Brett Halliday - Dividend on Death

“All right.” Shayne dismissed the matter. “About the servants. What is the staff?”

“There’s only the one maid who let you in, the housekeeper, cook, and chauffeur. And Miss Hunt, of course, the nurse who accompanied Mr. Brighton from New York.”

“By all means,” murmured Shayne, “let us not forget Miss Hunt.”

“Eh?”

“Skip it,” said Shayne airily. “The others, do they all live here? And have they been employed long?”

“Yes. Except the chauffeur. He is quartered over the garage and was employed just before we left New York, to drive the limousine down. The others are the regular staff maintained here the year around.”

Shayne said, “Thanks. I’ll wander around a bit.” He went out, leaving Mr. Montrose sitting at his desk.

The ubiquitous maid flitted past him in the corridor. Shayne stopped and asked if there was a rear entrance leading from the garage. She led him down another hall to an unlocked rear door.

Shayne went out and found a concrete walk leading to the garage. A low hedge separated it from the driveway south of the house. As he went along the path he noticed that a curving drive led directly from the four-car garage into the alley. That, he decided, was how Phyllis had given the police the slip last night.

One of the garage doors was open. An outside stairway led upward at the end of the building to a narrow porch opening into the living-quarters above. Shayne walked directly to the stairway and started to climb it. He was halfway up when a hoarse shout stopped him. He looked down and saw a burly figure emerge from the open garage door. A heavy low-browed face peered up at him. The man wore dirty coveralls over a chauffeur’s uniform and was wiping his hands on a piece of oily waste.

“Where d’yuh think you’re going?” he bellowed.

Shayne leaned on the railing and grinned down at him. “I’m on my way to pay the chauffeur a social call. Are you it?”

The man threw down the waste and moved to the bottom step, turning his face up and staring with close-set eyes, growling through thick lips, “You ain’t got any business up there.”

Shayne said reprovingly, “That’s not a nice way to greet a visitor.”

“I ain’t expecting no visitors.” The chauffeur mounted the steps slowly, blinking upward at the detective. He had no eyelashes at all, and the lack gave his face a curiously naked appearance.

“You’ve got one now,” Shayne told him.

“Have I?” It was a surly growl. The chauffeur pushed past Shayne to a couple of steps above him.

“You’ve got one now whether you like it or not,” Shayne insisted pleasantly. He started up another step.

“Not so fast, buddy.” The chauffeur put a grimy hand on his shoulder.

Shayne said evenly, “Take your hand off me.”

The man glared at him, then moved up three steps where he blocked the stairway. “Spill your piece,” he growled.

“We’ll go on up.”

“No, we won’t. You can do your talking right here.”

Shayne’s eyes blazed. The blaze died away to a hard glitter. “Such inexplicable bellicosity must be based on more than personal animosity,” he mused.

“Don’t be cussing me,” the man blustered.

Shayne smiled up at him. A terrifying sort of smile. His lips drew back from his teeth.

“What’s upstairs that you’re afraid I’ll see?”

The chauffeur blinked uncertainly. “You must be the redheaded detective they were talking about last night.”

“I’ll be presenting my credentials in a minute,” Shayne promised him.

“Aw, say.” The chauffeur became conciliatory. “I’m willing to talk, see? But sometimes a guy don’t want his private room busted into. Get what I mean? A guy might have a dame on the sly. Go on down, and we’ll chew the fat.”

“That,” said Shayne with quiet viciousness, “is exactly why I’m going to look in your rooms.”

Fear washed over the chauffeur’s face like a shadow. His greasy fist came up from nowhere and smashed against the side of Shayne’s jaw. The detective lurched back, grabbing wildly at the railing. Grunting curses, the chauffeur swung a heavy foot and planted it in the face below him.

The railing collapsed, and Shayne’s body slithered limply to the ground.

He came back to consciousness just before sundown. He was sprawled drunkenly in his car parked on a side street near the east end of the causeway. He sat up and shook his head, gingerly feeling his face. The rearview mirror showed a livid bruise on his forehead and clotted blood on his cheeks.

He leaned over the wheel and held his bursting head in both hands. Curses came from his lips in a whispered stream.

After a time he sat up, muttering, “If this isn’t a hell of a note. And me with a date with a hot-mouthed blonde for tonight.”

He looked at himself in the mirror again, shook his head dismally, then started the motor and drove across the causeway to Miami.

Parking his car in the hotel garage, Shayne went around to the side entrance and up to his apartment. With one glass of brandy inside him, he poured out another glassful and carried it into the bathroom. The lavatory mirror was no kinder than the one in the automobile. He emptied the brandy glass and then went to the kitchen and drank a couple of glasses of ice water. His head throbbed each time he moved, but he was beginning to get used to it.

Coming back to the bathroom he turned on the hot-water faucet in the tub, went into the living-room shrugging off his coat. He heard something fall to the carpet and looked down at a gold-filigreed fountain pen. He blinked, trying to remember where he had seen it before, finally recalled stealing it from the sickroom for some vague purpose which didn’t seem important any more. He picked it up and dropped it in the table drawer, hurried into the bedroom to undress, and got back to the tub of steaming water before it overflowed.

After soaking himself as red as a boiled lobster in the tub and punishing his flesh with a cold needle shower he decided that life might be worth while after all. Dressed only in undershirt and shorts he padded out to the kitchen and put coffee water on to boil. Then he dressed in clean flannels and a white sport shirt without a tie.

He made a pot of strong coffee, but his stomach muscles rebelled at the thought of food. Carrying the Dripolator into the living-room he drank three cups of the pungent stuff liberally laced with cognac. By the end of that, all was decidedly well with the world. He even essayed his customary tuneless whistle while he carried things back to the kitchen and set about preparing to receive company.

His preparations consisted of squeezing oranges and lemons and mixing a quantity of the juice with eggs, gin, grenadine, and crushed ice in a tall silver cocktail shaker which he gave a vigorous shaking up as he carried it into the living-room. He then set out cocktail glasses and sat down to wait for Charlotte.

The shaker had a heavy coating of frost when her knock sounded on the door. Shayne got up and let her in. She was wearing a beret and a dashing sports costume which showed off her figure extremely well. She lifted her face to Shayne as soon as he closed the door, and he kissed her clinging pouted lips. She pressed herself against the length of him and closed her eyes.

Drawing away at last, she breathed deeply, with full-lunged ecstasy. Her eyes widened in dismay as she saw the ugly bruise on his forehead. “What did you run into, sweet?”

“Your chauffeur’s foot.” He took her arm and led her to the table.

“Oscar?”

“I don’t know his name. We didn’t get that far with the amenities.” He poured out two pinkish cocktails. “Some sort of squarehead. He looks as if he might be named Oscar.”