Murder by Proxy

by Brett Halliday

  Shayne said, “I thought you might be interested in getting a line on the man Mrs. Harris met at the Gray Gull Monday night.”

  “I have a line on him, thank you, and I’m convinced he’s our killer. I expect an arrest any moment now.”

  Shayne said mildly, “Yesterday you were equally convinced that as soon as you located her rented car you would have her and her paramour… your word, I believe. Well, Tim Rourke and I found the car for you… and no paramour.” He spread out his hands and grinned.

  “I have work to do, Shayne. If you have nothing more to say…”

  “But I have. I told you I’ve got information which I’m going to give you, whether you want it or not.”

  “What sort of information?” Painter’s tone was withering. “We have a full description of the killer and several witnesses who can identify him.”

  Shayne shook his head slowly. “You haven’t got anything, Petey. Except the kind of crap you’re always handing out to the papers.”

  “Now, by God to hell, Shayne…

  The redhead put his hands flat on Painter’s desk and leaned forward to glare at him. “If I weren’t a conscientious citizen and didn’t feel sorry for you, goddamn it, I’d walk out of here and leave you to continue running around in circles looking for a man who had nothing to do with her death whatsoever.”

  “Now, you listen to me, Shayne…”

  “No, damn it, you listen to me. Send a couple of men over to the Mirabel Hotel to ask Tom Thurston, the parking lot attendant and Ned Brown, a doorman, what happened there Monday evening. I’m giving this to you for free because I hate murderers and particularly the sadistic kind who smash up anything as beautiful as Ellen Harris was. Now I’m walking out of your damned office, and, the next time I come back, it’ll be to bring your killer along and throw him in your face.”

  He wheeled about and strode out, his cheeks trenched with anger.

  He had begun to laugh at himself by the time he reached his car and climbed in. When would he ever learn to control himself and not let Painter upset him? This feud between the two of them had been going on for years and it always ended the same way.

  He stopped at the first public telephone he saw, and called Benjamin at his hotel. When the Detroiter answered, he said, “Mike Shayne, Benjamin. Relax. Everything is under control. I’d stay away from the locality of the Mirabel, if I were you, but otherwise I don’t think you have anything to worry about.”

  “I… see. I… ah…”

  In the background Shayne could hear a strident female voice asking who was calling.

  Shayne went on quickly, “How long are you staying in town?”

  “We’d planned another week here.”

  “Good. Don’t leave without letting me know and giving me your home address. I think the chances are a hundred to one against anything else coming up, but I’ve got to be covered.”

  “Of course, I understand. About the price…”

  Shayne said, “Forget that. It was worth it to me to see the look on the face of a certain chief of detectives when I tossed it in his lap.”

  He hung up feeling good. Mr. Benjamin would return to Detroit with a lesson well learned, and remain a faithful husband for many years to come.

  16.

  Michael Shayne was alone in his apartment late that afternoon when Timothy Rourke breezed in carrying a thick wad of copy paper. The reporter tossed it on the table in front of Shayne and exclaimed dramatically, “Read all about it. Latest developments in the Harris murder case. Quote, Michael Shayne, the private detective who had been retained by Mr. Harris to search for his missing wife, retired from the case abruptly after Mrs. Harris’ corpse was found in the trunk of her rented car. We quote Chief Painter in an exclusive interview with this reporter: ‘Homicide is the exclusive business of the duly constituted law-enforcement officers. During the past twenty years of my tenure as Chief of Detectives of Miami Beach, no single murder case has been solved with outside assistance. Our own facilities are more than adequate to cope with any problems arising from a homicide committed within our jurisdiction, and any citizen who spends his money on highly-publicized “outside help” is warned that he might as well pour it down a sewer.’

  “How do you like that, Mike?” He crossed with easy familiarity to the liquor cabinet on the wall and lifted down a bottle of bourbon.

  Shayne grinned at him and said, “I was privileged to hear the same stuff from Petey’s own mouth this morning. Anything else in your story, Tim?”

