The Private Practice of Michael Shayne

by Brett Halliday

  She said, “Of course,” behind him, and bent zestfully over the dripolator to see if the water had all passed through.

  He paused, with the screw just biting into the cork. “Like that, huh? Before breakfast and everything? And when I first met you, you choked over the smell of the vile stuff.”

  “It’s your fault,” she told him serenely. “It’s up to you to save me from a drunkard’s death.”

  He twisted the corkscrew carefully, slid the bottle down and gripped it between his thighs and pulled steadily and with infinite patience.

  “How did you get into my apartment?”

  “The night clerk let me in with a pass-key. I told him I was your sister.”

  Shayne chuckled. “Did he believe you?”

  The cork was reluctantly letting go. Shayne eased it out cautiously.

  “I don’t think so.” Her eyes twinkled. “He mumbled something about you having a hell of a lot of sisters—and all with funny visiting habits.”

  “Swearing too, eh?” Shayne swung around, pointing the cork, impaled on the screw, at her accusingly.

  She wrinkled up her nose and laughed at him.

  “That was just quoting. I’m not very good at it yet. Hell and damn are really as far as I’ve gotten with any degree of sophistication. But I know lots more. Like—”

  “Skip it,” Shayne snapped. His eyes had a hungry, yearning glint in them. “I’ll take you like you are, Angel. Don’t go getting your face dirty.”

  She took a quick step forward, put her hands on his biceps.

  “Why don’t you?”

  “Why don’t I what?”

  “Take me,” she cried, “like I am.”

  Shayne’s tongue licked out to taste the witch-hazel on his lips.

  He said, “Darling,” and stopped short. Beads of sweat stood on his forehead. He said roughly, “You’re crazy, and you’re damned sweet. Let’s have that drink.”

  He turned from her and went into the living-room. Phyllis sighed and followed with a stubborn frown creasing her smooth brow.

  Shayne took down a tiny liqueur glass and set it beside the tall wine glass he had drunk from the preceding evening. He filled them both and dropped into the chair she had been sleeping in when he entered the room. Stretching out a long arm for the large glass, he said gruffly, “Suppose you start telling me what it’s all about. Starting a month back, when I lost track of you in the shuffle.”

  She sat down in a straight chair and regarded him levelly over the rim of the tiny glass.

  “You didn’t have to—lose track of me. I telephoned and left my new address when I moved into an apartment.”

  He made an impatient gesture. “We’re talking in circles. A man was murdered last night.”

  “I—know.” Her lips paled. “Did you—the papers said—”

  “That I killed Harry Grange,” he supplied cheerfully. “Why did you come here if you read the papers and knew I was supposed to be in jail?”

  “Because I knew you wouldn’t stay in jail.”

  Shayne grinned wryly and took a long drink.

  “You were going to tell me about things, Angel.”

  “There isn’t much to tell.” Phyllis lifted her glass and drank the small potion swiftly. “I followed your advice—about growing up.”

  “By running around with chiselers like Harry Grange?”

  She folded her hands meekly in her lap and looked at him wide-eyed.

  “Not particularly with Harry. You’d be proud of me if I made out a complete list of the men who have volunteered to teach me about life with a capital L. Elliot Thomas—among others.”

  Shayne’s right arm stopped rigidly with his glass halfway to his mouth.

  “Elliot Thomas!”

  Phyllis nodded complacently.

  “He is considered quite a catch—but he’s stupid. He thinks every girl likes to be pawed after she’s had a glass of champagne.”

  Shayne’s glass went on to his lips and he inhaled a deep breath of the bouquet, then drank two long swallows. He said, gently, “I’m particularly interested in Elliot Thomas. Have you been seeing him lately?”

  Phyllis shook her lustrous, close-cropped head of black hair.

  “Not for a couple of weeks.”

  “Do you happen to be acquainted with Marsha Marco?”

  Phyllis repeated the name, shaking her head again.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You girls should meet,” Shayne grunted. “You’ve got a lot in common.” He finished off his drink and set the glass down, got up and went into the kitchen, asking over his shoulder, “Cream and sugar?”

