This Is It, Michael Shayne

by Brett Halliday

  “Does she marry all of them?” Shayne asked with a hint of amusement as he circled the drive leading to the Boulevard.

  “She has never gone that far. I don’t know about this time. Perhaps she really would have gone through with it. I’m sure he seriously expected her to.”

  Shayne turned north, then east on 14th Street, and a few minutes later drove into a line of late evening traffic headed across the County Causeway to Miami Beach.

  “The two places she’s known over here are the Green Barn and the Red House,” Miss Lally told him.

  “They’re both Leo Gannet’s layouts,” muttered Shayne. “Does Gannet know what she’s after in Miami?”

  “Oh, yes. She never wasted time being devious in making her investigations. I think she took a perverse pleasure in dropping into those two places often. I understand they have both closed their gambling-rooms since she started visiting them.” She spoke without rancor, with a touch of weariness or sorrow.

  “Gannet must love that,” said Shayne with a chuckle. “The gambling concession in either of those joints would net several thousand dollars a night.”

  “She told me four days ago Mr. Gannet had offered her twenty-five thousand dollars to get out of Miami and stay out,” Miss Lally revealed.

  “She didn’t take it?”

  “She laughed in his face and told him her professional integrity wasn’t for sale.”

  “Your Miss Morton must have been quite a gal.”

  “She was magnificent, Mr. Shayne.” Her voice was tremulous, but she steadied it and went on firmly: “That’s why there’s something you should know about. I didn’t want to mention it in front of Mr. Rourke, but now I suppose it’ll have to come out in the investigation.”

  “The threatening letters?”

  “Oh! You know about those? Then she did get in touch with you today?”

  “She sat down in her room behind a locked door at six-thirty and wrote me a note that was delivered to my office by special-delivery some time before eight-thirty,” Shayne told her grimly. “After she had given up hope that I’d get her messages tonight.” He took the envelope from his pocket, handed it to her, and switched on the dome light.

  Shayne’s face was impassive as he skillfully threaded his way through the three lanes of traffic, letting Miss Lally take her own time reading the last words her employer wrote before she was murdered.

  The girl sighed when she finished, replaced the note and enclosures in the envelope. “She must have gone out and dropped the letter in the mail chute immediately after typing it. Why didn’t she tell me she took those threats seriously instead of sending me to the bar to meet Mr. Rourke? I could have stayed with her—had him come up—” Her voice broke gradually and ended on a note of despair.

  “Then you didn’t think she took the threats seriously?”

  “Of course not. Not really. She laughed at the first two, yesterday and the day before. You see, she’s had this sort of thing happen before on assignments like this. People try to frighten her away.”

  “Like Leo Gannet trying to buy her off?”

  “That—and the threats. She always laughed them off.”

  “She showed you those notes?”

  “I showed them to her,” Miss Lally corrected him. “I open all the mail and select whatever I think she needs to handle personally. That must be what she meant when she said I could tell you about them.”

  “Go on,” urged Shayne. “Tell me.”

  “There isn’t much. They came in envelopes bought at the post office. The addresses were typed. They were mailed locally, and nothing in them but the crude warnings, and no return address, naturally.”

  “What became of the envelopes?”

  “I imagine she destroyed them. All except the final one this morning. That may be in her room. I’m surprised she didn’t destroy the messages, too.”

  “She laughed at the first two, but reacted differently on the third one—this morning?” Shayne prompted

  “Yes. I—had a peculiar feeling something happened to convince her they might not be just the work of a crank. She seemed to—well, expect the one this morning. The minute I showed it to her she asked me to try to get you on the phone. I imagine Mr. Rourke had told her about you. I suggested the police, but she insisted it had to be a private investigation. That’s why I thought—why I wondered—” Her voice trailed off as if her mind was not quite clear about what she wondered.

  They were at the end of the Causeway, and Shayne slowed for a traffic light. He made a left turn and drove slowly toward Leo Gannet’s swanky Green Barn.

  “You think she guessed who sent the threats?”

