Dividend on Death

by Brett Halliday

  The heavy rod sank easily into the sand, and Shayne didn’t try to force it down more than a foot. There was no need to bury it very deeply. He thought of Oscar as the type who would not dig a deeper hole than was necessary. He began to wonder if he had guessed wrong as he probed back and forth without striking anything except yielding sand. Yet, he knew he couldn’t have reached a false conclusion. It had to be this way. It was the only reasonable answer to the whole complicated puzzle. And every puzzle has to have a reasonable answer. Still, a little practical proof of his own rightness would help.

  He had worked down to within six feet of low waterline when his probe struck something hard less than six inches beneath the surface. Shayne leaned on the steel rod, panting, with a strange glint in his eyes. Miniature waves rolled in, wetting his feet as he stood there. He looked toward the silent house and garage again, then carefully probed around, outlining a rough rectangle about two feet by four.

  Leaving his rod sticking thereto mark the spot, he went back for the spade and awkwardly began the one-handed job of turning back a six-inch layer of beach sand on top of something which appeared to be a steel-banded trunk when he laid the spade aside and turned the light of his flash upon it. He turned the light off at once, dropped to his knees, and dug the sand away from the lock with his hands. It was locked, but his steel rod made quick work of the flimsy clasp, and he knelt down again to lift the lid.

  A thick nauseating stench rolled up and struck him sickeningly in the face when he threw the lid back. He closed his eyes against it, turned his head to cough and spit the vile taste out of his mouth. Then he picked up his flashlight and turned its beam into the open trunk.

  He stared at the naked corpse of a man he had never seen before, cramped grotesquely into the small space and in a remarkable state of preservation which indicated the rude use of some embalming fluid or pickling process. Perhaps, he thought, the sea water when the tide was in. Shayne didn’t linger with his discovery very long. He dropped the lid back, hastily shoveled most of the sand back over the trunk, knowing the inflowing tide would hide all trace of his work by morning.

  He went back to his car the same way he had come, drove back to Miami and to his newly-rented hotel room where he called the clerk at his apartment hotel and asked if an answer to his cable had come. It had, and the clerk read it to him.

  DON’T UNDERSTAND REFERENCE TO MURDER BUT HAVE NOTHING TO CONCEAL STOP TRIP WAS PAID FOR BY A MISS GORDON WHO WANTED MY PLACE ON TOP OF NURSING REGISTRY LIST TO BE CALLED ON SOME CASE FOR PERSONAL REASONS WHICH WERE NOT DIVULGED TO ME STOP AM FRANTIC WITH WORRY PLEASE EXPLAIN FULLY OR SHALL I COME BACK

  MYRTLE GODSPEED

  Shayne told the clerk to cable her not to worry but to hold herself in readiness to return as a witness when she was required.

  Then he went to bed and to immediate sleep. He had more than a theory, now. He had the case sewed up and ready to dump into Painter’s lap—after he had collected a couple of debts.

  CHAPTER 15

  SHAYNE WOKE EARLY THE NEXT MORNING. He was stiff and sore, but most of the swelling had gone out of his face. A painful examination of his right side and arm convinced him that he would not require the attention of a doctor for a few more hours at least. He phoned down for a barber to come and shave him, for breakfast to be sent up, and the morning paper.

  The barber came with the boy who brought the paper, and Shayne submitted to lathering and scraping while he snatched glances at the headlines. The majority of the front page was given over to the tremendous story of the stolen masterpiece. It was prominently mentioned that Henderson, at the time he acquired the painting, had been acting as Brighton’s agent, and lurid questions were asked by the newspaper concerning the possible connection between the missing masterpiece and the three mysterious deaths at the Brighton estate.

  The barber did his best with Shayne’s bruised and lacerated face, and departed just as a hearty breakfast was brought up. Shayne continued to read the news columns between bites of food and gulps of coffee. Dr. Pedique’s suicide was gravely discussed. There was a lengthy and somewhat frantic statement by Peter Painter. The governor of Florida was continuing his vigorous threats of an investigation and had doubled the reward offered for the clearing up of the mystery. Painter’s offer remained the same. In his statement he gave his word of honor that the entire mystery would be cleared up at noon today.