  “Cream—if you have it. No sugar.”

  He got a half-pint bottle of cream from the refrigerator and took the coffeepot from the hot electric coil and carried them into the living-room. Making a second trip, he brought two cups and saucers and set them out in front of Phyllis.

  “You can pour.”

  She filled the cups with steaming black coffee and handed one to Shayne.

  “Who is Marsha Marco—and what have we in common?”

  He stared across the room somberly.

  “Tell me exactly what happened after I saw you last night.”

  “I was mad as—as hops at you,” she told him. “Mostly because you had showed Harry up when I thought he was just what he pretended to be—”

  Shayne nodded impatiently.

  “I knew you were mad. Did you catch Grange?”

  “Yes—that is—I did and I didn’t.”

  When Shayne didn’t say anything, she hurried on to explain, “He had gotten in his car and was just driving away when I came out. I called to him and thought he heard me because he slowed down and stopped. I started walking to his car, but another girl got in ahead of me—and they drove away.”

  “Was she wearing a red dress?”

  “I—don’t know. There was just the moonlight and I didn’t see her very plainly.”

  She paused as if some secret thought perplexed her.

  “Well?” Shayne hunched forward, sipping his coffee.

  “Well, I stood there for a moment practicing some of my best swear words on Harry, then a car drove up and stopped and it was Elliot Thomas. He was partially sober, and I asked him to drive me home.”

  “That all?”

  “That’s all. About midnight I heard the radio report that Harry had been murdered and you had been arrested. I remembered that you had threatened to break his neck when we were in the office of that gambling joint. I called the Miami Beach police and they wouldn’t tell me anything. Then I went out and bought a newspaper and—well, I got panicky and came over here and—and waited for you.”

  “Then you didn’t see Grange after he left Marco’s office?”

  “Marco?”

  “John Marco. The gambler.”

  “You mentioned a girl—”

  “Marsha Marco. His daughter.” Shayne’s gray eyes gathered suspicion as he looked at her. “Say—are you stalling—trying to get away from the main subject?”

  “No.” Her eyes were wide and candid. Her head moved almost imperceptibly from side to side. “I didn’t see Harry again. That is, to speak to him.”

  Shayne got up abruptly and went into his bedroom where he fished around in his soggy coat pocket and found the handkerchief he had picked up at the murder scene. He carried it back into the living-room and handed it to Phyllis.

  “Is that yours?”

  She picked it up by one corner and held it up for inspection. “No,” she said with decision. “Why?”

  “Maybe nothing. Maybe a hell of a lot.” Shayne sat down and shoved his empty cup over for a refill with the request, “Not too full this time. Leave room for the royal.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Coffee royal,” he explained. He took the cup from her and, carefully floating brandy on top, went deeper into the subject. “Coffee royal is what used to make kings kingly—before dictators started dictating.”
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br />   He leaned back, sipping the pungent mixture thoughtfully, shaking his head while a scowl of irritation spread over his angular face.

  “What do you mean about the handkerchief? Is it important? A clue or something?” Phyllis asked.

  “I’ll be damned if I know, Angel.” He smiled briefly. “I’m glad it isn’t yours. Preposterous as it sounds, it would appear that three men have died during the last twelve hours because of that little square of cloth.”

  “Not—not actually?”

  Her eyes were round with awe. She wanted to know why and how and when and where, but he shook his head at her questions, insisted that he didn’t know himself.

  When they finished their coffee, he told her she had better go back home.

  “And don’t do anything foolish,” he admonished her gently. “I’d just as leave have you keep on living.”

  She faced him near the doorway with very bright eyes. “You’re keeping something from me,” she accused. “What makes you think I might be in any danger?”

  “Just a hunch,” he insisted. “What I mean is—stay out of dark alleys and don’t go riding with strange men.” He paused, then added irrationally, “You haven’t met a mug named Chuck Evans in your meanderings, I suppose.”

  “No—not that I recall.”

  He muttered, “I didn’t suppose you would have. It’s too much to ask for something to make sense.” He slid his arm around her shoulders and moved her toward the door. “Strange as it seems,” he said lightly, “I have to work for a living.”

