Brett Halliday - Pay-Off in Blood

“It all sounds logical, doesn’t it?”

“Sure,” agreed Shayne morosely. “On the other hand, Dr. Ambrose sounded pretty damned logical last night himself. How do I know your story is any straighter than his was?”

“You don’t,” she agreed promptly. “But, if you find Fritz Harlan, I don’t think you’ll have to look any further for your murderer.”

“If we do find him and arrest him, isn’t he likely to tell the whole story of your being blackmailed on Cecil’s account? It’s pretty difficult, Mrs. Montgomery, to keep all one’s dirty linen from being washed in public when there’s a homicide investigation involved. I wouldn’t want you to think I’m promising anything that I can’t deliver.”

“I think I’m going to trust you, Michael Shayne,” she told him abruptly. “Frankly, I don’t know what else to do under the circumstances. I want you to understand one thing, however: I would and will be perfectly happy if Dr. Ambrose’s murderer goes scot-free. I have a feeling that a lot of people were relieved and happy to hear about his death last night.”

“You think he was blackmailing others at the same time he was collecting money from you?” Shayne asked her bluntly.

“I have only my intuition to go on, but I do believe that… yes. From certain small hints he let drop… I think he made a practice of it over the years.” She paused, collecting her thoughts. “From my own experience, I suggest that women patients of a doctor are likely to confide very intimate details of their personal life to him. In nine cases out of ten, probably, there would be nothing in such confidential revelations that would provide material for blackmail. But in each tenth case…”

She paused, looking at the detective shrewdly. “And think what a wonderful position a doctor is in to collect a certain sum each month from his victims. Most of them are married, with husbands, who pay the monthly bills. They can’t ask for extra money from their husbands to pay blackmail each month, but it is easy for them to agree to have a small extra amount tacked onto their medical bill each month. What husband questions his wife closely as to how many visits she paid the doctor that month? Considering the temptation,” she ended, “it is probably to the credit of doctors that more of them don’t turn into blackmailers.”

Shayne grinned at this rather novel idea. “Perhaps they do.” He paused, collecting his thoughts again. “Was your son a gambler, Mrs. Montgomery?”

“Cecil? No. Why do you ask that?”

“Are you quite positive?” persisted Shayne.

“Yes. That is… I know where his money went. I gave him a definite allowance and required him to account for every expenditure that he made.”

“What about his friend, Fritz Harlan? Was he connected with the gambling crowd?”

“I really don’t know. I should think not because my son did not associate with that type of person.”

Shayne nodded and got to his feet thoughtfully. “I appreciate all the information you’ve given me, Mrs. Montgomery. If anything else important comes to your mind, please call my office.”

She said austerely, “You’re perfectly welcome, I’m sure. May I say: good hunting, Mr. Shayne.”

He said, “Thanks,” and went out of the room to find the maid waiting in the hall to escort him to the front door.

Shayne drove directly to Police Headquarters. Sergeant Fillmore shook his head when the rangy detective strode into the I. D. office. “I haven’t come up with anything on those three, Mike. Either they’ve been careful to stay out of trouble, or else they haven’t been operating long enough in Miami to pile up a record I can put my finger on.”

Shayne said, “Drop them, Sergeant. I think I’ve got an angle for contacting them personally. But I’ve got a full name for you to make another check. Harlan. Fritz Harlan. Strike any chord with that phenomenal memory of yours?”

“Maybe it ain’t so phenomenal, Mike.” Sgt. Fillmore shook his grizzled head sadly. “Fritz Harlan? Extortion, too?”

“I doubt it. If he’s got a record, I’d look under homos.”

“Fritz Harlan,” the sergeant repeated thoughtfully, walking to the rear of the square room that was lined with filing cases.

Shayne leaned one elbow on the counter and lit a cigarette while Fillmore slid a drawer from a filing cabinet and began thumbing through the alphabetically arranged folders.

He came back whistling cheerfully and carrying a thin cardboard folder. “Here he is. Nothing vicious about the guy, Mike. Mostly, ‘Consorting with Known.’ Pulled in half a dozen times during the past six years.”

“Got a current address for him?”

“Sure.” Fillmore turned to the final, typewritten entry in the folder. “He’s on probation.”

“Who’s handling it?”

“Lincoln. You know him, don’t you?”

“Sure. Everybody knows Honest Abe.” Shayne hesitated, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “Anything in your files on Montgomery? Cecil?”

“I’ll check.” Again the sergeant went back to his filing cases, but this time with no result. He came back, shaking his head.

Shayne nodded without surprise. “His mama has got enough money to cover up for him. Will Abe be around this time of day?”

“Probably up in the Probation Department. Else they can put you onto him.”

Shayne thanked Fillmore and went out of his office. Upstairs he found Abraham Jones Lincoln at his desk. He was a roly-poly man with twinkling, brown eyes, and he greeted the redhead cheerfully, “What’s with you this morning, Shamus?”

“I’d like to get a line on one of your boys… Fritz Harlan.”

“Not one of my boys… not really and truly, I mean.” Lincoln made his voice high-pitched and girlish.

Shayne grinned and asked, “Can you put your finger on him?”

“Sure. He’s clerking in a downtown store. What’s the squeal, Mike? Has Fritzie got frisky again?”

“I don’t know for sure. What does he look like, Abe?”

The Probation Officer used much the same words to describe Fritz Harlan that George Bayliss had used early that morning.

Shayne nodded. “That’s him. I think you’d better handle it, Abe. There’s a chance that he may have been mixed up in murder last night. The Ambrose kill on the Beach.”

“I don’t believe it,” Lincoln said promptly. “He shudders at the sight of a gun.”

“But maybe he wouldn’t shudder at the thought of fingering a guy for twenty grand,” Shayne suggested cynically.

“Maybe not. Give me the pitch.”

Shayne gave him the salient facts as he knew them. “All we’ve got against him,” he ended, “is the fact that he failed to meet Montgomery and turn over the picture.”

“Knowing Fritz as well as I do, I’d guess he just got the piss scared out of him when he found out the thing had ended in murder. Remember, he’s on probation. My boys make a habit of keeping their noses clean.”

“I hope he did. But check it out, Abe. Right away, huh?”

“Sure. Reach you at your office?”

Shayne stood indecisively, a fierce light beginning to burn in the depths of his gray eyes. “I’ve got another piece of business to settle first. But call my office anyhow, Abe, and leave word with Lucy. I’ll be calling her.” He went out with long strides, all trace of indecisiveness vanished, his heels hitting the floor solidly and hard.

His first stop was at a small and dingy bar on Northeast 12th Street. The television set was on in the rear, and half a dozen beer drinkers were at that end of the room, watching it languidly. Shayne stood at the front of the bar as far removed from them as possible, and the bartender moved toward him with a grin of recognition on his wizened face. He paused to reach for a cognac bottle and an old-fashioned glass. He said, “Long time no see, Mike,” poured the squat glass half-full of cognac and placed a glass of ice water beside it. “People gettin’ killed all over the place, huh? Keeps you jumpin’.”