Brett Halliday - Murder Takes No Holiday

Shayne steadied Alvarez as he came off the bed and stood up. “We will think about it.”

The redhead left the other propped in the doorway and went back to lock his suitcase and turn off the lights. In the Hillman, heading back into St. Albans along the bay, Alvarez said, “The important thing, do not hurry. There is one way you could surely fetch her, to say that the husband’s plane has crashed and he is badly hurt. But no. She would rush out half-dressed, with much noise and excitement. Let us do it this way, I think.”

Glancing at him, Shayne saw that he was smiling slyly. “Tell her you are a private detective,” Alvarez said, “and you-”

“What?” Shayne exclaimed.

“I know how you must feel about the police and detectives, but this will be only for a moment. Tell her you have found out that the husband’s plane trip is only a pretext, he really goes to spend several days in seclusion with another girl. If she wishes proof, you can provide it. But she must be quiet and careful.”

“And what if she just tells me to pick up my feet and blow?”

“Convince her. You see, she can either come with you to get evidence for a divorce, or she can come to save her husband from a greedy woman.”

He made a little sound that was probably intended as a laugh. Shayne stared bleakly at the road ahead, making no further comment. Alvarez called the turns, and before long they drew up in front of a rundown hotel called the Half Moon, separated from the bay by a fringe of palms. Only a few of the windows on the front of the hotel were lighted.

“Turn the car around,” Alvarez said. “I will go in quietly and inspect. It will be better if no one sees you.”

“Damn right it’ll be better,” Shayne said.

When Alvarez got out, Shayne drove on to where the street dead-ended at a low embankment. With its short wheelbase, the Hillman was an easy car to turn. When he came back, Alvarez was coming down the hotel steps, and Shayne had a sudden impression that he was not as hurt as he pretended. His eyes narrowing, the redhead watched him falter and put his hand to his forehead, as though suddenly dizzy. He crossed the sidewalk to the Hillman and got in.

“This will be easy,” he said. “There is one man only, for the desk, the switchboard, the elevator. Look in the window. When he goes up in the elevator or must answer the phone, you will simply walk in to the stairs. Good luck.”

Shayne stayed where he was. “What if the phone doesn’t ring or if nobody wants the elevator?”

“My men will be here presently. I will send one to telephone. The room is on the fifth floor, five forty-two. From the stairs go to the first turning in the corridor.”

Shayne unlatched the door. “How much time do I have? You told the husband half an hour. If I get hung up somewhere, I don’t want you sitting down here counting the minutes until you send your army in after me.”

Alvarez said, “Take the time you need. I have a man to entertain Slater until we arrive, and I will tell him what to say if Slater calls. I agree that you must be quiet and careful.”

“And what do I do if I can get her to come with me? No, don’t tell me. I ring for the elevator. When it doesn’t show up right away, I get impatient and drag her down the stairs. That way the desk clerk won’t see me.”

“Excellent.”

Shayne left the Hillman and went up to the front steps. There was a broad porch overlooking the bay. Instead of entering the lobby he went along the porch, past a line of empty rocking chairs, until he came to a window through which he could look into the lobby. No one was behind the desk. Moving to the next window, Shayne saw the switchboard, but it was unattended. He located the elevator. The door was closed, and an arrow above was moving slowly around a semi-circle. There was a loud, ominous clanking.

He returned to the front door and entered the lobby. The arrow had stopped at four. Through an archway he looked into the dining room, with tables set for breakfast. He reached the bottom of the stairs as the clanking resumed and the elevator started down.

He took the steps two at a rime. The elevator, descending slowly and painfully, passed him between the second and the third floor. He continued to five, found Room 542 without trouble, and knocked.

The transom was open and light was on in the room. When there was no answer, Shayne knocked again.

“Mrs. Slater?” he said cautiously.

He heard a faint noise, and saw the doorknob beginning to turn slowly. Then the door came violently open. Martha Slater was standing in the doorway, a gun in her hand.

“Come in,” she said.

Her voice was small but determined. The gun was a little. 25 automatic. She held it firmly. Michael Shayne came into the room and she kicked the door shut behind him. She was wearing a tightly-belted blue dressing gown. Her blonde hair was brushed out loosely and fell almost to her shoulders. There were lines and shadows on her face that hadn’t been there when Shayne last saw her, but she was still, at thirty, beautiful, intelligent, self-possessed. Her eyes were gray and steady.

“Don’t you know who I am?” he said.

“Stay where you are. Don’t move.”

She backed across the room, feeling for the phone. Her fingers touched the edge of the bedside table and she knocked over a small bottle of sleeping pills. She lifted the phone.

Then she said suddenly, “Michael Shayne?”

She looked at him in horror. An instant later she dropped the little gun as though it had bitten her. “Michael! I almost-” She laughed hysterically and put her face in both hands.

He reached her in two strides and caught her in his arms. She pressed her face fiercely against his chest. “Michael. Michael. What are you doing here?” Then she pulled away from him, the look of horror still in her eyes, and said faintly, “Did you come after Paul?”

“Take it easy,” Shayne said in his gentlest tone. He put the phone back in its place. “It’s going to work out. Come over here and sit down.”

He led her to the bed and arranged the pillows. After she was settled he sat down beside her, holding her hands. They were cold and trembling.

“I just made some cocoa,” she said abstractedly, looking toward the little bedside table, which was badly marked with cigarette burns. “We aren’t supposed to cook, but I have an electric plate. No, I remember,” she said, seeming hardly aware of what she was saying, “you’d like some cognac. I’m sorry I can’t-”

He stopped her. “We don’t have too much time. When I knocked at the door, who did you think it was?”

She burst into tears. “Michael, we’ve got ourselves into such a mess! What on earth am I going to do?”

“We’ll think of something.”

He grinned at her encouragingly and looked around. The bureau had a caster missing, and tipped drunkenly. The rug was threadbare. It was worse than he expected, and he hated to see Martha living like this. He moved a box of Kleenex where she could reach it.

“I’m-I’m sorry, Michael. It’s just-seeing you like this, after so many years-”

Taking her by the shoulders, he gave her a quick shake. “Stop it. I won’t tell you how glad I am to see you, because we don’t have time. I know it’s serious. You and Paul are in trouble, and if you want me to help you you’ve got to tell me a few things. What about the gun?”

She blew her nose and said faintly, “I don’t know how to begin. I’ve been expecting something to happen for months. I thought-”

She couldn’t go on, and Shayne said, “You thought it had something to do with the smuggling?”

Her eyes widened. “Of course. You heard he’d been arrested, and you didn’t like the idea of an old friend of yours being married to a criminal. I don’t like it either. But he’s stopped, Michael! You don’t have to worry about us. He won’t do anything like that again.”