Pay-Off in Blood (11 page)

Given a wife like Celia, sipping on her vodka bottle at home, and thrown into close, day-by-day intimacy with a woman like the one who sat beside him, you couldn’t rule out the possibility of an adulterous triangle.

Could
that
have been the basis for blackmail? If it were true, how far would the good doctor have gone to conceal the knowledge from his wife? What incriminating proof could have been contained in the white envelope for which he had been willing to pay twenty thousand dollars?

This was a question that Shayne kept coming back to in his own mind. Since the very beginning, last evening, he had wondered why the doctor had been so certain he was buying back complete immunity from further blackmail. Any document can easily be duplicated… as he had tried to point out to the doctor.

He turned onto the quiet side street and slowed to a stop in front of the modest house where Dr. Ambrose had met his death.

He turned off the ignition and said, “I’ll carry your bag inside. If Mrs. Ambrose is up to it, there are a few questions I would like to ask.”

Actually, what he wanted more than anything else was to witness this meeting between the two women on the morning after the doctor’s death. On the surface, everything appeared placid and proper, with the widow requesting the doctor’s nurse to come and stay with her for a few days, but, inwardly, Shayne wasn’t so sure.

He carried Belle’s suitcase in his left hand and took long strides to stay abreast of Belle up the walk, and he stood close to her when she rang the doorbell.

The door opened immediately, and Shayne was completely unprepared for the appearance of the widow this morning.

Her platinum curls were carefully arranged as though she had just come from a hairdresser, and the flesh of her rounded cheeks was as smooth and firm as a young girl’s, and her mouth
was
like a rosebud. She was effectively attired in a black, silk skirt that clung caressingly to her hips and thighs, and a short-sleeved blouse of dull bronze which reflected a metallic sheen in the sunlight. She was wearing tiny, bronze pumps with very high heels which gave her a look of poised youthfulness utterly at variance with the spectacle she had presented the previous night.

She put out both her hands to the nurse and said too sweetly, “Oh, Belle, honey. I know you loved him, too.”

Belle took Celia’s small hands in her big ones and said throatily, “I just can’t make myself believe it yet. I couldn’t go near the office anyhow… with it being empty and all.”

Celia Ambrose looked past her at the redhead, and a small, puzzled frown marred the smoothness of her forehead. Her blue eyes rounded inquiringly, and Shayne was positive she didn’t remember him at all from the night before.

He said, “I’m Michael Shayne, Mrs. Ambrose.
A private detective whom the doctor consulted last evening.”

“A private detective?
But how absurd! Why should Philip consult a private detective?”

“Because he was being blackmailed, Mrs. Ambrose.
Don’t you remember being told last night…
”

“I remember some sort of vicious innuendo being made,” she told him calmly. “I think you had better go away now. Do come in, Belle.” She drew the larger woman inside composedly.

“Mr. Shayne is working on the case, and wants to help find Doctor’s murderer,” the nurse told her. “He’d like to ask you a couple of questions.”

“Oh, very well.”
Celia appeared completely indifferent. She nodded to Shayne. “You may bring her bag in, if you wish.”

She turned away from the open door, holding Belle’s arm lightly, and led her across the room, saying, “You’ll have the blue room at the back. I’ve closed up Philip’s room, of course, and, later on, I hope you’ll help me go through his things.”

The two women disappeared down a hallway to the left without a backward glance from either of them toward Shayne, and he carried Belle’s bag into the living room and closed the front door.

He stood there, flat-footed, looking about the basically feminine room and reinforcing the first impression he had received last night.

It was not a room designed for a man to relax in comfortably after a hard day at the office. He tried to imagine Dr. Ambrose and Celia inhabiting it happily together over the years past, and the picture refused to focus clearly.

He heard the light clack of high heels returning from the rear, and he moved forward to one of the overstuffed chairs, noting that there wasn’t an ashtray in sight, and putting aside his desire for a cigarette.

The doorbell rang behind him as Celia reentered the carpeted room, and she made a little
moue
at the sound and went past him to open the door.

