Brett Halliday - Michael Shayne’s Triple Mystery

It gave a brief rehash of the sensational case of the Crawford baby kidnaping, corroborating what Jones had told him, and suggested that the daring prison break might have been more than a little influenced by the convict’s corroding desire for revenge against Durkin.

Shayne’s face was grim when he folded the clipping and put it in his pocket. He didn’t tell Jones that it explained the things Belle had told him that afternoon in Cheepwee.

“We haven’t any proof that Carson got in touch with Whitey Buford last night,” he said, “even supposing Whitey is here and he had traced Belle. Until we have some such proof, you’re the only suspect we’ve got. The police are already watching this place, so don’t try to get out of town.” Shayne strode to the door and went out without looking back.

He headed for Dupre’s. It was a small, exclusive, and exceedingly popular restaurant on the corner of Royal and St. Louis. At this early hour of the evening there were at least twenty couples already lined up in the small foyer waiting their turns to secure tables.

Shayne strode down the line, unhooked the rope that held the crowd back, and went through toward a harried maitre d’hôtel who was anxiously consulting his reservation book.

“I’m not crashing the line,” he explained with a wide grin. “Police. A customer of yours was murdered last night after leaving here. His body was found half a block from here.”

The maitre d’hôtel looked up at the tall redhead, startled. “So?” he inquired. “I read of the tragedy, but did not recognize the picture in the morning paper.” His eyes were worried.

“I know you have hundreds of customers during an evening,” Shayne said rapidly. “I imagine this man had a reservation. His name was Walter Carson.”

A series of rumples formed in the headwaiter’s forehead. After a thoughtful moment he said, “But yes. Mr. Carson — so it was he? The reservation was for nine o’clock. A single.”

“Can you tell me how and when the reservation was made? Did he telephone you yesterday afternoon?”

“But no.” The man let the rumples smooth out and immediately formed them again. “How could we make a reservation on so short notice when we are booked days in advance?”

“Then he must have written in beforehand,” Shayne suggested.

“Of course. The letter requesting a table was received several days ago. Mr. Carson is an old customer and the request was given consideration.”

“Can you tell me anything about how long he stayed?”

The man shrugged expressively. “If you are the police — and Mr. Carson is dead — why not? There is a girl in whom he was interested. A dancer in the floor show.”

“Her name?”

“Do you need that? I assure you the relationship was innocent.”

“We won’t use it unless it’s necessary,” Shayne assured him.

The maitre d’hôtel sighed. “Her name is Yvette. She sat with Mr. Carson at his table between shows.”

“I want to know when Carson left and whether anyone met him here.”

“I can tell you that. It was after the second show ended. A little after one o’clock. Mr. Carson went out by himself.”

“Did he take a cab or walk?”

“I’m sorry — I cannot say,” said the man.

Shayne thanked him and went out. Things added up to fit Jones’s glib story, but the fact still remained that Sidney G. Jones was, so far as Shayne could learn, the only person who knew he would be walking up St. Louis Street at that time.

From Dupre’s, Shayne drove down several blocks and turned to the right toward the old French Market. In this section of the Quarter, where the old houses had gone to seed, the street lights were set far apart and burned dimly. An atmosphere of depression and gloom hung over the area.

Pulling up on a narrow and dimly lighted street, he got out and walked half a block back to one of the older houses set far back from the sidewalk in a wide, untended lawn behind a sagging picket fence.

Lights glowed dully from some of the windows, like evil eyes watching him, as he strode up the walk and around to a side entrance where a green bulb burned over an embrasured door. He pushed the door open and went down four stone steps into a sour-smelling cellar.

A grossly fat man sat at a desk beneath a droplight. He looked up and smiled with a great show of welcome when Shayne stepped through the doorway.

“Ah, Mr. Shayne,” he said, extending a fat hand. “It’s delightful to see you here in my monastic retreat. If you’ll pull out the second drawer of that filing-cabinet behind you, you’ll find a bottle.”

Shayne said, “Thanks, Dumpty, but this isn’t a social call. You’re not going to like it, but I want one of your guests.”

“Indeed?” The fat man swiveled his chair back and looked up at the redhead from beneath gray-fringed and shriveled eyelids. He folded his pudgy hands over his paunch and said, “I’m afraid I won’t care for that.” His voice was purring and guttural. “The needy come to me for shelter.”

“Cut it,” said Shayne sharply. “The police let you run this dump because they pick up some info now and then — and because you’ve been careful to harbor only small-fry criminals. Don’t make the mistake of trying to cover up for a murderer.”

“I assure you I have no intention of covering for anyone,” Dumpty said mildly.

Shayne made an impatient gesture. “I know. But your place is known all over the country, and wanted men naturally drift here. Maybe you don’t know Whitey Buford killed a prison guard escaping from the pen. I want him.”

The fat man moved his round gray head from side to side. “There’s no one here by that name.”

“Hell, he wouldn’t use his right name.” Shayne took the clipping from his pocket and held it under the bright light. He pointed out Buford’s picture, a man with deep-set eyes and shaggy brows set in an emaciated face. His chin was sharp and pointed, as was his nose.

“Don’t bother telling me that man isn’t here,” Shayne said. “He’s wanted in connection with a local murder, and I’ll have your place raided in ten minutes if you don’t give him to me.”

“My, my,” said the fat man with a deep sigh. “Murder? I don’t like that. You put me in a quandary, Mr. Shayne. If this person were here, and I were to accede to your demand—”

“I’ll make it easy for you,” Shayne interrupted. “Send him out and I promise you’ll never show. Give him a message. Say a telephone message from Belle. Ask him to meet me in Degado’s Bar down the street.”

Dumpty swiveled his chair forward and drummed fat finger tips on the desk. “It might be,” he said cautiously, “that some of my tenants are acquainted with this Whitey Buford and could deliver the message to him.”

“I don’t care how he gets it. I’ll go to Degado’s and wait. If it’s more than thirty minutes, you’ll be through in New Orleans.”

After leaving Dumpty’s place, Shayne drove to Degado’s. He parked in the driveway with Belle Carson’s gun in one coat pocket and the pistol he had taken from Harvey Barstow in the other. Going up to the bar, he ordered cognac.

Two elderly men were drinking together at the far end of the bar. Otherwise, the place was deserted. When the low-browed proprietor set out a bottle of Hennessy, Shayne turned and looked at it in surprise.

Leaning on the bar, his eyes watching the door, he filled a double-shot glass from the bottle and sipped the drink slowly.

He emptied the glass and drank another, taking his time to enjoy it, then paid the bartender two dollars. He walked out, crossed the sidewalk toward his car as a tall, bony man neared Degado’s from up the back street. The man had a limp black hat pulled low over his forehead.