The plane taxied away to the end of a long runway, hesitated there almost imperceptibly and then moved forward with a whoosh and was swiftly airborne.
When the NO-SMOKING sign winked out, Shayne got a cigarette from his pocket and hesitated with it halfway to his lips, turning his head to say, “I hope you don’t mind if I smoke.”
The woman seated beside him chuckled heartily and said, “I think that’s the first time I’ve heard that question for at least ten years. Of course not. I’ll join you.”
She opened a large black leather handbag in her lap and took out a pack of king-size filtered cigarettes, and Shayne struck another match for her.
Ten years! Her casual words reminded him of the letter in his pocket signed Elsa Cornell. He adjusted his seat so it reclined a little more, leaned back and half-closed his eyes, consciously concentrating for the first time since reading the letter on going back over a period of ten years and trying to dredge up some memory out of his subconscious.
Ten years ago? That was well after the New Orleans period. The actual years were blurred in his memory, but he ticked them off more or less after his return to Miami by recalling the most important cases he had handled during that period.
Ten years ago? That would have been about the year that Brett Halliday made his trip to New York and got tangled up in a murder case of his own and had to call Shayne by long distance to fly up and extricate him from it. When Halliday chronicled that case in a book he had titled it She Woke to Darkness.
Working back from that date (probably no more than nine years ago, Shayne thought) there had been the murder of Ralph Carrol by his wife Nora. Nora who had awakened Shayne so unconventionally in his bedroom that night, calmly disrobing herself as though she intended to crawl into bed with him.
Then a sudden thought struck him and sent a queer tingle through his body. That was just about the time of the Sara Morton case, the one Halliday had called This is It, Michael Shayne.
It, too, had opened with a Special Delivery letter addressed to him and containing the torn half of a bill. Only, that had been a five-hundred-dollar bill, he recalled. Well, that was inflation.
That time, he had discovered the other half of the bill clutched in the dead woman’s hand.
Now, ten or twelve years later, was history repeating itself? Was that how he would get the other half of the bill that now reposed in his pocket?
It was mixed-up and crazy, but maybe it wasn’t so crazy. If the woman who signed herself Elsa Cornell had been around when the Morton case broke, the circumstances surrounding the case might have impressed themselves so much upon her that she had used the same device, now that she needed his help.
That was the period he should concentrate on. From the time of Sara Morton’s death to his flying trip to New York to get Halliday out of a jam. Shayne sucked slowly on his cigarette, keeping his eyes closed while he sought to relive those couple of years, to conjure up the memory of some woman he had met at that time who might have written the letter in his pocket.
Nothing of importance came to him. He mashed out his cigarette and breathed in deeply, trying to catch a hint of the scent from his pocket, remembering what Lucy had suggested about a woman hoping he might remember her perfume for ten years, but fresh air was circulating in the plane now and all trace of the odor had vanished.
He sighed and opened his eyes, sat up a little straighter and got out another cigarette. He glanced aside as he did so, and saw that the woman was intently reading a pocket book.
He froze with the cigarette between his lips and match held ready to strike when he read the title of the book his seatmate was reading.
It was She Woke to Darkness by Brett Halliday. His friend’s account of the case in New York which had occurred approximately ten years ago.
Pure coincidence? Quite possibly. Sure. It wasn’t a rare occurrence for Shayne to see some complete stranger reading one of Halliday’s books. With thirty million copies of them sold in soft cover editions, it would have been queerer if you didn’t run onto one of them now and then. And Shayne also knew that She Woke to Darkness had recently been reissued in a new cover and there were probably several hundred thousand copies of it in the hands of readers throughout the country.
So it wasn’t such an impossible coincidence after all. But, damn it! That first scent of perfume as the woman sat beside him. Her use of the two words “ten years” when she answered his first question.
Were those coincidences too? Why not? Shayne asked himself grimly. What else did they add up to?
Well, let’s see. Someone knew he was due to be on this plane. If that someone wanted to contact him before he reached Los Angeles…?
