Brett Halliday: Michael Shayne's Long Chance

Shayne got out his wallet. He took out a small slip of paper and some one-dollar bills. He folded three of the bills lengthwise and held them between two fingers, extending them toward the clerk while he read the slip of paper: Apartment 303, The Peloine Apartments. He glanced up at the clerk. “The Peloine is next door. Do you happen to know where number three-oh-three would be located in the building?”

The fat clerk had heavy black eyebrows. One brow was puckishly curved higher than the other. He arched the puckish brow higher, glanced at the folded bills, and cleared his throat. “It happens,” he said, whistling through an aperture where a tooth was missing, “that I do know the room layout there. The Peloine is under the same management as this hotel.” He lowered small black eyes to the bills between Shayne’s fingers.

Shayne moved his hand forward. The bills disappeared. “Three-oh-three,” the clerk whistled, “is on the top floor back, sir. It faces this way.”

Shayne refolded the slip of paper and placed it in his wallet. “Opposite approximately which of your rooms?”

The clerk’s brows crawled together like two black, hairy worms, accentuating the deep line above his bulbous nose. He cocked his head on one side and studied Shayne, then asked sternly, “Are you checking in here, or merely looking for information?”

Shayne grinned and picked up the pen. “I intend registering as a guest, if that makes a difference.” He wrote his name with a flourish, adding Miami, Florida, on the address line.

The clerk waddled over to consult a room chart. He said, “Our number three-sixty-two is opposite the apartment you mentioned.”

Shayne lit a cigarette. “Is three-sixty-two vacant?”

The clerk shook his head. “It happens not to be at present. Perhaps in a few days—”

Shayne said irritably, “A few days won’t do.” He reached for his wallet again, watching the clerk’s eyes. They were greedy in his swarthy face. He took out a five, hesitated an instant, and added another five. Folding them between his fingers as he had done before, he said, “Perhaps you could persuade the present occupant to take another room.” He moved his hand negligently across the desk.

The clerk’s face became grave. The tip of his tongue appeared in the aperture where a tooth was missing. “I think perhaps I could, Mr. Shayne.”

Shayne’s eyes were as cold as steel. The two bills had disappeared from his fingers.

“I’m quite sure it can be arranged,” the clerk said hastily. “If you’d care to sit here in the lobby for a few minutes—” His voice trailed off in a whistle as he snapped his fingers at the bellhop who stood by with Shayne’s bag.

Shayne said, “Sure,” and sauntered away from the desk. He sat down in a comfortable chair and crossed his legs while the clerk conferred in low tones with the small Negro. The boy’s eyes glistened and two buck teeth shone through a broad grin. He took a key from the clerk, left the bag at the desk, and slid to the waiting elevator.

A sudden wild clatter of sound drifted through the open doorway from the street, resolving into a tinny, ecstatic rhythm. After a brief prelude, deep and harmonious voices joined in, singing a strange melody which finally ended in a wild chant.

Shayne’s wide mouth was spread in an appreciative grin. “Spasm band, eh?” he said to the clerk. “It’s been a long time since I heard one.”

The clerk nodded. “Black boys looking for lagniappe. Some of them are pretty good.”

Shayne looked toward the elevator. The bellhop was nowhere in sight. A man and a woman came into the lobby. The man was very tall and incredibly thin. He wore a rumpled suit and his hands continually gesticulated as he talked excitedly to the woman. He spoke French. The woman was fat and a black mustache grew on her thick upper lip. She listened placidly and answered in soft Italian when the thin man gave her a chance to speak. They crossed the lobby without looking at Shayne or the clerk and went up in the elevator.

When the elevator came down, the Negro bellhop got out. He went to the desk and said something to the clerk, then picked up Shayne’s suitcase.

The clerk said, “Your room is ready, Mr. Shayne.”

On the third floor, Shayne followed the bellhop down a carpeted hallway. He said, “That was fast work. How did the other fellow feel about getting the bum’s rush out of his room?”

The boy turned and flashed white teeth. “It wa’n’t nothin’, suh. Jes’ moved his stuff out lak Mistuh Rainey tol’ me.” He stopped near the end of the corridor and turned the knob of a door, then stepped back with a great show of gallantry and waved Shayne into the room.

Shayne stepped inside and glanced around. A slow grin spread over his face when he saw nothing whatever to indicate that the room had been recently occupied, and though a humid breeze came in through open French windows, the odor of unoccupancy clung to the room. Taking a half dollar from his pocket he flipped it to the boy who caught it expertly. “Bring up some cracked ice,” Shayne ordered.

“Yas, suh. Thank you, suh,” the boy responded, and went out with his buck teeth clamped on the silver coin.

Shayne muttered to himself, “Thirteen-fifty on the expense account for asking questions,” then strode to a short double window and opened it. Looking out, he saw ancient buildings, some of them boasting modern additions, which encroached upon the courtyard below and pressed against each other. A narrow service alleyway twisted around the new additions, with nooks here and there where unkempt palms and shrubs and vines straggled between flagstone slabs.

He frowned, searching his memory. He recalled that a part of the ground on which the hotel was built had once been a beautiful courtyard filled with palms and tropical shrubs and dining tables. Nine years ago it had been one of the gayest of the Quarter’s al fresco night clubs, operated in connection with the hotel which was now converted into the Peloine Apartments.

Turning from the window, Shayne went to the long French windows leading out onto the small, private balcony. The enclosure was not more than two feet wide and ran the length of the doors. The grill work was fashioned of thick, trailing vines topped by a smooth, flat railing.

Stepping out on the balcony, Shayne emitted a low whistle of surprise, for directly before him, so close that he could have touched her, a girl lay in a canvas deck chair on a more spacious projecting balcony of the Peloine Apartments building. The grille work of openmouthed amphibians and writhing reptiles of the larger balcony was not more than two feet removed from Shayne’s iron trellis. His belt buckle clanked against the top rail when he bent over and leaned against it in an effort to see the girl’s face.

She was half turned away from him, curled up in the chair, with her left cheek resting on her forearm. She wore a bandanna halter which did not adequately cover the swell of her full breasts, and a pair of shorts. Her skin was deeply tanned, her hair was brown with copper highlights where a ray of sunshine touched it. It was cut very short and curled in soft ringlets at the nape of her neck. Her visible right eye was closed and her flat stomach rose and fell gently with rhythmic breathing. She was either fast asleep or doing a splendid job of pretending.

He continued to stare at the girl, fascinated. Her nose was small and straight, her lips full and curved upward at the corners. Her forehead was wide and high and smooth. There was no doubt that she was Margo Macon, and he decided that the $13.50 had been well spent.

When a knock sounded on his room door, he straightened his long body and went in to admit the Negro boy and a pitcher of ice cubes. He took the pitcher, ignored the buck-toothed smile and anticipatory gleam in the boy’s eyes, and closed the door. He set the pitcher on the dresser and opened his suitcase.