He turned his head as the New York attorney emerged from the back seat of the taxi, and exclaimed, “You certainly did give me a surprise, Shayne. I had no idea you were impersonating the driver. Is the young man hurt badly?”
“Just knocked out. He’ll come around soon enough. You get your stuff all right?”
“Yes. All the papers seem to be in order. What are you going to do with Conroy? Will he have to be charged with attempted blackmail, with me subpoenaed as a witness? After all no harm has really been done. I have the papers I came for. If this entire affair can possibly be kept quiet you will be doing my firm and our client a great service, and I assure you that adequate payment will be made.”
“I’ve got a fairly adequate payment in my pocket already,” Shayne told him bluntly. “I’ll consider that my fee if I can keep this quiet. Unfortunately, though, it may be evidence against Conroy for murder, and you may be required to testify.”
“Murder? I don’t understand. I thought that was all settled.”
“I told you things had changed. Here’s what I advise you to do,” Shayne went on swiftly. “Can you drive Conroy’s car?”
“I presume so. It seems a standard model.”
“Then get back to your hotel right away. No. You’d better stop some place. At another hotel lobby on the way where you can address that envelope and get some stamps for it. Put it in the mail for New York before you go to the Costain. Then leave the Pontiac parked a block or so away and go in and straight up to your room. The cops will either be waiting for you, or they’ll be around soon. They’ll be asking you questions about the period you were in the Ames house before he was shot, but we’ll hope they have no lead on this and won’t question you. Don’t volunteer anything. Be evasive about where you’ve been since checking in at the Costain. If I can clear up Ames’ murder in the meantime, there’s no reason this blackmail caper has to enter into it. Just sit tight and hope you’ll be allowed to take a morning plane to New York. Get in that car and drive it away so I can get out of here,” he went on gruffly, turning back to Conroy and getting the limp body onto his shoulder.
He carried the man around to the other side of the taxi and thrust him into the front seat where he huddled down in a crumpled heap, breathing stertorously but with his eyes still tightly closed.
Sutter was behind the steering wheel of the Pontiac starting the motor when Shayne hurried around and got into the cab. He got the other car moving, and headed sedately southward toward downtown Miami, and Shayne made a left turn in the taxi at the next corner and drove to Biscayne Boulevard where he turned north.
Victor Conroy began to stir and make funny noises, and try to lift his head on the seat beside him. Shayne watched him out of the corner of his eye while he drove at moderate speed in the right-hand lane of the almost deserted Boulevard. They were past 79th when Conroy managed to pull himself up and turn his head and blink dazedly at his companion.
“Wha… where are we? What happened?” he managed to blurt out. “You’re… Mike Shayne, by God. You were driving that cab. I remember now.”
“Keep right on remembering,” Shayne said grimly. “You’ve got a lot of talking to do, Conroy.” Ahead of them on the right, a high, arched neon sign spelled out BISCAY REST, and beneath that in smaller letters, Sorry—No Vacancy.
“My head,” moaned Conroy, hunching forward and trying to retch, putting both hands up to his forehead. “What did you hit me with?”
“First a gun and then my fist,” Shayne told him stolidly. He slowed to turn in to the motel entrance, drove past the darkened office to a U-shaped courtyard lined on three sides with connecting motel units. Parked cars stood in front of most of the doors, and at least ninety percent of the units were dark. Shayne checked the numbers on the doors and found 25 with an empty parking space in front of it and a night light on over the door.
Conroy lifted his head from his hands to look around apprehensively when the taxi stopped and Shayne cut off the motor. “Where are we?” he demanded, his voice thin with rising hysteria.
“End of the line,” Shayne told him. “I think I’m about to pin a murder rap on you… maybe two.” He leaned past him to unlatch the door, shoved him out roughly with a firm grip on his left arm.
“I didn’t… kill anybody,” stammered Conroy with his teeth chattering. “You’ve got it all wrong. He was dead when I went in there. I swear he was.”
Shayne said, “Shut up. First we’re going to take a look in number twenty-five. Then you can start talking.”
