Pay-Off in Blood ms-41

by Brett Halliday

  “No. His wallet was intact… but no key-ring.”

  “Why in hell,” asked Shayne thoughtfully, “would his murderer make the effort and risk the danger of going to his office and emptying that strongbox? What was in it to make it worthwhile?”

  “You tell me,” suggested Painter.

  “If none of these other things had happened,” said Shayne slowly, “I would assume the strongbox held some documents that referred to the matter the doctor was being blackmailed about. But why would he keep them? And why would someone want to get hold of them after he had already paid off?”

  “Because they identified the blackmailer,” said Painter quickly.

  “But if the guy who got the money wasn’t the actual blackmailer…?”

  They looked at each other for a long moment, and each man helplessly shook his head in bafflement.

  “One more thing I wanted to ask you,” Shayne said briskly after a moment. “That thirty-two automatic you found beside the body. Was it the murder weapon?”

  “Ballistics says it was. And it’s registered in Dr. Ambrose’s name. He’s had a permit for years. Are you sure he wasn’t carrying it last night, Shayne?”

  “No,” said Shayne truthfully. “I didn’t shake him down. I don’t think he was lying to me, though.”

  “There’s nothing to indicate it was taken out of the glove compartment,” muttered Painter. “In fact, very careful chemical tests practically rule out the possibility that the gun has been in the glove compartment for months at least. If he normally kept it at his office…”

  “His nurse swears he didn’t,” Shayne told him.

  “What’s that? Have you talked to Miss Jackson?”

  “This morning. I drove her over to the doctor’s house, where she’s going to spend a few days with the bereaved widow. Who, by the way, looked pretty spiffy this morning. Miss Jackson claims he had mentioned owning a gun to her, and said he kept it at home.”

  Painter drummed impatiently on the top of his desk with his small fingertips. “She was dead drunk when he was getting himself shot in their driveway.”

  Shayne nodded agreeably. “So that puts her in the clear.”

  He glanced at his watch and stood up, stretching and yawning. “I guess that just about winds it up.”

  “What did you mean by that last statement?” demanded Chief Peter Painter suspiciously.

  Shayne looked at him benignly. “Doesn’t it?”

  “Wind it up?” demanded Painter.

  Shayne looked surprised. “I thought you meant my saying that Celia Ambrose seems to be in the clear.”

  “Why shouldn’t she be? My God, do you think she shot her husband… with a quart of vodka inside her?”

  “Doesn’t seem reasonable,” Shayne agreed amiably. “I’ve got a luncheon date.”

  He strode out of the Chief of Detectives’ office, and went down a corridor to a side exit leading out to the parking area and his car.

  The Doubloon Restaurant was on the ocean front, halfway north toward 79th Street.

  Shayne turned his car over to a parking attendant and went into the dimly-lighted interior. It was just 12:20 when he entered. He stopped and peered around at the half-dozen waiting people in the small foyer without seeing Lucy, and went on to the entrance to the dining room where the headwaiter greeted him:

  “Mr. Shayne! You are lunching alone?”

  Shayne said, “No. My secretary is meeting me. You know Miss Hamilton?”

  “But, yes. She is… I think not come yet.”

  Shayne said, “Good. I can use a drink or two. I’ll be at the bar.”

  He turned to the left to a small bar, where he found an empty stool and sat down. He ordered a sidecar and lit a cigarette, and wondered what was keeping Lucy Hamilton so long.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Shayne had his second sidecar in front of him when he felt a light tap on his shoulder and turned his head to look into Lucy Hamilton’s dancing brown eyes.

  He regarded her sourly and demanded, “All right. What should a detective look like?”

  “They’re mostly flat-footed, fat slobs. Which you aren’t.” Lucy linked her arm in his. “They’ve got a table for us.”

  Shayne slid off the bar-stool and nodded to the bartender. “I’ll finish my drink at the table.” He went into the dining room with his secretary, and when they were seated, she confided to him, “Mrs. Ambrose doesn’t like you, Michael. I think she suspects you’re in league with the gamblers who she is convinced killed her husband. On the other hand… that big bitch of a nurse. Oh, my!” Lucy widened her eyes laughingly. “She thinks you’re pretty much of a guy. Darned if she doesn’t practically blush every time your name is mentioned. How did you get so well acquainted with her so fast, Michael?”

