by Unknown
I shook my head. “I have to go. I’m worried about Selak. I’ll see you in the morning, when I bring the rug over.”
“You’re worried about that—that man? It’s not your concern, Lee.”
“Selak’s always been my concern. It was my idea that my dad should hire him, and Grace, too.”
She shook her head. “All right. It’s been a grand evening. I suppose I shouldn’t complain.”
She came to the door with me and I kissed her. “Sleep tight,” I said, “and dream of tomorrow.”
She ruffled my hair. “Big day, tomorrow.”
Big day, tomorrow. And a bad day, too, though I didn’t know it at the time.
The downtown Western Union office was open all night, and it was from there I sent the wires. They were to some dealers I knew on the coast, and in them I inquired about Henri Ducasse.
The rain had started before I went into the telegraph office, and it was worse when I came out. The wind was cold; there was sleet mixed with the raindrops. Our false summer was over.
The wind howled down the Avenue, driving the rain before it. My little convertible was headed directly into it, and she shivered from time to time as the gusts hit.
It all shaped up. I’m no detective, but Ismet Bey had told me something that gave me a sequence. Tinker to Evers to Chance; was that the famous infield? Was that the triple trio, or was it double play?
When I turned into the driveway, the lights were on in the living room and on the porch. I could see Papa in the living room talking to someone. When I came up on the porch, I could see who it was. Sergeant Waldorf. He was working late; it was after one.
His eyes appraised me as I came into the living room.
“Anything about Selak?” I asked Papa.
He shook his head. “The sergeant thinks it has something to do with Henri Ducasse. And you didn’t tell him about the rug, Levon, about the Bokhara.”
Waldorf still hadn’t said anything. I said: “How about Dykstra? Have you talked to him?”
“Dykstra’s in the clear all the way,” the sergeant said. “I’ve no idea where that rumor started.”
Papa said: “I told him it was Mr. Egan’s rug, Levon. He’s been checking Mr. Egan.”
I looked at the sergeant. He was still appraising me. I said: “You came here to see me, Sergeant?”
“More or less. Egan was in to see you just before you closed this evening, wasn’t he?”
“That’s right.”
“What did he want?”
“That’s a short question,” I said, “but it would require a long answer. I’d have to give you some background first, Sergeant.”
Somewhere a door slammed, and I could hear the wind roll the garbage can over.
“I’ve stayed up this long,” Sergeant Waldorf said. “I may as well stay up a little longer and hear your story.”
I told him about Egan, Herro and Bey. I told him some of the things about Claire. Papa sat there while I talked and missed none of it. The sergeant didn’t interrupt me once.
“And his wife knows he’s selling them?”
“He said she did. He said I could ask her.”
“Does his wife know Miss Lynne has them?”
“I don’t know if she does or not.”
“Does she know they planned to leave town together?”
My heart stopped, I was sure. I couldn’t get my breath for a second. “You’re kidding, Sergeant.”
“No, but she might be.”
“Mr. Egan’s a—he’s old,” I said. “It doesn’t make sense.”
“The older the wackier,” he said. “I’m no spring chicken, myself, but I can’t think of anybody I wouldn’t leave, if she wanted me to.” His voice was weary. He rose. “Well, I’ll see this Mrs. Egan tomorrow.” He looked at me quietly a moment. “You want to come out to the porch a second?”
Papa frowned, but I said: “Sure.”
Out there, the sergeant smiled. I could hardly hear his voice, above the sound of the rain and the wind. “Anything you want to tell me privately? How bad you might be involved, I mean?”
I shook my head. “I gave it to you straight, Sergeant. You’re positive Dykstra’s in the clear?”
“Positive. Nobody I’d rather nail, but he’s clean.”
“All day,” I said, “I’ve been worrying about this. All day I’ve been hoping against hope that it was Dykstra. I don’t know the man, so that wasn’t fair.”
