Brett Halliday - Dividend on Death

In the living-room again, he threw dressing-gown, slippers, and pajamas in the middle of the mattress and folded it over. After pushing the two halves of the studio couch together, transferring cigarettes and matches from the chair to his pocket, and setting the ash tray on the table there was no outward indication that he had not slept in his own bed. He inspected the room thoughtfully to make sure that even Painter’s sharp eyes would find nothing amiss. Then, more carefully, he pulled out the table drawer, carried the bloody butcher knife and nightgown to the kitchen, and put them down on the drainboard while he turned the sausage and looked at the toast.

With no change of manner or expression, he took the butcher knife from its flimsy wrapping, and scrubbed it thoroughly at the sink. Yanking down a dish towel, he dried the knife and chucked it in the drawer with his own kitchen utensils. Then he ran cold water in a dishpan and put the bloodied nightgown in a pan of cold water to soak.

The sausages were ready to be turned again, and the toast was browned on one side. He took care of them and measured seven heaping tablespoons of granulated coffee into the Dripolator with the same impersonal care he had just given the kitchen knife that didn’t belong in his kitchen. The water hadn’t boiled yet so he soused the nightgown up and down in its water while he watched for steam to come out of the aluminum teakettle. Shayne liked making breakfast. When the kettle boiled, he poured it in the Dripolator, turned off all three burners, set the drip pot on one, turned the sausage again, took the toast from the oven, and buttered it.

Then he soused the gown some more and rinsed it under the faucet. Wringing it out he slipped his thumbs under the shoulder bands and shook it down full length. He nodded approvingly when he saw the bloodstains had disappeared, went to the oven and tested its heat with his hand. It was warm but not hot enough to injure the fragile fabric. After carefully spreading the damp gown on the toasting-tray, he closed the oven door and left it to dry, reflecting on the convenience of being able to destroy evidence while you prepared breakfast.

Whistling softly he took down a wooden serving-tray from a shelf, split the sausages on two breakfast plates; put cups, saucers, and silverware on the tray; punched two holes in the top of a small can of evaporated milk and put it on the tray beside a sugar bowl; balanced the toast on one end and the steaming Dripolator on the other; managed to get the whole thing set right side upward on the palm of his right hand.

In the living-room he set the loaded tray on the table, pushing the cognac bottle to one end. As an afterthought, he took half a bottle of dry sherry from the cabinet and carried it to the breakfast table with two glasses. Then he went to the closed bedroom door, knocked, and opened it.

Phyllis Brighton sat up with a dazed cry of fright and stared at him. He said, “Good morning,” went to the closet and took out a flannel robe which he tossed across the foot of the bed, saying, “Get into that and come on out to breakfast. It’s getting cold.”

The bedroom door opened, and the girl emerged timidly. The bathrobe was swathed about her slender body, trailing the floor behind her. She had tied the cord tightly about her waist, and rolled up the sleeves so her hands came out.

Shayne lifted his eyebrows and grinned at her. “You look about fourteen in that getup. How about a shot of sherry?”

She smiled bravely and shook her head. “No, thanks. Not before breakfast, at least.”

“Sherry should be our national before-breakfast beverage,” Shayne told her. He filled a glass and emptied it, then pushed the easy chairs aside and set two with straight backs at the table. “Sit down,” he said without looking at his companion.

He deftly transferred the things from the tray to the table as she sat down, dropped the tray on the floor, and poured two cups of strong, steaming coffee. Then he sat down opposite her and started eating. With downcast eyes she silently followed his example.

“What time did you go to sleep last night?” Michael Shayne deftly speared a sausage with his fork, bit half of it off, and chewed appreciatively.

“I-” She hesitated, lifting her eyes to him, but he was lifting his coffee cup and seemed interested only in determining whether it was yet cool enough to drink.

“I-it all seems so much like a dream that I hardly know what was sleeping and what was waking.”

Shayne nodded and grunted, “Eat your breakfast.”

She drew her sleeve back to reach for the sugar, and Shayne shoved it toward her, asking casually, “Did you hear the John Laws talking about you?”

“Part of it.” She shuddered and spilled sugar from her spoon. “Who were they?”

“Miami and Miami Beach detectives.”

“Oh.” She stirred her coffee.

“It’s a damn good thing you don’t snore.”

Her body tensed. “They-didn’t find out I was here?”

“Hell, no.” Shayne contemplated her in mild surprise. “You’d be in the cooler if they could find you.”

“You mean-arrested?” There was morbid fear in her voice and eyes.

“Sure.” Shayne drank his coffee with the healthy appreciation of a strong man for strong coffee.

“What did they-I pulled the covers over my head and tried not to listen.”

“They don’t know anything,” Shayne told her calmly. “Everything would have been jake if you just hadn’t taken the fool notion to run away. Painter has a reputation to uphold and he feels that he just has to pinch somebody. You’re it.”

“You mean-he’ll arrest me now?”

“If he finds you,” Shayne told her cheerfully. “Go on and eat your sausages. They won’t be any good after they get cold. And this coffee’ll put hair on your chest.”

Her lips quirked up at the corners. She dutifully nibbled at a sausage and sipped her coffee.

Shayne finished his share and poured himself another cup of coffee. Then he leaned back and lit a cigarette. “You’d better stick around here for a while, while I try to find out just what’s what.”

“Stay here?” She raised her eyes fearfully to his.

“This is about the last place they’ll look for you. Especially since last night.” Shayne chuckled and added, “Painter admitted he didn’t think I was dumb enough to bring you here.”

“But-what will they do to you if they find me here?”

He shrugged wide shoulders. “Not a hell of a lot. After all, you’re my client. I’m within my rights in protecting you from false arrest while I do some checking up.”

“Oh.” She breathed happily, and a flush colored her cheeks. “Then you do believe me? You’ll help me?”

Her gratitude and joy embarrassed Shayne. He frowned and said, “I’m going to try and earn that string of beads you handed me yesterday.”

“You’re wonderful,” Phyllis Brighton said tremulously. “Everything will be different if you’ll just believe in me. You’re so strong! You make me feel strong.”

Shayne didn’t look at her. He lifted his coffee cup and said into it, “I came damn near weakening last night, sister.”

The flush on her cheeks deepened to scarlet but she didn’t answer.

Shayne said, “Forget it.” He drained his cup and got up. “I’ve got to stir around and earn my fee.” He went into the kitchen and took her nightgown from the oven. It hung crisply dry from his finger tips when he came back.

Phyllis Brighton looked at the filmy garment in utter consternation. She gasped. “Why, that-that’s mine. Where did you get it?”

Shayne’s eyes were wary. He asked negligently, “When did you see it last?”

She frowned as though trying to remember. “I don’t know exactly. It’s one I wear quite often.”