  “Plenty.” Rourke reentered the living room carrying the whisky bottle by the neck and a tall glass with ice cubes in it in the other hand. “Did you know, for instance, that Petey has established the fact that Mrs. Ellen Harris ditched her second admirer of the evening in front of the Mirabel about ten o’clock? The trail ends mysteriously after that point.”

  “How did he establish that pertinent fact?” asked Shayne curiously.

  “You know Petey. Routine police work, he insists. Aren’t you interested in the story told by the doorman and the parking attendant of the Mirabel?”

  Shayne grinned irritatingly at his old friend. “Not particularly. I heard it before Petey did.” Shayne looked down at the paper and grimaced. “Don’t make me read your scribbling. First off: has he definitely established the identity of the dead woman?”

  Rourke nodded. “He was just as suspicious as you were when he saw she was battered beyond recognition. He shot her fingerprints to New York, and they went to the Harris apartment and established beyond a doubt that the dead woman is Mrs. Harris.”

  Shayne frowned and clawed at his red hair at this information. “Did he release the autopsy report to you?”

  “To the Press. It’s all there.” Rourke gestured to the paper on the table. “Salient facts are these. Death was from a bullet wound in her heart. Thirty-two caliber pistol. Bullet entered her body without piercing the gown she wore, but it was cut rather low and could easily have been pulled aside to admit entry of the bullet. But, get this, Mike. All those facial wounds were committed after she was shot. She was killed first, and then beaten up. Let’s see, now. What else?” Rourke stretched his long body out in a chair with a highball glass in his hand and owlishly contemplated the ceiling.

  “The M.E. can’t be positive about time of death. He places it at either Monday or Tuesday. There was no blood at all in the trunk of the convertible under her body, indicating that it was at least an hour… probably two… after her death before she was squeezed in there. He guesses it at not less than two and not more than four hours after death when she was placed inside the trunk. One thing more that I think of. She had eaten a shrimp salad about two hours before death… and had a fair amount of alcohol inside her preceding that last meal.”

  Rourke smiled happily at the redhead and demanded, “How do you like your pipeline into headquarters?”

  Shayne said with a frown, “Are you certain about two things, Tim? They seem contradictory to me. If her face was definitely smashed up after death from a bullet wound, it looks like a positive attempt to establish false identification. Is the fingerprint evidence positive that she is Ellen Harris?”

  “If you can trust the New York police department. Their report leaves no room for doubt. There’s all the other contributing proof of identity also. I don’t see how you can question it, Mike.”

  “I guess I can’t. But it still sticks in my craw that her face was battered up after she was shot. That means something, Tim.”

  “Sure. In my book it means some gink… or gal… who hated her because she was so beautiful.”

  “Right. Which probably brings it a lot closer to home than some stranger she picked up Monday night.” He looked at his watch and muttered, “I’m hoping Jim Gifford will call from New York.”

  “You going to keep on paying for long distance calls?” asked Rourke innocently. “Painter says you’re off the case.”

  “You know damn well I’m not off it, Tim. Let’s see, you gav
e me the autopsy. I suppose Painter checked the husband’s story about driving down when he says he did.”

  “Naturally. When a wife is killed, check the husband. Standard police procedure. He checked as far as possible on a Sunday, Mike. Harris stopped at the motel in Charleston Friday morning, and contacted a business client there. He checked out of the motel late afternoon, and mentioned that he intended driving through to Miami that night.”

  Shayne nodded and said sourly, “He would have been a fool to try and fake that. And Mr. Herbert Harris may be lots of things, but I don’t believe he’s a fool.”

  “You still make him for the job?”

  “I don’t know, Tim.” Shayne got up and began to pace the floor, clawing at his unruly, red hair. “Depends a whole lot on what Jim Gifford digs up.”

  As if in response, his telephone rang. He picked it up and said, “Shayne.” Then, “Fine, Jim. I’ve been waiting for it.”

  He settled back to listen and make notes.

