Brett Halliday - Michael Shayne’s Triple Mystery

He stopped and looked down at the girl alone in the booth. She was about twenty, smartly dressed, with coppery hair parted in the middle and lying in smooth waves on either side of her head. She didn’t wear any make-up, and her small face had a pinched look. Her eyes were brown and shone with alert intelligence. Her left hand clasped a glass half filled with dead beer as she smiled at Shayne.

Shayne took off his hat and stood flat-footed looking down at her. Lights above the bar behind him cast shadows on his gaunt cheeks. He lifted his shaggy left eyebrow and asked, “Do I know you?”

“You’re going to.” The girl tilted her head sideways and looked wistful. “I’ll buy a drink.”

“Why didn’t you say so?” Shayne slid into the bench opposite her.

A waiter hurried over and the girl said, “Cognac,” happily, watching Shayne for approval.

The Miami detective said, “Make it a sidecar, Joe.” The waiter nodded and went away.

“But Tim said cognac was your password,” the girl protested. “He said you never drank anything else.”

“Tim?” Shayne said, surprised.

“Tim Rourke. He thought you might tell me about some of your cases. I do feature stuff for a New York syndicate. Tim couldn’t make it tonight. He’s been promising to introduce me to you, so I came on to meet you here. I’m Myrna Hastings.”

Shayne said bitterly, “When you order cognac these days you get lousy grape brandy. California ’44. It’s drinkable mixed into a sidecar. This damned war…”

“It’s a shame your drinking habits have been upset by the war. Tragic, in fact.” Myrna Hastings took a sip of her flat beer and made a little grimace.

Shayne lit a cigarette and tossed the pack on the table between them. Joe brought his sidecar and he watched Myrna take a dollar bill from her purse and lay it on the table. Shayne lifted the slender cocktail glass to his lips and said, “Thanks.” He drank half of the mixture and his gray eyes grew speculative. Holding it close to his nose, he inhaled deeply and a frown rumpled his forehead.

Joe was standing at the table when Shayne drained his glass. “I’ve changed my mind, Joe. Bring me a straight cognac — a double shot in a beer glass.”

Joe grinned slyly and went away.

Sixty cents in change from Myrna’s dollar bill lay on the table. She poked at the silver and asked dubiously, “Will that be enough for a double shot?”

“It’ll be eighty cents,” Shayne told her.

She smiled and took a quarter from her purse. “Tim says you’ve always avoided publicity, but it’ll be a wonderful break for me if I can write up a few of your best cases.”

The waiter brought the beer glass with two ounces of amber fluid in it, took Myrna Hastings’s eighty-five cents, and went away.

Shayne lifted the beer glass to his nose, closed his eyes and breathed deeply of the bouquet, then began to warm the glass in his big palms.

“Tim thinks you should let yourself in on some publicity,” the girl continued. “He thinks it’s a shame you don’t ever take the credit for solving so many cases.”

Shayne looked at her for a moment, then slowly emptied his glass and set it down. He picked up his cigarette and hat and said, “Thanks for the drinks. I never give out any stories. Tim Rourke knows that.” He got up and strode to the rear of the bar.

Joe sidled down to join him and Shayne said, “I could use another shot of that. And I’ll pour my own.”

Joe got a clean beer glass and set a tall bottle on the bar before Shayne. He glanced past the detective at the girl sitting alone in the booth, but didn’t say anything.

The label on the bottle read: MONTERREY GRAPE BRANDY, Guaranteed 14 months old.

Shayne pulled out the cork and passed the open neck of the bottle back and forth under his nose. He asked Joe, “Got any more of this same brand?”

“Jeez, I dunno. I’ll see, Mr. Shayne.” He turned away and returned presently with a sealed bottle bearing the same label.

Shayne broke the seal and pulled the cork. He made a wry face as the smell of raw grape brandy assailed his nostrils. He said angrily, “This isn’t the same stuff.”

“Says so right on the bottle,” Joe argued.

“I don’t give a damn what the label says,” Shayne growled. He reached for the first bottle and poured a drink into the empty beer glass. Keeping a firm grip on the bottle with his left hand he drank from the mug, rolling the liquor around his tongue. His gray eyes shone with dreamy contentment as he lingeringly swallowed the brandy, while a frown of curiosity and confusion formed between them. “Any more of the bar bottles already open?” he asked.

“I don’t think so. We don’t open ’em but one at a time nowadays. I’ll ask the barkeep.” Plainly mystified by Shayne’s request, Joe went to the front of the bar and held a low-voiced conversation with a bald-headed man wearing a dirty apron that bulged over a potbelly.

The bartender glanced at Shayne, then waddled toward him. He looked at the two bottles and asked, “Whassa trouble here?”

Shayne shrugged his wide shoulders. “No trouble. Your bar bottle hasn’t got the same stuff that’s in the sealed one.”

The hulking man looked troubled. “You know how ’tis these days. A label don’t mean nothin’ no more. We’re lucky to stay open at all.”

Shayne said, “I know it’s rough trying to keep a supply.”

The bartender regarded Shayne for a moment with his pale, puffed eyes. “You’re private, huh? Ain’t I seen you ’round?”

“I’m private. This hasn’t anything to do with the law.”

“If you got a kick about the drink, it’ll be on the house,” the bartender said magnanimously.

“I’m not kicking,” Shayne told him earnestly. “I’d like to buy what’s left in this bottle.” He indicated the partially empty one which he had moved out of the bartender’s reach.

The man shook his head slowly. “No can do. Our license says we gotta sell it by the drink.”

Shayne held the bottle up and squinted through it. “There’s maybe twenty ounces left,” he calculated. “It’s worth ten bucks to me.”

The big man continued to shake his head. “You can drink it here. Forty cents a shot.”

“Maybe I could make a deal with the boss,” suggested Shayne.

“Maybe. I’ll find out.” He waddled around the end of the bar and preceded Shayne to an unmarked door to the left of the ladies’ room. Shayne saw Myrna Hastings still sitting in the booth, watching him.

The bartender rapped lightly on the door, turned the knob, and motioned Shayne inside.

Henry Renaldo was seated at a desk facing the doorway. He was a big, flabby man with a florid face. He wore a black derby tilted back on his bullet head and an open gray vest revealed the sleeves and front of a shirt violently striped with reddish purple. He was eating a frayed black cigar that had spilled ashes down the front of his vest.

The bartender stood in the doorway behind Shayne. He said heavily, “This shamus is kickin’ about the service, boss. I figured you might wanna handle it.”

Renaldo’s black eyes took in the brandy bottle dangling from Shayne’s fingers. He wet his lips and said, “Okay, Tiny,” and the bartender went out.

Renaldo leaned over the desk to push out his right hand. “Long time no see, Mike.”

Shayne disregarded the proffered hand. “I didn’t know you were in this racket, Renaldo.”

“Sure. I went legal when prohibition went out.”

Shayne moved forward, set the bottle down with a thump, and said mildly, “This is a new angle on me.”

“How’s that?”

“Prewar cognac under a cheap domestic label. Monnet, isn’t it?”

“You must be nuts,” Renaldo ejaculated.