Brett Halliday - This Is It, Michael Shayne

The girl sighed when she finished, replaced the note and enclosures in the envelope. “She must have gone out and dropped the letter in the mail chute immediately after typing it. Why didn’t she tell me she took those threats seriously instead of sending me to the bar to meet Mr. Rourke? I could have stayed with her-had him come up-” Her voice broke gradually and ended on a note of despair.

“Then you didn’t think she took the threats seriously?”

“Of course not. Not really. She laughed at the first two, yesterday and the day before. You see, she’s had this sort of thing happen before on assignments like this. People try to frighten her away.”

“Like Leo Gannet trying to buy her off?”

“That-and the threats. She always laughed them off.”

“She showed you those notes?”

“I showed them to her,” Miss Lally corrected him. “I open all the mail and select whatever I think she needs to handle personally. That must be what she meant when she said I could tell you about them.”

“Go on,” urged Shayne. “Tell me.”

“There isn’t much. They came in envelopes bought at the post office. The addresses were typed. They were mailed locally, and nothing in them but the crude warnings, and no return address, naturally.”

“What became of the envelopes?”

“I imagine she destroyed them. All except the final one this morning. That may be in her room. I’m surprised she didn’t destroy the messages, too.”

“She laughed at the first two, but reacted differently on the third one-this morning?” Shayne prompted

“Yes. I-had a peculiar feeling something happened to convince her they might not be just the work of a crank. She seemed to-well, expect the one this morning. The minute I showed it to her she asked me to try to get you on the phone. I imagine Mr. Rourke had told her about you. I suggested the police, but she insisted it had to be a private investigation. That’s why I thought-why I wondered-” Her voice trailed off as if her mind was not quite clear about what she wondered.

They were at the end of the Causeway, and Shayne slowed for a traffic light. He made a left turn and drove slowly toward Leo Gannet’s swanky Green Barn.

“You think she guessed who sent the threats?”

“I had never seen her so upset. She sent me out of the room while she phoned you. I should have known then it was something dangerous, after working with her so long and knowing all about everything. Hindsight is a miserable thing,” she ended in a strained voice. “You keep trying to turn time back so you can do the things you know you could have done to keep it from happening.”

Shayne said, “Yeh,” absently, and they drove the short distance in silence.

He parked at the curb outside the brilliantly lighted two-story stucco structure and got out. “I’ll make this one alone-and quick,” he said.

He was back within two minutes. “Just one more stop to put ourselves in the clear and convince Will Gentry we didn’t enter room fourteen-twenty tonight.” He got in and gunned the motor, pulled away fast, then asked, “Who else has a key?”

“I’ve been worried about that ever since I heard you tell Tim Rourke her door was double locked,” she confided. “Does that mean the murderer went in through my office?”

“He must have left that way. And it’s the only way he could have gone in unless she unlocked her door for him.”

“I have the only key,” Miss Lally told him unhappily. “And I don’t even know who else knew about us having the two rooms and always leaving the bathroom doors unlocked. Except Edwin Paisly, of course.”

Shayne thought that over a moment. “It wouldn’t be difficult for anyone to find that out,” he assured her. “A buck or so to the room clerk. You were about to tell me something you were wondering about a while ago,” he reminded her. “When Miss Morton insisted on a private investigator instead of police.”

She hesitated briefly, took off her glasses and nibbled on the end of the frame. They were on the Ocean Drive now, passing the Roney Plaza, nearing Gannet’s second Beach club.

“It’s her husband, Ralph Morton. He has followed her here.” Her low voice was suddenly venomous.

Shayne glanced aside, surprised at her words, her tone. “Her husband?” he echoed. “I didn’t know she had one. You said she was engaged to that Paisly character.”

“She was. Oh, she hadn’t lived with Ralph Morton for years. He’s a scoundrel and I don’t know why she hadn’t divorced him long ago. Perhaps she kept him as a safety valve to prevent her various young men from becoming too serious. But this time I think she really intended to marry. She filed papers when we first came to Miami. If he didn’t contest the case, the divorce would have been granted as soon as she completed the legal residence requirements next week.”

“Was he going to contest it?”

“We didn’t know. Papers were served on him when the suit was filed, but we didn’t hear anything from him until this morning when he phoned he was in town.”

“Did he say anything about the divorce?”

“Not in so many words. But there’s always trouble when he turns up.” She sighed deeply, as if the anger she felt wearied her.

“What sort of trouble?” Shayne persisted.

“He gets drunk and makes scenes. I mail him a check for five hundred every month. Wouldn’t you think that would satisfy him?”

“Doesn’t it?”

“No. He’s always after her for more. He sponges on her reputation. Goes around and introduces himself as her husband and pretends they work together and runs up bills and gets loans on the strength of her credit.”

Leo Gannet’s Red House was on their right, at the end of a short street leading to the ocean. Shayne turned into the street, squinting ahead and frowning at the lights showing in both upper- and lower-floor windows.

“Say, do you remember whether both floors of the Green Barn were lighted?”

“Certainly. There was light all over.”

“But you said Gannet closed down his gambling-rooms because Sara Morton kept dropping into his places unexpectedly.”

“Do you mean they gamble on the second floors?” she asked. “They were closed. She told me so herself.”

Shayne slowed the car to a crawl as they approached the club. He glanced down at his dungarees and muttered, “I’m not dressed for crashing a joint like this. They don’t know you here, do they?”

“No. I seldom go anywhere socially with her.”

Shayne thought for a moment, said, “I’ll pull up in front and let you out. Go inside and act as if you know your way around. Go straight up the stairs on your left and drop a few bucks on the roulette table-and mingle. Try to find out when they reopened, but be careful not to arouse any suspicion. Come down in about fifteen minutes and have the doorman call over the loudspeaker for Miss Lally’s car. I’ll swing around and pick you up.” He stopped in front of the marquee and the doorman hurried to open the door.

Miss Lally stepped out and said coolly, “I may not be here long, Michael. Please stay in the car and be ready to pick me up.”

“Very well, Ma’am,” said Shayne. He pulled into a well-lighted parking-lot and stopped near the exit. There were a number of cars parked, a few limousines, around one of which a group of uniformed chauffeurs smoked and talked.

Shayne locked the ignition and got out, lit a cigarette, and wandered to the end of a tall, unclipped hibiscus hedge that hid the ocean from view. There was no moon, and he stood for a moment looking up at the star-sprinkled sky and listening to the dark breakers rolling in, then circled swiftly around the hedge and made his way to the rear of the club building.