Murder and the Wanton Bride

by Brett Halliday

  “It was obvious from what you told me last night,” Shayne pointed out impatiently, “that your detective had withheld whatever derogatory information he dug up on Belle from you because he thought there were better pickings in it for him by blackmailing Belle or her husband. It’s an old stunt among unscrupulous private detectives,” he went on angrily. “Unfortunately, my profession has its share of crooks. I’m positive that’s what Walsh has been doing, and I wonder if Harvey wasn’t aware of it.”

  “Harvey? Why would he know about it? I never even told him one word about going to Mr. Walsh.”

  “But he acted as Mr. Carson’s secretary,” Shayne reminded her. “For instance, he typed the letter written to me making an appointment for this morning. I thought he might have just mentioned it to you in passing … something about Carson sending sums of money to Walsh at a new address.…”

  He paused hopefully, looking sideways at her in the moonlight, but Mrs. Harvey Barstow shook her head helplessly. “He didn’t. Not if he knew or even suspected, he didn’t.”

  “So you haven’t any idea what Jeffery Walsh’s present address may be?”

  “No. I don’t. If I did,” she added with unexpected spirit, “I’d been after him about all that money he got from me without giving me anything in return for it.”

  Shayne sighed and lit a cigarette. “How late do you think Harvey will work at the bank tonight?”

  “Goodness knows. He was all keyed-up at supper … about Mr. Carson being killed and the detective telling him he shouldn’t have talked to you in the bank at all. He keeps on acting like he thinks all of it had something to do with the accounts in the bank, and he keeps going over things trying to find out why Mr. Carson wanted to see you. Maybe that’s what he does think,” she added fiercely. “And maybe he was right all along. Maybe it was just in my own mind that I thought Mr. Carson wanted to see you on account of Belle and Harvey.”

  “I think it was just in your own mind that you suspected that,” Shayne told her gravely. “Right now, I have strong evidence that points to another reason for Carson wishing to contact me. If you drive home now, without Harvey,” he went on abruptly, “what will you tell the women visitors in your house?”

  “I’ll tell them … well, that when I got to the bank something else had come up to detain Harvey and he couldn’t come with me.”

  Shayne said, “Then I think you’d better be getting back.” He unlatched the door on his side and got out, went around to her door and paused there. “You won’t tell anyone you saw me tonight?”

  “Why should I? What could I tell them? No one knows I ever met you, Mr. Shayne. No one has to now, do they?” Her voice was warm and pleading.

  Shayne said, “I don’t think so. Go on home to your children, Mrs. Barstow. Stop feeling guilty about last night. I give you my positive assurance that Mr. Carson’s death did not result from anything you did.”

  She smiled tremulously at him in the moonlight, tears glinting in her round eyes and her lower lip caught tightly between her teeth.

  She said softly, “Thank you, and … thank you.”

  Shayne nodded and moved away from her up to his car. She started her motor and backed away, made a U-Turn, and he watched her tail-lights disappear in his rear-view mirror as she turned back onto the highway.

  He lit a cigarette and sighed and started the motor and also made a U-Turn. He had one more stop to make in Denham before getting back to Miami as fast as he could.

  14

  Shayne turned off Denham’s main street two blocks before reaching the traffic light. He parked his car near the corner, walked the two blocks parallel to Main, then turned toward the light, and the bank squatting on the corner.

  Halfway up the block an alley led behind the bank, and Shayne turned into the darkness of the ally gratefully. There were no windows at the rear of the bank building along the alley, but there was a solid iron door set in the middle of the brick wall, and the detective paused in front of it meditatively. There was an electric button in the casing beside the door which Shayne assumed would summon one of the two men if he pressed it, but he hesitated to do so because he knew the slightest miscalculation at this point would almost certainly bring the town cops down on him fast.

  Yet, he had to see Barstow before taking off for Miami.

  While he hesitated in the dark alley in front of the door, the problem was resolved for him. Inside, he heard the rasp of a bolt being withdrawn, and he stepped in quickly, flattening himself against the wall as the door was pushed open. A tall man stepped into the alley, holding the door ajar behind him, and Shayne recognized Vice-President Martin as he half-turned to say, “Good night then, Harvey. Are you sure you don’t want a lift home?”

