The Private Practice of Michael Shayne

by Brett Halliday

  He paused, an odd expression of uncertainty creeping over his angular face. He stood there looking past Will Gentry as though a veil had been suddenly lifted.

  Gentry started to say something but didn’t, after one look at Shayne’s strained features. He sat silent until Shayne started talking in a queer monotone, as if to himself.

  “My gun jammed after the first shot was fired. Where the hell did that bullet go? Larry didn’t know much about guns. If an automatic jammed on him, he’d probably think it was busted beyond repair.”

  He paused, then burst out, “Goddamn it, Will, we’ve got to locate Marsha Marco. Give me all you’ve got on it.” He slumped into a chair and sat staring vacantly across the room.

  “I will.”

  Gentry got to his feet and put his hand on Shayne’s shoulder, then went out quietly, leaving him sitting there staring at the jumbled picture-puzzle of crime which gradually adjusted itself into a distinct pattern before his eyes.

  Chapter Seventeen: HEADLINES IN ADVANCE

  A FULL HOUR LATER, Shayne stood up to stretch himself wearily. That was the way it had to be. Proving it was something else. His plan was dangerous only if it misfired. And there were a few things he could check first. He got his hat and went downstairs.

  The hotel clerks had switched shifts the previous day, and the clerk now on duty had been night man the night Grange was killed.

  The clerk glanced in Shayne’s mailbox as the detective approached the desk, turned with a negative movement of his head.

  “Nothing this morning, Mr. Shayne. Your business seems to be rather slow.” He smiled pleasantly.

  “On the contrary,” Shayne told him, “I’m getting pushed around by the rush of events.” He leaned on the counter, pushed his Panama back on his head. “You were on duty night before last, weren’t you?”

  “Yes, sir.” The clerk was a bright young man with an inordinate admiration for the lanky detective which almost amounted to hero-worship.

  “I had a caller while I was out.”

  “Yes, sir. Your sister?” The young man spoke in a confidential, man-to-man tone.

  “No.” Shayne grinned. “I mean the man who was here earlier in the evening.”

  “Oh! Mr. Kincaid.”

  “Yes. Can you tell me exactly when he was here?”

  “It was around nine-thirty. I remember he stopped at the desk to ask if you were in—and said he’d wait for you in your apartment. I sent a boy up to unlock the door, knowing he was a friend of yours. You see, I never know when a visitor to your apartment is going to turn out to be something important—in your business, you know—and I always make a mental note of their coming and going. I hope I didn’t do wrong to let Mr. Kincaid in.”

  “Oh, no. That was the natural thing to do. Did you see him leave?”

  “Yes. He only stayed ten or fifteen minutes. He stopped on his way out and asked me to tell you he couldn’t wait any longer.”

  The clerk paused, then added with sudden animation, “He made a call from your room. I remember that the girl at the switchboard called over to me to ask if she should put it through—knowing it wasn’t your voice.”

  “You keep a record of outgoing calls, don’t you?”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll look it up.”

  Shayne lit a cigarette while the clerk went back into the office, returning presently with a written notation.

  “The call went through at nine-thirty-eight exactly. It was a Miami Beach call.”

  “You don’t keep a record of the number?”

  “No. Just the destination for toll charges. But I remember that he came down right after putting the call through.”

  Shayne puffed on a cigarette, squinting out through the entrance doorway.

  “Nine-thirty-eight. Then he left at approximately nine-forty.”

  “Very close to that,” the clerk agreed.

  “Do you have a railroad schedule?”

  “Right here.”

  “See what night trains the F. E. C. runs north.”

  “I can tell you that. There’s only one. At eleven o’clock.”

  “And it arrives in Jacksonville…?”

  “At six-thirty the next morning.”

  “And two minutes is just about enough time to file a telegram,” Shayne muttered. “Thanks.”

  He strode out the front door and across to a row of garages maintained for the use of regular tenants. Unlocking the padlock on a door, he got into his roadster and backed it out, swung around to S. E. Second Street and made his way down Biscayne Boulevard to the Miami Daily News building where he parked and went up to the city room.

