Brett Halliday: Call for Michael Shayne

“But you suspected someone,” persisted Shayne.

Masters nodded moodily. “A couple of years ago I thought she was pretty thick with Doc Thompson. That’s why I made her change to Spencer. But I didn’t know. I decided afterward it was just one of those tizzies some women get into over their doctors.”

“Thompson?” breathed Shayne, knitting his brow. “Are you sure she didn’t name the man in the letter Morgan found in her room?”

“He swore she didn’t.”

“How did you feel about it that night at Devlin’s farewell party when he got tight and mentioned the fact that he was meeting Janet Brice on the boat to talk to her about a strange letter Mrs. Masters had written her shortly before she died?”

“First I ever heard about such a letter,” Masters snapped. “What was it?”

“I don’t know. With Janet dead I suppose we’ll never know. Devlin says you were there when he mentioned it.”

“Then I didn’t hear him. See here, Shayne, what’s all this stuff about Devlin and Skid Munroe last night? Do you believe he killed Skid?”

“He thinks he did,” countered Shayne warily.

“That’s not what he told me.” Masters sat down again after pacing slowly around the room.

“When did you see Devlin?” Shayne asked.

“Not more than an hour ago. Doc Thompson brought him here and they both swore it was all a mix-up and he’s been framed. That’s why I—” He clamped his thick lips together suddenly.

“Why you what?” Shayne bored in. “Give it to me, for God’s sake, Masters, before you make the same mistake I seem to have made.”

“What mistake is that?”

“Believing in Devlin. I hid him out from arrest in my apartment, and while I was flying to Key West to see Mrs. Brice she was lured to her death by a radiogram signed with Devlin’s name.”

Masters brushed his hands wearily across his face. “I’m all mixed up,” he declared. “Why would Devlin kill Skid Munroe and then Janet?”

“I don’t know about Skid. But if Devlin was your wife’s lover, it would explain his eagerness to go on the cruise and meet Janet to stifle her suspicions that he had been responsible for Lily’s suicide. Then he claimed he wasn’t on the boat — to bolster up an amnesia story as an alibi for the Munroe killing. He knew that would blow up the moment I got to Janet and questioned her. So, if you can help me get hold of Devlin fast, you’d better do it.”

“I’ll be damned,” said Masters slowly, “and I helped him get away, Shayne. He’s on his way right now to hide out at Thompson’s fishing-lodge on Marlin Key.”

“You helped him? How?”

“They went in my motor cruiser. Morgan offered to take them. He was here when they came in.”

“Morgan!” said Shayne sharply. “You let Morgan take them down to that isolated Key in your boat?”

“Why not? I’ve always liked Devlin. I believed his story.”

“And Morgan very helpfully offered to take them,” said Shayne. “My God, Masters, don’t you realize that’s the last you’ll ever see of Roger Morgan?”

“The — last — I’ll ever see—?” Masters swung his swivel chair forward and sat up very straight. “Look here, Shayne—”

“How long a trip is it by motorboat?” Shayne interrupted.

“About three hours. Morgan said he might stay overnight if it was late.”

“Wait a minute.” Shayne’s hand dived for the telephone while he fingered the slip of paper Thompson’s nurse had given him with her telephone number written on it. He dialed the number, listened to it ring twice, and then a guttural voice said, “Volpone’s Laundry. Yes?”

Shayne slammed the receiver down, muttering, “I might have known.” He lifted the receiver again to dial the Miami police headquarters. In a moment he had Will Gentry on the wire.

“Listen, Will. I’ve got a hunch about Marge Jerome.”

“I’ve got something better than a hunch,” drawled Gentry. “I just sent a couple of men over to Doctor Thompson’s office to bring her in.”

“Miss Dort,” said Shayne bitterly. “It was right there all the time. Hang onto her, Will. She’s into this up to her chin. Does the Miami police department still own that old wreck of a seaplane you used to be so proud of?”

“It’s still around. You thinking about going somewhere, Mike?”

“Yeh. You got somebody who can fly it?”

“Sergeant Pepper. But I don’t know what condition the crate’s in. I’ll check—”

“Pepper around there now?” Shayne cut in.

“I think so. If he isn’t down at the dock tinkering with the plane.”

“If he isn’t at the dock, have him meet me there in twenty minutes with the motor turning. And ask him to bring along an extra gun for me, Will.”

“What are you up to, Mike?”

“If Sergeant Pepper can get that crate in the air and keep it there for about sixty miles, and if we have a lot of luck, we may be in time to prevent another murder. Or — maybe two more murders.” Shayne broke the connection and hurried out, leaving Bert Masters staring stupidly after him.

Shayne was surprised to see that the time was only a few minutes to six when he went out of Masters’s front office. Clouds still covered the sun and darkness was coming on early. He got in his car and drove rapidly to the dock.

Sergeant Pepper was waiting for him, but the propeller of his one-engined plane was not turning. Instead, the sergeant was clad in a pair of greasy coveralls and was tinkering with the engine. It had started life as a Piper Cub, but Pepper had fitted it with pontoons and extra gadgets for scouting above secluded bays and inlets surrounding Miami to ferret out smugglers who crossed from Cuba and the Bahamas in small, fast boats.

To Shayne, the small craft looked frail and unairworthy, squatting awkwardly beside the dock like a queer species of grasshopper or water bug, but Sergeant Pepper was a youthful product of war flying, perfectly at home in anything air-borne, and his enthusiasm was contagious.

When Shayne reached the plane the sergeant looked up with a dirty-faced grin. “I’ll have her ready in a little while, Mr. Shayne.”

“You mean you’re not ready to take off? I phoned Gentry—”

“Yes, sir. He got word to me. I’ve been working her over all afternoon.”

“But didn’t Gentry tell you it was urgent? What seems to be the trouble?”

“The old girl’s digestion ain’t what it used to be.” The sergeant looked up and saw the bleak look in Shayne’s eyes. “Is it something important? The chief didn’t know exactly—”

“Don’t waste time on conversation,” Shayne told him. “Just get busy — get her in the air.”

“Yes, sir,” said Sergeant Pepper soberly. “Be about thirty minutes.”

Shayne groaned and began pacing up and down the dock, his ears tuned to catch the first sound of the whirling propeller. Clouds were gathering overhead, blackening the sky. The wind was fresh and humid, dampening his finger-combed hair.

It was forty-five minutes by his watch when he heard the sound that sent him trotting to the plane. Sergeant Pepper had shed his coveralls and a .38 Police Special showed on his hip. He held out a flat .45 automatic as Shayne came up.

“Chief Gentry said I was to loan you this and to see that you didn’t hurt yourself playing with it,” he said with a grin. Then, seeing Shayne’s somber face he added, “Sorry it took me so long, but I didn’t want to take a chance.”

“It couldn’t be helped,” Shayne told him, then asked, “Do you know Marlin Key?”

He reached into the cockpit. “I’ve got charts in here.”

Shayne detained him. “It might not even be charted. It’s very small and lies about six miles south of Mattewan Key.”