Brett Halliday - Dividend on Death

“This’ll be justifiable homicide.” Shayne chuckled. “You’ll get a medal for saving the state hanging money. Be hanging around outside the grounds out of sight about a quarter of twelve. Don’t, for God’s sake, come busting in and spoiling my show until the shooting starts.”

“Shooting? Now look here, Shayne-

“I’m just guessing.” Shayne hung up and fortified himself with another long pull from the bottle. Then he put it in his pocket and went downstairs, feeling almost human again.

At the desk he paid for the extras he had ordered, and went up the street to Pelham Joyce’s studio.

Joyce met him at the door, tremendously excited. “Perhaps you had a finger in this,” he charged.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“About a certain Mr. Gordon calling me up not ten minutes ago and giving me a puff about having been recommended to him as the foremost connoisseur of Art in the city-and asking me to go with him this noon to authenticate what is purported to be a genuine Raphael he contemplates purchasing. I don’t know any Mr. Gordon.”

Shayne sat down and began laughing helplessly. “I told him he could pick his own expert.”

“Then you are responsible?”

Shayne shook his head feebly. “Absolutely not. I didn’t mention your name. He must have inquired around. But, by God, he couldn’t have picked a better man to pass on this Raphael.” He sank back and laughed some more while a frosty smile appeared on Joyce’s features as he began to understand.

“Is the painting okay?” Shayne asked after a time.

Joyce went over to the table where it was spread out, rolled it up, and replaced the brown paper covering that had been on it originally. Shayne took it and thanked him and said they’d be seeing each other about eleven-forty.

Then he went down to the street and to his own hotel. He smiled grimly as he unlocked the door and went in. The apartment had been thoroughly searched during his overnight absence, and no effort had been made to cover it up. The door hadn’t been jimmied this time. Mr. Ray Gordon was a gentleman who managed such things more smoothly.

The bedroom and kitchen had been as thoroughly gone over as the living-room. He opened the refrigerator and took out the hydrator. Poking his finger down through the shredded lettuce he found the pearls had not been molested. He put the hydrator back as it had been, went into the living-room, and sat down in the midst of the disorder, alternately smoking cigarettes and sipping brandy while he waited for eleven o’clock to come.

Precisely on the hour he got up and went out with the painting under his arm.

Downstairs he casually mentioned to the clerk that his apartment had been burglarized, and asked him to send up a maid to straighten things out.

Then he went out, got in his car, and clumsily drove north to the causeway and east across Biscayne Bay to Miami Beach.

Pulling up at the Brighton Estate, Shayne saw a couple of strolling pedestrians in the street and recognized one of them as a Beach detective, but the fellow merely looked at him blankly as he turned in.

There was another loiterer on the beach in a bathing-suit, and a fourth lolling in the shade of a palm behind the garage. The police trap was set. Shayne parked his car beyond the porte-cochere and went up the steps with the million-dollar bait under his arm. The elderly maid answered his ring and sourly told him he was expected in the library. It was eleven twenty-eight as Shayne went down the hall.

Mr. Montrose and a man whom Shayne recognized as D. Q. Henderson arose as he stepped in. They had been sitting in two armchairs near the center of the room. Beyond them was Oscar the chauffeur, sitting stolidly in a straight chair with a low-browed glower for Shayne as the detective greeted the trio briskly, “Gentlemen.”

“Mr. Shayne.” Mr. Montrose moved forward, rubbing his hands together, with his eyes fixed on the cylindrical article beneath Shayne’s arm. “You have it?”

“Naturally.” Shayne awkwardly transferred the roll to his right hand and offered his left to Mr. Montrose. He nodded past him toward the morose chauffeur.

“What’s that ape doing here?”

“You mean Oscar? Ha-ha.” Mr. Montrose’s laugh was without mirth. “I felt a natural uneasiness about being alone with such a large sum of money. Ah-decidedly so in view of the tragic events of the last few days. I asked Oscar to remain as a sort of guard until the transaction was completed.”

“You’ve got the money?” Shayne asked brusquely. “Oh, yes, indeed.” Mr. Montrose patted his breast pocket. “And you have the-ah-”

“Raphael,” Shayne supplied shortly. He walked to the table and dropped the rolled painting.

Henderson came forward, and Mr. Montrose exclaimed, “Oh, dear me. I do beg your pardon. This is Mr. Henderson, Mr. Shayne.”

Shayne nodded to the art expert and said, “Look it over and let’s finish our business.”

Mr. Montrose wet his lips and moved to Henderson’s side as the expert took up the roll and unwrapped it. The secretary was shaking with agitation, and his eyes glittered as Henderson carefully unrolled the picture on the table. Even Oscar seemed to sense something of the drama of the occasion. He heaved his body up and edged toward the table, planted his hands solidly to support his weight as he leaned forward to stare openmouthed at the not-impressive blending of soft colors on the canvas.

Henderson’s breath made a queer little unmusical whistle as he studied the painting a moment, then he turned and nodded to Mr. Montrose. “This is it.”

“I’ve kept my part of the bargain,” Shayne said to Montrose. “I’ll take that ten grand.”

“Are you positive?” Mr. Montrose asked the art expert. He eyed the unostentatious painting with an air of faint disappointment.

D. Q. Henderson said haughtily, “I stake my reputation as a connoisseur of Art on its authenticity.”

Mr. Montrose leaned past Shayne and pointed a shaking forefinger at the painted signature. “That,” he quavered, “does not spell Raphael.”

Henderson smiled indulgently. “Naturally not. This masterpiece would not have been allowed to leave the Continent had the truth been known. And it would cost a small fortune to enter an authentic Raphael through the customs. I, myself, saw to having Robertson’s signature painted over the original. You’ll find the old master’s mark plain enough when this bogus signature is scraped off.”

“For Christ’s sake!” Shayne broke in harshly. “Are you stalling, Montrose?” He made a gesture as though to pick up the canvas.

“Oh, no. No, indeed.” Mr. Montrose flutteringly stopped Shayne.

“All right. Let’s see your money,” Shayne growled.

Mr. Montrose sighed and dipped his hand in the inside breast pocket of his coat. He drew out a long unsealed envelope. His fingers lingeringly caressed the thick sheaf of bills as he riffled them under Shayne’s intent gaze, then slid them back into the envelope.

“This is a tremendous responsibility I am assuming for Mr. Brighton,” he murmured. “Naturally, I wish to take-every-er-precaution.”

“What more do you want than Henderson’s word?”

Mr. Montrose held the envelope tightly in both hands. Oscar had stepped back two paces and his little eyes were fixed on Shayne’s uninjured left hand.

“I should like,” Mr. Montrose said apologetically, “to see the bogus signature removed and the true one revealed.”

“Why not?” Shayne reached out and tweaked the envelope from the secretary’s hands. Oscar stiffened, but no one paid him any heed.

“Go on,” Shayne said to Henderson. “Scrape it off and show him. I’m not going to do a Houdini with the dough. But I’ll just keep a tight hold on it before half a dozen niggers jump out of the woodpile.”