Brett Halliday - Michael Shayne’s Triple Mystery

Guildford said, “I resent that, Shayne.”

Shayne laughed harshly. “You resent it?”

Gentry said, “I’m running my department, but I don’t mind listening to advice. Are you willing to swear you and Miss Hastings just dropped in on the dead man by accident?”

Shayne said, “Put me on the witness stand if I’m going to be cross-examined.”

Gentry compressed his lips. He started to say something, but instead, tightened his lips further and got up. He and Guildford went out of the room.

Shayne stood by the table until the door closed behind them, then strode to the telephone and asked for the Crestwood Hotel. He frowned, starting across the room, and tugged at his left earlobe while he waited. When the hotel answered he asked for Miss Myrna Hastings. Without hesitation the clerk said, “Miss Hastings is not in.”

“How the hell do you know she isn’t?” Shayne growled. “You haven’t rung her room.”

“But I saw her go out just a moment ago, sir,” the clerk insisted.

Shayne said, “You must be mistaken. I happen to know she just went to her room.”

“That’s quite right, sir. She came in and got her key not more than five minutes ago, but she came downstairs almost immediately with two gentlemen and went out with them.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive, sir. I saw them cross the lobby from the elevator to the front door.”

“Wait a minute. Did she go with them willingly?”

“Why, I certainly presumed so. She had her arms linked in theirs, and I didn’t notice anything wrong.”

“Can you describe them?”

“No. I’m afraid I didn’t notice—”

“Was one of them short and the other one tall?”

“Why, now that you mention it, I think so. Is something wrong? Do you think—?”

Shayne banged up the receiver and stalked into the bedroom. He got a short-barreled .38 which he dropped in his coat pocket. Then he went to the kitchen and tried the back door. Myrna had locked it after she slipped out.

He turned out the kitchen light and strode across the living room, jammed his hat down on his bristly red hair, and went out.

Ten minutes later he parked in front of Henry Renaldo’s tavern. He shouldered his way through the swinging doors and found half a dozen late tipplers still leaning on the bar. Joe was in the back with a mop bucket, turning chairs up over the tables, and the paunchy bartender was still on duty in front.

Shayne went up to the bar and said, “Give me a shot of Cognac — Monnet.”

The man shook his head. “We got grape brandy—”

Shayne said, “Monterrey will do.”

The bartender set a bottle and glass in front of the detective, his eyes secretively low-lidded. Shayne poured a drink and lifted it to his nose. “This stuff is grape brandy,” he said angrily.

“Sure. Says so right on the bottle.” His tone was placating.

Shayne shoved the glass away from him and said, “I’ll have a talk with Henry.”

“The boss ain’t in,” the bartender told him hastily.

“How about his two ginzos?”

“I dunno.”

Shayne turned and went along the bar to the back. Joe pulled the mop bucket out of his way and turned his head to stare wonderingly at the set look on Shayne’s face.

He knocked on the door of Renaldo’s office and then tried the door. It opened into darkness. He found the light switch and stood on the threshold looking around the empty office. He went to the rear door through which the two gunmen had entered earlier, and found it barred on the inside. It opened out directly onto the alley.

Back at the bar, he found the bartender lounging against the cash register. He said, “I tol’ you,” and backed away in alarm when Shayne bunched his hand in his coat pocket over the .38.

“Where,” asked Shayne, “do Blackie and Lennie hang out?”

“I dunno. I swear to God I don’t. I never seen ’em in here before tonight.” He was frightened and he sounded truthful.

“Where will I find the boss?”

“Home, I reckon.”

“Where?”

The bartender hesitated. He pouched his lower lip between thumb and forefinger and said sullenly, “Mr. Renaldo don’t like—”

Shayne said, “Give it to me.”

The bartender hesitated briefly, his eyes wary. Then he wilted and mumbled an address on West Sixtieth Street.

Shayne went out and got in his car, sat there for a moment, got out, and went back into the tavern. The bartender looked at him with naked fear in his eyes and put down the telephone hastily.

“Don’t do it, Fatty. If Renaldo has been tipped off when I get there I’ll come back and spill your guts all over the floor. The name is Shayne, if you think I’m kidding.”

He went out again and swung away from the curb. He drove north a dozen blocks and stopped in front of a sign on Miami Avenue that read: CHUNKY’S CHILI. The place was crammed in between a pawnshop and a flophouse.

He went in and said, “Hi, Chunky,” to the big man behind the empty counter.

Chunky said, “’Lo, Mike,” without enthusiasm.

“Any of the boys in back?”

“Guess so.”

Shayne got out his wallet, extracted a ten-dollar bill and folded it twice lengthwise, and held it toward him. “Blackie or Lennie in there?” he asked.

Chunky yawned. He took the bill and said, “Nope. Ain’t seen either of ’em tonight.”

“Working?”

“I wouldn’ know. Gen’rally hang out back when they ain’t.”

Shayne nodded. He knew that. Chunky’s chili joint was a screen for a bookie establishment in the back that served as a sort of clubroom for the better known members of Miami’s underworld. He asked, “Seen John Grossman around since he was paroled?”

“A guy what’s on parole don’t hang out much with the old gang. Not if he’s smart,” Chunky told him.

“Have you seen him around?” Shayne persisted.

Chunky picked up a toothpick and chewed on it placidly. Shayne got out his wallet again and Chunky watched him fold another bill and hold it out. He took the bill and suggested, “Might ask Pug or Slim. They usta work for John some.”

“Are they in back?”

Chunky shook his head. “Went out ’bout an hour ago.”

Shayne said, “Tell them I’m passing out folding money.” He went out and got in his car, drove north to Sixtieth and turned west.

Henry Renaldo’s address was a modest one-story stucco house in the center of a block containing half a dozen such houses. It was the only one with lights showing through the front windows.

Shayne drove past it to the end of the block, swung around the corner, and parked. He got out and walked back, went up the concrete walk lined with a trim hedge on either side, and rang Renaldo’s doorbell.

He took the gun out of his pocket while he waited.

He showed the weapon to Henry Renaldo when he opened the door. Renaldo was in his shirtsleeves, his vest hanging open. The cigar in his mouth looked like the same one he had been chewing on some hours previously. He blinked wrinkled lids down over his eyes when he saw the gun in Shayne’s hand. He backed away, lifting his hands palms outward and mumbling, “You don’t need to point that at me.”

Shayne followed him in and heeled the door shut. The living room was small and crowded with heavy overstuffed furniture. There was no one else in the room.

Shayne gestured with his gun and asked, “Where’s Miss Hastings?”

Renaldo rolled up his wrinkled lids and looked at him stupidly. “Who?”

“The girl who left your place with me.”

“I sure don’t know anything about a girl,” Renaldo told him earnestly. “Look here—”

Shayne’s eyes were dangerously bright. He palmed the gun and took a step forward, hit Renaldo in the face. Renaldo staggered back with blood oozing from a cut lip.