The Private Practice of Michael Shayne

by Brett Halliday

  Phyllis said, “Oh, yes, I’m dying to try that punch at a party I’m having tomorrow,” unlinked her arm from Thomas’s with a little pat, and followed the detective toward the kitchen.

  Inside the door, Shayne grabbed her arm and talked low and emphatically, “Make this an excuse to beat it, Angel. And don’t let him go out with you. I’ve got to keep him here a few minutes. It’s damned important.”

  “You’re cooking up something,” she whispered tensely. “Can’t I stay?”

  “You cannot. Some other time when—when I don’t have so much company.” He smiled down on her, then raised his voice to add, “Oh, here’s the recipe. Stick it in your purse.”

  He took her arm and led her back to the living-room. The bathroom door was just closing behind Elliot Thomas with a little slam.

  Shayne’s fingers tightened on Phyllis’s arm as he took in the situation and started rushing her toward the front door.

  “Here’s your chance to beat it without having him insist on going with you,” he panted. “I’ll tell him you had to rush off to keep an engagement.”

  “Well,” she objected with a grin, “even so, you don’t have to throw me out bodily, do you?”

  She stopped suddenly, turned to stare at the bedroom door, which had opened to frame Helen Kincaid on the threshold. Phyllis and Helen looked from Shayne to each other, and back to Shayne, bewildered.

  Shayne stepped back, mopping sweat from his brow. He said, “Look, Angel. Don’t get any silly ideas. This isn’t what you think. Be sweet and get the hell out.” Phyllis laughed thinly, an angry flush crawling into her cheeks, disdainful eyes taking in the alluring figure of Helen Kincaid.

  “So, that’s why you were giving me the bum’s rush!” she exclaimed. “I might have guessed. Oh, I hate you, Michael Shayne.”

  He groaned.

  “Not so loud, damn it. This is business.”

  “Yes. I know. Monkey business. The sort you’re so good at. I suppose you’re going to tell me that isn’t a bedroom and that woman isn’t—”

  Shayne lunged forward and pressed a hard palm over her mouth.

  “Don’t be a fool,” he grated. “I’ll explain later.”

  Helen had advanced a few steps into the room hesitantly. She was staring with round eyes at the scene in the doorway, too bewildered to say anything.

  It was inevitable for Elliot Thomas to choose that precise moment to step out of the bathroom. His expression of complacent self-approval changed into one of consternation when he saw Shayne holding the squirming figure of Phyllis with one hand on her shoulder and the other pressed tightly on her mouth.

  Shayne laughed hollowly and released Phyllis with a little push.

  “Go on,” he said savagely. “Start screaming. I don’t care.”

  He gave a shrug of resignation and walked to the table to pour himself a badly needed drink.

  Thomas stepped forward, frowning, stopped short when he caught sight of Helen Kincaid. His jaw dropped laxly and he goggled at her.

  “Don’t be surprised at anything that happens here,” Phyllis advised him acidly. “Mr. Shayne has his own peculiar detecting methods. He uses his bedroom for third degrees. I think you and I had better go, Elliot. Mr. Shayne does his best work in privacy.”

  Helen Kincaid had not yet uttered a word. She stood quietly looking from one to another of the trio, trying desperately to get the hang of what was going on. She darted a sharp look at Thomas when Phyllis called him by his first name, realizing that he was the man Shayne wanted her to vamp. Without the slightest idea who Phyllis was or what she was doing in Shayne’s apartment, she took almost instant advantage of her presence to rail out at Shayne, “So, that’s why you pushed me off into the bedroom.—Because this—this hussy was coming.”

  With her coral wrap over one arm she advanced toward the detective with her lips curling. “I suppose our little party is all off?” She swayed her hips when passing Thomas, holding her chin lifted to give her neck and throat a smooth and alluring line.

  A predatory gleam came into Elliot Thomas’s eyes as he observed her covertly. He cleared his throat, smoothed his vest, and took a step forward.

  “It seems to me you might introduce your charming guest, Mr. Shayne.”

  Helen turned her head to regard him shyly.

