Michael Shayne's Long Chance (14 page)

“Yeh, the hard way,” Shayne grunted. “One thing I don’t understand. How did Barbara Little know her uncle was in town and at the Angelus? He claimed
he
was looking for her, but didn’t make contact until
she
called him and left the message.”

A buzzer sounded on Quinlan’s desk before he could make any reply. He flipped a switch and said, “Yes?” into the mouthpiece of an intercommunication system.

A metallic voice floated faintly from the receiver. “There’s a man here to talk to you about the Barbara Little case.”

“Send him in.” He closed the connection and got up to walk across the office and open the door.

Shayne moved to another chair a little farther away from the desk as Inspector Quinlan admitted a tall, well-dressed man who said, “My name is Henderson—Security Insurance,” in a brisk, businesslike tone.

Quinlan glanced at the card Henderson gave him as he came back to the desk, said, “Sit down, Mr. Henderson. What can I do for you?”

“I’m here on the Barbara Little case,” he said, seating himself in the chair Shayne had vacated. He glanced at Shayne, and Quinlan explained.

“Mr. Shayne is a private investigator with a personal interest in Barbara Little.”

Henderson said, “Oh, yes. I believe it was you who discovered the body.” His eyes were alert.

Shayne nodded. “And thereby became the most important suspect until the Jordan girl confessed.”

“I just had a long-distance call from the home office,” Henderson told Quinlan. “They tell me we carried a large policy on the life of a certain Barbara Little, and asked me to look into the facts surrounding the girl’s death. It’s an unusual case, of course, and extremely important that we definitely establish the deceased as our policy holder. I understand she was living here under a pseudonym.”

“She called herself Margo Macon in New Orleans. Pseudonyms are quite common among those of the writing profession, however, which makes the case not quite so complicated.” Quinlan’s tone was quietly emphatic, as it had been when Shayne first met him.

“I’ve read the newspaper account of the affair,” Henderson explained, “but the home office had only a brief press dispatch for their information. What can you tell me about the girl?”

“Her father’s name is Joseph P. Little, a New York editor. That right, Shayne?”

“That’s it. I believe Mr. Little told me she was twenty-three.”

Henderson consulted a small notebook and nodded. “That checks. Daughter of Joseph P. Little, twenty-three on her last birthday.” He put the book in his pocket, took three cigars from his breast pocket and offered them to Shayne and the inspector. Quinlan accepted one, but Shayne said, “No, thanks. I’ll stick to cigarettes.” His gaze was direct and cold.

Henderson replaced one cigar and leaned forward to get a light from the inspector’s desk lighter. He said, “The only thing remaining, then, is positive identification of Margo Macon as Barbara Little.”

“That’s something you’ll have to discuss with Shayne,” Quinlan told him. “He’s the only one actually competent to swear that the girl known as Margo Macon was Barbara Little.”

“It’s a large policy,” the agent said, “and I understand the girl’s—ah—face was badly disfigured. We must have absolute and authentic identification.”

“She wasn’t smashed that badly,” Shayne argued, “and even if she was, positive identification can be made by three people. Her father, when he arrives; her uncle, who has known her all her life; and myself. I met and talked with her before she was murdered, and I had a photograph given me by Mr. Little himself. There is no doubt about it. I am positive that the girl whom I found murdered was the same girl I talked to and made a date with.”

Mr. Henderson said, “H-m-m. When do you expect the girl’s father to arrive? And where can I get in touch with the uncle?”

“Her father will arrive today. Early if he flies from Jacksonville but later, of course, if he comes by train. The uncle is here on the ground, and I can arrange for you to meet him here in my office,” said Quinlan.

Shayne asked, “Who is the beneficiary?”

“That I can’t say. I haven’t a copy of the policy. But I would like an affidavit from you, Mr. Shayne.”

“I’ll be glad to give it to you,” Shayne responded.

Mr. Henderson stood up and extended his hand to Quinlan. “Thanks, Inspector. I’ll get in touch with you later when I hope to have a conference with the father and the uncle.” He crossed over to Shayne and shook hands, saying, “Your affidavit will, no doubt, be ready sometime today?”

“How much did you say the policy was taken out for?” Shayne asked.

“Fifty thousand dollars, Mr. Shayne. Quite a large amount, you see.”

