Brett Halliday - Dividend on Death

“Not trying to put me on the spot, are you, Mike?”

He kissed her and said, “Hell, no. I’m in a bad hole on that case and I just thought you might be able to give me a lead.”

“Well, I can’t.” She sank back drowsily. “Do things to me.”

“Think back.” Shayne kneaded soft flesh between his finger tips. “You were on duty when it happened. Who had a chance to get in her room and do it?”

“The whole caboodle of them. They were all around at one time or another. I wouldn’t put it past any of them. Even Monty. He’s cagey. And I don’t think the old lady liked him. Or the old man himself might have slipped out of bed and slit her goozle while my back was turned. He’s foxy enough to do it. And he’s half nuts, too. Know what I caught him doing the other morning?”

Shayne patiently admitted he hadn’t the slightest idea.

“He was feeding his breakfast out the window to the squirrels on the lawn.” She giggled. “He’s plenty goofy. I believe he does that with half the food he pretends to eat. Wouldn’t surprise me any if that wasn’t all that’s the matter with him.”

“We were talking about Mrs. Brighton’s death,” Shayne reminded her.

“Yeh. Well, I don’t know a thing.” She snuggled her head close to him. “The police asked me questions for an hour, and I told them all I knew. Kiss me.”

Shayne kissed her. It lasted a long time and became rather involved before it was over.

A faint click drifted through the stillness to Shayne’s ears. His perceptions were passion-drugged and did not immediately respond to the stimulus.

It wasn’t until he became aware of a cool breeze sweeping through the kitchen that he realized he and Charlotte were no longer alone in the apartment.

He lifted himself away from her fevered lips and listened. He thought he heard a faint rustle in the kitchen, but could not be sure. The pounding of Charlotte’s heart and his was loud in his ears.

He tensed, wary and alert. Charlotte’s body stiffened with him. Her voice was a throbbing whisper.

“Oh, God, what is it? If they find me here-”

He put his hand over her mouth. Even in that moment her tongue came from between her teeth to caress his fingers.

His muscles flexed, and he made a lunge for the kitchen. The outer door slammed shut in front of him. He jerked it open and leaned out. He could hear feet hurrying down the fire escape but could see nothing in the darkness.

He switched on the light and then tried the outside knob on the back door. The night latch was still on as he had left it. It couldn’t have been opened without a key. He closed the door and looked at the nail where the key always hung.

It wasn’t there. He frowned, trying to remember when he had last seen it. He couldn’t recall any particular time. It had just always hung there. Anyone who had been in his apartment recently might have carried it away.

There was a bolt on the inside of the door which would hold it securely against being opened from the outside with a key. He threw the bolt, turned out the kitchen light, and went back into the living-room.

Charlotte was sitting up staring at him with unveiled terror in her eyes. “What was it?”

“Nothing. I’ve just got the heebie jeebies. Left the back door open, and it blew shut.” He poured himself a cocktail and drank it.

Charlotte held out her hand for one. Her hand shook. “God, but I was scared for a minute. I thought there was someone out in the kitchen looking in.”

Shayne didn’t tell her she hadn’t been mistaken. He poured her a drink and said indifferently, “What if there had been? We’re both free, white, and twenty-one, aren’t we? Or, is there a husband in the background? By God, if there is-” He stared down at her angrily.

“No. You got me wrong, Mike. I just thought they might have trailed me here from the house.”

“What if they did?” he asked roughly. “Is it any of their business if you want to sleep around a little?”

“Don’t get sore, Mike. I told you I hadda slip out. They’re so damned afraid that I might take an hour off.” She sank back and held out her arms invitingly. “Don’t be sore.”

“I’m not sore,” Shayne said shortly. “But I like to know where I stand. I’ve kept alive and healthy this long by not horning in on another man’s game. If you’ve got any strings tied to you, sweetheart, say so and get out.”

“I haven’t, Mike. I swear to God I haven’t.” She was tugging at his hand. “You can’t leave me like this.”

“All right,” Shayne said, “I won’t.” He leaned over and pulled the cord of the floor lamp.

It was eleven-fifteen when Shayne cursed in the darkness as he groped for the light cord. He found it and yawned as the light came on.

“You’d better get ready to go,” he said over his shoulder as he got up and poured himself a lukewarm cocktail. “I’ll phone for a taxi.”

Charlotte yawned, too, as she sat up. She said, “It’s hell to have to break something like this up, isn’t it, dearie?”

Shayne grimaced at the warm cocktail and at Charlotte’s term of endearment. It had the professional touch. He set the half-full glass down and moodily went to the cabinet where he poured himself a slug of Martell.

Charlotte scurried into the bathroom and called through the halfshut door, “You’d better call the taxi. There’ll be hell to pay if I’m not back by midnight.”

Shayne drank the brandy, went to the phone, and called the clerk to have a taxi sent around to the side entrance at once.

Charlotte came out of the bathroom, patting her hair in place, bright-eyed and smiling.

“It’s been a big evening. I knew it was gonna be when I first looked at you over there on the stairway. Remember? When I get bothered first time I see a man-look out.”

Shayne said the taxi would be waiting, and started to the door with her. She caught hold of his hand tightly, pulled him to her as he started to open the door. He kissed her mouth without enthusiasm and opened the door.

“You’re not disappointed, are you?” she pouted as they went down the hall together.

Shayne said no, he wasn’t disappointed, refraining from adding that he hadn’t expected a hell of a lot. She clung to his arm going down the stairs and told him happily that she would be back for a repeat performance as soon as she could slip away again. He explained that he often had to work at night and advised her to call before coming. She promised she would.

The dustily white arc of a moon was peeping from behind heavy clouds when they went out the side entrance. The taxi was waiting. A nondescript sedan loitered at the curb with motor running, fifty feet behind the taxi.

Shayne helped Charlotte in, gave the Brighton Beach address to the driver with a dollar. She leaned out to smile and wave as the taxi pulled away and made a U-turn in the middle of the block.

Shayne turned back toward the private entrance of the hotel with a sigh of relief. The sedan nosed up, and a hand came out of the right front window. Moonlight glinted on blued steel, and a. 45 automatic spurted orange flame four times in rapid succession.

Shayne staggered, half turned back toward the street, then slumped down on the concrete sidewalk.

The sedan lurched away in a screaming circle, darted north to mingle with the midnight downtown traffic.

A crowd gathered, and Shayne lay still. Police whistles shrilled through the night, and an ambulance siren shrieked, and the shriek died to a moan as brakes squealed and white-coated young men leaped out. After a hasty examination Shayne was placed on a stretcher, and the siren rose to a shriek again as it tore off toward Jackson Memorial Hospital. The crowds dissolved. There was only a red stain on the concrete to show where Shayne had lain. Then the hotel porter came and washed that away, and there was nothing.