  “I had never seen her so upset. She sent me out of the room while she phoned you. I should have known then it was something dangerous, after working with her so long and knowing all about everything. Hindsight is a miserable thing,” she ended in a strained voice. “You keep trying to turn time back so you can do the things you know you could have done to keep it from happening.”

  Shayne said, “Yeh,” absently, and they drove the short distance in silence.

  He parked at the curb outside the brilliantly lighted two-story stucco structure and got out. “I’ll make this one alone—and quick,” he said.

  He was back within two minutes. “Just one more stop to put ourselves in the clear and convince Will Gentry we didn’t enter room fourteen-twenty tonight.” He got in and gunned the motor, pulled away fast, then asked, “Who else has a key?”

  “I’ve been worried about that ever since I heard you tell Tim Rourke her door was double locked,” she confided. “Does that mean the murderer went in through my office?”

  “He must have left that way. And it’s the only way he could have gone in unless she unlocked her door for him.”

  “I have the only key,” Miss Lally told him unhappily. “And I don’t even know who else knew about us having the two rooms and always leaving the bathroom doors unlocked. Except Edwin Paisly, of course.”

  Shayne thought that over a moment. “It wouldn’t be difficult for anyone to find that out,” he assured her. “A buck or so to the room clerk. You were about to tell me something you were wondering about a while ago,” he reminded her. “When Miss Morton insisted on a private investigator instead of police.”

  She hesitated briefly, took off her glasses and nibbled on the end of the frame. They were on the Ocean Drive now, passing the Roney Plaza, nearing Gannet’s second Beach club.

  “It’s her husband, Ralph Morton. He has followed her here.” Her low voice was suddenly venomous.

  Shayne glanced aside, surprised at her words, her tone. “Her husband?” he echoed. “I didn’t know she had one. You said she was engaged to that Paisly character.”

  “She was. Oh, she hadn’t lived with Ralph Morton for years. He’s a scoundrel and I don’t know why she hadn’t divorced him long ago. Perhaps she kept him as a safety valve to prevent her various young men from becoming too serious. But this time I think she really intended to marry. She filed papers when we first came to Miami. If he didn’t contest the case, the divorce would have been granted as soon as she completed the legal residence requirements next week.”

  “Was he going to contest it?”

  “We didn’t know. Papers were served on him when the suit was filed, but we didn’t hear anything from him until this morning when he phoned he was in town.”

  “Did he say anything about the divorce?”

  “Not in so many words. But there’s always trouble when he turns up.” She sighed deeply, as if the anger she felt wearied her.

  “What sort of trouble?” Shayne persisted.

  “He gets drunk and makes scenes. I mail him a check for five hundred every month. Wouldn’t you think that would satisfy him?”

  “Doesn’t it?”

  “No. He’s always after her for more. He sponges on her reputation. Goes around and introduces himself as her husband and pretends they work together and runs up bills and g
ets loans on the strength of her credit.”

  Leo Gannet’s Red House was on their right, at the end of a short street leading to the ocean. Shayne turned into the street, squinting ahead and frowning at the lights showing in both upper- and lower-floor windows.

  “Say, do you remember whether both floors of the Green Barn were lighted?”

  “Certainly. There was light all over.”

  “But you said Gannet closed down his gambling-rooms because Sara Morton kept dropping into his places unexpectedly.”

  “Do you mean they gamble on the second floors?” she asked. “They were closed. She told me so herself.”

  Shayne slowed the car to a crawl as they approached the club. He glanced down at his dungarees and muttered, “I’m not dressed for crashing a joint like this. They don’t know you here, do they?”

  “No. I seldom go anywhere socially with her.”

  Shayne thought for a moment, said, “I’ll pull up in front and let you out. Go inside and act as if you know your way around. Go straight up the stairs on your left and drop a few bucks on the roulette table—and mingle. Try to find out when they reopened, but be careful not to arouse any suspicion. Come down in about fifteen minutes and have the doorman call over the loudspeaker for Miss Lally’s car. I’ll swing around and pick you up.” He stopped in front of the marquee and the doorman hurried to open the door.

