Brett Halliday - Michael Shayne’s Triple Mystery

“Did you discuss the Wallace affair with him?”

“Certainly not.” Her voice was taut and angry. “Can’t I convince you that I’m not interested in Wallace?”

“I am.” Shayne finished his drink, got up, and said, “Thanks for the drink.”

“Let me fix you another one.”

Shayne shook his head. “I’m hard to get along with when I get a pint of liquor in me.”

“I could get along with you.” She patted the divan. “Why are we wasting time? And you can call me Matie.”

Shayne said, “Because I’ve got a date to keep with a dame. She’s waiting in my apartment right now and I need to be sober to handle her.” He wagged his head and closed one eye in a wink. “It happens to be your ex-sister-in-law!”

“Not Beatrice!” she gasped. Her upper lip curled in contempt.

“That’s right. We had quite a talk this morning. I suppose you know it was she who invited Groat out to the Hawleys to be murdered last night.”

“Did she murder him?”

“I don’t know. If I can keep her sober long enough, I’ve got an idea she can tell me who did.”

“We haven’t settled anything,” Mrs. Meredith reminded him. “I don’t think I understand you, Mr. Shayne.”

Shayne was at the door and had hold of the knob when someone rapped. He turned to look at Mrs. Meredith, one eyebrow quizzically raised. She had half-risen from the divan and her eyes were wide. She shook her head at Shayne but didn’t speak.

The rapping sounded again. Shayne turned the knob and opened the door. He said, “Well, well,” and stepped back when he saw Leslie Cunningham standing on the threshold.

The sailor wore a double-breasted suit of blue serge; the snap brim of a felt hat was pulled low over his bronzed forehead. His black eyes glittered with surprise when he saw Shayne. He jerked his gaze to Mrs. Meredith and muttered, “I didn’t know you two knew each other.”

Shayne said, “I get around a little.” He motioned Cunningham inside and added, “Mrs. Meredith is looking for another victim to drink one of her mint juleps. I’m just leaving.”

Cunningham squared his shoulders and stepped into the room. His actions showed a strong trace of self-consciousness. His gaze was fixed on Mrs. Meredith’s face as though he hoped to receive some signal from her, some hint as to what she expected from him.

She said smoothly, “It’s nice of you to drop in, Mr. Cunningham. I would like to mix you a mint julep since Mr. Shayne scorns them. Besides, my charming ex-sister-in-law is waiting in his apartment,” she added acidly.

Shayne said, “I’m sure you two have a lot to talk over.” He started for the door again, adding, “Just as I have with Mrs. Meany.”

“I’ve got some things to talk to you about,” Cunningham muttered. “I just heard Jasper Groat’s body has been found.”

“Didn’t surprise you, did it?”

“No. As I told you last night, I knew something had happened to him. What about the diary?”

“You still have that to worry about. You and Mrs. Meredith and the Hawleys, and Hastings and Sims — and maybe Joel Cross.” Shayne went out and closed the door.

In the lobby he went down the corridor behind the desk and stopped at a door marked Private. A voice said, “Come in,” when he knocked.

Kurt Davis was lounging in a chair smoking a cigar. He didn’t look the way a house detective is supposed to look, but at the St. Charles the job called for brains more than brawn.

He said, “Hello there, Shayne. Are you working?”

“Sort of.” Shayne pulled up a chair and sat down. “Can you get me the home address of Mrs. Meredith in Room 319?”

“I can get you the address she used when she registered.”

Shayne nodded. “I don’t expect an affidavit with it.”

Davis got up and strolled across the small room to a metal box affixed to the wall. He pressed a button and spoke into the box. Turning back to Shayne, he asked, “Anything we ought to have on her?”

“I don’t think so.” Shayne hesitated, then added, “You might keep an eye on the men she entertains in her suite.”

“A floozie?” the house detective asked.

“Not at all. The worst she’s likely to do is knock some guy out with one of her mint juleps. She’s mixed up in a case I’m working on. I don’t know how deeply. If there’s a pinch, I’ll see that your dump is kept clean.”

The metal box buzzed. Davis turned to it, pressed a button, and said, “Yes?”

Shayne took out a small memo pad and a pencil. He copied down the street address as Davis repeated it aloud. He promised, “If I get anything you can use, I’ll pass it on,” and went out.

It was getting quite dark as he walked up the street to a telegraph office and wrote out a message to Mr. Theodore Meredith in Chicago, Illinois. It read: Dangerous complications demand you here immediately. Wire me at once but not at hotel because am watched. Send message to this address.

He completed the message with his own apartment address and signed it Matie. He sent it as a straight message, went back to his parked car, and drove to his apartment.

When Shayne stepped out on the sidewalk he glanced up to see light in the front windows of his second-floor apartment. He knew he hadn’t left the lights on when he had gone out earlier in the day.

He thought he discerned movement inside the room and watched the windows for a full minute. The movement was not repeated. He grinned wryly upon realizing that he might have been telling Mrs. Meredith the truth, after all, when he had said lightly that Beatrice Meany was waiting for him in his apartment. He started forward, hoping she hadn’t already got into the liquor. There were a lot of things he wanted to ask her.

He went up the front steps onto the veranda, passed through double entrance doors into a small, dimly lit hallway with stairs leading directly upward. The small light bulb at the top of the stairway was out, leaving the upper hall in darkness. He turned toward the crack of light showing under his door.

As he brought his keys from his pocket his hand grasped the doorknob. It turned easily and the door swung open.

The crumpled body of Beatrice Meany lay in the middle of the brightly lighted room.

Shayne stood in the doorway taking in every detail of the scene. Beatrice was dead. Her eyes were open and glazed, her tongue protruded slightly from her lips and was bluish, her head was twisted in a manner indicating a broken neck.

Shayne whirled from the doorway and lunged down the hall. He halted briefly at the head of the stairs, reaching up to touch the unlit light globe. The bulb was warm. He twisted it in, carefully touching it with two fingers near the neck of the globe. Light flooded the hallway.

He strode on to a narrow rear stairway, went swiftly down to the rear of the lower hall and found the back door opening onto the alley standing ajar. He stepped out and looked up and down the alley, but saw no one.

Back in the entrance hall, he put a coin in the wall telephone and called police headquarters. “This is Mike Shayne, and I’ve got a corpse for you.” He gave the address and hung up, turned and went to a door marked Janitor, opposite the stairway.

He opened the door and called, “Jake.”

A voice said, “Yassuh,” and in a moment a wrinkled Negro came to the door. “What yo’ want, Mist’ Shayne?”

“Do you know how a woman got in my apartment?”

“Yo’ sistuh? Yassah. Ah let her in, Mist’ Shayne. She said ’twas a s’prise like.”

“What time did you let her in?”

“’Bout a hour ago, Ah reckon.” Jake scratched his kinky head. “Jest after sundown. Ah was rakin’ the front yahd an’ she druv up in a taxi an’ asks me was yo’ heah an’ then could Ah unlock yo’ door so’s she could wait.”