Brett Halliday: One Night with Nora

Shayne said, “I’ll be there at four o’clock, in a black Hudson, and alone.” He broke the connection, got up, and went to the front door which Gentry had left open. He listened for a second, and hearing no sound from above, Shayne closed the door quietly and hurried back to the telephone.

He gave Lucy Hamilton’s number, and when her sleepy voice answered he said rapidly, “Listen carefully, angel, and don’t ask questions. Get dressed fast. A light-colored suit, if you have one. Wear a yellow scarf fluffed out at your throat. Bareheaded. Call a taxi while you’re dressing. Go to the Commodore Hotel and ask at the desk for your key. You’ve forgotten your room number, having just checked in yesterday afternoon. You’re Mrs. Ralph Carrol, or Nora Carrol, from Wilmington, Delaware. If they insist you took your key with you when you went out about one o’clock, say you lost it or something; but get a key to Mrs. Ralph Carrol’s room and get inside. Look for a letter to Mrs. Carrol from Michael Shayne giving a sketch of the layout of my apartment. It should be easy to find. Then get out in a hurry, and back to bed. I’ll see you later on at the office. Got it?”

“I think so,” Lucy told him “Is anything wrong, Michael?”

“Plenty. You’ve got maybe ten minutes to get that letter and get out of there. Good luck.”

Shayne hung up, sweat streaming down his trenched cheeks. He long-legged it to the door, grabbed his hat from a hook near by, went out and down the corridor to a side stairway leading to an exit that didn’t take him through the hotel lobby.

Lucy Hamilton held the receiver to her ear and broke the connection with her finger, then dialed from memory the number of a taxicab company that she had called many times before. She gave her address and asked for a cab to come at once.

She stripped off her nightgown on the way to her bedroom, tossed it on the bed, hurried into the bathroom where she splashed water over her face, patting it dry as she went to the clothes closet.

A light suit, Michael had said. She found a creamy-beige pongee. Hastily she donned panties, bra, and a slip, then, the suit. Stockings and pumps took another minute. Frantically searching through a drawer for a scarf, she found one of canary-yellow with small black figures. She tied it around her neck, fluffed the ends out, ran a comb through her brown curls, took three one-dollar bills from her purse, and tucked them into her coat pocket. She grabbed a compact and lipstick and raced from the apartment.

It had taken less than five minutes, she thought breathlessly, as she descended the stairs. Another three to reach the Commodore, and she would have two minutes left of the ten Shayne had allotted her for the assignment.

A taxi swerved to the curb. Lucy got in and said, “The Commodore Hotel. And please hurry.”

The cab pulled away with a jerk that sent Lucy back against the seat. Pulling herself erect she opened the compact and leaned forward to apply lipstick and a dusting of powder in the faint glow of light from the meter box.

There was no time to ask herself questions, or to wonder why she had been aroused at this hour to attempt illegal entry to some woman’s room in search of a letter signed by her employer.

To say that this was merely routine, that she was accustomed to such assignments, and accepted them in her stride without question, would be an exaggeration. But several years’ service as secretary to the redheaded detective had taught her something about the nuances in his voice, and his curt orders tonight left her in no doubt as to the urgency of this task.

There would be time for questions later. Right now, Lucy concentrated on getting her face fixed and on achieving enough poise to enter the lobby of a strange hotel and convince the night clerk she was a guest named Mrs. Carrol, who had mislaid the key to her room and, also, foolishly forgotten the number.

The taxi swerved onto Biscayne Boulevard, and pulled up in front of the hotel entrance, with brakes squealing. The meter showed thirty cents. Lucy pressed a dollar bill into the driver’s hand, left the taxi without waiting for change, hurried to the revolving door, and swung through into the empty lobby. She slowed her steps and walked sedately to the desk.

A thin young man tried to hide the end of a prodigious yawn, when he saw her coming. Lucy used her nicest smile when she reached the desk, and tried to look wistful and worried and hopeful at the same time. “I seem to have mislaid my key, or forgot to take it with me. Did I, by any chance, leave it at the desk? I just can’t remember.”

He said, “I’ll see, madam. What number?”

“That’s just it.” Lucy’s blush was genuine, her tone uncertain. “You see, I just checked in yesterday, from Wilmington. I was so excited about actually being in Miami, for the first time, that I just didn’t think of anything else. The name is Mrs. Carrol,” she added, as though she really expected him to recognize her and the name was merely redundant information.

The clerk consulted a card file briefly, slid one partially out, and asked, “Mrs. Ralph Carrol?”

“Of course,” said Lucy.

“Room three-sixty,” he told her, then turned to the key and mail cubicles, reached into one, and took out a key attached to an oval piece of leather. “The extra is here, so you must have left yours in your room when you went out.” He held the key out to her.

Lucy wanted to grab it and run to the elevator. But she smiled gratefully and said, “How thoughtless of me. But I was so excited.” She thanked him as she took the key, and did not try to restrain herself as she tripped to the elevator, where a uniformed operator waited outside the open door. She stepped inside and said, “Three, please,” and breathed a deep sigh of relief.

On the third floor she was thankful for the bright lights in the corridor and arrows pointing directions for room numbers. She found 360 just around a corner, and her heart pounded madly as she knocked.

There was no response, and, after waiting a few seconds, she inserted the key and turned it. The door opened quietly and she stepped inside the dark room, felt along the wall for a light switch, found it, and the room was flooded with light from a frosted ceiling fixture.

Turning to close the door, she heard movement behind it. Suddenly a blanket descended over her head, shutting out the light and completely enveloping her body.

Instinctively she fought back in wild panic, but strong arms pinned her arms against her body. Then she was lifted in the air, smothering and gasping for breath, and carried across the room where she was dumped on the bed. A man’s weight held her down.

Her feet were free, and she kicked wildly, but something was tightened around her waist. It felt like a strong belt or strap, imprisoning her arms in the dark folds of the blanket. She was left like that, kicking and struggling to free herself.

She pulled one hand free, loosening the band so that the other hand slipped out easily. She twisted and tugged frantically, her lungs stifling for lack of oxygen. She felt herself rolling off the bed. She landed on the floor with a dull thud, staggered to her feet, and pulled the blanket upward inch by inch until her head was free. Drawing in a deep breath of air she sank down on the edge of the bed and looked around.

She was alone. The light was still on and the door closed. The band, that held her a prisoner in the blanket, was a wide red patent-leather belt with a large silver buckle. She unbuckled it with trembling hands, dropped it to the floor, and tossed the blanket over the foot of the bed.

Still trembling from shock and gasping for breath, she got up and started toward a wide chest of drawers above which a mirror hung. Her knees were weak, and she moved slowly. The top of the chest held only toilet articles. She started to open the top drawer when a key turning in the door startled her.