Sergeant Waldorf was looking out at the rain. He seemed to be miles away. He said: “She’s a beauty, kid. I’ve never seen anyone like her. Years ago, I felt as you did tonight, and this babe didn’t have half of what that Lynne girl’s got.” He turned to face me. “I’ll try to keep it as clean as I can. You ought to get an answer to those wires in the morning, don’t you think?”
I nodded.
He put a hand on my shoulder. “O.K. I’ll see you in the morning. It’s been a long day.” Then he was trotting through the rain to the department car.
In the living room, Papa still sat in the chair he’d occupied through my recital. He looked at me sadly. He started to say something, then changed his mind. He rose.
“Time for bed, Levon,” he said. “Another day, tomorrow.”
Another day, big day, bad day … Outside, the wind grew stronger, and I wondered if Selak was out there somewhere in that wet, miserable night.
From upstairs, Mom called: “Is that you, Levon? Nishan, is Levon home?”
“Levon’s home,” Papa said. His voice was as sad as his face. I couldn’t sleep that night. Didn’t sleep. Laid down on the bed and thought about Claire. Sat up and watched the storm wear itself out, and thought about Claire.
I thought about Selak, too, but mostly about Claire.
At breakfast Ann and Mom had enough to talk about, so my silence and Papa’s weren’t so noticeable.
At eight-thirty, I was at the store. At nine, Sergeant Waldorf came in.
“You put in a long day, don’t you, Sergeant?” I said.
“It’s not usually this bad,” he said. “I’ve just been over to Egan’s. She knows, all right. He told her he expected to get at least five thousand dollars for that pile of rugs.”
I shook my head.
“That seem reasonable to you?”
“There might be twenty rugs up there,” I said. “I didn’t count them, but that’s a good guess, I’d say. I sold one of them yesterday. I sold it for seventy-one hundred dollars, Sergeant.”
He whistled. He said: “Oh, oh.” He shook his head. “So that’s the angle. He gets a nice wad, clear, and he and Miss Lynne take off on the luxury trail. Or that’s what he hopes, huh? She’d have the money, wouldn’t she? And it might be good-bye, Mr. Egan.”
“I don’t know,” I said.
“You look tired, kid. No sleep?”
“No.”
He went over to the window. It was a gray day, outside. The rain had stopped, but the chill was still with us.
“You didn’t get an answer to those wires, yet?”
“Not yet.”
He turned. “I’m going out to get a cup of coffee. I’ll be back before you leave with the rug.”
There was one answer to my wires when he came back. It read:
Ducasse was out here in January and February. Made a few deals, but nothing sensational that I heard of. It’s a bad town for orientals, as you know.
Jack.
Sergeant Waldorf looked at me when he’d finished reading it. “It still doesn’t prove anything. I’ll need more than that.” He was looking thoughtful. “You take the rug up there and get your money from Bey. Find out what you can. I’ve an angle or two to check, yet.”
He left then, and I went to the safe, got out the prayer-rug. Papa came in as I was looking at it.
“Selak came home at three o’clock,” he told me. “Grace called. He left again around six. Where do you think he goes?”
I shrugged. I said: “I’m going to take this rug up to Miss Lynne. I’ll be back bef
ore lunch.”
He nodded, saying nothing. He went back to the washing room, as I went out with the Maksoud masterpiece.
There wasn’t much traffic; the weather was keeping the shoppers at home. I made time getting to the Towers, even though I was earlier than I’d promised.
George Herro was there when Claire let me in. And so was Ismet Bey. We were all early.
The Turk’s black eyes were gleaming as he looked at the rug. His face was enraptured.
“It’s worth the money,” I said.
He looked up at me. “Yes. About the money. I said cash, I know. This is the same.” He handed me the check.
It was a cashier’s check for forty thousand dollars, on the First National Bank. It was made out to George Herro.
“You’ve made it out to Mr. Herro,” I said.
He nodded quickly and his bird eyes were shadowed. “That was all right with Miss Lynne.”
I looked at George Herro. “And it would be all right with you, too, wouldn’t it?”
His hard old eyes met mine. “Why shouldn’t it be?”
“You can prove ownership?”
