Murder by Proxy

by Brett Halliday

  Shayne said forcibly, “I brought a friend, first… a reporter, second. I promised Harris that I’d have this picture in the newspaper with a story about her disappearance this afternoon unless I was convinced it could not possibly be helpful. I don’t give one goddamn what you or Peter Painter or the Miami Beach Chamber of Commerce think about it, I’ve been hired by Harris to find his wife. Tim Rourke is here with me to decide whether we print her picture and story… and just what sort of story we print, if any. I’m the one who’s going to decide what’s best. Rourke will abide by my decision. You’re lucky to have it handled this way,” he insisted. “If another paper gets onto it…”

  Robert Merrill smiled mirthlessly. “The whole thing is dynamite, Mike.” He hesitated, frowning down at the picture of Ellen Harris on his desk. “I think you’d better hear what we’ve got. Without this picture, we haven’t even got a definite identification.”

  He leaned over his desk and spoke into a concealed intercom built into the surface of it: “Have Lawford relieved at the desk and come in. And I’ll want that bellboy, Bill Thompson, after Lawford.” He leaned back in his chair and sighed deeply. “At a time like this I’m damned glad I’ve stayed a bachelor all my life.”

  Michael Shayne didn’t reply to this. He knew that Timothy Rourke was watching him from the side, and he wondered if Tim was thinking about Phyllis. Merrill, of course, didn’t know about Phyllis. There was a knock on the door and Shayne was glad of a reason to stop thinking the way he was.

  Merrill barked, “Come in,” and the door opened and Justus Lawford walked in. He glanced swiftly from Rourke to Shayne and then to Merrill, and if he recognized them as having stopped at the desk recently, he gave no sign of it.

  He stopped in front of Merrill and asked, “What is it, Mr. Merrill?”

  Merrill turned the picture around for him to look at. “Do you recognize her?”

  Lawford said, “It’s the woman you were asking me about this morning, isn’t it? Mrs. Harris who registered last Monday?”

  “Can you identify her positively?” demanded Merrill. Lawford hesitated and drew in a deep breath. “I wouldn’t want to take an oath on it. But… yes, Mr. Merrill. I remember her quite distinctly. So far as I can judge, that is Mrs. Harris.”

  “All right,” grumbled Merrill. “Tell Mr. Shayne what you told me this morning. Why you remembered her particularly out of all the guests who registered that day.”

  “It’s hard to put your finger on the exact reason,” Lawford began, fixing his gaze on the wall above Merrill’s head. “I’ve worked in lots of hotels… signed in hundreds of thousands of guests, I suppose. Mostly, it’s a mechanical process. But Mrs. Harris…!” He shook his head slowly. “You noticed her and you remembered her. I remember being surprised that she was checking in alone… for two weeks. And when I asked her… just to be sure… she vouchsafed the information that her husband had the modern idea that married couples should spend their vacations separately, and she asked me if I… approved.”

  He stopped and gulped nervously and told Merrill, “I changed the subject at once, of course, sir. But she did mention her fear of being bored and lonely, and I assured her that we had a hostess and many social activities, and I recall that she didn’t seem interested. And… that’s about all, I think.”

  “You did notice her go out later?” prompted Merrill.

  “Yes. She had asked us to rent a car for her, and I advised the doorman to call her room when it was delivered. I saw her go by from the elevator to the door about half an hour later, and assumed she was going for her car. She had changed into a very noticeable red dress… cut quite low in front.”

  “She didn’t leave her key as she went out?” prompted Merrill.

  “No, sir. And I simply don’t recall seeing her again.” He dropped his gaze from the wall above Merrill’s head to the photograph on the desk, and shook his head slowly from side to side.

  “All right, Lawford,” said Merrill briskly. “If the boy is waiting outside, send him in.”

  As the clerk turned to go out, Merrill told Shayne, “Bill Thompson is the boy who took her bags up that first afternoon. I’m not absolutely sure…” He hesitated as the tall, rangy, good-looking young bellboy came in as Lawford went out. “I’ll let him tell it his own way,” he went on. “Nothing to be worried about, Thompson. Step up here and take a look at this picture.”

