Brett Halliday - Michael Shayne's Long Chance

“Where are you going, Mike? Not — into any more trouble,” she cried anxiously.

“God forbid.” He grinned. “I’m going to see if I can find a rat hole for Denton to crawl into if it comes to that.” He paused with his hand on the doorknob, stalked back to pick up the paper Lucile had discarded and glanced through the front-page story again. He asked, “What was Evalyn Jordan’s address?”

She gave him the street number and added, “It’s an old house made over into apartments on Ursuline just off Royal.”

Shayne dropped the paper and thrust his hands deep in his pockets. “Do you happen to know anyone else in the same building?”

“Yes. There’s another girl from the office living right next door to Evalyn — the corner apartment in the right rear upstairs.”

“What’s her name?”

“Celia Gaston. She and Evalyn were close friends.”

Shayne pushed his hat back and tugged at a lock of hair. “Does she live alone?”

“Yes, I’m quite sure she does. She’s much older than most of the girls in the office. Sort of an old maid. But she’s not there now — what on earth are you up to?”

“Not there? Are you positive?”

“Of course I am. She’s away on a two weeks’ vacation. She left last Saturday.”

Shayne muttered, “That’s a break I didn’t hope for,” and strode from the room.

Fifteen minutes later a taxi pulled up outside an old two-story stuccoed house on Ursuline just off Royal. The driver was a hatchet-faced youth with bright inquisitive eyes. He turned to ask his passenger, “This the place you want?”

“This is it.” Shayne took $5 from his wallet and gave it to the cabbie. He said, “Keep your motor idling. I’m going in and I may come out in a hurry. There’ll be another five for you if you’re ready to make a quick getaway.”

The youth’s eyes sparkled with avidity and curiosity. “Look, Mister, I don’t mind picking up some change, but I don’t want to get in no trouble. Ain’t this the house where that girl killed herself last night?”

“You won’t get into any trouble. You see, I’m a detective,” he explained, “and I’ve got some evidence cached here. The solving of the case will depend on whether I get away without being caught. So keep your motor running.”

“Jeez! A detective? Sure, Mister, I’ll be waiting.”

Shayne walked in a leisurely manner to the front door, opened it, and sauntered in. A wide stairway led up from a narrow hall, and double doors opened into a gloomy parlor. There was the stale smell of cooking odors and when he peered into the parlor the stench of tobacco and old smoke was in his nostrils. The windows were closed and the shades fully drawn. The only light was the pale glow through the shades.

Walking over to a large ash tray on a table beside a plush-covered couch, Shayne lifted the lid and scooped up a handful of cigarette butts and returned to the hall. He went up the stairs, and as he approached the landing a Negro woman emerged from a door on the left carrying a dust mop and an armload of soiled linen. She dropped the linen on the floor and went to a door across the hall. She was humming when she entered the room, leaving the door slightly ajar.

Shayne went on up the steps cautiously, sidled down the hall to the partly opened door and stepped quickly past it. At the right rear he stopped and looked at a square of white cardboard thumbtacked to a closed door. In neat script, he read, Miss Celia Gaston.

He bent down to inspect the lock, then took out a ring of keys and carefully selected one. It went in but would not turn the bolt. He tried another. The lock clicked and he stepped into a dark, musty room. He closed the door quietly, then went across to double windows and raised the shades a foot from the bottom. Enough light came in to reveal a primly ordered living-room. The furnishings were scant and worn. A long dark table against the wall was centered with a small reading lamp and decorated with painted sea shells and other bric-a-brac.

He looked around for an ash tray, but could find nothing to indicate that the occupant of the small apartment was a smoker. He took one of the larger sea shells, and after pushing the others about in careless disorder, carried it over and set it on the floor beside one of the chairs. He dumped the handful of cigarette stubs into it and crushed several of them against the clean pink sides, lit a cigarette and puffed steadily.

While he waited for ashes to form, he lit half a dozen matches, letting each one burn down about halfway before dropping them into the shell. He shook ashes in on top of the mess and continued to smoke furiously as he walked around and moved small things out of place. In the kitchenette he took a glass from an immaculate cabinet, ran water into it, emptied the water into the sink and turned the glass down on the drainboard.

Back in the living-room he crushed out his cigarette in the shell and lit another. He went through an open door into a small bedroom which was as neat and precisely arranged as the living-room had been. He lay down on the silken comforter, wriggled around and dragged out a pillow which he bunched up under his head. He let a few cigarette ashes fall on the comforter, then got up and went to the clothes closet.

He grinned when he found a large, empty cardboard hat-box on a shelf. He took it down, went to the bureau and rummaged through one of the long drawers and found an old newspaper which was used for a lining on the rough bottom of the drawer.

He wrapped the newspaper around the empty hatbox and with the package prominently showing in his arm went to the front door and inched it open cautiously. The Negro cleaning woman was singing in a deep resonant voice, but the words were indistinct.

He opened the door wider and thrust his head out to look down the hall. It was empty. The singing was coming from the interior of the second apartment to the left.

An ornate bridge lamp standing near the door caught his eye, one of the modern indirect lamps with a heavy glass reflector and a three-way bulb. He left the door standing open and backed up against the lamp, gave it a violent shove, and it fell to the floor with a shattering crash.

He heard a shriek from the second apartment to the left as he ran out and down the hall. The Negress burst out to confront him, her eyes rolling. She raised the dustmop threateningly and exclaimed, “Fo’ de Lawd’s sake, whut—” Shayne ran past her, hugging the package tightly in his arm, his free hand doubled into a swinging fist. The Negress shrank back against the wall moaning.

A shrill voice called from the hall below, “What’s the matter up there, Mandy?”

“Hit’s a thief, Miz Bradley. Stop him, Miz Bradley!” Shayne lunged down the stairway and bowled into a matron who stood transfixed at the foot of the stairs. He slammed out onto the porch pursued by two voices screaming for him to stop.

The cabbie had the taxi door open and the motor racing. When Shayne leaped in, he sped away just as the matron and the Negress reached the sidewalk, waving their arms and shouting, “Stop thief!”

Shayne sank back against the cushion and drew in a deep breath of relief. The driver raced around a corner into Bourbon Street, slowed, and turned to look at his passenger with a scowl of uncertainty and doubt.

“I don’t like this, Mister. Sure you’re a detective?”

“Of course I am.”

“Where’s your badge? Look, I don’t want to get in no trouble.”

“You don’t have to,” Shayne promised him. He took out a second five-dollar bill and said gruffly, “You earned this. Stop and let me out anywhere. And if you want to stay in the clear, go ahead and report the whole thing to the police right away.”