Brett Halliday: Too Friendly, Too Dead

“Arrest her? Oh, no, Michael! Nothing in the world could make me believe Linda had anything to do with it.”

“I told Painter that,” Shayne said blithely, “and he’s considering putting you on his payroll as psychological consultant.”

“What?”

Shayne laughed. “I don’t think he’d pay as much as I do. I’ve got to get out to the airport. I’ll try to call either you or Tim from New York… around seven or so.”

At the New York airport, Shayne went directly to the Information counter to inquire about return flights that night. There was only one scheduled. For eight-thirty. Shayne made a reservation for it on the chance that he’d be able to make it.

It was a quarter to six when he called Blanche Carson’s West side apartment. A pleasant, youthful, feminine voice answered.

He asked, “Is this Blanche Carson?”

“Speaking. Who is this?”

“I’m a detective from Miami, Miss Carson.”

“Oh, yes. Doris told me. Something about Rose. What is it?”

Shayne said, “I wonder if I could possibly have a talk with you. I’m at the airport. Just flew in from Miami particularly to see you.”

“Well… I don’t know. I have a date to go dancing at eight. What did you say your name is?”

“Shayne. Michael Shayne, Miss Carson. I’m a private detective…”

“Oh!” she thrilled. “Mike Shayne? Really? That cute one that was on TV a year or so ago?”

Shayne grimaced wryly and said, “I’m afraid I’m not quite as cute as the actor who portrayed me. But I am Mike Shayne. And I want very much to see you at once. Could we possibly have dinner together? I have to fly back at eight-thirty.”

“I’d be thrilled to death to have dinner with you,” caroled Blanche Carson. “Where?”

“Can you suggest a place close to you? I can be there in thirty or forty minutes.”

“There’s a nice French restaurant about two blocks away.” She gave him the name and address. “I’ll be waiting for you there in half an hour.” Shayne said, “That will be wonderful,” and hung up. Well, that was one thing a television series did for you, he told himself sourly, as he went to look for a taxi. You could make dinner dates with strange women without any difficulty.

When he entered the dim foyer of the restaurant forty minutes later, a girl arose immediately from a bench and came up to him. She was slightly on the plump side and wore glasses, but she had an intelligent face and her eyes sparkled. “You’re Mike Shayne,” she said eagerly, offering him her hand. “I’d recognize you anywhere.”

“From watching TV?”

“Of course not.” She laughed happily. “I know he was just an actor. But I’ve read lots of the books about you and your cases, and you’re just like the author describes you.”

Shayne grinned and took her arm and they went into a small, quiet dining room and were promptly seated at a secluded table in a corner of the uncrowded room.

Shayne asked if she would have a drink, and she said promptly, “I’d love one. I’ll drink a sidecar in your honor. With Martel cognac, if you have it,” she told the hovering waiter gravely, “and just a little easy on the cointreau.”

Shayne grinned and said, “You have been reading the books. I’ll have two or three of the same,” he told the waiter. “Just keep them coming as fast as I finish one.”

“Now,” said Blanche, planting her elbows on the table and becoming suddenly serious. “What is it about Rose? I haven’t heard a single word from her.”

Shayne said, “I’m not just sure how much of it is about Rose. I hope you’ll help me there. Actually, Blanche, a man was murdered in Miami last night, and that’s what I’m working on. His name was Jerome Fitzgilpin.” He watched keenly for the girl’s reaction to the name, and saw a look of puzzled doubt spread slowly over her expressive features.

“Fitz-gilpin?” She repeated the syllables slowly. “Wait a minute. I think I know. Isn’t that the name of the nice, little man who stood up with Rose and Rutherford Rodman when they were married?”

Shayne nodded. “And took you to dinner in the Village afterward.”

“Yes. He was so nice about everything.” She clasped her hands together tightly. “A complete stranger like that. He had just met Rutherford at the hotel the night before. He bought Rose a corsage of tiny yellow rosebuds and insisted on paying for the dinner… with a bottle of champagne and everything. And you say he’s dead? Murdered? Who would murder such a friendly little man?”

“That’s what I hope to find out.” Their sidecars arrived and Shayne sipped his with pleasure. It was astringently cold, with no sugar around the rim of the glass. “Do you remember what he talked about that night? Anything important?”

“I think he was in New York attending some sort of convention. Mostly he talked about young love and marriage. He was married and had a couple of children, I think. He showed us pictures of them. He was so sweet talking about his wife. Still terribly in love with her after being married so long. I remember he said they’d never had a single quarrel in all the years they’d been married. And he was so anxious to get home to her. I didn’t realize he lived in Miami,” she added. “I don’t believe he mentioned that.”

And that was exactly the time Linda had been having her affair with George Nourse, Shayne thought grimly. Poor devil. It had been a hell of a home-coming for him. Aloud, he said, “Tell me about your friend Rose and her husband. Was it a happy marriage?”

“Oh, no. It was dreadful. Perfectly horrible for poor Rose. But it was partly her own fault. I have to admit that. I told her she was out of her mind to marry a man under false pretenses like that, but she was crazily romantic and got caught up in a lie and it kept getting bigger and bigger and she didn’t know how to tell him the truth. She thought it would be all right after they were married, and they’d laugh about it, because you see she thought he had all kinds of money and he wouldn’t mind. But it turned out he was fooling her, too, and had just married her because he thought she was rich.”

“Wait a minute,” protested Shayne. “How long had they known each other?”

“Just about a week. They met at a party and he was introduced to her as a wealthy bachelor from Chicago. So she made up a silly story about having rich parents in Philadelphia and just being in New York on a visit… and… and that’s the way it happened,” she ended helplessly, spreading out her hands. “Rose was actually a salesgirl at Bonwit’s and she spent practically every penny of her salary buying clothes there at a discount. So she did have beautiful things to wear, but not a penny in the bank. And neither did he, as it turned out. He couldn’t even pay his hotel bill at the Commodore a few days later, and he was furious when he discovered she wasn’t rich at all. He was a thoroughly nasty man,” she went on, lowering her eyelids and hesitating. “I didn’t know about this until months later, after he had left her, because she was too ashamed to tell me in the beginning, but he actually wanted her to… well… have men come up to their room at the hotel to get money to pay the bill.”

“Did she?”

“No!” Blanche shot at him. “She was a good girl. They slipped out of the hotel without paying, and she went back to her job and rented a cheap room where they lived for a time. Then he just disappeared one day and she never heard from him again. I didn’t know about any of this until a long time later because she never even called me when it was going on.”

Shayne thoughtfully finished his second cocktail and waited appreciatively while a third was set before him. Then he picked up a menu and suggested, “Shall we order dinner? I have to be back at the airport a little after eight.”