  Gifford said, “I’ve been a busy boy. You’ll find it all on the expense account I send in. To begin with, if your job was done in Miami last Monday or Tuesday, as you said, then hubbie is in the clear. I’ve definitely established that Harris could not possibly have been in Miami either Monday or Tuesday night.”

  Shayne scowled and said, “Go on.”

  “Which is a little bit too bad because I did dig up a little more pay dirt on him than on his wife. She remains perfectly clean, so far as I can establish. But here are a few juicy items. When they were married, they took out a joint insurance policy on their lives, payable to each other. A hundred grand. I get strong hints that they live it up just about to the extent of his income. It’s Sunday and this is all personal stuff, but the consensus among their friends is that they haven’t any financial cushion to fall back on. I can check his credit rating and dig around at his office tomorrow, if you want more on that angle.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Yes, there is something else. Again, it’s rumors and hints, but there may be another woman involved. His personal secretary, named Ruth Collins. The word I get is that she’s another blonde like his wife, not quite so well-stacked, maybe, but a knockout for all that. I tried to contact her, but she’s on vacation. Left last Monday for two weeks at a resort hotel in the Catskills. Again, I can probably get more on the office romance tomorrow, if you want me to keep on.”

  “I do, Jim. Definitely. Spend another day on it at least, and call my office tomorrow when ready. Follow through on the secretary particularly, Jim. Take a run out to the Catskills to look her over and see what gives.”

  “Sure. I could do that this evening. You getting no forwarder down there, Mike?”

  “There’s only this at the moment. She was shot first and then had her face beaten in viciously… either to delay identification, or because somebody just didn’t like her looks.”

  Gifford said, “I see. I’ll work on it tomorrow and call you. Will you be home late tonight, if I do run into something hot in the Catskills?”

  Shayne said, “I’ll be home,” and hung up. He scowled thoughtfully as he renewed his drink.

  “Getting somewhere?” Rourke asked with interest.

  “Dead ends, I’m afraid.” Shayne told him about the hundred-thousand-dollar insurance policy, payable to either husband or wife in the event of the other’s death, and the possibility that the Harris’ were sailing pretty close to the wind financially.

  “And he may have a thing with his secretary at the office,” Shayne added, in a disgruntled voice. “Damn it, you never can trust a guy. I would have sworn he was sincere when he talked about his wife in my office. He had the guts to ask me if I’d ever been in love… and married.”

  Rourke shrugged cynically. “All this begins to look like the usual answer.”

  “Except,” gritted Shayne, “that the bastard appears to be in the clear. Jim Gifford says positively it was impossible for Harris to have been in Miami either Monday or Tuesday nights. You did say the M.E. places her death as no later than Tuesday?”

  “Positively no later than Tuesday night… and he much prefers Monday. Maybe Gifford slipped up on that,” Rourke added hopefully. “If Harris did have something like this planned when she left New York, he would have taken great pains to establish an alibi in advance.”

  Shayne admitted, “Everybody can make a mistake. Even Jim Gifford. But he’s a hell of a careful operator, and he alibis Harris for those two nights so flatly that I’ll take his word for it until something else comes along.”

  “Of course,” said Rourke, “it wouldn’t be the first time a husband hired someone to get rid of his wife… in order to collect an insurance policy and get into bed with another doll.”

  “There’s always that.” Shayne sighed. “And those are the toughest ones to crack. One thing we’ll have in our favor. With a big policy like that up for grabs, we’ll have insurance investigators digging on it, too. They’ve got the money and facilities to go over Harris in New York with a fine-tooth comb. Have you talked to him, by the way?”

  Rourke nodded. “Just after lunch today at the Beachhaven. He had just gotten the autopsy report, and he’s been getting some hints about the way she conducted herself around town Monday evening. Like you, Mike, I’d swear the guy had been pathetically in love with his wife, truly adored her, and is knocked for a loop by any suggestion that she would as much as look at another man. Yet it looks like he was carrying on with his secretary all the time.”

  “We don’t know for sure. Jim didn’t have too much to go on in that direction.”