  “Are you working on a case?”

  “Not yet. Not until I see the glint of a stray dime that may be in it for a guy named Mike Shayne.”

  He grinned and squeezed her shoulders, released her and went to the door to look down the hall. He turned back and tilted her face and kissed her lips.

  “Run along now. Nice to have seen you again, sister. Do come back some time when you have more news of mom and pop and all the girls.”

  He looked into the hall again, saw that it was empty, and gave her a little shove through the door. She turned to make a grimace at him, but the door was already closed.

  Chapter Eight: THE EMPTY ROOM

  SHAYNE SAT DOWN in a straight chair at the table and pushed coffeepot and cups back to clear a space in front of him. He opened a drawer and got out a sheet of blank paper and a pencil, lit a cigarette and started writing:

  1. Who telephoned last night? Could it have been Grange disguising his voice?

  2. Did Larry Kincaid do the job and leave my pistol to frame me?

  3. Whose handkerchief? Left intentionally or by oversight or planted?

  4. Did the mugs want the handkerchief—or something else that was taken from Grange by the murderer before I got there?

  5. Who called Painter to the murder scene?

  6. Why were the mugs waiting for me here when I was supposed to be locked up? (Phyllis, too.)

  7. When and how did Chuck Evans suddenly get in the money?

  8. Did Grange know Chuck?

  9. Did Chuck know Thomas?

  10. Was Marsha the girl Phyllis saw in Grange’s car? (Marsha’s handkerchief?)

  He stopped and stared down at the list of questions, frowning and tugging at the lobe of his left ear. Then he wrote:

  11. What the hell’s in it for me?

  He poured a short drink of cognac and sat there alternately sipping it and puffing on a cigarette. Then he checked questions six and eleven, folded the sheet of paper and put it in his shirt pocket. He went to the telephone and called a number.

  When a man replied, he said, “Hello, Tony. This is Mike Shayne.”

  “Hi, boss. Your neck, she ain’t stretched yet, huh?”

  “Not yet. Do you know where Chuck Evans hangs out?”

  “Lemme see, Mike. I think mebbe so. Him and Belle have been holed up at Mamma Julie’s all winter. But wait, boss. Somebody said last week Chuck made a killin’ out at Hialeah. I dunno whether he’s still there or not.”

  “Mamma Julie’s? That’s down on Fifth, isn’t it? Okay. And listen, Tony.”

  “Yeh, boss.”

  “Stick around close. I may have a job for you.”

  “You betcha. I’ll be on tap.”

  Shayne hung up and waited a minute, then called another number.

  When a woman’s voice answered, he said, “Helen? Mike Shayne speaking. Let me speak to Larry.”

  “Larry hasn’t come back.” Helen Kincaid sounded worried. “He’s in Jacksonville on business.”

  “Jacksonville?”

  “Yes. I didn’t know anything about it. I thought maybe you did. He left home last night saying he was going to see you at your apartment.”

  Shayne asked sharply, “How do you know he’s in Jacksonville?”

  “I had a telegram from him early this morning. Said he’d been called away unexpectedly and didn’t know how long he’d be gone.”

  She hesitated, then asked in a taut tone of repressed fear, “What—did you and Larry quarrel about, Mike?”

  “He told you about that, did he?”

  “Y-Yes. Not very much though.”

  “I’ll be out to see you later,” Shayne said abruptly. “If the police or anyone question you, don’t tell them about the telegram from Larry. Don’t tell them a damned thing.”

  “Is Larry—in trouble?”

  “It’s your fault if he is,” Shayne told her brutally.

  He hung up and went to the bedroom where he put on a tie and slid his wide shoulders into a light sport jacket. Stopping at the table on the way out, he pocketed the handkerchief and strode out to the elevator where he pressed the DOWN button.

  In a pleasant, sun-filled lobby downstairs, he sauntered to the desk and glanced at his empty mailbox. The clerk on duty greeted him respectfully.

  “Good morning, Mr. Shayne! That was a pretty close call last night.”

