“What’s it all about, Mike?” demanded Rourke as they went out into the night air from a side exit. “What the devil has Petey got his tail up in the air about this time?”
“That,” said Shayne, “is what I’m going to try and find out. And God help Harris and Geely if they get in my way again.”
He stopped beside his parked car to draw in deep breaths of night air and drive away the last vestiges of murderous rage that still lingered after he had forced himself to accept Painter’s tongue-lashing in silence.
He leaned forward after a moment to see that his keys were still in the ignition, then asked Rourke: “Your car here?”
“No. Belknap drove me over.”
Shayne said, “Get in and I’ll drive you back.” He grinned crookedly as he got under the wheel and started the motor. “I’m over three hours late for my appointment with Peralta now, so another half hour shouldn’t matter.”
As he backed away, his grin widened when he noted another car backing out at the same time. In the rearview mirror he watched it pull into the street behind him and start following at about fifty feet distance, and he warned Rourke through set teeth, “Watch for traffic signs as we go along. We’ve got a tail and I want you for a witness this time that I’m not exceeding any limits.”
“Sure,” said Rourke, not quite understanding yet. “It’s twenty here. You’re only doing eighteen.”
Shayne’s face was set grimly as he tooled the car along at that speed toward 5th Street. A procession of other cars with impatient drivers sped past in the same direction doing from ten to twenty miles over the limit, but the sedan from the police station remained doggedly fifty feet to his rear.
After a few blocks of progress at the comparative snail’s pace, Rourke said diffidently, “You mean the whole thing this afternoon was a frame-up and you’re afraid they’ll pull it again if you go one mile over the limit?”
“They’ve got my license number,” Shayne told him moodily as he turned left on 5th toward the County Causeway. “Without a witness, I doubt if I’d have to go a mile over the limit to get pulled in again. That’s why I’m borrowing your heap as soon as we get to Miami,” he went on.
“If we ever get there,” groaned Rourke, settling himself in his corner while Shayne carefully hugged the right-hand lane and held the speedometer needle a couple of miles below the legal limit. “You think Painter’s going to all this trouble to keep you away from Peralta, Mike?”
Shayne said, “I don’t know any other reason. Relax and enjoy the scenery,” he went on cheerfully. “Those two cops behind us aren’t any happier than you about this. I’ll bet it’s the slowest they’ve driven since they put on uniforms.”
THREE
It was almost five o’clock, and Lucy Hamilton was preparing to close up the office and go home. To what? she asked herself as she placed a cover over the typewriter and tidied up her desk.
Well, to a quiet evening alone in her pleasant second-floor apartment. She knew there were a couple of lamb-chops in her freezer, and the makings of a salad. Two or three drinks before dinner, she told herself, while the chops unfroze and she wondered whether Michael would call and suggest they go out together.
Most likely he wouldn’t, she told herself sternly. She would take the chops out and start thawing them as soon as she reached home. Because she had recognized the symptoms when he talked to Mr. Peralta this afternoon. He was suddenly interested in a case, and that meant he most probably wouldn’t be interested in an evening with his secretary at the same time.
Michael Shayne was like that. Lucy recognized and accepted the fact after several years in his employ. He was one of the sweetest and laziest guys in the world. When he wasn’t working they had fun together, but the basic trouble in that was that Lucy always had a guilty feeling that she should urge him to get back to work.
So, she told herself firmly, she should be very glad that he was interested in recovering Mr. Julio Peralta’s emerald bracelet. Even if it meant a long, lonely evening at home for her, and even if the pictures of Mrs. Peralta in the newspapers had been so damned attractive. Not only attractive, but… well, suggestive.
She sighed, wishing Michael weren’t quite so susceptible to suggestive women. Honestly, she told herself, she wasn’t jealous. Not one tiny mite. In the first place, she had absolutely no right to be. Her relationship with her employer was quiet and dignified and friendly. They did have fun together… and sometimes when he kissed her lightly…
Lucy heard a tap on the door of the office, and whirled about in front of her desk behind the low railing, her cheeks flaming, to see the door pushed open cautiously.
