Brett Halliday: Date with a Dead Man

He grinned and said, “How in hell do I know? I don’t even know where Littleboro is.”

Lucy said, “It’s about a hundred miles upstate and inland. A farming town.”

They went out onto the street together and she said uncertainly, “I guess I was foolish to bother you tonight. But Mrs. Groat was so darned worried… and like most people in Miami she has complete faith that a redheaded lug named Michael Shayne knows all the answers.”

Shayne grinned down at the moonlight glinting off her brown curls and turned her away from his car parked in front. He said, “I’ll walk you home and come back for my car. It wasn’t foolish, angel. Here’s a guy just been rescued from the dead after ten days or two weeks keeping alive in a life raft… and he walks out on his ever-loving wife the first evening he’s back. No use getting her hysterical, but there’s got to be some reason.”

They had walked east on the south sidewalk until they were opposite the modest building housing Lucy’s apartment, and as they started to cross the street, Shayne said quietly in a low voice, close to his secretary’s ear, “Don’t look now, but we’re being followed.” Her fingers tightened on his arm but she continued walking steadily beside him across the empty street. “Where, Michael? Who?”

He said, “Behind us. I’ll find out who after I let you in your front door. Keep your place locked tonight.”

He raised his voice as they reached the opposite sidewalk and crossed to the front door of her building. “Nothing else we can do about Groat tonight, Lucy. We’ll start wheels turning in the morning if he isn’t back. Got your key?”

She said, “Right here,” in a steady voice. They stood close together at the top of the steps and she opened the outer door leading into a small hallway with mail boxes on each side. She put both hands on his biceps and pressed close to him, turning her face up in the faint moonlight.

He kissed her lips and she drew away after a moment and whispered breathlessly, “Be careful, Michael.”

He said, “I’m always careful,” and gave her a little shove into the foyer, letting the door close behind her, and then turned back to the moonlit street.

He paused on the curb, a tall and deceptively rangy figure, lighting a cigarette with casual deliberation while his gaze searched the palm-shadowed sidewalk across the street. There were small, private residences there, east of the Boswick Arms on the corner, built close to the sidewalk with narrow driveways separating them.

As he exhaled smoke and spun the dead match into the street, Shayne caught a flicker of movement against a rose trellis in the driveway west of the opposite house. It was no more than that, and as he crossed the street with deliberate strides he was able to discern only the shadowy outline of a figure pressed close to the rose bush.

He reached the sidewalk and turned right, his heels striking solidly on the concrete until he was directly opposite the man lurking in the driveway not more than ten feet away. Then he swung into the driveway with a swift lunge that covered the distance in two strides and smashed into a bulky body that had no opportunity to retreat or to get set for the impact.

The man staggered back and would have gone down if Shayne’s left hand hadn’t grabbed the front of his coat and jerked him back. In the moonlight away from the shadow of the house, Shayne recognized the sullen, deeply tanned features of Cunningham, and he shook him angrily, with right fist doubled and drawn back, while he grated, “What kind of tricks are you playing?”

Cunningham’s body was solid and heavy. He braced himself and clubbed Shayne’s left hand away with his forearm while he twisted back, grunting, “You don’t have to jump a guy like that. What the hell’s eating on you?”

He continued to give ground as Shayne stalked him with right fist still doubled and cocked, “What’s your game, Cunningham?”

“Just wanted a chance to talk to you alone,” the steward panted. “I knew Miss Hamilton lived close and figured you’d be coming back for your car after telling her good night.”

Shayne stopped and shrugged. “All you had to do was say so.”

“I’m saying so now.” Cunningham licked his lips and moved forward with squared shoulders that carried a faint swagger of insolence. “I figure you and me might make us a deal.”

“What sort of deal?” Shayne turned abruptly and walked toward his car and Cunningham hurried his shorter legs to keep pace.

“I’ll buy a drink,” he offered eagerly.

Shayne said, “Get in.” He went around to the driver’s side and slid under the wheel and Cunningham opened the other door and sat beside him. The redhead started the motor and made a U-turn back toward the brightly lighted boulevard without glancing at the man on his right. “You know something about Groat you didn’t want to tell his wife?”

“Not that exactly. I mean I still don’t know where he is tonight. But there are some things she mightn’t understand.” He was silent for a moment and Shayne was silent. He hesitated for the boulevard stop, made a left turn into the midnight traffic and drove south two blocks before turning onto a side street and pulling in to the curb in front of a lighted barroom. He switched off the ignition and got out and they went into the bar together where half a dozen men were seated on stools and three of the six booths lining the right side were occupied. The bartender was fat and bald-headed and was chewing on the end of a kitchen match. He lifted tufted gray brows at Shayne and turned to reach for a bottle of cognac on the top shelf, but the redhead walked past, saying, “We’ll rest our feet, Ernie.”

He led the way to the last booth in the rear, and a pert waitress came to lean pointed young breasts over the table between them, and Shayne looked inquiringly at the steward who moistened his thick lips and said, “Bourbon on the rocks.”

Shayne said, “Ernie knows mine.”

When the waitress turned away, Cunningham put both palms of his solid hands on the table and said flatly, “First off, I’m bad worried about Jasper. I didn’t want to let on too much there in front of his old lady, but I swear to God something bad must have happened to Jasper to keep him from keeping that dinner date with me tonight. You know how it is when you’re in a spot like we were on that life raft? Nothing to eat and nothing to drink, and that’s all you think about after a few days.” He licked his lips and swallowed hard, dropping his eyes from Shayne’s hard gaze. “You talk about what you’re going to do first night ashore and what you’re going to eat and drink. Jasper and me… we had it all planned, see? A big celebration. It’s something… you know… a man wouldn’t run out on.”

The waitress brought his glass with two cubes of ice in it, and she poured the bourbon on top of them. She placed a four-ounce glass filled to the brim with amber fluid in front of the detective, and placed a tumbler of ice water beside it.

Shayne said, “I see what you mean. Jasper Groat knew where to get in touch with you if something did come up to prevent him meeting you tonight?”

“Sure. He had my phone number.” Cunningham tossed off half his drink and set the glass down, moving it around in circles on the table in front of him. “It’s something to do with those Hawleys,” he said hoarsely. “You mark my words, Mr. Shayne. If you didn’t know Jasper, you just can’t understand about it all. A real psalm-singer, he was. Sure enough religious, if you know what I mean. Praying all the time on the life raft, and telling that kid soldier and me we should both get right with God before it was too late. How we should confess our sins and humble ourselves before God and all that crap.”