Dividend on Death

by Brett Halliday

  The girl’s gray eyes twinkled merrily. “Perhaps she would. You mean Miss Hunt? On night duty?”

  “The doc called her Charlotte,” Shayne said.

  “She’s off duty now, resting in her room down the hall. We’re changing shifts today. I stay on until midnight, then she relieves me.”

  “That would be my luck.” Shayne sighed lugubriously. “Of course,” he went on, “I could like you just as well if you weren’t so tough about sticking to orders.”

  “But I am.” She smiled, but made no move to step away from the door. Her eyes frankly questioned him.

  “I’m a detective,” he told her bluntly. “There was murder done here last night. Better let me in to give your patient the once-over—else I’ll have to waken Pedique and get a certificate of admission.”

  She hesitated, then smiled shyly and said, “You’re Mr. Shayne, aren’t you?” He nodded, and she went on. “I’ve seen your picture in the papers. I guess it’ll be all right, though Mr. Brighton is asleep. If you’ll promise not to awaken him—”

  “I’ll be as quiet as a mouse with rubbers on,” Shayne assured her.

  She opened the door and stepped silently inside. Shayne tiptoed after her into the sickroom. An east window was open, and a gentle breeze blew in, invigoratingly fresh, mingling with the faint odor of antiseptics permeating the room. A white screen stretched out before the bed. The nurse went to it softly, holding out her hand behind her as a signal for quiet.

  Shayne moved up behind her, taking the soft hand in his and squeezing it as he leaned over her shoulder and peered at the sleeping patient. His face was turned toward them and he was breathing easily. An emaciated and bloodless face, ghastly in repose. He had been a large man, but illness had stripped his body down to the framework of bones. One talonlike hand lay outside the sheet, loosely gripping an open fountain pen. Ink had smeared the tips of his fingers and made a blotch on the sheet. The nurse drew her hand away from Shayne’s grasp, leaned forward, and gently took the pen from the sleeping man’s clutch.

  She straightened up, and her shoulders pressed against Shayne’s chest. The man’s appearance had been photographically caught by the detective, and he moved back softly.

  The nurse smiled and whispered, “He insists on trying to write letters in bed and is always making a mess.” She placed the fountain pen on an enameled table.

  Shayne studied the pen as the girl moved toward the door. It was of odd design, filigreed with white gold. His hand darted out and picked up the pen, slipped it in his breast pocket with the point up as he strolled casually toward the door.

  The nurse stepped outside with him and closed the door, leaned back against it. “Is that all you wanted?”

  Shayne grinned engagingly and said, “I could use your telephone number.”

  The girl smiled up at him but made no reply.

  Shayne went on more seriously. “You might give me dope on the general setup over here. How long have you been on the case?”

  “Ever since they arrived.”

  “Do you live here?”

  “Yes. In Miami.”

  “How did you happen to come on the case? Know Pedique before?”

  “No. They called the Nursing Registry, and I happened to be the next on the list.”

  “I see.” Shayne hesitated. “And Miss Hunt—was she employed in the same manner?”

  “Oh, no. She’s from New York. She came down with them.”

  Shayne considered that. Then he said, “And she has a room, stays here all the time?”

  “Yes.” She smiled again. “So you don’t need her telephone number.”

  “I’d still like to have yours,” Shayne said, but went on without giving her time to reply. “Which is the other nurse’s room? I think I’ll bother her with a few questions while I’m here.”

  “I’m sure,” the girl told him sedately, “Charlotte won’t mind if you bother her.” There was a hint of malice in her voice.

  Shayne glanced at her sharply. “Not jealous?” he drawled.

  “Of course not. You flatter yourself.” She laughed softly and started down the hall. “I’ll show you her room. The only thing is,” she continued as Shayne swung along beside her, “that Charlotte very nearly drove me crazy asking questions about you when she went off duty this morning. She likes her men big and rough and redheaded.” She threw Shayne an impish glance.

  “That gal’s got good judgment,” Shayne said. “I hope you didn’t tell her anything about me to cool her off.”