  Bill Thompson threw a quick, frightened look at Rourke and at Shayne, then moved forward on stiff legs to the desk.

  “Ever see this woman?” Merrill shoved the picture at him.

  Bill Thompson stared down at it for at least thirty seconds. He put the palms of both hands flat on the desk to support his youthful weight, and his face began working queerly. There were actually tears in his eyes as he blubbered, “Honest to God, Mr. Merrill, I didn’t… do anything. Not after that first time at midnight. I swear I never did go back to her and I never did even see her after that first time.”

  “Hold it, son. First tell me who she is.”

  “It’s Mrs. Harris. In three twenty-six. You asked me about checking her in this morning, sir, and I told you how kind of funny she was… giving me a five dollar tip for nothing really, and how she was sore because there was twin beds in her room instead of a double… and how she liked to sleep in a double bed.”

  He paused, swallowing hard in embarrassment, and Merrill said softly, “Yeh. You told me that, Bill. But you didn’t tell me anything about midnight. What about that?”

  “Well, I didn’t think it was important, and I didn’t want to… but maybe it is important now she’s missing and all,” he stumbled on. “I was on my way out the door when she came up close behind me and asked when I got off duty, and I told her at midnight that night. And then she kind of whispered in my ear that she was going to be lonesome and for me to stop up for a nightcap with her at midnight.”

  “All right, Bill.” Merrill’s voice was cutting and hard. “What happened at midnight?”

  “Nothing. I did go up and knock on her door. I know it’s against the rules and I’ll get fired for it, but I can’t help it. And I’d do it again, I guess, anyhow if it was someone like Mrs. Harris. But her room was dark and she didn’t answer, and… and that’s all there is to it.”

  “You didn’t see her after that?”

  “I swear I didn’t see her after that. I didn’t hear another thing about her until this morning when you asked me. Later, I heard around the hotel that she hadn’t been back in her room since that Monday evening.”

  Merrill said, “All right, Thompson. Get back on the floor.”

  When the lad had gone, he looked at Shayne and raised his shoulders. “Beginning to get the picture?”

  “Too well,” growled Shayne. “Harris told me there was one other angle here. That she signed a bar bill about seven o’clock.”

  “That’s the last thing we’ve got on her, Mike. It’s a chit for two daiquiris and two bourbon highballs.” He looked at his watch and got to his feet and picked up the picture. “The bartender who was on duty Monday evening has just come on in the lounge. I haven’t talked to him about her yet. Come along, you and your friend, and the house will buy you a drink and prove to you that the Beachhaven isn’t keeping anything up its sleeve.” He circled around his desk and led the way out of the room.

  8.

  The cocktail lounge was dimly lighted and cool and practically deserted. Tiny was polishing glasses with his back to the bar. He turned about as the three men climbed onto stools, flicked a glance at Merrill and nodded briefly, then his big face spread into a wide grin when he recognized the redhead. “Mike Shayne, by all that’s holy! How are you, my lad?” He thrust out a hand as big as a ham and crushed Shayne’s in a warm grip, then turned and searched along the top shelf for a very special bottle of Cordon Bleu which he uncorked and set in front of Shayne with a flourish. When he set a four-ounce wine glass beside it, Merrill said dryly, “Go easy on that stuff, Tiny. I promised Shayne a d
rink on the house.”

  “If it wasn’t on the house, it’d be on me,” Tiny assured him, filling the glass to the brim. He transferred his attention to Rourke and asked, “What’ll it be for you?” then paused, staring at him. “Aren’t you Tim Rourke, now? So it’ll be bourbon and water. You can see I read all those books about you, Mike. But what’s with this lousy T-V show on NBC Friday nights?” He scowled as he poured whisky for Rourke. “Where’d they dig up that bird that plays you, Mike? Why in hell aren’t you out there playing the part your ownself? Drink, Mr. Merrill?” he added in an aside.

  “A small beer, Tiny.” Merrill had Ellen’s photograph in his hands and he tapped it on the bar, but Tiny was giving his full attention to Shayne. “Take that show last night now. I turn it on every Friday night here just for laughs. My God, Mike! The way that actor got pushed around by everybody last night. How can you stand to watch it?”

