Brett Halliday: Murder by Proxy

“How do you like that, Mike?” He crossed with easy familiarity to the liquor cabinet on the wall and lifted down a bottle of bourbon.

Shayne grinned at him and said, “I was privileged to hear the same stuff from Petey’s own mouth this morning. Anything else in your story, Tim?”

“Plenty.” Rourke reentered the living room carrying the whisky bottle by the neck and a tall glass with ice cubes in it in the other hand. “Did you know, for instance, that Petey has established the fact that Mrs. Ellen Harris ditched her second admirer of the evening in front of the Mirabel about ten o’clock? The trail ends mysteriously after that point.”

“How did he establish that pertinent fact?” asked Shayne curiously.

“You know Petey. Routine police work, he insists. Aren’t you interested in the story told by the doorman and the parking attendant of the Mirabel?”

Shayne grinned irritatingly at his old friend. “Not particularly. I heard it before Petey did.” Shayne looked down at the paper and grimaced. “Don’t make me read your scribbling. First off: has he definitely established the identity of the dead woman?”

Rourke nodded. “He was just as suspicious as you were when he saw she was battered beyond recognition. He shot her fingerprints to New York, and they went to the Harris apartment and established beyond a doubt that the dead woman is Mrs. Harris.”

Shayne frowned and clawed at his red hair at this information. “Did he release the autopsy report to you?”

“To the Press. It’s all there.” Rourke gestured to the paper on the table. “Salient facts are these. Death was from a bullet wound in her heart. Thirty-two caliber pistol. Bullet entered her body without piercing the gown she wore, but it was cut rather low and could easily have been pulled aside to admit entry of the bullet. But, get this, Mike. All those facial wounds were committed after she was shot. She was killed first, and then beaten up. Let’s see, now. What else?” Rourke stretched his long body out in a chair with a highball glass in his hand and owlishly contemplated the ceiling.

“The M.E. can’t be positive about time of death. He places it at either Monday or Tuesday. There was no blood at all in the trunk of the convertible under her body, indicating that it was at least an hour… probably two… after her death before she was squeezed in there. He guesses it at not less than two and not more than four hours after death when she was placed inside the trunk. One thing more that I think of. She had eaten a shrimp salad about two hours before death… and had a fair amount of alcohol inside her preceding that last meal.”

Rourke smiled happily at the redhead and demanded, “How do you like your pipeline into headquarters?”

Shayne said with a frown, “Are you certain about two things, Tim? They seem contradictory to me. If her face was definitely smashed up after death from a bullet wound, it looks like a positive attempt to establish false identification. Is the fingerprint evidence positive that she is Ellen Harris?”

“If you can trust the New York police department. Their report leaves no room for doubt. There’s all the other contributing proof of identity also. I don’t see how you can question it, Mike.”

“I guess I can’t. But it still sticks in my craw that her face was battered up after she was shot. That means something, Tim.”

“Sure. In my book it means some gink… or gal… who hated her because she was so beautiful.”

“Right. Which probably brings it a lot closer to home than some stranger she picked up Monday night.” He looked at his watch and muttered, “I’m hoping Jim Gifford will call from New York.”

“You going to keep on paying for long distance calls?” asked Rourke innocently. “Painter says you’re off the case.”

“You know damn well I’m not off it, Tim. Let’s see, you gave me the autopsy. I suppose Painter checked the husband’s story about driving down when he says he did.”

“Naturally. When a wife is killed, check the husband. Standard police procedure. He checked as far as possible on a Sunday, Mike. Harris stopped at the motel in Charleston Friday morning, and contacted a business client there. He checked out of the motel late afternoon, and mentioned that he intended driving through to Miami that night.”

Shayne nodded and said sourly, “He would have been a fool to try and fake that. And Mr. Herbert Harris may be lots of things, but I don’t believe he’s a fool.”

“You still make him for the job?”

“I don’t know, Tim.” Shayne got up and began to pace the floor, clawing at his unruly, red hair. “Depends a whole lot on what Jim Gifford digs up.”

As if in response, his telephone rang. He picked it up and said, “Shayne.” Then, “Fine, Jim. I’ve been waiting for it.”

He settled back to listen and make notes.

Gifford said, “I’ve been a busy boy. You’ll find it all on the expense account I send in. To begin with, if your job was done in Miami last Monday or Tuesday, as you said, then hubbie is in the clear. I’ve definitely established that Harris could not possibly have been in Miami either Monday or Tuesday night.”

Shayne scowled and said, “Go on.”

“Which is a little bit too bad because I did dig up a little more pay dirt on him than on his wife. She remains perfectly clean, so far as I can establish. But here are a few juicy items. When they were married, they took out a joint insurance policy on their lives, payable to each other. A hundred grand. I get strong hints that they live it up just about to the extent of his income. It’s Sunday and this is all personal stuff, but the consensus among their friends is that they haven’t any financial cushion to fall back on. I can check his credit rating and dig around at his office tomorrow, if you want more on that angle.”

“Anything else?”

“Yes, there is something else. Again, it’s rumors and hints, but there may be another woman involved. His personal secretary, named Ruth Collins. The word I get is that she’s another blonde like his wife, not quite so well-stacked, maybe, but a knockout for all that. I tried to contact her, but she’s on vacation. Left last Monday for two weeks at a resort hotel in the Catskills. Again, I can probably get more on the office romance tomorrow, if you want me to keep on.”

“I do, Jim. Definitely. Spend another day on it at least, and call my office tomorrow when ready. Follow through on the secretary particularly, Jim. Take a run out to the Catskills to look her over and see what gives.”

“Sure. I could do that this evening. You getting no forwarder down there, Mike?”

“There’s only this at the moment. She was shot first and then had her face beaten in viciously… either to delay identification, or because somebody just didn’t like her looks.”

Gifford said, “I see. I’ll work on it tomorrow and call you. Will you be home late tonight, if I do run into something hot in the Catskills?”

Shayne said, “I’ll be home,” and hung up. He scowled thoughtfully as he renewed his drink.

“Getting somewhere?” Rourke asked with interest.

“Dead ends, I’m afraid.” Shayne told him about the hundred-thousand-dollar insurance policy, payable to either husband or wife in the event of the other’s death, and the possibility that the Harris’ were sailing pretty close to the wind financially.

“And he may have a thing with his secretary at the office,” Shayne added, in a disgruntled voice. “Damn it, you never can trust a guy. I would have sworn he was sincere when he talked about his wife in my office. He had the guts to ask me if I’d ever been in love… and married.”

Rourke shrugged cynically. “All this begins to look like the usual answer.”