Brett Halliday - Michael Shayne’s Triple Mystery

Shayne said, “To Walter,” and took a long drink.

She emptied her glass without removing it from her mouth. Shayne went back to his chair.

Refilling her glass, she said, “This is a good starter. After dinner I’ll mix us a real drink. My own recipe.”

“That,” said Shayne, “should be worth waiting for.” He began slowly sipping his drink.

“You’re wondering about me, aren’t you, Red?” she said archly.

He looked at her and shook his head. “You aren’t hard to figure out.”

“Is that so?” Her voice was suddenly sharp and her dark eyes blazed. “I guess you know all about women,” she added with light sarcasm.

“Plenty to know that you’re bored to hell-and-gone here in Cheepwee married to a small-town banker.”

“There are plenty of other men,” she reminded him.

He made a gesture of derision. “Sure. I saw some of them around town today — like the fat hotel-keeper and that pale-faced guy in the bank. No wonder you get a sloppy feeling inside when a man shows up.”

“Meaning you?”

“Meaning me.”

She drank her second cocktail and complained, “These things have about as much kick as a virgin’s kiss. Why do you think I stay here if I’m bored?”

“It’s a soft spot,” he said with harsh contempt. “It’s what you thought you wanted when you settled down here with Carson.”

Her eyes were aflame, but with what emotion he could not be sure. It might have been fear or anger or passion. She got up and brought the cocktail shaker over to refill his glass. She said, “You act like you know a lot of things.”

“Does that surprise you?”

“I don’t know. Why don’t you tell me who you are and what you’re doing here?” She stood before him, looking down into his face speculatively.

“I came to see Carson.”

“What about?”

“If there’s any talking to be done, I’ll let him do it.”

“You were quick enough to move in,” she blazed at him.

“I didn’t invite myself.”

She stared at him, the tip of her tongue moistening her lips. “Why do you have to be like this?”

Shayne muttered, “You started asking the questions.”

Belle Carson put the shaker down, sat down on the arm of his chair again, and asked, “Don’t you want to kiss me, Red?”

He set his glass on the table, put his arms around her, and drew her down to kiss her hard on the mouth.

The doorbell rang somewhere from the front of the house. Mrs. Carson sprang up and went back to her chair as Abe shuffled through the living-room door.

“They’s a genmum wants to see yo’, Mis’ Cahson,” he said.

She said, “Send him away. I’m not in.” Her head lolled back against the chair and her eyes were half-closed.

“Yassum.” The aged Negro shuffled away.

There was the faint sound of male voices at the front door. The Negro came back, hurried and frightened. “He say he’s de law, ma’am. Came all de way f’om N’Yorleans an’ say he ain’ goin’ till he see you. He out in de hall, ma’am.”

Belle sat up quickly and darted a worried glance at Shayne. “A cop from New Orleans?” she exclaimed. “Is he looking for you?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“You can go out on the terrace — through those French doors. I’ll get rid of him.”

Shayne picked up his glass, got his hat from a chair where he had tossed it, and moved toward the doors. Opening the one on the right side he stepped out onto a green terrace with flagstone walks. He went silently along the side of the house until he reached a spot where he was hidden from those inside the room, yet close enough to hear Captain Denton’s voice.

“Good evening, Mrs. Carson,” said Denton. “I’ve got some bad news for you.”

“What kind of bad news?” Her voice was so low Shayne could scarcely distinguish the words.

“It’s about your husband. He’s been murdered.”

“Murdered!”

“Last night in New Orleans. I’m Captain Denton of the New Orleans police. We’ve been all day getting his body identified by some laundry marks and tailor’s labels. It’s not a nice way for you to hear about it, but sometimes I think getting it straight like this is best. That is, if this is the first you’ve heard of it.”

“Of course — it is.”

“I wondered. You see — there’s a fellow here in town — big redheaded fellow — and I thought maybe he’d been to see you.”

“He knows about my husband’s — death?”

“He knows plenty about it.” Denton’s voice was charged with gruff anger. “Has he been here?”

“No one has been here,” Belle Carson told him.

“If he comes, you give us a ring down at the hotel. Now, ma’am, I wonder if you can tell me anything that’ll help us catch the murderer.”

“I — don’t think so. What could I tell you?”

“Who’d want to kill him? Come on — speak up.”

“No one that I know of. How did it happen?”

Captain Denton gave her the details. He said he had come to Cheepwee direct from Baton Rouge, and it was evident that he didn’t know about the empty room in the St. Charles Hotel. He didn’t tell her about the appointment book or the newspaper clipping found in the dead man’s pocket.

“We have obtained certain information that indicates your husband went to New Orleans intending to contact a private detective named Michael Shayne this morning,” Denton said. “Looks as if he might have been killed to prevent that meeting. Do you know what your husband wanted to see Shayne about?”

“I’m afraid I can’t help you,” said Belle Carson.

“What reason did he give for the trip?”

“Just business.”

“Expected him back this afternoon, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I did.”

“What’d you think when he didn’t come in on the train?”

“Just that he’d been detained in the city.”

Captain Denton asked a few more questions and Shayne could hear her answering in evasive monosyllables. The Captain went away after a time with her promise to telephone him at the local hotel the moment a tall redheaded stranger showed up.

Shayne stayed pressed against the wall of the house until he heard the Captain’s police car drive away. Then he went back to the French doors and stepped inside. Belle was at the far end of the room fumbling in the drawer of an escritoire.

She turned around with a stubby pistol in her hand. “You better sit down and do some fast explaining,” she said.

Shayne put his hands deep in his pockets and grinned at her. “Is that a thirty-two?” he asked casually.

She looked at the gun and said, “I don’t know.” Her eyes were hard and her face contorted with ugliness. “It’ll do plenty of damage to a man’s insides, if that’s what you mean.”

“Your husband was killed with a thirty-two,” he told her. “If the police saw that they might ask where you were last night.”

“Let ’em ask.” She held the short gun steady, pointed at Shayne’s stomach. “Sounds to me like the police know where you were.”

Shayne walked over and poured a Martini. Belle moved a couple of steps toward him, her eyes more curious than angry. “So you killed him,” she said.

“What gives you that idea,” he demanded harshly.

“I’m not a fool, Red. That cop said they just got the body identified. But you knew all about it before they did. What do you want in Cheepwee?”

“Right now I could be made to want you,” said Shayne. He took his drink from the table and sat down, looked up at her with a half smile of amusement on his wide mouth.

Belle Carson’s eyes wavered before his steady gaze. She looked at the pistol in her hand as though suddenly embarrassed. “You’ve got a nerve — after murdering my husband,” she said huskily.