  “Oh, no,” she faltered. “I—I’d much rather no one knew my name. When I accepted Michael’s invitation,” she went on in pretty confusion, “I didn’t know there were going to be other—people—”

  Phyllis was openly staring at Helen with speculative antagonism. Two red spots glowed high on her cheeks. She broke in rudely, “You must not know Michael Shayne very well if you expected him to be satisfied with just you for an entire evening.”

  “Well, I—I don’t,” Helen admitted uncertainly. “But I certainly didn’t come here to be insulted.” She tossed her head. “And now if you’ll excuse me—

  She started toward the door, but Thomas moved briskly in her path. He took her arm with a fatuous assumption of paternalism.

  “See here, now—it isn’t necessary for you to be so upset. We’re all good friends, eh, Shayne? Suppose we all have a drink and convince the young lady the future isn’t nearly so black as she thinks.”

  Shayne shrugged. Matters were wholly out of his control, but Helen was certainly playing up superbly. And Thomas was reacting to her histrionics just as he had expected him to. If Phyllis would only let things ride.

  But Phyllis had no intention of letting things ride. She pushed past the detective to get in front of Thomas and Helen, telling him coldly, “You’ve taken the wrong cue, Elliot. It’s you and I who should clear out and leave Mr. Shayne and this dewy-eyed damsel to play their game of parlor-bedroom-and-bath.”

  She put her hand persuasively on Elliot’s free arm and glared at Shayne.

  He glared back at her, then muttered, “It isn’t such good taste, Thomas, to take advantage of my present condition and try to steal my date.”

  “I have something to say about it,” Helen put in, “and I’m not at all sure I’m sorry things happened this way,” with an arch and big-eyed smile up at Thomas.

  His chest swelled under her flattery. “There you are, Shayne.” He spoke in a man-to-man fashion. “Suppose we let Miss—ah—?”

  “Just call me Helen.”

  “Suppose we let Helen decide for herself.” His soft fingers pressed her arm warmly.

  Shayne managed to get a crestfallen look on his face, then shrugged wide shoulders.

  “That’s all right with me,” he stated flatly. “After all, I didn’t know the shape I was going to be in when I dated Helen. I’ll get some glasses and we’ll have that drink.” He went into the kitchen. Elliot Thomas was murmuring in Helen’s ear, and Phyllis jerked her hand from his arm, stalked across the room and dropped into an armchair. The spots of color had gone from her cheeks, leaving her white and drawn and a little frightened. Her lips were clamped tightly, and when Michael Shayne re-entered the room her eyes followed him with an expression of stricken doubt.

  Shayne poured four drinks while Thomas officiously drew up a chair and seated Helen in it with a gallant gesture. She accepted the cognac with prim protestation.

  “I usually drink champagne. This is stronger, isn’t it? Do you think I should?” She pouted at Thomas who hovered over her.

  “It’s a bit strong, but it won’t hurt you,” he urged. “Just take a sip and then a quick drink of water.”

  Shayne turned his back on them with a glass in each big hand. He crossed to Phyllis, his bandaged face set in grim lines. He leaned over and pressed a glass into her hand muttering, “Play up for my sake, Angel. It’s damned important.”

  She accepted the glass listlessly. At the table, Helen giggled and Elliot Thomas encouraged her to take another sip.

  Phyllis lifted the glass to her lips and tipped it up. Three ounces of hundred-proof liquor brought tears to her eyes and washed away the stricken look.

&nbs
p; She looked past Shayne at the other couple, then said briskly, “You seem to be losing your sex appeal, mister. You shouldn’t have made that gal stay in your bedroom so long alone. She’s evidently not as patient as I was that night—”

  Standing in front of her with his back to the others, Shayne shook his head.

  “Shut up, Angel. I tell you this is—”

  “You’ve already told me too many lies.” Phyllis’s voice throbbed with hurt. “I know I’m a damn fool to have expected anything different from you. If I’d used my head I would have known why you were so anxious to get rid of me when I first came.”

  Shayne’s right fist doubled into a knot and corded muscles stood out on his lean jaw.