He put the motel key in the lock and turned it, opened the door and dragged Conroy inside and pressed a wall switch by the door.
Overhead light showed a double bed and the figure of a woman lying on her back with arms outstretched. She was fully dressed and her eyes were closed and her face was very white.
It was Dorothy Larson.
Shayne shoved Conroy across the room away from him with such force that he struck the wall and slid to the floor. He jerked the door shut and bolted it and then took two strides to the side of the bed where he picked up one of Dorothy’s wrists. It was limp, but it was warm, and there was a strong, steady pulse. She appeared to be in a deep, drugged sleep, but her lips came apart and she moaned faintly as Shayne bent over her, and her eyelids fluttered and then rested shut again.
Shayne straightened up and turned on Conroy who was picking himself up from the floor. “What did you use to knock her out?”
“A couple of sleeping pills,” Conroy mumbled eagerly. “Just enough to keep her quiet until I could get back. They’ll wear off pretty soon and she’ll tell you. I didn’t hurt her. She was just hysterical and I was afraid she might do something crazy. So I brought her here where she’d be safe from her husband. Don’t you understand? That was before he came back and shot Wesley and got arrested. I thought he might come after her next. And I didn’t know what she’d do or what she’d tell him. I was afraid to take a chance. Don’t you understand what I’m saying?”
Shayne said, “Frankly, no.” He moved back to a chair near the door and sat in it and got out a cigarette. “Was this after you stabbed Ames and stole the papers Sutter wanted?”
“I didn’t stab him.” Conroy sank into a chair across the room and looked at him wide-eyed, the picture of innocence. “You did find that out finally, huh? I wondered when you and that sergeant came back. He wouldn’t tell any of us why he was reopening the case when we all thought he had it wrapped up with Ralph Larson as the killer. And then you asked about the paper-knife.”
“Is that what you used?” Shayne asked levelly.
“I tell you I didn’t. I went in his study and he was dead. I could see he’d been stabbed in the heart, and I thought of course that Ralph Larson had done it. Why shouldn’t I think that?” he demanded heatedly. “He was the last one who’d been up the back way to see him. We all knew that Ralph suspected Wesley was laying his wife. You could hear them arguing in there and then Ralph went out the back, and when I went in fifteen minutes later, Wesley was dead. Naturally, I thought Ralph had done it. You don’t know how mixed up I felt later when I came back to the house and discovered Ralph had broken in with a pistol and shot Ames after I knew he was already dead. What could I say? All I could do was keep my mouth shut and hope that was the end of it. What did it matter whether Ralph was electrocuted for stabbing or shooting him… or both? Though I still don’t understand why he came back to shoot a man he had already killed with a paper-knife.”
“Let’s back-track a little bit,” said Shayne reasonably. “You claim you heard them arguing and Ralph leave… and you went in the study a few minutes later and found Ames stabbed to death. Is that your story?”
“It’s the truth. I knew that envelope was in his desk with the Murchinson file that Sutter had flown down here to get. I knew Sutter was prepared to pay twenty-five thousand in cash for those papers. So I grabbed the envelope quick and just walked out and pulled the door shut behind me. I knew Ralph had killed him, of cour
se, and why. And I was afraid of what Ralph might do to Dorothy after killing Ames. Or what she might tell him if he came back to her and admitted he had killed Ames. Having killed once on her account, the damned fool might well come after me if she broke down and admitted to him that he’d killed the wrong man. I had to get to her before he did and shut her up, don’t you see?”
Shayne said slowly, “I’m beginning to see… a little. Do you mean it was you she was having an affair with… not Ames?”
“Of course. Do you think she’d look at a popinjay like that? The funny thing was, Ames understood the situation and rather enjoyed it. He knew Ralph suspected him, and I think he actually egged Ralph on to believe it. It pleased his goddamned ego to have Ralph think that a beautiful woman like Dorothy was in love with him.”
“So you went straight to the Larson apartment after you left Ames dead in his study and walked out with the Murchinson file?”
“Yes. I wanted to get the papers out of the house before Wesley’s death was discovered so I could make a deal with Sutter later, and I didn’t know what Ralph might do after killing Ames. You can imagine how I felt until I got to Dorothy.” Victor Conroy drew in a deep breath at the memory and released it slowly, shaking his head.