  He shrugged and said blandly, “We rolled on the floor together last night. There’s nothing like a fast roll on the floor to induce lasting friendship.”

  A waiter set his drink in front of him, and Lucy wrinkled her nose. “For a man who was headed straight for bed last evening, you appear to have had a pretty full night. Can I have a sidecar, too?”

  He said, “Sure,” and nodded to the waiter and waved aside the menus offered them. “We’ll order when you bring her drink. What did you manage to find out, Lucy?”

  “Not much. Nothing important, I’m afraid. The Ambroses led a quiet, orderly, and seemingly circumspect life. He was very well regarded professionally, and had a thriving practice. They didn’t go out a great deal, and almost never entertained at home. Celia was regarded as something of a recluse, and didn’t encourage neighborhood friendships.”

  “A lush?” demanded Shayne.

  “Possibly. I guess I should make that probably. There was some reluctance to discuss her personal habits in the light of what happened last night, but I got several hints that she was in the habit of hitting the bottle at home alone. But she didn’t bother anybody or do it in public, and her neighbors are inclined to be charitable.”

  “No financial difficulties?”

  “That…” Lucy hesitated as the waiter set a sidecar in front of her. Shayne told him, “We’d both like the stuffed French pancakes… flambe. Make it a la carte, with coffee later.” He raised ragged, red eyebrows at Lucy. “You were about to say?”

  “It is the neighborhood consensus that they lived quite frugally… considering the doctor’s estimated income. This could be due to his over-fondness for the bookies and the bangtails.”

  “Lucy Hamilton! The slang you do pick up.”

  “All in the day’s work as a representative of the Women’s Civic Betterment Association.” She wrinkled her nice nose at him over her cocktail glass. “I think I pulled that off pretty damn well.”

  “That’s something I want to take up with you. Why the devil did you come barging in at the Ambrose house when you must have seen my car parked outside? You could have waited until I left.”

  “I didn’t notice your car, Michael. I swear I didn’t. I was just as surprised as you were when I walked in. Anyhow, the widow Ambrose confided in me that she didn’t trust you one little bit and had no intention of answering any of your questions.”

  Shayne said, “She’ll have to answer them later.”

  “What sort of questions?”

  “Mostly about the doctor’s pistol… which she claims was at his office and Belle says he kept at home. Also, I’d like to know what time of day she started drinking yesterday.”

  “Belle?” said Lucy, wrinkling her nose at him again and finishing her cocktail with a gratified sigh. “You know something, Michael?”

  “Probably not. What?”

  “I got a strange feeling that neither one of those gals is actually and honestly and truly mourning the doctor’s demise.”

  Shayne stared across the table at her for a long moment, very soberly. “What gave you that impression?”

  “I just picked it up out of the air.” Lucy made a little deprecating gesture. “They were both gu
shing about ‘Dear Doctor’, but, damn it, it just didn’t seem to ring true.” The waiter wheeled up a serving-table with a blue-flamed alcohol burner on it and a silver platter above the flame carrying four small pancakes, rolled about a creamed mixture of chicken wings and giblets. He poured warm brandy over the rolls and tilted the platter to catch flames from the burner, and served them on hot plates as the brandy burned out.

  “Then you don’t think Belle was carrying a torch for him?”

  “The only person that female is carrying a torch for is big and broad-shouldered and red-headed, and he’s seated right across from me this minute,” retorted Lucy. “As for Celia: she lives in a sort of little dream-world of her own that’s difficult to penetrate.”

  They were both silent for a time while they attacked their delicious stuffed pancakes with gusto. When Lucy sighed and slowed down, she said, “You know, you haven’t told me very much about the Ambrose case, Michael. You did say he was being blackmailed, and I know you got yourself beaten up and kicked around last night, but that’s about all I do know.”