  The nurse flushed. “I didn’t know anything to tell her. Only what I read in the newspapers.” She stopped before a closed door.

  “That’s your fault. You could know all about me if you’d give me that phone number.”

  She smiled at him and tapped on the door, then turned the knob and stuck her head inside.

  “Here’s the boy friend, Charlotte.”

  She stepped back, and Shayne went into the room as a sleepy voice asked, “What—who?”

  The room was a replica of the room Phyllis Brighton had taken him to, both in size and furnishings. The nurse’s blond head lay on the pillow. Her eyes were only half open.

  They opened wide when Shayne pulled up a chair by the bed and sat down. “Oh, it’s you, big boy?” Her voice was no longer a sleepy drawl.

  “It’s me.” He grinned at her. “I thought you might be lonesome.”

  “And how!” Charlotte exclaimed fervently. Her long body was fully clothed, and she moved restlessly on the bed.

  Shayne’s gaze traveled over her. He said, “Did you by any chance mean that come-hither look you tossed me last night?”

  She giggled. “They’ve kept me cooped up here till I’d give most any man the glad eye.”

  Shayne frowned. “You’re not particular, eh? You’d even step out with me.” He made a move as though to leave the room.

  “Wait a minute.” She caught his hand, and her eyes caressed him. “I was just kidding, big boy. You knocked me all in a heap when I first saw you. You got something that does things to me.”

  Shayne subsided and lit a cigarette. He grinned and said, “You’d repeat that last statement with emphasis if you stepped out with me.”

  “Uh-huh. I’ll bet I would,” she whispered.

  “Well, why not?” He leaned toward her and lowered his voice to match her whisper.

  She shook her head and said longingly, “I can’t.”

  Shayne’s eyes looked squarely into hers for a long moment before he muttered, “You’re off duty tonight, aren’t you? Until midnight?”

  “Yeah.” She moved her head restlessly on the pillow, drawing nearer to him, but she looked away from him when she said almost inaudibly, “But I’m supposed to stick around this dump all the time.”

  Shayne leaned over her and asked, “What for? The other nurse will be on duty.”

  “I know—but—” She moved her head off the pillow and moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. Shayne’s face was not more than a foot away from her, his eyes boring into hers.

  “I’ve got an apartment.” He gave her the address and the number. “Better use the side entrance on Second Avenue. I’ll be there alone all evening.”

  “I’ll remember that number.” Her eyes were bright and feverish. She hunched her shoulders to the edge of the bed. Shayne kissed her moist, parted lips.

  She lay back and looked at him and said, “My God!” when he stood up.

  He smiled crookedly and said aloud, “Thanks for the interview, sister. You and I have the same idea about a lot of things.” And he added under his breath, “I’ll be looking for you tonight.” He turned abruptly and went out, closing the door with a wave of his hand.

  There was no one in the corridor. He went to the balustraded stairway and on down to the library. He saw Mr. Montrose engrossed with a number of papers at a desk on the far side of the room.

  Shayne walked in and said, “Good afternoon.”

  Mr. Montrose jumped. He sm
iled apologetically when he saw who it was, stood up, and said, “Mr. Shayne. You startled me.”

  “Sorry.” Shayne walked across the room and drew up a chair to the side of the desk.

  “Do sit down.” Mr. Montrose’s voice was unexpectedly cordial.

  “Thanks.” Shayne sat down. So did Mr. Montrose. The wispy little man cleared his throat nervously. He said, “This has been a terrible ordeal for all of us, Mr. Shayne. I trust that you and the police have apprehended the murderer.”

  There was a clean ash tray on the top of the desk. Shayne ground out the butt of the cigarette he had lit in Charlotte’s room and lit another one.

  “We’ve struck nothing but blind trails thus far,” he confessed. “I’m working on a lead which may mean something.” He paused for a moment and assumed a deeply thoughtful attitude, then went on. “May I take the liberty of asking a few pertinent questions?”

  “Oh, yes, indeed,” Mr. Montrose assured him. “I’ll be happy to assist you in any way possible.” He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his palms together.

  “You’re Brighton’s secretary?”

