This Is It, Michael Shayne

by Brett Halliday

  SHAYNE AND ROURKE STOOD VERY STILL, side by side, blocking the doorway. They heard Beatrice Lally’s whisper from the other door, tense and breathless.

  “Is—she isn’t there, is she?”

  Shayne’s elbow jabbed Rourke’s fleshless ribs before he started backing out. Rourke turned, half bent, with both hands pressed against his side, and followed him out.

  Shayne was saying rapidly, “Take Miss Lally to her room, Tim. We’re going to have to work this fast and make no mistakes. Give her the lowdown when you get her to her room, and for God’s sake keep things quiet. I’ll be along in three minutes.”

  Without a word, Rourke took the girl’s arm and led her out. Shayne watched them go, knowing he needed no reply from the reporter who had worked with him for years and who had not fully recovered from a bullet wound he received some three years ago.

  Shayne bolted the door on the inside and went back to the death room, stood to the right of the body where less blood had seeped onto the carpet from the shaggy rug, and looked at her for a long moment.

  Sara Morton wore a green hostess gown with flowing skirt and plunging neckline. Blood was caked between her firm breasts and over the bodice. The gold belt circling the slender waistline was clean, and the green, red, and blue gems in the buckle twinkled in the light of the ceiling fixture. Below the short puffed sleeves her firm, shapely arms were clear of blood, up-flung in a gesture of defiance.

  Following the tapering lines of her right arm he saw a small diamond-rimmed platinum watch circling her wrist. Carefully kneeling outside the circle of congealing blood, he examined it. The tiny hands pointed to two minutes after eight. He frowned and looked at his own watch. The time was 9:05. He bent his ear close to her watch and was surprised to hear the regular ticking.

  The frown deepened to a heavy scowl as he tried to evaluate the significance of nearly an hour’s difference. If her watch was slow when she wrote the note it was actually 7:30 instead of 6:30. Could she write it, seal and stamp it, and get it to the post office so fast?

  That would have to wait until later, he decided, and studied the wisp of green paper clutched in her hand. He easily read the numerals in the exposed corner, and without touching it to feel the texture, he knew it was the other half of the five-hundred-dollar bill.

  He rocked back on his heels with sweat dripping from his face. In death she held out a challenge to him to match it with the half she had enclosed in the special-delivery letter. Sara Morton was speaking to him, and her words seemed to linger there in the silent room.

  This is it, Michael Shayne. At the moment of my death this is my way of saying to you what I left unsaid in my hasty note.

  He took his handkerchief out and mopped sweat from his eyes and face, then touched his knuckles to her cheek. The flesh was cool. Room temperature. He judged she had been dead at least an hour, probably much longer.

  The wound in her throat puzzled him. It was evident from the quantity of blood that the jugular had been severed with one vicious blow, but the cut was jagged, gaping in the center. The killer had either used a dull instrument, or a sharp one had been fiendishly twisted before it was removed.

  He stood up abruptly and went to the front door. The inside latch was bolted. That meant that however the killer had entered the room, he had left through the connecting bathroom.

  He turned and carefully surveyed the room through bleak, narrowed eyes. Everything was in order except the one rumpled bed where she had probably tried to relax while tensely awaiting his phone call. There was no sign of a struggle. Sara Morton had either been taken unawares by her murderer entering through the bathroom from 1420, or she had unlocked her door and admitted him with no thought of personal danger.

  Yet, if her note meant what it seemed to imply, she felt herself to be in the gravest danger when she typed and mailed it, a fact that was borne out by her refusal to unlock her door even for her secretary at six o’clock.

  There was a small metal typewriter table with an open portable close to a window across the room. He moved slowly toward it and stood with his hands clasped behind his back, studying the articles on the table. The box of heavy white stationery with the blue signature at the top was open beside the typewriter. On the other side was a folded copy of the previous day’s Miami Herald, and on top of it was a pair of shears with long tapering blades such as editors use for clipping copy.

