Brett Halliday - Counterfeit Wife

Perry’s car raced past the house, and the sound of it was presently swallowed up in the night.

Shayne sat very still, slouched low under the wheel, alarmed now by the thought of his naked body. The bungalow was dark and silent. If the family was at home it evidently had not been aroused by the sound of his tires.

He shivered as he sat there, not so much for lack of clothing as at the thought of some member of the household rousing and discovering his plight. That, he thought morosely, would be the crowning episode of the night’s crazy and puzzling adventure.

He became aware of a bundle on the other side of the seat-a fold of hard fabric. He sat up quickly and examined it by feel, unfolding and spreading it out. He found it to be a pair of mechanic’s coveralls, evidently left there by the owner when he finished work the preceding day.

Clutching the garment to him, he opened the door and got out, sidled to a corner of the porte-cochere where the vines were thick and stepped into the coveralls. They had been made to fit a short, stout man. The cuffs reached halfway between his knees and ankles, and the sleeves were well above his wrists. He gave a great sigh of relief as he fumbled with the metal buttons down the front.

As he gave a hitch to pull the coveralls more comfortably around his groin, he heard a metallic jingling. Thrusting his hand into the right-hand pocket, his fingers closed over a few coins. He drew them out and counted them by feel. Half a dollar, a quarter, and two nickels. He felt rich, and stopped thinking about the well-filled wallet he had left in the basement garage.

Sliding back under the steering wheel, he started the motor and backed quietly out of the driveway, made a left turn at the next corner and drove two blocks southward before turning on the headlights. He then turned west to Miami Avenue, and south again until he came to a lighted hole-in-the-wall drinking place. He parked and got out, crossed the sidewalk, and padded inside in his stocking feet.

There was a small bar with a skinny, hard-faced girl behind it. A man and a woman were seated on stools, bickering angrily. He was insisting that she had one up on him and refused to leave until he caught up with her. She accused him of having two up on her before they left home and intended to keep pace with him. He stated flatly that she was drunk before she left home, and she demanded to know how he thought she could take even a teaspoonful of his damned brandy when he kept the bottle marked every time he took a drink. He said that was easy because she snitched drinks and poured water in up to the mark. She called him a liar, and he called her a liar, and they went on drinking.

The skinny girl had a flat, unintelligent face, a tight mouth, and almost no chin. She turned from the quarreling couple and looked at Shayne without much interest as he slid onto the end stool. At that hour in the morning and at that spot on Miami Avenue, it was apparent that a customer with a cut lip and wearing a pair of undersized coveralls wasn’t out of the ordinary.

She moved toward him and said, “Yeah?”

Shayne looked at the rows of bottles behind the bar. He saw the label of a cheap domestic brandy that wasn’t too bad. “Gimme a slug of that,” he said in a tough drawl and added, “water on the side.”

She poured a shot of brandy and set a glass of ice water beside it. He put the half dollar on the counter, drank the brandy at a gulp, and washed it down with the full glass of water. She put a dime and a nickel in change on the counter.

Shayne asked, “You got a telephone in here?”

She said, “The booth’s right there,” pointing to the rear.

Shayne used one of his nickels to call Miami’s chief of police, Will Gentry, at his home. Gentry had been his loyal friend for many years past, and had never yet failed him.

He heard the phone ring three times before a woman answered. He asked, “Is Will there?”

She said, “Mr. Gentry is at his office. I imagine you can reach him there.”

Shayne said, “Thanks,” hung up, and used another nickel to dial the number of Gentry’s private office.

Gentry’s heavy voice heartened him as it boomed over the wire. “Hello.”

“What are you doing at the office this time of night, Will?”

There was a brief silence at the other end. Gentry’s voice lost its booming heartiness. He answered cautiously. “Sure, Mike. I’ll be glad to talk to you in about five minutes if you’ll call me back. Busy right now.” Gentry hung up.

Shayne opened the door of the booth and leaned against it, wiping sweat from his face with the palm of his hand. He was certain Gentry had recognized his voice, and just as certain that Will had a very good reason for not speaking his name aloud. Sure, Mike, could sound like a mere slang expression to whoever was listening in the chief’s office, but to Shayne it meant, Watch your step, Mike. I’ll get rid of this guy and be ready to talk to you in five minutes.

The men’s room was directly across from the telephone booth. Shayne went in and switched on the light, looked at himself grimly in the dirty mirror. His face was clean after the cupped-palm shower he had given himself, but his upper lip was badly swollen and there was clotted blood in the cut. He wet his hair and combed it with his fingers, then loitered in the room until he felt sure five minutes had passed.

When he called Gentry again, the chief of police sounded weary and worried and angry.

“Mike! Where in God’s name are you?”

“Out on North Miami Avenue.”

There was a long, indrawn sigh at the other end of the wire. “I just got Petey Painter out of here. I’ve spent the last hour proving to him that you were on a plane bound for New Orleans. How the living hell did you get back to town? And why?”

“I missed my plane again.”

“No, you didn’t. We checked with National. We know you were aboard when Flight Sixty-two took off tonight. The first stop was Palm Beach forty minutes later and there wasn’t any plane back. Even if you had quit the plane there and driven back the way you drive, you couldn’t possibly have reached Miami by one o’clock. That’s the only reason there isn’t a pick-up out for you right now,” Gentry ended.

“Why? What the hell is Painter trying to hang on me now?”

“It doesn’t matter much since you couldn’t possibly have been here. I suppose you did jump the plane at Palm Beach and drive back. Why, Mike? Why didn’t you keep on traveling away from here? Did you know you were sticking your neck out a mile? God in heaven! Less than three hours ago you were selling everyone on the idea you had to be on that midnight plane. Was that just a stall? Are you mixed up in this kidnaping? Is that why the fellow claimed he recognized you at the wreck where you couldn’t possibly have been?”

“Hold it, Will. What kidnaping? What fellow and what wreck?”

“The Deland kidnaping, goddamn it. There was an automobile wreck on Thirty-sixth at one-fifteen. A man and a woman in a gray sedan. The woman was cut and knocked out, and the man got away before anyone stopped him. One of the onlookers told police that he saw the man and swears it was you. Says he knows you well. Fellow by the name of Farrel.”

“Chick Farrel?”

“I don’t know. I’ve got his statement here. Edward H. Farrel.”

“That’s Chick,” Shayne told him. “He must have mistaken someone else for me.”

“Of course he did. That’s the idea I’ve been selling Painter. But when Petey finds out you did jump the plane in Palm Beach, he’ll figure you had an atomic rocket waiting to whisk you back, and even the discrepancy in time won’t convince him you weren’t in that wreck.”

“What would it matter if I were?” Shayne demanded.