The man who stood in the aperture blinked at her behind thick-lensed glasses, and slowly removed a dark Homburg from his head. He was medium height and thick-set, with a solid, intelligent face, and wore a dark suit that looked a little warm for the Miami climate.
Lucy’s first impression was that she faced a nonentity. A pleasant, fairly intelligent man, but not a pusher. Not a doer. A man who had safely come to grips with life and who accepted the terms and the limitations placed before him.
She was aware of the color in her cheeks which came from her thoughts about Michael, but she wasn’t bothered by it because she was quite sure her visitor did not notice her as a human being. Her appraisal of him was that he would regard any secretary in a business office as impersonally as he would regard any other piece of furniture.
When he spoke, his dry and precise voice bore out this first impression:
“Is Mr. Shayne in?”
Lucy Hamilton said, “No,” glancing openly at her wrist-watch. “I don’t expect him back this afternoon.”
The man said, “Oh, my!” in a voice of definite disapproval.
Lucy repressed a silly desire to giggle. She and Michael had a private joke about the two words the man had just uttered, and the subject matter was so very far removed from the sort of man he appeared to be that it struck her as utterly ludicrous that he should speak them.
“It is extremely important,” he told her, “that I should see Mr. Shayne at once. Or contact him over the telephone at the very least. Do you know where he can be reached?”
Lucy hesitated. He still stood in the doorway with his hand on the knob. She said, “Won’t you come in and have a seat?” She moved her own typing chair out and sat down in it on her side of the railing as he entered the anteroom and perched himself on the edge of one of the straight chairs lining the wall.
Lucy said, “It’s possible that I could reach him by phone, but I wouldn’t want to bother him unless it’s very important. Can you tell me what it is about?”
He settled his hat on his thighs and told her earnestly, “I want to speak to him about an emerald bracelet.”
“The Peralta bracelet?” she asked in astonishment.
“Yes. It is imperative that I talk to him before he discusses the case with Mr. Peralta.”
Lucy said, “I’m afraid that will be impossible. His appointment with Mr. Peralta was half an hour ago.”
“Perhaps it isn’t too late yet.” He leaned forward eagerly. “Could you telephone him there? Allow me to speak to him.”
Lucy hesitated. The baldheaded, precise-voiced man baffled her. Her first impression of him had subtly changed. She asked, “Do you have the bracelet? Do you have information about it?”
“Miss…” The voice was still precisely enunciated, but it had become sibilant and somehow dangerous. “If you will be kind enough to tell Mr. Shayne that I wish to speak to him about the recovery of the bracelet, then your function in the matter will have been performed.”
Lucy reached for the telephone. Before lifting it, she asked stubbornly, “Who shall I say is calling?”
“My name doesn’t matter. If you will get him on the telephone, please…?”
Lucy compressed her lips, lifted the receiver and dialed the Peralta number on the Beach. A masculine voice answered almost at once. She said, “This is Michael Shayne’s office cal
ling. His secretary. May I speak to Mr. Shayne, please?”
She listened and a frown furrowed her smooth brow. She said, “One moment, please,” and covered the mouthpiece with her hand. To her visitor, she explained, “Mr. Shayne has not arrived yet to keep his appointment. They are still expecting him.”
“Splendid! Excellent. Have him call you immediately on his arrival. Before he confers with Mr. Peralta. Say nothing about the bracelet.” His voice was harsh now. His eyes gleamed behind the thick lenses. “Simply say that Mr. Shayne must telephone his office on an urgent matter upon arrival.”
Lucy kept her hand tightly over the receiver. She spoke calmly, though her heart was pounding angrily. “I don’t think I like the way you are issuing orders to me.”
“Orders?” He jumped to his feet, worried and distraught. “I did not intend… forgive me, Miss. It is because it is so urgent. I beg you to have Mr. Shayne call you at once.”
She took her hand from the receiver and said, “Please have him call his office.” She replaced the telephone and said composedly, “I’m willing to wait ten minutes or so. No longer than that unless you explain the urgency.