  “Thanks, Mr. Martin, but I’ll be another half hour at least. I’ll call my wife to pick me up.” It was Barstow’s voice, coming through the door opening from some distance, and the vice-president closed the door solidly and walked away from Shayne toward the street.

  The detective waited a few minutes and then stepped back to the door and pressed the button. He didn’t know whether there was any prearranged signal for the use of the button or not, but hoped Barstow would think Martin had forgotten something and was seeking re-admittance.

  He waited for at least ninety seconds before the door again opened, a cautious crack this time, and Barstow’s voice asked, “Is that you, Mr. Martin?”

  Shayne’s hand was on the knob, and he pulled hard and stepped forward at the same time. Harvey Barstow confronted him in the lighted corridor, a ludicrous expression of surprise and fear blending on his pudgy features, his right hand gripping the butt of a stubby Banker’s Special.

  “What are you doing here?” His voice trembled and he took a backward step, half-lifting the revolver to point it at Shayne.

  Shayne grinned and said placatingly, “I’m not going to rob your bank, Barstow. Point that thing the other way. I just wanted a word with you.”

  Barstow looked down at the revolver and lowered it hesitantly. “I can’t talk to you. I promised Mr. Painter I’d report to the police at once if you came back. He told me.…”

  “I’m sure Painter told you all sorts of things,” Shayne interrupted. “You can notify the police after you’ve answered a couple of questions.”

  “No, Mr. Shayne.” Barstow’s voice was still shaky, but it was doggedly determined. “You stand right where you are while I.…”

  Shayne lunged at him and his left hand shot out to engulf the short-barreled weapon in Barstow’s hand. He wrested it away from the bank teller and stepped back, dropping it into his coat pocket and growling, “You can call the cops later. Right now you’re going to listen to me.”

  Barstow wet his lips nervously and said, “But Mr. Painter told me he has proof you’re at least an accessory in Mr. Carson’s murder.”

  “He hasn’t proof of anything,” Shayne snorted. “Did he ask you any questions about the blackmail Carson has been paying recently?”

  “Blackmail? I don’t know what on earth you’re talking about.”

  “I think you do, Barstow. You’re his secretary and write all his letters. Oh, you may not have realized the payments were blackmail. No reason for him to tell you that. But you must know he was paying out money to a man named Jeffery Walsh.”

  “I don’t know anything about it,” Barstow insisted. “I don’t handle his private checkbook. He keeps that at home.”

  “But you’ve seen letters to Walsh … or from him. I want his address.”

  “I swear I haven’t. See here, Mr. Shayne.” Barstow was recovering his bravado now. “You haven’t any rights here. Mr. Martin and I know now that we were wrong in letting you in the bank today. You fooled us by claiming Mr. Carson had retained you, but we know now that he was killed last night before he ever reached your office. You got in here and went through his desk by false pretense today, and Mr. Painter says that’s a criminal offense. There’s a warrant out for your arrest right now.”
>
  “And you’re going to be a big brave boy scout and turn me in, huh?” growled Shayne.

  “I can’t do anything else. Even if you shoot me for it.”

  “Forgetting Carson’s checkbook and his payments to Walsh,” said Shayne swiftly. “When you wrote to the hotel and to me in Miami, making the reservation and an appointment, who else did he write to for an appointment? Maybe he didn’t use the name of Walsh.”

  “I don’t think … I’m sure he made no other appointments on this trip.”

  “Think, damn it.” Shayne stepped forward and caught his shoulder and shook him roughly. “Forget what Painter said about me. Remember, I cashed Carson’s check today which officially made him a client of mine even if he was dead at the time. I want to know who else he was seeing in Miami … particularly an address.”

  “You don’t have to manhandle me, Mr. Shayne,” said Barstow with sullen dignity as he tried to shake off Shayne’s hand. “I’m telling you the simple truth. So far as I know he planned to meet no one else in Miami.”

  Shayne tightened his grip on his shoulder and shook him again. “And you still insist you don’t know what he wanted from me?”

