Brett Halliday - Never Kill a Client

Only one elevator was in operation this early in the morning. The operator was a wizened, little, garrulous man who knew all the tenants in the building and greeted most of them by name when they entered his car.

He exclaimed, “Mister Michael Shayne in person. And it’s Mister Rourke, isn’t it? All kinds of excitement around here last night, huh? Never a dull moment when Mike Shayne’s around.”

“Were you on duty last night?” Shayne asked as the doors closed on the two of them.

“No, I went off at four. But they disrupted a cribbage game me and the old woman was having about ten o’clock when they came around asking their questions.” He stopped at the second floor and opened the doors, but Shayne didn’t get out at once.

He said, “I understand neither you nor the other man were able to say when either Miss Hamilton or I went in or out yesterday.”

“I guess that’s a fact. You know how it is… hundreds going up and down, in and out, all day. I can swear both of you were here, and probably went in and out about your regular times, but that’s about all. Today, now, you see, I’ll remember this trip all right if anybody comes around asking next week even, because I never seen you up and around so bright and early before. But on just a regular day…”

“I know. And you didn’t notice anything else funny? Any other people going to my office?”

“I’m sure sorry, but I didn’t. You know how it is.” He gestured out to the hallway. “You let a man out… you don’t wait to watch and see what office he goes to. And nobody asked for your number yesterday, the way they’ll do sometimes.”

Shayne nodded absently and got out. Rourke followed him down the hall to a doorway with his name on it, which he unlocked and thrust open.

He stepped inside slowly, flipping the wall switch that turned on the ceiling light in the small reception room, and he stood there for a long moment with his gaze going somberly over the room that was Lucy Hamilton’s domain, a curious questing, questioning look on his gaunt features as though he hoped there might be some aura or emanation from this familiar room where violent death had taken place that would trigger off something for him.

Watching him very closely and curiously, Rourke could have sworn that the redheaded detective was unconsciously sniffing the air as though he hoped to get some clue there, and for a moment he seriously wondered (as he had a few other times in the past) if Michael Shayne did actually possess some sort of extrasensory perception that helped make him one of the most successful detectives in the country.

The moment passed quickly and (Rourke sensed) unsatisfactorily. Shayne relaxed with a sigh and moved across to the low railing behind which Lucy normally sat. He stood with his hands on his hips looking down broodingly at her desk and chair and typewriter, unable to note anything out of place, anything different, except the fact that the heavy steel filing spindle that generally stood near the railing at the left of her typewriter was not there this morning.

Behind him, Rourke cleared his throat and said, “If they found any fingerprints around Lucy’s desk that didn’t belong to her, nobody mentioned it. Of course, they weren’t looking for that sort of thing…”

Shayne nodded his head slightly. He opened the gate that let him behind the railing, went to the other side of Lucy’s chair and leaned down to open the middle drawer of her desk on that side. He picked up a ten-cent-store ruled tablet with a blue cover, opened it and glanced inside. Then he turned with it in his hand and told Rourke pleasantly, “This is one of those few little things that you and Will don’t know about my business.”

He came out and closed the gate behind him. “For a couple of years, Lucy has made a habit of jotting down notes about anything important or interesting that happens while I’m out of the office. If I don’t return before she leaves, she types them up and leaves a copy on my desk for me to see if I should drop in later. I take it you and Will didn’t find anything like that on my desk last night.”

Rourke said, “No. I was with Will when he went into your office the first time after the body was found. Your desk was clean.”

Shayne said, “That means Lucy wasn’t here at five o’clock, or else she was prevented from doing the job.” He led the way in long strides toward the inner office, snapped on the light and circled the big desk to sit down and open up the tablet in front of him.

“Break out the cognac,” he told the reporter. “Whatever you and Will left of it, and we’ll see if we can make sense out of Lucy’s notes on her interview with a Mr. Rexforth at eleven-thirty yesterday morning. Thank God she doesn’t use shorthand for stuff like this, but her personal abbreviations are just about as bad.”

The sheet was headed cryptically:

“11:30 A. Rex N. A. Bond Jax”

Shayne pondered over that briefly while Rourke nested paper cups together, got a bottle of cognac from the second drawer of a filing cabinet behind Shayne and poured drinks. Shayne read aloud, “Rex. N. A. Bond. Jax. There’s a North American Bonding Company with state headquarters in Jacksonville, I think.”

He paused to take a sip of liquor, frowning at the penciled notes. “Read it with me and see if you follow.” Rourke leaned over his shoulder and read what Lucy had scribbled down for her own guidance:

“Angry M. not in. Disblevs out town. Prac accsed me lie when tell. Asks O’Keef appt today. Insist O’K to come amp; thnks M. here for him. $20 me to call if O’K show. No promis.” At the end Lucy had written with a heavy pencil, “Nasty little man.”

“Seems fairly clear,” said Rourke slowly. “This Rexforth was sore you weren’t here to keep the appointment and refuses to believe Lucy when she tells him you’ve left town. Accuses her of lying about it when she tells him, and asks about your appointment with O’Keefe today. I’d guess Lucy hadn’t heard about O’Keefe up to that point and told him so, but he insists the guy is coming and thinks you’ll be here. Then he offered her twenty bucks to give him a ring if O’Keefe showed up, which she naturally refused to take.”

Shayne nodded, his gaze glued to the sheet. “That’s about the way it adds up. So we know a man named Rexforth expected O’Keefe to visit me yesterday and. that I would be here to meet him. We also know that Rexforth is a nasty little man in Lucy’s expert opinion, and can guess that he may be connected with North American Bonding in Jacksonville. You said Julius O’Keefe was from Jax originally, didn’t you?”

Rourke nodded. “I’m sure that’s where he embezzled the money some years ago.”

Shayne lifted the first sheet, shaking his head in disappointment when he found the next one blank. “No more notations. Either O’Keefe didn’t show while Lucy was still on the job, or she had no opportunity to jot anything down.”

He closed the pad carefully on his desk, leaned back in the swivel chair and half-closed his eyes in concentration while he let a good portion of cognac flow smoothly down his throat.

Rourke said eagerly, “If we could get hold of Rexforth…”

Shayne said, “Yeh.” He looked at his watch. “It’s still an hour too early to raise anybody in an office in Jacksonville. He must have given her a telephone number, damn it. But she didn’t bother to put it down because she had no intention of calling him. Probably a hotel, if he’s in town from Jax.” He drummed his fingertips irritably on the desk. “At least we’ve got someone to start looking for. Someone who knew O’Keefe was headed for my office from the pen.”

“If he is from the bonding company, it probably ties in with the embezzlement.”