Brett Halliday: Too Friendly, Too Dead

“Police business,” Shayne told him curtly, moving forward so he couldn’t close the door. “Call Mr. Rodman, please.”

“Mr. Rodman has retired, I’m afraid. Police business, you say. And what may I ask…?”

“Roust him out,” Shayne interrupted. “He hasn’t been retired long.”

“What’s the meaning of this intrusion, Albert?” The incisive question came from behind Albert and above him. He stepped back and turned, opening the door wider so Shayne could see the tall and darkly handsome figure of Rutherford Rodman standing on the landing of a wide stairway that led directly up from the entrance hall.

He wore a foulard dressing gown tightly belted around his slim waist, and he looked every inch the Master of the Manor. He also held a heavy. 45 automatic in his right hand by his side with every indication that he knew how to handle it.

“These men say they are police officers, Sir,” Albert replied.

“Policemen? At this time of night?” Rodman lifted one eyebrow ironically. “Suppose you show Albert your credentials before you come any farther inside my house.”

“I didn’t say we were cops,” Shayne told him. “I said we’re here on police business. I’m a private investigator from Miami, and this is my associate, Mr. Rourke.” He got out his wallet and flipped it open to show the butler his I.D. card.

“A private detective?” said Rodman. “If this is police business, why aren’t the police here to conduct it?”

“You can have them if you prefer. In a matter of minutes,” Shayne told him. “I’m giving you a chance to answer some questions privately which may obviate calling in the police at all.”

“His credentials seem to be in order, Sir,” Albert said nervously, handing Shayne’s wallet back to him.

“Very well then.” Rutherford Rodman descended the stairs slowly, lowering the barrel of his pistol and letting it dangle at the end of his arm. “Show them into the library, Albert.”

The butler switched on another light and led them down a short hall on the right to a large, gloomy room with its walls lined with books. Rodman followed them in and crossed to a fireside chair and laid his automatic on a table beside it. He said, “That will be all, Albert, but remain on call.”

Albert said, “Very well, Mr. Rodman,” and soft-footed out.

“Now,” said Rodman. “What is this about? You say your name is Shayne?”

The redhead sat down in a chair near Rodman and nodded. “That’s right.” Rourke unobtrusively took a chair slightly behind Rodman and took some copy paper from his pocket.

“I’m investigating a murder that occurred here on the Beach last night,” Shayne explained amiably to his host. “I think you may be able to give us some valuable information. The dead man is Jerome Fitzgilpin.”

Rodman nodded thoughtfully, making a tent of his ten fingers in front of him. Not a flicker of expression showed that the name meant anything particular to him. “I read about it in the paper,” he said indifferently. “Really, I don’t know what sort of information you expect me to have.”

“You knew him, didn’t you?”

“A man named Fitzgilpin?” Rodman looked surprised. “Not that I am aware of.”

“You knew him in New York a year and a half ago well enough to ask him to be a witness at your first wedding.”

Rodman sat rigidly still, looking down at his hands and pressing the palms tightly together.

“Was that his name? The little fellow who stood up with us? I didn’t even know he lived in Miami, and his name has slipped my mind entirely.”

“Wouldn’t you like to change that to: You didn’t know he lived in Miami until you saw a write-up about him in the paper two weeks ago?”

Rodman looked up with a flash of anger. “No, I wouldn’t. What makes you suggest that?”

Shayne shrugged. “You do admit a former marriage in New York to a girl named Rose McNally at which Fitzgilpin was a witness?”

“I’ve stated I don’t recall the man’s name,” snapped Rodman. “Possibly it was Fitzgilpin.”

“And,” Shayne went on smoothly, “you admit you concealed your first marriage from your present wife?”

“Is that a crime? I consider it wholly a private affair what I may or may not have told my wife.”

“I suspect it was a bit of perjury,” Shayne told him cheerfully. “I believe you have to swear to the facts when you take out a wedding license. But we’re not interested in perjury. How about bigamy, Mr. Rodman?”

“I don’t know what you mean. I was legally divorced from Rose, of course.”

“Without her knowledge?”

“I’m sure she was served with the necessary papers. It was a Mexican divorce.”

“Do you have a copy of the decree handy?”

“See here, Shayne. I don’t like your attitude nor your questions. Both are insulting. What on earth has any of this to do with the murder you claim to be investigating?”

“Where were you last night?”

“Do I need an alibi?”

“The police are going to require one from you.”

“When they require it, I will produce one. In the meantime, I think I have had about enough of this.”

Shayne said, “Suit yourself. But if we leave, don’t bother going back to bed. The police will be here within fifteen minutes.”

For a long moment, Rodman’s glance locked with his. Then he relaxed and said sulkily, “If we can get this over without the police, naturally I prefer it.”

Shayne said again, “Where were you last night?”

“At what time?”

“From ten to midnight?”

“I was upstairs asleep in my own bed. I had a slight headache and I took a strong sleeping potion at nine-thirty and retired.”

“A lot of people seem to have conveniently taken sleeping pills last night. Can anybody swear you were at home between ten and twelve? Your wife? Servants?”

“My wife was out when I went to sleep. I haven’t inquired exactly when she returned and came to bed, but I assume it was not much later than ten. The servants know I went to bed early. Unfortunately,” he added sarcastically, “they are not in the habit of peeking in every half hour or so to ascertain whether I have remained in bed or slipped out.”

“What sort of sleeping pills do you take?” Rodman’s mouth dropped open in surprise. “What on earth has that to do with it?”

“Do you mind telling me?”

“Of course not. Do you also wish to know my favorite after-dinner drink and the breakfast food I prefer?”

“No. Just the brand of sleeping pills.”

“I don’t know. It’s a special prescription I got from a doctor years ago. Quite a strong drug, I believe. I’ve had the prescription refilled occasionally over the years.”

“Sodium amytal?”

“What?”

“Is that the name of the drug?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea.”

“Would you mind getting your bottle and letting me see the prescription?”

“Yes, I would mind.” Rodman was suddenly shaken with rage. He said through clenched teeth, “This is a monstrous invasion of privacy. Unless you explain at once what all these questions have to do with murder, I shall ask you to leave at once.”

Shayne said, “Jerome Fitzgilpin was murdered by an overdose of sodium amytal. And so was your former wife two months ago… also here in Miami.”

“Rose? You can’t mean it. Dead? And in Miami?” He rose to his feet and strode back and forth in agitation while Shayne studied him closely.

Shayne said, “She was blackmailing you, wasn’t she, Rodman? Here you were, sitting pretty at last with a wife worth several million dollars, and Rose was a threat to it. So you killed her.”

“No! That’s a filthy lie. I haven’t seen Rose for more than a year. Or had any contact with her.”