  Shayne lay down and smoked a cigarette after he had finished with the paper and with breakfast. It was nine-thirty. His eyes narrowed as he blew smoke toward the ceiling and went over every detail of his plans and action. There was one phase that depended a great deal upon chance and quick talking. He frowned as he tried to judge what the reactions of the various actors would be, and to plan how to meet any contingency. Finally he was satisfied.

  He got up and went to the phone after he finished the cigarette. Brighton’s telephone number wasn’t listed, and he asked Information for it. She gave it to him, and he called.

  A feminine voice answered the phone. He asked for Mr. Montrose. There was a short wait. Then Mr. Montrose’s weedy voice came over the wire.

  “This is Shayne.”

  Mr. Montrose said, “Yes?” doubtfully, as though struggling against a desire to add, “What of it?”

  “It’s too bad,” Shayne went on smoothly, “about Henderson and the painting.”

  Mr. Montrose agreed that it was, indeed.

  “I’ve heard it was actually a Raphael.”

  Mr. Montrose cautiously admitted that it might have been.

  “I,” Shayne told him, “am in touch with the party now in possession of the masterpiece.”

  Mr. Montrose’s gasp assured Shayne that he had the man’s full attention now. “You?”

  “I have been instructed to proceed with negotiations for its return,” Shayne told him suavely.

  Mr. Montrose’s voice twittered excitedly over the wire. “Upon what conditions?”

  “I presume you have full authority to act for Mr. Brighton in the matter?”

  “Oh, yes. Yes, indeed. Full authority. But I don’t understand.”

  “My client is a Mr. Ray Gordon from New York,” Shayne told him deliberately. “His terms are very reasonable because he’s anxious to get rid of it before it scorches his hands. He asks ten thousand dollars in cash.”

  A sharp indrawing of breath came over the wire. Whether it expressed anger or relief, Shayne could not tell. There was a slight pause before Mr. Montrose replied cautiously, “That is an exceedingly large sum.”

  “Let’s get down to business,” Shayne said brusquely. “You know damned well it’s dirt cheap.”

  “It is—not unreasonable.”

  “It’s plenty reasonable and you know it. The canvas is worth ten or a hundred times that amount. It’s a little too hot to handle, and Gordon is willing to do the right thing. Here are the conditions,” he went on sharply. “One word to the police and it’s all off—you’ll never see the Raphael again. I’ll bring it to the house at eleven-thirty today, on the dot. My client may or may not be with me, but there’ll be enough quick-trigger boys around so you’d better not set a trap. Have the money ready in small bills and you can have Henderson on hand to identify the painting. Get that straight. Eleven-thirty sharp! We’re playing with dynamite, and the fuse has to be timed to the minute.”

  “I—I understand. And I agree to those conditions. The money will be waiting, and I give you my pledge to preserve strict secrecy.”

  “Be sure that you do,” Shayne warned harshly. He hung up and went back to the bed to sit down and smoke another cigarette.

  Then he called The Everglades Hotel and asked for 614. Gordon’s clipped voice answered the phone.

  The detective said, “Shayne talking.”

  There was a pause. Then Gordon said, “All right. Talk.”

  “What am I offered for a genuine Raphael this morning?”

  Gordon began swearing strange oaths, and Shayne interrupted happily, “
Tut, tut. Get wise to yourself, guy.”

  Gordon swore some more. Shayne waited until he was completely through before saying placidly, “Mr. Montrose over at the Brighton house has got your pretty little picture. But he—er—is afraid of it. Things are a little bit too tough for him to hold onto it, what with a few stray murders and such. It’s going into the open market. Want to bid?”

  “Hell, no. I don’t want to buy the damned thing.”

  “You’re already in two grand,” Shayne reminded him bleakly. “Besides—well, we won’t mention what else. But I think you know what I mean. I can make a deal with Montrose for ten grand.”

