Brett Halliday - Dividend on Death

Shayne kept on watching her. He said grimly, “If you’re lying you’re doing a hell of a good job.”

She shrank back under the impact of his words. “What is it about? I don’t understand.”

“You and I,” Shayne told her wearily, “are in the same boat.” He tossed the gown to her. “Put it on and go back to bed. It’s silk and it’ll soon get rumpled and won’t show that it’s recently been washed without benefit of ironing.” He stalked to the corner and took down his hat.

Phyllis turned her head to watch him. She half arose, and her voice was frightened.

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m going out to walk around in circles.” He put on his hat and went to her and rubbed his knuckles against the soft smoothness of her neck between the hairline and the rolled collar of the robe.

“You stick it out here. Better wash up the dishes first thing-at least one set. Then go back to bed. And put that nightie on. Close the door and stay in bed no matter what happens until I tell you to come out. Understand?”

She nodded with a quick intake of breath, pressing her cheek down hard against his hand before he withdrew it.

He moved toward the door, warning her. “Don’t pay any attention if the phone rings or somebody knocks. And don’t move if you hear someone come in. It might be me, but I might not be alone. You stay behind that closed door no matter what happens. Rest and try to sleep. Don’t try to think.” He went out and closed the outer door on the night latch.

He stopped at the desk in the lobby for mail. There wasn’t any. It was almost ten o’clock. He chatted with the clerk for a minute, telling him he would be back at noon or would call for any messages.

Outside in the bright Miami sunlight he walked to Flagler, then west to the police station. He went in a side, door and down a hall to Will Gentry’s office. The door stood ajar. He rapped and pushed it open.

Gentry looked up from the newspaper he was reading and grunted, “Hello.”

Shayne tossed his hat on the desk and sat down in a straight chair.

Gentry said, “Painter got his headlines, all right.”

“Did he?” Shayne lit a cigarette.

“Haven’t you seen the paper?”

Shayne said he hadn’t, so Gentry pushed it across the desk to him. The detective smoothed it out and read the headlines, squinting through the upward-curling smoke of his cigarette. He glanced swiftly through the two-column version of the Brighton murder and pushed the paper aside.

Gentry leaned back in his swivel chair and thoughtfully bit the end off a black cigar.

Shayne said, “Mr. Peter Painter and the press find the girl guilty.”

Gentry nodded. “The poor devil had to give the papers something. Her disappearance looks bad.”

“Yeah.” Shayne contemplated the glowing end of his cigarette.

“You’d better dig her up, Mike.” Gentry lit his cigar.

“Not as long as that little twerp is on her tail. The damned-” Shayne unemotionally mentioned Painter’s probable ancestry in censorable terms.

Gentry waited until he had finished. Then he said, “He was here waiting for me when I got back last night. Had a couple of reporters and gave them the statement you just read. He was going to tie you up with the girl’s disappearance but I told him he’d better lay off.”

Shayne swore some more. Not so unemotionally this time. Gentry listened with an appreciative grin. He said, “All right. What’s your theory on the case, Mike?”

“I don’t waste my time having theories,” Shayne growled. “That luxury is only for detective chiefs.”

He glared at Gentry, and Gentry grinned and puffed on his cigar, finally asking patiently, “What do you want me to do, Mike?”

Shayne leaned across the scarred desk. “I want the dope on Doctor Joel Pedique-all the way back.”

Gentry nodded. “I’ll shake up what I can. Anything else?”

“That’s all for now. And thanks.” Shayne lumbered to his feet.

Gentry told him that was all right, and Shayne went out. He stopped at a drugstore and called Dr. Hilliard’s office. A nurse informed him that the doctor would be in at ten-thirty. It was ten-twenty, so Shayne sauntered down Flagler Street and south a block to an office building on the corner. The elevator carried him up to the tenth floor, and he walked down the hall to the sumptuous suite of offices occupied by Dr. Milliard and an associate.

The golden-haired reception girl smiled, took his name, and asked him to wait. She went through an inner door and came back, nodding for him to go in.

Dr. Hilliard greeted him affably, and they talked a long time. But the doctor could not or would not give Shayne any more definite information about Phyllis Brighton than he had proffered last night. Shayne talked vehemently and at great length, setting forth an idea that was in his mind. The doctor admitted many of the premises as possibilities, but professional ethics forbade his discussing Dr. Pedique’s conduct of her case.

After a time Shayne abruptly switched his questioning to Mr. Brighton’s condition. On this point Dr. Hilliard was less reticent. He told Shayne frankly that the man’s condition puzzled him. There was no organic disease, yet the patient did not improve. From his study of the case he was willing to admit that Dr. Pedique had apparently done everything possible to effect a cure. It seemed to Dr. Hilliard that Mr. Brighton had simply lost the will to recover. Every test indicated a healthy physical condition, yet he continued to grow steadily weaker. They were, he told Shayne, conducting tests to ascertain whether certain glands were functioning improperly. If these tests tailed to indicate such was the case, he would be at a complete loss to diagnose the ex-millionaire’s malady.

Shayne listened attentively, asking leading questions and drawing the physician out as much as possible, clearly showing his disappointment when Hilliard failed to confirm his suspicions of Dr. Pedique. After a pause, he leaned forward and asked, “Isn’t it possible, doctor, that certain drugs might be responsible for Mr. Brighton’s continued weakness? Wait!” He held up his hand as Dr. Hilliard started to shake his head.

“I’ve got a theory,” he went on. “I’m not a medical man and I’m not trying to horn in on your game. I’m simply tying up logic with facts. I’m not accusing anyone-yet. But there’s been a murder committed. Take a long time to think this over before you answer. Is it possible- possible, doctor-that someone having access to the patient could be giving him some sort of drug, some sort of wrong medicine or wrong treatment, doing something to keep him in the weakened condition which you find inexplicable?” He leaned his long frame far over the desk and held Dr. Hilliard’s eyes intently.

The doctor lifted his eyeglasses and fiddled with them while he considered the implications contained in Shayne’s question. He was an ethical and honorable man. He was fully conscious of his duty toward society. He liked Shayne and he disliked Dr. Joel Pedique. He had read the morning paper and he shrewdly guessed that Shayne was seeking to protect Phyllis Brighton from a murder charge. From his observation of Phyllis he did not believe her guilty. He considered all these things before answering.

“It is utterly impossible, Shayne. I’m sorry I can’t advance your theory. Really I am.” He settled his glasses back on his nose and shook his head regretfully. “There are, however, certain conditions which preclude consideration of the hypothesis that any outside agency could be responsible for Mr. Brighton’s condition.”

Shayne sank back with a disappointed, “Damn.” He lit a cigarette and puffed on it morosely.

“You’re sure?” he burst out finally.