Brett Halliday - The Private Practice of Michael Shayne

Returning to the center of the room, he stood for a moment in deep thought, then went to the telephone and called one of the daily newspapers. He asked for the sports editor, and after a brief wait, asked, “Do you know anything about a horse named Banjo Boy that came in at Hialeah a few days ago?”

“Banjo Boy? Sure thing. That’s the nag they’re making such a stink about. Who’s speaking?”

“Michael Shayne. Who’s the owner of the horse?”

“From the Masiot stables. Elliot Thomas is the owner. The racing commission is conducting an investigation into the race.”

“What are they investigating?”

“They want to know why Banjo Boy limped in a poor last every start this year until last Friday when he went in at twenty to one and showed his heels to the pack.”

“Is that all they’ve got to go on?”

“No. They wouldn’t have suspected anything if he hadn’t been backed so heavily. By post time, the odds were pounded down to eight to one by money mostly telegraphed in from out-of-town bookies who were protecting themselves. Money is laid at the track in cases like that in a ratio of about three to one. Which means that plenty of grands of wise money knew Banjo Boy was due to click in that particular race.”

Shayne said, “I see.” Then he asked what the commission had found out with their investigation.

“It looks bad for the trainer, Jake Kilgore. He caught a Pan-Am plane for South America the evening after the race was won. Some think Thomas was maybe in on it and laid his sugar on the line with bookies around the country to keep the odds up, but not many people take that seriously. He’s got a good rep with his stable.”

Shayne started to hang up, then paused to ask one more question, “Do you happen to know whether John Marco spends much through the mutuels?”

“He used to practically keep them oiled,” was the chuckled response. “I think he got tired of losing, a couple of years ago, and decided to get on the receiving end of a roulette wheel. I haven’t heard of him plunging any on the races lately.”

Shayne said, “Thanks a lot,” and hung up. He went back and poured himself a drink, then looked up a telephone number and called it.

After a long time a voice answered, and he said, “This is Michael Shayne speaking. I want to speak to Mr. Thomas.”

“I don’t think Mr. Thomas will wish to be disturbed,” the voice said.

“I don’t care what you think,” Shayne said curtly. “Thomas will talk to me. Tell him it’s Shayne.”

“Very well, sir.”

Shayne waited a long time. At last Thomas’s irritable voice came over the wire.

“Mr. Shayne? What the deuce-?”

Shayne cut him off with a growl. “Yesterday evening you were mighty anxious to get hold of something in Harry Grange’s possession. Do you still want it?”

“Why-of course, but-”

“Then get over to my apartment in a hurry. I don’t know how long I can stay out of jail.” Shayne gave his address, and when Thomas seemed disposed to discuss the matter further, cut him off short-“I’ll expect you within the hour,” and pressed the prongs down.

Releasing them after a moment, he called the Kincaid residence, and when Helen answered, said, “I’m sorry to be so late-but we’re ready to go. Can you get here in half an hour-dressed in your snappiest outfit?”

“Yes-but-”

“No buts. Grab a taxi and get here as quick as you can.” He hung up again. A feverish glitter was in his eyes. Going back to the table, he finished his drink and poured another. Sipping it, he checked over his plans with dissatisfaction, realizing that success depended on a dozen maybes-and he didn’t like that way of doing things.

But he had to work fast, because Painter already had Marco’s automatic.

And there was Larry Kincaid to think about. Where the devil was Larry?

He sank into a brown study, wondering where in hell the whole thing would lead.

Shayne was in the bathroom, gingerly removing some of the unnecessary bandages from his face and cursing in a loud voice, when Helen Kincaid knocked on his door. He hurried out to admit her.

He could not restrain a grunt of admiring astonishment when he saw the transformation she had effected in a few hours. An upsweep hair-do added inches to her height and took years from her age. A light coral evening wrap of sheer velvet fell gracefully from her shoulders and a shirred collar of the material stood up regally, framing her dark hair and face. Her black lace evening gown accentuated curves where he hadn’t expected them after seeing her in the loose gingham house dress. A white gardenia was modestly nestled in the vee between her breasts.

The greatest and truest transformation was in her features. Her normally large eyes were lighted with a luminous glow tonight that made them appear enormous. There was poise and determination in her carriage, and a flush far back on her thin cheeks lent them a soft roundness wholly unexpected by the detective.

Before he could speak, Helen Kincaid stepped close to him and asked, “Will I do?”

A slow grin spread over his face as he took in every detail offered for his inspection.

“In a great big way, if I’m not badly mistaken in my man. You look-Good God, Helen! you look so thoroughly seducible I’m almost tempted-”

Helen looked up into his face gravely, shaking her head.

“That’s not why you had me come.”

“No,” Shayne admitted, “and I’ll have to work hard at keeping that in mind.”

She moved past him into the room, whirled about suddenly to face him.

“I did a lot of thinking after you left, Michael. You said some harsh things but I sat down with myself and came to the conclusion that I deserved them all. You hinted that Larry is in some dreadful danger. I can see, now, how I may be to blame. I-give me a chance to make amends for what I’ve done to our marriage.” Her voice throbbed with a deep note of sincerity.

Shayne’s eyes held hers steadily.

“I think you’ll have your chance tonight. There’s not much time to explain things. I didn’t feel like confiding in you this afternoon, but-I do tonight. The point is this, Helen: It looks as though Larry killed a man last night. Harry Grange. He came here and got my pistol and shot Grange with it, and left it there to frame me for the murder.”

He caught her arm in a hurting grip as she swayed back from him in horror. Leading her toward the table, he went on swiftly, “Grange deserved killing. Keep that in mind. And Larry had the motive for wanting to frame me. But the law won’t take those things into consideration, so you and I have to.”

She moaned softly, and he hastened on.

“At the moment, I’ve messed things up pretty badly by switching evidence. I want to keep Larry, and, incidentally, myself, in the clear. I think I can swing it if Larry doesn’t get an attack of conscience and pop up and ruin things by coming back and confessing. The one man who may know Larry’s whereabouts is due here any minute. I want you to take him like Grant took Richmond.”

He settled her in a chair and poured out a drink of cognac. He held the glass up to the light and observed the clear sparkle of it. “I had thought of having you go after him like a drunken hussy, but after seeing you, I think you can make the conquest better by being girlish and naive. You look the part.”

“I–I don’t think I understand, Michael,” she faltered.

“This afternoon you said you’d do anything I suggested to help Larry. Here’s your chance to prove it, and maybe find out where he is. The man who is coming is Elliot Thomas, a millionaire lecher with an eye for feminine beauty. You’ve got what it takes to catch his eye. I want you to be in my bedroom when he arrives. After he’s been here for a while, you come out and demand to know what’s keeping me so long. Pull the young-and-don’t-know-what-it’s-all-about stuff. I’ve lured you here to my apartment and neglected you. Come out and say so when I give the signal, which will be the slamming of the bathroom door.”