“I didn’t know whether I’d find Ralph there, or what. But Dorothy was alone, and practically hysterical. She clung to me and babbled that Ralph was going to kill Ames and I should stop him, and I didn’t realize what she was talking about and I told her he already had killed him. Then she went all to pieces and began to blame me for everything. I couldn’t leave her alone in that state. I knew she needed time to get to her senses before she talked to anybody. And I needed time to collect from Sutter. With that amount of cash in my pocket I meant to simply disappear and take Dorothy with me. First she agreed to go with me and started to pack a bag, and then she suddenly changed her mind and got martyr-like and swore she was going to tell the whole world the truth and share Ralph’s guilt with him. I couldn’t let it be like that. Don’t you see I couldn’t? I knew she’d come to her senses later on if she had a chance to think about it calmly. So we wrestled a little and I… well, I hit her,” Conroy confessed shamefacedly. “I didn’t mean to but her nose bled dreadfully and she was crying and taking on and we mopped it up in the bathroom and then she sort of collapsed and came with me. I gave her a drink with two of her sleeping powders in it and she didn’t notice, and she came here where I rented this room, and by the time I got her in here she was practically asleep on her feet. You can see that’s all that’s the matter with her.” Conroy gestured toward the bed, sounding run down now, and exhausted. “She’ll tell you the same thing when she wakes up. I didn’t hurt her. I was in love with her. All I wanted was time enough to make a deal with Sutter and get travelling money. If I’d known at the time that Ralph was already under arrest for shooting Wesley, I wouldn’t have worried about her and about getting her away from there. But I didn’t know that until I left her here and went back to the house.”
“What did you think when you got there and found out what had happened?”
“I didn’t know what to think. I was so sure Ralph had stabbed him. No man in his right mind would come back and openly shoot a dead man. And then I thought maybe he wasn’t in his right mind. That he’d gone nuts and didn’t know what he was doing the second time.”
“What makes you so sure Ralph stabbed him?”
“But he must have. Who else was there? He was the only one who’d been in the study.”
“Did you pull the paper-knife out of Ames… and bolt the back door?” Shayne asked evenly.
“I didn’t touch anything. I didn’t see any paper-knife. He was just leaning back in his chair grinning sort of. With blood on the front of him.”
“Didn’t you notice that the back door was bolted on the inside?” demanded Shayne.
“No. It couldn’t have been. Ralph went out that way.” Victor Conroy looked at him aghast.
“It was bolted on the inside half an hour later when Ralph ran in the front door of the study and shot him.”
“I don’t see how… you’re making that up to trick me. I didn’t kill Wesley Ames.”
“Ralph Larson couldn’t possibly have done it and left that door bolted behind him,” Shayne told him coldly. “That leaves somebody inside the house after Ralph left. Five of you altogether, counting the houseman. You’re the one who had most to gain. You knew Sutter had twenty-five grand he was prepared to hand over for the Murchinson file. You admit you were in the room and stole the file. We’ve got you dead to rights on that. What did you do with the knife, Conroy?”
“I didn’t kill him,” cried out Conroy, beating his fist on his knee in frustration and anger. “I didn’t see any knife. I grabbed the papers on the spur of the moment. They weren’t any good to any one else. Damn it! If Ralph Larson didn’t kill him, take a look at some of the others in the house. Ask Mark Ames why he was there tonight. I happen to know it was to demand that Wesley give Helena a divorce. Ask her. God knows she had plenty of motive to kill the son-of-a-bitch. How about that New York lawyer? He was plenty sore and half drunk. He had plenty of chance to slip in and do it. And I wouldn’t put it past Alfred either. God, the way Wesley treated that man like dirt. A knife is a Spick’s weapon. Any of the others had a motive and opportunity.” He was practically shouting as he completed his diatribe, and the drugged woman on the bed stirred and muttered something and turned on her side.