  He collided with Timothy Rourke on his way out on an assignment. Shayne grabbed the reporter’s arm and Rourke said, “What is it, Mike? I was just on my way out.”

  “Forget it.” Shayne dragged him back into the room. “Turn your assignment over to one of the other punks. You’re about to be let in on a story so goddamned new it hasn’t even happened yet.”

  Rourke studied Shayne’s face quizzically and a little doubtfully. Then he yelled to a tow-headed youth to take over his assignment.

  “It’d better be good,” he warned as he led Shayne to his littered desk in the corner.

  “Good?” Shayne exulted. “It’s colossal, Tim. When’s the deadline for your first edition?”

  “One o’clock. We hit the street at two-thirty.”

  “And it’s just eleven now. And I’m going to give you a headline that’ll knock this town cold. But you’ve got to do some checking for me first, Tim.”

  “Shoot.”

  “What dope have you got from the racing commission on their investigation of the Masiot stables?”

  “Nothing new, officially. They’re still investigating.”

  “Do you know any of the members of the commission?”

  “Yeh. Leroy Johnson. He’s—”

  “Call him.” Shayne gripped Timothy Rourke’s arm. “Make it personal. It’s not to be printed. Find out which way the investigation is going. What they’re digging up—unofficially.”

  Rourke shook his head, tight-lipped.

  “What are you up to, Mike? It’s that Grange killing, isn’t it?”

  “It is. And we haven’t any time to waste if we’re going to manufacture those headlines. Get on the phone.” Rourke lifted the receiver on his desk while Shayne sat back and lit a cigarette. Hunching the instrument to his ear, the reporter carried on a lengthy conversation without seeming to notice the haywire din going on about him.

  Presently he hung up and said, “This is strictly confidential, Mike. If it leaks out, a beautiful friendship will be spoiled.”

  “It won’t leak. What have you got?”

  “They’ve found out that all those bets spread over the country on Banjo Boy originated right here in Miami from one source as yet unidentified. On the Q-T, the commission is pretty well convinced that our friend Elliot Thomas sent those bets out, though they haven’t proved it yet and may not be able to.”

  Shayne nodded happily.

  “Birdies are coming home to roost. John Marco used to donate heavily through the mutuels, but he seems to have quit two years ago when he opened his casino. Ever hear of a confirmed plunger getting off the horses?”

  Rourke leaned back with new interest lighting his eyes.

  “A man running a gambling place would hate to be known as a sucker at his own game. There’s other ways of placing bets than through the mutuels.”

  “That’s it. With no one being the wiser. How can I find out whether Marco has been dealing through the bookies since he discontinued his public betting at the tracks?”

  “That’s a tough one,” Rourke conceded.

  He gently rubbed an old knife scar on his square, bony chin.

  “Samuelson, down in the Flagler Arcade, handles most of the illegal heavy sugar. He and Marco used to be friendly. Ten will get you a hundred Marco places bets through him if he hasn’t been weaned yet.”

  “Le
t’s call Samuelson and find out.”

  “Won’t work. Bookies don’t hand out that kind of information. Not Sammy Samuelson.”

  “Call Marco,” Shayne suggested. “Tell him you’re Samuelson. You ought to know Sammy’s voice. Maybe Marco’ll give something away.”

  Rourke started to protest, then caught the intense gleam in Shayne’s eyes. “Okay. It’s your party. But I’m afraid my Yiddish accent isn’t what it ought to be.”

  He scooped up the phone and got a connection with John Marco on the beach.

  Shayne leaned close, and the reporter held the receiver so that both could hear while he squelched the faint brogue in his voice and slurred, “Hi-yuh, John. Sammy.”

  “All right, all right,” came John Marco’s impatient voice. “You’d think I didn’t pay off like a slot machine, the way you jump me every time I hit a losing streak. I’ll have the dough over by a messenger this afternoon. Twenty-six hundred is the way I figure they ran for me yesterday. I got to get me a new handicapper or you’ll be owning this joint.”