  Miss Lally stepped out and said coolly, “I may not be here long, Michael. Please stay in the car and be ready to pick me up.”

  “Very well, Ma’am,” said Shayne. He pulled into a well-lighted parking-lot and stopped near the exit. There were a number of cars parked, a few limousines, around one of which a group of uniformed chauffeurs smoked and talked.

  Shayne locked the ignition and got out, lit a cigarette, and wandered to the end of a tall, unclipped hibiscus hedge that hid the ocean from view. There was no moon, and he stood for a moment looking up at the star-sprinkled sky and listening to the dark breakers rolling in, then circled swiftly around the hedge and made his way to the rear of the club building.

  Cautiously opening the first door he came to, he went into a service entrance and on through to a storeroom with a door on either side. On the left he heard kitchen sounds, and after hesitating briefly he quietly opened the door on the right. It opened onto a narrow hallway with steps leading to the second floor. He climbed the steps to a small landing and stood for a moment before a closed door before trying the knob. The door was heavy and solidly locked. He located an electric button and pressed steadily for a time, relaxed against the jamb, and waited.

  A key turned in the lock and the door opened a few inches. The ceiling fixture outlined a bulky figure wearing a dinner jacket, and a broad, unintelligent face was stuck through the narrow opening.

  “Leo in?” Shayne asked.

  “Who wants to know?”

  Shayne’s shoulder hit the door with the weight of his body behind it. The man reeled backward, off balance, and Shayne stepped through into a corridor, saying, “I want to know, punk. The name is Shayne and I’m in a hurry.”

  He stopped at the first door on his left and opened it. Leo Gannet sat behind a desk in the center of the room talking to a tall, white-haired man who stood across from him.

  Gannet was a short, thin man with an enormous head shaped like a pumpkin and a long, scrawny neck on the stem-end. His thick black hair was parted in the middle and smoothed down on the flat top. His forehead bulged above thick black brows and his full, well-shaped lips moved slowly as he spoke in soft tones. His eyes were large and dark and softly shining. From his expression, he might have been urging the man to give up his life of sin and hit the sawdust trail.

  Gannet glanced idly at Shayne, then turned away as the dinner-jacketed man pushed in and grated, “This guy crashed in the back way, Leo. Do you want I should—”

  Gannet said quietly, “It’s all right, Mart. Get back where you belong.” He ignored Shayne and turned back to the white-haired man.

  “Take his marker up to one grand, but if he tries to go past that, send him in to me.”

  The man nodded and started out. Shayne put out a long arm to block his exit and said, “I’m looking for Miss Sara Morton. Has she been around tonight?”

  The man paused and turned to glance at Gannet.

  “She hasn’t been in tonight and she won’t be in,” said Gannet. “Get back to your tables, Breen.”

  Shayne let the man go and walked over to the desk to face the gambler, who asked, “What do you want, Shayne?”

  “Miss Morton.” Shayne grinned down into the softly solemn eyes, stepped aside and hooked the toe of his shoe around a chair leg, dragged it across the rich, red carpet, and sat down.

  “She’s not here tonight,” the gambler told him in a tone that could have been mistaken for deep regret.

  “I didn’t think she was,” Shayne admitted, “when I saw you were running again. How do you know she won’t be in?”

  “Because she won’t be able to get past the front door in the future.” Leo Gannet sighed and leaned back in his swivel chair. “Women reformers,” he murmured. “What’s she to you, Shayne?”

  “Somebody’s trying to run her out of town.”

  “Give her some advice from me. Tell her she’ll run like hell if she’s smart.”

  “And if she isn’t smart?” Shayne lit a cigarette and narrowed his eyes at Gannet through a cloud of smoke blown in his direction.

  “I know for a fact,” said the gambler dispassionately, “that if she keeps on poking her nose into things that don’t concern her she has a fair chance of never leaving town.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  “Advice.”

