Brett Halliday - Shoot the Works

Shayne said, “Be sure and remind him of that if it ever does come up. What happened after you and Bob Pearce left last night? Did Mrs. Wallace break down badly?”

“No. She was quite self-contained. Too much so, I’m afraid. I urged her to let go and cry on my shoulder, but she kept saying she had to be strong for Helen’s sake. She was too calm if anything. When I think about the wonderful life they had together…” Lucy’s voice trailed off and tears misted her eyes. In a low voice she hurried on, “What does it mean, Michael? Those tickets for South America and Jim packing for a trip like that. It just can’t be the way it looks.”

Shayne shrugged and reached down a big hand to rumple Lucy’s brown curls. He didn’t tell her that he was beginning to fear it was exactly the way it looked. He wondered briefly how she would react if she were aware that a million dollars was missing from the brokerage firm’s safe… how Mrs. Wallace would react if she knew. But, perhaps Mrs. Wallace did know. Perhaps…

He pulled his thoughts back to more practical considerations and asked, “Any calls this morning?”

“ Just one. From a Mrs. Heffner.” Lucy dabbed at her eyes with a piece of Kleenex and glanced down at a memo pad. “She said you’d understand and that it was very important that you go to see her. It’s an address on Brickell Avenue. She was just going out when she called about half an hour ago, but said she’d be home at twelve and hoped you could be there. She sounded… well, her voice sounded like…”

Shayne grinned down at his secretary as she paused doubtfully. “How did she sound, angel? Like a woman scorned?”

“N-not exactly. She sounded worried and embarrassed, and like a woman putting up a big front. I got the impression she was probing to find out whether I knew who she was… whether you had discussed her with me. She sounded… well, quite relieved when I told her you hadn’t been in the office yet this morning. Do we know a Mrs. Heffner, Michael? I checked the files after her call and couldn’t find her name.”

Shayne said, “We do know a Mrs. Heffner… sort of. After twelve, we’ll know her a lot better.” He glanced at his watch, leaned over to pull the sheet off Lucy’s memo pad that had Kitty’s address written on it.

“I’ll have to leave in a minute. Call Mrs. Wallace, angel. Find out whether her husband had a passport. Whether it’s been renewed recently and so on.”

Lucy said, “Of course. That’s important, isn’t it? If he did plan to fly to Rio this morning he had to have a passport in order. And with visas and all, didn’t he?”

Shayne said, “I don’t think he could take off on the plane without one.” He stood up and yawned while Lucy reached for the telephone. “After you talk to her, I’ve got another call or two before I visit Mrs. Heffner.” He sauntered across the room to his private office, opened the door and went in. Lucy Hamilton had opened the windows above Flagler Street, and Shayne walked over to stand in front of them, savoring the sounds of midday traffic that drifted up from the street, frowning as he thought about Kitty Heffner and wondered why she was so anxious to see him today.

How was she going to react to what had happened in his apartment the previous night? He wondered exactly how much Kitty recalled before she passed out on his sofa. Did she plan to pick up at this noon date at her house where they had left off the night before? Somehow, Shayne didn’t think so. Another time, perhaps, and under similar circumstances. He grimaced, though, at recollection of the note Kitty had left for him.

Lucy’s voice from the doorway interrupted his thoughts: “Mr. Wallace did have a passport five years ago, Michael, when he made a business trip to England. Myra doesn’t know whether he ever had it renewed or not.”

Shayne turned from the window and got the pair of airline tickets from his pocket and studied them. “Call Pan-American and check on Flight Seventeen to Rio this morning. See what cancellations there were.”

Lucy nodded and turned back to her desk. Shayne went around the big, bare desk in the center of the room to a steel filing cabinet against the wall. He pulled out the second drawer and reached behind cardboard folders to lift out a bottle of cognac. He uncorked it as he went to a water cooler at the end of the room, fitted one paper cup inside another and half-filled it with cognac. He ran ice water into another cup, carried them back to his desk and sank into the swivel chair. His buzzer sounded and he pushed a switch and Lucy’s voice told him, “There were no pre-flight cancellations. But Mr. and Mrs. James Richards did not show up to claim their seats on Flight Seventeen. Pan-Am called the Biltmore Hotel which they had listed as an address, when they made the reservations, but the Biltmore had no one registered under that name. What do you think, Michael?”

He groaned, “God knows, angel. Make a note of it and we’ll try to fit it in later.” He flipped the switch and sank back in his chair, sipped alternately from the two cups until they were empty, his face gaunt and his gray eyes bleak, as they stared unseeingly across the room.

He finally crumpled up the empty cups and tossed them across the room toward a wastebasket, got briskly to his feet and strode out to lift his hat from the rack by the door.

“I’m on my way to see Mrs. Heffner, if she calls. Tell her to sit tight and I’ll be there. Call Rutherford Martin at his office and tell him I want to see him and Tompkins right after lunch. Make it definite for two o’clock and suggest it will be just as well if Will Gentry doesn’t know I’m coming in.”

Lucy Hamilton was making shorthand notes on her pad. A touch of excited color crept into her cheeks. “Anything else for me?”

“Just hold down the fort, angel. Have some lunch sent in, huh? Things could start breaking.”

“I’m so glad, Michael.” Lucy’s reaction was instantaneous and loyally optimistic. “What shall I tell Chief Gentry if he calls again?”

Shayne paused, holding the door open. “Just that I’ve been in and out, angel. And you might tell him I said to watch out for that limb he’s getting out on. I’ve an idea it’s pretty rotten and might break under his weight any moment.”

Shayne closed the door behind him blithely and hurried to the elevator to keep his twelve o’clock appointment with Kitty Heffner.

The Heffner address was one of the large estates on Brickell Avenue fronting on the bay, and a curving drive led in between high stone gateposts through beautifully landscaped grounds to a three-story limestone house covered with bougainvillea and flame vine.

Shayne parked under a wide porte-cochère in front and got out. There was a cool, stone-floored front porch and heavy oaken doors with massive, wrought-iron fixtures. He touched a bell beside the doors and one of them opened almost on the moment of his signal, and a trim maid, wearing a ridiculously inadequate and frilly apron, smiled warmly at him and asked, “Mr. Michael Shayne?”

He said, “That’s right,” and gave her his hat and followed her into a wide, vaulted hallway, as she murmured that “Madame” was expecting him. Twenty feet down the hall, she turned to the left, between open sliding doors, and stood aside for him to enter, announcing, “Mr. Shayne to see Madame.”

Kitty Heffner stood in the center of a large room with bookshelves from floor to ceiling covering all available wall space. The tips of her fingers rested on the polished top of a long, refectory table and in front of her was a tray holding decanters and glasses.

She looked self-possessed and regal as she stood there, very much the mistress of her domain, in a flowing velvet gown with a high neck and long sleeves and no jewelry at all. She had a fresh, upswept hairdo that softened the bony contours of her face, and masterfully applied makeup that took years from her appearance.