Nuts! Why all this hocus-pocus? Anyone who wanted to contact him on the plane would have a picture to identify him by. It was sheer E. Phillips Oppenheim stuff to think that this quiet and practical woman who sat beside him had any connection with the torn and perfumed half of a thousand-dollar bill.
And yet, he had an uneasy feeling that the whole thing had come straight out of Oppenheim.
He struck his match and put flame to the tip of his cigarette and inhaled deeply. He heard a lighter click beside him, and turned to see that his companion had turned the book down in her lap and lit a cigarette of her own. With the title staring up at him boldly, Shayne lifted a ragged red eyebrow at it and asked, “Do you read a lot of those?”
She nodded. “They’ve been my chief source of relaxation for years. Certain authors…” She hesitated. “Are you familiar with the Mike Shayne stories?”
“Some of them,” he said cautiously. “Written by a fellow named Brett Halliday, aren’t they?”
“Yes. I’ve read every one I could find. They’re laid in Miami, you know?”
Shayne said, “I know.”
“That’s why I find this one just a trifle disappointing. The story opens in New York, and Mike Shayne isn’t even there. I’m almost half through and still waiting for Mike to come in. I like the stories that start with a mysterious client coming into his office to consult him, and then going straight on with Mike all the way.”
Shayne nodded gravely. “I think I remember some of them opening up with his getting a phone call… or a letter… asking him to go some place.”
“It’s the same thing. But I want Mike in right from the start. He’s the one we’re interested in, and the author should realize it.”
Shayne sucked moodily on his cigarette and didn’t reply to this. Either she knew who he was, or she didn’t. Either she was needling him, or she was just a fatuous mystery fan who would likely faint if he told her who he was.
“Did you see that atrocious TeeVee series they had on the air for awhile? On Friday nights.”
“I saw a couple of them,” he admitted uncomfortably. “Don’t watch TeeVee very much.”
“I don’t either as a rule. But when I saw it announced they were making a series based on the Michael Shayne books, I just couldn’t wait. But they were terrible. Not like the books at all. They changed the characters around. Made Tim Rourke, the reporter you know, into a young whippersnapper. And they dreamed up a kid brother for his secretary. And then the actor who played Shayne! No more like him than anything. You know how Mike Shayne is described in the books. Big and tough and redheaded. Sort of like you, really. Well, I don’t mean you look tough,” she amended. “But I don’t think of Mike as looking tough either, not outwardly.”
She was turned toward him now, studying him frankly with sparkling eyes. His left hand was going up subconsciously to tug at his left earlobe in a characteristic gesture which Halliday had often described in his books, and he caught himself just in time to refrain from doing it.
He said, “Yeh. The TeeVee shows were pretty bad, all right. I guess that’s why they went off the air. Do you live in Los Angeles?”
“No. Detroit. But I’ve got a sister in Los Angeles.” She went on to tell him about her sister and her sister’s children, and Shayne was relieved when the
stewardess came down the aisle taking orders for complimentary preluncheon drinks. They had no cognac, of course, and Shayne settled for Scotch and water, and after luncheon his seat-mate yawned prettily and slipped her unfinished paperback into her purse and napped the rest of the trip leaving Shayne still wondering what the strange interchange had meant, if anything.
He had no further clue by the time they reached their destination. The stewardess nudged her awake when it was time to fasten her seat belt, and she did not resume the conversation.
Neither did Shayne. He decided the whole thing was preposterous and promptly forgot about her when she disappeared ahead of him in the crowded terminal and he looked for a taxi.
It was a little after two o’clock Los Angeles time when he got in a taxi and asked the driver if he knew the Plaza Terrace Hotel in Beverly Hills. The driver hesitated and then said, “On Sunset, isn’t it?”
Shayne said, “Yeh,” and settled back to enjoy his first taxi ride in Los Angeles traffic for many years. He did enjoy it too. As he always enjoyed riding in a taxi in a strange city. This driver knew his business, by God. He had to know his business to make any sort of time through the honking, tumultuous melee that was Los Angeles.
Thus, it was two-fifty when he deposited the redhead and his briefcase in front of a quiet hotel set well back in a palm-shaded lawn off Sunset Boulevard. Shayne paid an exorbitant taxi bill and went out of the brilliant sunlight into a dimly cool lobby that looked old fashioned and genteel with a sprinkling of elderly ladies ensconced in soft-cushioned chairs.
