Brett Halliday - Call for Michael Shayne

“I understand perfectly.” The doctor was holding the front door open. “You can reach her here during office hours for any information you require.”

Shayne grinned. “You win, Doc, but you can’t blame a guy for trying.”

He went out blithely and down the pathway to his car, wondering whether Miss Dort really had come to work that morning hours before any regular office nurse would be expected to arrive, or whether she hadn’t had to come to work to find him lying on the floor knocked out. Whether, in fact, a more intimate relationship existed between the two than that of doctor and nurse. It would be a practical arrangement, he decided thoughtfully.

Thinking of the nurse reminded him of the bandage she had put on his face. He ripped it off and tossed it aside, got in his car, and drove away, glancing in the small mirror to check on the injury. The swelling was negligible, and he decided that his assailant had had the good fortune to strike a vital spot to knock him out like that.

When shayne walked into the lobby of the Argonne a little man was sweeping the bare floor. His back was turned to Shayne as he pushed the long-handled brush-broom slowly ahead of him.

“Good morning,” Shayne said briskly.

The old man turned and his old eyes squinted upward to look into Shayne’s face. “Want a room?” he asked without enthusiasm. “Got plenty. Two and three-room apartments, too. Cheap and clean, Mister. Y’can’t do better anywhere in the city. ’Lectric fans for rent a dollar a week and no extry charge for ’lectricity.” There were no teeth behind his thin lips, and he sucked at each word as he spoke it.

Shayne shook his red head. “Not even with an electric fan. I’m after information.”

He carefully propped his broom against a chair and came up to Shayne. “What kind and what for and how much?” he asked cagily.

Shayne grinned and took a five-dollar bill from his wallet. “About the people in two-oh-nine for private reasons and about five bucks’ worth.”

The Argonne manager whisked the bill from Shayne’s fingers with the competence of long practice. “Mrs. Jerome minds her own business and makes no trouble. That what you want to know?”

“Not quite. What about Mr. Jerome?”

“He’s just been here two weeks. Didn’t know there was a Mister until then — but there was others I might’ve guessed was him if I went in for guessing — which I don’t. Live and let live is what I always say.”

“How long has Mrs. Jerome been here?”

“Goin’ on three months. Allus thought she was a widow lady ’til her man pops up. Sickly, I reckon. Been stayin’ in mostly.”

“Wait a minute.” Shayne was confused. Up to this time he had been playing along with Arthur Devlin and trying to believe his story. But if he had met Marge after his attack of amnesia and they had just recently married, how could she have been registered previously as Mrs. Jerome?

“Let’s get this straight. She called herself Mrs. Jerome before her husband showed up?”

“Why not? If that’s who she was?”

“No reason — if that’s who she was,” Shayne said. “Can you tell me exactly when Mr. Jerome came to stay with her?”

The little man opened his claw-like fingers and smoothed out the bill Shayne had given him, studying it intently as though asking himself whether its full value had been used up. “Can look at the register,” he said finally. “Law says you got to have every occupant register even if there ain’t no extry charge for two.”

“Let’s look at the register,” said Shayne gently.

The manager folded the bill, placed it in his pocket, thus warning his interrogator that further questions would require an additional fee. He led Shayne over to the desk and took out a mottled ledger, turned the pages back slowly, running a dirty forefinger down the names and making little whinnying noises to himself. He stopped and turned it about for Shayne to read: Joe Jerome, City, in unmistakably feminine handwriting. The date was June 9 — and according to Devlin’s story his last conscious memory was late on the evening of June 8th.

“Did Mrs. Jerome sign for her husband?” Shayne asked casually.

“That’s legal.” The little man bristled. “No law says a man has to sign the register his ownself.”

“Maybe she registered ahead of time for him,” Shayne suggested. “Did she tell you when he was expected?”

The little man was seated in the desk chair. He leaned forward with his elbows resting on the desk and stared up at the detective with bright inquisitive eyes. “Mind saying what your private reasons are?”

Shayne got out two one-dollar bills and folded them together lengthwise. The manager reached out for them and said, “He was right here when she registered him that morning. Recollect she stopped at the desk to tell me, and she asked Polly — that’s the maid — to skip her room that day. Said her husband was sick and didn’t want to be disturbed.”

“Are Mr. and Mrs. Jerome in now?”

“Dunno. Haven’t seen either of ’em go out since I come on at eight-thirty.”

Shayne said, “Thanks,” as he turned away, and the little man said briskly, “The same. Any time, Mister.”

Shayne found 209 and rapped on the door. There was no answer to repeated rappings. He tried the knob and found it locked. He was fumbling in his pocket for a ring of keys when he was aware that a door across the hall had opened.

Turning about, he saw a very fat woman standing in the doorway and regarding him with round blue eyes that looked like the painted eyes of a china doll. Her face was plump and smooth and extended downward to include three chins, and her little rosebud mouth was smiling. She wore a voluminous gay-flowered wrapper and ludicrously high-heeled scarlet shoes.

She said, “They ain’t in, dearie. Neither one of them. I think maybe he took a run-out powder on her again,” she went on breathlessly, as though she feared Shayne would hurry away and deprive her of an audience, “because when I went in a while ago to see if there was anything I could fix for him, like I’ve been doing lately while Margie was at work and on account of we’re good friends and it really wasn’t no trouble just to pop over now and then, well, he wasn’t there. And no sign of the studio couch made up either.” She caught her breath and her amazingly small hands fluttered at her breast. Three fingers on each hand shone with imitation diamonds and rubies and emeralds. “But maybe I put my foot in it again,” she exclaimed without actual contrition. “If you’re one of Margie’s friends and didn’t know about him—” She paused expectantly, panting a little, her lips parted and ready to talk again.

“That’s all right,” Shayne said carelessly. “I’m a friend of Joe’s. I thought he was staying in close.”

“Oh, he has been.” She nodded emphatically, her chins caressing each other, and took a conspiratorial step over the threshold toward him. “Is he on the lam? Is that what it’s all about? I didn’t like to ask Margie right out — you know. And when I just hinted around for information she just the same as outright told me to mind my own business. When I just wanted to be helpful. You can ask around any of the boys and they’ll tell you Goldie’s okay. My name’s Goldie Milterschmitt. What did you say your name was? Don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.”

“Devlin,” Shayne told her. “Arthur Devlin.”

The only reaction this brought was an effusive handshake from Goldie. “Friend of Joey’s huh? I didn’t know that man had any friends. Grumpy he was. And the way he’d stare at a body! And answer yes and no like he was afraid I’d gab his business around if he told it to me. You know what I think, Mr. Devlin? I think he was getting off the junk. Twitchy, he was. I’ve seen ’em before, dearie.”