  “Yes.” Mr. Montrose nodded and waited.

  “You’re fully conversant with his business affairs, I presume?”

  “Yes, indeed. Since his illness the burden has naturally fallen on me.” He sighed as though the burden was a heavy one, but that he was bearing up as well as could be expected under the responsibility.

  “What, in rough figures, is Mr. Brighton’s estate worth?” Shayne asked bluntly.

  The little man gazed up at the ceiling and considered the question. “His holdings have been hard hit,” he said with a frown. “It is difficult, of course, to make a snap appraisal. I doubt seriously, however, whether the entire estate could be liquidated on the present market for more than a hundred thousand dollars—certainly not more than one hundred and fifty thousand.” He shook his head sadly. “And that, mark you, is the estate of a man worth millions a few years ago. Literally millions.”

  “Yes. That’s tough,” Shayne granted. “Who inherits? The two children?”

  “Equally. Have you heard, Mr. Shayne, that Miss Brighton has disappeared?”

  “Yes. I heard something about it. No other heirs, eh? No other member of the Brighton clan to put in a claim if Rufus Brighton should kick off?”

  “There are no other heirs,” said Mr. Montrose primly.

  “No brothers or sisters?” Shayne persisted.

  “As to that,” Mr. Montrose admitted, “Mr. Brighton has two sisters and a brother living. I helped draw up his will, however, and there is no provision for any of them.”

  “Seems to me I’ve heard of the sisters,” Shayne muttered. “They’re both married and pretty high society, aren’t they?”

  “Both of Mr. Brighton’s sisters married extremely well,” Mr. Montrose agreed with pursed lips.

  “How about the brother?” Shayne frowned at his cigarette. “Wasn’t he mixed up in some scandal a few years ago?”

  Mr. Montrose drummed on the desk with his finger tips. There was a look of distress on his face. “I do trust, Mr. Shayne, it will not be necessary to drag that story through the newspapers again.”

  Shayne said shortly, “I don’t talk for publication. I simply want all the facts before me. I have a hunch this was murder for profit. Thus far I find only two persons who would profit by the death of Mr. or Mrs. Brighton. I understand that Brighton is just clinging to life and may let go at any time.”

  “I begin to see the theory you’re working on.” Mr. Montrose nodded and ceased drumming on the desk.

  “Theories are all right,” said Shayne. “But I need all the pieces. How about this brother? Weren’t they in business together or something? And didn’t the brother embezzle a wad of money and get put away for it?”

  Mr. Montrose sucked in his breath cautiously. “So it was reported. Though I don’t mind saying, Mr. Shayne, that I have always felt a great injustice was committed. I was intimately associated with Mr. Julius Brighton for many years before the affair and I cannot believe he committed any dishonest act.”

  “Julius Brighton?” Shayne nodded, crushing out his cigarette. “That’s the brother. I’m beginning to recall it. That was about seven years ago.”

  “They were partners in a brokerage business which failed.”

  “And you knew Julius pretty well?”

  “I was his confidential secretary for ten years. I knew him altogether too well to give the slightest credence to the charges made against him.”

  “The jury evidently believed them,” Shayne grunted. “They convicted him, didn’t they?”

  Mr. Montrose pointed out sharply, “The jury was in a mood to convict.”

  Shayne nodded absently. “What did they give him?”

  “Literally a death sentence.” Mr. Montrose spoke with high indignation. “Julius Brighton was broken in spirit as well as body when they dragged him away to serve a ten-year sentence.”

  Shayne nodded and lit another cigarette. “Was that when you went to work for Rufus Brighton?”

  “Soon afterward. My modest savings also went in the crash. I have always felt,” Mr. Montrose continued in an aggrieved tone, “that the entire truth was not brought out at the trial.”

  Shayne got up, saying, “At least that seems to let Julius out as an heir. They quarreled, I take it.”

  “Oh, yes.” Mr. Montrose smiled thinly. “I think you can rest assured that Julius will never be mentioned in any will made by Rufus Brighton.”

  “All right.” Shayne dismissed the matter. “About the servants. What is the staff?”

