Brett Halliday - Call for Michael Shayne

“Indicating that he didn’t want to reach her by radiogram?” suggested Shayne. “Her ship will be here tomorrow.”

“I know.” Thompson fanned out his chubby fingers and flattened them against the white table. “You’ve got to find Art before the police do. His amnesia may have returned. I blame myself for leaving him. I should have insisted—”

“I think you did the best you could,” Shayne said, then asked abruptly, “Has Devlin ever taken dope to your knowledge?”

Thompson was lifting his coffee cup to his lips. He set it down with a clatter. “Dope? Of course not. Why on earth do you ask that?”

“The dead man is a punk named Skid Munroe,” Shayne told him. “Police record as long as your arm. He was one of Bert Masters’s strong-arm boys up to about a year ago,” he ended casually.

“Masters?” Thompson rubbed his short stubby mustache thoughtfully. “It was at Masters’s house that Art passed out the night of his bon voyage party.”

“And it was the death of Masters’s wife that actually sent Devlin on the cruise to meet her sister.”

“Do you think there’s a connection? Do you think Devlin was lying to me out of whole cloth — that Munroe’s death tonight was arranged somehow? Premeditated? Part of a pattern that goes back to Masters and his wife’s death by suicide?”

“It’s a thin link,” Shayne admitted. “According to rumors, Skid Munroe had a falling out with Masters a year ago and hasn’t worked for him since. The same rumors say,” he went on deliberately, “that Skid has been peddling dope since then in a small way. Until we know how he and Devlin came to be together in that room last night we don’t have much to go on.”

“From Art’s story it appears he went there to meet the man. Something the landlord said as he was leaving—”

Shayne nodded absently. “Devlin evidently went there about eleven o’clock and asked for Skid, who had registered that afternoon under the name of George Moore.”

“One of the things that worries me is how the police got on Art’s trail so fast. We both thought there’d be nothing to connect him with the murder until the story appeared in the afternoon paper and the taxi driver came forward with his story. Was there some other connection that led them to Art? They wouldn’t tell me a damned thing,” he ended bitterly.

Shayne grinned. “You didn’t exactly take them into your confidence,” he reminded the doctor. “No, the taxi driver was the tip-off. He heard the radio report on the short wave and called in with his story about taking a suspicious fare from right near that address to the Clairmount.”

“I see.” The doctor nodded slowly. “Then it has been reported on the radio. I’ve wondered. Of course you understand that this burglary of my house may have nothing whatever to do with the other thing. We have no proof at all—” His voice trailed off inconclusively.

“It’s a possibility,” Shayne conceded. “Yet — can you think of anything anyone else could have wanted from your files?”

“No more than I can imagine what Devlin could have wanted,” the doctor said helplessly, a deep frown between his eyes.

“How well do you know Bert Masters?”

“He has been my patient for several years.”

“What have you treated him for?”

“High blood pressure. An arthritic condition. There is nothing very secret about it.”

“Was Mrs. Masters your patient also?”

Doctor Thompson smiled wryly. “At one time. Lily was a confirmed neurotic and a hypochondriac. I told her so quite frankly two years ago and she transferred her imaginary ailments to another physician.”

“Then you weren’t surprised when she committed suicide?”

He hesitated briefly, then said, “Yes — I was surprised. Hypochondriacs seldom do, you know. They get too much enjoyment from their imagined ailments.”

Shayne didn’t pursue the subject further. He said, “I think my starting point will have to be that farewell party when Devlin passed out. Tell me what you recall of it.”

“A sort of stag free-for-all. Just a few of Art’s best friends. Joe Engals was there and stewed as an owl. Do you know Joe?”

“Slightly. Who else?”

“Some other insurance fellow. I don’t recall his name, though I had met him before. Thomas, a night-club operator, dropped in late for a few drinks. And Carter Harrison was there.”

“Who took Devlin to the dock from Masters’s house?” Shayne asked.

“I wish I could remember,” sighed Thompson. “I was hazy by that time myself. I have the impression that someone called a taxi — probably Bert Masters’s secretary — a little before midnight, but I also have a vague impression that Masters sent him down in one of his cars. I know I was pretty well on the ragged edge when I staggered in here about midnight,” he ended frankly.

“You say there was a discussion of Lily Masters’s death and of Devlin meeting her sister, Janet, on the ship?” Shayne prompted. “How many of you were in on that discussion?”

“All of us, I suppose. We were kidding Art about his romantic adventure. He halfway admitted his real reason for going was the feeling her letters had roused in him. A sort of tentative flirtation, I guess. None of us took her questions about Lily Masters’s death very seriously.”

“Did Bert Masters join the conversation about his wife’s death?”

Doctor Thompson got up to pour more coffee. “Bert never bothered to pretend that he regretted his wife’s death. They had been at swords’ points for a couple of years and neither of them bothered to conceal the fact.”

“Then any of the persons present may have learned that Devlin was meeting Lily Masters’s sister on the cruise ship to reopen the matter of her suicide?”

“I presume so.” Doctor Thompson rubbed his short bristly mustache thoughtfully. “Do you seriously think some one of us who was at the party may have prevented Art from going aboard just to keep him from meeting Mrs. Masters’s sister and discussing her suicide?”

“If he was prevented from going aboard it was by someone who knew enough about that old case to convince Janet he was Devlin,” Shayne said. “Hell, I’m not seriously thinking anything yet. I’m just making wild guesses. But while we’re on the subject, do you suppose you could tell me now whether your early morning intruder disturbed your files on the Masterses?”

“I’ve told you Lily wasn’t my patient when she died.”

“I can’t help that. Damn it,” said Shayne with irritation, “there must be some focal point — something back of all this. Do you mind checking?”

“Of course not.” He got up and went out and Shayne lit a cigarette. He was thoughtfully smoking when the doctor returned.

“Really, Shayne,” he said, “my nurse has hardly made a start in restoring the files to order. She tells me it may take several days — with her other duties — to determine whether anything is missing.”

Shayne got up, scowling bleakly. “Let me know as soon as you do find out. Your nurse seems a very efficient young lady.”

“Miss Dort is efficient.”

“Lucky for me she arrived so early this morning. Does she always come to work at the break of day?”

Thompson smiled genially. “It was hardly the break of day. Just her usual time.” He was escorting Shayne toward the front door.

Shayne stopped as though struck with a sudden recollection. “I forgot to get her telephone number after all,” he said. “Suppose you give it to me now.”

Thompson continued to smile, but some of the geniality dropped away. “I’m afraid I couldn’t do that without her permission.”

“Nothing personal about it,” Shayne reassured him. “I might need to consult her about the case.”