Michael Shayne's Long Chance (17 page)

Shayne laughed harshly. “It makes a pretty good bluff. Think it over.”

Soule’s telephone rang as he turned away. He lifted the receiver and said, “Yes… Oh, wait a minute—I don’t—” then fell silent to listen. He then said, “I think maybe I know something about that. Shayne’s just been here. You’d better come over right away.”

Shayne paused near the door to light a cigarette and listen.

Soule’s perturbed eyes turned toward Shayne. “That was Denton. He smells some kind of a rat in a burglary report they just had from the apartment house where the Jordan girl died last night.”

Shayne frowned. “Burglars?”

“One burglar—a big redheaded guy. He was seen running out of the apartment next to the suicide room with a bundle under his arm. But they don’t find anything missing. It’s been vacant nearly a week.”

“That,” said Shayne, “is damned strange. Any clues?”

“A taxi driver phoned in a report on the same guy. He told the driver he was a detective and got him to wait while he went in. The guy came out running, rode away for about a block and then jumped out.”

Shayne said with heavy irony, “Maybe the damned house is haunted. After you’ve figured it out, meet me in Inspector Quinlan’s office at one-thirty.”

“Me?”

“You and Denton—and Henri Desmond.”

“I don’t like any of this, Shayne. If you’re trying to pull one—”

“The girl’s murderer,” Shayne interrupted him impatiently, “is the only one who needs to worry about meeting me in Quinlan’s office. One-thirty is the deadline. And you’d better have Denton primed to change his story on the confession.” He walked out.

LUCILE HAMILTON SMILED when she opened the door of her apartment to admit Shayne and saw the large paper sack in his hand. Her brown eyes danced merrily and she said, “I bet I can guess.”

Shayne cocked his head and listened to a sizzling sound from the kitchenette. He sniffed the odor of broiling beef and felt an odd gnawing in his stomach. He said, “Two minds with a single thought. God, I’m hungry! There’s steak and canned French fries and stuff for a salad in there.” He handed the sack to her.

Lucile had changed from her housecoat to a dark-red frock with a brilliant pin on the shoulder and a flattering neckline. An apron covered the dress from a point slightly below the neck to the hem of her skirt. She took the sack and said, “I could only afford hamburgers, but I’ve got yams baking and a salad already fixed. Of course, if you’d rather have steak—”

“Food that’s ready to eat is what I crave right now. We’ll save that for another time.” He shucked off his coat and tossed it on a chair.

“You mean—we’ll have another meal together, Mike?” she asked, her eyes sparkling and her cheeks very red from the heat of the tiny kitchenette.

“Why not?”

“I’ve been wondering,” she said, and hurried back to the kitchen.

Shayne looked around the living-room which had been set in perfect order and appeared to have grown larger with the studio couch made into a divan. He went to the bathroom and sloshed water on his face, scrubbed his hands, and wet his unruly mop of red hair and tried to slick it down with a comb he found in the mirrored cabinet. There were dainty guest towels arranged on a rod, but he took a damp bath towel from a rod beside the bathtub and wiped his face dry.

When he returned to the living-room, Lucile was setting the table in the dining-alcove. “Your Mr. Veigle called. He said the fingerprints were not Evalyn’s.”

“He is going to meet us at Quinlan’s office?”

“At one-thirty.” She went on arranging the silver, asking, “Did everything go all right?”

Shayne sank wearily onto the couch. “It’s still a long shot,” he said, “but I think I know what I’m doing. It’s too late to back down now. And, by the way, remind me to tell you something when it’s all over.”

“Oh—you and your secrets,” she flung at him. “What is it—tell me now.” She glanced through the arch and saw him stretched out on the couch. “What—no carpet slippers, Mr. Shayne.” She reached for the cognac bottle on the open china container and carried it in to him. “Maybe you’d better take a nip of this, since I have no slippers.”

“The perfect secretary,” Shayne sighed. “You get my messages right—and then this.” He grinned.

“You’re mean,” she chided, “taking advantage of a woman’s curiosity. Tell me what—” She sniffed suddenly and her curiosity vanished with an odor from the kitchen and she ran in to tend the dinner.