He sat down on the edge of the chair, and his body stiffened as he heard a familiar voice say brightly,

“Good
morning, Madam. I represent the Women’s Civic Betterment Association, and I would appreciate just a few minutes of your valuable time to get some statistical information for a survey we’re making that is of vital importance to every homeowner in Miami Beach.”

With her back toward him, Celia Ambrose blocked his view of the speaker, and he listened with absorbed interest as the widow replied, “Not this morning, I’m afraid. I’m very busy and…”

“But it will take
just
a moment and it’s vitally important that I contact every person in the block.
Just one or two questions, Madam.”

Shayne rose slowly to his feet as Mrs. Ambrose backed away reluctantly from the doorway. Lucy Hamilton pushed forward vivaciously with a notebook and a pencil in her hand, and she stopped suddenly when she saw her employer standing in the middle of the room, looking at her with amused tolerance.

She said, “Oh…” and then managed a gay little laugh. “I didn’t know the man of the house was in. That’s just dandy. It’s so seldom I do find the husband at home…”

“My husband is dead,” said Mrs. Ambrose woodenly. “This is a private detective.”

“A detective?”
Lucy sobered at once and pursed her lips. “He doesn’t look like one,” she told Celia. “Are you sure…?”

“I’m just going,” Shayne said hastily. “Good day, Mrs. Ambrose. Perhaps I can see you this afternoon.” He strode forward and past his brown-haired secretary, giving her a simulated glare in passing. Behind him, he heard Celia Ambrose say composedly, “I don’t like that man’s manners at all. Now, what was it you wanted?”

He went down the walk toward his car parked in front, and wondered how the devil Lucy had failed to recognize it and realize that he must be inside. He wasn’t at all sure she hadn’t. It would be just like her to put on an act like that in full knowledge that he was listening to her inside the room.

A wry smile twisted his lips as he got in and drove away. You had to hand it to Lucy. She did pull that sort of thing off well. He hoped Nurse Jackson would come out and join them while Lucy conducted her interview. He would be exceedingly interested to know how she reacted to Belle.

At the Miami Beach Police Headquarters, Shayne had no difficulty this morning getting into Chief Painter’s private office.

The head of the detective division sat rigidly upright behind a wide expanse of clean-surfaced desk and regarded the redhead with snapping black eyes that managed to appear accusing. “You’ve been long enough coming in, Shayne.”

Shayne said, “I was checking a couple of things.” He pulled a straight chair closer to Painter’s desk and sat down. “What can you do for me?”

“What can
you
do for
me?”
Painter challenged. “I want to know more about Dr. Ambrose’s blackmail payoff last night.”

“I’d like to know more about it myself.” Shayne unconsciously touched the twin lumps on his head and winced. “Have you heard anything about the possibility that he handed his money over to the wrong man?”

“What’s that? Don’t hold out on me, Shayne!”

“Why should I hold out? I was the Patsy in the deal.” Shayne hesitated and then said carefully, “Tim
Rourke
tells me you checked the
Seacliff
and got some kind of confirmation that Ambrose met his blackmailer there at nine-thirty… as I assumed.”

“Yes. That is… it’s all pretty vague. I couldn’t get a definite identification of the doctor, but the description is close enough. What do you know about a flashlight picture being taken of the transaction?”

“
Rourke
mentioned that.” Shayne frowned thoughtfully and lit a cigarette. “Ambrose certainly didn’t tell me he had anything like that in mind.”

“You think Ambrose arranged it?”

“Who else?” argued
Shayne.
“Remember, I told you he claimed he didn’t know who was blackmailing him. It looks to me as though he wanted some proof the pay-off had been made, and hired a man to take a picture.”

“What’s that got to do with your suggestion that he paid off the wrong man?”

“A lot, maybe. I don’t know. Here’s how it went.” He proceeded to give Painter a straightforward account of his encounter in the hotel lobby with Jud and Phil, and his interview with the Boss at the Bayside Hotel. “You figure it out,” he urged when he ended.
“Seems to me that picture of the man receiving the money from Ambrose might be damned important.”

“I still don’t see who killed the doctor… or
why,”
exploded Painter.

