Brett Halliday - Pay-Off in Blood

“I don’t either,” Shayne agreed mildly. “That’s your problem. What’s this thing Tim Rourke told me about the doctor’s office last night?”

“You mean the nurse and the empty strongbox?” Painter asked reluctantly.

Shayne nodded. “What do you make of it?”

“It just gets screwier and screwier,” muttered Painter. “According to the woman’s story, he had some private papers in the box which he had asked her to destroy if anything happened to him. But someone beat her to it. When she searched the office, after learning the doctor had been murdered, she found the box open and empty.”

“Not forced open?” Shayne asked urgently.

“No. Unlocked with a key, from all indications. The office door, too.”

“Was there a key-ring in the doctor’s pockets when you checked his body?”

“No. His wallet was intact… but no key-ring.”

“Why in hell,” asked Shayne thoughtfully, “would his murderer make the effort and risk the danger of going to his office and emptying that strongbox? What was in it to make it worthwhile?”

“You tell me,” suggested Painter.

“If none of these other things had happened,” said Shayne slowly, “I would assume the strongbox held some documents that referred to the matter the doctor was being blackmailed about. But why would he keep them? And why would someone want to get hold of them after he had already paid off?”

“Because they identified the blackmailer,” said Painter quickly.

“But if the guy who got the money wasn’t the actual blackmailer…?”

They looked at each other for a long moment, and each man helplessly shook his head in bafflement.

“One more thing I wanted to ask you,” Shayne said briskly after a moment. “That thirty-two automatic you found beside the body. Was it the murder weapon?”

“Ballistics says it was. And it’s registered in Dr. Ambrose’s name. He’s had a permit for years. Are you sure he wasn’t carrying it last night, Shayne?”

“No,” said Shayne truthfully. “I didn’t shake him down. I don’t think he was lying to me, though.”

“There’s nothing to indicate it was taken out of the glove compartment,” muttered Painter. “In fact, very careful chemical tests practically rule out the possibility that the gun has been in the glove compartment for months at least. If he normally kept it at his office…”

“His nurse swears he didn’t,” Shayne told him.

“What’s that? Have you talked to Miss Jackson?”

“This morning. I drove her over to the doctor’s house, where she’s going to spend a few days with the bereaved widow. Who, by the way, looked pretty spiffy this morning. Miss Jackson claims he had mentioned owning a gun to her, and said he kept it at home.”

Painter drummed impatiently on the top of his desk with his small fingertips. “She was dead drunk when he was getting himself shot in their driveway.”

Shayne nodded agreeably. “So that puts her in the clear.”

He glanced at his watch and stood up, stretching and yawning. “I guess that just about winds it up.”

“What did you mean by that last statement?” demanded Chief Peter Painter suspiciously.

Shayne looked at him benignly. “Doesn’t it?”

“Wind it up?” demanded Painter.

Shayne looked surprised. “I thought you meant my saying that Celia Ambrose seems to be in the clear.”

“Why shouldn’t she be? My God, do you think she shot her husband… with a quart of vodka inside her?”

“Doesn’t seem reasonable,” Shayne agreed amiably. “I’ve got a luncheon date.”

He strode out of the Chief of Detectives’ office, and went down a corridor to a side exit leading out to the parking area and his car.

The Doubloon Restaurant was on the ocean front, halfway north toward 79th Street.

Shayne turned his car over to a parking attendant and went into the dimly-lighted interior. It was just 12:20 when he entered. He stopped and peered around at the half-dozen waiting people in the small foyer without seeing Lucy, and went on to the entrance to the dining room where the headwaiter greeted him:

“Mr. Shayne! You are lunching alone?”

Shayne said, “No. My secretary is meeting me. You know Miss Hamilton?”

“But, yes. She is… I think not come yet.”

Shayne said, “Good. I can use a drink or two. I’ll be at the bar.”

He turned to the left to a small bar, where he found an empty stool and sat down. He ordered a sidecar and lit a cigarette, and wondered what was keeping Lucy Hamilton so long.

Shayne had his second sidecar in front of him when he felt a light tap on his shoulder and turned his head to look into Lucy Hamilton’s dancing brown eyes.

He regarded her sourly and demanded, “All right. What should a detective look like?”

“They’re mostly flat-footed, fat slobs. Which you aren’t.” Lucy linked her arm in his. “They’ve got a table for us.”

Shayne slid off the bar-stool and nodded to the bartender. “I’ll finish my drink at the table.” He went into the dining room with his secretary, and when they were seated, she confided to him, “Mrs. Ambrose doesn’t like you, Michael. I think she suspects you’re in league with the gamblers who she is convinced killed her husband. On the other hand… that big bitch of a nurse. Oh, my!” Lucy widened her eyes laughingly. “She thinks you’re pretty much of a guy. Darned if she doesn’t practically blush every time your name is mentioned. How did you get so well acquainted with her so fast, Michael?”

He shrugged and said blandly, “We rolled on the floor together last night. There’s nothing like a fast roll on the floor to induce lasting friendship.”

A waiter set his drink in front of him, and Lucy wrinkled her nose. “For a man who was headed straight for bed last evening, you appear to have had a pretty full night. Can I have a sidecar, too?”

He said, “Sure,” and nodded to the waiter and waved aside the menus offered them. “We’ll order when you bring her drink. What did you manage to find out, Lucy?”

“Not much. Nothing important, I’m afraid. The Ambroses led a quiet, orderly, and seemingly circumspect life. He was very well regarded professionally, and had a thriving practice. They didn’t go out a great deal, and almost never entertained at home. Celia was regarded as something of a recluse, and didn’t encourage neighborhood friendships.”

“A lush?” demanded Shayne.

“Possibly. I guess I should make that probably. There was some reluctance to discuss her personal habits in the light of what happened last night, but I got several hints that she was in the habit of hitting the bottle at home alone. But she didn’t bother anybody or do it in public, and her neighbors are inclined to be charitable.”

“No financial difficulties?”

“That…” Lucy hesitated as the waiter set a sidecar in front of her. Shayne told him, “We’d both like the stuffed French pancakes… flambe. Make it a la carte, with coffee later.” He raised ragged, red eyebrows at Lucy. “You were about to say?”

“It is the neighborhood consensus that they lived quite frugally… considering the doctor’s estimated income. This could be due to his over-fondness for the bookies and the bangtails.”

“Lucy Hamilton! The slang you do pick up.”

“All in the day’s work as a representative of the Women’s Civic Betterment Association.” She wrinkled her nice nose at him over her cocktail glass. “I think I pulled that off pretty damn well.”

“That’s something I want to take up with you. Why the devil did you come barging in at the Ambrose house when you must have seen my car parked outside? You could have waited until I left.”