Бретт Холлидей - Death Has Three Lives

Lucy Hamilton glanced quickly at the electric clock in her living-room when the buzzer sounded downstairs. It wasn’t quite nine o’clock, and Lucy frowned with pleased perplexity as she crossed the pleasant room to press the release catch on the front door of the apartment building.

Michael Shayne hadn’t actually said he would drop by this evening, though he had asked her casually if she had any cognac in the larder when they left his downtown office together at five o’clock.

She hadn’t really expected him, and certainly not so early as this. But she looked just right to receive an informal visitor, she assured herself with a sweeping downward glance as she turned the knob of her second-floor door and heard footsteps mounting the stairs. Michael hadn’t seen this hostess gown before. It was a shimmery blue, with a tight bodice and short puffed sleeves, a flaring skirt that fell in folds from her nice hips to just touch the tips of her blue satin mules.

She fluffed one hand through the brown curls at the back of her head, and put on her most pleased smile as she waited for her redheaded employer to round the stairs onto the landing just in front of her.

Lucy Hamilton stiffened and drew back from the open doorway with a swift indrawing of breath when her visitor appeared.

It was not Shayne. It was a man she thought she had never seen before. He was tall and slender and no older than she, and wore light-tan slacks and an open-throated polo shirt of sky-blue knitted cotton. A gray, snap-brim felt was tilted rakishly low over his right eye, and Lucy’s first brief glimpse of his face gave an impression of dark leanness with tightly drawn flesh over prominent cheek-bones that was almost pain-contorted.

She involuntarily started to swing the door shut, thinking the ring of her bell had been a mistake and the man wanted one of the other three apartments on the second floor, but hesitated with a six-inch crack as he stopped on the top step and exclaimed hoarsely, “Hold it, Lucy. Don’t you know who I am?”

She caught her lower lip between her teeth, studying him dubiously and trying to recall if she had ever heard his voice before.

Holding his right arm stiffly across his stomach and dragging his hat off awkwardly with his left hand, he essayed a reassuring smile that had in it the elements of entreaty and of fear. He stood like that, tight-lipped and with black eyes burning feverishly at her through the narrow crack, giving her an opportunity to look him over and decide for herself whether she would slam the door in his face or invite him inside.

Lucy shook her head slowly and said, “There must be some mistake. I’m Lucy Hamilton.”

“I know.” The words came from tight lips, clipped and impatient. “From New Orleans. I’m Jack Bristow.” He paused a moment, waiting for some response, then added, “Arlene’s brother.”

Arlene Bristow. A girl who had worked with Lucy in New Orleans before she met Michael Shayne and became his secretary and followed him to Miami. A dark, vivid girl, with a penchant for laughter and for a bewildering succession of beaux that had caused Lucy to envy her in those days.

Yes. Arlene did have a brother. A memory came to her vaguely as she hesitated. An evening in Arlene’s apartment. Just the two of them with a light supper cooked in Arlene’s kitchenette and lots of girl talk.

A ring of the bell and the shambling, staggering entrance of a very drunk young man whom Arlene had apologetically introduced as her brother, and who had immediately made the most outrageous love to Lucy in an obnoxiously self-assured manner that had infuriated her.

Yet, there had been lonely nights after that meeting when Lucy had drearily repented her prudish withdrawal from his attempted caresses and unhappily wondered if she would ever meet him again. There had been something dashing and fascinating about the young man’s assumption that any woman would be flattered to be asked to sleep with him — not the least element of which was the undeniable fact that Lucy had secretly been flattered.

That was the only time Lucy had seen Arlene Bristow’s brother. She recalled tentative attempts to find out something more about him, which Arlene had not responded to. At that time Lucy had gotten the impression that he was a weakling and a ne’er-do-well and probably best forgotten, but now he didn’t look weak, and there was a remembered flutter in Lucy’s stomach muscles as the left corner of his mouth twitched upward mockingly and he demanded, “Still a virgin, Lucy?”

The challenge couldn’t be disregarded. He looked sober enough, though queerly drawn and trembling as though on the verge of exhaustion. Lucy opened the door wider and stepped back, saying coldly, “Come in if you like. Is Arlene still in New Orleans?”

“Yes. Last time I heard.”

He came through the door with a rush, staggering momentarily though there was no smell of liquor on his breath as he passed within a foot of Lucy. He stood in the center of the room with his back to her as she closed the door, leaning forward slightly from the hips and with his right arm still pressed stiffly against his stomach. He straightened when he heard the click of the door latch, turned, and said with an effort of debonair gaiety, “Alone at last, Lucy dear. Have you had a phone call the last fifteen minutes?”

Then his black eyes glazed over and he fell face forward onto the rug. Lucy ran to him and fell on her knees beside his crumpled body. He looked pathetically young and defenseless with all the color drained from his dark face when she turned him over. His arm fell away from his body and lay inert, and there was a stain of blood on the blue polo shirt just beneath the bottom ribs on his right side.

Compressing her lips and fighting back panic, Lucy pulled shirt and undershirt up from his waistband and found a small wound oozing blood in the soft flesh. She sank back on her heels for a moment, considering what doctor she might reach most quickly, and was disconcerted to see his black lashes lift and to hear his voice.

“No doctor, Lucy. For the love of God, why do you think I made it here? I’ll be okay. Just let me rest a little. If I could lie down — and if you’ve got a drink.”

She started to protest, but he placed both palms flat on the floor beside him and lifted himself to a sitting position, his eyes blazing at her with determination and command.

“Put a towel on your bed and let me lie there. I promise not to bleed much. And get me a drink. I just need to rest. Then I’ll go on.” He groped for her wrist and pulled himself upright and Lucy let herself be persuaded momentarily, thinking it was best to propitiate him and keep him quiet, that she would surreptitiously call a doctor as soon as he was safely in the bedroom, wondering about the note of desperation in his voice and what he had done to be afraid to have a doctor tend him.

With Jack Bristow leaning on her arm and stumbling a little, she led him into the bedroom where he sank onto the edge of the chaste single bed and shook his head stubbornly when she urged him to stretch out on the immaculate spread.

“Don’ wanna cause you trouble,” he mumbled. “Get towel. Lemme lie down few minutes. ’At’s all. Jus lie down and rest.”

She left him and hurried into the bathroom, flew back with a heavy towel which she spread out behind him. He relaxed on it with a wince of pain and then a deep sigh of relaxation. Closed his eyes but caught her wrist in a hurting grip when she tried to stand up.