Brett Halliday - Pay-Off in Blood

Michael Shayne was sweaty, irritable, and dog-tired when he let himself into his hotel apartment at eight o’clock that evening. It had been a long, frustrating day, and the preceding night had been a long night. He tossed his Panama on a rack near the door as he closed it firmly, and rubbed his hand over a stubble of red beard, letting his broad shoulders slump while he headed for the small kitchen at the rear.

He opened the refrigerator and checked first to be certain there was a cellophane-wrapped package of ground chuck on the top shelf, then took out a tray of ice cubes and carried it to the sink. He had run warm water over the tray and dropped two of them into a tall glass when the telephone rang in his living room.

He filled the tall glass with cold water and carried it in to the square table in the center of the living room and set it down beside the telephone which kept on ringing.

He glared at the instrument with impersonal hatred, and turned aside to a wall liquor cabinet where he got a bottle of cognac and a four-ounce wineglass. The phone was still ringing when he went back to the table and settled himself in a comfortable chair and filled the glass to the brim. He drank about an ounce, slowly, savoring the taste; washed it down with a sip of ice water and lighted a cigarette before lifting the telephone which had, by that time, rung about twenty times.

He said, “Shayne,” and Timothy Rourke’s voice came over the wire aggrievedly, “Why don’t you answer your telephone?”

Shayne said, “Anybody else but you would have given up five minutes ago.”

“Pete told me you had just come in.” Pete was the desk clerk and switchboard operator who had been on the job all the years that the redheaded detective had lived in the hotel. Sometimes Pete took a little too much on himself, but he did know, of course, that Rourke was Shayne’s closest friend.

Shayne said, “All right. I’m in.”

“Going to be there for awhile?”

“All evening,” said Shayne flatly. “All night. I’m going to have three or maybe four more big drinks, and I’m going to broil a pound of hamburger, and then I’m going to bed.”

“Sounds like good, clean fun,” the reporter commented lightly. “And that’s just fine, Mike. I’m sending a guy up to see you.”

Shayne said, “I don’t want to see any guy. I’ve seen too many guys today. Good night.”

He replaced the telephone on its prongs and picked up the glass of cognac lovingly. The second long and lingering swallow tasted better than the first.

The telephone rang again. He quirked a ragged, red eyebrow at it, then sighed and lifted it on the third ring.

“Go away, Tim. Honest to God, I’m pooped.”

“This guy’s in trouble, Mike.”

“Most of your friends are mostly in trouble.”

“I owe him a favor, Mike. He saved my life once.”

“Which was a mistake,” grunted Shayne sourly. “Except for that, I’d be sitting here enjoying my drink in peace.”

“It’s Doctor Ambrose,” said Rourke quietly. “Remember that time I got shot up…?”

Shayne remembered vividly enough. But it had been many years ago and he didn’t remember the doctor or his name or what he looked like.

He sighed and asked, “What sort of trouble?”

“I’d rather he told you, Mike. Just listen to him, huh? You don’t have to interrupt your drinking routine for that.”

Shayne said, “Okay. I’ll listen. But if I’m in bed before he gets here…”

“Not more than twenty minutes. He’s on his way right now.” Timothy Rourke hung up fast before Shayne could change his mind.

Shayne grinned wryly and tugged at his left ear-lobe as he put down the telephone. He settled back comfortably in his chair and took a deep drag on his cigarette and a smaller swallow of cognac than the previous two. It had been nip and tuck with Rourke that time when he got shot on the Beach while Shayne was in New Orleans. He vaguely recalled something about a certain doctor whom Rourke insisted had pulled him through after the others had given him up.

He lifted the telephone and told Pete, “If a Doctor Ambrose asks for me, send him up.”

“You bet, Mr. Shayne. I guess you musta been taking a shower when Mr. Rourke first called, huh?”

Shayne said, “I was taking a drink, Pete. No more calls tonight.” He was working on his second drink and already in a much more agreeable mood when a knock sounded on his door about twenty minutes later.

He heaved his rangy body out of the chair and went to the door and pulled it open. A somewhat short, somewhat plump man stood there. He wore a neatly pressed, light tan suit, and a neat, blue polka-dot bow tie, and neat brown shoes that had recently been polished.

He was about fifty, Shayne thought, with thinning gray hair and harassed brown eyes that blinked at the detective behind horn-rimmed glasses. He also looked worried or frightened as hell.

He said nervously, “Mr. Shayne? Mr. Rourke, ah…”

Shayne stepped aside holding the door open cordially. “Come in, Doctor. Ambrose, isn’t it?”

“Yes. I’m Doctor Ambrose. I’m grateful… it’s good of you to see me, Mr. Shayne. I know you’re a very busy man.”

Shayne said, “Not doing a thing but having a quiet drink. Any friend of Tim’s…”

He closed the door behind the doctor and moved past him toward the table. “What will you have?”

“Nothing for me,” said Doctor Ambrose hastily. “That is… well… perhaps a small glass of sherry if you have it.”

Shayne said, “Sure,” moving to the liquor cabinet. He paused and asked over his shoulder, “Cream or cocktail?”

“What’s that? Oh, no cocktail for me. They’re much too strong. A small glass of sherry…”

Shayne reached a long arm to the top shelf and got down a bottle of Harvey’s Bristol Cream and a tall-stemmed glass. He carried them back to the table and said gently, “Sit down, Doc. Relax. Tim tells me you’re in some sort of trouble.”

The doctor obediently sat down, but he did not relax. He sat bolt upright on the edge of a chair and laced his fingers together nervously. He blinked his eyes and swallowed hard, and then stared downward at the rug. “I don’t… know how to say it, Mr. Shayne.”

Shayne said encouragingly, “You’re a doctor. You have patients who come to you with… well, troubles… some of which they don’t like to talk about. But they have to if you’re going to diagnose the case. Look at this the same way.”

“Yes, of course. I know it’s foolish to hesitate.” Doctor Ambrose sighed deeply and unlaced his fingers to reach for the stem of his wineglass. He took a sip of the sherry and set it down. “I’m being blackmailed, Mr. Shayne.” He spoke the words as though he were confessing the murder of his grandmother.

Shayne said nothing for a moment. His gray eyes were very bright as they studied the worried face of his visitor. Then he said quietly, “Lots of people come to me who are being blackmailed. Just as people come to you with venereal diseases. Some deserve it and some don’t. How bad is it, Doctor?”

Dr. Ambrose looked up at the redhead beseechingly. “It’s very bad, Mr. Shayne. It happened a long time ago, but it would ruin me… absolutely ruin me… if it became public knowledge.”

“Which is what the blackmailer threatens?”

“Yes. He has the proof. I can’t fight it, Mr. Shayne. I have to pay what he demands. Don’t advise me not to be intimidated,” he hurried on a trifle wildly. “Timothy Rourke was full of good advice. It’s easy for Rourke or for you to sit back and say: ‘Don’t pay him a penny, Doctor.’ But it’s my reputation… my medical practice… my entire life that’s at stake. Can you understand that?”