Brett Halliday - Murder by Proxy

“Can you identify her positively?” demanded Merrill. Lawford hesitated and drew in a deep breath. “I wouldn’t want to take an oath on it. But… yes, Mr. Merrill. I remember her quite distinctly. So far as I can judge, that is Mrs. Harris.”

“All right,” grumbled Merrill. “Tell Mr. Shayne what you told me this morning. Why you remembered her particularly out of all the guests who registered that day.”

“It’s hard to put your finger on the exact reason,” Lawford began, fixing his gaze on the wall above Merrill’s head. “I’ve worked in lots of hotels… signed in hundreds of thousands of guests, I suppose. Mostly, it’s a mechanical process. But Mrs. Harris…!” He shook his head slowly. “You noticed her and you remembered her. I remember being surprised that she was checking in alone… for two weeks. And when I asked her… just to be sure… she vouchsafed the information that her husband had the modern idea that married couples should spend their vacations separately, and she asked me if I… approved.”

He stopped and gulped nervously and told Merrill, “I changed the subject at once, of course, sir. But she did mention her fear of being bored and lonely, and I assured her that we had a hostess and many social activities, and I recall that she didn’t seem interested. And… that’s about all, I think.”

“You did notice her go out later?” prompted Merrill.

“Yes. She had asked us to rent a car for her, and I advised the doorman to call her room when it was delivered. I saw her go by from the elevator to the door about half an hour later, and assumed she was going for her car. She had changed into a very noticeable red dress… cut quite low in front.”

“She didn’t leave her key as she went out?” prompted Merrill.

“No, sir. And I simply don’t recall seeing her again.” He dropped his gaze from the wall above Merrill’s head to the photograph on the desk, and shook his head slowly from side to side.

“All right, Lawford,” said Merrill briskly. “If the boy is waiting outside, send him in.”

As the clerk turned to go out, Merrill told Shayne, “Bill Thompson is the boy who took her bags up that first afternoon. I’m not absolutely sure…” He hesitated as the tall, rangy, good-looking young bellboy came in as Lawford went out. “I’ll let him tell it his own way,” he went on. “Nothing to be worried about, Thompson. Step up here and take a look at this picture.”

Bill Thompson threw a quick, frightened look at Rourke and at Shayne, then moved forward on stiff legs to the desk.

“Ever see this woman?” Merrill shoved the picture at him.

Bill Thompson stared down at it for at least thirty seconds. He put the palms of both hands flat on the desk to support his youthful weight, and his face began working queerly. There were actually tears in his eyes as he blubbered, “Honest to God, Mr. Merrill, I didn’t… do anything. Not after that first time at midnight. I swear I never did go back to her and I never did even see her after that first time.”

“Hold it, son. First tell me who she is.”

“It’s Mrs. Harris. In three twenty-six. You asked me about checking her in this morning, sir, and I told you how kind of funny she was… giving me a five dollar tip for nothing really, and how she was sore because there was twin beds in her room instead of a double… and how she liked to sleep in a double bed.”

He paused, swallowing hard in embarrassment, and Merrill said softly, “Yeh. You told me that, Bill. But you didn’t tell me anything about midnight. What about that?”

“Well, I didn’t think it was important, and I didn’t want to… but maybe it is important now she’s missing and all,” he stumbled on. “I was on my way out the door when she came up close behind me and asked when I got off duty, and I told her at midnight that night. And then she kind of whispered in my ear that she was going to be lonesome and for me to stop up for a nightcap with her at midnight.”

“All right, Bill.” Merrill’s voice was cutting and hard. “What happened at midnight?”

“Nothing. I did go up and knock on her door. I know it’s against the rules and I’ll get fired for it, but I can’t help it. And I’d do it again, I guess, anyhow if it was someone like Mrs. Harris. But her room was dark and she didn’t answer, and… and that’s all there is to it.”

“You didn’t see her after that?”

“I swear I didn’t see her after that. I didn’t hear another thing about her until this morning when you asked me. Later, I heard around the hotel that she hadn’t been back in her room since that Monday evening.”

Merrill said, “All right, Thompson. Get back on the floor.”

When the lad had gone, he looked at Shayne and raised his shoulders. “Beginning to get the picture?”

“Too well,” growled Shayne. “Harris told me there was one other angle here. That she signed a bar bill about seven o’clock.”

“That’s the last thing we’ve got on her, Mike. It’s a chit for two daiquiris and two bourbon highballs.” He looked at his watch and got to his feet and picked up the picture. “The bartender who was on duty Monday evening has just come on in the lounge. I haven’t talked to him about her yet. Come along, you and your friend, and the house will buy you a drink and prove to you that the Beachhaven isn’t keeping anything up its sleeve.” He circled around his desk and led the way out of the room.

The cocktail lounge was dimly lighted and cool and practically deserted. Tiny was polishing glasses with his back to the bar. He turned about as the three men climbed onto stools, flicked a glance at Merrill and nodded briefly, then his big face spread into a wide grin when he recognized the redhead. “Mike Shayne, by all that’s holy! How are you, my lad?” He thrust out a hand as big as a ham and crushed Shayne’s in a warm grip, then turned and searched along the top shelf for a very special bottle of Cordon Bleu which he uncorked and set in front of Shayne with a flourish. When he set a four-ounce wine glass beside it, Merrill said dryly, “Go easy on that stuff, Tiny. I promised Shayne a drink on the house.”

“If it wasn’t on the house, it’d be on me,” Tiny assured him, filling the glass to the brim. He transferred his attention to Rourke and asked, “What’ll it be for you?” then paused, staring at him. “Aren’t you Tim Rourke, now? So it’ll be bourbon and water. You can see I read all those books about you, Mike. But what’s with this lousy T-V show on NBC Friday nights?” He scowled as he poured whisky for Rourke. “Where’d they dig up that bird that plays you, Mike? Why in hell aren’t you out there playing the part your ownself? Drink, Mr. Merrill?” he added in an aside.

“A small beer, Tiny.” Merrill had Ellen’s photograph in his hands and he tapped it on the bar, but Tiny was giving his full attention to Shayne. “Take that show last night now. I turn it on every Friday night here just for laughs. My God, Mike! The way that actor got pushed around by everybody last night. How can you stand to watch it?”

Shayne said, “I don’t.” He sipped the fine cognac appreciatively. “I haven’t tuned it in since the first two shows. Richard Denning is supposed to be a very fine actor.”

“He the guy that plays you?” Tiny snorted his disgust. “Maybe he’s a good actor, but the things they have him do…” He shook his head sadly. “And how do you like that young wise-cracker they got playing you, Mr. Rourke?”

Rourke said, “I’m like Mike. I just don’t watch T-V.”

“What’s the matter with that friend of yours that writes the show?” Tiny demanded. “That Brett Halliday. Has he gone nuts or something? His books are swell, but God preserve me from those stories every Friday night.”