Brett Halliday - Dividend on Death

A puzzled expression came over Gentry’s beefy face. He sighed and spread out his hands. “Come into the living-room, for God’s sake, and let’s talk this over. There’s nothing for you to get humped up about, Mike. We didn’t jimmy your damned door.”

“No?” Shayne cut two more slices of bread. Then he laid the knife down and turned around. His eyes were bleak. Painter backed out stiffly, and Gentry took Shayne’s arm with a relieved sigh.

In the living-room, Shayne sat down and spoke to Gentry, disregarding Painter.

“What the hell’s it all about? If you didn’t jimmy my door, who did?”

Painter started a rush of words, but Will Gentry shut him off. “It’s this way, Mike. Somebody called Painter at eleven-forty-five, all excited, and said the Brighton girl was asleep in your apartment. He called me to meet him here and make the pinch official, and jumped in his car and rushed over from the Beach. We came up from the lobby together and found your door just like it is now. There wasn’t anybody here.”

Shayne’s gaze went to the closed bedroom door.

“No soap,” Gentry told him. “No sign of any girl in there. What sort of monkey business is it, Mike?”

Shayne turned his gaze to Painter. “Man or woman that telephoned the tip?”

“A man.”

“I suppose you didn’t think to have the call traced.”

Painter bristled up like a fighting cock. “Are you trying to teach me my business? Of course I had the call traced. It came from the public telephone booth in the lobby downstairs.”

“Which leaves it wide open,” Shayne muttered.

“Are you sure you didn’t make that phone call-just for a cover-up?”

“Sure,” Shayne grunted with withering scorn. “And I jimmied my own door-after drowning the girl in the bathtub and grinding her up into Bologna. That’s what I’m about to make sandwiches out of.”

Gentry groaned. “All right. Go on, you guys. I’ll stick around and gather up the pieces.”

Shayne turned toward his friend with hunched shoulders. “I’m sick of this half-wit jumping me.”

Painter got up, grating out an oath. He pushed himself in front of Shayne aggressively. “Where’s the girl?”

Shayne said to Gentry, “You tell him, Will. I think I hear my water boiling.” He got up and went into the kitchen. He could hear a subdued murmur in the living-room as he poured the coffee water and made sandwiches. Then he took the drip pot, a cup and saucer, and the plate of sandwiches in to the living-room table. Painter watched him in sulky silence.

Shayne poured himself a cup of coffee without offering either of them any, and bit into a sandwich.

“Why,” asked Gentry, “did you bring the girl here, Mike?”

“I didn’t bring her here,” Shayne denied wearily.

Painter reached into his coat pocket and brought out a girl’s handkerchief and lipstick with a dramatic flourish. He laid them on the table and demanded, “How did these get into your bedroom?”

Shayne’s bushy eyebrows curved upward. “Digging into my private life?”

“They’re not what one would naturally expect to find in a bachelor’s boudoir.”

“I don’t know,” countered Shayne. “If you make a thorough search you’re likely to turn up half a dozen assorted gewgaws like those. What the hell? Send your vice squad around if that’s what you’re after.”

“And I suppose you have dozens of lace handkerchiefs initialed ‘PB’?” suggested Painter.

“My memory isn’t so good,” Shayne told him amiably. “We’ll go in and check up if you’ll let me finish my coffee in peace.” He lifted his cup and drank heartily.

“You’re stalling,” Gentry said. “That won’t get you anywhere. If she was here and isn’t now-where is she, Mike?”

“I’m no good at guessing games.” Shayne grinned and bit into a second sandwich with gusto.

“You can’t deny that she was here,” Painter snarled.

“I can deny any damn thing I please. And get away with it as far as you’re concerned.” Shayne turned away from the angry little man and asked Gentry, “Did you pick up anything on the lead I gave you this morning?”

“Not a thing. We burned up the wires to New York for an hour. Pedique’s record is as clean as a hound’s tooth.”

“I could have told you that,” Painter put in. “I checked on him last night.”

“I’m not,” Shayne told him, “the slightest bit interested in anything you can tell me.”

“What about the Brighton girl?” Gentry interrupted. “Was she here last night?”

“You were here last night,” Shayne reminded him. “You didn’t see her, did you?”

“You’ll have to talk fast,” said Painter with an ugly twist to his mouth, “to explain away this initialed handkerchief.”

“I don’t intend to do any explaining. Make your own deductions and see what it gets you.” Shayne lumbered to his feet and carried the dishes into the kitchen where he rinsed them under the hot-water faucet and set them to drain. Whistling cheerfully, he brought out a fresh bottle of cognac and set it on the table.

Painter stared angrily at the floor, and his Miami colleague watched thoughtfully while Shayne got down two glasses and filled them to the brim. He handed Gentry one of the glasses, ignoring the Miami Beach chief of detectives.

He held his glass high and said pleasantly, “Here’s to more and bloodier murders.” After draining his glass and smacking his lips, he added, “If you birds are all through I won’t take up any more of your time.”

“By God!” Painter burst out. “The voice over the telephone sounded a lot like yours. You’re just dumb enough to think that would be a smart stunt. It would cover you up nicely in the girl’s disappearance. Where were you at eleven forty-five?”

Shayne sat down and lit a cigarette. He said gently, “None of your damned business.”

Painter turned to Gentry and exploded, “We can drag him in on suspicion.”

Gentry had been watching Shayne. He shrugged his shoulders.

“He’d be out in an hour on habeas corpus. Nope.” He shook his heavy head. “I don’t think Shayne knows any more about where the girl is than we do. Come on.” He got up abruptly.

Shayne grinned at them quizzically. “Come back any time. You never can tell when I’ll have a murderess sleeping in my bed.” He sat at the table and watched them go out.

After a few minutes he went to the phone and called the clerk to ask if they had gone through the lobby. The clerk knew Gentry, and said they were just going out the door. Shayne hung up the phone and went into the bedroom. The covers were thrown back on the bed. He searched under the pillow and mattress, and on the dresser, for a note. There was none. Everything was in perfect order. He went through the bathroom carefully and through the kitchen. The night latch was on the kitchen door leading out to the fire escape. On sudden thought, he went into the living-room and found the. 25 automatic gone from the drawer.

Finally he went to the front door of the apartment and examined the marks carefully. The door had been expertly forced open by someone in possession of an excellent set of burglar tools. There was a Yale lock on the door, but a jimmy had spread the door far enough from the jamb to allow the insertion of a slender piece of steel behind the latch to force it back. The entire operation had probably taken only a few minutes and should have been noiseless.

Well, there was nothing to wait around for now. He closed the door and found it had been sprung a trifle but not too much to prevent the latch from holding. He got his hat and went down to the lobby.

The hotel was a small one and had no house detective on its staff. The elevator boys said they had noticed nothing unusual in the vicinity of his room that morning. He described Phyllis to them, but none of them remembered seeing her go out. Anyone who wished to, of course, could enter and leave the building by the private side entrance.