Death Has Three Lives

by Brett Halliday

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  Death Has Three Lives

  A Mike Shayne Mystery

  Brett Halliday

  MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM

  Even Mike Shayne has his bad days

  This one started

  when Lucy Hamilton wouldn’t come clean

  about the corpse in her bedroom.

  Then came the back-street blonde

  and the body in the river

  … three murders in three hours,

  each one labeled as Mike Shayne’s private blend.

  The cops were mildly curious.

  Mike had his talent

  for trouble working overtime.

  A killer was loose,

  destroying evidence (and witnesses)

  with horrifying ease;

  yet Mike allowed him

  to set a trap of his own

  —with Lucy Hamilton herself as the bait.

  It was a bad day, and a long night,

  and Mike never came nearer losing his quarry

  —or hanging himself!

  This book is dedicated to

  CRICKET BOYD

  because she is Chloe’s “Very Best Friend”

  and I cannot think of anyone

  to whom I would rather dedicate a book

  Chapter One

  Lucy Hamilton glanced quickly at the electric clock in her living-room when the buzzer sounded downstairs. It wasn’t quite nine o’clock, and Lucy frowned with pleased perplexity as she crossed the pleasant room to press the release catch on the front door of the apartment building.

  Michael Shayne hadn’t actually said he would drop by this evening, though he had asked her casually if she had any cognac in the larder when they left his downtown office together at five o’clock.

  She hadn’t really expected him, and certainly not so early as this. But she looked just right to receive an informal visitor, she assured herself with a sweeping downward glance as she turned the knob of her second-floor door and heard footsteps mounting the stairs. Michael hadn’t seen this hostess gown before. It was a shimmery blue, with a tight bodice and short puffed sleeves, a flaring skirt that fell in folds from her nice hips to just touch the tips of her blue satin mules.

  She fluffed one hand through the brown curls at the back of her head, and put on her most pleased smile as she waited for her redheaded employer to round the stairs onto the landing just in front of her.

  Lucy Hamilton stiffened and drew back from the open doorway with a swift indrawing of breath when her visitor appeared.

  It was not Shayne. It was a man she thought she had never seen before. He was tall and slender and no older than she, and wore light-tan slacks and an open-throated polo shirt of sky-blue knitted cotton. A gray, snap-brim felt was tilted rakishly low over his right eye, and Lucy’s first brief glimpse of his face gave an impression of dark leanness with tightly drawn flesh over prominent cheek-bones that was almost pain-contorted.

  She involuntarily started to swing the door shut, thinking the ring of her bell had been a mistake and the man wanted one of the other three apartments on the second floor, but hesitated with a six-inch crack as he stopped on the top step and exclaimed hoarsely, “Hold it, Lucy. Don’t you know who I am?”

  She caught her lower lip between her teeth, studying him dubiously and trying to recall if she had ever heard his voice before.

  Holding his right arm stiffly across his stomach and dragging his hat off awkwardly with his left hand, he essayed a reassuring smile that had in it the elements of entreaty and of fear. He stood like that, tight-lipped and with black eyes burning feverishly at her through the narrow crack, giving her an opportunity to look him over and decide for herself whether she would slam the door in his face or invite him inside.

  Lucy shook her head slowly and said, “There must be some mistake. I’m Lucy Hamilton.”

  “I know.” The words came from tight lips, clipped and impatient. “From New Orleans. I’m Jack Bristow.” He paused a moment, waiting for some response, then added, “Arlene’s brother.”

  Arlene Bristow. A girl who had worked with Lucy in New Orleans before she met Michael Shayne and became his secretary and followed him to Miami. A dark, vivid girl, with a penchant for laughter and for a bewildering succession of beaux that had caused Lucy to envy her in those days.

  Yes. Arlene did have a brother. A memory came to her vaguely as she hesitated. An evening in Arlene’s apartment. Just the two of them with a light supper cooked in Arlene’s kitchenette and lots of girl talk.

