Brett Halliday: Too Friendly, Too Dead

“Instead of which,” said Rourke, “she collected a lethal dose of sodium amytal.”

Shayne nodded somberly. “That’s the way it’s beginning to look. And it would lead directly to Fitzgilpin’s murder also. Don’t you see how one would follow the other? Assume Rodman did kill her when she showed up in Miami demanding money for her silence. He’d feel safe then. Until suddenly a couple of weeks ago he came across Jerome Fitzgilpin’s name in the interview you printed. According to Blanche Carson in New York, none of them knew Miami was Fitzgilpin’s hometown. But Jerome Fitzgilpin is quite an unusual name. Think how Rodman would feel knowing that one of the witnesses to his first wedding lived right here. Married to a rich woman, there were bound to be pictures of him in the papers and stories about him. Sooner or later, Fitzgilpin would see a picture and read one of those stories. And he’d wonder what had happened to Rose McNally. Rodman would really have been in a sweat if that’s the way it was.”

“But he couldn’t be sure this Fitzgilpin was the same man.”

“No. And that’s why he sent his wife to the office to see the man and find out if he was the right one.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” protested Rourke. “Your theory is that everything depended on him keeping the truth from Betsy Ann. How could he send her to the office to find out?”

“God knows what sort of story he dreamed up to get her to do it. Don’t forget that all our information points to Rodman as a fairly accomplished con man. He could have thought up some tale that would send her to Fitzgilpin. A woman like that… she’s probably completely enamoured of him and eager to believe any damned thing he tells her.”

“I’ll buy that much,” Rourke agreed. “But still and all… it’s a pretty far-fetched theory.”

“Have you got a better one?”

“No. Not right now.” Rourke scowled and began gathering up the clippings and pictures and putting them back in their proper folders.

Shayne shrugged and said, “There’s one good way to find out.”

“What’s that?”

“Ask him.” Shayne looked at his watch. “Do you know where the Durand house is?”

“Vaguely. It’s one of those little islands dredged up on the east side of the Bay that stick out from the peninsula.”

“A handy place to toss a former wife into the water and have her turn up on the other side of the Bay a few days later,” Shayne commented drily.

“Exactly. You going to take Painter along?”

“Hell, no.” Shayne looked at him in surprise. “Right now, this has got to be strictly off the record. Do you suppose the address is in the phone book?”

Rourke shook his head, reaching for a well-thumbed directory. “Not Rodman. But Durand should be.” He opened the book and looked for a moment, then nodded. “Five-sixteen Loma Vista. That’s out… oh, around Sixtieth Street.”

Shayne said, “Why not give him a call, Tim? Find out if he’s in, so we won’t waste a trip.”

“What’ll I say?”

Shayne looked at him in surprise. “Hell, that you’re a reporter and want an interview with him to get his expert opinion on the future of land values on the Beach.”

“At this time of night?” scoffed Rourke, reaching for his telephone nevertheless.

“At least we’ll find out if he’s home.”

Rourke dialed the number and waited. Shayne lit a cigarette, frowning absently at the spiral of blue smoke that rose up past his eyes. It was all pretty pat. Too pat? Who could say? Everything seemed to fit. And it was the only answer that did fit, he told himself. He listened to Rourke say, “Mr. Rodman, please.”

And then, “This is a reporter on the News in Miami. It’s important that I speak with Mr. Rodman as soon as possible.”

He paused a moment, then shook his head and said, “No, thanks. I’ll try again in about an hour.” He hung up and told Shayne, “I got a British accent you could cut with a knife. A butler, I bet, if they still have such things on the Beach. Mr. Rodman is out, but is expected to return within the hour.”

Shayne nodded and said, “So we’ve got a little time to kill. Look in your directory again and see if you can find a number for Mrs. Ella Perkins on the Beach.”

Rourke started looking without asking why. In a moment he gave Shayne a telephone number and address, and the detective reached to lift the phone from his desk and said, “I’ll talk to her if she answers.”

Rourke dialed the number for him, and after several rings a sleepy and somewhat worried voice answered, “Yes? Who is it?”

“This is the detective who was in your office this morning, Mrs. Perkins. Michael Shayne.”

“Oh yes, Mr. Shayne. Whatever is it? I’m afraid I was asleep…”

“Sorry to disturb you, but something important has come up. Would it put you out terribly if I stopped by in about half an hour for just a minute?”

“Of course not, Mr. Shayne. Is it something to do with… Mr. Fitzgilpin?”

“You may be able to identify a murderer for me,” he told her grimly, then added reassuringly, “Not in person. But by looking at a picture.”

“I’ll certainly do my best,” she faltered.

He hung up and told Rourke, “Let’s take one of those pictures of Betsy Ann Durand with us. With Mrs. Perkins’ positive identification we’ll be in a better position to put pressure on Rodman.” They drove over together to Miami Beach in Shayne’s car, and found Mrs. Perkins’ address was in a neat apartment building only a few blocks from the insurance office. Shayne left Rourke in the car while he went in with the photograph in his hand and rang the bell of her ground-floor apartment.

She opened it at once, wearing a faded, gray housecoat and with her hair done up in curlers. “You’ll have to excuse my appearance, but I was asleep when you called like I said, and I just didn’t take time…”

He said, “That’s perfectly okay, Mrs. Perkins. I appreciate you seeing me at this late hour. I want you to look at this picture and tell me if you’ve ever seen the woman before.”

She took the picture from him and looked at it. “Yes. Of course,” she said at once. “It’s a picture of that Mrs. Kelly. You remember. The one I told you about who came to see Mr. Fitzgilpin…”

“About taking out an insurance policy on her husband without his knowledge,” Shayne ended for her grimly. “Thank you, Mrs. Perkins. That’s the one positive link I needed.”

“But… was it her did it, Mr. Shayne? Whatever on earth…?”

He said, “I think you’ll be able to read all about it in the newspaper tomorrow morning. Go on back to bed knowing that you’ve done more to break the case than any other single person.”

Back in the driver’s seat of his car, he told Rourke jubilantly, “Got it. No question whatsoever about her identification.”

He started the motor and drove northward, letting Rourke watch for street signs and direct him to the Durand mansion.

It was a huge, three-storied pile of weathered coral standing alone on a small man-made island in the Bay, reached by traversing a short private bridge from the bayshore.

There was dim light showing in a second-story window when Shayne stopped under the wide porte-cochere beside a black Thunderbird.

They got out and Shayne slid his hand over the sleek hood of the other car as they went by. It was very warm to his touch.

They mounted stone steps and Shayne found an electric button and put his finger on it. He held the button pressed down for at least ninety seconds before a light showed behind the glass pane above the door.

He took his finger off the bell and waited, heard a chain being released inside and then the door opened cautiously. A broad, solemn-faced man of middle age confronted them. He was in his undershirt and suspenders, and there was a look of outrage on his face. “I say now. Whatever is the meaning of this?”