Brett Halliday - The Private Practice of Michael Shayne

“Sure-I’ll be glad to, Mr. Shayne.”

“You’re a resident in Miami-or here on the beach?” Shayne inquired.

“Lived here for fifteen years,” the man exuded. “If you want to know about me just ask-”

“That’s fine,” Shayne interrupted. He named a lawyer on the beach and said, “If you’ll drop by his office and tell him I sent you and what I want, he’ll fix up an affidavit for you to sign. Just leave it with him.”

“Sure. I’ll go back to the car and write down the name,” the man promised.

“I think I’ll stick around awhile,” Shayne said. He smiled. “I might find some other interesting clues.”

The man hesitated, his eyes involuntarily going to the palmettos in a searching gaze, came back to Shayne with a pensive, wishful expression.

“Okay. My name’s James Hilliard. I’m in the telephone directory if you need me.”

He held out his hand to Shayne, then picked his way carefully back to his car and his wife.

Shayne waited until they had gone on down to the water, then walked back to the spot where Grange’s car had been parked. He examined the ground between that spot and the edge of the sand dune overlooking the beach.

The loose sand had been badly trampled, and it was poor stuff to hold footprints, anyway.

He went on to the edge of the steep bank and looked over at a spot where someone had slid down hurriedly, nodded without surprise at a row of high-heeled footprints leading across the firm sand and down beach, disappearing at a point where the high tide had come in during the night to wash them away.

Shayne struck a purposeful stride going back to his car. He drove back to the mainland on Seventy-ninth and made his way to a modest stucco bungalow on Forty-sixth Street.

A boy of three was playing on the lawn when Shayne got out and started up the walk. His big blue eyes widened when he saw the detective. He ran to meet him with outstretched hands.

Shayne stopped to toss him in the air, and the child gurgled with glee, circling Shayne’s neck with moist chubby arms and yelling, “What’d you bring me, Uncle Mike? What’d you bring me?”

“Just myself-and a nickel for a soda-pop. How’s that?” He set the lad down and produced a nickel from his pocket and put it in the child’s dirty hand. “Is your daddy home?”

“No. But mommie’s here. Daddy’s gone-gone away.” He caught Shayne’s hand to go with him into the house.

“You run along and play,” Shayne told him. “I want to talk to your mother.”

He gave the child a pat and a gentle shove into the unkempt lawn.

At the door Shayne knocked, then opened the screen and stepped inside, calling, “Helen?”

It was hot and sticky inside the littered living-room. Here was every evidence of not only poverty, but of a woman’s impoverished spirit. Shayne glanced around the room with hard, unsympathetic eyes. He called Helen again, louder.

Helen Kincaid appeared in the stucco archway leading into the dining-room. She wore a gingham dress and a rumpled apron. Her eyes were black and enormous in a pale, perspiring face, and she patted stringy locks of moist dark hair back into place with a hand reddened from recent immersion in hot water.

She said, “It’s you, Michael,” in a tired, flat monotone. Shayne nodded.

“Have you heard from Larry yet?”

“No. Nothing since the telegram I told you about this morning.” She came close to him with fright showing in her eyes. “Is anything wrong, Michael?”

Shayne’s big hands caught her elbows roughly and he looked down into her eyes.

“What makes you ask that?”

“Because-he acted so strangely last night. He-oh, why did you quarrel with him!”

Shayne’s hands dropped to his side. He turned back into the living-room and slumped into a chair upholstered in faded needlepoint.

“Tell me how he acted. I want to know everything he did and said last evening.”

Helen Kincaid sat in a low rocker in front of Shayne, but she didn’t look at him. Her profile was sharp, and her whole expression was one of dissatisfaction, almost of shrewishness. She looked to be a few years older than her husband, and gave the impression that she had long ago given up trying to retain her youthful loveliness.

“He came in raving about you,” she told him listlessly. “Said you had let him down-turned against him. He was furious when I reminded him of all the things you’d done for us. He had some big deal on that he was awfully secretive about. He called somebody and made an appointment for eleven o’clock, then stamped out about nine o’clock saying he was going to give you one last chance to prove your friendship.”

“And you haven’t seen him since?”

“No. The telephone woke me up this morning. A telegram from Larry in Jacksonville.”

She stared past Shayne vacuously for a moment, a picture of dejection and hopelessness. Then she turned listless eyes upon him and asked, “What’s wrong, Michael? Why did you quarrel with Larry?”

“Didn’t he tell you?”

Helen Kincaid’s expression took on a spark of interest at the harsh tone of Shayne’s voice. She studied him with a puzzled frown, said, “No. He didn’t tell me anything. He never does-any more.”

“Didn’t he accuse you of being in love with me?”

She was startled. Panic showed in her big dark eyes. Sharp teeth caught her underlip tightly.

“He-he said something silly like that.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I told him it was too late for that,” she cried with sudden passion. “I told him I might have married you long ago, but I made a mistake and chose him instead.”

“For which,” said Shayne fervently, “I thank God.” Tears welled into her eyes and ran down her pale cheeks. She started to speak, but Shayne said harshly, “Don’t waste your cheap tears on me. I’m not interested. I admit I was taken in by your pretty face five years ago-just as you took Larry in. You’re no damned good, Helen. Any girl who lets circumstances rob her of her pride and ambition at twenty-six was no good to start with. You’ve nagged at Larry about money until he’s reached the state he’s in today. Whatever happened to him, you’ll be to blame. And stop your darned sniveling.”

“Wh-a-at,” she sobbed, “has happened?”

“I don’t know.”

Shayne lit a cigarette, got up and paced around the room, his features twisted into a frown of furious concentration.

Helen’s sobbing gradually subsided and she dabbed at her face with a corner of her apron.

“You-hate me, don’t you?” she faltered.

“No. I don’t waste energy hating people. I just can’t be bothered. You’ve let selfishness make you despicable. A whore walking the streets has more honor than you. At least, they give value received. You demand everything and give nothing. Look at you-look at this room.”

He stopped in midstride and pointed a long finger at her.

“You slop around the house like a gin-soaked hag. Larry was a good clean kid with ideals when you married him. You’ve driven him to-to be something else with your eternal complaining. I’ve watched it happen. And now-it’s too late.”

“What do you mean?” Helen sprang to her feet, stood tense before him. “What has happened to Larry?” Her voice was clear, commanding.

“What do you care? He carries insurance.”

Color flamed in her cheeks. Her breath came in convulsive gasps, then she slapped him hard on the cheek. “That’s a lie,” she raged. “I do care.”

“You’ve got a hell of a way of showing it.”

Shayne observed her with calculating eyes. With her cheeks aflame and her eyes bright with anger she was almost beautiful again. The muscles at the corners of his mouth twitched and he took a deep drag on his cigarette to keep from smiling.