Michael Shayne's Long Chance (2 page)

Shayne went on to the wall cabinet and took out the Monnet bottle. He brought it back to the desk and splashed cognac into his glass.

Rourke said to Little, “We’d better be going.”

Mr. Little nodded almost imperceptibly, started to get up from the chair and fell back with his hands lolling in his lap.

Rourke gasped. “Give him a drink quick, Mike.”

Shayne grabbed the bottle and held it to Little’s mouth. The smaller man moaned, and with an effort he raised his hands to hold it to his lips. He took two small sips and murmured, “Thanks,” as he made a distasteful grimace.

“You rode him too hard, Mike,” Rourke accused. “It’s not easy for a man to give such facts about his own daughter.”

A spot of color rose to Mr. Little’s cheekbones. He ran the tip of his tongue along his lips and said weakly, “It is a delicate situation—but I must go on if Mr. Shayne is to help me.” His eyes looked dully up at Rourke.

Shayne said, “Here, take another drink. Sorry I haven’t another glass.” He offered the bottle.

Mr. Little shook his head. “I am not a drinking man. I feel stronger, though.”

Shayne said, “Maybe I was too impatient. Go on with your story if you feel up to it.”

Rourke sat down again and Mr. Little relaxed as best he could in the straight chair. “I mentioned Barbara’s recurrent use of drugs. There was a man whom she contacted while she was recovering from her illness. She told me about him. It was he who encouraged her. He taught her to become an addict—and worse.” His voice trembled and he stopped to take a deep breath, then went on. “I know so few of the actual details. I did not press her to reveal them, but she hinted of depravities—when she was under the influence, of course. She tried to break away from this man, but he followed her to New Orleans.”

“Now, we’re getting somewhere,” Shayne said. “I think I know the sort of man you’re talking about.”

“Then you can realize what I feel—what I fear. Barbara loathes the things she does under this man’s influence. She will try to kill herself again. I am positive she will. The next time—she might succeed.”

“Then you actually want me to keep her from killing herself?”

Little nodded. “But—besides that—I’m afraid of what
he
may do. When she tried to break with him before, he threatened her life. She countered by threatening to report him to the police. This only made matters worse. He made it quite clear that he would not hesitate to murder her if she reported him.”

Shayne took a sip of cognac and said, “Go on.”

“I don’t know his name. Barbara wouldn’t tell me, but I’ve seen him once. I came home unexpectedly and he was there. He left in a hurry. He is a man in his late forties, a foppish dresser—spats and so forth. He has an evil, dissipated face. He is quite bald, slender, and of medium height. A meager description, but it should be enough to mark him if you see him with Barbara.”

Shayne said, “It will be.” His eyes were alert. “About the fee—”

“You’ll take the case?” Little’s voice was eager.

“I’ll take it. The fee will depend on how much time it takes.”

“I’m not a wealthy man, Mr. Shayne, but any figure within reason.”

“Five hundred for expenses,” Shayne said. “When I need more I’ll let you know.” He drew a notebook from his pocket and handed it to Little. “Write down her name—the pseudonym, and the New Orleans address.”

Mr. Little wrote,
Margo Macon, Peloine Apartments, Apartment 303, Dumaine Street.
He handed the notebook back to Shayne and took a four-by-six photograph from his pocket, passed it to Shayne, then took out his wallet. “That is a recent picture of Barbara,” he said, and handed Shayne a sheaf of bills.

Shayne pocketed the bills without counting them. He was studying the photograph. The girl had wide, tranquil eyes, a small, straight nose, a chin that indicated stubborn determination, and a full, generous mouth lifted pleasantly at the corners. He asked, “Eyes blue?”

“Dark blue.”

“Where can I reach you to report?” Shayne asked.

“Bayfront Hotel here in Miami.” Mr. Little penciled a memorandum in a notebook of his own, tore out the sheet, and handed it to Shayne. “This is my New York telephone number, and please call me the moment you contact Barbara. I will be here in Miami, unless—” He hesitated, and his eyes were sad. “You see, Mr. Shayne, my sister is seriously ill in New York. She is not expected to live, and I expect a message any moment calling me back.”

Shayne nodded. He carefully placed the New York telephone number in his pocket. He said, “I’ll have to get a move on to catch my train.”

