Brett Halliday - This Is It, Michael Shayne

“My guess would be the female chorus,” Rourke grated. “Back row. I told you she didn’t say.”

“Look, Beatrice,” he said. “If Paisly has studied acting he could probably imitate my voice. He heard me talking at the Golden Cock. When you listen to him this time, try to recall the telephone conversation and see if you hear any of the same inflections.” He stood up and stretched and added casually to Gentry, “Mind if I use your phone?”

“Who you calling this time of morning?” the chief asked suspiciously.

“Lucy. I promised I’d call her. She’ll be sitting on the edge of the bed waiting to hear from me.” He sauntered over to the chief’s desk and lifted one of the phones just as the man who had been sent to pick up Paisly opened the door and announced:

“We’ve got Paisly outside, Chief. And the dame who lives in the house. They think it’s a morals charge,” he added with a grin.

“Bring both of them in,” Gentry ordered.

Lucy answered just as Gentry spoke. Shayne shifted his position to watch Beatrice’s strained face as she waited for Edwin Paisly to be brought in.

He spoke softly into the mouthpiece. “Did I wake you, angel?”

“I’ve been waiting for you to call, Michael. Is Miss Lally all right?”

“She’s okay,” he assured her. “We’re in Will Gentry’s office right now and I’m going to take her home in a few minutes and tuck her in bed.”

“Then will you stop by here, Michael? I can’t possibly go to sleep until you tell me what happened.”

“Better take a pill,” he muttered. “I may be a long time with her. I’ve got to get hold of Sara Morton’s story on Harsh so I can destroy it before this thing blows up in my face and I lose half my fee.”

He looked around with the receiver to his ear as the door opened again and Edwin Paisly was ushered in. Behind him was a long-limbed blonde wearing sandals and a zippered housecoat. She glared at the occupants of the room with tight lips and contemptuous eyes.

Shayne spoke just above a whisper into the mouthpiece, “Hold it a minute, angel,” while he watched Paisly gesticulate in vehement protest at the outrage as the officer pushed him along. He was fully clothed, but disheveled, his hair twisted in little tufts across the front where it was longer, as if feminine fingers had playfully tried to curl it, and there was lipstick smeared around his mouth. He stopped suddenly and his features tightened with loathing and anger when he saw Miss Lally seated primly across the desk from Will Gentry.

“I knew you must be at the bottom of this,” he shrieked vindictively. “I hope you’re satisfied with all your snooping and spying.”

Lucy’s voice was protesting in Shayne’s ear, wanting to know what was going on, declaring she’d wait up hours for him to tell her-that she’d never go to sleep now.

“It’s no use, angel. Beatrice and I may even end up at my place-and you know she’s already got her toothbrush with her.” He grinned as he listened a moment, said, “Good night,” softly, and hung up.

“… and I was glad to tell the police where they could find you if that’s what you mean,” Beatrice was saying. “Staying with that woman while you pretended to make love to Miss Morton.”

“Who’s this dame, Eddie?” Paisly’s companion regarded Miss Lally haughtily with her hands on her skinny hips. “What kinda bum rap-?”

“I’ll ask the questions,” Gentry growled. “Where were you before seven o’clock last night, Paisly?”

“I was-at Ellie’s place,” he said sullenly, his breath coming in snorting anger. “She’ll tell you I was there.”

“What time did he come back to your place after failing to meet Miss Morton for his dinner date?” Shayne put in quickly to the girl.

She turned her head and looked him up and down coldly. “About ten o’clock. He’s been there ever since, and whaddaya want to make of it?”

“How many phone calls did he make after ten o’clock?”

“I didn’t make any,” Paisly said violently. “We were together all the time and Ellie can swear I didn’t.”

“And her testimony is worth about a dime a barrel,” grunted Gentry sourly. “This is no good, Mike. He has had hours to prime her to tell whatever story he wanted.”

Shayne nodded agreement and turned to look searchingly at Miss Lally, who was leaning forward intently. Her eyes were half closed and her head was turned sideways in a listening attitude.

He sauntered over to her. She motioned him to bend down, putting a finger to her lips to indicate she wanted to whisper something. “I just don’t know,” she told him. “I think it might be. But it’s so important I wouldn’t want to swear to it without-you know-”

“I see,” he whispered, then straightened up and raised his voice to Gentry. “She’d be much better able to tell by listening over the telephone, Will. Why not have her call you here after a while and you can try it out then.”

Paisly was twisting his head rapidly to look from one face to the other with complete bafflement. He appeared relieved when Gentry ordered, “Take these two out and keep them separated. I’ll have Harsh first, and then Garvin-and then I’ll be ready for Paisly.”

“May I go to my hotel now, Chief Gentry?” Miss Lally asked once more.

“But stay there,” the chief admonished. “I’ll want you again later.” He looked at Shayne, and again he nodded in agreement. When Shayne started toward the door with the girl, Gentry called out, “Don’t you want to sit in on questioning these birds, Mike?”

“I’ll be back,” Shayne answered blithely. “Beatrice and I have a date-remember? Don’t forget she’s going to call you to listen to Paisly’s voice on the phone. After that, if you don’t know who your murderer is, I’ll tell you. I’d tell you now,” he added with an infuriating grin, “except there’s something I need to pick up at the Tidehaven Hotel first.”

They went out and closed the door. Shayne hustled Beatrice down the corridor to a side exit and out to his car, got in and pulled away fast.

“Did you mean that, Mr. Shayne,” she asked anxiously, “or were you just fooling the chief?”

“I think I know,” he told her, “but I wanted to get away and go to your hotel room with you to pick up that story Miss Morton wrote about Harsh before the police get it. It’s worth money to me.”

“I don’t know about the carbon copy,” she said nervously. “Miss Morton kept it for some reason when she told me to file the original away.”

“The carbon is safe enough,” Shayne assured her.

Miss Lally shivered and sighed. She sat primly erect, as though too tired to relax, and they drove in silence to the Tidehaven Hotel.

The lobby was dimly lit and empty except for one clerk. They went to the elevator and up to the 14th floor without speaking. She led the way down the hall and unlocked the door of her bedroom, and Shayne stood back to let her precede him inside.

She went directly to the bureau and fumbled in the top drawer, sighed with relief as she lifted out a spectacle case and opened it.

With a duplicate pair of glasses on, Miss Lally became once more the epitome of a primly efficient and sexless secretary. She stooped to open the bottom drawer of the bureau and drew out a bulging cardboard folder, riffled through the papers inside, and handed Shayne a dozen typewritten sheets clipped together at the top.

He glanced at the first page and tucked the manuscript under his arm with a satisfied nod. She was facing the mirror, and she leaned forward to study her disheveled reflection with a rueful grimace. “I look and feel as though I’d been put through a meat chopper,” she murmured. “I hope you don’t mind if I just flop into bed.”