Brett Halliday - Call for Michael Shayne

“What time was that?”

“Short of two, I reckon. I’d been sitting up and waiting ’cause I didn’t hear him come down earlier and I figured maybe they was sneaking him in for the night. Two for the price of one, you see. They try that stunt on me a lot, but you can bet I watch out for it.” Mr. Erlang had backed away where he couldn’t see the corpse, and he cackled gleefully.

“You said you didn’t get a good look at the man when he came inquiring for his friend at eleven,” Shayne said. “Why not, if you directed him up here?”

“Didn’t open my door but a crack,” wheezed Erlang. “I was getting ready for bed and was naked as a jaybird in sheddin’ time. Talked to him through the crack and didn’t open the door until he started up the stairs. Saw his back. Same feller, all right. Same hat and all.”

The first contingent from Homicide arrived to take over the death room. Shayne and Gentry went out and down the stairs. As though through some telepathic medium, the tenants were aroused and people stood outside doors in night clothes and robes watching and listening, curiosity wiping the sleep from their eyes.

In the small entry on the first floor they met Sergeant Hopkins, who had in tow a heavy short man wearing a visored cap above wary eyes and a jutting jaw.

“This is Pete Bisto, Chief,” the sergeant greeted Gentry, “the cabby you sent out that call for.” He gave Shayne a slow wink to attest the fact that he hadn’t forgotten the detective’s telephoned inquiry about the Palmleaf address a short time earlier.

“Yeah,” said Bisto. “I was cruisin’ on the Boulevard when I heard it. You know how ’tis. Didn’t catch on first time I heard it. A man listens to them calls sorta without hearin’ ’em, you might say, and when somethin’ like that comes along—”

“I know,” said Gentry. “But you did remember the fare you picked up here. What time?”

“Ten minutes to two. I checked my book before I called in. I remember him because he wanted a ride to the Clairmount Apartments on the Beach and then didn’t have no money when we got there.”

Shayne stood unobtrusively aside and listened to the driver’s story. It differed in no major detail from the way Devlin himself had told it.

Will Gentry heard with patience the driver’s dramatic telling of the story, then turned to Shayne and growled, “Another one of your damned miracles, Mike. Some day you’re going to explain just how you pull stunts like this, but right now let’s get over to the Clairmount. Follow along with Bisto in your car,” he directed Sergeant Hopkins, “to identify this man Devlin. Stop at Miami Beach headquarters to pick up a man there to make it official. Mike and I’ll go straight to the Clairmount.”

The sergeant and the cabby went on ahead. When Shayne and Gentry reached Shayne’s car, the chief said, “Better ride along with me, Mike.”

“Thanks, Will, but I may need my hack over there. I’ll tail you.”

Gentry hesitated, started to speak, then went on solidly to his gray sedan and got in.

The sun was riding above the fluff of clouds on the horizon, sailing into a clear blue sky and promising a sweltering day. As the four-car caravan sped across the County Causeway, early fishing boats were putting out for Baker’s Haulover for a long day at sea, and the surface of Biscayne Bay was an unruffled turquoise blue in the fresh morning light.

The taxi and the sergeant’s car turned off when they reached the Beach and went on to police headquarters, but Gentry went straight ahead, with Shayne following him closely, to Collins Avenue and turned north to the Clairmount.

They parked out front, and Shayne waited for Gentry to join him before going up the steps and ringing the bell marked Manager. When the buzzer sounded, Gentry opened the door and they went into the office. Jack Adams was sitting at the desk reading a magazine.

Gentry showed his badge and demanded, “You got a Devlin here? Arthur Devlin?”

The young man’s eyes snapped and he said hastily, “Why, yes. Yes, sir. He just returned early this morning. Is anything — wrong?”

“Is he in his apartment now?” Gentry drawled.

“N-No, sir,” stammered the clerk. “That is, I’m quite sure he isn’t. He went out about two-thirty. I called a taxi for him and gave him change for a hundred-dollar bill.”

Shayne leaned negligently against the desk and let Gentry do the questioning. Again he heard Devlin’s own story confirmed in every particular, embellished a trifle, perhaps, as was the taxi driver’s, by imagination and a feeling of importance to be included in a police investigation.

Hopkins and the taxi driver and a local detective entered the lobby when Jack Adams pressed a button in response to their ring. Gentry stepped aside for a moment and joined them while the clerk looked up the two telephone numbers Devlin had called after going up to his room. Shayne took advantage of the opportunity to ask in a low, casual tone, “Did you smell liquor on Devlin’s breath when he came in earlier this morning?”

“Why — no, sir. That was a funny thing. He sure looked and acted like he’d been on a binge, but I remember thinking at the time it was strange I didn’t smell liquor on him. Mr. Devlin has been with us a good many years and I’m certain he’s not a drinking man — except maybe for a social drink sometimes.”

Gentry came back with the other three men pressing close behind him, took the slip of paper with the telephone numbers on them, and the clerk explained that one of them was the number, he felt certain, of the man who visited Devlin in his apartment shortly after Devlin returned.

“What is his name?” Gentry demanded.

“I’m sure I don’t know,” he answered, and without being interrogated gave a description of Doctor Thompson. “He’s a friend of Mr. Devlin’s and has visited him a few times,” he ended, his eyes flashing from Gentry to Sergeant Hopkins and on to the uniformed Beach police officer, coming to rest on the surly taxi driver who had come in with Devlin to get the money for the fare.

Gentry then asked Pete Bisto and Jack Adams a couple of questions together. Adams answered quietly, verifying Bisto’s former statement, and when Bisto began to dramatically recreate the scene the chief raised a heavy hand and said, “Thanks. Keep in touch with Sergeant Hopkins in case we need you later.”

The Beach detective was named Brooks, a tall, tight-featured man and an ardent admirer of his chief, Peter Painter, and by the same token a fervid hater of Michael Shayne, who had clashed often with the Beach detective force in the past. Now, as they turned from the desk, Brooks thrust his sharp jaw out and demanded of Gentry, “What’s this shamus doing with you, Chief? You know how Painter feels about these private dicks operating in his territory.”

“I know all about Painter,” Gentry agreed. He handed Sergeant Hopkins the telephone numbers the clerk had given him. “Check these numbers and get names and addresses to fit them. And I think we’d better go up and check over Devlin’s apartment,” he added to Brooks. “Right now I have fairly direct evidence linking him to a murder in Miami last night.” He turned back to the clerk and said, “Let’s have a pass key to Devlin’s apartment.”

Jack Adams had it in his hand. “Here you are, sir. I thought you’d be wanting it.”

“I don’t mind co-operating with you,” Brooks told Gentry coldly. “But Shayne is another matter. Every time he sticks his nose into one of our cases he messes everything up.”

“This isn’t a Beach case,” Gentry reminded him stolidly. “Shayne is in on this whether you or Painter like it or not.”

They started toward the elevator. “Wait a minute, Will,” Shayne said and broke into an infuriating grin at Brooks. “Thanks for everything, but as far as I’m concerned this is your baby.” He made motions of washing his big hands of the whole affair and turned toward the entrance door.