  “Before God,” he muttered thickly, “I’ve never hit a woman. But—”

  “Go on.”

  Phyllis kept her voice as low as his in an attempt to keep the others from overhearing. Her eyes were dilated with lids drawn far back. Tears formed in them, rolled down her cheeks, and she didn’t try to blink them away.

  “Beat me,” she whispered intensely. “Why don’t you go ahead? You couldn’t hurt me any worse. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters—very much—any more.” Shayne’s big fists unclasped spasmodically. He stood before her on wide-spread feet and watched the tears trickle silently down her cheeks.

  He felt like hell.

  “Look at my face, Angel.” He formed each word distinctly. “Can’t you see I’m not in any condition to be playing indoor games? Don’t be as dumb as Thomas. You’re spoiling everything.”

  Phyllis peered around him. Thomas and Helen were engrossed with each other.

  “It’s already—spoiled,” she whispered.

  Shayne bent down and put his hands on the arms of her chair. His face was a foot from hers.

  “It isn’t spoiled, Phil. You know it isn’t.”

  Her eyes were somnambulistic. Her lips moved and the words kept pace with the tears which ran down her cheeks.

  “I love you and I despise myself for saying it. Any woman would be a fool to love you.”

  “Angel.”

  “I won’t listen to you. Not ever again. I won’t torture myself that way. Can’t you see it would be torture, Michael? There’d always be women like her popping out of your bedroom. I couldn’t stand that. I couldn’t stand having you lie to me—telling me you had to make love to them to break a case. I believed that—once.”

  “You’re going to believe it again, Angel.” Sweat stood on Shayne’s face between the bandages. “Let them go away from here together. I planned it for them to meet this way.”

  He leaned closer and his bruised lips touched her hair. He drew himself back so his face was inches from hers.

  A tremor went through her taut body.

  “I wish I could believe you. If you’d only stop treating me like a child.”

  He said, “I love you,” and there was a long silence between them.

  Giggles and softly murmured words came to them from Helen and Thomas across the room. The tears were dry on Phyllis’s face. Her eyes were warmly luminous. Shayne’s lips scarcely moved as he explained:

  “Helen is the wife of my best friend. She’s fighting right now for his life—and mine. You should have figured that out. If you’re going to marry a detective you’ll have to learn to keep your mouth shut and your eyes open.”

  “Am I—going to marry a detective?”

  “God knows.” He shook his head soberly. “It’s a fate worse than death and I’ve tried to save you from it. If you refuse to be saved, Angel—”

  Phyllis’s lips were parted and her breath came unevenly.

  “This isn’t a joke to me, Michael.”

  “Do you think it is with me?”

  Her hands came up slowly and locked behind his head. She pulled his face to her and moist parted lips were warmly upon his.

  It was a long time before he straightened up, and Phyllis came up with him. They turned together to see Elliot Thomas’s arm around Helen’s waist.

  They drew apart in embarrassment when Phyllis and Shayne moved toward them. Thomas started some explanation, but Shayne stopped it with a genial wave.

  “Don’t bother, Thomas. You seem to have beaten my time, and I’m no dog-in-the-manger. Lord knows, I don’t feel quite up to Helen’s ideas tonight. When we planned this party I didn’t know I was going to get myself beaten to a pulp this evening. Suppose you pinch-hit for me and show her a big time?”

  “Well, I—of course—”

  “Why not take her out to your yacht and pour a few bottles of champagne down her? Helen dotes on champagne. Miss Brighton is about my speed tonight the way I feel.”

  “Yes—I—well—”

  “Did he say a yacht?” Helen beamed upon the millionaire with wonder and eagerness.

  Thomas made a deprecatory gesture and laughed.

  “Well, yes, I do have a little boat.”

  “I bet it’s more than that. I’d be thrilled to death to see it.” She sprang up and caught his pudgy hand.

  He came to his feet wavering a trifle and Shayne noted that the cognac bottle was practically empty.

  They went out together, tossing gay goodnights back over their shoulders, and Shayne morosely watched the door close behind them. Then he dropped into a chair, mopped sweat from his forehead, and said, “Thank God that’s over with. You almost ruined everything, Angel.”