  A ring of the bell and the shambling, staggering entrance of a very drunk young man whom Arlene had apologetically introduced as her brother, and who had immediately made the most outrageous love to Lucy in an obnoxiously self-assured manner that had infuriated her.

  Yet, there had been lonely nights after that meeting when Lucy had drearily repented her prudish withdrawal from his attempted caresses and unhappily wondered if she would ever meet him again. There had been something dashing and fascinating about the young man’s assumption that any woman would be flattered to be asked to sleep with him—not the least element of which was the undeniable fact that Lucy had secretly been flattered.

  That was the only time Lucy had seen Arlene Bristow’s brother. She recalled tentative attempts to find out something more about him, which Arlene had not responded to. At that time Lucy had gotten the impression that he was a weakling and a ne’er-do-well and probably best forgotten, but now he didn’t look weak, and there was a remembered flutter in Lucy’s stomach muscles as the left corner of his mouth twitched upward mockingly and he demanded, “Still a virgin, Lucy?”

  The challenge couldn’t be disregarded. He looked sober enough, though queerly drawn and trembling as though on the verge of exhaustion. Lucy opened the door wider and stepped back, saying coldly, “Come in if you like. Is Arlene still in New Orleans?”

  “Yes. Last time I heard.”

  He came through the door with a rush, staggering momentarily though there was no smell of liquor on his breath as he passed within a foot of Lucy. He stood in the center of the room with his back to her as she closed the door, leaning forward slightly from the hips and with his right arm still pressed stiffly against his stomach. He straightened when he heard the click of the door latch, turned, and said with an effort of debonair gaiety, “Alone at last, Lucy dear. Have you had a phone call the last fifteen minutes?”

  Then his black eyes glazed over and he fell face forward onto the rug. Lucy ran to him and fell on her knees beside his crumpled body. He looked pathetically young and defenseless with all the color drained from his dark face when she turned him over. His arm fell away from his body and lay inert, and there was a stain of blood on the blue polo shirt just beneath the bottom ribs on his right side.

  Compressing her lips and fighting back panic, Lucy pulled shirt and undershirt up from his waistband and found a small wound oozing blood in the soft flesh. She sank back on her heels for a moment, considering what doctor she might reach most quickly, and was disconcerted to see his black lashes lift and to hear his voice.

  “No doctor, Lucy. For the love of God, why do you think I made it here? I’ll be okay. Just let me rest a little. If I could lie down—and if you’ve got a drink.”

  She started to pr
otest, but he placed both palms flat on the floor beside him and lifted himself to a sitting position, his eyes blazing at her with determination and command.

  “Put a towel on your bed and let me lie there. I promise not to bleed much. And get me a drink. I just need to rest. Then I’ll go on.” He groped for her wrist and pulled himself upright and Lucy let herself be persuaded momentarily, thinking it was best to propitiate him and keep him quiet, that she would surreptitiously call a doctor as soon as he was safely in the bedroom, wondering about the note of desperation in his voice and what he had done to be afraid to have a doctor tend him.

  With Jack Bristow leaning on her arm and stumbling a little, she led him into the bedroom where he sank onto the edge of the chaste single bed and shook his head stubbornly when she urged him to stretch out on the immaculate spread.

  “Don’ wanna cause you trouble,” he mumbled. “Get towel. Lemme lie down few minutes. ’At’s all. Jus lie down and rest.”

  She left him and hurried into the bathroom, flew back with a heavy towel which she spread out behind him. He relaxed on it with a wince of pain and then a deep sigh of relaxation. Closed his eyes but caught her wrist in a hurting grip when she tried to stand up.

  “Listen to me, Lucy.” Beads of sweat stood on his forehead and formed tiny rivulets down each temple. “I swear I didn’t do anything wrong, but I’m in a spot where I can’t have a doctor see me. Not until I get a chance to clear things up. You’re the only person I know in Miami. You’ve got to help me. Just let me stay a couple of hours and I’ll clear out. You didn’t answer me about a phone call.”

