Brett Halliday - Dividend on Death

Shayne frowned. “You’re not particular, eh? You’d even step out with me.” He made a move as though to leave the room.

“Wait a minute.” She caught his hand, and her eyes caressed him. “I was just kidding, big boy. You knocked me all in a heap when I first saw you. You got something that does things to me.”

Shayne subsided and lit a cigarette. He grinned and said, “You’d repeat that last statement with emphasis if you stepped out with me.”

“Uh-huh. I’ll bet I would,” she whispered.

“Well, why not?” He leaned toward her and lowered his voice to match her whisper.

She shook her head and said longingly, “I can’t.”

Shayne’s eyes looked squarely into hers for a long moment before he muttered, “You’re off duty tonight, aren’t you? Until midnight?”

“Yeah.” She moved her head restlessly on the pillow, drawing nearer to him, but she looked away from him when she said almost inaudibly, “But I’m supposed to stick around this dump all the time.”

Shayne leaned over her and asked, “What for? The other nurse will be on duty.”

“I know-but-” She moved her head off the pillow and moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. Shayne’s face was not more than a foot away from her, his eyes boring into hers.

“I’ve got an apartment.” He gave her the address and the number. “Better use the side entrance on Second Avenue. I’ll be there alone all evening.”

“I’ll remember that number.” Her eyes were bright and feverish. She hunched her shoulders to the edge of the bed. Shayne kissed her moist, parted lips.

She lay back and looked at him and said, “My God!” when he stood up.

He smiled crookedly and said aloud, “Thanks for the interview, sister. You and I have the same idea about a lot of things.” And he added under his breath, “I’ll be looking for you tonight.” He turned abruptly and went out, closing the door with a wave of his hand.

There was no one in the corridor. He went to the balustraded stairway and on down to the library. He saw Mr. Montrose engrossed with a number of papers at a desk on the far side of the room.

Shayne walked in and said, “Good afternoon.”

Mr. Montrose jumped. He smiled apologetically when he saw who it was, stood up, and said, “Mr. Shayne. You startled me.”

“Sorry.” Shayne walked across the room and drew up a chair to the side of the desk.

“Do sit down.” Mr. Montrose’s voice was unexpectedly cordial.

“Thanks.” Shayne sat down. So did Mr. Montrose. The wispy little man cleared his throat nervously. He said, “This has been a terrible ordeal for all of us, Mr. Shayne. I trust that you and the police have apprehended the murderer.”

There was a clean ash tray on the top of the desk. Shayne ground out the butt of the cigarette he had lit in Charlotte’s room and lit another one.

“We’ve struck nothing but blind trails thus far,” he confessed. “I’m working on a lead which may mean something.” He paused for a moment and assumed a deeply thoughtful attitude, then went on. “May I take the liberty of asking a few pertinent questions?”

“Oh, yes, indeed,” Mr. Montrose assured him. “I’ll be happy to assist you in any way possible.” He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his palms together.

“You’re Brighton’s secretary?”

“Yes.” Mr. Montrose nodded and waited.

“You’re fully conversant with his business affairs, I presume?”

“Yes, indeed. Since his illness the burden has naturally fallen on me.” He sighed as though the burden was a heavy one, but that he was bearing up as well as could be expected under the responsibility.

“What, in rough figures, is Mr. Brighton’s estate worth?” Shayne asked bluntly.

The little man gazed up at the ceiling and considered the question. “His holdings have been hard hit,” he said with a frown. “It is difficult, of course, to make a snap appraisal. I doubt seriously, however, whether the entire estate could be liquidated on the present market for more than a hundred thousand dollars-certainly not more than one hundred and fifty thousand.” He shook his head sadly. “And that, mark you, is the estate of a man worth millions a few years ago. Literally millions.”

“Yes. That’s tough,” Shayne granted. “Who inherits? The two children?”

“Equally. Have you heard, Mr. Shayne, that Miss Brighton has disappeared?”

“Yes. I heard something about it. No other heirs, eh? No other member of the Brighton clan to put in a claim if Rufus Brighton should kick off?”

“There are no other heirs,” said Mr. Montrose primly.

“No brothers or sisters?” Shayne persisted.

“As to that,” Mr. Montrose admitted, “Mr. Brighton has two sisters and a brother living. I helped draw up his will, however, and there is no provision for any of them.”

“Seems to me I’ve heard of the sisters,” Shayne muttered. “They’re both married and pretty high society, aren’t they?”

“Both of Mr. Brighton’s sisters married extremely well,” Mr. Montrose agreed with pursed lips.

“How about the brother?” Shayne frowned at his cigarette. “Wasn’t he mixed up in some scandal a few years ago?”

Mr. Montrose drummed on the desk with his finger tips. There was a look of distress on his face. “I do trust, Mr. Shayne, it will not be necessary to drag that story through the newspapers again.”

Shayne said shortly, “I don’t talk for publication. I simply want all the facts before me. I have a hunch this was murder for profit. Thus far I find only two persons who would profit by the death of Mr. or Mrs. Brighton. I understand that Brighton is just clinging to life and may let go at any time.”

“I begin to see the theory you’re working on.” Mr. Montrose nodded and ceased drumming on the desk.

“Theories are all right,” said Shayne. “But I need all the pieces. How about this brother? Weren’t they in business together or something? And didn’t the brother embezzle a wad of money and get put away for it?”

Mr. Montrose sucked in his breath cautiously. “So it was reported. Though I don’t mind saying, Mr. Shayne, that I have always felt a great injustice was committed. I was intimately associated with Mr. Julius Brighton for many years before the affair and I cannot believe he committed any dishonest act.”

“Julius Brighton?” Shayne nodded, crushing out his cigarette. “That’s the brother. I’m beginning to recall it. That was about seven years ago.”

“They were partners in a brokerage business which failed.”

“And you knew Julius pretty well?”

“I was his confidential secretary for ten years. I knew him altogether too well to give the slightest credence to the charges made against him.”

“The jury evidently believed them,” Shayne grunted. “They convicted him, didn’t they?”

Mr. Montrose pointed out sharply, “The jury was in a mood to convict.”

Shayne nodded absently. “What did they give him?”

“Literally a death sentence.” Mr. Montrose spoke with high indignation. “Julius Brighton was broken in spirit as well as body when they dragged him away to serve a ten-year sentence.”

Shayne nodded and lit another cigarette. “Was that when you went to work for Rufus Brighton?”

“Soon afterward. My modest savings also went in the crash. I have always felt,” Mr. Montrose continued in an aggrieved tone, “that the entire truth was not brought out at the trial.”

Shayne got up, saying, “At least that seems to let Julius out as an heir. They quarreled, I take it.”

“Oh, yes.” Mr. Montrose smiled thinly. “I think you can rest assured that Julius will never be mentioned in any will made by Rufus Brighton.”