Brett Halliday: Too Friendly, Too Dead

“A lot of funny little things seem to point back to that convention he attended in New York. That was when Linda had her affair with Nourse, and immediately after Jerome’s return, she asked for the divorce. And I found this tucked very carefully back in a drawer of his desk at the office.”

Shayne got the menu with the rosebud and the picture of the young couple out of his pocket and spread them out in front of Rourke. “See the date. His secretary remembered his bringing it back as a sentimental souvenir of his trip. Some young couple, whom he met at the convention and characteristically befriended to the point of being best man at their wedding and blowing them to a wedding dinner in the Village afterward. What do you make of it? Recognize either the bride or groom?”

Rourke had the photograph in his hand studying it carefully. He shook his head. “Not off-hand. I’ve got a sneaking hunch way down deep inside me that I should know who the man is, but I don’t. Why do you figure this is important, Mike?”

“That same sort of sneaking hunch that you’ve got,” Shayne told him. “As I say, several things seem to pinpoint this trip he made to New York. Linda’s affair with Nourse. The Kelly woman’s interest in the date he’d been there. This menu, rosebud and picture carefully put away in his desk.”

He paused and Rourke frowned and said, “None of that seems to tie in together with murder. Isn’t it a pretty far-fetched hunch?”

“It was until Linda told me about the telephone call last night that took Jerome Fitzgilpin out to his death. All she heard him say was Kelly. She doesn’t know whether it was Mr. or Mrs.”

“Goddamn it, Mike. You are holding out.”

“Not really. It’s still nothing that Painter can’t get for himself by simply going to Linda and asking her. Here’s her version of what happened last night.”

Shayne succinctly repeated what Linda had told him about Nourse’s unexpected appearance at the apartment, her husband’s return and their quarrel about the cigar butt, the telephone call he received, and his opportune departure without discovering Nourse… and his leaving on Jerome’s heels.

Rourke listened to the recital with absorbed interest, and when Shayne finished, he breathed out excitedly and said, “So if Nourse did follow him to the Sporting Club and they had a showdown there…”

Shayne said, “There’s nothing to indicate that’s what happened. Don’t forget the phone call that took him out. Kelly. Poisoning indicates premeditation, Tim. You don’t just happen to have a supply of sodium amytal in your pocket handy when you decide to commit murder. Nourse was a gambler. According to Linda, a reckless and violent man. Right now I’m willing to accept her judgement on him.” Shayne sighed and tossed off his drink.

“I hoped this picture or the name of Kelly might trigger off something for you.” He refolded the menu carefully and put it back into his pocket.

“I’m sorry it doesn’t. What’s your angle now?”

“Since Petey is already on Nourse’s trail, let him run that down. I’m going to check back on that convention trip to New York and the wedding angle. If I can come up with the name of Kelly I’ll feel I’m on the right trail.”

Shayne put money on the table and got up. Rourke got up also, asking, “Anything I can do at the moment?”

“Just keep in touch with Painter and let me know fast if anything breaks. I’ll do the same.”

“How about my going around to get an exclusive interview with the widow?” suggested Rourke eagerly.

Shayne shook his head. “She’s dynamite right now… until Painter gets around to her. If she did spill anything to you, you’d have to take it to him before you printed a word of it. No, Tim. Goddamn it, I’m trusting you to be surprised when you hear all this from Painter eventually.”

Back in his own apartment for the first time that day since Lucy Hamilton’s early morning call had taken him away, Shayne shrugged off his jacket and loosened his tie, poured a small drink of cognac and set a glass of ice water beside it on the center table, and settled himself comfortably beside the telephone.

He had to think for a moment to remember the name, but then it came to him. Angelo Fermi, fingerprint expert for the New York police department who eagerly hoped Shayne could help him get a television series on the air.

It was Saturday, but he hoped Fermi would be on duty. He put in a person-to-person telephone call for the New York detective, and sipped his drink and waited a couple of minutes while persons at police headquarters in New York shunted the call around, and finally got Fermi’s voice over the wire.

“Mike Shayne in Miami, Angelo. Did Brett Halliday contact you about your television series while he was in town last year?”

“He did that.” Fermi’s voice sounded enthusiastic “He is a nice fellow. It is difficult to sell the networks a new idea, but I now have an option. Can I help you here?”

“If you’ve got a pipeline into City Hall. I know it’s Saturday, but this may be important.”

“We have pipelines, Saturday or not,” Fermi assured him.

“This should be relatively simple. I want all the dope on a wedding performed on…” He checked the date on the menu to be sure. “… November nineteenth, nineteen sixty-one. I don’t know the names of either bride or groom, but one of the witnesses was a man named Jerome Fitzgilpin. Do you think you can get that for me fast?”

“It shouldn’t be more than fifteen or twenty minutes,” Fermi told him. “Shall I call you back?”

“Please. Collect, of course.” Shayne gave him the number. “Everything from the record on that particular wedding.” He hung up and settled back comfortably to wait for the detective to call him back.

The telephone rang much sooner than he expected it to. He answered it, but instead of Fermi’s voice, it was Lucy Hamilton on the wire.

“Michael.” Her voice sounded worried and strained. “Are you getting anywhere on the Fitzgilpin case?”

“I’m beginning to move. Right now I’m waiting for a phone call from New York which may help. What gives with you?”

“I’m dreadfully worried about Linda. I brought the children home from the park a little while ago and she’s… well, she’s lying on her bed fully-dressed and passed out cold, Michael. She seems all right,” Lucy went on doubtfully. “I guess it’s just liquor because her breath reeks of it, but I never knew her to drink too much before, and I know she does take sleeping pills…” Lucy’s voice trailed off doubtfully.

“I think I’d just let her sleep it off,” Shayne advised. “She was well on her way to passing out when I saw her a little before noon. Another drink or two would have done it.”

“Poor woman,” said Lucy disconsolately. “It’s such a terrible thing. Have you found out anything important?”

“Quite a lot. Where are the children?”

“I brought them downstairs with me. I told them their mother was sick and couldn’t be disturbed and they accepted that explanation without question. They’re such darling kids, Michael.”

“Yeh,” he said gruffly. “Hang onto them for a time, Lucy. Do you know any other friends of hers whom you might call on to help out?”

“Well, I don’t know really.”

“There’s a couple down the street whom she mentioned to me. Let’s see. Cahill. Ernie and Emily Cahill. Do you know them?”

“Of course. I have met Emily Cahill. She’s very nice. Has a little boy of her own.”

“You might call her to help if the kids get restless.”

“All right. And, Michael… keep on trying.”

“I will. Hold the fort.” Shayne hung up and sat back to sip his drink and tug at his earlobe while his somber gaze kept going back to the menu and the rosebud in front of him.