“For heaven’s sakes, Lee,” Claire said, “you’re not going back to the questions again, are you?”
I didn’t look at her. I continued to look at George Herro.
“What’s on your mind, Lee,” he asked.
“Murder,” I said. “You didn’t pick this rug up at the auction, George. The auction was in February. You were in Europe, then.”
“Oh. Who did pick it up at auction?”
“Henri Ducasse,” I said.
Ismet Bey was looking at George. Then he was looking at me: “Henri Ducasse? He is the man who was murdered?”
I nodded. “He knew rugs, too. He knew he had a good buy. But he didn’t know the history of this one. You did as soon as he showed it to you, George. And you can read Arabic.”
George Herro was very quiet in his chair. The hardness in his face had brought out his age and his cynicism.
I looked at Claire and tried to smile. “Baby, why don’t you come clean? You’re in fast company with George. I thought, at first, that the blood might have got on that Bokhara at Egan’s house. But it was too much of a surprise to him. Ducasse was killed here, wasn’t he, in your dining room?”
She was ready to crack up, again, just as she had last night. Her face was tight, her body rigid, as she stared at me.
Herro said: “Mr. Bey, I believe our transaction is completed. Thank you very much for the check. And good-bye.”
The little Turk gave us all one last glance before nodding. He folded the rug carefully and walked out. Nobody went to the door with him.
“And now,” George said, “I’ll have the rest of your ridiculous story, Lee.”
“It’s all guesswork,” I said. I paused. “The first deal,” I said, “was between Claire and Egan. Egan wanted the rugs sold from here, so his wife wouldn’t know what he was getting for them. You were called in, George, as the kind of salesman who could get the last dollar out of them. I’d say Ducasse heard about the deal and came here to chisel in on it. Henri was your biggest competitor, George, and he usually knew what you were doing. He brought the Maksoud piece along as an inducement, maybe, to let him in on the deal?”
Herro said nothing, nor did he move in his chair.
I looked at Claire. “That’s right, isn’t it?”
She nodded, still in that trance-like stage.
“For a rug like that one,” I went on, “a man like you would go pretty far, George. As far as murder.” And now I tried a lie. “We’ll know if that was Ducasse’s blood on the Bokhara. The police lab has a sample of the blood from the wash water, now.”
That got to him. He stirred in his chair. He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again.
I said: “You started the rumor about Dykstra among the dealers. You saw all the dealers from time to time, working on consignment as you do, and you started the rumor to throw Waldorf off the trail.”
He said nothing.
“I don’t know why Claire came down to the shop,” I said, “but maybe it was at Egan’s suggestion. Maybe she wanted an outside appraisal of those rugs, just to make sure you weren’t holding out. And maybe they wanted a legitimate dealer in the business to give it some tone.” I looked at her. “Was that it?”
I said: “You overestimate yourself, Claire. You’re too young for a couple of old men like Egan and this one. You’ve been kidding yourself, Claire. You’re too young and too soft.”
She was crying. She said, “Lee, there was nothing between us. They were—” She put her face down into her hands.
“They were stooges, you thought,” I finished for her. “Maybe Egan would be. But you don’t know this Herro, baby. You don’t know him like I do.”
Herro’s voice was an Arctic wind. “You don’t know me well enough either, Lee. You didn’t think I’d come to a deal like this unprepared, did you?”
He was still sitting in the chair. But now there was a gun in his hand. It was an automatic. It wasn’t a big gun, but it was big enough to kill.
Claire looked up quickly and some ejaculation escaped her throat.
The gun was pointing at me. Herro said: “She won’t talk as much as you hope for, Lee. She didn’t see me kill him, but she knows I did. And that would get her some time in jail. She’s too soft; you’re right about that. Jail is rough on the soft ones.” His smile was thin and cruel. “I’ll take the check, now.”
“Come and get it,” I said.
“Don’t fool with me, Lee. Bring it over.”
Claire said: “Give it to him, Lee. You aren’t involved in this. Don’t get involved with him.” Her voice was high.