Mr. Little held out his hand. Shayne took it this time. Little said, “You won’t, of course, let Barbara know you come from me.”

“Not until I find out some things,” Shayne told him.

Rourke shook Shayne’s hand with a firm grip. He said, “So long, Mike. Be seeing you on the front page.”

Shayne called the office of the apartment hotel and said that his apartment was ready for the cleaners, then hastily opened his already bulging suitcase, jammed the squat bottle half-filled with cognac into it, and went out without a backward glance.

SHAYNE GOT OFF THE TRAIN in New Orleans at five o’clock in the afternoon. He took a taxi and ordered the driver to take him to the corner of Dumaine and Decatur Streets. He settled himself comfortably as the cab slid smoothly down Canal Street, and enjoyed the pleasurable sensation of returning to the ancient city after an absence of many years.

Upon reaching the old French Quarter, he closed his eyes and reminiscently breathed in the strangely familiar odors, judging their progress by the smells and street sounds. The slow-flowing Mississippi was on the right, in an arc within a block of Decatur as they passed Jackson Square, the Plaza de Armas, then his nose told him they were approaching the west end of the French Market, his destination. He opened his eyes as the driver slowed. “That’s the corner right ahead, boss.”

Shayne nodded. “Just drop me at the corner.”

The driver shrugged and pulled in to the curb where North Peters hits Decatur at a sharp angle. Shayne got out, paid the fare, and stood on the sidewalk beside his suitcase until the taxi was out of sight.

He lifted his Panama and ruffled his hair. Here was one spot which was unchanged. It was good to discover that some things didn’t change. Though remodeled, the sheds and stalls of the old market straggled along the right side of the street ahead of him. There was the traditional coffee stand offering its
café
 noir
and
café au lait;
as always, the flow of rickety trucks and farm wagons; the babble of strange tongues; and the mixture of white and black with all the shadings in between.

Shayne replaced his hat and pulled it low over his eyes, picked up the suitcase, and crossed Decatur to stroll up Dumaine. He found the number he was looking for halfway up the block and was pleased to discover that his memory for street numbers in the Quarter had remained with him during his nine-year absence.

The building was ancient, three stories, and had been converted into apartments, four to the floor on either side, with a private balcony protected by a wrought-iron railing appended to each apartment. A faded sign near the entrance read
Peloine Apartments, Hyers and Groop, Managers.
The word
Vacancy
was printed below, and a small square of cardboard pasted in front of the word read NO in inked capitals.

Shayne set his suitcase down and frowned at the sign, then looked at the buildings around the apartment house. Beyond the Peloine was a low-roofed single-story dwelling. The other side of the Peloine was flanked by a fairly new and ugly brick structure which complied with the ancient architectural designs in the neighborhood by providing the same distinctive iron-railed balconies for each hotel room. The two buildings were not more than ten feet apart, the outer rails of the balconies almost touching.

The brick structure bore the unimaginative name:
The Hyers Hotel.
Shayne walked around, looking the setup over carefully, then strode into the hotel. A Negro bellhop snapped to attention and slid across the tiled floor to take his bag. Shayne sauntered up to the desk and was greeted with brisk cordiality by a short, fat man who slid a registration card forward and handed Shayne a fountain pen.

“Maybe you could give me a little information,” the detective said.

“I will be glad to be of service, sir.” The deferential reply stressed the word “service” with a slight whistle.

Shayne got out his wallet. He took out a small slip of paper and some one-dollar bills. He folded three of the bills lengthwise and held them between two fingers, extending them toward the clerk while he read the slip of paper:
Apartment 303, The Peloine Apartments.
He glanced up at the clerk. “The Peloine is next door. Do you happen to know where number three-oh-three would be located in the building?”

The fat clerk had heavy black eyebrows. One brow was puckishly curved higher than the other. He arched the puckish brow higher, glanced at the folded bills, and cleared his throat. “It happens,” he said, whistling through an aperture where a tooth was missing, “that I do know the room layout there. The Peloine is under the same management as this hotel.” He lowered small black eyes to the bills between Shayne’s fingers.

Shayne moved his hand forward. The bills disappeared. “Three-oh-three,” the clerk whistled, “is on the top floor back, sir. It faces this way.”

Shayne refolded the slip of paper and placed it in his wallet. “Opposite approximately which of your rooms?”

