Brett Halliday - One Night with Nora

She said, “He’s not here,” and hung up.

Shayne settled back and rubbed his jaw reflectively. It looked as though he had struck pay dirt. He got up abruptly and went into the outer office where he paused at Lucy Hamilton’s desk and said, “If Tim calls, tell him his car is parked in front where it was before. Here are the keys.” He tossed them on the desk, looked at his watch, and added, “You stay in till I get back, huh? Have some lunch sent in. There may be some calls.”

“Of course. But Michael—”

“Hold the questions, angel,” he said on his way to the door, “until I get some answers.”

“Oh! You!” she flung after him.

Shayne closed the door quietly but firmly on her protests, and long-legged it to the elevator.

At the parking-lot, an excited attendant hurried over to tell him that the police had been going over his car. Shayne got behind the wheel and started the motor, saying, “It’s okay, Jim,” and drove away.

The Ludlows’ number on 18th Street was a small stucco bungalow in the middle of a row of small stucco bungalows. A little girl of three or four was making sand pies in a sandbox under a coconut palm in the unkempt yard. She looked up and watched Shayne gravely as he went up the walk to the front door and rang the bell.

A woman came to the door, wiping her hands on her apron. There were lines of irritation and worry on her thin face; her lips were tight and her eyes coldly wary as she surveyed the stranger on her doorstep.

“Mrs. Ludlow?” he inquired.

“Yes.” She stood at the hooked screen door and made no move to open it.

“I’m very anxious to see Mr. Ludlow,” Shayne told her smoothly. “I called his office but the girl said he was out and that you might be able to tell me where to reach him.”

“Was that you called awhile ago?” she demanded.

“Yes.” Shayne tried what he hoped would be a disarming smile. “My business with your husband is so important that I thought I’d run out and explain personally.”

“What business?” she demanded in a clipped voice.

“I represent a local firm employing more than a thousand people, and we want to have individual photographs taken for use on a new type of identification badge we’re issuing.”

“Why pick out Jack for a job like that?” She spoke with bitterness, and from her words Shayne felt she implied that there were many better-known commercial photographers in Miami who would be a more logical choice.

“It happens to be a personal contact with one of our executives,” Shayne explained. “When the project was discussed at conference this morning, one of our vice-presidents said your husband was just the man for the job, and he’d like to see him get it. Naturally, we don’t like to go over his head, and besides, I gathered he was an old friend of Mr. Ludlow’s. It’s a matter that has to be decided today.”

“I see.” For an instant hope came into her eyes, but it went away. “It’s just our luck for him to pull a stunt like this when something good was coming up. I don’t know where he is,” she ended listlessly.

“But you must have some idea,” Shayne persisted. “When he left home this morning—”

“He wasn’t home this morning,” she interrupted. “Not since last night. He phoned this morning and said he’d be away a couple of days on business. He never tells me anything,” she went on, her lips tight and her voice weary. “Ask that big blonde he keeps down at the studio. He tells her things, I guess.”

“I see,” said Shayne gently. “Thank you very much, Mrs. Ludlow.”

He went back to his car and drove slowly to North Miami Avenue and turned southward toward the address of Ludlow’s studio.

He found the number above an entrance crowded between a shoe-shine parlor and a delicatessen. Faded lettering on the door read: Ludlow Photographic Studio. Beside the door was a plate-glass window with heavy drapes drawn.

Shayne hesitated for a moment with his hand on the doorknob. The “big blonde” angle sounded promising, but thinking back to his telephone conversation, he didn’t know what approach to try on her. He shrugged, opened the door, and heard a bell tinkle inside.

He entered a small square studio furnished with two easy chairs, a couch, several large movable light fixtures on adjustable standards with huge silver reflectors, and a portrait camera mounted on a tripod in one corner.

Against one wall was a luridly painted backdrop depicting a beach with palm trees reaching out to the ocean. A covering of dust on everything gave the room the appearance of disuse.

A narrow corridor led back along the right-hand wall, and as Shayne closed the street door he heard the clack of high heels on the bare floor.

She was blond, not more than three inches shorter than Shayne, and carrying at least as many pounds which were strategically distributed. She paused, just inside the studio, and studied the redhead with a direct and pleasant gaze that was frankly curious.

She said, “Something I can do for you?”

“That will depend on a lot of things,” said Shayne with a grin. “Are you married, for instance, and is the guy the jealous type?”

She didn’t smirk or look coy. She merely continued to study him impersonally. “You didn’t come here to ask me that.”

“No. It just popped out unintentionally. Is Jack around?”

“No. You a friend of his?”

“From way back. I’ve always felt kind of sorry for Jack, knowing his wife, but he never mentioned you.” She showed visible signs of thawing and took a couple of steps forward, as though about to ask him to have a seat, when the telephone in the back room rang. She said, “Excuse me a minute,” and went to answer it.

Shayne followed her down a short hall to a door on the left which opened into a small, cluttered office. The telephone was on a desk to the right of the door, and her back was toward Shayne as she leaned over to answer it.

She said, “No. He won’t be in today,” paused, and reached for a pencil. She jotted down a telephone number, then said, “I’ll have him call you tomorrow or next day,” and cradled the Receiver.

There was a strong overhead light, and, lounging against the threshold watching her, Shayne saw that she had the clean fresh coloring of a buxom farm girl. He was much closer to her here in the smaller room, and when she turned to face him his mouth spread in a slow grin.

Her eyes widened and the pleasant expression on her face changed slowly to one of dismay, and then to fear or anger, or both. She drew in a sharp breath and exclaimed, “I know who you are now. I’ve seen your pictures in the paper. You’re that private dick, Mike Shayne. Get out! Haven’t you caused Jack enough trouble already?”

“Not half as much trouble,” Shayne told her grimly, “as I’m going to cause if you don’t tell me where he is.”

“I don’t know.” Her eyes blazed with angry defiance. “And I wouldn’t tell you if I did.”

“You’re making a mistake,” he said gravely. “Don’t you know he’s mixed up in a murder?”

“If he is, you got him into it. Get out!”

Shayne said mildly, “All right. But tell your boss the longer he hides out the worse it’ll be for him.” He turned, went down the hallway to the studio and across it in firm strides that echoed loudly. The bell tinkled when he opened the door, and he marked time for a couple of steps, then closed it quietly. He waited a moment, listening, before tiptoeing back through the studio.

He reached the office doorway just as the blonde seated herself at the desk with her back to him and lifted the telephone. Watching over her shoulder, Shayne memorized the number she dialed.

After a moment she said sharply, “Three-one-nine, please.” Her breathing was audible, and beads of perspiration glistened on her plump neck.