Brett Halliday: Michael Shayne’s Triple Mystery

All the garage doors were closed. No lights showed in the upper portion of the house on that side. There were two lighted bungalows adjoining the rear of the garage which he supposed were the servants’ quarters.

Quietly he opened the right-hand double doors and found his car in a stall where it had been parked by the chauffeur. He got under the wheel and started the motor, backed out smoothly, cutting the wheels sharply in the wide space in front of the doors, then headed out with the lights off.

At the end of the double rows of live oaks guarding the private drive to the Carson estate he noticed a car inconspicuously parked on the shoulder of the dirt road. He turned on his lights and saw it had a New Orleans police license. A pinpoint of light indicated a man slumped in the driver’s seat smoking a cigarette.

Shayne chuckled softly as he swung out past the parked car. The cop made no move to follow as he drove toward the city. It was evident that the cop had orders to intercept only cars turning into the Carson estate.

Shayne drove straight through Main Street, past the bank building on the corner and the Travelers’ Hotel. There were no lights in the bank, and two police cars were parked in front of the hotel. Shayne cut around another block, turned off on a side street, and parked. He had given up any hope of getting his suitcase from the hotel under Denton’s watchful eye, but there were a couple of questions he wanted to ask Harvey Barstow before he left Cheepwee.

He got out and went back on a rear street and approached the bank building from the side. Through the plate glass window he could see Barstow, wearing a green eyeshade, working on the ledgers behind a teller’s cage. He appeared to be alone in the bank.

Shayne circled along the dark rear wall of the building to a smaller door. There was no glass in the door, but light showed through the keyhole, and Shayne knew it must be directly behind the late-working cashier.

He rapped on the door softly and waited. Thirty seconds went by, then a bolt was drawn back and the door opened a couple of inches.

Barstow peeked through the crack and let out a smothered ejaculation of surprise. “Shayne! What do you want? The police have been here.”

“I know all about the police,” Shayne growled. He pushed the door open wider and grinned at the stubby pistol in Barstow’s hand. “I’m not going to hold up your bank.”

“Of course not. I didn’t know who it was, and naturally I used caution.” Barstow paused to clear his throat. “I’m afraid I’ll have to report your visit to the police. They say Mr. Carson has been murdered.”

Shayne said, “Step out where we can talk without being seen.”

“I don’t understand any of this,” Barstow said unhappily, moving outside and closing the door except for a tiny crack. “The police say you’re not to be trusted.”

“I’m trying to solve your boss’s murder,” Shayne interrupted impatiently. “I’ve been talking to Mrs. Carson and now I’m headed back to New Orleans. Did you ever hear Carson mention a man named Jones? A private dick in New Orleans.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Did you know Carson was paying this Jones five hundred a month out of his private checking account?”

“I know nothing about his private account. He didn’t confide in me.”

“Do you know any reason why he should have been paying hush money to a private detective?”

“I certainly don’t.” Barstow’s tone was frigid. “Really, Mr. Shayne, I feel it’s my duty to inform Captain Denton at once that you’ve been here.”

“And have them block the road so I can’t get back to New Orleans tonight?” Shayne growled. His left hand darted down and closed over the pistol in Barstow’s hand, while his right hand went around the man’s neck and closed tightly over his mouth.

He wrenched the pistol away and dropped it into his pocket along with Belle Carson’s .38 and spoke softly in Barstow’s ear. “I’m sorry, but your conscience worries me.”

He swung his left fist against the point of Barstow’s jaw and the man sagged limply in his arms. Shayne pushed the door open, dragged the senseless man inside the back room of the bank, pulled the door shut, and trotted down the street to his car.

With good luck, he would be well away from Cheepwee before Barstow regained consciousness and notified Denton.

The description of Sidney G. Jones which the Park Plaza switchboard girl had given Shayne proved to be a fair thumbnail sketch. He stood in the doorway of his apartment and studied Shayne curiously after the detective had rung his bell.

Jones had black hair which was getting thin on top, a pair of crafty blue eyes, a cadaverous face, and large flaring ears. He wore a spotted silk smoking-jacket and held a highball in one hand.

“Who’re you and what do you want?” he demanded, blocking the doorway.

Shayne said, “I want to talk to you, Jones.” He moved forward and the slighter man reluctantly stepped aside.

The apartment was small, with a couch that could be made into a double bed. The floor was littered with newspapers. Ash trays overflowed with cigarette butts, and a whisky bottle and pitcher of ice cubes stood on an end table by the couch.

“Who the hell do you think you are, busting in here like this?” asked Jones in a ready, aggressive voice.

“You’d better listen close, Jones,” Shayne said flatly. “I haven’t much time. The cops may be getting here any minute.”

“The cops?” Jones’s pale, ferrety eyes squinted drunkenly. “What’s the lay?”

Shayne looked him over with disgust. “I place you now,” he said slowly. “You’re the louse they call Skip Jones.”

“What if they do?” Jones staggered into an armchair, crossed one emaciated leg over the other, and swung his foot to and fro.

“That’s easy to answer, Skip,” said Shayne sharply. “They want you because you’re a vulture with a private license and a habit of sucking clients for as much as possible on all sorts of promises that never materialize.”

“Look here, you can’t come in here and talk that way to me,” Jones whined.

Shayne moved over and stood on widespread feet before the seated man. “I’m interested in one of your clients, Jones. This is a murder investigation and I’m one jump ahead of the cops. You’ll save yourself a lot of grief if you give me the answers I want.” Shayne’s eyes narrowed. “What did you find out about Belle Carson in Atlanta four months ago when you were retained to dig into her background by Mrs. Harvey Barstow of Cheepwee?”

“Belle Carson? You got me wrong. I don’t know her.”

“I said give me the answers — and quick.” Shayne opened his right hand and held it up warningly.

Jones sucked in his breath and tried to straighten up. “Who are you, anyhow? And what d’you wanta know?” he mumbled.

“The name is Mike Shayne. I’ve got a private license, too, but mine doesn’t stink. What did you dig up about Belle Carson?”

“I didn’t get anything on the Carson dame.”

Shayne reached down with his left hand and tightened his knobby fingers on Jones’s smoking-jacket, lifted him half out of his chair, and smashed his right fist into his face. “Don’t waste time lying. I know you dropped your client and started blackmailing Belle Carson’s husband. Five C’s a month. You closed your office and moved in here to live off an easy thing. What did you learn about Belle in Atlanta that brought you five hundred a month from Walter Carson?”

“All right,” Jones croaked. “What’s wrong in that? Carson was rich. He could afford to pay.”

“And now Walter Carson is dead — murdered.”