  “There’s only the one maid who let you in, the housekeeper, cook, and chauffeur. And Miss Hunt, of course, the nurse who accompanied Mr. Brighton from New York.”

  “By all means,” murmured Shayne, “let us not forget Miss Hunt.”

  “Eh?”

  “Skip it,” said Shayne airily. “The others, do they all live here? And have they been employed long?”

  “Yes. Except the chauffeur. He is quartered over the garage and was employed just before we left New York, to drive the limousine down. The others are the regular staff maintained here the year around.”

  Shayne said, “Thanks. I’ll wander around a bit.” He went out, leaving Mr. Montrose sitting at his desk.

  The ubiquitous maid flitted past him in the corridor. Shayne stopped and asked if there was a rear entrance leading from the garage. She led him down another hall to an unlocked rear door.

  Shayne went out and found a concrete walk leading to the garage. A low hedge separated it from the driveway south of the house. As he went along the path he noticed that a curving drive led directly from the four-car garage into the alley. That, he decided, was how Phyllis had given the police the slip last night.

  One of the garage doors was open. An outside stairway led upward at the end of the building to a narrow porch opening into the living-quarters above. Shayne walked directly to the stairway and started to climb it. He was halfway up when a hoarse shout stopped him. He looked down and saw a burly figure emerge from the open garage door. A heavy low-browed face peered up at him. The man wore dirty coveralls over a chauffeur’s uniform and was wiping his hands on a piece of oily waste.

  “Where d’yuh think you’re going?” he bellowed.

  Shayne leaned on the railing and grinned down at him. “I’m on my way to pay the chauffeur a social call. Are you it?”

  The man threw down the waste and moved to the bottom step, turning his face up and staring with close-set eyes, growling through thick lips, “You ain’t got any business up there.”

  Shayne said reprovingly, “That’s not a nice way to greet a visitor.”

  “I ain’t expecting no visitors.” The chauffeur mounted the steps slowly, blinking upward at the detective. He had no eyelashes at all, and the lack gave his face a curiously naked appearance.

  “You’ve got one now,” Shayne told him.

  “Have I
?” It was a surly growl. The chauffeur pushed past Shayne to a couple of steps above him.

  “You’ve got one now whether you like it or not,” Shayne insisted pleasantly. He started up another step.

  “Not so fast, buddy.” The chauffeur put a grimy hand on his shoulder.

  Shayne said evenly, “Take your hand off me.”

  The man glared at him, then moved up three steps where he blocked the stairway. “Spill your piece,” he growled.

  “We’ll go on up.”

  “No, we won’t. You can do your talking right here.”

  Shayne’s eyes blazed. The blaze died away to a hard glitter. “Such inexplicable bellicosity must be based on more than personal animosity,” he mused.

  “Don’t be cussing me,” the man blustered.

  Shayne smiled up at him. A terrifying sort of smile. His lips drew back from his teeth.

  “What’s upstairs that you’re afraid I’ll see?”

  The chauffeur blinked uncertainly. “You must be the redheaded detective they were talking about last night.”

  “I’ll be presenting my credentials in a minute,” Shayne promised him.

  “Aw, say.” The chauffeur became conciliatory. “I’m willing to talk, see? But sometimes a guy don’t want his private room busted into. Get what I mean? A guy might have a dame on the sly. Go on down, and we’ll chew the fat.”

  “That,” said Shayne with quiet viciousness, “is exactly why I’m going to look in your rooms.”

  Fear washed over the chauffeur’s face like a shadow. His greasy fist came up from nowhere and smashed against the side of Shayne’s jaw. The detective lurched back, grabbing wildly at the railing. Grunting curses, the chauffeur swung a heavy foot and planted it in the face below him.

  The railing collapsed, and Shayne’s body slithered limply to the ground.

  He came back to consciousness just before sundown. He was sprawled drunkenly in his car parked on a side street near the east end of the causeway. He sat up and shook his head, gingerly feeling his face. The rearview mirror showed a livid bruise on his forehead and clotted blood on his cheeks.