The clerk behind the desk looked dapper and genteel. He had thin lips, a sharp nose and a beautifully tanned bald head which he shook regretfully from side to side when Shayne inquired for Elsa Cornell.
“I’m sorry, sir,” he said positively. “We have no one named Cornell.”
Shayne put his big hands flat on the counter. “I think it will be a recent registration. Possibly last night or this morning. Please check it carefully.”
The clerk shrugged to indicate that the most careful checking in the world couldn’t possibly turn up a guest named Cornell in his hotel, but he turned about and went through the obvious motions of checking an alphabetical guest list before turning back with another shake of his head. “No Cornell, sir.”
Shayne said, “Possibly she has left a message for me. I’ve just flown in from Miami and was to meet her here between two-thirty and three o’clock. My name is Shayne. Michael Shayne. It’s extremely important,” he added.
The clerk thumbed through some messages in a box behind the desk, and then lifted a house phone and spoke into it. Again, he turned back with a shake of his head. “There is no record of any call or message, Mr. Shayne.”
A muscle jumped in Shayne’s cheek. He pulled the envelope from his pocket, extracted the letter and checked it. “This is the Plaza Terrace Hotel on Sunset Boulevard in Beverly Hills?”
“It certainly is that.”
“There’s no other Plaza Terrace Hotel?”
“Not in Beverly Hills, I’m positive. Nor in the entire metropolitan area of Los Angeles to my knowledge.” Shayne drummed his knuckles lightly on the desk and glanced at his watch. He still had Miami time, slightly past six o’clock. He glanced at an electric clock on the wall to reassure himself that there was three hours difference. It said two minutes past three.
A woman came up to stand hesitantly beside him, and the clerk said. “Excuse me, sir.” And brightly, to her, “What can I do for you, Mrs. Somerset?”
The feeling of doubt and unease that had been building up inside Michael Shayne for several hours became stronger and stronger as he waited for the clerk to take care of Mrs. Somerset. When she turned away, he asked abruptly, “Do you have a house detective on duty?”
“Security Office is around the corner. Second door on your right. But I’m afraid I don’t quite see…”
Shayne lifted his briefcase and strode around the corner without waiting to find out what the clerk didn’t quite see. He rapped on the second door on his right, then turned the knob and went in.
A small man sat behind a large desk in the center of the office with a hand of solitaire spread out in front of him. He was in the act of dropping a red ten on a black jack, and he started guiltily when he saw his visitor was a stranger. He straightened up and blinked at the redhead and said aggrievedly, “I didn’t hear you knock.”
Shayne said, “Sorry.” He closed the door and advanced to the desk, dropped his briefcase beside it. “I’ve got a funny thing… wish you’d check for me.”
“You a guest?”
Shayne shook his head. “I just flew in from Miami, Florida. My name is Shayne. I had a very important appointment with a woman client who was supposed to register here under the name of Elsa Cornell and be waiting for me between two-thirty and three. The guy at the desk claims he never heard of her.”
“Claims? Why should he lie about it?”
“I don’t know.” Shayne dragged off his hat and clawed at his hair. He pulled a straight chair closer to the desk and sat down. “It’s a screwy business all around. I’ll tell you, but first how about lighting a fire under the clerk and the switchboard? Make them be damn sure there’s no message for Michael Shayne from anybody… particularly Elsa Cornell.”
“Michael Shayne? From Miami? Sa-ay. You had a TeeVee show, didn’t you?”
“Don’t hold it against me. Light that fire, huh?”
“You bet I will. My name’s Pat Ryan.” He lifted a phone on his desk, pressed a button and spoke into it. He listened and spoke again, then pressed another button and did the same. He hung up, shaking his head. “They swear there’s nothing. I told them to put it through in here if anything came. Well, whaddayou know? Mike Shayne, huh? Just in from Miami?”
“Straight from the airport.” Shayne shrugged and got a cigarette going. “First time I’ve been this far west for God knows how many years.”
