Brett Halliday - Dividend on Death

“I do not,” Dr. Hilliard told him, “offer snap judgments.”

Shayne muttered, “No. God knows you’ve never been accused of that.” He breathed hard, and the base of his nostrils flared. “That knocks my swell theory into a cocked hat.” He stood up and grinned crookedly. “That’s what I get for having a theory. Hell! I’m as bad as a chief of detectives.”

Dr. Hilliard stood up with him. “Any time-any information I can give you-”

“Thanks, doc.” Shayne nodded and ambled out.

It was almost twelve when he got out of the elevator downstairs. He went to a phone booth and called the clerk at his hotel to learn if there had been any calls for him.

The clerk had one urgent message. Shayne was to call a Mr. Ray Gordon at suite 614 at The Everglades at once. Shayne thanked him, hung up, and called The Everglades.

There was a short wait. A voice finally said, “Hello.”

“This is Michael Shayne. You left a message for me to call you.”

“Mr. Shayne? Good. Can you come to my suite immediately on a matter of urgent business?”

Shayne said he could. He hung up and started to walk the few blocks to the hotel.

A big man opened the door of 614 at Shayne’s knock. He was almost as tall as the detective, with broad shoulders bulkily emphasized by the heavily padded double-breasted coat he wore. Clean-shaven, the contours of his face were a series of square corners. His lips were thin, his complexion gray. His eyes were cold, as expressionless and hard as two marbles.

Mr. Ray Gordon’s most distinctive feature was the type of haircut he affected. His hair was clipped high on a square head all the way around from one temple to the other, leaving a mop of bristles on top which stood erect and added deceptively to his appearance of great height. There was nothing else out of the ordinary in his appearance. His blue coat and sports trousers were of fine texture and beautifully tailored, but conventional enough. A modest pearl scarf pin enhanced the quiet gray of a four-in-hand which matched the shade of his soft-collared shirt.

He inclined his head and stepped aside for Shayne to enter. A large, comfortably furnished living-room overlooked Biscayne Bay. There was no one else in the room, but open doors led off to the left and right.

Shayne stopped inside the room and turned to face the man, asking, “Mr. Gordon?”

Gordon nodded. He closed the door and studied Shayne. Not covertly nor antagonistically, but with a curious directness and complete disregard of the other’s reaction.

“You’re Michael Shayne?” His words were clipped and hard, though not harsh.

Shayne nodded and stared back aggressively.

Gordon moved to a chair and motioned Shayne to another one, making no offer of his hand or further greeting. He said, “Shamus Conroy told me about you.”

Shayne sat down and lit a cigarette. His eyes were veiled. He said, “That bastard?” unemotionally.

“Conroy said that’s what you were,” Gordon told him. He took a long cigar from a leather case and lighted it with a gold-inlaid lighter. “I considered that a good recommendation-knowing Conroy.”

Shayne relaxed visibly. “I thought maybe you were a friend of his.”

“On the contrary.” Gordon considered his cigar with approval. “I’ve got a job for a private dick. One that can keep clammed and isn’t too thick with the local police.”

Shayne said, “I’m listening.”

Gordon blew a lazy smoke ring and asked, “Want a drink?”

“Call your shots,” said Shayne. He stretched out his long legs and looked out the window at the palm-fringed shore of the Beach beyond the shimmer of Biscayne Bay.

Gordon called, “Bring in a couple of setups, Dick.”

They both smoked in meditative silence. Shayne heard the clink of glasses through the open door on the left. From where he sat he could see into the open bathroom which led off to the right. The outer surface of the door opening inward to the bathroom was a full-length mirror which reflected the interior of another connecting bedroom on the other side of the bathroom.

The lights were on in the inner room, and a woman was sitting before a low vanity making up her face. Her back was toward the bathroom, and Shayne contemplated the reflection with idle disinterest. It was a youthful back. The curve at the base of the woman’s head was youthful, and the dark bobbed hair had a sheen.

A sleek youth came through the other door with a tray bearing two Tom Collins setups. Glossy black hair grew low on his forehead. His complexion was pasty, and his nose was beaked. He was foppishly dressed. He looked as though he might have enjoyed pulling the wings from flies when he was a child-as though he might still enjoy it. There was a slight bulge just in front of his left armpit. He set the tray on the table with a furtive glance at Shayne, hesitated, and then went out as silently as though he walked on tiptoe.

Gordon mixed the drinks with care and handed one to Shayne. They both drank from the frosted glasses. Gordon asked, “How big an outfit do you have?”

“I work alone.” Shayne frowned at his glass. “But I have plenty of good men on the string I can call in when I need help.”

“I noticed,” said Gordon, “that you don’t have an office listed in the telephone book.”

Shayne shook his head and didn’t say anything.

“You’ll need all the men you can get for this job I have in mind,” Gordon went on.

“I’ll get all I need.” Shayne drained his glass and set it down. The girl in the inner room had turned her head and was leaning forward putting an earbob in her left ear. He could see her reflected profile and it was startlingly beautiful. Clean-cut, classic features with an indefinable air of hauteur which didn’t quite ring true.

“You’ll have to get on it right away,” Gordon was saying. “It’s pretty damned important.”

“Then,” Shayne suggested, “let’s get down to brass cracks.” The girl had turned her head and was putting on the other earbob. Shayne had a hunch she knew he was watching her through the reflection.

“Here it is.” Gordon emptied his glass and thumped it down. “A man named D. Q. Henderson is due in town in the next few days. Today, perhaps. He may be traveling under a different name. I want to know the minute he hits Miami.”

“How’s he coming? Where will he go when he gets here?”

“I don’t know. I wouldn’t be hiring you if I knew the answers.”

Shayne rubbed his bony chin thoughtfully. “It’s a big order. Tell me more about the man. There are two railroads, a couple of airplane lines, several boats, and a lot of highways bringing people into this man’s town every day. And a lot of them hitchhike, and others come on their private yachts.”

“You can disregard the last two you mention,” Gordon told him thinly.

“Which doesn’t help a hell of a lot,” Shayne grunted. The girl had arisen and was moving toward the bathroom untying the sash of her silken negligee. Her eyes were demurely downcast, and he felt she was putting on an act for his benefit. Inside the bathroom she dropped the negligee from her shoulders, and he had a glimpse of brassiere, brief pants, and white flesh before she closed the door softly.

Seemingly unconscious of the direction and intent of Shayne’s gaze, Gordon said suavely, “If you don’t feel that you can handle the job, say so and quit wasting my time.”

Shayne said, “Mother of God! Do you expect me to meet every incoming tourist and ask him if his name is D. Q. Henderson?”

Gordon’s eyes lost the expressiveness of two marbles. His gaze was remote, yet it had a probing quality. Shayne dredged up a grin with some difficulty, remembering the eyes of a captive Gila monster he had once seen.