Michael Shayne's Long Chance (5 page)

Chief McCracken groaned and muttered something indistinguishable as Shayne hailed a taxi, got in, and said, tersely, “To the Hyers Hotel.”

He sank wearily against the cushioned cab seat and picked hard particles of dried blood from his cheek. His eyes were closed, but relaxation was impossible.

Arriving at his hotel he emerged from the taxi, paid the driver, and stood on the sidewalk contemplating his soiled suit. He made a detour to the back of the hotel, found a service entrance, and went into a narrow hallway leading to stairs behind the elevator. He climbed to the third floor without meeting anyone, unlocked his door, and went in.

The French doors leading onto the balcony were closed, the cream-colored shades drawn. Shayne ran a big hand over his eyes, looked again. The shades of the high double windows were drawn, also.

He was positive he had left the French doors open, but he couldn’t remember about the windows.

Then his roving eyes focused on the dresser. He winced with more than physical pain. The photograph of Barbara Little, alias Margo Macon, was gone.

He went hastily to the French doors, flung them open and looked out. The windows of Apartment 303 were dark. He scowled, turned and hurried into the bathroom and grimaced at his sorry reflection in the mirror above the lavatory. There was an ugly cut in the center of the bump over his left eye, and the shaggy brow was matted with blood.

He stripped off his coat and shirt, bathed his face in cold water, and went in to get a fresh shirt and tie from his suitcase. He unbuttoned the fresh shirt slowly, staring at the dresser. There was no doubt that he had left the photograph there. He couldn’t be mistaken.

Margo—Barbara herself must have sneaked in and taken it. So she did believe him when he said he was a detective. He muttered aloud, “Damn a snooping dame.”

He hurriedly slid his arms into the shirt sleeves and rammed the tail into his trousers, buttoned his trousers and fastened his belt. He groped for a fresh tie without looking and went to the dresser to tie it.

He remembered Margo Macon’s kiss—her slim body dancing away from him—her gay retort, “That’s to seal our date tonight—so you won’t let some hussy pick you up.” Why the hell was her apartment dark if she was expecting him?

He drew his tie into a tight knot and turned to the long windows leading onto the balcony. Faint light from a street lamp shone upon the narrow slit between the two buildings. He could vaguely discern the outline of the deck chair on the larger and opposite balcony where the girl had been curled up in the afternoon.

He stared somberly across the gap. This messed up his plans. If she had the photograph, his plan for pretending to be taken in by her imposture was out.

As he stared and meditated upon just how to meet this new situation, his eyes slowly focused upon a curious blotch of whiteness protruding from her door leading out onto the balcony. Wall shadows darkened the door, but he finally perceived that it was open.

He studied the odd object for a moment, then leaned forward to catch the opposite railing and vaulted across.

The protruding object was a woman’s bare foot.

Shayne struck a match, but he knew before the light flared that Barbara Little was dead.

SHAYNE HASTILY KILLED THE MATCH FLAME, pushed the screen door back and stepped over the body into her apartment. The room was faintly lighted by a glow from his own hotel room directly opposite.

He stood motionless for a long moment looking down upon the outstretched corpse, then sank to his knees and cupped a lighted match in his big hands.

Barbara Little lay on her left side. A pool of blood circled the faded carpet around her head. Her right foot held the screen door slightly ajar. A bright yellow dress of some sheer material was ripped downward from her shoulder. Her right eye was wide open, the lid drawn back as though held by some mechanical device. The pupil stared up at him in death.

The left side of her face was cruelly bludgeoned, indicating the use of a weapon too light to kill with one blow—her murderer had struck again and again with insensate fury. Or the killer might not have been strong enough to bring death with one blow of a heavy weapon. It was clear that she had been dead not more than half an hour.

Shayne glanced at his watch as the match burned down and went out. The time was 10:58.

As he waited for his eyes to become adjusted to the semidarkness, he cursed himself for neglecting the girl, for his failure to take J. P. Little’s earnest warning seriously enough. He should have insisted upon her breaking the dinner engagement with her girl friends so that he could be with her, or at least watch over her from his hotel room.

Accustomed to violent death, Shayne had acquired a superficially impersonal attitude toward murder in the practice of his profession. But this was different. Only a few hours ago he had blatantly assured the girl’s father that she was safe under his protection.

