Brett Halliday - Michael Shayne’s Triple Mystery

“This is business,” Shayne said sharply. “Big business for you and me both. Have them meet me at your place about nine-thirty.”

He hung up and drove out to a filling station on the corner of Eighteenth and Biscayne. “Ten gallons,” he said to the youth who hurried out.

Shayne strolled around to the back of his car and asked, “Were you on duty last night?”

“Until I closed up at ten. Just missed the excitement, I guess.”

“You mean the murder?”

“Yeah. The old ship captain who lives down the street. And I was talking about the old coot just a little before that.”

“Who with?”

“A lawyer fellow who’d been down to see him and got a flat tire just as he was coming back.”

“What time was that?” asked Shayne.

“Pretty near ten. I closed up right after I finished with his tire. If that’s all—” He took the bill Shayne offered him.

The detective swung away from the filling station and stopped on First Street east of Miami Avenue. He went into the lobby of an office building mostly occupied by lawyers and insurance men. He stopped to scan the building directory, then stepped into an elevator and said, “Six.”

He got off on the sixth floor and went down the corridor to a door chastely lettered: LEROY P. GUILDFORD — ATTORNEY-AT-LAW.

There was a small reception room, and a tight-mouthed, middle-aged woman got up from a desk in the rear and came forward when Shayne entered. Her hair was pulled back from her face and tied in a tight knot at the back of her head. She wore rimless glasses and low-heeled shoes, and looked primly efficient.

“Mr. Guildford hasn’t come in yet,” she said in response to Shayne’s question. “He seldom gets down before ten.”

Shayne said, “Perhaps you can tell me a few things. I’m from the police.” He gave her a glimpse of his private badge.

She said, “From the police?” Her thin lips tightened. “I’m sure I don’t know why you’re here.” Her gaze was fixed disapprovingly on his battered face.

He said easily. “It’s about one of his clients who was murdered last night. Mr. Guildford gave us some help, but there are a few more details to be filled in.”

“Oh, yes. You mean poor Captain Samuels. I know Mr. Guildford must feel terrible about it. Such an old client and so alone and helpless.”

“Did you know him?”

“Only through seeing him here at the office. Mr. Guildford was trying to save his property, but it seemed hopeless.”

“In what particular capacity did he need a lawyer?”

“It wasn’t much,” she said vaguely. “He was one of our first clients when Mr. Guildford opened up this office after resigning his position with the firm of Leland and Parker. There was something about the collection of insurance on a ship that had been lost at sea, and later Mr. Guildford handled the purchase of a property where Captain Samuels later built his little home.”

“Do you know whether Guildford saw much of him lately?”

“Not a great deal. There was some difficulty about the mortgage and Mr. Guildford was trying to save him from foreclosure. He pitied the old man, you see, but there was little he could do.”

“And this appointment last night. Do you know anything about that?”

“Oh, yes. I took the message early yesterday morning. Captain Samuels explicitly asked him to come at nine last night, promising to make a cash payment on the mortgage. I remember Mr. Guildford seemed so relieved when he received the message, and he didn’t seem to mind the unusual hour.”

Shayne thanked her and told her she had been of great assistance. He started out, then turned back to ask, “By the way, is Guildford generally in his office throughout the day?”

“Yes. Except when he’s in court, of course.”

“Was he in court last Tuesday?”

“Tuesday? I’m sure he wasn’t.”

“That’s queer. I tried to phone him twice during the day and he was out both times.”

The woman frowned uncertainly, then her face cleared. “Tuesday! Of course. How stupid of me. He was out all day with a client.”

Shayne lifted his hat and went out. He drove north on Miami Avenue to Chunky’s place and went in. A couple of men were seated halfway down the counter. Shayne took the stool by the cash register and Chunky drifted up to him after a few moments. He leaned his elbows on the counter, selected a toothpick from a bowl, and began picking at his teeth. He murmured, “Looks like somebody prettied you up las’ night.”

“Yeah. Some of the boys got playful,” he said good-naturedly. “Look, I’m still hunting a line on John Grossman. Pug or Slim been in?”

“Ain’t seen ’em. Grossman usta have a fishin’ place south of Homestead.”

“Think he went up there after he was paroled?”

“Good place to hole up,” said Chunky. “I know he stayed in town just one night.”

Shayne got up and went out, leaving a dollar at the place where he had been sitting. There was a public telephone in the cheap hotel next door. He called Timothy Rourke’s home number and waited patiently until the ringing awoke the reporter. He said, “There’s about be a Caesarean operation.”

Rourke gurgled sleepily, “What the hell?”

“On that baby we were talking about in your morgue this morning.”

“That you, Mike?”

“Doctor Shayne. Specializing in obstetrics.”

“Hey! Is it due to break?”

“It’s coming to a head fast. Get dressed and hunt up Will Gentry if you want some headlines. Don’t, for God’s sake, tell him I tipped you, but stick to him like a leech.” Shayne hung up and drove to Renaldo’s saloon.

Blackie jumped up nervously from his seat beside Renaldo’s desk when Shayne pushed the door open. He sucked in his breath and stared with bulging eyes at the result of his work on the detective’s face, while his hand instinctively went to his hip pocket.

Behind him, Lennie leaned against the wall with his hand in his coat pocket. Lennie’s features were lax and his eyes were filmed like a dead man’s. The left side of his pallid face twitched uncontrollably as Shayne looked at him.

Seated behind the desk, chewing savagely on a cigar, Henry Renaldo looked fearfully from the boys to Shayne. He said, “I don’t know what you’re up to, Mike. The boys didn’t much like the idea—”

Shayne closed the door and laughed heartily. He said, “Hell, there’s no hard feelings. I’m still alive and kicking.”

Blackie drew in another deep breath. He essayed a nervous smile. “We thought maybe you was sore.”

Shayne said gently, “You got a pretty heavy foot, Blackie.”

“Yeah.” Blackie hung his head like a small boy being reprimanded. “But you come bustin’ in with a gun, an’ Jeez! what’d you expect?”

“That was my mistake,” Shayne admitted. “I always run into trouble when I pack a rod. That’s why I’m clean now.” He lifted his arms away from his sides. “Want to shake me down?”

“That’s all right.” Renaldo laughed with false heartiness. “No harm done, I guess. The boys’ll forget it if you will.”

“Whatcha want with us?” Lennie demanded thinly.

“I need your help,” Shayne said bluntly. “I’ve run into something too big for me to handle, and after seeing you guys in action last night I think you’re the ones I need.”

“That’s white of you,” Blackie mumbled.

“I never hold a grudge if it’s going to cost me money,” Shayne told them briskly. “Here’s the lay.” He spoke directly to Renaldo. “I can put my hands on plenty of French cognac — same as the case you bought last night. And this won’t cost us a hundred a case. It won’t cost us anything if we play it right.”