Brett Halliday - Dividend on Death

The maid led him on to the end of the hall and turned down a narrower one until she stopped outside a wide partly-open door and said, “They’re expecting you inside.” He hardly noticed her noiseless, gliding retreat. It took plenty of money, he reflected, to get that kind of service.

Light streamed through the narrow opening, and there was the low hum of voices. Shayne bent his head and listened but could distinguish no words. He pushed the door open a little more and looked in.

There was the sound of slithering feet on the carpet behind him. Sharp fingers dug into his arm. He turned to look into the white face of Phyllis Brighton. She looked ghastly in the dim light. The lashes were drawn back from her eyeballs as though by some mechanical device, and the pupils were so contracted that the entire eyeball seemed to consist only of smoky iris. Shayne saw that she was wearing a flimsy chiffon nightgown and that her feet were bare. Streaks of blood showed darkly red down the front of her nightgown.

He stared at her face and at the crimson stains, his mouth thin and hard. When he saw her lips begin to move, he thrust her back away from the doorway.

She spoke in a flat, low monotone. “I’ve done it. You’re too late. I’ve already done it.”

Without replying, Shayne pushed her back farther from the door and held her out at arm’s length to study her. Her eyes stared back, but he felt that they didn’t really see him. She stood stiffly erect with her gown hanging slackly from shoulders and breasts. Her lips continued to move, but no articulate words came forth. There was only a low moan each time she exhaled. When she lifted one of her hands, he saw that the inside of the palm was smeared with blood. He caught her wrist as she started to grasp his arm. The abruptness of his motion had some effect on her; she drew back from him, her eyes still staring and sightless, and then turned and led him down the hall. Shayne followed, holding tightly to her wrist. Her bare feet glided soundlessly on the carpet, and her breath wheezed in and out between set teeth. There was a back stairway at the end of the hall. Shayne put his left arm about her shoulders as they climbed the stairs side by side. Her flesh was cold under the thin gown. At the top of the stairs she turned to the right and stopped in front of a closed door. Her head moved jerkily, and her face was contorted with grief or remorse.

“She’s in there.”

Shayne opened the door and fumbled for a wall switch, keeping his arm tightly about Phyllis’s shoulders.

The switch lighted a shaded floor lamp standing near the foot of a bed. Shayne moved inside, and the girl moved with him. He closed the door softly with his heel and gazed down somberly at the body of a murdered woman lying outstretched on the bed. One white hand trailed down limply toward the floor, and there was the slow drip of blood into a thickening pool on the carpet.

Shayne’s arm tightened about the girl’s shoulders as a shudder traversed her body. He roughly turned her away while he stepped near the bed and looked down silently at the woman whom he had promised to protect from harm. She wore, he noticed, a gray tailored traveling-suit, with gray blouse and shoes, and she appeared not to have struggled against death. Blood was clotted on the white pillow and continued to seep from a gaping wound in her throat.

Shayne turned away from the bed, his left arm crushing Phyllis to him. Three traveling-bags stood in partially unpacked disarray near the door. A fitted overnight bag lay open on the brocaded bench before the vanity, and there were toilet articles scattered out in front of the mirror. Half carrying the girl, Shayne moved to the vanity. There was an open hammered-silver jewel case holding a miscellany of personal jewelry. An elaborately tooled handbag of gray leather lay beside the jewel case.

Shayne opened it with his free hand and dumped its contents out. There was a lipstick and compact, a wad of bills, and a neatly folded cablegram, a small leather key-tainer. He smoothed the cablegram out and read it with a frown.

HAVE VERIFIED AUTHENTICITY AND WILL RETURN IMMEDIATELY USUAL ROUTE CABLE WHETHER NEW YORK OR MIAMI

HENDERSON

It had been sent from London a week before, to Mrs. Rufus Brighton in New York. Penciled on the bottom were the words: Will meet you in Miami.

Shayne stuffed the cablegram in his pocket. Phyllis Brighton stirred inside the circle of his arm and began moaning. He led her to the door, put both his hands on her shoulders and shook her. Her eyes came open, and she stopped moaning.

“Where is your room?” Shayne formed each word distinctly.

She shook her head as though too dazed to understand, but reached falteringly for the doorknob. Shayne switched off the light and closed the door. Phyllis moved stiffly ahead of him down the hall to another door which stood partly ajar and which she entered.

A bed lamp burned at the head of a bed which he saw had lately been occupied. On the rug beside the bed lay a large wooden-handled butcher knife. The blade was stained red, and the grip was smeared with blood.

Shayne pushed Phyllis down on the bed and stared at the knife. Then he looked at her and asked, “Is that what you did it with?” His face and voice were expressionless.

She shuddered and did not look at the knife. “I just woke up and-and there it was. I-don’t know. I guess-it must be.”

Shayne said, “Stand up.”

She obeyed like a docile child.

“Look at me.”

She looked at him. The pupils of her eyes had expanded to normal size but they were still glassy and unfocused. He asked, “How do you know you did it?”

“I just woke up and knew.”

“Did you remember doing it?”

“Yes. As soon as I saw the knife I remembered.”

Shayne shook his head. Her voice was dull, as if the words were unimportant to her. Something stunk about the entire setup. He didn’t know just what. There wasn’t time to dig into it now.

He said, “Take off your nightgown. It’s got blood on it.”

Still staring into his eyes, Phyllis’s hands went stiffly downward, gathered up the bottom hem of her gown and lifted it over her head.

Shayne turned his eyes away and held out his hand for it. Beads of sweat stood on his corrugated forehead. This was a hell of a time to be thinking about-anything except earning that string of pearls Phyllis had given him. Keeping his gaze averted, he said, “Give me the nightgown.”

She put it in his hand and waited further orders.

He balled the soft material up in his fingers and said, “Now go in the bathroom and wash your hands and dry them. Get another nightgown and put it on.”

His eyes followed her across the room to the bathroom door. When she went inside he shook his head, then bent and picked up the knife by the blade. He wrapped the bloody nightgown around the handle and transferred his hold there. Then he unbuttoned his coat and slipped the knife, blade downward, into the inside pocket; forcing the point through the lining until the handle rested against the bottom of the pocket. He then stuffed the rest of the nightgown inside the pocket and buttoned his coat.

Phyllis Brighton came out of the bathroom, took a clean nightgown from a hanger in the closet, and slipped it on.

Shayne stood beside the bed and watched her. She came back and stood before him numbly, as though she had no will of her own, but waited for him to instruct her.

“Get into bed,” he said. “Cover up and turn out the light and go to sleep or pretend to sleep. Forget about everything. Everything, do you understand?”

“I understand,” she said in a flat, weary voice.

“You’d damn well better.” He watched her get in bed and waited until she turned out the light. Then he went out in the hall and closed the door. He hesitated a moment as he observed the key in the outside lock. With a scowl almost of uncertainty, he turned the key, left it in the door, and strode down the hall toward the stairs.