“Michael Shayne. Who’s the owner of the horse?”
“From the Masiot stables. Elliot Thomas is the owner. The racing commission is conducting an investigation into the race.”
“What are they investigating?”
“They want to know why Banjo Boy limped in a poor last every start this year until last Friday when he went in at twenty to one and showed his heels to the pack.”
“Is that all they’ve got to go on?”
“No. They wouldn’t have suspected anything if he hadn’t been backed so heavily. By post time, the odds were pounded down to eight to one by money mostly telegraphed in from out-of-town bookies who were protecting themselves. Money is laid at the track in cases like that in a ratio of about three to one. Which means that plenty of grands of wise money knew Banjo Boy was due to click in that particular race.”
Shayne said, “I see.” Then he asked what the commission had found out with their investigation.
“It looks bad for the trainer, Jake Kilgore. He caught a Pan-Am plane for South America the evening after the race was won. Some think Thomas was maybe in on it and laid his sugar on the line with bookies around the country to keep the odds up, but not many people take that seriously. He’s got a good rep with his stable.”
Shayne started to hang up, then paused to ask one more question, “Do you happen to know whether John Marco spends much through the mutuels?”
“He used to practically keep them oiled,” was the chuckled response. “I think he got tired of losing, a couple of years ago, and decided to get on the receiving end of a roulette wheel. I haven’t heard of him plunging any on the races lately.”
Shayne said, “Thanks a lot,” and hung up. He went back and poured himself a drink, then looked up a telephone number and called it.
After a long time a voice answered, and he said, “This is Michael Shayne speaking. I want to speak to Mr. Thomas.”
“I don’t think Mr. Thomas will wish to be disturbed,” the voice said.
“I don’t care what you think,” Shayne said curtly. “Thomas will talk to me. Tell him it’s Shayne.”
“Very well, sir.”
Shayne waited a long time. At last Thomas’s irritable voice came over the wire.
“Mr. Shayne? What the deuce—?”
Shayne cut him off with a growl. “Yesterday evening you were mighty anxious to get hold of something in Harry Grange’s possession. Do you still want it?”
“Why—of course, but—”
“Then get over to my apartment in a hurry. I don’t know how long I can stay out of jail.” Shayne gave his address, and when Thomas seemed disposed to discuss the matter further, cut him off short—“I’ll expect you within the hour,” and pressed the prongs down.
Releasing them after a moment, he called the Kincaid residence, and when Helen answered, said, “I’m sorry to be so late—but we’re ready to go. Can you get here in half an hour—dressed in your snappiest outfit?”
“Yes—but—”
“No buts. Grab a taxi and get here as quick as you can.” He hung up again. A feverish glitter was in his eyes. Going back to the table, he finished his drink and poured another. Sipping it, he checked over his plans with dissatisfaction, realizing that success depended on a dozen maybes—and he didn’t like that way of doing things.
But he had to work fast, because Painter already had Marco’s automatic.
And there was Larry Kincaid to think about. Where the devil was Larry?
He sank into a brown study, wondering where in hell the whole thing would lead.
Chapter Fourteen: THE WOMAN TO BE SCORNED
SHAYNE WAS in the bathroom, gingerly removing some of the unnecessary bandages from his face and cursing in a loud voice, when Helen Kincaid knocked on his door. He hurried out to admit her.
He could not restrain a grunt of admiring astonishment when he saw the transformation she had effected in a few hours. An upsweep hair-do added inches to her height and took years from her age. A light coral evening wrap of sheer velvet fell gracefully from her shoulders and a shirred collar of the material stood up regally, framing her dark hair and face. Her black lace evening gown accentuated curves where he hadn’t expected them after seeing her in the loose gingham house dress. A white gardenia was modestly nestled in the vee between her breasts.
The greatest and truest transformation was in her features. Her normally large eyes were lighted with a luminous glow tonight that made them appear enormous. There was poise and determination in her carriage, and a flush far back on her thin cheeks lent them a soft roundness wholly unexpected by the detective.
