Brett Halliday - Michael Shayne’s Triple Mystery

Shayne fumbled with the key in the lock of his car door and waited until the man was opposite him, then swung around with Belle Carson’s .38 in his hand.

“This is it, Whitey,” he said.

Whitey Buford cursed and dropped toward the pavement, his hand darting inside his coat.

Shayne shot him in the belly. Buford groaned, and his long body jerked at the impact of the bullet. He rolled to one side and slowly dragged out a gun.

Shayne stepped swiftly forward and kicked the gun out of his hand just as the two old men burst out of the saloon. Motioning them back with his gun, Shayne said curtly, “Police.”

They disappeared inside without asking any questions.

Shayne dragged Whitey Buford to his car and pushed him into the back seat. Buford was unconscious with a bullet in his stomach, but his pulse was strong. Shayne got behind the wheel and drove to police headquarters.

Doc Mattson helped Shayne bring the unconscious prisoner in. The plump little police surgeon made a quick examination and nodded.

“Nice shooting, Mike,” he said. “You nicked a large artery, but he’ll pull through.”

Shayne shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. You’ll just make him hang for a murder.” He hurried out and went across town to Inspector Quinlan’s private office. The door stood open, and he could hear Captain Denton swearing. He stepped a few feet away and listened.

“I got Shayne exactly where I want him this time.” His coarse voice was triumphant. “He won’t, by God, wiggle out of this. Mr. Barstow, here, is ready to swear out an assault charge and I can prove Shayne knew who Carson was all the time. As soon as my men bring in Jones, we’ll get the whole story.”

Shayne heard feet scuffling down the corridor behind him. He turned and saw Sergeant Frank and a patrolman with Skip Jones between them. Shayne grinned at Frank and followed the trio into the Inspector’s office.

“Found him in his room at the Park Plaza,” Frank was reporting to Denton. “But from what he says, I guess Shayne got to him first.”

“That shouldn’t surprise Captain Denton,” Shayne drawled, walking forward from the door. “I’ve been ahead of him all the way through the case.”

Inspector Quinlan sat erect behind his desk. Harvey Barstow sat slumped down in a chair off to one side, looking very unhappy.

Denton turned and looked at Shayne with his mouth wide open, then let out a roar. “Sure you have,” he shouted. “That’s what I’ve been telling Quinlan. You knew the stiff was Carson all the time. You withheld evidence while I chased laundry marks clear to Baton Rouge. You’re through, by God, in New Orleans!” He brought his fist down hard on Quinlan’s desk.

Shayne asked, “Is that your case against me?”

“It’s enough!” Denton was raging. “That, and assault on Mr. Barstow.”

Shayne grinned at the bank cashier. “I didn’t hit him very hard. I had to paste him in order to get back here and clean this thing up before you ruined everything.” Turning gravely to Inspector Quinlan, Shayne continued, “Denton’s wrong again, of course. The dead man wasn’t named Carson.”

Denton’s face grew dangerously red. He opened his mouth to say something, but Quinlan held up his hand and spoke in caustic tones.

“You’d better let Shayne talk,” he said.

“The murdered man’s name was Willis Durkin,” Shayne told them. “He was wanted in Atlanta, Georgia, on suspicion of complicity in a five-year-old kidnaping case. He doubled-crossed his partner out of a fifty-grand ransom and came to Cheepwee, where he took the name of Carson and bought controlling interest in the local bank.”

Denton’s jaw dropped open with amazement and chagrin.

“Here’s the story.” Shayne took out the newspaper clipping Jones had given him and handed it to Quinlan. “You saw the body last night. That’s his picture, taken five years ago.” Turning to Jones, he said, “Belle Carson didn’t commit bigamy. She merely followed her husband to Cheepwee and forced him to remarry her under the new name he’d taken. That’s why Carson was glad to pay you five hundred a month blackmail. If you ever broke the truth, Carson’s past would become known.”

“Blackmail?” asked Quinlan, his cold eyes looking from the clipping to Jones.

“That’s right.” Shayne moved forward and eased one hip to a corner of the Inspector’s desk. “Jones had a client who hired him to check on Belle Carson’s background, and he discovered she’d been married without divorcing Willis Durkin. So he double-crossed his client by withholding the information she had paid him to dig up, and went to Carson with it.

“Carson paid to the tune of five hundred a month to keep Jones quiet. He phoned Jones from the St. Charles Hotel last night, telling him he’d have a late dinner at Dupre’s and be up to see him about one o’clock. Carson was killed before he reached the Park Plaza.”

“You were blackmailing Carson, and he had a date to see you at one o’clock?” Quinlan asked Jones. “Had he threatened to expose you? Is that why you waited for him down the street and killed him?”

“I didn’t.” Jones’s nasal voice was thinned by fear. “I waited in my room for him, but he didn’t come. Read that clipping,” he urged. “See where it says Whitey Buford was headed in this direction. I figured Whitey had traced him. He had a reason to bump Carson.”

“But no opportunity,” Shayne growled. “Carson didn’t tell Whitey he was coming to town, for that very reason. He knew Whitey would kill him. Carson came here planning to hire me to blast Whitey in a phony attempted arrest. Whitey is a fugitive, wanted for murdering a prison guard in Georgia. Carson figured I could kill him and shut him up forever, and then go clear on it by claiming Whitey resisted arrest.”

“If this Whitey Buford is in town,” Denton growled derisively.

“Doc Mattson is fixing Whitey Buford up right now,” Shayne said to Inspector Quinlan. “I had to put a slug in his belly a few minutes ago. But he’ll live to talk — and to hang for murdering the guard in his prison break.”

Quinlan compressed his lips, and his eyes were coldly alert, probing Shayne’s gaunt face. “If you can prove that Jones was the only person who knew Carson was in town last night, the only person who knew he was dining at Dupre’s, the case is closed.”

“There’s one other guy,” said Shayne casually. “He was Carson’s assistant in the bank and took care of his correspondence. He wrote a letter to me asking for a nine o’clock appointment this morning — a letter that didn’t arrive until you were searching my office,” he went on sharply to Denton, “and Barstow also wrote a note to Dupre’s restaurant making a dinner reservation in advance for Carson. So, Barstow knew his employer would be leaving there late last night.

“Barstow’s wife says he didn’t get home until after three o’clock this morning. Just about time to make the trip by car after Carson was shot.”

“It’s a lie!” Barstow exploded in a choked voice. “I didn’t do it. I liked Mr. Carson. What reason did I have for killing him?”

“You knew he was coming in to see a private detective,” Shayne reminded him harshly. “You didn’t know why, of course, but you had reason to suspect it was to investigate the relationship between you and Belle Carson. You were panicky. You didn’t know what Carson might do if he got the lowdown on you and Belle. At the very least, you’d lose your job, and Belle. You had to stop him. So, you followed him up here in your car after dark and waited outside Dupre’s and shot him.”

“No! I don’t even own a gun!”

“But the bank does,” Shayne reminded him. “Every bank has a thirty-two Smith and Wesson lying around handy. They’re called Bankers’ Specials. Like this one.” He produced the stubby .32 he had wrested from Barstow and tossed it in front of Quinlan. “Run a comparison test on that with the bullet that killed Carson.”