Brett Halliday - The Private Practice of Michael Shayne

“Well, yes, I do have a little boat.”

“I bet it’s more than that. I’d be thrilled to death to see it.” She sprang up and caught his pudgy hand.

He came to his feet wavering a trifle and Shayne noted that the cognac bottle was practically empty.

They went out together, tossing gay goodnights back over their shoulders, and Shayne morosely watched the door close behind them. Then he dropped into a chair, mopped sweat from his forehead, and said, “Thank God that’s over with. You almost ruined everything, Angel.”

“I thought everything was ruined when I saw that woman come out of your bedroom.”

Phyllis’s voice was shaky and she didn’t look at him. Shayne sighed deeply and touched several spots on his bandaged face to test the soreness. Phyllis moved closer to his chair and he caught one of her hands.

“It’s been a tough afternoon and evening. One of these days I’m going to quit this business and buy a log cabin on top of a mountain in Colorado and watch the rest of the world go by.”

Phyllis sat on the arm of his chair. Her fingers ruffled through his coarse hair. “It’s been-a good evening.”

Without looking at her, he growled, “It would have to happen at a time when my never-beautiful mug is so battered up no woman but a trained nurse could look at me without flinching.”

Phyllis’s hand crept from his hair to his chin and lifted it so that he looked up into her face. Her eyes were wide and misty and adoring. She smiled confidently and Shayne knew he would never again make the mistake of thinking her too young to know her own mind. She leaned down and kissed him, then snuggled happily against his shoulder.

“Tell me all about your case and about-tonight,” she ordered, “and you’d better make it a convincing story or I’ll scratch the rest of the skin off your face.”

The next morning Shayne called Helen Kincaid while he waited for coffee water to boil.

She answered breathlessly, “If you hadn’t called, I was going to call you. I couldn’t stand waiting any longer.”

“How’d you make out last night?”

“It was awful,” she groaned. “I’ve been in and out of the tub ever since I got home-trying to get to feeling clean again.”

“I’m not interested in your psychic reaction,” Shayne told her. “What did you find out?”

“Nothing.”

“What?”

“That is-he knows something about Larry. He seems sure he won’t be back.”

“I’m betting Thomas financed his trip. Tell me about it. Did you go on the yacht without any of the crew seeing your face?”

“I think so. We went direct to his private cabin and had champagne. I pretended to have met Larry through you-and that I had been stepping out with him on the sly. I told him Larry had stood me up on a date tonight, and he advised me to forget Larry. Said he had left town and wouldn’t be back-intimating that he would be glad to take Larry’s place in my affections.”

“He didn’t suspect who you really were?”

“I’m sure he didn’t. I told him just to call me Helen and let it go at that. He-He was horrible, Michael, he was-”

“Save your confessions for the priest or write it up for ‘True Story,’” Shayne growled. “I know it was a tough spot to put you in, but it was necessary. Did you get away without being seen?”

“I don’t think the lookout saw me. Elliot drank too much of his own champagne and passed out about three-thirty. I slipped out and down the gangplank and found a cruising taxi to bring me home.”

“Good girl! Keep a stiff upper lip.”

“Did Larry-do you think he-?”

Soberly, Shayne said, “I’m afraid so, Helen. I’m trying to ball the case up so the police won’t know who to arrest.” He paused thoughtfully, then asked, “Did you have Western Union send out a copy of that telegram you received from Larry?”

“No. They phoned it out and I didn’t ask for a copy.”

“Call them right away and demand a copy of it. They’ll probably try to tell you it’s too late and they can’t do it-but make them. Raise a lot of hell. Complain to the manager. If necessary, tell them you asked for a copy yesterday morning and it’s their fault you haven’t received it.”

He hung up and went into the kitchen to pour boiling water into the dripolator. Coming back into the living-room he glanced at the clock and saw it was nine-thirty.

A worried frown creased his forehead. At the phone again, he called the office of the Miami chief of detectives. When Will Gentry answered, he said, “Will, I want you to do me a favor.”

There was some hesitancy in Gentry’s reply. “I don’t know, Mike. What is it?”

“Has Painter arrested John Marco for the Grange killing yet?”

“No. He’s-”

“All I want,” Shayne said hastily, “is to get him to leave Marco alone until after ten o’clock. Marco has some business over here at the bank that I’d like to have him transact first. Couldn’t you get in touch with Painter and talk him into holding off on the pinch for another hour?”

“Why, yes. I can do that all right. As a matter of fact, Painter is right here in my office with me. He wants to have another talk with you before doing anything.”

“Fine. I’m just about to eat breakfast. But I can come down any time.”

“Don’t bother. Go ahead with your breakfast. We’ll drop in on you in about fifteen minutes.”

Shayne said he’d have a welcome sign out, and hung up. He had detected an odd note of puzzlement in Gentry’s voice, a tone of perplexed chiding.

Shayne set the front door ajar and brought coffeepot and a cup into the living-room. He was working on his third cup when Gentry and Peter Painter appeared in the doorway.

Shayne waved to them genially without getting up. “Coffee-or something stronger, gentlemen?”

“Neither.”

In the lead, Will Gentry’s face didn’t wear its usual jovial expression. He scowled and avoided Shayne’s eyes.

Painter was his usual dapper, stern self, with perhaps an added touch of complacency clinging to him this morning.

The welcoming grin went off of Shayne’s face as he looked from one to the other.

“I have an uneasy feeling that you bear ill tidings. Marco hasn’t inconveniently committed suicide, has he?”

Painter shook his head slightly, and Gentry dropped his heavy, solid body into a chair and said resentfully, “I’ve played ball with you lots of times, Mike. I’ve trusted you when God knows I didn’t have any reason to.”

Shayne set his cup down. “You haven’t ever regretted it, have you, Will?”

“No,” Gentry rumbled. “That’s the hell of it, Mike. I didn’t think you’d let me down.”

“Have I?” Shayne’s eyes were alert, questioning.

“That’s what it looks like. And what gets my goat is the damned stupidity of it. Any time you pull a fast one I expect it to be good. This stunt couldn’t get by, Mike. You, of all men, should have known better.”

“I don’t get it. I’m no good at riddles or beating around the mulberry bush. What are you talking about?”

Gentry waved a big hand toward Painter. “You tell him. It’s your party.”

Peter Painter took a folded document from his breast pocket. “Just to be sure that everything’s in order, Shayne, here is a search warrant authorizing me to search your apartment for the gun that killed Harry Grange.”

He extended the paper toward the detective.

Shayne blinked at him in utter consternation, his thoughts swiftly going over his action in exchanging barrels in the two pistols. He was certain the barrels had no identifying marks. How in hell could they have found out about the exchange? He bluffed it out by growling, “You don’t need to get so technical. I gave you that pistol last night of my own volition.”