“You haven’t missed much. It’s a real rat race out here now. Little early in the day for a drink, I guess,” he said hopefully.
Shayne grinned and reminded him, “Hell, it’s past six in Miami.”
“How right you are,” chuckled Pat Ryan. He pulled a desk drawer open, apologizing, “Sorry we don’t stock cognac in this dump. If I’d known Mike Shayne was dropping in…”
He lifted out a pint bottle of rye and some paper cups. Shayne looked at the label on the bottle in distaste, and reached down to pull his briefcase closer and open it. “Cognac coming up.” He set the full fifth on the desk with a flourish and tore the foil around the cork with his thumbnail.
“By God, you’re a real boy scout,” beamed Ryan. “Be prepared, huh? Say, you like water on the side don’t you?”
“If it’s handy.”
Ryan got to his feet and hurried out with two cups which he brought back filled with water just as his telephone rang.
He picked it up while Shayne poured cognac, listened a moment and said, “Send him into my office. Shayne is right here.”
He hung up and told the redhead, “Taxi driver at the desk asking for you.”
Shayne said, “Swell,” and took an appreciative sip of cognac. Ryan went to the door and opened it as the taxi driver came around the corner. He was a thin-faced young man, wearing a peaked cap jauntily. He looked inquiringly at Ryan and asked, “Your name Mike Shayne?”
“Inside.” Ryan stood aside for him to enter the small office. He grinned when he saw the rangy redhead at the desk with the bottle of cognac and paper cups on it.
“That’s more like what I expected. She said you was that famous shamus from Miami. My name’s Joe Pelter, Shayne.” He held out a sinewy, freckled hand and Shayne grasped it heartily. He said, “Glad to meet you, Joe. Who is she?”
“Fare I just had in my cab. A knockout, by God.” He widened his eyes and whistled expressively. “Real class, but jittery and scared to death if you ask me. She gives me this to deliver to you. In person, she says. Be sure Mike Shayne g
ets it. It’s a matter of life and death, she says, and by God the way she says it, I believe her.” From his shirt pocket he took out two folded sheets of paper torn from a small memo pad that were covered with words shakily written with a thin lead pencil.
Shayne took it from him and said to Ryan, “Why don’t you pour Joe a drink, Pat, while I read this?”
Ryan said, “Sure,” and got out another cup, and Shayne wrinkled his nose at the faint scent that came up from the two small sheets of paper, and read the message:
Mr. Shayne:
I’m in a taxi on my way to meet you but am being followed. I know I am. I will have the driver drop me at the Beverly Hilton where there are several exits and I should be able to escape from him.
Please go direct to the Brown Derby and get a table for lunch or drinks and leave your name with the head-waiter. I will join you there as soon as it is safe.
Elsa
Some of the words were hard to make out and Shayne frowned at it thoughtfully, comparing it in his mind with the flowing script of the note in his pocket, and decided it was the same, having been written in a moving car. He held it close to his nose and sniffed, and knew that the scent was certainly the same.
He looked to see Ryan and the cab driver regarding him curiously, and Joe grinned and said, “Smells good, huh? Just the way that dame looked.”
Shayne said, “Tell me about her, Joe. Where did you pick her up?”
“On Hollywood near Vine. I figure she’s an actress, you know. Real class. She gets in and tells me the Plaza Terrace, and I’m driving along taking some ganders at her in the mirror, you know, because you don’t get something like that in a cab very often, not in Los Angeles, you don’t. And I notice her twisting and looking worried out the back, and after a minute she asks if I think we’re being followed, and I check the best I can, but it’s hard to tell for sure in heavy traffic. Then she gets a little pad out of her bag and starts writing on it, and suddenly she tells me to drop her off at the Beverly Hilton instead of here, and asks if I’ll come on here and deliver this note to you. That’s when she did the life-and-death piece, and I told her sure I would. So she had it folded up with a five-dollar bill and she passed it over the back of the seat just as we pulled up at the Hilton, and jumped out and went inside fast. Say, this here is damn good drinking liquor. Cognac, huh?” He drained his cup and looked thirstily at the bottle.
Never Kill a Client Page 2
