Brett Halliday - Date with a Dead Man

“Thank God I am just your secretary,” she cried out through her tears. “Because I can quit, and if I were married to you I couldn’t. And I am quitting. As of now. I wouldn’t be married to you, Michael Shayne, if you were the last man on earth… and I wouldn’t be your secretary if you offered me a salary of a million dollars a week.”

She eeled away from him, dislodging his hand from her shoulder, and ran to the door, jerking it open and then slamming it shut behind her with a bang that reverberated in the silent room.

Shayne stood looking at the closed door for a long moment, then shrugged his shoulders and said equably, “Lucky I’m a fair one-finger typist. Give me ten minutes and I’ll have the document ready for your signatures.”

He turned and stalked into the bedroom where a portable typewriter stood in one corner of the room.

Michael Shayne awakened early the next morning. He noted early sunlight streaming in the window, checked his watch to be assured it was as early as it seemed, then got a cigarette and match from the bedside table, and drew in the first lungful of smoke for the day.

For some reason it wasn’t as satisfying as usual. The smoke seemed to have an acrid bite to it, and he frowned and glanced at the pack to make sure it was his own familiar brand. It was, and his frown deepened as he took another deep draw.

Then the events of the preceding night came flooding back into his memory and he knew why his first cigarette did not taste as good as usual.

Lucy! And her incomprehensible behavior. Last evening he had steeled himself against her, had resolutely refused to allow her temper tantrum to affect his decision or his judgment in the delicate process of preparing the agreement for Mrs. Meredith’s signature and getting it properly witnessed so it would stand up in court without compromising him. And after she and Sims had left, he had tossed off half a tumbler of cognac before stumbling to bed and into a sound and dreamless sleep.

But now it all came back to him with depressing clarity. Lucy’s face, flushed with anger as she defied him. The exact intonation of her voice when she scathingly declared her pleasure that she was just a secretary instead of a wife… that she hated and despised him and wouldn’t marry him if he were the last man on earth.

And he winced and crushed out the bitter-tasting cigarette as he recalled that, in order to persuade her, he had gone so far as to say to her what he had said to only one other woman before in his life.

“You know I love you, angel.”

It was the first time he had ever told Lucy Hamilton that he loved her. He had been, on the verge of such a declaration several times, but had held off until last night to put the feeling into words.

For what purpose? To be angrily denounced as a crook.

He threw back the covers angrily and swung out of bed, padded out on bare feet to the kitchen where he put coffee water on to boil, and then went back into the living room to check with the airport and be assured that the Mid-American flight from Chicago was scheduled to arrive on time at eight-thirty.

He went back into the kitchen and poured boiling water into the top of the dripolator, set it over a low flame and hurried into the bathroom for a quick shave and shower. He dressed swiftly and drank two fast cups of coffee liberally laced with cognac, going over his plans for the morning with grim expectancy, forcing Lucy Hamilton and her defection out of his thoughts and out of his consciousness… reminding himself again and again that there was a quarter-million dollars at stake this morning if his wild hunch was correct and if he played it to the limit without worrying whether he still had a secretary or not.

He reached the airport at eight-twenty and got the gate number for the incoming Chicago flight, went to it and edged his way through the press waiting to greet arriving passengers until he reached the forefront just as the plane swooped down on a far runway and turned slowly to taxi in toward the Administration Building.

A uniformed attendant held the gate latched and there was a large sign over his head that said: No One Allowed Beyond the Gate to Meet Incoming Planes.

Shayne had a five-dollar bill loose in his left side pocket, and he drew it out with just a corner showing between his fingers as he said to the attendant in a low voice, “I’ve just got to have a word with the stewardess on the Chicago plane before she gets away. How’s if I slip through when the passengers start coming in?”

The guard grinned fraternally but started shaking his head. He stopped the motion when he glanced down and saw the number 5 on a green background between Shayne’s fingers. He shrugged and muttered, “I guess no one will notice if you wait till they start coming through,” and the bill changed hands.

Shayne waited quietly behind the barrier until the big plane was spotted opposite the gate, the stairs were wheeled up, the door of the passenger compartment opened and the trim figure of a stewardess appeared in the doorway and stood there with a pleasant word and smile for each departing passenger.

He eased aside when the gate swung open to let the first ones through, then unobtrusively sauntered against the stream toward the plane, reaching the foot of the stairs just as the last passenger started down. He stayed on the ground and dragged off his hat, catching the stewardess’s eye before she turned back inside, and called up to her, “Have you a parcel for Michael Shayne?”

Her eyes lighted as she took in his red hair and rugged countenance, and she nodded, putting a finger to her lips before disappearing through the door. She was back almost immediately with a thin flat parcel wrapped in brown paper, and hurried down the steps to him, saying breathlessly, “This is against the rules, you know. But when the man in Chicago explained that you were the famous detective and how important this is, I thought… well…”

Shayne said warmly, “You thought just right,” and knew immediately that he should not insult the girl by offering her money. “An important murder case depends on this,” he told her. “Read the headlines in this afternoon’s News.”

“Oh, I will.” She handed the package from Ben Ames to him and went back up the stairs to do whatever stewardesses have to do at the end of a flight.

It was a few minutes after nine o’clock when Shayne got off the elevator on his floor with the unopened package under his arm. Across the corridor, the outer door of his office stood ajar, and his gaunt features tightened perceptibly as he strode to the door and pushed it open.

Lucy Hamilton was alone in the small reception room beyond the low railing, bending over the open drawers of her desk, lifting things out and placing them inside a large, rattan shopping bag, open on her chair.

She straightened slowly and glanced sideways at Shayne as he crossed the narrow space toward her. Her voice was icy as she said, “You’re early this morning, Mr. Shayne. I had hoped to have my desk cleaned out and be out of your way before you got here.”

Shayne stopped beside the railing and said angrily, “Cut it out, Lucy. You know damned well you’re not quitting me.”

“That’s right. I’m not.” A tight smile flitted across her face. “Because I already quit. Last night. Remember? Or were you so taken up with that slut of a Meredith woman and her quarter-million-dollar bribe that you didn’t hear me when I said it?”

“Forget about all that. Look, you were sore and didn’t know what you were saying. Maybe you had a right to be sore. But you know I can’t run this office without you, angel.”

“But don’t forget you won’t have to be running an office after you put over your big money deal. You’re going to retire on the proceeds and buy baby-blue convertibles and mink coats for your woman.”