  But these were no ordinary shears. The handles were of gold, ornately designed and chased by a master craftsman. The points of the blades were very sharp, and he shuddered inwardly as he glanced from them to the gaping wound in Sara Morton’s throat. They were clean and shining, but if the murderer had used the shears as a weapon, the homicide boys would determine the fact with chemical tests.

  The telephone had been moved from between the twin beds and placed beside the typewriter table. There was a memorandum pad on the stand, and a muscle tightened in Shayne’s cheek when he saw his name written at the top of the pad, and directly underneath it his office telephone number. Below that was a series of jerky pencil marks, but none of them seemed to be more than the unconscious doodling of an extremely nervous person.

  He was reaching for the pad to rip the sheet off when he suddenly decided it would be to his advantage to leave it there for the police to see. He glanced at his watch, jerked out his handkerchief, and went out through the bathroom, wiping the doorknobs clean as he passed through on his way to the corridor. The outer door clicked shut on the night latch, and he went swiftly down the hall to Miss Lally’s room.

  The door moved slightly when he rapped, and he pushed into the room where Rourke and the dead woman’s secretary sat on the double bed. Her head rested against the reporter’s bony shoulder and his arm was around her. Tears streamed down her face, and Rourke’s slaty eyes held the bewildered look of a man who had failed to stop a woman from crying.

  Shayne closed the door and walked over to the bed, grinning humorously at Rourke, but his voice was harsh and urgent when he said:

  “Miss Lally.”

  She jerked her head up and looked at him with wet, sooty eyes. Her glasses lay on the bed beside her. Rourke put his handkerchief in her hand and she obediently blew her nose and wiped her eyes.

  “Miss Morton is dead,” said Shayne, spacing the words evenly. “It happened at least an hour ago. Possibly two or three. We can do only one thing for her now. You’ve got to get hold of yourself.” He paused a moment, rubbing his angular jaw, his eyes thoughtful.

  Miss Lally’s sobbing gradually stopped after a long, audible sigh. “I’m all right now,” she said. “Shouldn’t we notify the police?”

  “Tim will do that—in about five minutes,” he said absently, then went on decisively: “Get a toothbrush and a wrap if you think you’ll need it. Don’t try to take anything else—”

  “A toothbrush?” she interrupted, peering up at him with round, astonished eyes.

  “Go wash your face,” he ordered. “We’ll all go down to the lobby together as if nothing had happened. Do you know any particular bars or restaurants where Miss Morton is known and where she might be expected to drop in during an evening?”

  Miss Lally covered her amazement with the thick-lensed glasses and stammered, “There’s the—Golden Cock up the street. And over on the Beach—”

  “You and I are going out to look for her,” he cut in. “Don’t forget the toothbrush. You may not get back here tonight.”

  She saw his face clearly now, and responded to his quiet assumption of authority by getting up and going into the bathroom.

  When she closed the door, Rourke said angrily, “Look here, Mike, if you think I’m going to stay here and be your fall guy—”

  “You’re going to stay right here like any sensible reporter who’s lucky enough to be on the inside of a hot case, and get all the dope from the police investigation,” Shayne said firmly. “I need time—and freedom from the cops tailing me, Tim.” He paused a moment, then hurried on. “If I can keep
Miss Lally away from the police until I can get all she knows about the Morton woman, and keep it quiet—you know how it is, Tim. She’d be in danger if the murderer thought she knew too much and found out the police had her up for questioning.”

  “But what the hell do I tell the police?” Rourke protested.

  “You don’t. Joe Clarkson, the night dick, will tell the police. Look, Tim, when we go down to the lobby you go to the bar for a drink. Put it down fast, act like you’re worried, then find Joe and tell him about your date with Sara Morton and the secretary meeting you instead. The truth about everything that can be checked. But don’t tell him I’d been fishing and hadn’t contacted her. You assume I talked to her on the phone, but didn’t tell you what she wanted.”

  He paused a moment, tugging at his left ear lobe, his gray eyes narrowed. “We came up together to see why Miss Morton didn’t answer her phone, knocked on her door and got no answer, and the three of us came here for Miss Lally to get a wrap before going out with me to find her. Miss Lally didn’t mention having a key to fourteen-twenty,” he went on swiftly as the secretary re-entered the room. “You won’t know about the connecting bathroom. You’re mad because she stood you up on an important engagement. Act tight if you want to. Tell Clarkson you’ll call in the police and cause a stink if he doesn’t go up with you and investigate.”

