Brett Halliday - Shoot the Works

Kitty Heffner said practically, “I can’t swear to all of that on a stack of Bibles. But I must say I’ve never seen him act other than as a perfect gentleman. And I will say that he had that reputation among everyone who knew him. We all envied Myra because she had such a wonderful marriage. Jim was absolutely devoted to her.”

Shayne lifted his snifter and emptied it at one gulp. He ran the fingers of his left hand angrily through his rumpled red hair and said belligerently, “This is a hell of a time to be telling me.”

“But I told you as soon as I realized the mistake I’d made,” wailed Kitty. “I didn’t get up until late. My God, Mr. Shayne, do you realize what time I came traipsing home?”

Shayne shook his head numbly. “I was asleep when you left.”

“I know quite well that you were. I heard you snoring clear through the closed door of your bedroom.” She smiled to take the sting from her words, and went on rapidly, “It was after four when I finally got to bed. Don’t blame me too much. I don’t believe you ever mentioned Jim Wallace’s name a single time while I was with you.”

Shayne shrugged and said dully, “Possibly not. We were talking about more important things most of the time.”

He aroused himself to summon a reassuring grin. “I realize it wasn’t really your fault. I do remember Mrs. Martin’s immediate assumption that Tompkins was the partner who was dead… and I saw no reason to disillusion her at the moment. So it’s more my fault than yours.”

He stood up slowly, shaking his head. “But this does put a different complexion on a lot of things. I’ve got some thinking to do.”

Kitty Heffner arose impulsively and moved close to put one hand on his forearm. “You’re not… angry?”

He shook his head. “Just confused at the moment.”

“And it’s all my fault,” mourned Kitty, her fingers tightening on his arm. She lifted her face and asked wistfully, “Would you mind kissing me before you go?”

Shayne looked down at her unhappy face for a long moment with a tight grin. “Sure you want me to, Kitty?”

“I’m sure.” She closed her eyes and swayed against him, her lips spreading beneath his.

Shayne let go of her after a time and said, “Kitty?” She opened her eyes and said languidly, “Yes, Mike… darling?”

He said, “You’re getting wanton again… and I’m getting wanting… and it just won’t do. Not now and not here.”

She folded her hands placidly in front of her like a little girl and said, “You tell me where and when.”

He said, “I will. After I’ve solved a slight case of murder.” He turned away abruptly and strode to the closed doors, slammed them open and went out into the hall and toward the front door with heels hitting hard on the parquet floor.

The little maid appeared from somewhere holding his hat out in front of her. Shayne took it with muttered thanks and she scurried past him to hold the front door open. He escaped into the noonday sunlight, conscious that little more than an hour intervened before his appointment with the two remaining partners of the brokerage firm of Martin, Wallace and Tompkins.

At Miami’s bustling seaplane terminal where huge winged ships arrived and departed every hour of the day and night from and to every part of the globe, Michael Shayne stopped at the Pan-American ticket counter where an efficient young lady was eager to help him.

Shayne got the tickets to Rio out of his pocket and spread them out on the counter. He said, “These are for Flight Seventeen that took off this morning. I’d like to know…”

She said briskly, “Refund department. Ask for Mr. Collier. You go to your left…”

Shayne said, “I’m not worried about a refund at the moment. I wonder if you could tell me who sold these particular tickets… when, and so forth.”

She frowned slightly, putting the tip of her right forefinger dubiously on the tickets. “Why… that would be a matter of record, of course. If there’s anything wrong…”

Shayne said, “Nothing wrong. Who would have the records on the sale?”

“Why… I think you’d better talk to an Assistant Manager. Try Mr. Hitchcock. Go down that aisle and it’s the third office on your left. I’m sure he’ll be able to help you.” She smiled sweetly but vaguely at Shayne and said briskly to an impatient fat man behind him, “Yes, sir? May I help you?”

Shayne went down the indicated aisle to the third office on the left. The door was closed and the lettering on opaque glass said only, “PRIVATE.”

Shayne knocked and then tried the knob. The door opened on a neat ten-by-twelve office with a littered desk squarely in the center of it. A thin-faced man in his shirt-sleeves sat behind the desk facing Shayne, and he was making harried computations on a pad in front of him. He paused and looked up with a frown when Shayne stepped in, and nodded impatiently when the detective asked, “Mr. Hitchcock?”

“What can I do for you?”

“The girl at the ticket desk said you might give me some information.” Shayne spread the two tickets out in front of the assistant manager. “About these tickets that weren’t used on Flight Seventeen this morning.” Mr. Hitchcock automatically began, “The Refund Department is…” but Shayne cut him off. “This is a murder investigation, Mr. Hitchcock. The man who had these tickets in his possession was killed last night. I understand that a Mr. and Mrs. James Richards failed to show up to claim their seats on Flight Seventeen this morning. I’d like to talk to the person who sold these tickets if possible.”

Mr. Hitchcock said, “Murder?” disbelievingly. “And you’re…?”

“A private detective investigating the case. It’s very important to learn when the tickets were bought, and by whom.”

“I… see.” Mr. Hitchcock’s tone indicated that he didn’t see at all. He drew the tickets toward him gingerly and studied them. “You say they were issued to Mr. and Mrs. James Richards?”

“That’s one of the things I hope you can tell me. I know, only, that the two vacancies on Flight Seventeen this morning were the Richards. I assume these were their tickets.”

Mr. Hitchcock said, “I… see,” again, in a tone of slightly increased bewilderment. He hesitated, then got up with the tickets in his hand, “Wait here a moment, please. I’ll see what I can do, Mr.… ah…?”

“Shayne,” the detective supplied.

“Yes. I’ll be just a moment.”

The assistant manager scurried out a rear door, closing it carefully behind him. Shayne sat down in a chair against the wall and lit a cigarette and waited.

Mr. Hitchcock returned before he finished his first cigarette. He still carried the tickets and he regarded them distastefully. “There does seem to be some mystery about these. They were purchased at the ticket counter here yesterday afternoon for cash. The purchaser gave his name as Mr. James Richards and his local address as the Biltmore Hotel… which we require as a matter of policy in case notification of delay or postponement of a flight is necessary. When Mr. and Mrs. Richards failed to report an hour before flight time this morning, a routine call was made to the Biltmore. The hotel had no one of that name registered and could give us no information whatever about Mr. or Mrs. Richards. There was nothing further we could do, and the flight took off on schedule with two vacant seats.”

He reseated himself in his swivel chair and made a tent out of his two hands, peering at Shayne over the top of it. “Most extraordinary. You say Mr. Richards was murdered?”

“A man named James Wallace was murdered. And he had these two tickets in his possession at the time. He was not at the Biltmore, by the way. What about the ticket-seller?”