  “Do any of your boys spend their spare time cutting out paper dolls?” Shayne asked blandly.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised. Some of the punks you get nowadays—” He slowly straightened in his chair and rested his elbows on the desk. “What’s that crack got to do with anything?”

  “It just occurred to me, when I saw Mart—”

  The door was suddenly and violently flung open and Miss Lally stumbled in, then fell sprawling on the rug from the force of a shove. Her glasses fell off, and she slowly rose to her knees sobbing angrily while a heavy man with colorless, pig-like eyes explained:

  “Here’s one of that Morton dame’s stooges, Chief. You told us—”

  Shayne was on his feet, but stayed where he was when he saw the gun in Leo Gannet’s hand, knowing that the soft glow in his eyes and the gentle smile on his lips were more dangerous than the stupid leer and twisted mouth of the punk who had shoved the girl into the room.

  “Take it easy, Shayne, while we talk this thing over,” said Gannet quietly.

  Chapter Three

  No Bribes Today

  SHAYNE REMAINED STANDING and kept a wary eye on the gun. “You aren’t playing this very smart, Gannet.”

  “I’m playing it my way,” he said, regret in his tone as he leaned forward with the gun pointed at Shayne’s midriff.

  Miss Lally stopped sobbing and wiped her eyes. With the light coat clutched in her arm, she retrieved her glasses, smoothed her disheveled hair with her fingers, and attained a measure of prim dignity the instant she slid the glasses in place, in spite of her crouched, undignified position.

  The man who had shoved her into the room looked even less intelligent than Mart. He was beginning to recover from his surprise at seeing Shayne, and muttered hoarsely:

  “I didn’ know you had comp’ny, Chief. You told me if the Morton dame stuck her nose in we was to give her the works.”

  “It’s okay, Henry,” Gannet assured him, “if you’re right about Miss Morton sending this woman here.” He kept his eyes on the redhead as he spoke, then asked, “Is he right, Shayne?”

  “I sent Miss Lally in here to look around,” he answered.

  Miss Lally started to rise from her knees and Shayne went over, took her hand, and pulled her to her feet

 
Henry started toward him with a muttered oath. Shayne stepped swiftly in front of her to face Henry, balanced lightly on the balls of his feet, his upper lip curled back and baring his teeth. His right hand was balled into a big fist against his thigh. “Try shoving somebody nearer your size this time,” he said happily.

  Henry stopped, glanced at Gannet for a signal, and the gambler said, “Close the door first, and take him if he wants it that way,” with a gentle sigh of resignation.

  Henry turned to close the door. As he swung back Shayne saw the glitter of brass knuckles from his right hand and stepping in fast, hit him hard on the jaw before he completed the turn.

  He heard a cry of warning or of terror from Beatrice Lally. His first surprise blow sent Henry reeling and, enraged by the knuckles, he drove three more jolting blows against the man’s chin. Henry slumped against the closed door, and as he slowly sagged to the floor Shayne delivered a left, a right, and another left, and was only vaguely aware of the smothered oaths and sounds of a struggle behind him. Henry’s knees gave way and he slid to the floor, a grotesque figure with his heavy shoulders supported by the door and his head hanging limply forward.

  Shayne whirled around with both hands clenched, stopped and stared in disbelief, then his mouth twitched into an appreciative grin at Beatrice Lally standing behind Gannet’s swivel chair. Her coat covered Gannet’s face and neck, drawn tight by the sleeves which she was inexorably twisting and tightening while the gambler groaned and gasped for air.

  Two swift, long-legged strides carried Shayne to the desk, where he twitched the wildly waving automatic from Gannet’s hand. “Better let him come up for air now, Miss Lally,” he said, forcing the grin from his face as she released the sleeves and stepped back.

  Shayne had the loaded clip out of the gun and in his pocket and was ejecting the cartridge from under the firing-pin when Gannet finally clawed the garment from his head. His face was flushed and his breathing hard. He massaged his thin neck with a thin hand, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly.