Dividend on Death

by Brett Halliday

  “This way.” Dr. Pedique led him down the hall in the direction the maid had brought him, and on to the wide stairway. They went up the stairs silently, and at the top were met by the blond nurse whom Shayne had seen before. She carried a folded towel on her arm and was about to pass them when Dr. Pedique held out his hand and said, “Ah, Charlotte, how is the patient?”

  “He’s resting, doctor.” Her voice was low and huskily vibrant. Her eyes slipped past the doctor’s face and rested with approval on the towering figure of the detective.

  “That’s fine,” said Dr. Pedique. The nurse went on down the hall, followed by Shayne’s speculative gaze.

  “This way.” Dr. Pedique led him to the same door which Phyllis had taken him to. The room was dark. Dr. Pedique knocked softly. There was no response. He knocked louder and listened, then said, “I wonder—” and tried the knob. The door swung inward and he called softly, “Mrs. Brighton.”

  When there was no response, he switched on the light. Shayne stood directly behind him and watched his body stiffen as he looked toward the bed. He crossed the room swiftly and bent over her. Shayne strode in after him, hard-eyed and watchful.

  The face which Dr. Pedique raised to Shayne was contorted with horror—and with some other emotion which it was impossible to diagnose at the moment. He shuddered and averted his eyes from the chalk-white face of the woman on the bed. His face was greenish-pale even in the warm light from the floor lamp.

  “Looks as if you won’t be needing me now,” Shayne said.

  The dapper little physician rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet. “This is terrible, terrible,” he groaned.

  “It’s not nice,” Shayne admitted.

  Dr. Pedique risked a second glance at the body and said, more firmly, “It’s—that girl! We thought she had gone to bed. She must have slipped in here and—God! I’ve been a fool. I should have had a nurse watching her every minute.” His suave, dapper manner deserted him completely, and he covered his face with his hands.

  The spectacle began to irk Shayne. “Looks like a case for the police. For Christ’s sake, pull yourself together.”

  Dr. Pedique made an effort to recapture his professional manner. “I feel wholly responsible,” he said. “Had I used better judgment, I should have sent the girl to an asylum instead of exposing her mother to this danger.”

  “Afterthoughts aren’t worth a damn,” observed Shayne. “Let’s call the police and the others, and then get hold of the girl before she bumps somebody else off.”

  “It is the strictest necessity,” Dr. Pedique readily agreed. He slid past Shayne and ran to the top of the stairs to call the news downstairs and ask that the police be notified. Then he came back to Shayne, his mouth twitching.

  “The girl’s room. We’ll see if she’s there.”

  “We’ll wait for some of the others to come up,” Shayne protested. “Doctor Hilliard should be here. A crazy woman with a knife is likely to be a tough proposition.”

  Dr. Pedique agreed, his breath coming nervously and noisily. Clarence and Dr. Hilliard raced up the stairs; Shayne could hear the tension in Montrose’s voice, below, as he telephoned the police.

  Shayne took the newcomers to the open door of the death chamber and they both looked in. Dr. Hilliard fiddled with his eyeglasses and shook his head drearily. The boy, Clarence, drew back after one hasty glance during which his face went white and drawn.

  “Where’s the girl’s room?” Shayne asked Dr. Pedique.

  “This way.” They followed him down the hall. Arriving at what Shayne knew to be Phyllis’s door, Dr. Pedique stood back and moistened his lips, waiting for someone else to take the initiative.

  Shayne stepped to the door and knocked authoritatively. There was no response. Then, he tried the knob. The door would not open. “Hell,” he muttered, “it’s locked.” Making certain that Dr. Hilliard observed his every move, Shayne turned the key in the lock and opened the door.

  The others crowded in the doorway behind him. The room was dark. He groped for a switch, found it quickly, and pressed it. As the light came on, Phyllis Brighton sat up in bed with a little scream of fright. She gasped, “What is it?” and stared at them with distended eyes.

  Shayne stepped aside so the others could see her, and muttered, “Hell, she doesn’t look like a murderess.”

  “What is it?” she screamed again, half rising from her bed. The front of her nightgown showed stainless and clean.

  “Hold everything, sister,” Shayne said as he would have soothed a small child, “your mother has had an accident.”

  “Oh!” Her knuckles went to her mouth where she bit at them frantically as if to hold back a scream. Her slender body crouched away from the men as she would have drawn back from wild animals ready to attack her.

  “Keep as calm as you can,” Shayne told her. “You didn’t do it. Your door was locked on the outside and you couldn’t have got out if you’d tried.”

  “Oh! Where is she? I must see her,” the girl cried. She threw the covers back and started to get out of bed.

  Shayne stepped forward and put his hand on her shoulder and gently forced her back. “Take it easy. You’re not in any shape to see her now.”

  She sank back obediently. Shayne turned to Hilliard and said, “Better look after her, doc. Get her calmed down before the police come.”

  Dr. Hilliard stepped forward with professional calm, and Shayne said to the others, “We’ll get out. Whoever did the killing must have locked the girl in her room first. It’s a cinch she didn’t do it and then lock herself in.”

  Dr. Pedique took a white silk handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his face. “I don’t understand,” he said as they went down the hallway.

  Shayne grinned at his back. “I don’t, either,” he said, “but I guess my job’s finished. I’ll be running along.”

  “Wait!” sputtered Dr. Pedique. “The murderer. The police will be here!”

  “Let them worry about the murderer,” said Shayne. “That’s their job, not mine. I’m breezing before they start pestering me with idiotic questions.” He went down the front stairs while the doctor and Clarence stared after him, bewildered.

  Shayne lost no time in getting his car out of the drive. Two blocks south a racing automobile passed him with screaming siren. He grinned at the police car and drove leisurely back to his apartment hotel in Miami. This time, he went in the front way and up the elevator. A grin accompanied an involuntary sigh when he closed the door of his apartment and walked over to the center table. He took off his coat and gingerly took the butcher knife and nightgown from his pocket and laid them on the table beside the bottle of cognac. The look of being withdrawn from what he was doing began to come over his face once again. It meant that Michael Shayne was beginning to add up the score. So, when his eye lit on the two hundred-dollar bills, which were lying where he had left them, he merely grunted, picked them up, and stuck them in his pocket without any indication of whether he was surprised to find them still there or not. Then he went to the bedroom and undressed, slipped his gaunt length into tan pajamas, and pulled on a dressing-robe. With felt bedroom slippers on his feet, he padded out to the other room, took the tall glass to the kitchen where he crushed new ice cubes and made another glass of ice water.

  Returning, he set the glass carefully on the table, poured a wineglass of cognac, and set cigarettes and matches on the small stand near by. Next he lowered himself info the deep chair, lit a cigarette, and proceeded to gaze through the blue smoke at the chiffon-wrapped butcher knife before him.

  It was a few minutes after ten when he sat down. Two hours later the ash tray was filled with half-smoked butts, the level of the liquid in the brandy bottle was considerably lower, the small amount of water remaining in the glass was warm, but he had reached no conclusion. Carefully he poured another glass of cognac and debated whether he should get more ice. Deciding it was too much trouble, he lifted the glass to his lips.

  He h
eld it there, but his eyes shifted toward the door as a soft tapping sounded on the panel. After one reflective sip, he set the glass down carefully and stood erect. The tapping sounded again. Shayne’s arm shot out and opened the table drawer. The other arm swept the knife and nightgown in it. He closed the drawer soundlessly and padded to the door.

  When he opened it and looked out, he said, “I’ve been expecting you,” and stood aside to let Phyllis Brighton enter.

  CHAPTER 3

  SHE WAS WEARING A TWO-PIECE KNITTED DRESS which clung tightly to her firm young body. Hatless, her black hair was wind-blown and very curly; without make-up, her complexion seemed engagingly fresh, though she was unnaturally pale. Shayne studied her sharply. She passed him toward the center of the room, whirled about to face him with the palms of her hands flat on the table behind her as he closed the door.

  “Tell me I—that I didn’t do it.”

  “You tell me,” Shayne suggested. He moved toward her, and his face was grim.

  Her elongated eyes held his, and her body was tensely arched like a drawn bow. When she answered, her voice sounded as if she had been running. “No one else can help me. I had to come to you.”

  He stood close to her and said harshly, “You’ll get us both in the jug and then I won’t be a hell of a lot of help. Why in the name of God did you come here and how close are the cops on your tail?”

  “I had to come here. They’re not following me. I slipped my car out of the garage and came out the back way.”

  “Who saw you come upstairs?”

  “No one. I found a side entrance.”

  “Where’s your car parked?”

  “In a parking-lot on Second Street.”

  Shayne nodded glumly and stepped around her to the table to light a cigarette. The girl’s eyes followed him, her body holding the same tense pose, as if she feared she would wilt to the floor if she relaxed one muscle.

  Shayne frowned at the cigarette and went to the cabinet where he got another wineglass. Still only the girl’s eyes and head moved. The rest of her was like a brittle statue.

  Shayne poured both glasses full and moved in front of her with one in each hand.

  “Drink this.”

  She made no move to touch the glass he offered, shaking her head despairingly. “I can’t. I never drink.”

  “It’s time you learned,” Shayne told her. “You’ll learn a lot of things not in the book if you stick around. Drink it.”

  Her eyes wavered before his. Her right hand came up slowly from the table top, and then she swayed. Shayne cursed deep in his throat and caught her, spilling some of the cognac. He held the glass in his other hand to her lips and she swallowed obediently. A brief grin broke the hard intentness of Shayne’s look; he tilted the glass up and kept on holding her till it was empty. Phyllis Brighton choked and sputtered, and he let her down into the chair he had been sitting in.

  “The first pint is always the hardest,” he told her cheerfully. “I’ll get some ice water.”

  He drained the other glass, and setting them both on the table, went to the kitchen and fixed a small pitcher of ice water. Phyllis’s eyes were watering, and she was still sputtering when he came back. He poured a glass of water and handed it to her, pulled up another chair in front of hers so their knees touched when he sat down.

  “All right,” he said. “Tell me all about it.”

  “What can I tell you?” She shuddered helplessly. “I came here for you to tell me.”

  Shayne lit another cigarette and said carefully, “What am I supposed to know, sister, that you don’t know?”

  She set the glass down and gripped the arms of her chair. “Tell me I didn’t—kill Mother.” Frenzy lurked in the smoky depths of her eyes.

  Shayne looked at the ceiling and sighed. “I’ve seen queer ones but this beats them all.”

  The girl reached for the water glass with shaking fingers. “Can’t you see you’re driving me crazy?”

  “Driving you, sister?” Shayne looked at her in mild disgust.

  “Yes.” She choked over a gulp of water.

  Shayne said, “You’d better fix up a coherent story if you want me to keep you out of jail when the coppers come.”

  “I don’t want to fix up any story,” she cried wildly. “I want to know the truth. I don’t know what happened tonight. If I did it I’ll kill myself.” Her body vibrated like a taut wire in a wind. She fumbled with the catch on her handbag and brought out a pearl-handled .25 automatic pistol.

  “That,” said Shayne evenly, “would wind up the case beautifully. Go ahead.” He nodded toward the automatic.

  She wilted suddenly and began to sob. Shayne reached out an immoderately long arm and plucked the tiny weapon from her fingers. His wide lips twitched and he ran fingers through his mop of carroty hair.

  “God in heaven,” he fumed. “Let’s get together on this. What do you and what don’t you know? What am I supposed to know and what am I supposed not to know?”

  “Did I—d-did I k-kill my mother?” she managed to get out between quivering lips.

  “That’s the third time you’ve asked me,” he told her irritably. “Suppose you come clean with your end of the story. What do the police think?”

  “I don’t know.” She wrung her hands and peered appealingly at him from beneath lowered lashes. “They asked me a lot of questions and told me to stay in my room.”

