Brett Halliday - Murder by Proxy

There, he turned to the yellow pages and looked up the address of the Professional Answering Service, which proved to be less than four blocks away. He went back to his car and drove there, and went in.

The office of the Professional Answering Service was located on the ground floor of a building on 14th Street. The anteroom was presided over by a pleasant-faced, elderly lady, and there were no switchboards or telephone operators in evidence so Shayne concluded that the actual work was done elsewhere.

When she turned from her desk to ask what she could do for him, Shayne put on his most disarming smile and told her, “It’s probably against all your rules, but I’m a detective trying to locate a woman who has been missing for several days from one of the hotels here. I think one of your customers can give me information about her, and it’s imperative that I contact him at once. The woman may be in great danger,” he added gravely.

“Does his telephone number not answer?”

“Your service answered when I tried to call him a short time ago. I know that he hasn’t been home for several days, and I assume you have been transferring calls to some other number.”

“Not necessarily. Mostly, we simply take any messages that are left for a subscriber, and give them to him the next time he calls in.”

“You mean you wouldn’t know how to reach him in the interim?” Shayne showed his disappointment clearly.

“Normally not.” She hesitated. “Of course, if he knew he was going to be away from his own telephone for several days, and could be reached at some other number, he might inform us in advance, so that calls could be transferred at once and he wouldn’t have to be continually calling in to check. That’s one of our regular services.”

“In that case, would you give the caller his new number, or simply take the message and then call him?”

“Whichever way he preferred it handled.”

“Would you have a record of it here if this subscriber had made such an arrangement?” Shayne persisted.

Her eyes twinkled faintly. She said, “Yes. But I could not possibly give the information out unless I were authorized to do so.”

Shayne said ingratiatingly. “But you could check, couldn’t you, and see if my hunch is right. This may very well be a matter of life and death,” he urged her. “Just knowing that he had arranged to be reached at another phone would be of great importance.”

She said, “I don’t see… that that would be a violation of privacy.”

“His name is Gene Blake,” Shayne told her quickly, and added the telephone number of Blake’s apartment.

She turned to a large alphabetical card-file on the left side of her desk and efficiently took out a card. Shayne moved slightly and unobtrusively so he could look over her shoulder at the card carrying the name: BLAKE, Gene. There were several notations on the card behind penciled dates on the left side, and Shayne concentrated on the last one. He couldn’t interpret the cryptic notation, but it ended with a local telephone number followed by #410.

He memorized the number and looked down guilelessly into her eyes as she replaced the card and turned to tell him, “Mr. Blake did ask us to transfer any calls to another telephone number last Tuesday until further notice. He asked that the new number not be given to anyone, and it would be a breach of confidence for me to give it to you.” She spoke with firm severity and Shayne didn’t know whether she realized he’d read the number over her shoulder or not. He rather suspected she did, and he thanked her gravely. “You’ve been a great help, and I certainly wouldn’t want to urge you to give away your client’s secrets.”

He hurried out to the nearest telephone before he forgot the hastily memorized number, and dialled it. A dulcet voice said, “Good afternoon. Seaspray Hotel. May I help you?”

Shayne said, “You have, honey,” and hung up.

The Seaspray was one of the huge, rambling hotels that had been built during the first boom of the Twenties. There was some sort of convention in progress, and the lobby was athrong with milling delegates and lines of guests who were checking in and out.

Shayne made his way through them to the elevator and squeezed in. It let him out on the 4th floor, and he found #410 and knocked on the door. It opened after about thirty seconds and Shayne faced a man wearing slippers and slacks and undershirt and holding a towel in his hands. His brown hair was damp and uncombed, muscular arms and shoulders were deeply tanned. He fitted Tiny’s description of Gene Blake perfectly.

He held the door half-open and frowned at the rangy redhead, and said aggressively, “I think you have the wrong room,” and started to close the door.

Shayne stepped into it and shoved the door and the man back. “Right room… right guy,” he said, looking around the large sitting room of an expensive suite. The bathroom door stood open, and beyond it was a closed door leading into the bedroom. There was no one else in sight.

“What sort of deal is this? You can’t force yourself into a man’s room, and…”

Shayne growled, “I have, Blake. Who’s in the bedroom?”

“My wife, and I don’t propose.”… Blake dropped the towel on the floor and doubled up his fists, getting in front of Shayne and jutting his jaw belligerently.

Shayne said, “We both know you don’t have a wife, Blake. I’m taking a look.” He put the flat of a big hand on the man’s chest and shoved. Taken off balance, Blake staggered back two paces, and then unclenched his fists and got a half-shamed smile on his face.

“Can’t we handle this differently?” He fumbled for his wallet and made his voice placating.

Shayne said, “This isn’t a shakedown. I just want a look at the woman in your bedroom.” He moved forward purposefully, and Gene Blake got out of his way, still protesting weakly, but not as though he cared too greatly. When Shayne rapped on the door, he called out, “It’s okay, Peggy. Don’t be worried.”

Shayne opened the door and looked in the bedroom. On the other side of the room a woman sat in front of a dressing table with her back to him, calmly putting on lipstick with a tiny brush. Meeting her reflected gaze in the mirror, Shayne saw that she in no way resembled the photograph of Ellen Harris in his pocket.

He said gruffly, “I’m sorry, Ma’am,” and closed the bedroom door. Blake had backed away toward the center of the room and was lighting a cigarette with trembling hands. “What kind of Peeping Tom stunt is this?”

Shayne asked, “Where is Ellen Harris, Blake?”

“Ellen Harris? I don’t think I know anyone named that.”

“Maybe this will refresh your memory.” Shayne took the picture from his pocket and held it out. Blake studied it wordlessly, and then licked his lips. “I guess maybe that was her name. Ellen something. I met her at the Beachhaven bar last Monday. That the one?” He looked at Shayne curiously, but apparently without fear.

Shayne said, “That’s the one. Where is she?”

“How in hell should I know? I haven’t seen her since Monday night. She ditched me at the Gray Gull for another guy.”

Shayne said, “Sit down and tell me all about it.”

“Why should I? Who are you and what’s all this about?”

Shayne said uncompromisingly, “Sit down and talk to me, or get a shirt on and we’ll go to headquarters. My name is Shayne,” he added impatiently. “I’m a private detective looking for Mrs. Harris.”

“Oh, Christ. You’re Mike Shayne. Sure. I should have recognized you right off.” Blake looked crestfallen. “What’s happened to Mrs. Harris?”

“That’s what I hope you can tell me.” Shayne sat down and lit a cigarette. “I know you picked her up in the bar and she signed the chit for a couple of drinks, and you went out with her through the rear door to the hotel parking lot. You take it from there.”