  Rourke lay sprawled on his back on the bed. His eyes were closed, and his only response was a deep groan when Shayne paused for a moment.

  “Clarkson will find fourteen twenty-two latched on the inside when he tries a passkey. The light is on, and you have real reason for alarm now. He’ll know about the connecting rooms. You go in and discover the body together. Got it?”

  “Sure,” muttered Rourke. “Did you talk to her?”

  “Leave that for later. You can tell the police Miss Lally told you about Miss Morton phoning me. There’ll be a Herald reporter with them. See that he gets a story in the morning edition playing up the fact that Sara Morton phoned me today and that I dashed out with her secretary looking for her. Ready?” He turned to the girl who waited with a light coat over her arm.

  She nodded, her face paler than its normal whiteness, accentuating the red of her lips, her eyes small and doubtful behind the glasses. “Will it be—all right for me to evade questioning by the police?” she asked. “Isn’t there a law?”

  “There’s no law against your passing out from shock and grief,” said Shayne. He took her arm, and Rourke followed them out the door.

  In the elevator Shayne said in a bantering tone, “Tell Tim to get lost, Bea,” for the benefit of the other passengers. “It was all right for you to cadge drinks off him, but I’m here now.” He drew her closer to him.

  “Okay, so I’m ditched,” said Rourke sullenly, taking the cue promptly. “Twice in one night. If you find that Morton dame you can tell her for me—”

  “Sh-h-h,” cautioned Shayne, glancing around at the strange faces with simulated dismay. “Miss Morton is probably waiting for you in the bar right now,” he went on cheerfully as they reached the lobby and he pushed his way out past the reporter with a firm grip on Miss Lally’s arm.

  Rourke scowled, took a step forward as though to follow them, shrugged, and turned toward the barroom.

  The same doorman raised the same brows as the couple went through the doorway, and added an icy stare when Shayne paused to ask:

  “Do you know Miss Morton by sight? Sara Morton, the newspaper writer.”

  “I’m afraid not, sir,” he answered snootily, plainly indicating that he had no intention of discussing the lady with a tramp in faded dungarees.

  Shayne hurried his companion across the southbound traffic lanes to his parked car, opened the door for her, stalked around to the other side, and pulled away fast.

  Miss Lally relaxed against the cushion and sighed. “I was glad to get away from that reporter so I could talk to you privately, Mr. Shayne,” she said in the low, controlled tone he had first heard. “I do know why Miss Morton phoned you. I know she wanted it kept quiet, but now I suppose it will have to come out.”

  “I know, too,” he said. “That’s why I wanted to get you away where we could talk and act fast without being held by the police.” He eased over to the outer lane and increased his speed. “We’ll be at the Golden Cock in a moment. Wait until we’ve asked there for her.”

  “Why do you keep up this farce when we know she’s back—back there in her room—” Her voice began to tremble and she didn’t finish the sentence.

  “That’s exactly why we have to ask around for her. You’re in this with me now. You’ve got to play up. Right now we’re accessories after the fact. Every movement we make from now on will be checked by the police, and we’ve got to do every damned thing we would do if we were actually looking for Sara Morton in her favorite restaurants and cocktail bars.”

  He slowed and turned into a circular, palm-lined drive leading off the Boulevard to a low building on the bayfront with the words Golden Cock flickering off and on beneath a huge rooster shimmering in golden lights. As they approached the canopy Shayne covered one of her hands with his and asked:

  “Can you pull it off?”

  “I’m all right,” she answered steadily.

  He stopped and a beautifully caparisoned doorman opened the door and stood smartly at attention.

  Shayne asked, “Do you know Miss Sara Morton by sight?”

  “Mr. Shayne,” he said with a genial smile. “Is she a kind of oldish woman—this Miss Morton?”

  “No. We’ll have to go in,” he said to the girl. “Or would you rather sit in the car and wait while I check?”