Shayne relaxed and sipped cognac from the bottle and reviewed the work he had done and that which was awaiting him. He decided there was nothing left now except to await the outcome. He had his hunch, and that was about all. He had never approached the end of a case with so little actual evidence, yet he had never approached the end of a case with such complete and satisfying certitude that it would come out right. It had to. He couldn’t be wrong. There was a certain pattern—

Lucile came through the archway carrying a small glass in her hand. She settled herself in the armchair opposite the couch and said, “I need a stimulant. I nearly had heart failure when I thought the hamburgers were burning.” She held out the glass, and Shayne reached a long arm out to pour it half full of cognac. She said, “That’s much too much, but I’ll drink it. I’ve always said that only a thoroughly disreputable wanton ever drinks before four o’clock in the afternoon.” She held her glass for a toast and said, “Here’s to the wage slaves who drudge all day in an office and sleep in loneliness all night.” Her laughter floated gaily through the room before she took a swallow of the liquor. “Everything will be ready in a few minutes,” she added sensibly. “I’ll bet you’re starved.”

“I am,” Shayne confessed, then asked, “Will you be back with the slaves tomorrow?”

“Oh, no. I’m not working any more.”

Shayne offered her a cigarette. “Did you resign?”

“By request—with two weeks’ pay. Wasn’t that nice of them? The office manager feels that there’s something essentially indecent about a girl getting herself mixed up in murder.”

“That reminds me,” Shayne said hastily. He reached in his pocket and brought out the picture Soule had given him. He handed it to her. “That’ll be on the front page of the
Item
tonight if things go wrong this afternoon.”

Lucile studied the photograph and unconsciously sucked in her breath sharply, but she said in a gay voice, “It’s a very good likeness, isn’t it—of both of us.”

She got up and went to the kitchenette, leaving half her drink on the end table.

Shayne got up from the couch, looked at his wrist watch, and went to the telephone. He called police headquarters and asked for Inspector Quinlan. When Quinlan answered, he said, “This is Mike Shayne. Heard anything from Joseph Little?”

“Yes. He arrived a few minutes ago by plane and telephoned me. I put him in touch with Henderson from the insurance company and they’ve gone over to identify the body. I promised to try and have you meet them here about one-thirty to sign that affidavit you promised Henderson.”

“I’ll be there,” Shayne assured him. “Say—how big is that office of yours, Quinlan?”

“What did you say?”

“I asked you how big your office is.” Shayne’s wide mouth spread in a grin close to the mouthpiece.

“Why, about twelve by fourteen, I guess. What the devil are you driving at? Drunk?”

“Sober as an Inspector,” Shayne told him. “You see, I’ve taken the liberty of inviting quite a few others for a one-thirty conference in your office, and I wanted to make sure there’d be room. There’ll be—let’s see—Soule, Henri, Denton, Drake, Little, Henderson, Lucile, Tim, Veigle—that makes nine besides us. Is there another office where we can gather?”

“Look here, Shayne,” Quinlan asked angrily, “what have you got up your sleeve?”

“Rabbits. White ones with pink eyes.”

Quinlan groaned. “If you’ve held out evidence—”

“I haven’t, Inspector,” Shayne assured him. “I’m doing a lot of wild guessing, and God help me if I’m wrong. There’s only one thing—will you arrange to have Edmund Drake there at one-thirty? He’s the only one who hasn’t been issued a personal invitation.”

“The girl’s uncle? Why, he’s to meet Little here. Little talked to him on the phone before he called me.”

“He did? So Drake was telling the truth,” Shayne said slowly. “How does Little explain the cock-and-bull story he told me in Miami?”

“I haven’t discussed it with him. I thought you’d want to do that.”

Shayne’s voice was grim when he said, “I do. One-thirty, then.”

When Shayne hung up and turned from the telephone he saw a platter of hamburgers in the center of the small table, flanked by a large wooden bowl of tossed salad and a dish containing three baked yams. Lucile came in with a bowl of gravy spiced with barbecue sauce and set it beside the platter. She apologized for baker’s bread, saying, “I’d like to have made cornbread but my oven’s so small I can cook only one thing at a time.”

Shayne said, “Don’t apologize,” and helped himself to a hamburger and ladled the sauce over it as she poured the coffee. He sniffed the sauce, then tasted it, raised his bushy brows and asked, “Garlic?”

“Just a smear. And lots of other things. It’s my own concoction. If you don’t like garlic—”

“I do,” Shayne said emphatically, and broke a hamburger easily with his fork. Juice flowed from it and he said unbelievingly as he tasted it, “Do they have a special brand of hamburger cows here?”

She laughed delightedly and sat down opposite him. “I call it poor-girl steak. It’s neck meat, the cheapest cut, and I have the butcher grind it twice with a little piece of bacon for extra flavor.”

