Brett Halliday - Michael Shayne’s Triple Mystery

“Shouldn’t you tell him?” Lucy asked, alarmed. “He can’t possibly catch the murderer without knowing who was killed.”

“Nuts. Denton couldn’t catch a cold in a flu epidemic. Get me the St. Charles Hotel. That’s where most out-of-town visitors stop if they can afford it. Ask if a W. D. Carson has registered with them and get his room number.”

He went back to his private office, sat down at the desk and took a bottle of cognac from the drawer, and took a long drink. As he returned the bottle to the drawer, Lucy appeared in the doorway.

“You were right, Michael,” she called out excitedly. “Mr. W. D. Carson has room 306, but he isn’t in.”

Shayne got up and put on his hat. “Okay,” he said. “You don’t know anything about this. You don’t know where I’ve gone or why.” He went out of the office and down the hall to the elevator.

After reaching the sidewalk, Shayne loitered along looking in shop windows. Out of the corner of his eye he was searching for anyone who showed signs of trailing him. Then he went into a drugstore where he looked over a magazine rack. In a couple of minutes he went out, walked a short distance to an alley and darted into it. He walked swiftly through the narrow passage and by a circuitous route made his way to another street, where he hailed a cab. He got in and said to the driver, “Go on a block, then swing down to Camp toward Canal.”

As they passed the intersection of Gravier, he told the driver to pull to the curb and stop. He got out, waited until the cab roared away, then hurried to the St. Charles Hotel.

Entering the lobby, he went directly to a waiting elevator, got in, and went up to the third floor. He swung purposefully down the hall to Room 306, studied the lock for a moment, and took out a ring of keys. The fourth key he selected opened the door. He slid inside and closed the door.

Except for a soiled white shirt tossed across the neatly made bed, and an expensive pigskin suitcase lying open on a chair, the room bore no evidence of occupancy.

Shayne wrapped a handkerchief over his right hand and went to the suitcase. It contained an extra clean white shirt, size fifteen; undershirts and shorts, 34 waist; and socks, handkerchiefs, and ties. The sizes were about right to fit the dead body he had seen the preceding night.

He prowled around the room, looking inside drawers and inspecting the clothes closet, but found no personal belongings. In the bathroom he turned on the light. One soiled towel lay on the edge of the tub, and there was an electric razor, toothbrush, and paste on the glass shelf over the lavatory.

He went down to the lobby and strolled around until he spotted a tall, thin-faced man dressed in brown tweeds leaning against a pillar.

Shayne went up to him and said, “Hi, Steve.”

Steve Rodell took a slim cigar from his mouth. “Hello, Mike. Working?”

“Sort of. Can you get me some dope on 306?”

The house detective studied Shayne warily with bright blue eyes. “What kind of dope?”

“Everything. I don’t know what. Phone calls made from the room or received — all that.”

Rodell nodded and straightened up. “Come on, we’ll see.”

“I don’t want to show. Get it for me, Steve.” Shayne moved around to a chair beside a brass smoking-stand and sat down. Rodell walked away.

He returned in ten minutes with a slip of paper in his hand. He sat down beside Shayne and read from his notes: “W. D. Carson. Small-town banker. From Cheepwee. Been stopping here off and on for four years. Sometimes with his wife. Checked in at four-thirty yesterday. Said he was only staying overnight. Made one phone call from his room.” He gave Shayne the telephone number.

Shayne recorded the number and said, “Thanks, Steve.”

Rodell folded the slip of paper and put it into his pocket. “Carson made that call at seven-sixteen, and no one remembers seeing him around since. His key is in the box and the maid reported he hadn’t slept in his bed.”

Shayne said, “Good work,” and started to get up. Rodell detained him by a gesture. “Hold it, Mike. What gives? Anything we ought to have?”

Shayne shrugged. “If you want to lend Captain Denton a helping hand you might take a bellboy or someone down to the morgue, look at a corpse, and tell Denton his name is W. D. Carson. And if you want to hang a real load of trouble around my neck you can tell him where the tip came from.”

“Denton has an unidentified body? Is that it?”

“That’s it.” Shayne hesitated, then explained the whole situation to Steve Rodell. “Do what you want to about it. If Denton can prove I refused to co-operate, he figures to jerk my license.”

“Can you keep the hotel out of it?” Rodell asked.

“I can try,” Shayne promised.

“That’s more than Denton would do,” Rodell said. “Let him identify his own bodies.”

Shayne grinned and got up. He thanked Rodell again, then went to a telephone booth, inserted a nickel, and called the number Rodell had given him.

A pleasant feminine voice answered, saying, “Park Plaza Apartments.”

Shayne hung up. He looked in the directory and found that the Park Plaza was on Bourbon Street between St. Louis and Toulouse. He hurried outside and got into a waiting taxi.

“Park Plaza on Bourbon,” he said, as the cab pulled away.

The Park Plaza was a new brick building squeezed in between a restaurant and a curio shop. Shayne entered a small lobby with a glass-enclosed office near the elevator.

The girl seated at the small open window was slim and straight with coppery hair falling in soft curls around her shoulders. When Shayne came up she smiled and said, “Yes?”

“I’m a detective,” Shayne told her. “I’m trying to get a line on one of your guests.”

The girl’s eyes were the same color as her hair. She widened them at Shayne and asked, “Do you mean one of our guests is in trouble?”

“Not necessarily. A man was murdered last night. We know he made a call from the St. Charles to this number at seven-sixteen last night. It might help us a lot to know whom he called here because that person may have been the last one who talked to him before he was killed.”

Her eyes grew still wider, and she shook her head regretfully. “I don’t see how I can help you. We don’t keep a record of incoming calls.”

“Could you check and see if any of your tenants called the St. Charles between four-thirty yesterday and two this morning?”

“That won’t be difficult.” She turned to a large ruled daybook, flipped a few pages, and began running her index finger down the entries.

Shayne lighted a cigarette while he waited. It was half smoked when she closed the book and said, “No calls to the St. Charles Hotel.”

Shayne frowned. “What sort of people live here? Could you give me a list of their names and some sort of description of them?”

“I’m afraid what I could give you won’t help,” she said hesitantly. “You see, all but two of our tenants are middle-aged couples who have lived here for years and years. Miss Etta Hobson in 1-F, and Mr. Sidney G. Jones in 2-A—”

“Do you know anything about either of them?”

“Well, Miss Hobson looks about thirty, but she dyes her hair. She’s a saleslady, but has more money than most salesladies.” She lowered her voice and added, “She tries to slip empty gin bottles out of her room and she flirts with some of the men around here.”

“What about Mr. Sidney Jones?”

The girl made a grimace of distaste with her full red lips. “He’s thin — and he has halitosis. I guess he’s about thirty. He tried to date me the very first day he came and has been trying ever since. I don’t know what he does. He has only been here about four months. Elaine — that’s the night operator — told me he never comes in until two or three in the morning.”