“I don’t either,” Shayne agreed mildly. “That’s your problem. What’s this thing Tim
Rourke
told me about the doctor’s office last night?”

“You mean the nurse and the empty strongbox?” Painter asked reluctantly.

Shayne nodded. “What do you make of it?”

“It just gets screwier and screwier,” muttered Painter. “According to the woman’s story, he had some private papers in the box which he had asked her to destroy if anything happened to him. But someone beat her to it. When she searched the office, after learning the doctor had been murdered, she found the box open and empty.”

“Not forced open?” Shayne asked urgently.

“No.
Unlocked with a key, from all indications.
The office door, too.”

“Was there a key-ring in the doctor’s pockets when you checked his body?”

“No. His wallet was intact… but no key-ring.”

“Why in hell,” asked Shayne thoughtfully, “would his murderer make the effort and risk the danger of going to his office and emptying that strongbox? What was in it to make it worthwhile?”

“You tell me,” suggested Painter.

“If none of these other things had happened,” said Shayne slowly, “I would assume the strongbox held some documents that referred to the matter the doctor was being blackmailed about. But why would
he
keep them? And why would someone want to get hold of them
after
he had already paid off?”

“Because they identified the blackmailer,” said Painter quickly.

“But if the guy who got the money
wasn’t
the actual blackmailer…?”

They looked at each other for a long moment, and each man helplessly shook his head in bafflement.

“One more thing I wanted to ask you,” Shayne said briskly after a moment. “That thirty-two automatic you found beside the body. Was it the murder weapon?”

“Ballistics says it was. And it’s registered in Dr. Ambrose’s name. He’s had a permit for years. Are you sure he wasn’t carrying it last night, Shayne?”

“No,” said Shayne truthfully. “I didn’t shake him down. I don’t think he was lying to me, though.”

“There’s nothing to indicate it was taken out of the glove compartment,” muttered Painter. “In fact, very careful chemical tests practically rule out the possibility that the gun has been in the glove compartment for months at least. If he normally kept it at his office…”

“His nurse swears he didn’t,” Shayne told him.

“What’s that? Have you talked to Miss Jackson?”

“This morning.
I drove her over to the doctor’s house, where she’s going to spend a few days with the bereaved widow. Who, by the way, looked pretty spiffy this
morning.
Miss Jackson claims he had mentioned owning a gun to her, and said he kept it at home.”

Painter drummed impatiently on the top of his desk with his small fingertips. “She was dead drunk when he was getting himself shot in their driveway.”

Shayne nodded agreeably. “So that puts her in the clear.”

He glanced at his watch and stood up, stretching and yawning. “I guess that just about winds it up.”

“What did you mean by that last statement?” demanded Chief Peter Painter suspiciously.

Shayne looked at him benignly. “Doesn’t it?”

“Wind it up?” demanded Painter.

Shayne looked surprised. “I thought you meant my saying that Celia Ambrose seems to be in the clear.”

“Why shouldn’t she be? My God, do you think she shot her husband… with a quart of vodka inside her?”

“Doesn’t seem reasonable,” Shayne agreed amiably. “I’ve got a luncheon date.”

He strode out of the Chief of Detectives’ office, and went down a corridor to a side exit leading out to the parking area and his car.

The Doubloon Restaurant was on the ocean front, halfway north toward 79th Street.

Shayne turned his car over to a parking attendant and went into the dimly-lighted interior. It was just 12:20 when he entered. He stopped and peered around at the half-dozen waiting people in the small foyer without seeing Lucy, and went on to the entrance to the dining room where the headwaiter greeted him:

“Mr. Shayne! You are lunching alone?”

Shayne said, “No. My secretary is meeting me. You know Miss Hamilton?”

“But, yes. She is… I think not come yet.”

Shayne said, “Good. I can use a drink or two. I’ll be at the bar.”

He turned to the left to a small bar, where he found an empty stool and sat down. He ordered a sidecar and lit a cigarette, and wondered what was keeping Lucy Hamilton so long.

Shayne had his second sidecar in front of him when he felt a light tap on his shoulder and turned his head to look into Lucy Hamilton’s dancing brown eyes.