“But I have explained it.” He sank back into the chair and settled his hat on his thighs again. “About the bracelet.”
“Did you steal it?”
“I? Steal it?” he sputtered. “Whatever gave you that idea?”
“But you do have it?” persisted Lucy.
“No. That is… not precisely. Am I to be cross-examined because I wish to speak to Mr. Shayne?”
Lucy said calmly, “Many people wish to speak to Mr. Shayne. As his secretary, it is my job to keep a lot of those people from wasting his time. I’m beginning to think you are one of them.”
“Indeed, my dear Miss… ah…?”
“Hamilton,” she told him sweetly. “Lucy Hamilton.” She pushed back her chair and stood up. “Perhaps it would be best if you explained to Mr. Shayne personally in the morning. I’m sure he will be in soon after nine.”
He made no move to get up. He studied her very earnestly for a moment, and then nodded seriously. “Of course. It is after office hours and you are young and pretty and have affairs of your own.” He cocked his head on one side and essayed a wintry smile, taking a thick wallet from his breast pocket. “There is no need for you to remain. I will answer the telephone when Mr. Shayne calls. If you will accept this for the trouble I have caused…?”
“This” was a crisp hundred-dollar bill which he held out to her, standing up with a slight bow to do so.
Lucy looked at the bill, horrified. “And leave you here alone in Michael Shayne’s office?”
“But my dear Miss Hamilton,” he soothed her. “To allow you to go on and keep your engagement. There can be no harm in my remaining to answer the telephone.”
Lucy said, “My salary is quite adequate.” She bit her underlip and glanced at her watch. “I said ten minutes. If you will excuse me…” She unlatched the gate in the low railing and swept past him into Shayne’s private office, leaving the door open behind her.
She crossed to the window and stood looking down at the late afternoon traffic on Flagler Street while she fought to regain her composure, and then turned when she sensed that she was no longer alone.
The man stood on the threshold, hat pressed against his chest and an apologetic smile on his face.
“I regret that I have offended you in my eagerness to reach Michael Shayne. If I knew any other way to contact him…”
“Why don’t you call the Peralta residence yourself?”
His smile faded. He said shortly, “I am the best judge of the manner in which this should be handled. If you would relax and sit down…”
Lucy looked at her watch again. She said, “His appointment was for four-thirty and he is always very prompt. Something important must have detained him. I think I shall have to ask you to leave now, and I will close up the office.”
He took a small, short-barreled gun from the side pocket of his coat and gestured toward the swivel chair behind Michael Shayne’s desk.
“You will sit there, Miss Hamilton. We will wait for the telephone call, and you will proceed as instructed when it comes.”
FOUR
Michael Shayne was almost exactly four hours late for his appointment with Julio Peralta when he turned Timothy Rourke’s shabby coupe between imposing stone gateposts off Alton Road.
The macadam drive curved gently upward between a double row of feathery Australian pines to the large three-story house dominating several acres of carefully landscaped lawn and tropical shrubbery. There was a cream-colored Cadillac convertible and a long, dark blue limousine parked in front of the house, and Shayne pulled in behind them.
Twin porch lights illuminated a flagstone path leading to wide double front doors beyond a row of white pillars rising two full stories, and the front windows of all three stories showed light behind them.
There was the scent of hibiscus and bougainvillea in the soft evening air as Shayne went up the flagged walk to press the doorbell, and, as he stood there, he could hear the barbaric strains of a Stravinsky symphony coming from a second-floor window.
A maid opened the door for him. She wore a plain, dark uniform with a little, frilly white apron, and she tilted her head slightly to look up at the detective and ask, “Yes, sir?”
“I’d like to see Mr. Peralta.” Over the maid’s head, Shayne could see a wide empty hallway leading back to a magnificent curving stairway. Draperies were drawn back from a wide archway on the right of the hall, and soft light came through it together with the subdued clink of glasses and silverware.
The maid pursed her lips doubtfully and shook her neat dark head. “I’m afraid he couldn’t be disturbed just now. If you’ll give me your name, I’ll see…”
“Michael Shayne. If he’s at dinner, I’ll wait.”
