Brett Halliday - Pay-Off in Blood

“You claim he refused to tell you who was blackmailing him, Shayne. What was he being blackmailed for? What did he expect to receive in return for his twenty thousand dollars tonight? That might be very important.”

“He refused to tell me that either. Just that he was in a particularly vulnerable position as a doctor, and that the information could ruin him both socially and professionally, if it became public knowledge.”

“Do you know what was being held over him, Rourke?”

“No,” the reporter confessed reluctantly. “He told me just about the same as Mike says he told him. Something that was worth twenty thousand bucks for him to keep quiet. And he wasn’t a wealthy man. Look at his home here. It’s not worth more than twenty-five, and I happen to know it’s mortgaged to the hilt.”

“He told me that, too,” said Shayne quietly. “That he’d taken out a second mortgage on his home to raise the money.”

“Yes, well…” Peter Painter lightly brushed his mustache with the back of his thumbnail again. “Can you prove that you didn’t accompany him to the Seacliff Restaurant, Shayne?”

“Do I have to prove it?” The redhead’s voice was bland.

“You very well may. I don’t take anything you tell me on faith, Shayne. Indeed, I wasn’t aware that you were quite so ethical as you pretend to be.” His voice became thinly sarcastic. “It’s nice to know that you value the trust imposed in you by the State of Florida so highly, though I must say there have been times in the past when I have doubted it.”

Shayne said easily, “You’ve just got a mistrustful nature, Petey. Check with the desk clerk at my hotel,” he went on generously. “He’ll tell you I came in at eight o’clock completely pooped and ready for bed, and that I didn’t leave the hotel until shortly after eleven when Tim Rourke phoned me to meet him here.”

“I’ll check with him, all right,” Painter promised. “Both of you stick around.” He swung about on his heels as one of his homicide squad approached, and moved out of earshot where they had a low-voiced colloquy.

Rourke stepped a couple of feet aside from Shayne at the same moment, and turned his back, hunching his thin shoulders to light a cigarette.

Shayne started toward him, and then held himself back. This was not the time or place for confidences. He had sold Peter Painter on the idea that he hadn’t accompanied Dr. Ambrose to the pay-off, and he wanted to keep him sold. The less Rourke knew about it, the better for all concerned.

Peter Painter moved into the group surrounding the doctor’s body, effectually screening it from Shayne’s view, and, after some further discussion and the issuance of orders by Painter, the group began to disintegrate.

Two white-coated ambulance attendants moved toward the rear of the ambulance carrying the sheet-draped body on a stretcher, while some of the men went back to their parked cars and drove away. Others fanned out on foot in both directions from the doctor’s house, and Shayne, who knew the routine well, knew they would be ringing neighborhood doorbells for the next few hours, arousing neighbors who were not already aroused, taking statements and gathering as much information on the private life of the Ambroses as possible.

Chief Painter came back across the grass carrying a.32 automatic dangling by the trigger-guard from his forefinger. He stopped in front of Rourke and held the weapon up to him and demanded, “Ever see this before?”

The reporter stared at the gun and said, “Hell, I don’t know. All automatics look alike to me. That what killed him?”

“What I mean is,” said Painter silkily, “since you were such buddies with the doctor, did you ever see a gun like this in his possession?”

“We weren’t buddies,” protested Rourke. “The guy saved my life that time I was shot here in your territory. I’ve seen him a few times off and on since then. No reason I’d know whether he owned a gun or not.”

“How about you, Shayne?”

The detective shook his red head. “I met him for the first time this evening. I didn’t frisk him before he went to make the pay-off, but I did ask him and he swore he wasn’t carrying a gun.” He frowned, recalling the neat, tan suit the doctor had worn. “I don’t believe he was,” he added flatly.

Painter said, “H-m-m. This thirty-two was lying on the ground beside him. One shot fired from it. Only blurred fingerprints. He was killed with a thirty-two slug. Powder burns indicate the muzzle was rammed up against his body.” He sighed. “So far, we haven’t found anybody who heard the shot.”

“What about the widow?” asked Shayne. “Was she home?”

“Now, that’s something I want to ask you both. Do you know Mrs. Ambrose?”

Shayne shook his head. “Never met the lady.”

Rourke said, “I met her a couple of times. Haven’t seen her for at least two years.”

“Pretty much of a lush?” demanded Painter.

Rourke hesitated. “I don’t know her well enough to say. She’s one of these, well, sort of professional southern belles, if you know what I mean. Pretty and plump and young-looking, and never forgetting that her family was real southern gentility. In a nice way,” he hurried on. “Nothing overt about it. Just… the way she’d been brought up. She just couldn’t help flirting, but you knew all the time it didn’t mean a damned thing. Doctor Ambrose treated her like a child-bride, and she gobbled it up.” He paused thoughtfully. “I always had a hunch she was the type of southern gal who had been taught by her mother that it was perfectly ladylike to sip a pint of Southern Comfort in the privacy of her own room, but who was shocked to see other, more emancipated females tossing off cocktails in public.”

“A secret drinker.” Painter nodded with satisfaction.

“Wait a minute. Don’t quote me on that. It’s just that I got an impression…”

“It adds up,” said Painter. “She was passed out cold when we got here. Not Southern Comfort, but straight vodka, apparently. With a couple of ounces of Peppermint Extract mixed into the bottle, from an analysis of the dregs from an empty quart bottle in her room.

“The doctor has just got her sobered up enough to do some talking,” Painter went on briskly. “I want you both to come and sit in on it. I’ll do the questioning, but since you both talked to her husband about blackmail, you’ll be better able than I to decide whether she knew what was going on or not.”

He wheeled about precisely on his heels and marched toward the front door of the neat stucco house which showed light from every window.

Timothy Rourke fell into step with Shayne behind him, and muttered nervously, “This isn’t like Petey. Since when did he start asking for any cooperation?”

“He thinks we’re both lying our heads off,” Shayne told him quietly. “Watch it, if you’re holding anything back.”

“I’m not, Mike. I swear I’m not.”

“Then take it easy,” growled Shayne. “And let him do the talking.”

In front of them, Painter opened the front door and marched inside stiffly, leaving the door standing open behind him.

They entered directly into a square living room with subdued gray wall-to-wall carpeting, comfortably though unostentatiously furnished with overstuffed chairs and a long sofa against the far wall. There were innumerable floor lamps with pastel silk shades in various colors, and all of them were lighted. There were also a lot of footstools scattered about, with small, puffy cushions in each chair and cushions bunched on the sofa.

Mrs. Ambrose sat huddled at the far end of the sofa. A couple of feet back from it, regarding her intently, was a tall, thin-faced man whom Shayne recognized as the Assistant Medical Examiner on the Beach. Chief Peter Painter crossed the rug in front of them with sprightly steps and stopped directly in front of her.