  “I have no idea. It wasn’t my place to ask Mr. Carson.”

  “But you had a damned good idea, didn’t you? You were afraid he’d got wind of your messing around with his wife and was hiring a detective to get evidence against her.”

  “I didn’t think that at all. I don’t know who you’ve been talking to, but there was never anything like that between Mrs. Carson and me. She’s a perfect lady and you’ve no earthly right to bandy her name around like that.”

  “Belle Carson? A perfect lady?” Shayne laughed sneeringly in an attempt to arouse the younger man to anger and loosen his tongue. “You spent last night with her while her husband was in Miami getting himself killed, didn’t you? Well, didn’t you?” He shook Barstow again and glared down at his suddenly ashen face.

  “I certainly did not. I don’t know who told you.…”

  “She did,” Shayne lied flatly. “Why did she if it isn’t true? Was she giving you an alibi for last night?”

  “I don’t believe she did. Why should I need an alibi?”

  “Maybe you don’t,” said Shayne slowly, releasing him and taking a backward step. “Maybe Belle is the one who needs an alibi for last night.”

  “Damn you and your nasty insinuations! I’m not going to listen to any more.” Barstow’s voice was high-pitched and shaky, but he turned away courageously and started down the corridor.

  Shayne took two long strides after him, caught him by the shoulder and spun him about. He said calmly, “I’m sorry, Barstow, but I still need a little time and your sense of civic duty bothers me.”

  He swung his right fist in a short arc that connected solidly with the teller’s blunt jaw, and the pudgy features went lax and he sank to the floor like a rag doll.

  Shayne stood over him breathing heavily for a moment, then stooped and got a clean handkerchief from Barstow’s breast pocket which he stuffed into his mouth. Another handkerchief from his own hip pocket completed a crude but effective gag, and with Barstow’s belt he strapped the unconscious man’s ankles together and trussed his wrists securely to them.

  Barstow’s eyes were closed, but his features were relaxed and he was breathing evenly when Shayne left him lying on the floor of the corridor and hurried out the back door.

  He had no idea how long the teller would remain like that without being discovered, but he could only hope it would be long enough for him to reach Miami before the alarm went out and a roadblock was set up to cut him off from his destination.

  15

  The highway from Denham to ft. Pierce on the coast led through a thinly-populated area with few villages along the way and very little traffic at that time of night. Shayne pushed his car hard to reach Ft. Pierce before Harvey Barstow was discovered and an alarm could be got out to intercept him on that stretch of highway because he knew it would be worse than useless to stop along the way and attempt to switch cars.

  But from Ft. Pierce to Miami was the main North-South highway patrolled by state and local police, and he knew it would be running a dangerous gauntlet to try and cover that stretch in his own car whose description must certainly have been broadcast during the afternoon.

  Accordingly, he turned off on a side road approaching Ft. Pierce, followed a circuitous route into the northern outskirts of the city and stopped at the first parking lot he reached. With a parking ticket in his pocket, he breathed a sigh of relief as he hailed a taxi outside the parking lot and asked to be driven to a rental car agency. His luck was still holding. Behind the wheel of a rented car he had a fair chance of reaching Miami unmolested.

  With his driver’s license and enough cash to lay on the line for a sizable deposit, it took him only ten minutes in the agency before driving away behind the wheel of a flashy new-model sedan. From there southward, he obeyed the speed laws and traffic regulations meticulously, and was relaxed enough in the driver’s seat to do some serious thinking for the first time since he had left the Carson house in Denham.

  The flesh wound in his left bicep didn’t actually bother him, but the stinging of it was a constant reminder of the bullet that had broken up his tete-a-tete with Belle. He had a vivid memory of that one glimpse of the pale, hawklike features of his attacker (or, had he been Belle’s attacker?) and he knew very well he had never seen the man before.

  Who was he, and how did he fit into the picture? Had he been stalking Belle outside her side porch, or had he been hiding there in wait for Shayne to return? In either case, why?

  There were other questions bothering him as he drove steadily in the stream of night traffic toward Miami. Who, for instance, was the “Whitey” to whom Belle had referred? She had said that she thought at first that Whitey had “sent” him to Denham.