  Shayne said, “I don’t know a lot more than that. There are several curious angles. Like somebody taking a flashbulb picture of the blackmail pay-off… certain indications that the money was paid to the wrong person… and an empty strongbox in the doctor’s office soon after he was knocked off.” He frowned and forked up the last scrap of chicken from his plate, shaking his head in perplexity. “None of them add up to very much. Ready for coffee?”

  Lucy nodded. “And then I’d better get back to the office, hadn’t I? Your mention of the flash-bulb picture reminds me of Mrs. Montgomery and her boy, Cecil. I told you she was pretty vague about his trouble, but I’m afraid he got his picture taken last night, too… in some sort of embarrassing circumstances. Did I tell you she mentioned money, Michael? To the effect that it was no object?”

  He said, “No, Lucy. You didn’t mention that.” He looked at her consideringly, tugging at his left ear-lobe while the waiter removed their plates and put coffee in front of them.

  He said, “That’s most interesting. Do you remember her telephone number?”

  “No. It was a Miami number. I’ve got it written down on my pad.”

  “Just what did this Mrs. Montgomery say, Lucy?”

  “You weren’t interested before,” she protested. “You just gave her the brush-off. Let her get another detective, you said, with a wave of your hand.”

  “I’m interested now. Try to remember what she said.”

  “I never knew you to be so money-hungry, Michael. All right, all right,” said Lucy hastily. “Let me see. She wanted to see Mr. Shayne at once. It was very important, and I was to tell you that money was no object. You were to drop whatever else you were doing to see her.

  “When I explained that you didn’t take cases just for money, and asked for details, she said that she was afraid her boy, Cecil, had been very indiscreet last night and had been caught in the act by a photographer.

  “I told her as sweetly as I could that you aren’t particularly interested in juvenile delinquents, and she interrupted to say icily that Cecil wasn’t really a little boy… past thirty, in fact, even though he hadn’t yet reached the age of discretion. And that’s about all, Michael. I promised you’d call her as soon as you came in… and her telephone didn’t answer when I did call. You remember?”

  Shayne nodded brusquely. He took a sip of hot coffee and set the cup down, reaching for his wallet. “Drink yours up, Lucy. And then let’s get back to the office.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Lucy Hamilton had her own car at the restaurant, and the doorman whistled hers up before Shayne’s. She pulled away with a wave of her hand, and the detective followed her across to the mainland a few minutes later.

  He didn’t speed crossing the Causeway, but drove slowly in a relaxed and meditative mood, mentally going over and over the unanswered questions in the Ambrose case, and still coming up with no answers that fitted the facts as he knew them.

  The outer door of his office stood open when he got out of the elevator, and Lucy was already bending over her desk and looking at her pad when he walked in. She glanced around to ask, “Shall I try to get Mrs. Montgomery now?”

  He nodded, and crossed over to settle one hip on the low railing beside her desk.

  She sat down and dialled a number. He lit a cigarette while she said briskly, “Mrs. Montgomery, please. Michael Shayne’s office calling.”

  There was a pause and then Lucy said, “Mrs. Montgomery? Mr. Shayne… returning your call.”

  She handed the instrument to him, and he said, “Shayne speaking.”

  “I must say, Mr. Shayne, that you’re very lax about returning my call.” She didn’t really sound particularly sweet or little or old to Shayne. Her voice was brittle and dry.

  He said, “My secretary tried to get you as soon as I came in this morning, and got no answer. Since then, I’ve been… occupied.”

  “H-m-m. Trying to keep your own skirts clean in the Ambrose murder, I presume.”

  “What do you know about that?”

  “I read the newspapers and even watch television occasionally. Has the case been solved yet?”

  “Not to my knowledge.”

  She said peremptorily, “I must see you at once. Come to this address.” She gave him a street number in the Southeast bay area, one of the older and more expensive residential sections of the city, and her telephone clicked decisively.

  Shayne passed his phone back to Lucy, and she looked at him with eager curiosity as she replaced it. He rubbed his chin reflectively and said, “It may tie up with Ambrose somehow. I’ll go out and see her.”