  “Ten grand? Why, that’s not a tenth—”

  “That’s why you’d better not pass up the chance. Montrose hasn’t got the guts to see the deal through. There’s a nice profit in it for a man that’s not afraid of the heat—like you.”

  “What’s the lay?” Gordon rasped.

  “It’s at the Brighton house. I’m handling the deal. You drive up to the front door at eleven-forty—that’s twenty minutes to twelve—with ten G’s in your pocket. You can bring your nasty little boy with his Goddamned Luger if you want, and an art expert to pass on the picture. I’ll be waiting for you.”

  “You’ll get your guts blasted out,” Gordon warned him, “if this is a plant.”

  “And you’ll get yours blasted out,” Shayne told him unemotionally, “if you pull up in front of the Brighton house more than a minute before or after eleven-forty.”

  “Why the timing? It sounds like a phony.”

  “That,” Shayne told him, “is something for you to worry about. We play this my way or not at all.”

  When Gordon didn’t answer immediately, Shayne said, “Listen, louse. The only reason I’m letting you in on this is because it means money in my pocket. But I’m not going to beg you. Take it or leave it—and Goddamn sudden.”

  “I’ll take it,” Gordon said thickly.

  “Eleven-forty,” Shayne reminded him and hung up. He felt drugged with pain and weakness as he went to the bed and sat down. But he still had a call to make, and he didn’t feel up to talking to Painter without a drink inside of him. Dragging himself back to the phone he ordered a quart of Martell sent up. When it came he sat on the edge of the bed and drank deeply out of the bottle.

  The pungent stuff took immediate effect. He was his old self as he picked up the phone again and called the office of the Miami Beach chief of detectives.

  Painter’s voice sounded strained and uneasy over the wire. When Shayne told him who it was, he exclaimed, “It’s after ten o’clock, Shayne.”

  “Things are clearing up nicely,” Shayne soothed him. “But you’re a lousy cheapskate. I don’t see anything in the papers about you getting generous and raising the reward you’re offering personally.”

  “Good God! The state is offering two thousand.”

  “And your measly contribution is two hundred and fifty. Is that all it’s worth to you to break this case—with full credit?”

  “Full credit?” Painter sounded as though he were strangling.

  “That’s the lay. I don’t want any publicity. It’s bad for my business. But I can use cash.”

  “Come clean,” Painter begged.

  “Here’s my offer, fair and square. Double the reward you’ve offered. Guarantee me that every penny goes into my pocket and my name doesn’t appear.”

  “Five hundred?” Painter sounded startled. “That’s pretty stiff for me to put up.”

  “Is your job worth that?” asked Shayne stridently.

  “Well—yes, of course.”

  “It won’t be worth a plugged nickel if I bust this case under your nose and don’t let you in on it.”

  “That’s blackmail,” Painter protested.

  “Call it anything you like, just so I get the money. Think it over, pal. Take it or leave it.”

  Painter thought it over—for thirty seconds. He said unhappily, “I’m in a hole. I’ll play it your way.”

  “Right. You got any men at Brighton’s place?”

  “There’s one stationed in the house.”

  “Drag him out right away. Scatter about six or eight in plain clothes around on the outside; cover the street both ways and every exit from the grounds. Keep them out of sight and give orders not to let a soul leave the grounds after eleven-thirty. Got that?” Painter said he had it.

  “And don’t let any reporters on the grounds after eleven-thirty. Better call all the papers right away and tell them to have their best men in your office at twelve o’clock. Promise them the story of the year—and you won’t be missing it.”

  “Tell me what to expect.”

  Shayne chuckled happily. “I can tell you this much. Have the coroner and undertaker standing by.”

  “Wait! You swore there wouldn’t be any more killing.”

  “This’ll be justifiable homicide.” Shayne chuckled. “You’ll get a medal for saving the state hanging money. Be hanging around outside the grounds out of sight about a quarter of twelve. Don’t, for God’s sake, come busting in and spoiling my show until the shooting starts.”

  “Shooting? Now look here, Shayne—

  “I’m just guessing.” Shayne hung up and fortified himself with another long pull from the bottle. Then he put it in his pocket and went downstairs, feeling almost human again.

