Бретт Холлидей - Death Has Three Lives

“He do it?”

“Nobody knows from nothing. He’s missing. May be the one a taxi driver reported picking up in front of here who acted hurt and left blood in the cab when he got out. Chief’s in there now. You got any ideas?”

Michael Shayne shook his head slowly. “Just so her name wasn’t Adele. Think she shot the guy while he was choking her?”

“Nothing to show it,” grunted Bentley. “No one heard a shot and no evidence a gun was fired in the room. But hell,” he went on disgustedly, “no one hears a damn thing in a joint like this. Girl gets beat up by some drunken bum, nobody interferes.”

Shayne agreed idly that it was tough on Homicide to work on a case like that, and when the detective spun his cigarette butt away and turned to re-enter, Shayne told him good night and crossed the lawn to walk toward his car.

As he neared the corner, he heard the light, fast clack of high heels on the sidewalk behind him. He crossed the street slowly and she came up behind him as he reached the shadows on the other side. A low, tremulous voice said, “Wait a minute, mister,” and Shayne turned to see a small, pinched face with big eyes and an over-lipsticked mouth.

She was thin and young and shabbily dressed in a gray sweater and short tweed skirt, and thin fingers clutched tightly at his forearm as she said, “I saw you talking to the cops back there. What’s happened? Nobody seems to know. For the love of holy Christ, mister, tell me what’s happened?”

Shayne looked down at her consideringly. “Why don’t you ask the police?”

“I can’t. I’m afraid to.” Her thin voice rose abjectly. “You know how cops are. They’d ask me all sorts of questions. Just tell me, mister. I saw the ambulance. Is there somebody — killed?”

Shayne said, “Here’s my car.” He opened the door and put a big hand under her elbow to urge her in. “Why don’t we go some place for a drink and talk about it?”

“Tell me one thing first.” Her voice was fierce. “Who was it? I got to know.”

Shayne closed her door firmly and went around to slide under the wheel beside her. “A girl who called herself Trixie was strangled there tonight.”

“Oh!” She exhaled a great sigh of relief and slumped limply back against the cushion. “Thank God, mister. I just didn’t know. You see, I’m a stranger here. Just hit town tonight. I didn’t know — what to do.” Her voice cracked on the final words and she compressed her garish lips tightly.

Shayne started the motor and the big car pulled ahead smoothly. “Where are you from?”

“New Orleans. I hitchhiked all the way. Look, mister, I’m just about nuts. I don’t know what to do. I was to meet my husband there tonight, see? We fixed it up two days ago. I had that address, and he promised to meet me there outside if I made it by tonight. So when I got there, there was cops all around. I was afraid to ask questions, and I just didn’t know. If he was there waiting and saw the cops, he’d of blown. So, now what do I do? How’ll I ever find him now?” Tears ran down her pinched cheeks and she made no move to wipe them away.

Shayne turned south on an avenue without saying anything, and stopped in front of a bar and lunchroom a few blocks away. He said gruffly, “Let’s go in and talk it over. Maybe I can think of some way to help.”

She laxly let him help her out, and went in beside him. There were a few men at the bar, an empty booth at the rear. Shayne steered her into it, told the waiter to bring him a double brandy and ice-water, and looked inquiringly at the girl across from him.

She looked doubtful and frightened and said, “I don’t drink much. I dunno — on an empty stomach—” Her voice trailed off thinly.

She was under twenty, Shayne thought, obviously undernourished and anemic. She would be quite pretty, he thought, with the hollows in her cheeks filled out, and her gray eyes were nice though now they were hauntingly remindful of those of a wounded fawn.

He said, “Better have something to eat first. Bring us a menu, waiter.”

“If I could just have a sandwich,” she said doubtfully. “And maybe a glass of milk. But I’m flat broke,” she went on fiercely with a swift pride in her voice, “and I can’t pay you back until I find my husband, and I don’t want you to be thinking—”

Shayne said, “I’m not thinking anything. How about hot roast beef — a couple of them,” he told the waiter when she nodded eagerly, “and a big glass of milk.”

“I don’t suppose you know how it is with a girl out on the road.” She dropped her eyelids and clenched her hands together tightly on the table in front of her. Her voice was low and throbbed with a genuine note of desperation. “Every man that picks you up thinks — you know? And if you let ’em buy you a meal they think they’ve bought you .” She paused and gulped, still with downcast lids. “I never... I never did try hitchhiking before. I don’t want you to think—”

“I’m not thinking anything,” Shayne told her heartily as the waiter set a platter in front of her with two open beef sandwiches smothered in steaming gravy, “except that you’ll feel better after a little food. And it’s not going to cost me any more than the price of a drink, so forget it.” He settled back and lifted his double brandy while she grasped her fork and wolfed into the food, washing it down with long gulps of milk.

He ordered her a second glass of milk, and she emptied that and scraped her plate clean before another word was spoken between them. She sighed deeply and rested both elbows on the table and confessed with a little-girl grimace, “That’s the first I had since a doughnut this morning. Honest, mister, I never was so hungry in all my life. I just thought if I could wait until tonight and meet — my husband — like he promised, that everything would be all right. He’s got plenty money,” she went on proudly. “He’ll pay you back double, I promise you that.”

“Is Jack in some trouble with the police?”

“Ja — ak?” Shayne couldn’t tell whether her involuntary start was from surprise or fear. “What do you mean — Jack?”

“Didn’t you say that was your husband’s name?”

“I didn’t say,” she told him with dignity. “Anyhow, it isn’t Jack. It’s — Pete. Peter Smith,” she added bravely. “And he’s not in any real trouble at all. It’s just that — you know how cops are. A person’s a stranger in town, he doesn’t want to get mixed up in a murder. If he was hanging around waiting for me, would they believe him?” Her lips curled derisively. “You bet they wouldn’t. They’d drag him right off to the hoosegow and work him over with rubber hoses and like that. They treat you different if you’re respectable and all.”

Shayne said, “I’ve heard about things like that, and I think it’s a lousy deal. The thing is now — what are you going to do about meeting your husband? Sure you don’t know any other place you might contact him?”

She shook her head decidedly. “I just had that one address. We fixed it up over the phone that I was to come, and the way he talked I thought he had a friend lived there. Neither of us have ever been in Miami before and he didn’t know where else to say. I guess I’ll just have to go back and hang around outside until he shows.”

Shayne shook his head. “That won’t be good unless you want to be picked up for questioning. There’ll be police staked out all around there tonight.”

“I don’t know what else I can do,” she said forlornly, tears creeping from her eyes again. “ Why did it have to happen tonight? What’ll he think? What’ll he do when he can’t find me?”

“Under the circumstances, I should think he’d wait until tomorrow morning when it won’t look suspicious to be seen hanging around there — and expect you to do the same. Things will look better in the morning after you’ve had a good night’s sleep.”