  Shayne said, “I don’t.” He sipped the fine cognac appreciatively. “I haven’t tuned it in since the first two shows. Richard Denning is supposed to be a very fine actor.”

  “He the guy that plays you?” Tiny snorted his disgust. “Maybe he’s a good actor, but the things they have him do…” He shook his head sadly. “And how do you like that young wise-cracker they got playing you, Mr. Rourke?”

  Rourke said, “I’m like Mike. I just don’t watch T-V.”

  “What’s the matter with that friend of yours that writes the show?” Tiny demanded. “That Brett Halliday. Has he gone nuts or something? His books are swell, but God preserve me from those stories every Friday night.”

  “He doesn’t write those,” Shayne explained wryly. “The wise boys in Hollywood won’t let him. They think they’ve got writers out there who know better how to do it.”

  “I’ll tell you one thing frankly, Mike. It’s a stinker and it’s not going to stay on the air very long. Like I say, I turn it on here because it’s supposed to be you and from Miami and all, and I hear what people say about it. We’re proud of you in Miami, damn it, and it makes people sore to watch it.”

  “Ah, Tiny,” said Merrill with some asperity. “If you’ll wind up this session of the Mike Shayne fan club and take a look at a picture I have here, I’ll appreciate it. I have to get back to my office.”

  “Sure, Mr. Merrill. Sorry I run off at the mouth so much.” Tiny wiped his hands on his white apron and took the picture. He turned slightly to get a better light on it, and nodded slowly.

  “I’ve seen her. Sure. She was in here a few days ago. Wait a minute, now. It’s coming back to me. Last Monday, it was. I was off Saturday and Sunday, and came on late Monday with a hangover. Things were slack when she came in… about seven o’clock. I remember her, all right. She came in through that door from the parking lot and stood there for a minute looking around.”

  “As though she expected to see someone she knew?” asked Shayne.

  “I don’t think so. No. It wasn’t like that. More like she was casing the joint before deciding whether to have a drink or not. She was some hunk of woman. You couldn’t help but notice her.”

  “Sexy?”

  “Yeh, sexy. But don’t get me wrong. In one hell of a nice way. No tramp. You could see she was a lady right off. That’s why I remember her so well. She was… well it was kind of funny how she acted at the bar. Out of character, you might say. Different from what I expected.”

  “How did she act, Tiny?”

  “Well, she came up and hesitated and first asked if it was all right for her to sit alone at the bar, so I knew right off she was new in town. I told her sure. Then she asks what I think she ought to drink. Well, that’s a funny one, and I say what does she like. And she says she doesn’t drink very much at home, but tonight she feels like it, and isn’t a daiquiri that drink you make with rum? So I mix up a daiquiri for her.”

  Tiny paused, shaking his head slowly. “When I turn around to pour it, she’s got a cigarette in her mouth and there’s this guy who has come up behind her and is offering her a light. So she takes it and thanks him, and, hell, that’s all right. Then he sits down beside her and orders a bourbon, and I kind of watch out of the corner of my eye waiting for her to do a chill job on him. But she doesn’t. She picks right up with him. And that is funny. Because I could of sworn she was a real lady.”

  “Perhaps she knew him,” Merrill suggested.

  “No. Not if it was her first trip like she told me. I’ve seen him around. Gene his first name is… I don’t know his last. He’s okay. Smooth and quiet. But I’ve heard it around that he’s a shill for some of the joints on the Beach. Hangs around bars like this looking for pickups.”

  Merrill said sternly, “You know the policy of the Beachhaven, Tiny. We don’t allow…”

  “Now look, Mr. Merrill. I know my job behind the bar. No rough stuff goes while I’m on duty. But if one customer wants to buy another customer a drink, and they’re quiet and nice about it, I wouldn’t hold my job very long if I started interfering.”

  Merrill sighed. “You know your job, Tiny. I realize it’s difficult. So they got into conversation? You hear any of it?”

  “You know how it is,” Tiny said blandly. “I had other customers to wait on. And they didn’t talk loud. Just quiet and pleasant. But I did catch a couple of little things. One was that her husband’s name was Herbert and he was in New York… and that he was the kind of guy who thinks husbands and wives should get away from each other now and then.