  “I haven’t had one and you’re shot,” she said faintly. “Probably bleeding inwardly. If you don’t see a doctor—”

  “If I do see one,” he told her with a wretched attempt at a smile, “you’ll always feel like Judas, Lucy. Trust me, darling.” There was the old wheedling, self-assured note in his voice again. His smile became a real one. Whimsical and gay. “I’m a stranger here and you know the Miami cops. You ought to, working for Mike Shayne. You know how they look for a fall guy and once they get him quit looking for anyone else. I’m the fall guy this time. If I can just stay out of sight a few hours—” His fingers loosened on her wrist, the tips sliding caressingly over the flesh. “I could use a drink. And a kiss if you’ve got one to spare.”

  He was laughing up at her quizzically, and Lucy felt a mad and almost irresistible desire to bend lower and press her mouth against his lips. She blushed hotly because the desire came to her, and turned her face away so he wouldn’t see the blush and guess at its cause.

  “I’ll get you some brandy,” she said primly, “and when Mr. Shayne comes you can tell him about it. He’ll decide what to do.” She hurried out of the bedroom and to the small kitchen, stretched on tiptoe to reach a bottle of Shayne’s favorite cognac from the shelf. She filled a three-ounce glass and put it on a tray with a glass of ice water, hesitated only momentarily before pouring a couple of ounces in the bottom of another glass to which she added ice cubes and tap water.

  Jack Bristow was lying back with his head on the pillow and his eyes tightly closed when Lucy re-entered the room. Short-cropped black hair clung to his well-shaped head in waves, and his mobile lips were slightly parted. He looked relaxed, asleep, perhaps, and Lucy approached the bed on tiptoe, looking down at him doubtfully when he did not stir or open his eyes.

  She set the tray on the floor and gently lifted the loose tail of shirt and undershirt to study the small wound again. No more blood came from the bullet hole, and the red fluid that had previously oozed out was beginning to form a scab.

  She drew his clothing back over the bare flesh, thinking it best not to disturb him, and debating anew whether she should call a doctor at once or hope Shayne would come soon and make the decision for her.

  When she turned her head she saw Jack’s eyes wide open and fixed upon her unblinkingly. “Is Mike Shayne coming here—tonight?”

  “I think so. If he doesn’t come soon I can call him and—”

  “Don’t.” Jack’s teeth were set together hard and his voice was harsh. “From what you’ve told Arlene in letters, she guesses you’re in love with the guy. That right?”

  “I don’t think that concerns you.”

  “The hell it doesn’t. I wouldn’t be here if there was another soul in Miami I could have gone to.”

  Lucy said, “That’s flattering.” She rocked back on her heels and reached for the glass of straight brandy. “You wanted a drink?”

  He took it from her and lifted the glass to his lips swiftly without lifting his head, spilling a few drops but coming as close to “tossing off a drink” as Lucy had ever seen accomplished.

  He dropped the empty glass on the coverlet beside him and muttered, “I didn’t mean anything personal. You’ve always been and still are the girl I like most. But I know all about Mike Shayne, see? Just the kind of dick he is.”

  “What kind of dick,” asked Lucy faintly, “do you think he is?”

  “He’d love to throw me to the wolves,” said Jack flatly. He paused before adding, “particularly if he found me shacked up with his—secretary.” His hesitation before selecting the final word was meaningful and Lucy felt herself blushing again like an embarrassed schoolgirl.

  “Michael isn’t like that,” she declared vehemently. “As for you being shacked up with me, as you so elegantly express it, that’s utter nonsense. After all, I only saw you once before in my life.”

  “But how’ll you make him believe that? You know how a guy is when another fellow pops up out of his—secretary’s past. Always ready to believe the worst. Why’ll he think I came to you if I weren’t sure you’d take me in?”

