Brett Halliday: One Night with Nora

“They wasted a few minutes trying to get a key, as I told you, then they broke in. The lights were out and everything in the room was in perfect order. Carrol’s body was naked, and he evidently died without a struggle. He had been stabbed with a sharp silver paper knife.” Gentry paused, his agate eyes regarded Nora solemnly. “Did your husband own a silver paper knife, Mrs. Carrol?”

“Why, y-yes.” Her composure wilted at the question, and she began to sob again. “I d-don’t know whether he brought it with him. He m-may have. He always opened his letters with it.” She stiffened abruptly and demanded, “How do you know it’s Ralph who’s dead? There must be some mistake, some kind of mix-up like the one that brought me to this apartment instead of his.”

“The body was identified as Carrol’s by the elevator operator and the bellboy,” Gentry told her in a kindly tone. “I’ll want you to make a positive identification, of course.” He rose heavily when a knock sounded on the door. “That’ll be the key of two-sixteen.”

He went to the door, followed by Shayne, opened it, and took the key from the young patrolman who stood there. Shayne watched with keen interest as Chief Gentry tried it in the lock. The key slid in about halfway and refused to go farther. “You want to try it?” he asked Shayne.

Shayne removed the key and examined it carefully. It was old and tarnished, and plainly stamped with the numerals 216. He tried it in the lock, and as before it stuck halfway and would go no farther. Shaking his red head, he admitted sourly, “No soap,” and handed the key to the waiting patrolman.

Gentry dismissed the young officer. “All right, Hagen. Take it back, and tell Sergeant Hale to stay there until I come up.”

He closed the door. “That knocks the accidental theory in the head, Mike,” he said. “If we can believe Mrs. Carrol, she was deliberately sent to this hotel, and to your apartment tonight, with a key that opened your door, at just about the same time her husband was being stabbed to death on the next floor. What I want to know now is why.” He sat down heavily and plucked a fresh cigar from his pocket.

“That is the question I want answered,” said Shayne grimly. “And I think we’d better ask the guy who sent her here. Who is he?” he demanded abruptly of Nora Carrol.

She jerked her head up, blinking tears from her eyes. “Wh-at? Who is whom?” she faltered.

“Who is the detective who located your husband in this hotel and told you he was in one-sixteen? Who furnished you with a key to my place, and telephoned you a little after one o’clock to say the coast was clear for you to attempt a reconciliation? What’s his name and where can we locate him?”

Nora Carrol’s damp brown eyes turned slowly from Shayne’s bleak and demanding gaze to Gentry’s set and uncompromising mouth.

“I think he’s quite well known in Miami,” she said. “His name is Shayne. Michael Shayne.”

Incredulous silence followed her quiet pronouncement of Michael Shayne’s name. Unaware of the bombshell she had exploded, she lowered her head to dab at her eyes.

Shayne recovered his speech first. “No, by God!” he began hotly.

“Hold it, Mike,” the chief interrupted with an angry bellow. “I don’t want a word from you. Drink your cognac and keep your mouth shut. If you say one word, and I mean it, Mike, one word, before I’m finished, I’ll have you taken in and locked up until I get to the bottom of this.”

Shayne nodded morosely. He took a long drink, lit a cigarette, and said quietly, “Go to it, Will. I’m just as curious as you are.”

The angry interchange between the two men brought Nora’s head up again. A frown creased her smooth forehead, and she appeared genuinely confused. “Isn’t Mr. Shayne a well-known detective?” she asked Gentry in a meek voice. “I understand he has a very good reputation.”

“Depends on who you ask about him,” growled Gentry. He shifted his unlit cigar across his mouth, bent forward, and planted a hand on each broad thigh. “Describe Shayne for me, Mrs. Carrol.”

“Why, I haven’t met him personally. I thought I told you that. There was a letter from him, enclosing the key, waiting for me when I checked in yesterday. Then two telephone calls — one in the afternoon to check my arrival and confirm everything, and the other one at one o’clock.”

“I see,” mused Gentry. “And what sort of voice did Mr. Shayne have?”

“Why—” She hesitated. “A rather nice voice, I thought. He was very businesslike and pleasant.”

“Would you recognize the voice again?”

“I don’t know. Possibly.”

“Did he leave a number where you could reach him?”

“No, he didn’t. I asked him for it the first time he called, but he said it wouldn’t be necessary; and besides, he would be moving around and couldn’t say where he’d be.”

“This letter from him with the key and the instructions, was it on a printed letterhead? Do you recall the address?”

She frowned again, biting her underlip, then faltered, “I think so. I’m not positive, but I seem to recall a printed letterhead. It was typewritten and signed with his name,” she ended brightly.

“Do you have it with you?”

“Oh, no. Why does all this matter, Chief Gentry?” she asked. “Isn’t Mr. Shayne the one to answer these questions?”

“I’ll get to that presently. I’ll want to see that letter of his, Mrs. Carrol. When you leave here I’ll send a man with you to your hotel to pick it up.”

“But I tore it up. I didn’t know it was important, and he asked me to destroy it. I thought it was a rather silly precaution, but I did.”

“I see.” Gentry’s tone was a gentle purr, but his big, florid face turned slightly purple. “That’s very interesting. Did he say why he wanted the letter destroyed?”

“Oh, something about his taking a big chance, and that it was illegal for him to get me a key like that; and if anything went wrong, he might lose his license.”

“But you did have letters from him while you were still in Wilmington?” the chief probed.

“No. But Mr. Bates did. Two or three, I think.”

“Do you have one of those with you?”

“No. I didn’t actually see them myself. Mr. Bates handled all that.”

“How did you first contact this Michael Shayne, Mrs. Carrol?”

“I didn’t. Mr. Bates did.”

“And this was two weeks ago?”

“Around then.”

Gentry grunted and settled back in his chair. He turned to Shayne and said, “So there you have it, Mike. What’s your explanation?”

“I think,” said the detective grimly, “you should introduce Mrs. Carrol to me. We neglected that little nicety when we met so informally about an hour ago.”

“Then she’ll probably be quite interested,” he growled. “This is Michael Shayne, Mrs. Carrol. One of the best-known private detectives in Miami, possibly in the whole country.”

Up to this point she had been listening with curiosity and interest. Now, she paled, and her dark eyes rounded in astonishment. She drew a long, audible breath, and stared at Shayne as though he had suddenly sprouted an extra head.

For a moment she seemed speechless. Then color flushed her cheeks, and her eyes flashed angrily. “You’re Michael Shayne?” she exclaimed in astonishment.

“That’s right.”

“You sent me your own key!” she raged. “You tricked me into coming here to your room!”

“I didn’t send you my key,” Shayne returned savagely. “And I didn’t trick you into coming to my room.” He jerked his head around to face Gentry. “You know me better than that, Will.”