Before he could speak, Helen Kincaid stepped close to him and asked, “Will I do?”
A slow grin spread over his face as he took in every detail offered for his inspection.
“In a great big way, if I’m not badly mistaken in my man. You look—Good God, Helen! you look so thoroughly seducible I’m almost tempted—”
Helen looked up into his face gravely, shaking her head.
“That’s not why you had me come.”
“No,” Shayne admitted, “and I’ll have to work hard at keeping that in mind.”
She moved past him into the room, whirled about suddenly to face him.
“I did a lot of thinking after you left, Michael. You said some harsh things but I sat down with myself and came to the conclusion that I deserved them all. You hinted that Larry is in some dreadful danger. I can see, now, how I may be to blame. I—give me a chance to make amends for what I’ve done to our marriage.” Her voice throbbed with a deep note of sincerity.
Shayne’s eyes held hers steadily.
“I think you’ll have your chance tonight. There’s not much time to explain things. I didn’t feel like confiding in you this afternoon, but—I do tonight. The point is this, Helen: It looks as though Larry killed a man last night. Harry Grange. He came here and got my pistol and shot Grange with it, and left it there to frame me for the murder.”
He caught her arm in a hurting grip as she swayed back from him in horror. Leading her toward the table, he went on swiftly, “Grange deserved killing. Keep that in mind. And Larry had the motive for wanting to frame me. But the law won’t take those things into consideration, so you and I have to.”
She moaned softly, and he hastened on.
“At the moment, I’ve messed things up pretty badly by switching evidence. I want to keep Larry, and, incidentally, myself, in the clear. I think I can swing it if Larry doesn’t get an attack of conscience and pop up and ruin things by coming back and confessing. The one man who may know Larry’s whereabouts is due here any minute. I want you to take him like Grant took Richmond.”
He settled her in a chair and poured out a drink of cognac. He held the glass up to the light and observed the clear sparkle of it. “I had thought of having you go after him like a drunken hussy, but after seeing you, I think you can make the conquest better by being girlish and naive. You look the part.”
“I—I don’t think I understand, Michael,” she faltered.
“This afternoon you said you’d do anything I suggested to help Larry. Here’s your chance to prove it, and maybe find out where he is. The man who is coming is Elliot Thomas, a millionaire lecher with an eye for feminine beauty. You’ve got what it takes to catch his eye. I want you to be in my bedroom when he arrives. After he’s been here for a while, you come out and demand to know what’s keeping me so long. Pull the young-and-don’t-know-what-it’s-all-about stuff. I’ve lured you here to my apartment and neglected you. Come out and say so when I give the signal, which will be the slamming of the bathroom door.”
Helen nodded, confused.
“I hope I can do it.”
“What I want is for him to take you out to his yacht without anyone recognizing you. Keep your face down when you go aboard so none of the crew will see your face. And when you leave the yacht, try to slip away so unobtrusively that no one will be able to swear you haven’t spent the nig
ht. Have you got all that?”
“Y-e-s,” Helen mumbled, “but I don’t understand why—”
“I don’t either,” Shayne grunted sourly. “I’m playing a couple of long shots. While you’re with Thomas, use everything God gave you to find out anything he knows about Larry. Pretend you hate my guts and hope I’m on the spot for the Grange killing. Thomas’ll be drunk or at least half drunk. Pretend to drink with him. Dash his champagne under a table if you have to, but pretend. Find out things. We’ve got to find Larry to keep him from popping up and confessing while I’m trying to keep him out of it. You know about how long his conscience will bear the torture.”
Helen Kincaid nodded soberly.
“I’m getting the idea, Michael. I’ll make myself do everything you say.”
“That’s swell.”
He saw the glint of uncertainty in her big, dark eyes and laid a rough hand on her shoulder.
“Don’t forget. When you come out of the bedroom you’re peeved at me, make a scene and accuse me of neglecting you. I’ll guarantee Thomas will console you, and you have to make the most of it. Cuddle up to him. He’ll console you all right.” He repressed a chuckle.
Helen smiled wanly.