  “Whereupon you sneaked over here to be comforted.” Shayne poured out two more glasses of cognac and pressed one into Phyllis Brighton’s fingers. Then he filled the water glass and put it into her other hand.

  “Put the liquor down without taking a breath and follow it with a big gulp of water.”

  She did as she was told, and her eyes grew brighter as the dose coalesced with the previous drink she had taken.

  Shayne sipped at his glass and said, “Start at the beginning. From the moment your mother arrived.”

  She swallowed hard and averted her eyes. “They wouldn’t let me go to the station to meet her. I just saw her a few minutes before dinner and then at the table. She was upset because Mr. Brighton wasn’t well enough for her to see him, and she went to her room to lie down after dinner. I didn’t feel very well and I—went to bed and to sleep and—and I didn’t wake up until you came to tell me what had happened.” She raised her eyes miserably to Shayne’s face. He was peering at the liquor in his glass.

  He said mildly, “That’s the story you told the police. All right. It’s a good one. Stick to it. But you’ll have to tell me the truth if I’m going to help you.”

  “I have,” she cried wildly. “That’s the absolute truth. Unless—unless—” She began sobbing brokenly.

  Shayne said, “Ah?” and waited.

  “You were there,” she reminded him. “I thought maybe you knew something else. I—sometimes I do things and don’t remember.”

  “I’ve heard,” said Shayne to his glass, “of convenient losses of memory. But this is the most remarkable case I’ve ever personally contacted.”

  “Don’t you believe me?” she asked wildly. She jumped to her feet. “If you don’t believe me it’s no use.” Her hand darted for the pistol.

  Shayne caught her wrist and forced her back to the chair. “Hell, I don’t know what to believe,” he growled. “There’s a lot of angles—” His voice trailed off as he stared speculatively at her.

  He emptied his glass and set it down with a thump. “You and I,” he told her, “have got to learn to talk each other’s language.” He took a handkerchief from the pocket of his robe and wiped the sweat from his face. His voice was faintly incredulous. “You don’t remember anything from the time you went to sleep and when we came crowding in your room?”

  “No!” she cried, her eyes bright. “You must believe me.”

  “What the hell are you worrying about then? Didn’t they tell you that your door was locked on the outside?”

  “Yes.” She shuddered. “But they seemed to think th
ere was something awfully peculiar about that.”

  “What do you think about it?” demanded Shayne.

  “I don’t—know what to think.”

  His heavy brows came down fiercely over his eyes. Phyllis Brighton watched him apprehensively.

  “Taking your crazy story for something to start on,” he said finally, “how long have you been having these spells of doing things and forgetting?”

  “You do believe me!” She clasped her hands and looked almost happy.

  “I learned a hell of a long time ago in this business not to believe anybody or anything—not even what I see with my own eyes. Let it pass. We’ve got to start somewhere. I asked you a question.”

  “It’s been going on for months,” she told him breathlessly. “That’s one of the symptoms that Doctor Pedique has been treating me for. And the worst part is the way things that I really do get mixed up with things I’m just thinking about doing before I lose track.”

  “Say that again. More slowly. It doesn’t quite make sense.”

  “It’s—hard to explain,” she faltered. “When I wake up I sometimes have hazy memories of doing things. And when I check up, I find I really did some of the things I remember—and others didn’t happen at all.”

  Shayne was staring at her with hard eyes, but his voice was soft.

  “I’m guessing you’ve got some hazy memories about this evening that you haven’t mentioned.”

  She jerked back as though he had struck her. “I—they’re so mixed up that I don’t know whether any of them are real or just my imagination.”

  “That,” said Shayne glumly, “is what I was afraid of.”

  “Are you—keeping anything back from me?”

  Shayne nodded slowly and rubbed his chin. “Some things that don’t check up—yet.”

  Phyllis’s eyes were very bright. “I remember, or imagined, some things about you.”

  It was awfully quiet in the room. Outside, the drone of late-evening traffic sounded distantly faint. Shayne twirled his glass between heavy fingers and did not look at the girl. He finally said, “Yeah?” without raising his eyes.