“I’ll see,” she said again doubtfully, and started to close the door as she turned away. Shayne grinned down at her wearily and moved forward over the threshold, suggesting, “You might bring me a drink while I’m waiting.” He moved past her along the hall to a point where he looked through the archway at a long dining table lighted only with a dozen or more candles. Half a dozen people were seated at the table. Only one of them raised her eyes to notice the detective.
She sat at the opposite end of the long table, wearing a low, square-cut frock showing creamy, smooth shoulders and a considerable swell of breasts in the soft light. She had plump, even features, and a lot of dark brown hair piled in tight ringlets on her head. At that distance and in that light, her eyes appeared vacant and unseeing. Not a ripple of interest crossed her face as she looked at him.
The visual encounter with the woman whom Shayne recognized from newspaper photographs was very brief because the maid was almost instantly at his elbow, looking properly horrified and a little frightened by his intrusion, urging him past the archway with a hand on his arm and whispering, “Please! This way, please.”
Shayne allowed himself to be led down the hall and into a large square library on the left. He smiled at the agitated maid and assured her, “It’ll be perfectly all right with Mr. Peralta. I’m late for an important business appointment is all. You might let him know I’m here and that you’ve made me comfortable with a brandy.”
“Yes, sir. Perhaps I could give your card to Mr. Freed.”
“I haven’t any card,” he told her cheerfully, dropping his hat into one chair and sitting down in another. “My business is with Peralta, not with someone named Freed. Martell, if you have it,” he went on calmly, “though I won’t quibble over Courvoisier or Napoleon. With some ice-water on the side,” he added, taking out a pack of cigarettes and lighting one.
The maid hesitated momentarily, then went away. Shayne relaxed in the deep, leather-covered chair and looked about the library with approval. It had very much a lived-in look. The half dozen comfortable chairs were pulled around under reading lamps or in front of windows, an
open book lay on the seat of one, and the low table beside another was strewn with three books and the current issue of the Saturday Review. The bookshelves lining two walls were filled with volumes that had not been selected for uniformity of binding and which mostly showed signs of handling.
Shayne was not aware that he was no longer alone until a voice spoke at his elbow:
“Annette tells me you forced your way in and refuse to leave.” It was a tenor voice with a note of grievance in it that sounded habitual. Shayne turned his red head slowly to squint upward through cigarette smoke at the man who had entered noiselessly on thick crepe soles of cream-colored loafers. He wore dark trousers which bulged tightly at plump hips, a white shirt with a neat blue and white polka dot bow-tie and a fawn-colored lounging jacket. He had a plump face and a petulant, rose-bud mouth which stayed slightly open to show the white tips of two protruding upper teeth. He appeared to be in his mid-twenties, though he was quite bald with only a fringe of hair at the sides of a darkly sunburned scalp covered with tiny fuzz.
Shayne knocked ashes from his cigarette and said, “I’m waiting for a drink to keep me company until Peralta is free to see me. Don’t tell me there’s no cognac in a layout like this.”
“I’m Mr. Peralta’s secretary. Nathaniel Freed.” The secretary fluttered plump, white hands at Shayne with an expression on his face of shooing off a caterpillar. “I know you did have an appointment with Mr. Peralta this afternoon… made against my advice, to be quite frank… but after you failed to keep it, he made other arrangements. Mr. Peralta is not a man,” Freed went on severely, “to be kept waiting for hours without an explanation.” He did not add, “by a punk like you,” but the idea was implicit in his tone.
Shayne said, “I’ll let your boss do his own talking, if you don’t mind.”
“I do mind. Most definitely.” Freed’s upper lip quivered under Shayne’s amused gaze. “I am following his instructions in ordering you to leave.”
Shayne said, “I think you’re lying, Bud. I don’t believe he knows I’m here.” He came to his feet easily and Freed took a hasty backward step just as there was the sound of excited footsteps behind him in the hall and two youngsters trotted into the library.
The Careless Corpse ms-41 Page 3