“Be sure to slam the bathroom door hard so I won’t miss the cue.”
“I will. And I’ll stay in long enough for you to get in your dirty work.”
The elevator clanged to a stop on that floor, and they both tensed, listening to solid footsteps coming down the hall. Shayne pulled her up from the chair and shoved her to the bedroom door.
He smiled and said, “Don’t worry—and don’t fail me.”
He closed the door when she entered the bedroom and hurried to admit Elliot Thomas when he rapped on the front door.
In spite of his size, the millionaire sportsman was dapper in creamy trousers and a double-breasted coat of blue serge. He came in, saying fretfully, “I don’t understand the urgency of this call, Mr. Shayne. This is hardly the hour for a business discussion.”
Shayne closed the door and gestured toward the chairs and table.
“Have a seat—and a drink. You ought to know why it’s urgent. That affidavit you made to the police today is likely to put me behind the bars any minute.”
Elliot Thomas sat down in a soft chair and met Shayne’s lowering gaze with cool indifference.
“I did my duty as a citizen by throwing what light I could on the murder of Harry Grange.”
Shayne sighed. “I don’t blame any man for doing his duty as he sees it. Drink?”
“Scotch—if you have it.”
“I’ve got some stuff here that’s labeled Scotch.” Shayne went to the liquor cabinet, adding over his shoulder, “No soda, though, I’m afraid.”
“It will do very nicely straight,” the yachtsman assured him.
Shayne came back with a squatty bottle and a six-ounce glass. Uncorking the bottle, he let amber liquid gurgle into the glass, handed Thomas the heavy potion, and sat down in a chair conveniently near the cognac.
“Did Larry Kincaid tell you I had agreed to handle Grange for him?” Shayne asked.
Thomas was sniffing the uncertain bouquet of Shayne’s cheap Scotch with no show of pleasure. He took a sip and looked up with some surprise, but Shayne couldn’t tell whether it was directed at his question or at the Scotch, which was, undoubtedly, a new brand to the millionaire.
“Why, no,” he said. “I made no such statement in my affidavit to the police. I merely gave a resume of the scene in Kincaid’s office, with his final statement as I left, to the effect that he would bring you around all right.”
Shayne waved his hand.
“I’m not worrying about what you told the police. I want to know what Larry told you—after that scene in the office?”
He struck a match and lit a cigarette, pretending that the question wasn’t of vital importance.
“I didn’t see him later. When the news story concerning your presence at the scene of Grange’s death came out, I realized that Kincaid must have persuaded you to take over—and that you had handled the affair very injudiciously. You were lucky, of course, to get rid of the incriminating gun before the police arrived.”
He frowned distastefully at his glass, then lifted it and poured half the contents down his throat with a do-or-die look on his face.
“How did you know about the gun?” Shayne bent toward him grimly.
“There must have been a gun. The man was shot through the head.”
Shayne tipped back, lacing his fingers around his knee. Very quietly he said, “You’re a self-righteous bastard, aren’t you, Thomas? Because you’ve got all the money in the world you think you can hire saps to pull your chestnuts out of the fire, and if they get burned, you figure it’s their hard luck. You don’t pull that stuff on me. I’m warning you—”
“Save your breath, Shayne.” Thomas spoke coldly. His usually pleasant ruddy face was set in stony lines of disapproval. “When I hire men to do a job for me, I don’t accept the responsibility if they bungle it. I didn’t order you to murder Grange. I wash my hands of any complicity in the affair.”
He polished off his drink and got up.
Shayne said, “Sit down, Thomas. I’m not through.”
“I am. I didn’t come here to discuss your difficulties with you.”
Shayne stayed in his chair. He didn’t even look up. He said, “You’re still on the spot with the racing commission.”
Elliot Thomas was halfway to the door. He stopped and turned slowly.
“What do you know about that?”
Shayne looked up in surprise.
“Everything, of course. How Jake Kilgore and a tout named Evans planned it. About Grange getting sore because they didn’t cut him in—and how he got the dope from Chuck, and then held out for a price—letting you bid for it.”