  At the desk he paid for the extras he had ordered, and went up the street to Pelham Joyce’s studio.

  Joyce met him at the door, tremendously excited. “Perhaps you had a finger in this,” he charged.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “About a certain Mr. Gordon calling me up not ten minutes ago and giving me a puff about having been recommended to him as the foremost connoisseur of Art in the city—and asking me to go with him this noon to authenticate what is purported to be a genuine Raphael he contemplates purchasing. I don’t know any Mr. Gordon.”

  Shayne sat down and began laughing helplessly. “I told him he could pick his own expert.”

  “Then you are responsible?”

  Shayne shook his head feebly. “Absolutely not. I didn’t mention your name. He must have inquired around. But, by God, he couldn’t have picked a better man to pass on this Raphael.” He sank back and laughed some more while a frosty smile appeared on Joyce’s features as he began to understand.

  “Is the painting okay?” Shayne asked after a time.

  Joyce went over to the table where it was spread out, rolled it up, and replaced the brown paper covering that had been on it originally. Shayne took it and thanked him and said they’d be seeing each other about eleven-forty.

  Then he went down to the street and to his own hotel. He smiled grimly as he unlocked the door and went in. The apartment had been thoroughly searched during his overnight absence, and no effort had been made to cover it up. The door hadn’t been jimmied this time. Mr. Ray Gordon was a gentleman who managed such things more smoothly.

  The bedroom and kitchen had been as thoroughly gone over as the living-room. He opened the refrigerator and took out the hydrator. Poking his finger down through the shredded lettuce he found the pearls had not been molested. He put the hydrator back as it had been, went into the living-room, and sat down in the midst of the disorder, alternately smoking cigarettes and sipping brandy while he waited for eleven o’clock to come.

  Precisely on the hour he got up and went out with the painting under his arm.

  Downstairs he casually mentioned to the clerk that his apartment had been burglarized, and asked him to send up a maid to straighten things out.

  Then he went out, got in his car, and clumsily drove north to the causeway and east across Biscayne Bay to Miami Beach.

  CHAPTER 16

  PULLING UP AT THE BRIGHTON ESTATE, Shayne saw a couple of strolling pedestrians in the street and recognized one of them as a Beach detective, but the fellow merely looked at him blankly as he turned in.

  There was another lo
iterer on the beach in a bathing-suit, and a fourth lolling in the shade of a palm behind the garage. The police trap was set. Shayne parked his car beyond the porte-cochere and went up the steps with the million-dollar bait under his arm. The elderly maid answered his ring and sourly told him he was expected in the library. It was eleven twenty-eight as Shayne went down the hall.

  Mr. Montrose and a man whom Shayne recognized as D. Q. Henderson arose as he stepped in. They had been sitting in two armchairs near the center of the room. Beyond them was Oscar the chauffeur, sitting stolidly in a straight chair with a low-browed glower for Shayne as the detective greeted the trio briskly, “Gentlemen.”

  “Mr. Shayne.” Mr. Montrose moved forward, rubbing his hands together, with his eyes fixed on the cylindrical article beneath Shayne’s arm. “You have it?”

  “Naturally.” Shayne awkwardly transferred the roll to his right hand and offered his left to Mr. Montrose. He nodded past him toward the morose chauffeur.

  “What’s that ape doing here?”

  “You mean Oscar? Ha-ha.” Mr. Montrose’s laugh was without mirth. “I felt a natural uneasiness about being alone with such a large sum of money. Ah—decidedly so in view of the tragic events of the last few days. I asked Oscar to remain as a sort of guard until the transaction was completed.”

  “You’ve got the money?” Shayne asked brusquely. “Oh, yes, indeed.” Mr. Montrose patted his breast pocket. “And you have the—ah—”

  “Raphael,” Shayne supplied shortly. He walked to the table and dropped the rolled painting.

  Henderson came forward, and Mr. Montrose exclaimed, “Oh, dear me. I do beg your pardon. This is Mr. Henderson, Mr. Shayne.”

  Shayne nodded to the art expert and said, “Look it over and let’s finish our business.”