Brett Halliday: Murder by Proxy

“She’s disappeared. Vanished right into thin air. Five days ago and no one has done anything. They’re not doing anything now. They seem to take it for granted that women disappear without leaving a trace in Miami.”

“Who are ‘they’, Mr. Harris?”

“A man named Merrill at the Beachhaven Hotel. And that nincompoop of a detective chief… Painter, I think his name is. They don’t care.”

Shayne said, “Start at the beginning about your wife. Is she staying at the Beachhaven?”

“She checked in there last Monday afternoon. She telephoned me in New York about five o’clock to say she had had a pleasant flight down and that everything was fine. That’s the last communication I’ve had from her. According to the people at the hotel, she rented a car and had it brought around, and went out for a drive after changing into a dress from her travelling clothes. They have a record of her signing for four drinks in the lounge about seven o’clock. That’s all. No one has seen her since. Her bed hasn’t been slept in… her bag isn’t even unpacked. They’ve known this ever since Tuesday morning when the maid went in to do her room, and reported it… and they’ve done absolutely nothing about it. Didn’t notify me that my wife was missing… haven’t notified the police. They evidently just sat around on their dead butts, goddamnit, lecherously assuming that Ellen had rushed out as soon as she reached town to shack up with some man.” He pounded Shayne’s desk with a doubled fist, his voice savage and his face contorted with anger.

“And you don’t accept that explanation?” Shayne asked flatly.

“No, I don’t. And if that’s what you think, I’ll find someone else to help me.”

“I don’t think anything yet, Harris.” Shayne made his voice sharp to get through to the man. “I don’t know your wife, of course.”

“That’s just it. None of them do. They simply assume she must be a round-heeled floozie who could hardly wait to reach Miami before jumping into bed with some other man. That’s what they want to think. They aren’t even checking other possibilities.”

“I know Bob Merrill at the Beachhaven,” objected Shayne. “He’s a very competent and conscientious man.”

“I’m sure he’s competent for the job he holds,” Harris sneered. “Security Officer. All he’s interested in is the hotel’s security. He practically admitted to me that as soon as he discovered last Tuesday that my wife’s hotel bill was on her Carte Blanche card, and payment was thus guaranteed, he didn’t bother to investigate further. It wasn’t any of his concern what had happened to one of their guests.”

“Well,” said Shayne thoughtfully. “Was it, Mr. Harris? Let’s try to put this in its proper perspective. A hotel could get itself into a lot of trouble and lay itself open to libel suits if it jumped to the wrong conclusion in a case like this. A guest has a right to a certain amount of privacy. There’d be hell to pay if hotels made a habit of reporting back to a husband or wife every time a guest spent the night out of his or her room.”

“You’re like all the rest of them,” said Harris bitterly, shoving himself erect. “If that’s what you think about Ellen…”

Shayne said harshly, “Sit down and try to stop acting like a juvenile if you want me to help you find your wife. I’m pointing out why Bob Merrill acted correctly in not reporting this situation to you or the police. Now that it’s out in the open, you can be sure Merrill is doing everything in his power to find Mrs. Harris. And while I have no personal liking for Chief Painter on the Beach, he is a good policeman who has resources at his command that I don’t have. I’m sure he’s doing what he can.”

“Oh, sure,” said Harris bitterly, reseating himself with reluctance. “He’s going through the motions… putting out a flyer on her rented car. Good God! that car may be any place in the United States by this time… five whole days…” He gritted his teeth and folded his arms together. “It’s Painter’s damnably insufferable attitude that frightens me. Practically patting me on the back and saying…” Here he savagely mimicked a soothing voice: “Now you just stop worrying, Mr. Harris. Leave her alone and she’ll come home, dragging her tail behind her. That’s what they think about Ellen, Shayne. And that’s why they’re not stirring themselves properly.”

“And you know differently?” Shayne’s voice wasn’t sarcastic or exactly disbelieving, but he did put enough skepticism into it to bring livid anger to his visitor’s face.

“Yes, damn you! I do know differently. We’re married, Shayne. We’ve been married just a year. Ellen loves me. She didn’t want to come on this trip. I had to urge her… actually insist on it… God help me. I had the foolish idea that it would be good for our marriage for us to be separated for a week or so once a year. Not that our marriage isn’t complete and perfect, but just on principle… to keep it that way. She has never looked at another man since we were married… and I haven’t looked at another woman. I know it’s the fashion nowadays to play around with adultery, and you probably don’t believe me, but it wasn’t that way with Ellen or me.”

He stopped abruptly and drew in a deep breath, then leaned forward and asked with shaking earnestness: “Have you ever been in love, Shayne? With a woman whom you knew loved you… and whom you knew could not possibly be unfaithful?”

Shayne looked away from the man and his eyes were bleak. He said, “Yes, Harris, it happened to me once.”

“Then you know what I’m talking about? Will you help me?”

A muscle twitched in the hollow of Shayne’s right cheek. He said, “I’ll do what I can. Do you have a picture of your wife?”

“Just a snapshot. But it’s a very good likeness.” He got out his billfold and eagerly removed a small picture of an extraordinarily beautiful young woman which he passed over to the detective. “I happened to have two pictures of Ellen with me. The other is a different pose… both taken a few months ago. Painter kept the other one… though he didn’t seem much interested in having it reproduced in a newspaper as I suggested. He kept promising me in that reassuringly snide way of his that I needn’t worry about the matter being given any publicity.”

“And you don’t mind publicity?” Shayne was studying the picture carefully, liking what he saw.

“Mr. Shayne.” Harris’ voice was low and intense. “I want to find my wife. That’s all in the world that matters to me. Of course I don’t mind publicity if it will help. I’m not afraid of the truth. Don’t you understand? I trust Ellen. I know something terrible has happened to her. I… I’m afraid to let myself think what.”

“All right,” said Shayne briskly. “I think this picture will blow up fine and reproduce well in a newspaper. If we haven’t something by this afternoon’s deadline, I’ll see that it’s on the front page of tonight’s News. Now, I need some facts about yourself and your wife. I’ll have my secretary come in.” He pressed a button on his desk, leaned back and lit a cigarette. “Could you do with a drink?”

“No, I… thank you, I think not. I had two drinks at the hotel earlier.”

Lucy Hamilton came in with her notebook. Shayne said, “Take some notes, Lucy.” And to Harris, “I want all the facts I can get.” He waited until Lucy was settled with pencil poised above her open book, and then said, “Your full name and New York address?”

“Herbert Harris.” He gave the residence address in the East Seventies, and slid a business card out of his wallet. “My business address.”

Shayne glanced at it before sliding it across to Lucy. “You’re a partner in this brokerage firm?”