Brett Halliday: Murder by Proxy

Herbert got to his feet and refilled her glass from the pitcher. He poured the rest of the liquid into his own glass, and said urbanely, “The whole idea is that we are intelligent people, and that this is an intelligent thing to do. Have fun in Miami,” he urged her. “Go out to Hialeah and bet on the horses; and have drinks at the Coca and take a fling at roulette at the Coral Casino. Don’t worry about me here in New York. I’ll be fine! I’ll be on the town. Playboy Herb Harris. That’s me.”

Ellen drank from her glass and studied him under lowered eyelids. After a moment, she achieved a shaky smile. “I’m not going to worry about you, Herb. I expect you to have fun. Have the boys from the office over for poker. I don’t want you to do a thing about the apartment while I’m gone. Don’t wash a dish… or even a glass. Rose and I worked all yesterday afternoon polishing everything up so it’s clean as a whistle. She won’t come back until Monday, two weeks from today, and I told her to spend the whole day before I get back cleaning the place up. So, you have fun, darling. Stack up all your dirty dishes and let Rose worry about them. Promise me?”

“Sure, I promise you,” he told her huskily. “You do the same. Have fun in Miami. Miss me a lot. When I see you next…”

Herbert Harris got to his feet, his face working queerly, and he held out his arms to his wife.

She looked up at him without moving out of her chair. “Everything is going to be fine, Herb.” She spoke with complete assurance. “I’ll call you at the office this afternoon as soon as I get settled in my hotel. You will be… careful… won’t you, darling?”

He said, “I’ll be… careful.”

Ellen finished her drink and stood up, carefully smoothing her skirt down over her thighs. She turned toward the bedroom saying, “If you’ll close my suitcase for me, darling?” and her husband followed her into the bedroom.

The arrival of a beautiful, unescorted woman at any one of the dozens of luxury hotels on Miami Beach is no novelty and normally attracts only casual attention.

But a lot of heads turned to watch the tall blonde in the beautifully fitted, blue silk suit cross the lobby of the Beachhaven Hotel at four o’clock that afternoon. She was followed by a bellboy carrying a suitcase and a matching overnight bag. It was more than facial beauty, more than the lush promise of a beautifully sculptured female figure. Beautiful, well-stacked dames are a dime a dozen on Miami Beach. There was something special about the set of her head, the way she carried herself, the poised yet flowing grace of each separate step she took, an animal magnetism that managed to be demure yet was infinitely exciting to every male who saw her pass.

One felt she wanted and expected to attract masculine glances, yet secretly deplored the fact that this was so and was consciously determined to take no heed of them whatsoever.

The clerk on duty behind the desk was named Justus Lawford. He was tall, urbane and knowledgeable. He drew himself up a little straighter, glanced down quickly to check the amount of white cuff extending beyond his jacket sleeves, touched the neat, black bow-tie at his throat, and worked his features into the proper semblance of a tentative, welcoming smile as she approached the counter in front of him. It was not a subservient smile but it carefully erased every trace of the haughty superiority with which he was wont to greet newly arriving guests.

She carried a large, and obviously expensive handbag which she placed on the counter while she stripped off a pair of white string gloves and said, “I have a reservation. Mrs. Herbert Harris.” Her voice was low and husky, and somehow managed to seem very intimate. Her wide, blue eyes met his briefly with self-assured candor, and then long, fringed lashes came down to cut off the voltage.

He said, “Of course, Mrs. Harris,” and was dismayed by the treble note which unexpectedly crept into his voice. He turned to check a typed list of names, annoyed with himself and with the woman who had created this reaction within him. Consequently, he was very businesslike, almost curt, when he turned back and laid a registration card in front of her and offered her a pen. He said, “That’s for two weeks, Mrs. Harris? And you’re alone?”

She nodded and signed the card carefully, bending her blond head forward over the card so a faint whiff of expensive perfume came up to him. With her head bent, her low voice told him, “My husband couldn’t get away from his business at this time.” She lifted her blue eyes to his and smiled faintly, and added with a bubbling note of merriment, “He also has the modern idea that married couples should spend their vacations separately. I’m not at all sure…” She broke off and frowned slightly. “Do you think it’s such a good idea?” She asked the question with such innocent naivete that Justus Lawford responded with an expansive smile.

“I’m a bachelor myself, Mrs. Harris. But if I were married to…” He caught himself and didn’t say: “someone like you”; but the thought was implicit in the warmth of his voice. “I just don’t know,” he ended up lamely. “We’ve put you in three twenty-six, Mrs. Harris. A lovely room overlooking the ocean. I’m sure you’ll be very comfortable.”

“I just hope it won’t be too dreadfully boring,” she sighed, making a little, pouting moue. “All alone in a strange place.”

“Your first visit to Miami?”

“Yes. I’m afraid I don’t know a soul.”

“Don’t you worry about that,” he said heartily. “We have a lovely hostess who’ll see that you don’t remain a stranger for long. And many social activities.”

“Please,” she murmured. “Deliver me from your hostesses and social activities. Oh, I’ll want to rent a car for my stay. Can you arrange it? I think one of the rental companies is on my credit card.”

She was opening her leather bag as she spoke and he saw the wide wedding ring on her left hand set with small diamonds that twinkled in the light.

She took out a credit card and laid it in front of him, and he said, “I’ll call Avis at once. Will you wish to charge your hotel bill also, Mrs. Harris? In that case we can put the car rental on it.”

“Why, yes. I suppose that’s easiest. My husband is always after me to use the card more often. Could you have it delivered at once? A convertible, if they have one. I don’t really care what make.”

“It will be at the door in half an hour, Mrs. Harris.” He had taken an impression of the card, and now returned it to her. “You’ll just have the one bill to sign when you leave.”

“You’ve been very kind.” She dropped the card in her bag and closed it. “Will you call my room when it arrives? Perhaps there’ll be time for a little drive before it gets dark.”

“I’m sure there will be.” He nodded to the bellboy who stood behind her with her bags. “Show Mrs. Harris to three-two-six.”

He stood with his hands flat on the desk watching her cross toward the bank of elevators, thoroughly enjoying the faint twitch of silk-sheathed buttocks which subtly emphasized the ladylike poise of her walk.

“A real dish,” he told himself appreciatively. “By God, if I was married to a piece like that…” He snapped to attention and turned with an expression of hauteur to the fat lady who said, “May I have my key, young man?”

The bellboy waited respectfully in the elevator with her bags until she got off at the third floor, then said, “To your left, Ma’am.”

She said, “You lead the way,” looking aside and up into his stolid face. He was very tall and broad-shouldered and young, with black hair in a flat-topped crewcut, and she followed him down the carpeted hallway, appraising the youthful, rangy body in its well-cut livery of dark maroon with yellow epaulets and gold stripes on the sleeves. He stopped in front of a door numbered 326 and unlocked it, then stepped back to let her enter. She passed closer to him than was necessary, just brushing a rounded hip and shoulder against him, entering a large pleasant room with two wide windows on the opposite side looking down on the limitless blue of the Atlantic Ocean.