In Herro’s hand, the gun lifted. In Herro’s eyes, I saw death. He would kill.
Then Claire was up, standing in front of me shielding me, facing the gun. “George, you’ll get the check. Don’t—”
That’s when Selak walked in.
I’d left the door unlocked hoping Waldorf might break in on something incriminating. But I was glad to see anybody, including Selak.
He looked like a drowned grizzly bear. His face was black with beard, his rough hair matted, his dull eyes glaring. The gun, you see, was pointing at his Claire.
The sound that came from his big throat was nothing that could be called human, a rough, threatening grunt.
Herro turned to face him as I rose, to get away from behind Claire. Herro’s gun was pointing at Selak, and Herro talked to him in broken Armenian.
Selak kept coming—and the gun jumped in Herro’s hand.
Selak trembled as the slug hit him, but he kept coming. I was almost to Herro, now; I grabbed his wrist and twisted it as Selak closed.
The gun fell to the floor, but Selak’s big arm sent me sprawling.
Then Selak had lifted George off his feet by the throat and one leg, and he lifted him high.
I heard Claire scream as Selak headed for the terrace doors, still carrying the struggling Herro high above his head.
I was up as Selak smashed through the doors, kicking them open. I was up and scrambling after him.…
I was out on the terrace and shouting at Selak as he stood there on the edge and now Herro was screaming.
I reached Selak, grabbed him blindly by the neck from behind—just as he tossed George Herro over the edge.…
Waldorf came five minutes later. I’d called the ambulance by that time for Selak. Somebody had called the police.
I told Waldorf all about it, and Claire told him her part, not sparing herself. Selak died, in the hospital, while we were still talking.
When we’d finished, Waldorf said: “I’ll do what I can, but you can count on five years, anyway, Miss Lynne.”
Papa says I’m foolish. He says all young men have experiences of one kind or another, and the thing to do is to forget them. He says there’s no sense in writing to her every week, up there, and going up, once a month. Papa says five year
s is a long time for a young man to wait, an awful long time.
As though I don’t know it.
A Taste for Cognac
Brett Halliday
BRETT HALLIDAY WAS ONE of the pseudonyms of the prolific Davis Dresser (1904–1977). Born in Chicago, he spent his childhood in Texas, where he ran away from home at the age of fourteen to join the army until his true age was discovered when he was sixteen. He returned to school and received a civil engineering certificate but, when work was hard to come by during the Great Depression, began to write, turning out scores of mystery, Western, romance, adventure, and sex stories for the pulps. His first novel, Mum’s the Word for Murder (1938), was published under the pseudonym Asa Baker, as was his second, The Kissed Corpse (1939). He also wrote as Matthew Blood, Peter Shelley, Anthony Scott, Hal Debrett, and many other pseudonyms.
It was with the character Michael Shayne, however, that Dresser found success. Based on a character he had met while working in Mexico on an oil tanker, the big redheaded private eye was one of the most popular detectives of the ’40s, ’50s, and ’60s, with more than sixty novels, numerous short stories and novelettes, a magazine named for him, a radio series (starring Jeff Chandler), a television series (starring Richard Denning), and a dozen movies in the 1940s, the first seven of which starred Lloyd Nolan, while the final five saw Hugh Beaumont portraying a tough but humorous Shayne. One Shayne vehicle, Time to Kill (1942), was based on a Raymond Chandler novel, The High Window, with Philip Marlowe displaced by Shayne.
“A Taste for Cognac” was published in the November 1944 issue.
A Taste for Cognac
Brett Halliday
“You’re horning in on things that don’t concern you,” the voice over the phone cautioned Mike Shayne. An unnecessary and futile warning, since the red-haired private shamus was always concerned with murder and lovely maidens in distress—particularly when his experienced nostrils sniffed a case of rare pre-war Monnet cognac as the payoff!
CHAPTER ONE
MONNET ’26
ICHAEL SHAYNE HESITATED inside the swinging doors, looked down the row of men at the bar and then strolled past the wooden booths lining the wall, glancing in each one as he went by.
