…” Lucy’s voice was almost inaudible. She got up from the sofa, smoothing her quilted dressing gown down in front. She went to the phone, saying quietly, “I’m feeling bitchy tonight.” She lifted it and dialled a number, turned her head to smile wanly at Shayne, who smiled back gladly.