Brett Halliday - Michael Shaynes' 50th case

He hurried on ahead of her and escaped through the open front door while a flow of conversation continued unabated behind him.

My God, he thought, my God! Out of the mouths of babes. It was, he realized, the merest chance that had led Sissy to mention the presence of Harry Wilsson at the house last evening. It meant absolutely nothing to the child. It had no importance whatsoever in her mind. It was like that classic story about the Invisible Man who committed the murder. The postman on his rounds. Although he had been seen by a dozen witnesses, not one of them knew they had seen him. He was just part of the landscape.

Like Uncle Harry in Sissy’s mind. He was always around, wasn’t he? Often in the evenings when she was sent to bed while the foursome had drinks and played bridge in the living room.

There was no difference in the mind of a six-year-old between his being there last night alone with her mother and the other times when the four of them were there together. He was certain she hadn’t mentioned it to Minerva this morning, and it was a lead pipe cinch that Harry hadn’t reported to his wife that he had dropped in on Ellie Blake in her husband’s absence the preceding evening to have a drink with her.

Innocent enough, probably. But, if it were all that innocent, why hadn’t Harry spoken right up this morning as soon as he learned what happened to Ellie in the night?

He evidently did not realize that Sissy had seen him from the top of the stairs. The way she told it so innocently, she had been tucked away in her own bed by her mother before Harry arrived, and neither one of them had been aware that she had gotten up and peeked down at them. This morning, Harry Wilsson must feel that his secret was perfectly safe, whether the visit had been entirely innocent or not. Either way he’d see no reason to come forward and offer gratuitous information and get himself involved in a murder investigation. That didn’t mean the man was guilty of anything… even of an innocent flirtation with his best friend’s well-stacked wife.

Rourke looked at his watch as he drove away from the Wilsson house and noted that almost an hour had elapsed since he had telephoned the redheaded private detective in Miami. It was still too early to buy a drink, so Rourke drove directly to the motel where he still had a key to the room he had occupied the night before.

His bag was still there and the room had not been made up. Rourke sat on the edge of the rumpled bed and gave the switchboard operator Shayne’s office number in Miami and told her to charge the call to his room, remarking that he would be staying over at least another day.

Lucy Hamilton’s lilting voice came over the wire first from Miami, and when Rourke said, “Good morning, doll,” she said, “Michael just came back, Tim. I’ll put him on.” There was a click and a moment of silence, and then Shayne’s voice:

“Pretty much of a wild goose chase, Tim. I talked to some of the delegates at the hotel, and several of them know Marvin Blake personally, but they were all nursing hangovers and didn’t remember too much about last night. It was one of those free-for-alls, I gather, small-town boys having a wild night out in the big city. A pornographic movie and liquor flowing all over the place. Your man did check out yesterday. Just before four o’clock, without telling anyone or giving any explanation it appears. Paid his hotel bill in cash and just walked out. I did find the bellboy who brought his bag down. He remembered it because it was funny for a delegate to be checking out before the convention was over, and by chance he happened to notice that Blake ducked into a rather expensive gift shop next door and made a purchase. I checked that out as best I could with a rather vague description of Blake, and I believe he bought a twenty-eight-dollar pair of earrings which he had gift wrapped. Nobody remembers seeing him around the hotel after that, but that doesn’t mean he mayn’t have been there for the high-jinks.”

Shayne paused and Timothy Rourke took a moment to digest this information, and Shayne asked, “Does that help any?”

“I don’t know how it fits in, Mike. Look, I’m getting in over my depth up here. Are you tied up on anything important?”

“Nothing I can’t walk away from for a couple of days.”

“Then you’re retained by the News, Mike. Jump in your car and get up here, huh? I’ll be at the Sunray Beach Motel or leave a message. It’s about a three-hour drive. If you leave right away you should be here in plenty of time to join me as a welcoming party for Marvin Blake if he does arrive on that afternoon train he’s expected on.”

Michael Shayne was not one to waste time with unnecessary questions. He said, “I’ll see you, Tim,” and hung up.

Rourke broke the connection and got the motel switchboard again. This time he made it a person-to-person call to his City Editor at the News. When he got through, he said swiftly, “Tim Rourke in Sunray Beach, Cal. I ran into a real juicy murder here, and stayed over.”

“Sunray Beach? Woman named Ellie Blake strangled in her bed while her husband attends convention in Miami? We got a first lead over the wire.”

“Right. Nude body and all. Discovered by her six-year-old daughter early this morning. No clues. Here’s your headline, Cal. News offers thousand-dollar reward in Blake murder and retains famed Miami sleuth to assist local police in solving case. You can fill in the rest.”

“Wait… a… little… minute. Is it really that good?”

“I got a feeling in my bones, Cal. I just talked to Mike Shayne and he’s already on his way up. Play it my way, huh? Chances are Mike and I’ll solve it and save you the reward. But get moving fast to hit the late edition.”

“If you say so, Tim. I’ll have to get an okay…”

“Make up your headline first,” Rourke advised him blithely, “and then get your front office okay. I’ll be back to you later on this afternoon.”

He hung up and looked at his watch again. It was not yet noon. Still too early to buy a drink in Sunray Beach. He opened the telephone directory and looked up the address of Doctor Higgens.

The doctor’s office was one of several ground-floor suites arranged around three sides of pleasant, palm-bordered courtyard with colorful flowerbeds and a fountain in the center of it. It was entered from the street through an archway bearing the inscription, Sunray Medical Center, with plaques on either side giving the names of the doctors and dentists who were conveniently grouped inside.

Timothy Rourke found a sign indicating Doctor Higgens’ office on the second door from the archway on the right. He entered a pleasant waiting room with comfortable chairs and smoking stands ranged against two walls and a desk at the far end with a pert young lady in nurse’s uniform sitting behind it. She was the only occupant of the waiting room, and she looked up with a bright smile as the reporter advanced to the front of her desk.

“Doctor’s office hours are from one to four,” she told him, studying his face with frank curiosity.

Rourke said, “I don’t want to see him professionally. That is, I haven’t got anything the matter with me.”

She said, “Oh?” as though she doubted that statement, and waited for him to go on.

Rourke smiled his nicest smile and eased his left hip down onto a corner of the wide, bare desk in front of the girl. “I’m a reporter on the Miami News,” he confided to her, “and I’d like to get some information from the doctor about the woman who was murdered last night. Was she a regular patient of his?”

“Oh, yes. Wasn’t that an awful thing to happen? She was in just a couple of weeks ago with her little girl. She’s a real, living doll… Sissy, I mean,” she added in some confusion. “When I think about her… finding her mother like that this morning, it makes me want to cry.”