Brett Halliday - Michael Shayne’s Triple Mystery

Shayne said incisively, “Give Captain Denton my compliments and warn him that if he touches anything in my office without a search warrant I’ll see that he’s broken for it.”

Her voice came again, in a whisper. “There’s another policeman coming in, Michael. What’ll I do?”

“I’ll be right down,” Shayne said, and banged the receiver down.

Lucy was seated behind her desk beyond the low railing which separated her office from the rest of the reception room when Shayne went in. Her hands were folded in her lap and her brown eyes were blazing at a uniformed policeman lounging against the casing of the open door which led into his private office.

Lucy sprang to her feet, beckoned Shayne to the railing. “They’re in there — Captain Denton and the other one. This one,” she said, indicating the man at the door, “just came in. They searched my desk and found my appointment book and looked through it.”

In a deceptively gentle tone, Shayne asked, “Did you tell Denton what I said about a search warrant?”

“Y-yes.” Her voice broke angrily. “He’s got one.”

Shayne patted her shoulder and went toward his office. Captain Denton was examining the contents of the right-hand drawer of the desk. Sergeant Frank was behind him trying a series of flat keys on the locked drawers of a green steel filing-cabinet.

Denton looked up and said sourly, “I can’t find a thing in this desk.”

Shayne went to the desk and lowered one hip on it. He said, “My cognac is in the bottom drawer.”

“None of these keys work, Captain,” the Sergeant reported from the cabinet.

“Let’s have a key, Shayne,” Denton demanded.

“Sorry. I never have found the keys to that cabinet, Denton. It came locked like that and I’ve always wondered if there was anything inside. Hope you can get it open for me.”

“You know you’ve got a key,” Denton thundered. “Cough it up, Shayne.” The police captain held out a beefy hand, palm up.

Shayne lighted a cigarette and dropped the matchstick into Denton’s palm and said, “Thanks.”

Denton growled an oath. “I’m going through this office with a fine-toothed comb,” he said menacingly. “When I find something leading to that corpse we found last night I’ll have all I need to jerk your license.”

Shayne waved a big hand and said airily, “Go ahead. But you’d probably get better results if you used the finetoothed comb on your hair.”

Denton turned away and tossed Sergeant Frank another ring of keys. “Try those. If none of them fit we’ll call in a locksmith.”

Through the open door Shayne saw the postman come in and go over to Lucy’s reception desk. He waited a moment, then called, “You can bring the mail in if there’s anything I need to see, Lucy.”

When Lucy came through the door with two opened letters in her hand she hurried over to Shayne and said excitedly, “Here’s one from your friend in Miami,” and added on a tense note of warning, “and a check on that — other case.”

Shayne said, “Thanks.” He glanced at the note from Timothy Rourke and dropped it on the desk. He drew a check and letter from the other envelope. The check was drawn on the First National Bank of Cheepwee, Louisiana, in the sum of $200.00, and was signed by W. D. Carson.

The name was totally unfamiliar to him.

Shayne laid the check face down on top of Rourke’s letter and opened the note accompanying it. It was written on the letterhead of the First National Bank of Cheepwee. A list of the bank’s officers informed him that Walter D. Carson was president of the bank.

The note was brief, and read:

Dear Sir:

I plan to be in the city on Wednesday, June 6, and am very anxious to discuss a matter of vital importance with you at that time.

I wish to return on the train leaving at 11:00 a.m. and therefore request that you see me promptly at your office at nine o’clock. Please wire me collect if this is not convenient, for I will consider it a definite appointment if I do not hear from you to the contrary by the afternoon of June 5.

I enclose my check in the sum of $200.00 as evidence of good faith.

Very truly yours,

Shayne absently massaged his left earlobe as he read the letter over twice. It was dated June 2. Cheepwee was less than a hundred miles upstate from New Orleans, and it was inconceivable that the communication was just reaching him.

Placing the letter face down on the check, he picked up the envelope and looked at it. The delay was explained by the fact that it had been incorrectly addressed to the National Building instead of the International Building. A correction had been made by the New Orleans postal authorities.

Shayne glanced around at Frank and Denton. Frank was busily trying keys on the cabinet. Denton was bent over and digging into a bottom drawer, breathing hard, his face as red as a beet.

Casually Shayne refolded the letter, tucked it back into the envelope, put it in his breast pocket, and put the check in his billfold.

Frank moved back from the cabinet and swore. “None of these keys fit either, Captain. We’ll have to get a locksmith.”

“I’ll appreciate that,” Shayne said. “I’ve always meant to get it opened, but I figured if I’d wait long enough some nosy cop would do it for me.”

“Will you go on oath that there are no files in that cabinet pertaining to the man who was murdered last night?” Denton barked.

“Hell, no. Go ahead and find out for yourself.” Shayne slid from the desk and strolled out to the reception room. Lucy sat at her desk, her brown eyes round with wonder and fright. He grinned reassuringly at her and said, “See if you can dig up from our clipping file the story Hal Reynolds ran on me in the Times-Picayune about a month ago — after he got me tanked up and I spilled the El Paso story to him.”

“I know the one you mean.” She opened the center drawer of her desk and pulled out a slim ledger with newspaper clippings pasted on the blank pages. She turned the pages slowly until she came upon the clipping and handed the ledger to Shayne.

Shayne studied a clipping identical with the one found in the dead man’s pocket. It began: Michael Shayne, private detective with offices in the National Building in this city, has recently returned from El Paso where …

Closing the scrap book, he handed it back to Lucy, saying, “Hal should have sobered up before he wrote that story.” His hands were balled into fists and his knuckles showed white with strain.

Denton bustled into the outer office with Sergeant Frank at his heels. “I’ve decided not to bother with the filing-cabinet,” he said. “It’s probably loaded with empties.” He stopped close to Shayne with his blunt jaw jutting belligerently. “God pity you if you’re holding out on me, Shayne. We can’t even start an investigation until we learn the identity of the corpse. In the meantime his murderer is getting away. When we prove you knew who he was and refused to co-operate, you’ll be washed up in New Orleans.”

He stalked out of the office and his two men followed.

Lucy waited until their footsteps faded away before saying, “I don’t understand any of this about a nine o’clock appointment. But that letter—”

“That letter is it,” Shayne interrupted. “It puts me one jump ahead of Denton and if I move fast, I can stay one jump ahead.” His gray eyes were bleak as he went on: “Carson was murdered last night with no identification on him except a notation to meet me at nine this morning. Denton is running around in circles trying to find out who he is.”