  “I thought everything was ruined when I saw that woman come out of your bedroom.”

  Phyllis’s voice was shaky and she didn’t look at him. Shayne sighed deeply and touched several spots on his bandaged face to test the soreness. Phyllis moved closer to his chair and he caught one of her hands.

  “It’s been a tough afternoon and evening. One of these days I’m going to quit this business and buy a log cabin on top of a mountain in Colorado and watch the rest of the world go by.”

  Phyllis sat on the arm of his chair. Her fingers ruffled through his coarse hair. “It’s been—a good evening.”

  Without looking at her, he growled, “It would have to happen at a time when my never-beautiful mug is so battered up no woman but a trained nurse could look at me without flinching.”

  Phyllis’s hand crept from his hair to his chin and lifted it so that he looked up into her face. Her eyes were wide and misty and adoring. She smiled confidently and Shayne knew he would never again make the mistake of thinking her too young to know her own mind. She leaned down and kissed him, then snuggled happily against his shoulder.

  “Tell me all about your case and about—tonight,” she ordered, “and you’d better make it a convincing story or I’ll scratch the rest of the skin off your face.”

  Chapter Sixteen: THE GUN BARRELS

  THE NEXT MORNING Shayne called Helen Kincaid while he waited for coffee water to boil.

  She answered breathlessly, “If you hadn’t called, I was going to call you. I couldn’t stand waiting any longer.”

  “How’d you make out last night?”

  “It was awful,” she groaned. “I’ve been in and out of the tub ever since I got home—trying to get to feeling clean again.”

  “I’m not interested in your psychic reaction,” Shayne told her. “What did you find out?”

  “Nothing.”

  “What?”

  “That is—he knows something about Larry. He seems sure he won’t be back.”

  “I’m betting Thomas financed his trip. Tell me about it. Did you go on the yacht without any of the crew seeing your face?”

  “I think so. We went direct to his private cabin and had champagne. I pretended to have met Larry through you—and that I had been stepping out with him on the sly. I told him Larry had stood me up on a date tonight, and he advised me to forget Larry. Said he had left town and wouldn’t be back—intimating that he would be glad to take Larry’s place in my affections.”

  “He didn’t suspect who you really were?”

  “I’m sure he didn’t. I told him just to
call me Helen and let it go at that. He—He was horrible, Michael, he was—”

  “Save your confessions for the priest or write it up for ‘True Story,’” Shayne growled. “I know it was a tough spot to put you in, but it was necessary. Did you get away without being seen?”

  “I don’t think the lookout saw me. Elliot drank too much of his own champagne and passed out about three-thirty. I slipped out and down the gangplank and found a cruising taxi to bring me home.”

  “Good girl! Keep a stiff upper lip.”

  “Did Larry—do you think he—?”

  Soberly, Shayne said, “I’m afraid so, Helen. I’m trying to ball the case up so the police won’t know who to arrest.” He paused thoughtfully, then asked, “Did you have Western Union send out a copy of that telegram you received from Larry?”

  “No. They phoned it out and I didn’t ask for a copy.”

  “Call them right away and demand a copy of it. They’ll probably try to tell you it’s too late and they can’t do it—but make them. Raise a lot of hell. Complain to the manager. If necessary, tell them you asked for a copy yesterday morning and it’s their fault you haven’t received it.”

  He hung up and went into the kitchen to pour boiling water into the dripolator. Coming back into the living-room he glanced at the clock and saw it was nine-thirty.

  A worried frown creased his forehead. At the phone again, he called the office of the Miami chief of detectives. When Will Gentry answered, he said, “Will, I want you to do me a favor.”

  There was some hesitancy in Gentry’s reply. “I don’t know, Mike. What is it?”

  “Has Painter arrested John Marco for the Grange killing yet?”

  “No. He’s—”

  “All I want,” Shayne said hastily, “is to get him to leave Marco alone until after ten o’clock. Marco has some business over here at the bank that I’d like to have him transact first. Couldn’t you get in touch with Painter and talk him into holding off on the pinch for another hour?”