Shayne got up to go over to her, telling Conroy as he did so, “But you’re the one we can place in the death room just about the time it happened.” He leaned over the bed and placed a firm hand on Dorothy Larson’s shoulder and shook her gently.
“Better try to wake up,” he said soothingly. “It’s all right. Everything’s okay. Wake up and I’ll take you home.”
She turned slowly to open her eyes and stare up into his face, blankly and uncomprehendingly at first, and then with troubled recognition.
“You’re… the detective,” she mumbled. “Ralph? What’s happened to Ralph?” Then she sat up suddenly and stared with distended eyes at Conroy who was approaching the bed hesitantly. “Victor said he killed Wesley,” she cried out. “Did he? Did Ralph do that?”
Shayne said heavily, “Right now, Mrs. Larson, your husband is in jail charged with shooting Wesley Ames to death. But I think that charge is going to be withdrawn before long. Just lie back and relax. After I make a telephone call you can tell me exactly what happened in your apartment tonight.”
He lifted the telephone from the bedside stand and gave the number for police headquarters, and put his hand over the mouthpiece and told Conroy coldly. “Stay away from her. Sit down and keep your mouth shut.”
He lifted his hand and spoke into the telephone, “Mike Shayne speaking. I’m at number twenty-five in the Biscay Rest Motel on Biscayne Boulevard and I’ve got a suspect here in the Ames killing. Have a car stop by to pick him up. And if you can get hold of Sergeant Griggs, tell him he can stop looking for Mrs. Larson. I’ve got her, too.”
He hung up and looked down compassionately at Dorothy Larson who had rolled over and buried her face in her hands and was weeping violently. For her husband… or for her lover, he wondered. It didn’t seem to much matter. Nothing was going to be the same for her again.
15
THIS TIME THERE WAS EVIDENTLY A CAR CRUISING VERY near-by because it was not more than three minutes before one pulled into the courtyard silently with a flashing red light and eased up behind the taxi parked in front of No. 25.
Shayne opened the door as two burly, uniformed men got purposefully out of the radio car. “This way,” he called cheerfully, and was pleased to recognize the one in the lead as an officer whom he knew slightly.
He held the door open and stood aside and said, “Hi, Thompson. That was quick work.”
“They said Mike Shayne over the radio,” Thompson said guardedly, peering inside the motel room. “What’s going on here? Vice charge?
”
“I’ve got a murder suspect for Sergeant Griggs on the Ames killing,” Shayne told him. “That’s Victor Conroy. Take him in, Tommy, and hold him on an open charge until I get there. I have to take Mrs. Larson home and I’ll be right in. If Griggs is at headquarters tell him to stay put until I get there.”
Conroy went with the two officers silently and sullenly. He had kept his eyes averted from Dorothy Larson and had not exchanged a word with her since she had waked up. She, in turn, appeared too stunned and shocked to comprehend exactly what was going on, and after the patrol car drove away with her lover, Shayne took her arm to draw her up from the bed and said gently, “I’ve got a taxi outside, Mrs. Larson. I’ll take you home now.”
“Yes,” she agreed falteringly, clinging to him. “It’s like a bad dream. Ralph running in to get his gun, and then I telephoned you, didn’t I? And then Victor came and said… that Ralph had murdered Wesley Ames…” Her voice trailed off uncertainly and Shayne helped her into the back seat and got under the wheel and drove out of the courtyard.
“Just sit back and relax now,” he said over his shoulder. “Ralph did fire a bullet into Ames, but it now develops that he was dead before the shot was fired.”
“Then… he didn’t actually murder him?” she asked wonderingly. “I’m glad. It would be my fault if he had.”
Shayne said, “Don’t think about it now. When we get to your place I want you to tell me briefly just what you remember. If you confirm Conroy’s story… well, we’ll see.”
When they climbed the stairway to her apartment Shayne fully expected to see a policeman guarding her door. But the hallway was empty and the door opened when he turned the knob. He was surprised to find Griggs standing in the center of the room talking to his driver, and from the expression on the sergeant’s face when he saw Shayne and Dorothy, he realized that Griggs knew nothing about her being found or Conroy’s arrest.
Shoot to Kill Page 12