  “I’ll go with you.” She opened the door and got out.

  Shayne got out and circled the car. “Leave it here unless I send word to park it,” he said to the doorman. He took Miss Lally’s arm and they went into a small, ornate anteroom and past the check stand to the door.

  A tall man in evening clothes hurried to greet them, frowning unhappily at Shayne’s informal attire, but his voice was pleasant when he said:

  “Hello, Mr. Shayne. I’m afraid there isn’t a table right now.”

  Shayne grinned disarmingly and said, “Don’t worry, Harold. I’m not going to embarrass you. Miss Lally and I are looking for her employer, Miss Sara Morton.”

  “That’s quite a coincidence,” he said genially. “A friend of hers is expecting her. Been waiting for some time.” He nodded toward a man in impeccable white evening dress seated on a plush chair near the dining-room entrance. “She should be here soon,” he added.

  The man’s profile was toward them. He was young and slender with a hint of arrogance in his aquiline features. His mouth was petulant, and he looked straight ahead as one determined not to look toward the entrance again for a woman who was late for a dinner engagement

  Shayne felt Miss Lally give a slight start and tighten her fingers on his arm. He jerked his head around and looked at her just as she eased her glasses off.

  “It’s Mr. Paisly,” she breathed. “He’s—”

  She stopped when Mr. Paisly deigned to look once more toward the entrance. He came to his feet and rushed toward them, an anxious, hopeful smile lighting his face, and a large diamond glittering on the third finger of his right hand.

  “Miss Lally!” he said vivaciously, the smile revealing a row of perfect white teeth. “Did Sara send you? What happened to her? I’ve been waiting since before seven.” He raised an arm gracefully and looked at a delicate platinum watch, trenched his brow with a row of frowns. “She’s generally so punctual. I don’t understand.” He let the frowns go and went on petulantly: “She might at least have telephoned me, don’t you think?” His big dark eyes held hurt and self-pity and gentle reproach.

  “Miss Lally and I came here hoping to find her,” Shayne said quickly, before Beatrice answered.

  “Excuse me,” she said. “Mr. Shayne, Mr. Paisly. Mr. Edwin Paisly. He’s Miss Morton’s—fiancé.” The pause was
definite and significant.

  Paisly seemed to notice Shayne for the first time. His mouth tightened with disapproval and his brows went up. They stayed up while his eyes slithered all the way down to Shayne’s soiled sandals while Harold, the manager, hastily explained.

  “This is Michael Shayne. Our famous detective.”

  “Oh! That Shayne?” Paisly did a fast double-take and became agitated. “Is anything wrong? You say you’re looking for Sara—has anything happened? Tell me the truth at once, Miss Lally. I have a right to know.”

  “She appears not to be at the hotel,” Shayne said casually. “I have a business matter to discuss with her. We are making the rounds trying to find her.”

  “A business matter, you say? I wasn’t aware that she—that is, Sara hadn’t confided in me—what I mean is,” he stumbled on, “when she made this dinner date with me tonight she said nothing about expecting to talk business with a private detective.”

  “At the time,” said Shayne blandly, “she probably hoped to be finished in time to keep her appointment. What time was she supposed to meet you?”

  “Seven o’clock. She said she was meeting a reporter at her hotel for cocktails at six, but promised to get rid of him within an hour.”

  “And you’ve been waiting here since seven?”

  “Since before seven,” he corrected, coloring slightly at Shayne’s tone of doubt. “She doesn’t like for me to interfere with her professional duties,” he continued defensively. “She’s a very busy woman, and I kept thinking she would come as soon as she could possibly get away.”

  “If we run into her within the next half hour,” he said kindly, “we’ll remind her you’re waiting.” He took Miss Lally’s arm and they turned to go.

  “Thank you,” Paisly said with an inflection that indicated he would like to say something else.

  As they drove away from the Golden Cock, Shayne said, “This Paisly isn’t exactly the sort of specimen I’d expect Sara Morton to go for.”

  “He’s just the type she does go for,” she confided. “He’s years younger. I guess he brings out her latent maternal instincts. She always has someone like him dancing attendance.”