Brett Halliday - One Night with Nora

“I swear I’m through with this sort of thing from now on. I’ll never do it again. I swear I won’t, officer,” she ended, her fingers tightening on his arm, her eyes looking up into his imploringly. “Just let me off this time, huh?”

He shook his head, gulped, and looked away from her pleading eyes. It was clear that the officer believed her story and was sorry for her.

Lucy was quick to press her advantage. “Can’t you see that it was just tough luck I got caught tonight, officer? On the very night I’d made up my mind to quit the whole rotten business. Another two minutes would have made all the difference in the world to me! If you’ll just let me go this time!”

“Sorry, miss,” he said harshly. “You’ll have to tell it to the judge. We’ll want to find this accomplice of yours, and we’ll need you for a witness. The force is working night and day to rid the community of crime,” he continued, his tone filled with pride and determination. “Come on over to the desk and we’ll talk to the clerk.” He caught her arm firmly.

At the desk the clerk looked her over with interest and confirmed her story about the manner in which she had gained possession of the key to 360. Then she was led out to a police car waiting at the curb.

Her only hope, now, was that Chief Gentry would be busy elsewhere, for at least a couple of hours, and that she would not be brought into contact with anyone on the police force who would recognize her as Michael Shayne’s secretary.

Her hope was short-lived. A reporter from the Herald was lounging at the desk when she was brought in. He glanced at the pair without much interest. Then his bleary eyes widened in recognition as he studied Lucy more closely.

He was a short, fat man, partially bald, and, as the young officer propelled Lucy nearer the desk, he jumped up and exclaimed, “What’s up? You’re Lucy Hamilton, Mike Shayne’s secretary, aren’t you?”

“Hell, no. Who’s that?” She looked him in the eye and screwed her face up defiantly. “I ain’t nobody’s secretary.”

The fat reporter whooped with laughter. “Okay, sister. But that’s what the shamus insists on calling you. What gives, Hagen?” he asked the young officer.

Hagen was plainly shocked. He studied Lucy with a puzzled expression on his face. “You say this is Shayne’s secretary?” he asked incredulously.

“Sure. Lucy Hamilton. Who did you think you had in tow?” the reporter said. “How about a story?”

“I—” He gulped and turned to the night sergeant, “Is the chief in his office?” he asked.

“Yeh. He’s expecting a report from you.”

“Hold her right here,” said Hagen nervously, “while I speak to the chief. I don’t — uh — know what the charge will be.”

Lucy shrugged and sat down on the wooden bench in front of the desk. It was evident that the desk sergeant had never seen her before, and she was determined to play her role until she was called into the chief’s office.

She studied the fat man out of the corner of her eye. She felt sure he was a reporter, but she couldn’t recall his name. He had to be the Herald reporter who had followed Shayne’s career for years. He didn’t like the detective because he had so often been scooped on Shayne’s exploits by the redhead’s close friend, Timothy Rourke, of the rival Daily News. Lucy decided she might as well play her role to the hilt.

“You, bud, got a reefer on you?” she asked in a harsh voice.

The reporter laughed immoderately, stood up, and held out an open pack of cigarettes. “Will a plain old Camel suit you, Miss Hamilton?”

Lucy said dejectedly, “I guess it’ll have to, if that’s the best you’ve got.” She took one, put it between her lips, and when he bent forward to light it, she looked up into his face and said pensively, “Can you get hold of Michael?”

He put the match to the cigarette, and, as she drew on it, he said, “Afraid not. The way I hear it, Gentry would like to do that very thing right this minute. You want to make a statement about the murder of Ralph Carrol?”

“I can’t, but Michael might give you a scoop if you could find him and tell him I’m here.”

Hagen came up to them looking subdued and harassed.

“Come with me, Miss Hamilton,” he grated. “The chief wants you.” He took her by the arm and lifted her from the bench. When the reporter started to follow them, he turned and said curtly, “The chief said alone.”

“Hey! What’s the charge?” the fat man called to him, but Hagen did not answer. He led Lucy firmly to a door in the rear and ushered her into Gentry’s office.

The chief was savagely chewing on the cold butt of a black cigar.

“Good morning, Chief.” Lucy’s voice was demure.

“What the hell kind of game are you and Mike playing, Lucy?” he demanded in a thunderous rumble.

She stiffened her shoulders and said, “I want to see a lawyer.”

“You’re going to come clean and tell me what you were doing in Mrs. Carrol’s hotel room. What’s this story about some man jumping you there?”

She said, “I want to see a lawyer.”

Gentry pounded his fist on his desk, took the soggy cigar from his mouth, glared at her, and said slowly, “If you don’t talk, Lucy, lots and fast, I’m going to have you booked as a common hotel thief, on every charge confessed by you to Officer Hagen.”

Lucy clamped her lips and said nothing.

The chief hurled the cigar butt viciously in the general direction of a brass spittoon, and stood up heavily.

“Book Miss Hamilton on the basis of her confession, Hagen,” he said in a weary voice. “I’m going home and get a few hours’ sleep.”

Michael Shayne left his hotel through the side door unobserved and long-legged it to the row of garages at the rear of the building. The faint light from a low-hanging moon afforded enough light for him to unlock his private garage, and back his black sedan out without turning on lights.

He followed a sweeping gravel drive that led to the street at the other end of the block from the hotel, avoiding the front entrance, where he knew there would be a concentration of police cars.

He eased into the street and made a right turn before switching on his headlights. He then drove swiftly to Flagler, and east to Biscayne Boulevard where he turned north and stepped hard on the accelerator to keep his four-o’clock appointment at Seventy-Ninth Street.

Relaxed behind the wheel, Shayne started thinking about the events of the past few hours. He began with the rustling noises he had heard coming from his apartment living-room. Everything had happened so fast after that, climaxed by Gentry’s entrance announcing Ralph Carrol’s murder, that he had not had time to think clearly and figure things out.

Now, his reaction was vehement anger that someone, somewhere in Miami might be representing himself as Michael Shayne, and in a divorce action! The sort of thing he never touched, no matter what fee was offered, much less for a lousy five hundred dollars. He shook his head viciously and told himself that this sort of thinking would get him nowhere.

Forcing himself to discard for the moment the sessions with Nora Carrol and Gentry, he went back to the telephone calls immediately following their departure. First, the man who had given his name as Ludlow had expected him to recognize his voice and know what he was talking about.

Ludlow had said, “He was dead when I got there... I didn’t give my name when I reported to the police because I didn’t know what your position was, but I know enough of your reputation ... if they drag you into it, and then you tell about me, I’ll be in a spot. Wait a minute... this ain’t Shayne. The cops have already—” Then the click of the phone and silence.