Brett Halliday - Michael Shayne’s Triple Mystery

Shayne signed the register and wrote New Orleans, after his name.

The proprietor set a pair of spectacles on his nose, turned the book around, and inspected it carefully. “You a drummer from the city, Mr. Shayne?”

“I hope to drum up a little business. Have you a room with a bath?”

“Not exactly. I can give you 216 with the bathroom right across the hall. Only one other party on that floor right now.”

Shayne nodded and said, “I’ll probably only be here overnight.”

The fat man wrote 216 opposite Shayne’s signature. “What might your business be?”

Shayne said, “Corpses.”

The proprietor slowly pulled his glasses farther down on his bulbous nose and blinked owlishly at Shayne. “Only one funeral parlor in Cheepwee. Folks don’t die here much.” He chuckled happily. “Seems like they just sorta mildew with old age.” He plucked an iron key from a hook on his right and handed it to Shayne. “You got luggage you need help with?”

“Just this one bag,” Shayne told him, picking up the suitcase.

“Right up those stairs,” the man said. “Go down the hall to your right. Can’t miss it.”

Shayne went up the stairs. In the room, he dropped his suitcase on the bed, took a look around, then went out, locking the door behind him.

He went directly to the First National Bank. A thin tired-looking old man was behind the first teller’s window.

“Something I can do for you?” the old man asked in a shaky voice.

Shayne handed him a card that read: Michael Shayne, Private Investigator.

“Investigator?” He studied the card through his bifocals, looked up at the tall redhead and said hastily, “I’m Mr. Holcomb. Won’t you come in?” He went back to a door and opened it.

Shayne walked to the door and went in, sat down on a chair which Mr. Holcomb drew forward.

“I’ve been retained by Mr. Carson,” said Shayne.

“I see. Unfortunately, Mr. Carson is out of town today.”

“I know. I just drove up from New Orleans. I believe he expected to return on the afternoon train.”

“That’s quite correct.”

“He wanted me to get right to work on this matter. I’d like to have a look at his office and a chance to go over his files at once.”

Mr. Holcomb was both nervous and hesitant. “I’m sure — I don’t know what to say. Do you have an authorization from Mr. Carson?”

Shayne took Carson’s check from his pocket. “Perhaps this will do. It’s the check he gave me as a retainer. May as well cash it now,” he added casually. He got up and went over to a desk and scrawled his name on the back of the check and handed it to Holcomb.

Mr. Holcomb pursed his thin lips, meticulously studied the check and signature, and said, “I suppose — Yes, I presume this is sufficient.” He went to the teller’s window and counted out two hundred dollars and handed it to Shayne. “Come with me,” he directed.

Shayne followed him back along a narrow corridor between the rear of the tellers’ cages and the vault to the closed door of an office that said Private.

Holcomb opened the door unceremoniously and they went in. A blond man of about thirty-five stood in front of an open filing-cabinet with his back toward the door. He turned quickly and his eyes were startled.

“Harvey, this is Mr. Shayne from New Orleans,” said Mr. Holcomb. “Perhaps you will be able to help him out. This is Harvey Barstow, Mr. Shayne. Mr. Carson’s assistant.”

Barstow’s plump cheeks and boyish manner gave an initial impression of youth which a closer examination belied. He recovered his composure and came forward with an outstretched hand.

“Is the name Shayne?” he asked.

“That’s right.”

“It appears that Mr. Shayne has been sent here by Mr. Carson to investigate a certain matter,” said Mr. Holcomb.

“You must know about the letter Carson wrote me a few days ago,” Shayne told Barstow, “asking for an appointment.”

“Oh yes, of course. You’re the detective.”

“I’m to look things over in the interim before Carson returns.” He stepped forward, noting an almost furtive look of dismay in the eyes of both men.

Holcomb went out and closed the door.

“I presume,” said Shayne to Barstow, “you know why I’m here.”

“I’m afraid I don’t.” Barstow smiled apologetically. “W. D. didn’t confide in me. That is, I suppose it has something to do with our business, although I hadn’t heard of any irregularities.”

Shayne grunted and said, “How many people in the bank knew he intended to call me in on the affair?”

“I imagine I’m the only one.”

“How about his secretary who typed the letter? I think the initials were H. B.”

“Yes. Harvey Barstow.”

Shayne said, “I’d like to be alone and undisturbed while I go through his files. His instructions were to keep things private.”

“Certainly,” said Barstow. He closed the filing-cabinet and went out of the private office.

It was nearing the bank’s closing time, two hours later, when Shayne dropped into the chair behind the bank president’s desk and gave a grunt of disgust. There was absolutely nothing of a personal nature in any of the desk drawers or the files. He lit a cigarette and sat puffing smoke toward the ceiling.

When the cigarette was half finished, he went out and found Barstow at one of the windows. “I’m through here,” said Shayne. “Carson’s train not in yet?”

“It’s due in about twenty minutes,” Barstow told him.

“The one that leaves New Orleans at eleven o’clock?” Shayne asked, surprised.

“Yes. It’s a local and makes very poor time.” Barstow stepped back and held the door open for Shayne to go out.

Back in his hotel room, Shayne opened his suitcase and took out a bottle of cognac. There was no comfortable chair in the room. He went to the bed and arranged the two pillows against the headboard and stretched out with the bottle in his hand.

He had been mulling over the case for thirty minutes when he heard footsteps coming down the hall. Then there was a knock on his door.

He got up and opened the door. The fat hotel manager stood there, panting. “Telephone call for you, Mr. Shayne.”

Shayne followed him down the stairs. The receiver of the old-fashioned wall phone dangled at the end of the cord. He put it to his ear and said, “Shayne talking.”

“Mr. Shayne — the detective?” The woman’s voice was low and secretive, as though she tried to keep someone from hearing her.

“That’s right.”

“This is Mrs. Harvey Barstow. I’ve got to see you right away.” She sounded excited and frightened.

“Where are you?”

“I don’t want you to come out here. That is, it’d be best if no one knew. Could you drive out the road a ways?”

“Which road?”

“Straight past the courthouse from the hotel. There’s a crossroad a mile out. Turn to the right a little distance and stop.”

She was frightened, Shayne decided. He said, “In five minutes?”

“Yes. I’ll be there.” She hung up.

When Shayne reached the appointed spot he pulled to the side of the narrow road and cut off his motor. Soon, in the intense woodland silence, he heard a car approaching. It came into view, and he saw a black coupe with a woman behind the wheel.

She parked a dozen yards away, got out, and ran swiftly to Shayne’s sedan. “I just had to see you,” she panted. “After Harvey told me about you, I phoned as soon as I could.”

Shayne opened the car door. “Won’t you get in and sit down, Mrs. Barstow?”

She looked furtively around, then said, “Just for a little while. I told Harvey I had to get some groceries. I don’t want him to know.” She got in beside Shayne and closed the door.