  “What’s all this getting us?” demanded Lucy wearily. “Tell me about it, Jack. Who shot you in the side? Why are you afraid to be examined by a doctor?”

  “A dead man, believe it or not. And I told you why not to call a doctor,” Jack snarled. “Because I can’t afford to start explaining things to the police. Not yet. Nor to your Mike Shayne, either. Get that straight, sister. If he does come and you say a word about me being here, I’ll fix you with him so you’ll wish you’d kept shut.”

  “You’re hardly in a position to threaten anyone,” Lucy told him coldly. She retrieved the empty cognac glass and placed it on the tray, stood up. “Do you want some water?”

  “No. More of that brandy would be okay.”

  “You’ve had enough,” she told him with decision, and started toward the door.

  His voice stopped her on the threshold. It was hard and level, yet with an underlying note of desperation which warned her that he was dangerous.

  “Just don’t do it, Lucy girl. All I’m asking is a couple of hours, and I swear to you as God is my judge that you’ll be doing nothing wrong. But I’m also warning you that Shayne wouldn’t see it that way, and if you give me to him I’ll smear you so you’ll not only be looking for another man but for another job, too. Now close that door and get smart.”

  Lucy went out without looking back. She carried the tray to the kitchen and carefully rinsed out Jack’s liquor glass and dried it. She emptied the ice water in the sink and took her own untouched glass of brandy and water back to the living-room. The bedroom door stood open, but she noted that Jack had turned out the bedside lamp.

  Biting her lip in indecision, she slowly went to the door and drew it shut, then turned back to drop into a deep chair and wrestle with her problem.

  In the beginning, immediately after Jack made his absurd threat, there had been no question in her mind. Michael Shayne was certainly best qualified to decide whether or not to turn Bristow over to the police after questioning him. Shayne had his own peculiar code of ethics which she sometimes did not wholly understand, but which she respected. Often enough, she had seen him set himself squarely against the police in their efforts to jail a man whom Shayne believed innocent, and many times she had seen him go far outside the law to gain an end which he bel
ieved right.

  If Jack Bristow could convince Shayne that he was innocent in whatever sort of mess he’d gotten himself mixed into, she knew positively that the big redhead would hold the man’s confidence inviolate even though it involved a technical illegality on Shayne’s part.

  On the other hand, Lucy was in love with her employer. She admitted the fact openly to herself, and more or less openly to him. For years now she had let herself dream of marriage, and had felt encouraged of late by the belief that he was coming more and more to put thoughts of Phyllis, his first wife, out of his mind and to allow himself to look at Lucy more and more as a woman instead of merely an attractive and competent secretary.

  She knew full well what a struggle it had been for Shayne to adjust himself to losing Phyllis after possessing her for so short a time after living for years in loneliness, and she had respected him for keeping her memory alive.

  But now things were beginning to work out; and she had a strong feeling that it was essentially right that they should. Right, not only for herself but for Michael Shayne, also.

  She moodily drank half the glass of brandy and water, and thought about the wounded man in her bedroom. What manner of man was Jack Bristow? What sort of jam could he have got into in Miami to bring him to her apartment seeking refuge with a gunshot wound? In the past, when she had known his sister well, she had sensed that Jack was weak and probably lazy, but she could recall no hint from Arlene of vicious or unlawful tendencies. Of course, she told herself drearily, a sister is likely to be the last person to suspect a brother of such things, and it was perfectly possible that Arlene had been unaware of his real character. Also, it had been many years since Lucy had seen Arlene, and all sorts of things might have happened to Jack in the interim. He might well be a noted criminal, wanted by the police of a dozen states, and Lucy would not be aware of it.

  But somehow she couldn’t make herself believe that. Not of the boy whom she had once dreamed about, and who had been able to arouse in her tonight the passionate desire to kiss him by merely sliding the tips of his fingers over the inside of her wrist and laughing up at her with challenging and half-parted lips.