“You’ve been wasting your talents in an office,” he told her as he speared a yam. He sighed with contentment and went to work with knife and fork.

They were relaxed over the third cup of coffee when the telephone rang. Shayne reached out a long arm and lifted the instrument and said, “Hello.”

Timothy Rourke’s voice answered him. “Just hit the airport, Mike. What’s the schedule?”

“What time is it?”

“Twenty after one.”

“The hell it is!”

“Listen, Mike,” Rourke said earnestly, “do you know of any openings for a good leg man in this town?”

“Why?”

“If your story isn’t a whingeroo there’s no use of me going back to Miami. Do you know what this trip cost the office?”

“It’ll be worth it,” Shayne told him. “Meet me at Inspector Quinlan’s office in ten minutes, Tim.” He gave specific directions and hung up.

“We’ll have to get started,” he said to Lucile.

“We?”

“Sure. Didn’t I tell you you were invited?”

“Oh, no, Mike—I’d rather not.”

Shayne said, “Sorry. We’re going to need you for a quorum.” He pushed his chair back and stalked into the living-room.

“But why?” she wailed, following him in. “You know everything—”

“Well, for one thing, there’s an insurance adjuster trying to make an issue of the identification of the body. Tim brought a picture of Barbara Little and I want you to back me up in identifying her.”

“Oh—that’s why you asked him to bring the picture. I meant to ask you.”

Shayne had his coat on and was striding to the telephone. “I’ll call a taxi. Get your hat on and your apron off.”

WHEN THE TAXI PULLED UP TO THE CURB at police headquarters, three men were getting out of a tan sedan just in front of them. Shayne grinned at Captain Denton and asked, “Ready to go into your spiel?”

Denton’s only answer was a scowl. Shayne saw his black eyes narrow with surprise and speculation when he assisted Lucile from the taxi. Henri Desmond darted a frightened look in their direction, and Soule’s eyes glittered coldly beneath his odd, puffy lids.

Lucile gripped Shayne’s arm as they followed the trio inside. She whispered, “I’m frightened, Mike. Who’s the man with the evil eyes and the mustache?”

“That’s Rudy Soule. Hasn’t Henri ever told you about his big-shot boss?”

“I don’t think so. Are you sure—”

“I’m not sure of anything,” he answered blandly. “Keep quiet when we get in Quinlan’s office unless I ask you something.”

Soule, Henri, and the police captain stopped on the threshold leading into the inspector’s office. They went in as Shayne and Lucile came up behind them. Quinlan was alone. He said, “Hello, Denton,” and nodded curtly to Soule.

Shayne pushed in behind them and said breezily, “I suppose you know Rudy Soule, Inspector, but maybe you haven’t met Henri Desmond.”

Quinlan said, “I’ve heard about him.” He looked past Shayne at Lucile.

“Miss Hamilton—Inspector Quinlan.”

Quinlan nodded and asked, “The missing witness?” He had a harried look.

“She hasn’t been missing, Inspector. I’ve kept close contact with her since I left your office this morning.”

Quinlan said, “Little and Henderson are waiting for us in there,” indicating an open door leading into another office. He added significantly, “Henderson has heard Little’s story and is willing to accept it.”

Shayne asked, “Shall we join them?”

Captain Denton cleared his throat, glanced at Shayne, said doggedly, “I’ve got to tell you something, Inspector. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking—”

“Save it,” Shayne muttered, “until we can all hear you at once.”

Edmund Drake entered the office hurriedly, and Timothy Rourke dashed in behind him. Drake looked perplexed and wan as his red-streaked eyes darted over the little group filing into the inner office.

Shayne met Rourke with a wide grin and an outstretched hand. He introduced him to Lucile, then to Inspector Quinlan, explaining, “Timothy Rourke has helped me bust a lot of cases in Miami and I think he’ll help me bust this one.”

Quinlan nodded without enthusiasm. The others had passed into the conference room. He asked, “Is this the crop, Shayne?”

“Everybody except Veigle. You know Harry Veigle?”

“I know Veigle, but I didn’t know he was working on this with you.” Quinlan went on in a tone of suppressed exasperation, “What kind of monkey business is this, Shayne?”

“Let’s go inside,” Shayne suggested, “and I’ll do some explaining. We don’t need Veigle right away.” He gave Tim Rourke a little shove toward the open door, took Lucile’s arm, and Quinlan followed them into a much larger office.