He stood up, strolled aimlessly around the small buffet apartment to get a general idea of the layout without making more light. There was one large room with an in-a-door bed, a tiny kitchenette, and a bathroom. The few furnishings were heavy, richly carved antiques. A stuffed owl watched him somberly from a plaque above an ornamental fireplace. A card table near the balcony doors held the remains of the evening meal. There was service for three.

He went back to the girl’s body and leaned down, struck another match and turned slowly, making a circle of light which disclosed nothing he had not seen previously. He shook the flare out and dropped the charred matchstick in his pocket, eased the French door farther inward to return to the balcony.

The bottom of the door struck some object and would open no farther. He struck a third match and held it behind the door.

Shayne stared with bleak eyes at the squat Monnet cognac bottle which he and Margo Macon had emptied that afternoon. It was smeared and sticky with fresh blood. Bending down, he saw a few short strands of brown hair tangled in the crushed blood, and knew he was looking at the death weapon.

He let the match burn out, worrying his left earlobe between thumb and forefinger, then abruptly strode to the bathroom and felt around for a towel. Returning hurriedly, he dropped it over the blood-smeared bottle, gathered it up loosely and went out onto the balcony.

Light streamed through the French doors which he had left open, outlining his body clearly as he leaped across the railings and went into his room. He laid the towel-wrapped bundle on the bed and closed the doors, then searched swiftly through the dresser drawers in the hope of finding a piece of wrapping paper.

Finding nothing suitable, he carefully cradled the awkward bundle in the crook of his arm, locked the door, and went down the corridor to the rear stairway and on through the narrow service alley. He hesitated at the end of the alley, glanced across the street at a lighted liquor store almost directly opposite, then went a few steps back into the alley where he placed his bundle on the ground behind a barrel of trash.

Crossing the street, he entered the liquor store and brusquely ordered, “Wrap up a couple of quarts of your cheapest gin. Use plenty of paper so it won’t break, and tie it up tight.”

Shayne turned his back to the clerk and pulled his hat brim low over his eyes, took three dollars from his wallet, and when the clerk said, “Here you are—is this wrapped to suit you?” he half turned, shoved the bills across the counter, said, “It’s okay, thanks,” and picked up his change.

In the darkness of the alley he untied the gin bottles, tossed them into the trash barrel, and wrapped the murder weapon neatly in the paper, tying it securely. He then sauntered to the street with the package inconspicuously under his arm, hailed a loitering taxi, and got in.

He said, “The St. Charles Hotel,” and laid the bundle on the floor as the cab slid away.

Three blocks away, Shayne suddenly exclaimed, “Hold it, buddy. Sorry, but I’ve just remembered something. I’ve got to get out here.”

The driver muttered something under his breath and pulled to the curb. Shayne got out and give him a dollar, saying, “That’ll make up for the short trip.” He noted the name of the cab and its number as it carried the damning murder evidence away, wrote them down in a small notebook, then whirled and long-legged it back to the Peloine Apartments.

The time was 11:14 when he strode briskly to the front entrance—16 minutes had passed since he first discovered Barbara Little’s dead body.

The Peloine entrance was on a corner of the building, wide double doors standing invitingly open at the top of stone steps. A small foyer was lighted by a naked bulb in the ceiling. He found Margo Macon’s name over the mailbox numbered 303, and pressed the button. He waited a moment, wiping sweat from his face, then held the button down with a knobby forefinger for a long interval.

After another short wait, he deliberately pressed the button of apartment 301, under the name of Madame Le-grand, and started up the stairs, pounding his heels loudly on the worn carpeting.

A middle-aged woman confronted him in an open doorway as he reached the third floor. Her untidy black hair was shot with strands of white and she wore an exotic negligee which was grossly inept on her hard, thin body and accentuated her sharp features with snapping black eyes. She looked at Shayne with anger and suspicion and demanded, “What reason have you for ringing my bell at this time of the night?” She spoke with a pronounced accent and a nasal twang.

Shayne grinned. “I wasn’t ringing your bell.”

“You certainly—”

“I’ve been trying to get an answer from Miss Macon in three-oh-three. I have a date with her. I’m a little late and thought she might have fallen asleep,” Shayne explained.

“There has been enough bell ringing to wake up the dead,” the woman snapped. “It’s quite evident she doesn’t want to see you. If you are forcing yourself upon her—” She left an unfinished threat hanging in the air.

“She said she’d wait up for me,” Shayne persisted. “She knew I couldn’t get here until quite late.”