“Yes, I do see,” Shayne said slowly. “I’ll fix up an affidavit and leave it with Inspector Quinlan.”

Henderson said, “Thanks,” all around again and went out like a brisk breeze.

Shayne sat quietly brooding for a while, then said, “Fifty thousand dollars makes a hell of a good motive. I’d like to know who gets it.”

Quinlan frowned.

“Aren’t you satisfied with the Jordan girl’s confession?”

“Are you?”

Quinlan shrugged his thin shoulders. “It’ll save the state the cost of a trial.”

Shayne said, “I’ll give you a ring around noon to find out whether Little is here,” and went out.

SHAYNE FOUND A BARBERSHOP with two idle barbers staring disconsolately through plate-glass windows on either side of the door. He went in and slumped into the nearest chair. When one of them hurried to him with a patronizing smile, he said, “I want everything you’ve got except conversation.”

“Shave and haircut? Shampoo?” the man asked.

Shayne moved his head affirmatively. “And hot and cold packs behind my right ear.”

An hour later he pulled himself reluctantly from the comfortable barber chair. A Negro boy who was sweeping dropped his broom and hurried toward him with a clothes brush as Shayne put on his coat.

“Do the best job you can,” Shayne admonished.

“You bet,” the boy said, and went to work.

Shayne looked at a square piece of paper which the barber handed him. He took out a bill, and when the young Negro finished, Shayne put the money and the ticket in his hand and said, “Pay the bill and keep the change.”

“Yassuh,
boss,” he said. “Thank you, suh.”

Shayne went out the door, made his way to a liquor store, said to the clerk, “A bottle of your best cognac. Wrap it up. Where’s your phone?”

“Right here, sir.” The clerk shoved a telephone toward him and went to the liquor shelf.

Shayne called Lucile Hamilton’s number, whistling a low, off-key tune while he waited for her to answer. Presently he said, “Hello, there. I’ll be up in fifteen minutes. I’ll bring half the ingredients for an antidote for doped Tom Collins.”

“What on earth—” Lucile began.

“You’ll see,” Shayne said jovially, and hung up as the clerk shoved a package toward him. He paid the bill and went out with a long-legged jaunty stride.

When he arrived, by taxi, at the neat brick building of efficiency apartments he paused in the tiny lobby to push a forefinger on Lucile Hamilton’s bell, and was ready to open the door with the first admission click.

The door of her apartment was open a crack and he went in. Lucile was propped up on the studio couch. She had changed to a blue satin negligee that brought out the copper shades in her freshly brushed brown hair. There were dark circles under her brown eyes, and her skin looked too pale.

Shayne said, “You look like the canary who flew the cage for a night out with a humming-bird.” He frowned immediately, noting the
Times-Picayune
spread out on her lap.

She smiled wanly. “You look as fresh as a dewy daisy,” she said, “and don’t say anything trite about compromising me. It wouldn’t be funny.”

“Not me,” he said. “I guess we’re already compromised to the hilt.” His gay mood was gone.

“What’s it all about, Mike? I’ve been reading the paper about Evalyn. And what about us? It was all my fault. I shouldn’t have listened to Henri—the louse! What happened last night?”

Shayne said, “It wasn’t your fault. I egged you on because I wanted to contact Henri. We made the mistake of walking into something we weren’t supposed to walk into. How about something to eat?”

“Oh, God! No!” She shuddered with revulsion. “I’ve got a splitting headache and my mouth tastes like I’d swallowed a dead rat.”

“Mickey Finns do that to you, but I’ve got something here that’ll fix us up.” He set the package on the smoking stand and took off his coat. “Any coffee in this dump? I told you I had half the remedy. The other half is coffee.”

“There’s plenty in the kitchen. I eat out a lot and don’t use much. But—don’t make any coffee for me. I can’t bear the thought of it.”

He called from the kitchen, “Pipe down. Doctor Shayne is prescribing.”

He found a small percolator, filled it three-quarters full of hot water from the faucet and set it on the gas flame, then filled the perforated top with coffee and returned to the living-room.

Lucile thrust the newspaper impatiently aside. “I’ll go crazy if you don’t start telling me things. Was Margo really Barbara Little, living here under an assumed name? Are you honestly a private detective?”

