Brett Halliday - Guilty as Hell

“Why wouldn’t I stay in town?”

Shayne pulled an envelope out of the glove compartment and scribbled an IOU. Then he wrenched the hook out of Jake’s leg. Reaching over to the floor of the back seat, he gathered up Deedee’s clothing.

“Shayne, it’s coming in spurts!”

Shayne pushed the door open on his side. “No, it’s not. Get them to show you a chart at the hospital. The artery’s on the other side of the leg. Here.” He sorted out the girl’s underclothing, keeping only her dress and a pair of shoes. “Bandage yourself with this. If you think you need a tourniquet, use the bra.”

He got out and slammed the door, leaving Jake whimpering for help inside. Before Shayne reached the entrance to the apartment building, the DeSoto went by him, already going very fast.

The light was on in the basement room where Shayne had left the girl. She had opened a trunk to look for something to wear, so far without success. She whirled, protecting her breasts. Seeing Shayne, she dropped her arms and came toward him.

“Hey, my dress. Did you see Jake?”

“Yeah. He was very disappointed to hear you didn’t do better upstairs.”

He tossed her the dress. She looked to see if he had anything else for her to wear underneath, then pulled it over her head and wriggled into it.

“I don’t see how he can blame me,” she said. “You didn’t give me one minute to think.”

He handed her a shoe at a time, and she hopped from foot to foot putting them on. She smoothed the dress over her hips.

“Big improvement,” she commented sarcastically. “You can see right through it. I hope we’re not going anyplace in public.”

“What’s your real name?”

“Deedee’s my real name. I had to put up a terrific battle, but everybody calls me by it, finally.” She added, “My real name is Dorothy Pappas. Do I look like a Dorothy Pappas?”

“Where’s your family live?”

“What family? They booted me out when I thought I was preg.”

He jerked his head. They went down the corridor to the elevator, passing the superintendent’s door. The super and his wife were watching television and they didn’t look around.

In the elevator Deedee stood very close to Shayne, her breasts touching his arm.

“I guess you don’t like me much.”

“Not a hell of a lot,” Shayne told her.

“I didn’t guess so.”

Outside, he strode rapidly toward the spot where he had left his car. She clicked beside him, not quite keeping up. Jose Despard was waiting on the sidewalk beside Shayne’s Buick, his shoulders hunched, both hands deep in his pockets. He gulped when he saw the girl.

She ran the last few steps, one hand out, but stopped before she actually touched him. “Honey, I’m so sorry it had to happen! As sorry as I can be. You know you weren’t supposed to be in on it.”

His face contorted painfully. At a brusque signal from Shayne, she got in the Buick.

“Wait here for me,” Shayne told Despard.

Despard kept his head averted. While Shayne went through the pattern involved in starting the car with one hand, Despard said in a choked voice, “Don’t forget to put something on that cut.”

“On my legs?” she said. “No, I’ll take care of it. I won’t see you again, will I, so-well, goodbye.”

Despard didn’t trust himself to answer.

Shayne turned onto Biscayne Boulevard, then pulled over to use the phone. On the third try he found a friend who said she would be willing to put Deedee up for the night.

“Man or woman?” Deedee said when they were moving again.

“Woman.”

“And she’s probably just a bit dykey, huh,” Deedee said sullenly after another moment.

Shayne glanced at her and she said with spirit, “Don’t look at me. I happen to be heterosexual and proud of it.”

“You happen to be what?”

“Heterosexual. That means-”

“I know what it means.”

He delivered her to a Northwest address, promising to explain in the morning how he found himself the custodian of a high-school dropout wearing no underwear. He returned to the Buena Vista street corner. Despard, told by Shayne to stay put, hadn’t moved. He had pulled himself together to the extent of being able to fill and light a pipe. Shayne motioned him to the driver’s side.

“You drive,” he said. “First, hand me the phone book.”

Despard reached all the way over to the shelf behind the back seat. The detective looked up the address listed for Candida Morse.

“Coral Gables. Avenue Muleta. Go over to North Miami Avenue and pick up the Expressway.”

After knocking out his pipe, Despard made a U-turn to join the traffic on 4th Avenue. His narrow, balding head nodded and bobbed at the end of a stalklike neck. He was trying not to look at Shayne, but his head kept turning.

“What do I do, thank you?” he said bitterly. “Or didn’t you arrange that? What kind of a hold do you have over her?”

“I won’t try to figure out what you’re talking about,” Shayne said. “The cops probably gave you a rough time before they found out who you were. You happened to walk in at the wrong time, that’s all. But I doubt if you’ll have any more Wednesday-evening dates with the girl. Something’s missing there, Despard. Some vital little connection, and who’s responsible for it is none of my business, or yours either. If she had all the usual parts, she’d go out with teenage boys and be interested in whatever the hell teenagers are interested in nowadays. But then she wouldn’t have been interested in seducing you, would she?”

“I’m the one who did the seducing,” Despard said miserably.

“That’s what they wanted you to think,” Shayne said. “She was planted on you by Hal Begley Associates, working through a small-time crumb named Jake Fitch.”

“Jake Fitch!” The pale face bobbed around again. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. He’s her father.”

“They may be living together. He’s not her father.” For an instant Shayne thought Despard would lose control of the wheel. The Buick drifted across the line, narrowly missing an oncoming car. Sawing at the wheel, Despard brought it back. His Adam’s apple was working.

“I don’t suppose you’d say that so positively unless you know it for a fact. Something terrible must have happened to her when she was young. I thought-”

“You were wrong,” Shayne said briefly. “How did she get you alone?”

“She was sent by the baby-sitting agency. I drove her home. Her father was still working. Jake Fitch was still working. Fitch,” he repeated, pronouncing the name with revulsion. “Her lover? I shared her with Jake Fitch?”

“Move it along, will you, Despard?”

“She was afraid to go in alone. She thought she saw a shadow moving on an upstairs shade. She made me go up to make sure no one was there.” He swallowed heavily. “If that was acting, she did a good job.”

“I doubt if she had to carry you upstairs,” Shayne said dryly. “How much have they taken you for?”

“Not a cent! Oh, I’ve given her presents, perfume, a new dress. I leased the apartment. But my wife happens to run the checkbook in my house, and I assure you I couldn’t sneak any sizeable sum past her.”

“If that checks out,” Shayne said, “I’ll have to report I’ve located the man who sold the T-239 folder.”

The Buick slowed abruptly. “Shayne, you have to be joking. Damn it, I can’t talk and drive at the same time.”

They were on 43rd Street, between First Avenue and North Miami. At a signal from Shayne, Despard pulled over to the curb. Turning all the way around, he said passionately, using both hands, “I didn’t do it. I don’t care what kind of blackmail they tried to use on me, I wouldn’t-”