  “What?”

  Shayne’s ragged red brows came down in a straight line.

  “Over at the beach,” the clerk amplified hastily. “Walking into that dead man like you did.”

  Shayne said, “Oh—that? Yeh.”

  He turned and went out into the hallway leading to the side entrance, got into his car parked at the curb and made a U-turn, drove to S. E. First Street where he turned west into one-way traffic and followed it to the F. E. C. railroad tracks, where he made a right turn and parked at the curb that said: NO PARKING, POLICE.

  He nodded pleasantly to a couple of loitering patrolmen and went into the Miami police station, down a hall to the private office of the chief of detectives. Pushing the door open, he found Will Gentry sitting back at ease with his feet on a scarred oak desk reading the latest edition of the Miami Herald.

  Gentry lowered the paper and glanced placidly at his visitor with a twinkle in his blue eyes.

  “’Lo, Michael. Why can’t you learn to stay out of Painter’s pretty hair?”

  Shayne grinned and slid into a chair in front of the desk.

  “To hell with Painter. Let him stay out of my hair. I heard you had a mysterious telephone conversation early this morning. Anything in it?”

  Will Gentry was a big man, stolid and lacking in imagination. He said:

  “Some bastard ruined my beauty sleep to report an automobile accident out on the Trail.”

  “So—?”

  “It was the goods, all right. The bodies have been brought in, and a wrecker is getting the car up now. One funny thing about the accident, Mike. The driver was alone in the front seat, and there was one man in the back. He drowned cuddling a typewriter.”

  Shayne lit a cigarette and spun the match across the room toward a cuspidor.

  “That is funny,” he conceded. “Mostly when two men are riding in a car, they’re both in the front seat.”

  “Yeh. I’ve got a hunch about it. Looks to me like—”

  “Skip it. I don’t suppose you’ve got any dope on the men or guns yet?”

  “Not yet.
I think they must be new in Miami. The car had New York plates.”

  Shayne nodded casually. “Let me know if you get anything.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out the frilly square of linen, tossed it across to Gentry. “Can you see any good reason why that might be worth murder?”

  The detective chief picked it up and turned it over and over.

  “Looks like some dame’s handkerchief.”

  Shayne leaned forward tensely.

  “I wish you’d have your bright boys put it through every known test for secret writing or stuff like that, Will. It’s probably a crazy idea—” He leaned back and tugged at the lobe of his ear. “—But I’ve got to know.”

  “Sure. Anything else on your mind, Mike?”

  Shayne got up, but Gentry detained him by asking, “What’s it all about?”

  “I wish to God I knew, Will. I don’t. I’m trying to play sixteen different hunches.”

  Gentry cleared his throat and rustled the newspaper in his hands.

  “It says here that you positively identified the voice that called you over the phone to come to the beach.”

  Shayne nodded absently.

  “That’s bait. We’ll see what comes after it. I wish you’d leave any messages at my hotel, Will.”

  Gentry said he would do that, and Shayne went out.

  In his car, he drove to Fifth Street where he turned to the right for a few blocks, into the oldest residential section of the Magic City and parked in front of a two-story, gabled frame house set back in the center of a large lawn shaded with magnificent old trees. A neat sign on the lawn said: HOUSEKEEPING APARTMENTS TO LET.

  Shayne went up the walk to a sagging front porch that needed paint, and pressed the button. A dumpy woman with stringy black hair and a fat, dark face came to the door.

  Shayne tipped his hat back and said, “Hello, mamma. Is Chuck Evans in?”

  “It’s you, Mr. Shayne.” Mamma Julie shook her head. “Chuck hit it lucky at the track a few days ago. You know how those heels are. My place wasn’t good enough as soon as he got in the money. He pulled out to one of the fancy hotels. Him and that cheap little bitch that’s been keeping him all winter.”

  “Do you know which hotel?”

  “I’m not sure. Seems like I heard him talking about the Everglades. That Belle, she don’t know how quick she’ll get thrown out of a swell joint like that when she starts shaking her butt around the lobby.”