Brett Halliday - This Is It, Michael Shayne

“You’ve been terrific,” he told her warmly, giving her shoulder a final squeeze before removing his arm. He got out and looked up at the windows of Lucy’s second-floor front apartment. Enough light showed through the drapes to assure him she was not asleep.

“Come on. Miss Hamilton is still up,” he said, opening the door for her. “I’ll go up for a drink, and if you feel like it you can fill in the gaps I’m still vague about.”

He was gentle with her crossing the walk and going up the steps, sensing that she couldn’t see without her glasses; and in the lighted vestibule he again had the impression of a chubby childishness about her, the misty eyes and the round blue collar hugging her white neck.

He frowned as he pushed the button, then grinned fleetingly when the buzzer sounded instantly, as though Lucy waited with her finger on the answering button in her apartment.

Lucy was in the open doorway wearing a sheer dressing-gown over blue silk pajamas. Her hair was tousled and a frown of surprise or dismay flitted across her smooth brow when she saw Miss Lally.

“Michael! You might at least have let me know. I was almost ready for bed,” she said.

“It’s okay, angel,” he said. “This is Miss Lally. Miss Lally, Miss Hamilton. She needs a drink and a place to sleep tonight where the cops won’t bother her,” he went on swiftly, herding them into the room, without giving them a chance to acknowledge the introduction. “And make it fast on the drinks. I have to be moving.”

“Of course, Michael. How do you do, Miss Lally, and what would you like to drink?” She smiled a welcome, added chidingly, “You don’t have to be rude, Michael.”

“Please call me Beatrice,” Miss Lally said with a wan smile. “Could you-do you have the makings for a daiquiri?”

“With the lemon juice already squeezed,” Lucy said and disappeared through the open archway into the kitchenette.

Shayne invited the girl to sit on the couch and pulled a chair up to sit facing her. He took out a package of cigarettes and after lighting one for each of them he asked abruptly, “You say Miss Morton’s husband is in Miami and called you at the Tidehaven this morning?”

Her mouth twisted in a grimace of disgust. “He wanted to see her at once-wanted to know when she’d be in. I didn’t tell him,” she said defiantly. “I hung up on him.”

Shayne rubbed his jaw thoughtfully, vaguely conscious of a stubble of beard. “Do you know where he’s staying?”

“No. But I think he saw her this afternoon. I was typing in the other room. The bathroom door on my side was closed and I didn’t consciously listen. In fact, I typed fast and tried not to listen when I heard a man’s voice. He was angry and talking loud and I thought it was Ralph.”

“But you couldn’t swear it was Morton?”

“No.” She hesitated, closed her eyes, and opened her purse, reached in for her glasses, and put them on. “I wouldn’t want to swear to it, Mr. Shayne,” she said, looking at him levelly.

Lucy came in with a tray, her brown eyes reflecting the gay smile on her lips. “Here they are. I hope-oh!” She saw Miss Lally’s glasses, recovered swiftly from the shock, and resumed: “I do hope the daiquiri will taste right.” She set the tray down without adding, “Beatrice,” as she had intended. She handed Shayne a triple cognac and a glass of ice water. “So you can guzzle and go.” She laughed, then carefully lifted the brimming daiquiri glass and passed it to Miss Lally. “You’d better take a big swallow before it spills.”

Miss Lally took a big swallow while Lucy picked up her water and cognac mixture, generously iced, and sat down on the edge of the couch.

“Did you succeed in reaching Miss Morton, Michael?”

“Yeh. But too late,” he said morosely. “She was murdered a couple of hours before I got to her. Miss Lally has been Sara Morton’s confidential secretary for ten years.”

Lucy said, “Oh! How terrible!” Miss Lally’s hand trembled violently and her drink sloshed over the rim and onto her dress.

Lucy grabbed a cocktail napkin from the tray and pressed it on the wet spot. “Michael and I are so accustomed to reaching for a napkin when we need one-” she began apologetically.

“Miss Lally’s upset and nervous,” Shayne broke in. “We had a few bad moments, and you can thank her for the bullet I didn’t get in my back. Talk to Lucy as much as you can tonight,” he went on, turning to the girl. “Tell her everything-about Miss Morton, your work with her, the assignment she was working on in Miami.” He finished his drink, chased it with ice water, and stood up. His face was gaunt, and his eyes stared bleakly over Lucy’s head, not seeing the fear on her face.

“Take good care of her, Lucy, and stay right here with her in the morning until you hear from me.” He turned and strode to the door, opened it, hesitated briefly, then said, “I’ll call you when I can, but I expect to be moving fast. And don’t worry.”

In his car, Shayne made a U-turn and drove back to the Boulevard, drove south past Bayfront Park and Flagler Street to a right turn on Southeast First. He parked at the side entrance of his apartment hotel, got out, and went through a short hall to the lobby.

The night clerk, a thin, precise little man with pale blue eyes, began beckoning him with rapid crooks of a forefinger and urgent jerks of his head. Shayne was striding toward the desk when he was intercepted by Edwin Paisly, who jumped up from a chair near the elevator.

The young man’s face was strained, and a single lock of damp blond hair hanging down his forehead seemed, oddly, to give a disheveled look to his entire appearance. He got in front of Shayne, and when the redhead didn’t stop he walked backward, saying excitedly, “Mr. Shayne, I have to talk to you. I’ve been waiting and waiting. Really, Mr. Shayne-”

“Sit down over there and take it easy while I have a word with the clerk,” Shayne growled, stepping aside and going past him without slowing. Over a period of years Shayne had learned to judge by the night clerk’s expression whether his important news concerned a blonde or a brunette. The utter lack of any secretive and knowing look in John’s pale eyes told him now it was neither.

“I been waiting to catch you when you came in,” he said. “They told me I wasn’t to tell you, but if you’re dodging them as I know you want to sometimes I knew you’d like to know.”

“What?” Shayne asked patiently.

“They’re waiting up in your apartment-that reporter friend of yours and the big dumb-looking cop that comes here sometimes. It was him that said I wasn’t to tell you they were up there.”

Shayne smothered a grin at his description of Will Gentry, Miami’s chief of police. He said, “Thanks, John. I’m not dodging them, this time, but you never can tell when a tip like that may keep me out of jail.” He turned and crossed the lobby to where Paisly sat slumped in a chair in a far corner. “Didn’t Miss Morton show up for the dinner date?” he asked.

“No. I waited another half hour after you and Miss Lally left, then called the hotel. I don’t think they rang her room at all, Mr. Shayne. Some man answered and demanded to know who I was and what I wanted with Miss Morton. He was frightfully rude, and I’m afraid I replied rather sharply. Then he said he was a policeman and that I should come to the hotel at once.” Paisly didn’t get up from the chair, but sat up stiff and straight. He had combed his hair back sleekly, and seemed restored to his former immaculacy.

“Did you go?” Shayne asked, staring steadily down at him.

“Certainly not.” Paisly’s dark eyes fluttered up to meet Shayne’s gray gaze, then turned away. “At first I considered it rank impertinence. Then I began wondering what was wrong. Do you think it was the police, Mr. Shayne? Will they arrest me for not coming at once as I was ordered? And what do you suppose is the matter?”