The clerk’s brows crawled together like two black, hairy worms, accentuating the deep line above his bulbous nose. He cocked his head on one side and studied Shayne, then asked sternly, “Are you checking in here, or merely looking for information?”

Shayne grinned and picked up the pen. “I intend registering as a guest, if that makes a difference.” He wrote his name with a flourish, adding
Miami, Florida,
on the address line.

The clerk waddled over to consult a room chart. He said, “Our number three-sixty-two is opposite the apartment you mentioned.”

Shayne lit a cigarette. “Is three-sixty-two vacant?”

The clerk shook his head. “It happens not to be at present. Perhaps in a few days—”

Shayne said irritably, “A few days won’t do.” He reached for his wallet again, watching the clerk’s eyes. They were greedy in his swarthy face. He took out a five, hesitated an instant, and added another five. Folding them between his fingers as he had done before, he said, “Perhaps you could persuade the present occupant to take another room.” He moved his hand negligently across the desk.

The clerk’s face became grave. The tip of his tongue appeared in the aperture where a tooth was missing. “I think perhaps I could, Mr. Shayne.”

Shayne’s eyes were as cold as steel. The two bills had disappeared from his fingers.

“I’m quite sure it can be arranged,” the clerk said hastily. “If you’d care to sit here in the lobby for a few minutes—” His voice trailed off in a whistle as he snapped his fingers at the bellhop who stood by with Shayne’s bag.

Shayne said, “Sure,” and sauntered away from the desk. He sat down in a comfortable chair and crossed his legs while the clerk conferred in low tones with the small Negro. The boy’s eyes glistened and two buck teeth shone through a broad grin. He took a key from the clerk, left the bag at the desk, and slid to the waiting elevator.

A sudden wild clatter of sound drifted through the open doorway from the street, resolving into a tinny, ecstatic rhythm. After a brief prelude, deep and harmonious voices joined in, singing a strange melody which finally ended in a wild chant.

Shayne’s wide mouth was spread in an appreciative grin. “Spasm band, eh?” he said to the clerk. “It’s been a long time since I heard one.”

The clerk nodded. “Black boys looking for lagniappe. Some of them are pretty good.”

Shayne looked toward the elevator. The bellhop was nowhere in sight. A man and a woman came into the lobby. The man was very tall and incredibly thin. He wore a rumpled suit and his hands continually gesticulated as he talked excitedly to the woman. He spoke French. The woman was fat and a black mustache grew on her thick upper lip. She listened placidly and answered in soft Italian when the thin man gave her a chance to speak. They crossed the lobby without looking at Shayne or the clerk and went up in the elevator.

When the elevator came down, the Negro bellhop got out. He went to the desk and said something to the clerk, then picked up Shayne’s suitcase.

The clerk said, “Your room is ready, Mr. Shayne.”

On the third floor, Shayne followed the bellhop down a carpeted hallway. He said, “That was fast work. How did the other fellow feel about getting the bum’s rush out of his room?”

The boy turned and flashed white teeth. “It wa’n’t nothin’, suh. Jes’ moved his stuff out lak Mistuh Rainey tol’ me.” He stopped near the end of the corridor and turned the knob of a door, then stepped back with a great show of gallantry and waved Shayne into the room.

Shayne stepped inside and glanced around. A slow grin spread over his face when he saw nothing whatever to indicate that the room had been recently occupied, and though a humid breeze came in through open French windows, the odor of unoccupancy clung to the room. Taking a half dollar from his pocket he flipped it to the boy who caught it expertly. “Bring up some cracked ice,” Shayne ordered.

“Yas,
suh.
Thank you, suh,” the boy responded, and went out with his buck teeth clamped on the silver coin.

Shayne muttered to himself, “Thirteen-fifty on the expense account for asking questions,” then strode to a short double window and opened it. Looking out, he saw ancient buildings, some of them boasting modern additions, which encroached upon the courtyard below and pressed against each other. A narrow service alleyway twisted around the new additions, with nooks here and there where unkempt palms and shrubs and vines straggled between flagstone slabs.

He frowned, searching his memory. He recalled that a part of the ground on which the hotel was built had once been a beautiful courtyard filled with palms and tropical shrubs and dining tables. Nine years ago it had been one of the gayest of the Quarter’s
al fresco
night clubs, operated in connection with the hotel which was now converted into the Peloine Apartments.

