Brett Halliday - Michael Shayne's Long Chance

Shayne grinned and said, “Before too long I’ll grant two of his requests — the last two.”

The inspector was not smiling when he said, “I’m releasing you for the time being, but watch your step. Denton isn’t just a precinct captain. He’s got an in with the papers and he’s shooting for McCracken’s job. This will make a sweet smear if we don’t dean the murder up fast. You’re not the only one on the spot. Think about that when you walk out of here, and, for God’s sake, keep your nose clean.”

Shayne held out his hand, and the inspector stood up to grasp it. He warned, “Don’t hold out on us, Shayne. If there’s anything else lying around that Denton can get hold of, tell us about it now. If he’s got anything to frame you with, he’ll use it.”

Shayne said gruffly, “Don’t think I don’t appreciate this. I’ve been inside on too many frames to stick my neck into one.” He turned and went out.

Shayne stopped at one of the public telephone booths in the police building, went in and closed the door, then sat for a moment tugging at his left earlobe. He frowned in indecision before thumbing through the directory until he came upon the name of Veigle, H. F.

He dialed the number and listened to the monotonous, insistent buzzing of the phone at the other end. After three or four minutes the ringing stopped and a sleepy voice said, “Yeh — what the devil?”

“Harry?” Shayne said.

“Who’s talking?” the sleepy voice asked.

“Mike Shayne. Wake up and start thinking nine years back, Harry.”

“Mike? I don’t believe it. Where the hell are you?”

“Police headquarters.”

“Oh, so it is you, Mike.”

Shayne laughed. “I’ve just talked myself out of a murder rap — that is, almost. Are you awake, Harry?”

“Ever since you mentioned police headquarters and murder raps I’ve been awake. What do you want me to get you out of this time?”

“Still got your private lab, Harry? And are you still so broke you’d frame your grandmother for half a C?”

“Still got my lab, but I’ve raised my price. It’ll cost you a whole C to get my grandmother framed now.”

“Fair enough. Listen, Harry, this is important. Got a pencil and paper?” Shayne squirmed in the narrow telephone booth, got a small slip of paper from his shirt pocket, and spread it flat on the wall.

Harry Veigle said, “Shoot, Mike, my pencil is poised.”

“Take this down, Harry, and get it right. Tonight about eleven o’clock you got in a City Cab on Dumaine just off Charles. You rode three blocks and suddenly remembered something important you had to do and got out. Get it?”

“No, but go on,” Veigle snapped.

“You gave the driver a buck for this trouble, but you left a bundle on the floor of the cab — a round bundle about ten inches in diameter tied securely in brown wrapping paper and white string. No writing on it. It feels like old clothes, but is heavier than that. Got it?”

“Almost — wait a minute.”

Shayne waited until Veigle said, “Okay, shoot. What’s it all about?”

“It’s a cognac bottle,” Shayne went on, “wrapped in a bath towel and in wrapping paper, but don’t open it in the claim office when you pick it up. The clerk might be allergic to the sight of blood.”

Veigle said, “What the hell?”

“It killed a girl tonight,” Shayne told him calmly. “I want you to get the bottle right away, Harry. The cab number is one-two-six. Take it to your lab before you unwrap it. It’s got the dead girl’s fingerprints and mine all over it, and, I hope, the murderer’s prints. My prints are on file at headquarters and the girl’s will be in a couple of hours. If the bottle has any other prints, bring them out. If it hasn’t — get rid of the damned thing, Harry. I might beat the chair that way.”

“Wait a minute, Mike. How’d your prints get on the bottle? If it’s murder evidence—”

Shayne said, “There was a time when you trusted me without asking questions.”

In a resigned tone, Veigle said, “Check. I claim this bottle from the cab office, try to bring out a set of prints other than yours and the dead girl’s. If I fail, I destroy the evidence and face a rap for accessory after the fact. That it?”

Shayne said, “That’s it.”

“Who pays for the job if you burn?”

Shayne chuckled and hung up. He mopped sweat from his face and riffled through the directory again, turning to the H’s and frowning at the long column of Hamiltons. Near the top was a Becky Lucile on Chartres Street. He dialed the number, and a female voice said, “Hello,” after the fifth ring.

“Lucile Hamilton?”

“Uh — yes. Who’s calling?”

“This is a friend of Margo’s.”

“I’m sort of friendly, too.” The voice was cooing, fencing with him. “I’m all undressed. Would you like to see me?”

Shayne said, “Some other time. When you are dressed.” He hung up and ran his finger down the column of names, stopped at a Lucile Hamilton on North Rampart.

He tried that number and waited a long time while the ringing went on monotonously at the other end.

His persistence was finally rewarded by a sleepy voice saying, “Miss Hamilton speaking.”

Shayne said, “This is a friend of Margo’s.”

“Margo Macon?”

“That’s right. I’m sorry to disturb you at this hour, but it’s really important that I see you at once. May I come up?”

“Why should you? It’s past midnight.”

“I’m sorry. It’s still important.” He paused briefly, then added, “I gather that the police haven’t got to you yet.”

“The police? Why should they?”

“There’s no use discussing it over the phone,” Shayne said brusquely. “I’ll see you in ten minutes.” He hung up and went out to find a cab.

The address on North Rampart street was a neat brick apartment house. Shayne found Lucile Hamilton’s name above a brass mailbox in the small entrance hall and pressed the button above it. He had his hand on the doorknob when it clicked. He opened the door and went up the carpeted stairs, turned right when he saw a girl peering anxiously from an apartment at the end of the hall.

Lucile Hamilton had a sweet, rounded face, and her clear brown eyes were wide with anxiety as she greeted Shayne from the doorway. “Are you the man who telephoned just now?” she asked softly.

“I’m the man — Michael Shayne.” He took off his hat and extended his hand.

She hesitated an instant before offering her hand, her direct gaze flickering over his coarse red hair and his bruised face and on to the big hand he was offering. Her smile was sincere when she put her hand in his and said forthrightly, “You’re the man Margo told us about. And I’m sure she was right, too.”

“That all depends on what she told you,” he said.

“Now you’re fishing,” she accused. Her cool hand gave him back a firm pressure, and she invited him into a tiny efficiency apartment. She wore a flowered housecoat that zipped up the front and trailed the floor behind her. She was about 20, Shayne guessed, with a disarming simplicity of manner. Her brown hair was brushed back from her face and tied at the nape of her neck with a pink ribbon.

“Please sit here,” she said, indicating the one comfortable chair beside which a tall metal ash tray stood. She curled up on the studio couch which was converted into a bed, making the small room appear crowded. “Now tell me what you meant by the police — and what about Margo? Is something wrong?”

Shayne offered her a cigarette, took one for himself and struck a match to light both. “It’s bad news,” he said quietly. “Margo is dead.”