  Somehow, the name took his thoughts back to that afternoon in Atlanta and the conversation with the Peases. He didn’t know why, but somehow there seemed to be some vague connection in his subconscious mind that took him back to that scene each time he thought about a man named “Whitey.” Yet, he was positive the name hadn’t been mentioned by either Mr. or Mrs. Pease. Nor by anyone else in Miami.

  But there was something about a lumber magnate named Barnett who had been Richard Watson’s employer. A kidnapping that had made the headlines at the time. That statement had struck some chord in Shayne’s memory at the time, but the Peases had assured him it had nothing to do with the Watsons, and he had pushed the nagging recollection away from him.

  Now he tried to get it back. Whitey and the kidnapping of a boy named Barnett some years ago! There was some connection between the name of Whitey and Barnett, but he couldn’t pull it out of the depths of his subconscious in which it was buried.

  He made the drive to Miami without incident, and turned off the Boulevard at 79th Street to avoid city traffic. Pulling into a filling station at the intersection, he went into a telephone booth and dialled the number of the Daily News. He caught Timothy Rourke in the City Room, and grinned wryly at the exclamation that came over the wire when he said casually, “Hi, Tim.”

  “Mike! My God, man, where are you? Wait a minute. Don’t tell me,” the reporter went on hastily. “Latest flash here is that you gunned a banker’s widow in Denham, and slugged a cop there. Have you gone hog-wild crazy, Mike?”

  “Not quite. Does the name Whitey mean anything to you, Tim?”

  “Just … Whitey? Wait a minute. Yeh, but I don’t know what.”

  “How about Barnett? A kidnapping in Atlanta a few years ago.”

  “Sure. I did a local story on that. They arrested the guy here. Wait … another … minute, Mike. There was something on that recently. Whitey? Damned if I know, Mike.”

  “Check on it,” said Shayne swiftly. “The whole story is in the morgue. Get everything and sit there, Tim, until I call back. It won’t be long.”

  “Hey, wait! J
ust what in hell …?”

  But Shayne hung up fast, hurried out and drove across the Bay and followed the shoreline south to the Park Plaza apartments.

  There was a man at the desk tonight, and a different girl before the switchboard. Shayne held his breath as he stopped at the desk and asked casually, “Is Jeffery Walsh in?”

  He could be wrong so easily. This was a wild shot in the dark, but it was the only thing he had to go on. If Walsh wasn’t the man whom Carson had telephoned the previous night …?

  But his hunch paid off. He exhaled a long satisfied breath as the clerk said briskly, “I believe Mr. Walsh is in. Would you like to phone up?” He nodded toward a house phone. “Number six ten.”

  Shayne lifted the instrument and asked for 610. A man’s voice said, “Yes?” and Shayne said swiftly, blurring the words together, “Hi, Jeff. Glad you’re in. Be right up.”

  He replaced the phone, nodded to the clerk and went back to a self-service elevator and up to the 6th floor. A lot depended on whether Barstow had been found yet, whether Shayne’s conversation with him had been transmitted to Painter, and how fast the detective chief would be to connect the name of Jeffery Walsh with the telephone call Carson had made to the Park Plaza the preceding evening. It was a cinch that Painter had a record of the call and would have made the same sort of routine check Shayne had tried that morning. And it was an obvious deduction, once he had the name of Walsh entering into the case, to reach the same conclusion Shayne had reached. It was all a matter of timing, and if the Beach cops had reached Walsh first there was sure to be a stakeout which Shayne would walk into as soon as he opened the elevator door on the 6th floor.

  He opened the door and stepped out into a wide, well-lit, and empty hallway. An arrow on the wall in front of him pointed to the left with the numbers, 600–620.

  He strode to the left and around a corner and rapped lightly on a door numbered 610.

  It opened immediately and a tall, thin-faced man stared out at him. Walsh had brown hair that was getting thin on top, crafty blue eyes in a cadaverous face with flaring ears on each side. He was in shirtsleeves and without a tie, and clutched a highball in one hand. He squinted at the redhead and blocked the entrance, demanding, “You the guy just phoned? I don’t know you, do I?”