Brett Halliday - Call for Michael Shayne

Painter got in the front seat with Shayne, and Martin sat in the rear. No one spoke until the car was on the causeway headed toward Miami at sixty miles an hour.

“You had a story to tell me,” Painter reminded him. “Something about a woman whose life is in danger.”

“That’s what I said, and if I’m too late — you’ll be hearing about it, Painter. Her name is Janet Brice. She’s — a sort of witness in the Devlin case, and I just flew back from Key West, where I went to interview her. But someone evidently didn’t want me to hear her story, and wired her to leave Key West for Miami before I got to her.” He paused, concentrating on his driving, wondering how much he dared tell Painter — whether the detective chief would recognize the name and understand the implications of his statements.

Apparently Janet Brice’s name meant nothing to him, for Painter said querulously, “A sort of witness, you say? What sort of witness?”

“She was friendly with Devlin on that cruise he just returned from.” Shayne told him cautiously, wondering whether Will Gentry had spilled any of Devlin’s amnesia story to the Beach chief.

Again it was apparent that Painter knew nothing at all of Devlin’s loss of memory, for he said complacently, “Perhaps, then, you picked up some information in Key West that will strengthen a theory I have formulated on this affair.”

“What is your theory?”

“It seems to me there were two questions that had to be answered to explain why a man like Arthur Devlin murdered Skid Munroe,” Painter said didactically. “First: Why did Devlin break his vacation short and return before his ship did? Second: What connection was there between Devlin and Skid Munroe?”

“And?”

“I came to the conclusion that the two questions were essentially the same,” Painter told him. “I made an intensive investigation into the victim’s background and I have it on good authority that since leaving Masters’s employ he has been peddling heroin — smuggled in from the West Indies,” he ended triumphantly.

“That’s most interesting,” Shayne encouraged him. “How do you figure that ties Skid up with an insurance executive?”

“How do we know Devlin wasn’t leading a double life, with dope-smuggling as a profitable sideline? What better opportunity would a man have for picking up small quantities of drugs at various ports of call than going on a luxury cruise and posing as an innocent vacationer?”

“It would be a damned good dodge,” said Shayne, egging him on. “No one bothers to check the passengers when they return to the ship after a sight-seeing trip in the various ports.”

“Exactly,” said Painter. “But the Customs officers are very thorough when the passengers debark. So I presume Devlin waited until he had collected a good supply and then simply jumped ship and probably chartered a plane to fly him back and land him at some outlying Key where he wouldn’t have to go through the Customs. Presumably he was to turn the stuff over to Skid last night, and there was some sort of quarrel, resulting in Skid’s death.”

Shayne had reached the mainland and slowed to forty miles an hour going south on Biscayne Boulevard.

“It’s a good theory,” Shayne continued to encourage the dapper little man beside him. “Want me to drop you off at Gentry’s office so you can talk it over with him? Last time I saw him he hadn’t thought of that connection between Devlin and Munroe.”

“I’m in no hurry to tell Gentry anything. I’ll just go along with you.”

Shayne passed Flagler Street and turned west at the next corner. “I’m stopping by my apartment before I see Gentry,” he said. “If you and your mug in the back seat don’t mind waiting a moment here in the car—”

“We’ll go up with you,” Painter told him. “I haven’t seen your apartment for several months. Do you still have the same one?”

Shayne parked at the side entrance of his hotel, looked down at Painter with lifted brows, and asked, “Why this sudden yen to see my apartment?”

“Frankly,” said Painter with a venomous smile, “I have a curious hunch we’ll find a murderer hidden there.”

“Suppose,” said Shayne, “I skip my visit upstairs and we go straight to Gentry’s office to get out a radio pick-up for the missing witness?”

“That will be perfectly all right with me,” Painter assured him. “It will turn my hunch into a certainty, and I’ll insist that Gentry return with us to search your apartment.”

Shayne nodded and said, “Let’s go up then.” He swung his long legs out the door and stalked inside with Painter double-timing beside him and the big cop bringing up the rear.

They climbed the stairs and Shayne’s face was impassive as he went down the hall toward his door, getting his key out. He couldn’t stall Painter any longer. He knew the little man would stick to him until he was satisfied that Devlin either was or wasn’t in his apartment.

Frankly, Shayne hoped Devlin would be there. That would prove he had nothing to do with calling Janet Brice to Miami, and even though Devlin were immediately locked up on a murder charge, things were moving fast now and Shayne felt he was getting hold of some of the devious threads that would eventually prove his innocence. But if Devlin weren’t inside his apartment—

He unlocked the door and flung it wide open, stepped back, waved the men inside, and said, “Take a look for yourself. You know your way around.”

“I intend to take a look.” Painter strutted inside followed by Martin, who kept a suspicious eye on Shayne and a fat, hairy hand on his holstered gun.

Shayne went in after them. He had a sick feeling in his belly when he saw the three doors leading into the bedroom, the bathroom, and the kitchen standing open. Upon leaving Devlin there, he had warned the fugitive to go into the bedroom and close the door the moment he heard anyone at the front door.

While Painter began officiously searching every nook in the apartment Shayne went to the liquor cabinet and poured himself a big drink. He needed a big drink. Devlin’s absence could mean only one thing.

He started to the telephone to call Will Gentry to have an alarm put out for Janet Brice. He looked around and saw Painter coming out of the bedroom and going into the bathroom.

The phone began ringing just before he picked up the receiver. He answered it and heard Gentry’s voice saying, “Where have you been, Mike?”

“To Key West.”

“Oh.” There was a brief pause. “Did you contact a woman named Janet Brice on the Belle of the Caribbean ?”

“She had flown to Miami before I reached Key West. I was just going to call you, Will, and find out if you had anything,” he said, his mouth suddenly dry as he wondered how Gentry had learned Janet’s last name. Had Devlin gone to him?

“That’s too bad,” Gentry said heavily. “I hoped there might be some mistake, but I guess there isn’t.” He paused again, briefly, then went on: “She’s dead, Mike. Her body was found on one of the side streets off Seventy-Ninth — about half an hour ago. I’ve been trying to call you ever since.”

“Why — did you — call me, Will?” The words stuck in his throat and it took effort to make them come out clearly. “How did you connect her with me?”

“There was a radiogram in her handbag, Mike. Addressed to her in care of the Belle at Key West. Wait a minute and I’ll read it to you.” In a drawling monotone he read: “Imperative you catch first plane to Miami. Will meet you at landing, dock and explain everything.”

“Is that all?”

“All except the signature. It’s signed Arthur Devlin.”

Shayne said, “I’ll be right down, Will.” He replaced the receiver very gently.