Shayne nodded to both questions, his eyes averted. “We’ve got lots of talking to do. Let’s save it to go with our coffee.” He tore the wrapping from the bottle of cognac, held it up to the light and said, “This is the best I could find in town on short notice. It doesn’t compare with Monnet, but it’ll pass.”

“Monnet?” she asked. “What’s that?” Before he could think of an answer she shuddered and buried her face in the pillow. “Honest, Mike, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to take another drink.”

Shayne swore softly under his breath. It must have been the vivid dream while he was unconscious that confused him. It was Margo who knew about Monnet—not Lucile. He went to the breakfast nook and set the bottle down, rummaged through a drawer in the adjoining kitchenette for a corkscrew. The percolator was bubbling and he sniffed the aroma of coffee.

After wresting the cork from the cognac bottle he took two cups from small hooks in the china cabinet and filled them with hot water. When they were thoroughly warmed he poured the water out and filled them half full of cognac.

He tested the coffee and found it to his liking. He poured it into the liquor until the cups were brimming full, then asked, “Will you have your coffee royal in bed or at the table?”

“I can’t,” she wailed. “It makes me sick to even think of food.”

“This is medicine,” he said sternly. He pulled an end table up to the couch and set a cup on it. “I know what I’m talking about. Drink it as hot as you can stand it.” He brought his cup to the smoking stand.

Lucile had turned on her other side and lay facing him. “It doesn’t smell so bad,” she confessed.

Shayne cuddled his cup in his hands. “It tastes better than it smells,” he assured her.

She took a sip and grimaced, then took a big swallow. “I can feel it spreading all through me.”

Shayne nodded. “When you’ve drunk half of it you’ll be ready for a cigarette.”

There was a short silence during which they sipped from the steaming cups. Shayne lit a cigarette and offered her one.

“Thanks,” she said, “I believe I can smoke one. Bring your cup over here.” She made a place for him.

“I’ll get a refill first,” he said. “Want a second?”

“Not after this. I don’t want to push my luck.” She smiled. The color was coming back to her cheeks.

Shayne returned with a fresh, steaming cup and made room on the small table to set it, then eased his lanky frame down on the edge of the couch.

Lucile said, “I feel warm and glowy. I feel like what-does-anything-matter—my job—”

“I had forgotten about your job,” he said. “What about it?”

She nestled her head against the pillows, “I don’t know. The phone has rung several times since I’ve been here, but I didn’t answer it at first. I must be psychic—when you called was the only time I answered.”

“You took a hell of a long time.”

She laughed. “I was afraid it was the office manager and I wouldn’t know what to tell him. How does one explain spending the night in a honky-tonk with a man—and doped at that?” Her lashes were curled up from her closed eyelids and her cheeks flamed.

“Don’t worry too much about that. There needn’t be any publicity.”

“But—we gave our right names to the clerk. And that picture—”

“The raid won’t be reported in the normal course of newspaper routine. The picture is nothing but blackmail. Denton won’t use it unless I force his hand.”

She propped her cheek on one elbow and reached for her cup. “You were going to tell me. Remember?”

“You’ve let your coffee royal get cold,” he said solemnly, as though she had failed in a sacred ritual.

She sipped the lukewarm drink. “I like it better this way. I always put cold water in my coffee.”

Shayne groaned and asked, “How much do you remember about last night?”

“Nothing—not after I drank half my drink. I was sort of nauseated when I went to the restroom, and felt woozy. I must have passed out.”

“Your Tom Collins was doped. I didn’t drink mine, but I was a fool not to notice the taste when I took a sip. I thought it was just the rotten gin they used.”

“What happened—after I passed out?”

“I don’t know what they did with you, but when I went to find you I walked into a blackjack. None of it was Henri’s doing,” Shayne went on honestly. “He asked you there in good faith. That is, he was frightened because your testimony and Evalyn’s might point to him as the murderer and he wanted to bribe you to keep it quiet. But he never had a chance to talk to you. Captain Denton spotted me and thought I was sticking my nose in where he didn’t want it stuck.”

“Oh,” she said, “Captain Denton,” and wrinkled her forehead.

“Denton has hated me for a long time,” Shayne explained. “I’ll tell you about it sometime. Yesterday he got the idea that I was back in New Orleans to stir up trouble for him because of his connection with Rudy Soule and the dope racket.”