Brett Halliday - This Is It, Michael Shayne

“Suppose the murderer pushed the hands back an hour,” Rourke suggested. “Maybe he tried to stop it at a certain hour to give the impression it stopped when she fell-to set the time of death in our minds, but it failed to stop.”

“Either way you’re going to have a difficult time proving she wasn’t alive at least as late as six-thirty,” Shayne pointed out with growing impatience and anger. “And that definitely lets Miss Lally out.”

“It could have been written earlier,” Gentry maintained, but there was no certainty in his tone now, then added weakly, “Maybe her watch is no good at all.”

“Hell of a watch,” growled Shayne, “for an up-on-her-toes newspaper woman.”

“She’d have hurled it on the floor and ground it to bits, diamonds and all, if it hadn’t kept perfect time,” Rourke said with a wicked chuckle.

Shayne poured a small drink in his glass and downed it, turned to Gentry and said in a determinedly controlled voice, “Look, Will. Why don’t you settle this thing once and for all by calling the post office? That letter is stamped at the main post office at seven forty-two. Ask them what pick-up from the Tidehaven would fit that time.”

Gentry nodded sourly, heaved his solid bulk up from the couch, and went stolidly to the telephone on Shayne’s desk, while Rourke added a slug of cognac to his stale drink and Shayne poured himself another. When Gentry cradled the phone he conceded, “The letter must have been dropped in the mail chute between six-ten and seven-fourteen. The seven-fourteen pick-up fits.” He rubbed a pudgy palm wearily over his eyes and forehead, then his heavy lids rolled slowly up, like miniature Venetian blinds, and his vein-streaked eyes were hard as granite when he said, “I want Miss Lally’s story. Tonight.”

“You’re not going to get it,” said Shayne calmly.

“What are you pulling, Mike?”

“It’s my case,” Shayne told him stubbornly. “I don’t want you and your dumb clucks in homicide horning in. But I’ll give you something you can work on,” he went on, using another of his well-worn tactics. “Find Ralph Morton, Sara’s no-good husband whom she supports. He called Miss Lally this morning and said he’d just reached town and wanted an appointment with his wife. She hung up on him, but thinks she heard his voice in the next room this afternoon when she was typing.”

Gentry eyed him suspiciously, asked, “Why would her husband want to stick a pair of shears in her throat?”

“She’s divorcing him. That’ll probably end the five hundred a month she’s been paying him to stay out of her hair.”

“So he kills her to stop her from paying him half a grand a month,” said Gentry with heavy sarcasm.

Shayne was unbuckling the belt of his dungarees. “Maybe he’s legally entitled to half her estate or something. Here’s one more thing, if you’re interested. She was divorcing her husband to marry a punk several years younger than she. Name of Edwin Paisly.” Shayne described him with relish. “Just a bit swishy and with all the earmarks of being more interested in her money than in her. Ask him where he was between six-thirty and seven, and don’t blame me if you get your wrist slapped.” He had the dungarees unbuttoned and he held them up with both hands as he started toward the bathroom again.

“Hold it, Mike.” Gentry’s voice was peremptory. “What else did you get from Miss Lally?”

“Very little.” Shayne continued into the bathroom without turning his head.

Gentry followed him to the open door. “No matter how little-I want it. And I want to question her.”

Shayne shook his red head stubbornly. “You can question her tomorrow.”

“Why not tonight, Mike? What the devil are you covering up?”

“Nothing. But if I told you my real reason for keeping her away from you tonight, you’d have to horn in. Leave me alone and I’ll solve your damned case for you.”

Will Gentry was silent for a moment while Shayne began lathering his face, then told him ominously, “You’re ’way out on a limb, Mike. Don’t try to push me around like you do Peter Painter over on the Beach.”

“Then quit acting like Painter,” Shayne advised him irritably.

Gentry’s beefy face became a deeper red. His lips parted but he closed them firmly, turned about, and plodded from the room without another word.

Timothy Rourke got up after the outer door closed behind Chief Gentry and strolled to the open bathroom door with a scowl twisting his thin features. “I think you’re wrong on this, Mike.”

“I haven’t asked for your opinion.”

“But you’re going to get it just the same. If you’ve let that Lally doll go to your head so you don’t know who your friends are-”

Shayne picked up his razor and said disinterestedly, “Go ahead and get it off your chest, but don’t mind me if I shave at the same time. I’ve got a hot date.”

Rourke choked over what he was about to say. He glared at the detective with unconcealed disgust, then turned on his heel and strode out angrily.

Shayne stopped shaving and looked at his watch as soon as the door closed behind Rourke. The time was two minutes past eleven. He hurried out and turned on the small radio on the bedside table, switched to a local newscast and heard:

“… death weapon was identified by Timothy Rourke, well-known reporter for the Miami News and close friend of the murdered woman, as a highly prized possession of Miss Morton’s, a testimonial gift presented to her by the Better Citizenship Bureau of Akron, Ohio, two years ago, in gratitude for her outstanding public service in exposing criminal conditions in that city.

“At this time there are no new developments in this sensational case, but keep tuned to this station for on-the-spot bulletins for which we will interrupt any of our regular programs.

“Police are still seeking Michael Shayne, nationally famous private detective of this city, and the dead woman’s private secretary, Miss Beatrice Lally, for questioning. It is known that Mr. Shayne and Miss Lally left the hotel together, shortly after nine o’clock, to search among her favorite nightspots for Miss Morton, apparently unaware that she was dead at that time. It is known that Miss Morton sought professional advice from Mr. Shayne shortly before her death, and police are confident that information in his possession will point to the identity of the killer as soon as he can be reached.

“Do you wake up feeling irritable and sluggish in…”

He snapped the dial and, returning to the bathroom, shaved hurriedly, showered, and padded to a chest of drawers in the bedroom as he toweled his rangy body. He was buckling a belt around the waist of gray flannel slacks when the telephone rang. He answered on the bedside extension: “Mike Shayne speaking.”

A cultured masculine voice said, “Please listen carefully, Mr. Shayne. I’m calling from a public booth at a roadside tavern, so don’t try to trace this call. I will be miles away before anyone could get here if you notified them.”

“Fair enough. Who are you and what do you want?”

“I heard the eleven o’clock newscast,” the voice went on, “and learned that Miss Sara Morton has been murdered.” He spoke with breathless intensity and a note of desperation.

“That’s right.” Shayne waited, tugging at his ear lobe, his eyes narrowed thoughtfully as he tried to identify the voice.

“When was she murdered, Shayne? The newscaster didn’t say, and it is vitally important to me.”

“Why?”

“Because-” His voice faltered, and Shayne could hear his heavy breathing; then he went on urgently, “Was she alive as late as seven o’clock?”