  The Montgomery residence was in reality a mansion. One of those old, three-story, coral stone monstrosities built in the early 1900’s in the center of its own stonewalled and lavishly landscaped acres. It was one of those that had refused the blandishments and the million-dollar offers of land speculators in the Twenties, and remained aloof and alone in this backwash of the modern city.

  The grounds were untended now, a mass of tropical verdure that had taken over the formal gardens of yesteryear, and the old stone house was weathered and desolate in appearance.

  Shayne parked under a wide porte-cochere in front that was rampant with flaming bougainvillea, and when he cut off his motor he was surrounded by hushed silence and the overpowering incense of magnolia blossoms.

  He got out and mounted stone steps to a wide veranda with worn, creaking boards underfoot, crossed to heavy, double oak doors where a large, wrought-iron knocker was seemingly the only way a visitor could announce his presence. He tried the knocker skeptically, and was surprised when the door opened at once. A trim young girl, wearing a maid’s black dress and a maid’s wispy, white apron stood in front of him, and, beyond her, he saw a dim, vaulted hallway, leading into the cavernous depths of the house.

  She said, “Mr. Shayne?” and, when he nodded, she stepped back and said, “Madam expects you. Come this way, please.”

  Shayne followed her down the long hall for at least forty feet, past closed doors on both sides, to an archway with portieres, which she parted for him to enter.

  The room was pleasant and well-lighted by a chandelier and wall-sconces on all sides, carpeted from wall to wall with a light blue rug that gave back a springy feel to his feet, pleasantly furnished with good, modern furniture that harmonized with the rug and the golden-flecked wallpaper.

  Mrs. Montgomery sat facing him across the room, in a wheelchair with big, rubber-tired wheels. She was a large, grossly-fat woman, with completely white hair that needed brushing, snapping black eyes, almost hidden by the rolls of fat on her face, wearing an absurdly youthful bed-jacket of baby-blue silk with peek-a-boo lace strained over the bulging breasts and threaded with pink ribbons tied in bow-knots at the throat and short sleeves. A knitted afghan was tucked in at the sides of the chair to cover the lower portion of her body.

  There was something gr
otesque and something frightening about her silent scrutiny as Shayne hesitated on the other side of the room, and the words, “sweet,” “little,” and “old” flashed through his mind.

  Her voice was unexpectedly resonant and placid now. “Well, Mr. Shayne. You needn’t stand there gawking. Sit down and I’ll ring for a drink, if you like.”

  Shayne said, “Thank you. It’s a little too early-right after lunch.”

  He crossed to a blue-brocaded chair she indicated and sat down.

  She cackled with unexpected mirth. “I didn’t know it was ever too early for a private eye to accept a free drink. Perhaps I should have phrased it: ‘Be my guest’?”

  Shayne said, “You’ve been watching too much television.”

  “Possibly. Now then: aren’t you thoroughly ashamed of yourself, Mr. Shayne?”

  “What for?” he asked in complete surprise.

  “For encouraging and abetting blackmail, of course! Don’t you agree that a blackmailer is the most loathsome human being on earth? You don’t need to answer that,” she added sharply. “It’s already quite evident that you don’t. Probably you have no morals whatsoever.”

  Shayne couldn’t repress a grin. “What is all this about blackmail?”

  “Don’t play coy with me, Mr. Shayne. Please. I’m an old woman, confined to a wheelchair, but that’s no reason for you to treat me like a half-wit. I’m talking about the pay-off you arranged and supervised for Dr. Ambrose last night at the Seacliff Restaurant. You’re not going to sit there and deny it, are you?”

  Shayne said, “I’m not denying anything, but what do you know about it?”

  She leaned forward and peered into his face with shining, suspicious, black shoe-button eyes behind a roll of fat. “Don’t pretend to me that you are unaware that it was my son, Cecil, who participated in that unwholesome affair.”

  “I was until this moment,” he told her honestly. “Is Cecil the one with a crew-cut?”

  “Yes. Cecil persists in that childish haircut. Who did the doctor tell you he was meeting last night?”