Turning from the window, Shayne went to the long French windows leading out onto the small, private balcony. The enclosure was not more than two feet wide and ran the length of the doors. The grill work was fashioned of thick, trailing vines topped by a smooth, flat railing.

Stepping out on the balcony, Shayne emitted a low whistle of surprise, for directly before him, so close that he could have touched her, a girl lay in a canvas deck chair on a more spacious projecting balcony of the Peloine Apartments building. The grille work of openmouthed amphibians and writhing reptiles of the larger balcony was not more than two feet removed from Shayne’s iron trellis. His belt buckle clanked against the top rail when he bent over and leaned against it in an effort to see the girl’s face.

She was half turned away from him, curled up in the chair, with her left cheek resting on her forearm. She wore a bandanna halter which did not adequately cover the swell of her full breasts, and a pair of shorts. Her skin was deeply tanned, her hair was brown with copper highlights where a ray of sunshine touched it. It was cut very short and curled in soft ringlets at the nape of her neck. Her visible right eye was closed and her flat stomach rose and fell gently with rhythmic breathing. She was either fast asleep or doing a splendid job of pretending.

He continued to stare at the girl, fascinated. Her nose was small and straight, her lips full and curved upward at the corners. Her forehead was wide and high and smooth. There was no doubt that she was Margo Macon, and he decided that the $13.50 had been well spent.

When a knock sounded on his room door, he straightened his long body and went in to admit the Negro boy and a pitcher of ice cubes. He took the pitcher, ignored the buck-toothed smile and anticipatory gleam in the boy’s eyes, and closed the door. He set the pitcher on the dresser and opened his suitcase.

He took the photograph of Barbara Little from the tie compartment of the bag and studied it for a moment, nodding with satisfaction, then propped it upright on the dresser. He went back to dig farther into the suitcase and bring out the half-empty fifth of Monnet cognac, went into the bathroom where he found two tumblers on the shelf above the lavatory.

Returning to the balcony with a glass of ice water and half a glass of cognac, he found the girl in her original position. The last ray of sunshine had gone, and her body was in full shade.

Shayne’s eyes looked broodingly upon her for a time, then he settled one hip on the railing, carefully tested the width of the flat top rail of the grille with the bottom of the tumbler of ice water, and left it there.

He said, “It’s getting late for a siesta, young lady.”

The girl’s right eyelid fluttered. Her body tensed, but she did not move for a full 30 seconds. Then she yawned languidly, rolled over on her back and looked up into the angular face of the redheaded detective who was not more than five feet away.

“Neighborly, aren’t they, these balconies?”

“Intimate,” Shayne said. He took a sip of the cognac and chased it with ice water.

“Um-m-m.” The girl stretched her bare arms and arched her body upward with sinuous grace of a kitten.

A full-faced view of the girl erased any small doubt he might have had about her identity. The girl in the deck chair was Barbara Little, alias Margo Macon.

Grinning broadly, Shayne lifted his cognac glass in a toast and said, “So this is it. The bold, bad French Quarter where beautiful girls loll around unclothed to raise the blood pressure of unwary tourists.”

She nodded, her wide blue eyes frankly interrogating him.
“Le Vieux Carre.”
A perfectly slurred accent caressed the words. “Do I? And are you?”

“What?”

She smiled lazily, drawing her upper lip away from the fine edges of her teeth and looking entirely unsophisticated. “Do I raise your blood pressure, and are you an unwary tourist?”

Shayne pondered the question, then said, “At the risk of offending you—no.”

Her delighted laughter bubbled up. She turned on her side, rested her chin on her hand and studied his features with unabashed approval. She said, “I like you,” simply and candidly.

“Why?”

“Because—not one man in ten thousand would have stayed on his side of the rail with me lying here—like this. Not one in a hundred thousand here in the Quarter. But you haven’t even tried to get in a lecherous crack,” she ended, a little frown puckering her forehead.

“Don’t get the idea my blood pressure can’t go up,” he warned. “I just don’t like the setting.”

She laughed again. “I didn’t suppose you were a eunuch. Not with that mop of red hair. My name is Margo.”

Shayne nodded approval. “Nicely alliterative with Mike.”

Margo came to a sitting position. “Nice ice water you’ve got there.”

“Shall we drink to lots of future alliteration?” He held up his cognac glass which was half empty.