  His telephone rang. He said, “Shayne,” and then, “Jim?” in a surprised voice.

  “Yeh,” Gifford said, “I thought I’d better get right back to you, Mike. It begins to look like we may really have something by the tail.”

  “What?”

  “The Ruth Collins I mentioned. I called the hotel in the Catskills to see whether I could see her this evening. And… hold onto your hat, Mike. She isn’t there.”

  “Where is she?”

  “God knows. They don’t. They say she did have a reservation… made a month ago… starting Monday afternoon for two weeks. But she called up from New York the preceding Friday and said her plans had changed and she cancelled the reservation. That’s all they know.”

  Shayne said, “I’ll be damned. But you’d already checked that she left all right on her vacation Monday?”

  “I talked to her room-mate on the telephone this afternoon, Mike. They share an apartment on the West Side. That’s when she told me that Ruth left on Monday for the Catskills. I tried to call her back just now, but she’s out.”

  Shayne said grimly, “Stay with it, Jim. Find her. And find out why she cancelled her reservation without telling her room-mate.”

  “I’ll put a lot more on the expense account tomorrow,” Gifford promised him blithely, and hung up.

  Timothy Rourke’s deep-set eyes glinted with real excitement when Shayne told him this latest development. “How much of this can I print in my story tomorrow?”

  “Not a damned word about it until you check with me just before press time. I may have something else from Jim by then.”

  “It begins to shape up,” said Rourke happily.

  “Not in any shape I can see yet. It’s like one of those ink blobs that psychologists use in their tests. Rohrschach, isn’t it?”

  “Something like that. What we both need is another drink… then maybe it’ll begin to make sense to us.” Rourke reached happily for the bourbon bottle.

  17.

  When Michael Shayne returned to his office from lunch the next afternoon, Lucy Hamilton sat demurely typing at her desk and did not glance up as he entered.

  He went past her into his private office, and stopped in surprise at sight of a large, square cardboard box sitting in the center of his desk.

  Lucy stopped typing and got up and silently followed him into his office. She found him leaning over the desk sta
ring in perplexity at the label on the box which was addressed to him.

  Standing in the doorway, she said, “I couldn’t hear any ticking inside so I thought it was all right. But if you’re going to start ordering cases of liquor delivered here to the office, Mr. Shayne, I think you’d do better to close this place up and move back into your hotel.”

  “I didn’t order a case of liquor, Lucy. How did this get here?”

  “Delivered by messenger,” she told him sweetly. “It’s several months until Christmas, but they do keep moving the season up, don’t they?”

  “I don’t know anything about it,” he declared, crossly. He moved around his desk, stopped with a frown and leaned over to remove a small, square envelope affixed to the side of the box with scotch tape. He opened it and took out a card and read aloud in a wondering voice: “With the compliments of Mr. and Mrs. John J. Benjamin.” He chuckled and added, “The ‘and Mrs.’ is in parentheses, and I’ll bet this would be a surprise to her if she saw it.”

  “Who is John J. Benjamin?”

  “He is an upright gentleman from Detroit who, one time in an otherwise blameless life, had the temerity to look into the melting eyes of a female whom he found more beautiful than his lawfully wedded spouse… that’s who John J. Benjamin is,” Shayne told her blithely. “Let’s open this here gift offering… and what’ll you bet it’s not domestic sherry?”

  He took hold of a corner of the stapled cardboard top in strong fingers and ripped it back to display neat rows of bottles, each one carefully encased in white tissue paper. He lifted one out and stripped the paper off, and his bantering tone changed to one of pure incredulity and pleasure.

  “Cordon Bleu, Lucy. A whole damn dozen of them. Why, the sweet, little guy. I’ll be double-damned. How did he know that I’d positively drool over such a gift?”

  “He can probably read,” she suggested. “Brett Halliday has mentioned your taste in cognacs in several of his books.”

  “Yeh, but I never thought Benjamin was the kind of guy… you never can tell… hell! let’s sample it.” He began opening the bottle he held in his hand.