  He paused for the bookie to make some reply, and Shayne nodded to Rourke to hang up.

  “That’ll give him something to think about,” Shayne chuckled.

  “How about you giving me something to think about now,” Rourke complained.

  “All right. I’m set.” Shayne leaned back, hugging one knee with laced fingers. “How’d you like to write a headline for your two-thirty edition on something that’ll be breaking when your papers hit the streets?”

  “Swell.”

  Rourke swung around in front of his typewriter and rolled a fresh sheet of paper in. Poising his forefinger over the keys, he waited.

  Shayne said softly, “Here’s your headline: Elliot Thomas Grilled in Drowning of Beach Debutante.” Timothy Rourke had mechanically started pecking as Shayne spoke. He got as far as the second “l” in “grilled” before the detective finished. He stopped and yelled, “Good Lord! Are you nuts?”

  “I’m just coming out of a fog,” Shayne explained. “Finish your typing chore, my man, and I’ll dictate the story that runs under it.”

  “I can’t do it,” Rourke protested. “Do you expect me to set this up and print it at one o’clock when I’ve only got your word for it that it’s going to happen an hour or so later?”

  “Hasn’t my word always been good enough for you, Tim?”

  Rourke stared into his eyes for fifteen seconds, then said, “Okay, Mike. Tim Rourke has been kicked off better jobs for less cause.”

  He completed the headline, then began pounding out copy as Shayne dictated it.

  When it was finished he leaned back with feverish excitement in his Gaelic eyes.

  “What a yarn! But they’ll never print it on my say-so, Mike. Not until they’ve got some proof.”

  “How’ll some nice pictures to go along with it do?” Shayne asked easily.

  A dazed look came into Tim Rourke’s eyes. He rubbed his brow with unsteady fingers.

  “Pics? Of something that’s maybe going to happen?”

  “No maybe’s about it. Can you give me a good cameraman that’ll keep his mouth buttoned?”

  “Hell, I’ll do it myself. I was one of the best in the business until I turned softie and started writing stories instead of shooting them.”

  “We’ll get some pictures that’ll be all the proof your editor will ask for,” Shayne promised. “Now, roll in a clean sheet of paper and I’ll give you the dope on an extra you can have ready to rush on the streets after you’ve sold out your regular edition. You can have them loaded in trucks waiting for the word go.”

  Rourke turned resignedly to his typewriter again. “All right, miracle man. For centuries the Rourkes have been noted for their lack of brains. I’m a sucker for your fairy tales.”

  Despite his attempt at nonchalant composure, the veteran newspaperman was shaking with a nervous ague when his trained forefinger finished tapping out the story Shayne gave him for an extra.

  “If this hits, we’ll make newspaper history in a town that’s made it before.”

  “It’s in the bag, Tim.” Shayne stood up, grinding a cigarette butt beneath his toe. “Meet me on the dock where Thomas’s yacht is tied up, at twelve-thirty. Bring along a candid camera that won’t attract too much notice. Keep all this under your hat until you get back with the pics to stick under the disbelieving nose of your editor. It’s up to you to make them print the story. It’s going to be worth—maybe some money to me, and for a cinch getting out from under a first-degree murder charge.”

  “I’ll be there at twelve-thirty. I hope you realize just how goddam’ hot this is. The paper could get burned to a crisp on a libel suit if—”

  “If me no ifs. I know what I’m doing—now.” Shayne went out briskly, and Rourke muttered after him:

  “I hope to God you do, Mike. I hope—you—do.”

  Chapter Eighteen: TWO KINDS OF FORGERY

  SHAYNE STOPPED outside his hotel and rummaged in the side pocket of his car and got out the light silk jacket and felt toque he had gotten from Marsha Marco’s room. He slid them into his coat pocket and went inside.

  The clerk motioned to him as he passed through the lobby.

  “Mr. Gentry has been calling. He says it’s important.” Shayne said, “Get him on the line. I’ll take it in my apartment.”

  He went up the elevator and to his room. The phone rang as he closed the door.