  “That got me, sort of, when I heard her say that. Up to then I didn’t think much about it. Just that it was all right for her to have a friendly drink with him, and that’d be all. But for her to say that about her husband to a stranger… well, that sounded like a come-on. Then I heard her say something about she couldn’t go back for two weeks, and then they ordered another drink.

  “There was something else.” Tiny screwed up his big face in deep thought. “Yeh. She insisted on signing for both drinks. He asked for the check, but she grabbed it and held out her hand for my pencil. And she told him she’d feel like a B-girl if she let him buy, and then asked me if I didn’t think she should. Then something was said about gambling and they went out back through that door into the parking lot.”

  “You didn’t hear any place mentioned… where they were headed?” Shayne asked.

  “No. I’m sure I didn’t. I watched them go out together and thought, what the hell? You just never can tell about a dame.” He paused to frown thoughtfully again, “Seems to me I’ve heard something about this Gene hanging out some at the Gray Gull Casino. You want I should ask around later on when some of the other fellows start dropping in?”

  “You mean some of the other shills for gambling houses who come here to prey on our guests?” demanded Merrill.

  “Well, now, that’s putting it pretty strong, Mr. Merrill. Behind the bar like this, you do hear things.”

  “Can you describe Gene for us?” Shayne interposed quickly.

  “He’s about thirty. Handsome, I guess you’d say. Lean face with a heavy tan. Brown hair. He wears good clothes and smiles easy, and the women like him.”

  Shayne said, “I’ve known Tiny a long time, Bob. You’re lucky to have him on the job here. When did you see this woman next?” he asked Tiny.

  “I didn’t. Only that one time. I sort of watched out for her, too. Knowing she was registered here, and wondering whether she’d take up with Gene or not. But she never showed again… not while I was on duty. What’s with her, Mike?” he asked earnestly. “Why are you interested?”

  Shayne asked, “Want to tell him, Bob?”

  “Everyone else around the hotel knows it… I don’t see why he shouldn’t. So far as we can find out, Tiny, you’re the last one who has seen Mrs. Herbert Harris.”

  “Is that so? When did she check out?”

  “She didn’t,” said Merrill bitterly. “That’s just the trouble. It looks as though she never went back to her room after you saw her walk out that door.”

 
“Is that a fact?” Tiny shook his head in amazement. “That Gene hasn’t been back either since then.”

  “Ask around, Tiny,” Shayne urged, draining the last drop of cognac from his glass and smacking his lips with pleasure. “The police may be around, and her husband may even be in to ask you about her. Tell the police the truth… just as you told us, but take it a little easy on Harris, huh? He’s taking it pretty hard.”

  “Yeh. I would be too, married to that doll. You want I should talk to the cops, Mr. Merrill?”

  “If they come asking. We can’t afford to cover up anything at this point.” Merrill slid off the stool, leaving half his small beer undrunk. “Coming back to the office, Mike?”

  “Just for a minute. We should settle what sort of story Rourke’s going to run with her picture this afternoon.”

  Merrill didn’t reply to this until the three of them were in his office with the door closed. Then he asked, “Do you have to, Mike?”

  “I took a job… accepted a retainer from Harris to find his wife. Yeh, we have to, Bob.”

  “You can keep the name of the hotel out of it, can’t you?”

  “You know we can’t,” Shayne told him bluntly. “But we’ll keep the personal bits about the desk clerk, the bellboy, and her pickup in the bar out of it. Right, Tim?”

  “I can write in some curves around them,” he agreed. “Do you have the license number and description of the car she rented?” Shayne asked.

  “It’s here… since we were putting it on her hotel bill.” Merrill went to a file behind his desk and took out a very slim cardboard folder. He opened it and extracted a typewritten notation which he put on the desk.

  “Put that in, Tim.” Shayne lit a cigarette and sucked on it, tugging at his left earlobe while Rourke copied the information. “Right now, finding that car seems our best lead. Of course, the cops are looking for it already, but maybe you can prove the power of the press, Tim, by having one of your readers come up with it under the cops’ noses. Is Harris in the hotel, Bob?”