Thomas appeared to count his steps coming back.
“I have nothing to conceal. The more light shed on the affair, the better I like it. You can’t blackmail me, Shayne. I advise you not to try it.”
Shayne’s mind plopped back to his conversation with John Marco. He pushed the Scotch toward Thomas and said grumpily, “Take another drink and cool off.”
The millionaire shuddered at the suggestion.
“No, thanks. Your liquor is as bad as your manners.”
“Do you mean to say,” Shayne asked incredulously, “that you’re not willing to make the payoff alter all?”
“My arrangements were made with Mr. Kincaid,” Thomas reminded him. “I will be glad to deal with him when he comes to me.”
He started out of the room again.
Shayne was desperately trying to think of some reason for further detaining him when a light rap sounded on his door.
Elliot Thomas stopped two paces from it and swung about, questioning Shayne with suspicious eyes.
The knob turned in the unlocked door as the detective got up, and Phyllis Brighton stepped inside. She started a lilting, “Hel—lo…” then saw Elliot Thomas and her eyes widened.
“Why, Elliot,” she exclaimed, “fancy meeting you here!”
Chapter Fifteen: BEDROOM AND BATH
THOMAS BOWED stiffly, not bothering to hide his amazement at seeing Phyllis Brighton standing in the doorway of the detective’s apartment and evidently on intimate terms with him.
Even more nonplused than Elliot Thomas by Phyllis’s unexpected appearance, Shayne made the best of the awkward situation by stepping close to her and exclaiming, “If it isn’t Miss Brighton! On a slumming tour, Miss Brighton?”
His voice was lightly mocking but his eyes desperately tried to signal her to watch her step.
She didn’t notice his eyes because she was just getting a good look at his bandaged face.
She gasped, “What—what happened to you?”
Thomas was standing undecidedly in front of the open door. Shayne got in front of him, answering Phyllis, “This is just routine in the sleuthing trade.”
&nb
sp; He put his hands on her shoulders, digging his fingers in, closing one eye in a slow wink.
Phyllis got things fast, he told himself with satisfaction. She grew tense, waiting for a further cue, which he tossed her by saying hastily, “Mr. Thomas was insisting on leaving when you came, Phyllis. Perhaps your charms will have more effect than mine. I hate to have my hospitality flouted the way he was about to do.”
Gathering that Shayne had an important reason for wishing to detain the millionaire, the girl went past the detective and held out both her hands to Thomas.
“I’m still all knocked in a heap by the unexpectedness of seeing you again—and here,” she told him gaily. “I had no idea you and Mike were acquainted.”
“A matter of business,” Thomas said. He reached for her hands gingerly. “As Mr. Shayne explained, I was on the point of leaving.”
“Oh, but you mustn’t run away just because I’ve come.” Phyllis linked an arm in his and led him toward the table. “I’m just dying for a drink and Mike has the best drinks.”
Thomas grunted, “Indeed?” permitting himself to be drawn from the door. He made it quite evident that as a connoisseur of liquor Phyllis had dropped several degrees in his estimation.
Shayne followed them, grinning at Phyllis to encourage her to continue her tactics. He explained genially to Thomas, “You would have Scotch, you know. I never drink the stuff myself so I economize by buying the cheapest I can get. But I’ve got some cognac here that’ll take the bad taste out of your mouth.”
Phyllis was still clinging tightly to Thomas’s arm, and he couldn’t graciously refuse the glass of cognac which Shayne pressed on him.
Fully conscious of the restraint between them, but not understanding it, she sipped her drink, eyes speculatively fixed on Shayne’s face, not quite sure whether he wanted her to stay or go away.
Shayne tossed his glassful of cognac off swiftly, contriving a plan to get her out of the room for a moment to speak to her privately. He thumped his glass down and said in an elaborately casual tone, “I suppose you dropped in to pick up that recipe for champagne punch I was telling you about the other night? It’s in the kitchen somewhere. Come on out and help me hunt it—if you’ll excuse us for a moment, Thomas,” he added politely.
The Private Practice of Michael Shayne Page 11
