Brett Halliday - This Is It, Michael Shayne

Riley came out of 309 with long, hurried strides, stopped short when he saw the chief and Shayne in the corridor. “Oh, here you are,” he said, and held out some crumpled pages of a magazine. “We found them in Morton’s wastebasket. They’re pages with words clipped out of the text. I just had one look at those threatening letters in your office, Chief, but the way I recall it, it looks like this is where they came from.”

Will Gentry reached in his pocket and drew out the three messages, handed them to Riley and said, “Check them against what seems to be cut from those pages-for positive identification.”

Shayne was scowling heavily, and when Riley went back to 309 he muttered, “Looks as if we know now who sent her the letters, at least. Morton had the strongest motive for getting her out of town before a certain date.”

“We’ll talk this development over later,” Gentry said, holding up a big hand to stop him. “In the meantime I’ll take Garvin in and bring Burton Harsh over from the Beach. With their stories and with what Miss Lally can tell us we may be able to make some sense out of this hash.”

“I’ve got five grand riding on keeping Harsh in the clear,” Shayne reminded him.

“If he’s in the clear,” said Gentry flatly, “I won’t stand in the way of your collecting.” He rolled his heavy lids up to look searchingly at Shayne. “Seems to me you tried to get Garvin to convict him.”

“I was trying to break a confession out of Garvin. I thought he might clear Harsh.” He rubbed his jaw reflectively and added, “Harsh has a pretty good alibi for both murders.”

“They’ve all got good alibis for Sara Morton’s murder,” Gentry exploded. “From seven o’clock on. Even Paisly.”

“We don’t know anything about an alibi for Morton.”

“That would tie it all up very neatly,” rumbled Gentry, “with his suicide to top it off and close the case. Too damned neatly, Mike. It doesn’t happen that way. I’ve never yet known a murderer to commit suicide just to make things easy for the cops.”

“But it could be that way this time,” Shayne argued. “Any fingerprints on the gun?”

“His. All over it. But hell, you know how easy it is to wipe a gun clean and press his prints on it.”

Shayne worried his left ear lobe between thumb and forefinger, staring morosely at the bare, worn floor. “Who got Miss Lally over here and knocked her senseless and locked her in a closet to smother? And why? Ralph Morton? And if he intended to kill himself, what in hell did that accomplish?”

“Let’s take it this way: Suppose it was Morton who phoned her to come over for some reason we don’t know. While waiting for her someone comes in and blows a hole in his head. Garvin, for my money,” Gentry said contemptuously, then resumed in his normal rumble:

“Before he can get out of the room she arrives and opens the door. He douses the light fast before she sees either him or the dead man, socks her on the head, and then doesn’t know what to do with her. He doesn’t want to kill her, but on the other hand can’t afford to leave her lying there where she may return to consciousness any moment and give the alarm. So he compromises by locking her in the closet and beating it.”

“That would fit Garvin,” Shayne agreed dispassionately, “if we can break his alibi. Those seven o’clock alibis bother me.”

“They bother me, too,” Gentry confessed gravely. “Her watch being an hour slow-”

“Wait a minute, Will.” Shayne gripped his arm hard. “Maybe we’ve been going at that watch the wrong way.” He paused briefly to clarify the sudden thought in his mind, then continued slowly and carefully:

“Suppose her killer knew she had written that letter to me giving the time as six-thirty? She might have just finished it and not sealed the envelope. So he mails it for her, enclosing the incriminating threats which he didn’t send. But-he turns her watch back an hour, hoping we’ll think it was slow when she typed the letter-then hurries out to get himself a good clean alibi for seven o’clock on.”

Gentry grunted sourly. “That would fit either Garvin or Harsh-or Paisly. They tell me you talked to Paisly at the Golden Cock when you went there with Miss Lally. What do you make of him, outside of being a wrist-slapper?” he added with a fleeting twinkle of humor.

“Slick and on the make. And he hates and fears Beatrice Lally,” Shayne said reflectively. “I don’t know why, but she can tell us. Could you check with the hospital and see if it’s all right to question her?”

“Right away.” Gentry was turning away when Lieutenant Hastings came out of 309.

“I’m through here,” he told the chief. “There isn’t much. The bullet was fired a few inches from his temple, entering the brain and killing him instantly. Somewhere around twelve-thirty, with a half hour leeway in either direction. Those words pasted on the three pieces of paper were definitely clipped from the pages Riley showed you, but we found no scissors or paste in the room. No definite fingerprints except the dead man’s. The twenty-five automatic has been fired once and was fully loaded to begin with. A woman’s gun,” he added. “Few men ever bother with a toy like that. You got any females on tap for this?”

“Only one,” Gentry admitted, “but I hardly see how Miss Lally fits. Bring Garvin down to headquarters-and send a couple of men to the Beach to pick up Burton Harsh for questioning. What’s the address, Mike?”

Shayne gave him instructions for reaching Harsh’s place by the most direct route, then asked Hastings, “What’s your personal opinion, Lieutenant? Could it be suicide?”

“Could be. But I’d say no. He’d been drinking some, and I never knew a drunken suicide who didn’t leave some sort of a sob note. It isn’t a contact wound, although fired close enough for him to have held the gun. Take my word for it, Mike. It’s murder.”

Shayne nodded and said, “I’m glad to hear it. Suicide wouldn’t fit what I have in mind.”

“Such as what?” demanded Gentry.

“I’d rather not say yet, Will. Not until we have a talk with Beatrice Lally to check against the statements we get from Harsh and Garvin and Paisly. You picked up Paisly yet?”

“The boys’ll pick him up-if they haven’t already,” said Gentry confidently.

They went to the elevator, where the Negro boy waited with one hand on the door and the other on the lever, ready to give instant service. He rolled his big eyes up at Shayne and asked fearfully, “When they gonna bring out the daid man?”

“Pretty soon now,” Shayne told him.

The boy hunched his thin shoulders forward and drew them together and his body shook.

“He’s harmless now,” Shayne assured him as the elevator stopped four inches too soon and they stepped down into the lobby.

Gentry went to a telephone booth and called the hospital, inquired about Miss Lally’s condition, hung up and called headquarters, then rejoined Shayne.

“She’s okay,” he said. “I’m having her brought to my office.”

“There’s something I want to check on with the clerk,” Shayne said, and they went together to the desk where the old man sat tensely erect and wide awake.

He described Miss Lally and asked whether she had come to the hotel around twelve-thirty.

“Didn’t happen to notice a woman like that go up. She might of, though, without me seein’ her. I don’t bother much about who goes in and out if they don’t stop for a key.”

“Who runs the night switchboard?” Shayne asked.

“I tend to it-after midnight.”

“Any outgoing calls from three-oh-nine after twelve?”

“Nope. One come in for Morton, though. Right after I took over.”