“I think you lie,” she said flatly. “Miss Macon had two girls for dinner, and she has already had one date since they left. This is a respectable house, young man, and I intend to report—”

“You say she has had a caller since her dinner guests left?” Shayne interrupted angrily. “A man?”

Her black eyes shifted away from his hard gaze. She wriggled her pointed nose. “It isn’t for me to say,” she began weakly, and started to back away.

Shayne caught her bony arms and said harshly, “You’ve intimated that Miss Macon hasn’t been acting in accordance with the rules of a respectable house. What are you hinting at?”

She lifted her chin and answered in a spiteful tone, “I am a respectable woman who works hard all day and need my sleep at night. Such things that go on—men coming and going the back way. With my apartment next door I can’t help seeing what happens.”

Shayne held her arm, pulling her with him to Barbara Little’s door. He knocked loudly, and while he waited, asked, “The back way, you say! On the third floor? What are you hinting at?”

“It isn’t a hint. With my own eyes I saw the man leap from her balcony to the hotel balcony opposite. And now
you
come—”

“And wake you up ringing her bell,” Shayne interrupted. He let go of her arm and rattled the knob, calling, “Margo! Wake up. It’s Mike.”

“See,” said the woman. “She pretends to be out to avoid you. If you are a gentleman you’ll go away.”

“You don’t understand,” Shayne told her wearily. “It’s important that I see—” He was rattling the knob again. It turned and the door opened. He shoved it wide, saying, “There’s something strange here. She was expecting me.” He reached inside and found a wall switch, flooded the room with light and exclaimed, “My God!”

The woman pushed past him, screamed, and swayed back, crying wildly, “
Mon Dieu!
It is she! The blood—murdered!
La pauvre enfant!”

Shayne said grimly, “It’s murder, all right.” He went directly to the telephone and called police headquarters. He reported, “There’s a dead woman at number three-oh-three Peloine Apartments.”

The woman was jabbering hysterically,
“Mon Dieu—de penser que je dormais so pres d’elle pendent qu’on la tuait!”
She waved her arms wildly, sank into a chair, and buried her face in her hands.

“What are you saying?” Shayne demanded. “What do you know about this?”

“Forgive me,” she said meekly, “I was only saying that it is oh! so horrible that I slept next door while it happened. If only I had called the police when I saw the man—” She shuddered violently.

“The man who jumped from her balcony to the hotel?”

“Yes. I saw him clearly.
Mon Dieu!
Forgive me for the bad thoughts I had about Miss Macon. But how could I guess? In these days one does not know what to think or do.”

“How long ago was that?”

“Half an hour—an hour ago.” She shook her head despairingly. “If I had but known,” she moaned. She pulled herself up from the chair and straightened her shoulders as though shock and grief had suddenly been whipped from her. She moved resolutely to the table and started to stack the dinner dishes.

“Don’t touch anything,” Shayne said sharply. “The police will want everything left as it was—for fingerprints and such.”

“But these dishes,” she protested, “can have nothing to tell the police. It is my duty to clear the table. They are from dinner which I cooked and served with my own hands.”

“You’ll have to wait until the police have come and gone. You say you served the dinner here tonight?”

“Yes. It is my living—catering with my most excellent French cuisine. Miss Macon, poor child, was not good with cooking.”

Shayne said, “Come sit down. Who did you serve here? Tell me what happened this evening.”

She sat stiffly upright in a chair and Shayne sat opposite her. She said, “I know nothing. The dinner was very informal, as you see. Three girls only. Miss Macon dismissed me after the serving. In my room I heard her guests leave and I came to inquire whether I might clear away the dishes. She said, no, that she expected another visitor soon. So I retired and was wakened by some sound. I got up and looked to see a man going from her balcony to the hotel. I thought it a clandestine assignation and made no report. I was on the verge of sleep again when your ringing wakened me,” she ended in a resentful tone.

“The girls—Miss Macon’s guests—do you know them? Know where they live?” Shayne persisted.

“I do not think I should answer more questions from you. To the police I will tell everything. I will be in my room when they come.” Madame Legrand started to get up from the chair.

Shayne said, “No. You must stay until the police come. They will want you to verify my story. It won’t be very long now.”

As he stopped speaking the scream of a siren swelled and faded to a low moan in Dumaine Street. Shayne lit a cigarette and stepped back unobtrusively into a corner as feet pounded up the stairs and Captain Denton bustled in through the open door.