  “That you, Mike?” Gentry sounded plenty worried. “Painter called not long ago to ask me to have my expert go over your pistol. It seems that the beach ballistics man was suddenly taken sick this morning and can’t officiate.”

  “Did you stall him?”

  “The best I could. I told him my man was out to lunch. He’ll be here about one with that damned gun.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Shayne said absently, “Let your man make the test. Win, lose or draw, I’ll be under the wire and the finding on the gun won’t change anything either way.”

  “What have you got up your sleeve?”

  “Nothing you won’t be better off without knowing. Sit tight for the blow-off.”

  Shayne hung up and went to the table where he cleared away the litter of glasses, bottles, coffee cup and pot, then laid Marsha’s hat and jacket out on the table.

  From an inner pocket he drew out the folded note Marsha had left behind her, and spread it out in front of him.

  It had been dashed off with a soft lead pencil on a sheet of plain white notepaper.

  He found a soft pencil and took out several sheets of plain white notepaper. Sitting in a straight chair, he propped Marsha’s farewell note up in front of him and sat there a long time studying the words she had written:

  “I can’t stand this. I’d rather be dead. I’m going where you’ll never see me again.

  “MARSHA.”

  Carefully, he copied the message on one of the sheets of clean paper.

  It was an extremely poor forgery. Scowling, he tried again and again. He was dissatisfied with the result when the entire sheet was covered with repetitions of the message, but was encouraged by what seemed a slight improvement on the last one.

  He glanced at the clock, got up and poured a drink, sat down with it and a clean sheet of paper. Forgery wasn’t his forte. He was convinced of that by the time he had scrawled the message all over a second sheet of paper. It seemed that he was getting lousier all the time.

  He shoved the sheet aside irritably, took another drink to steady his nerves, and began again.

  Gradually, he began to get the hang of it. Complete relaxation and absolute concentration on the girl’s handwriting was the answer. As long as he watched what his own fingers were doing, they refused to follow the pattern.

  Finally, keeping his eyes on the words in front of him and writing with swift ease, a blotter beneath his hand to avoid leaving fingerprints, he finished a copy that was almost good enough to pass for the original.

  He folded it gingerly and
laid it inside Marsha’s toque, folded the felt hat down over it, and rolled the whole thing up in her jacket, putting it in his coat pocket.

  His clock showed it was a quarter of twelve when he got up and poured a last drink. He stopped long enough to crumple up the practice sheets of incriminating paper and thrust them into the other coat pocket, then hurried out.

  On Flagler Street, he parked in front of one of the arcades and went into a small office with a sign over the door promising: BUSINESS CARDS PRINTED WHILE YOU WAIT.

  He left his order with a promise to be back for it immediately, then hurried up the street to a ten-cent store and fitted himself with a pair of hornrimmed glasses with plain lenses.

  A printed business card was ready for him when he returned to the arcade.

  It was a few minutes after twelve when he drove into Biscayne Boulevard and started across the County causeway.

  It was twelve-twenty-eight when he parked his car inconspicuously in the background in a parking lot abutting on a Miami Beach yacht basin, put on his new glasses and walked briskly toward the dock where Eliot Thomas’s Sea Queen was moored.

  Loitering under a palm near the dock, Timothy Rourke’s face brightened when he saw Shayne approaching. He went to meet him, muttering, “I was getting the heebie-jeebies. What’s the program now?”

  “We’re going aboard the ‘Sea Queen.’ Got the camera?”

  “Sure.” Rourke patted his hip pocket.

  “Follow me and keep your trap shut.” Shayne strode toward the varnished gangplank leading from the Sea Queen’s deck to the pier.

  Brass handrails glistened in the bright sunlight, and the clean white side of the yacht looked as though it had been swabbed off that morning.

  A brawny sailor lounged on the deck at the top of the gangplank, and he stepped in front of them to bar their way as they walked up the incline.

  He said, “No visitors allowed,” but Shayne didn’t slacken his pace, forcing the guard to give way until both he and Timothy Rourke stood on the holy-stoned deck of the trim craft.