Weep for a Blonde

by Brett Halliday

  With all the strength she could muster, she kept her voice steady to say, “I do insist that very thing. Yes. After the way you acted last night, I realized we can’t go on as we are. I decided to telephone Mr. Shayne at his office this morning to seek his professional advice. If you want to twist that into something else entirely.…”

  Richard Kane did not reply to her. Lydia scarcely saw the blow coming. He had stopped close in front of her with both hands hanging limply at his sides. He swung his right hand in a swift, wide arc that she instinctively tried to duck away from, but failed.

  His open palm struck the side of her face with jarring force and she went to her knees in front of him. Great racking sobs tore out of her throat as her hand went up to her cheek.

  He stepped back and looked down at her, studying her coolly as though he were a scientist and she a bug impaled on a pin. “I don’t believe I’m twisting anything into anything,” he told her. “What I gave Shayne last night, and what you got just now, is merely a small sample of what I’ll hand out if I ever catch you two together. Is that perfectly clear?”

  Lydia slowly got back to her feet. Her left cheek was an ugly red. She said, “Yes. I think you are making everything quite clear now.”

  He said, “I’m glad I am. I think I’ll kill you, Lydia … and Shayne, too, if you keep on trying to pull the wool over my eyes. Is that thoroughly understood?”

  She said, “Yes, Richard.” She turned away from him and picked up her empty coffee cup and went past him into the kitchen without another glance.

  Richard Kane had gone when she came back into the room. She was alone in the house again. She sat down quietly in the deep chair by the sunlit window to contemplate her aloneness.

  5

  The front bartender at The Beef House on Miami Avenue was middle-aged and bald-headed and smoothly-paunched. He was a fixture at the popular luncheon place for Miami businessmen, knew all the regular customers intimately and was regarded as quite a card by them. An unsuccessful contender for the welterweight championship in his youth, he was a local oracle on all matters of sport, and his opinion was eagerly sought and highly-regarded on all sporting events.

  The long bar was crowded with customers waiting for tables when he glanced up from stirring a martini and saw a familiar, red-headed figure step inside from the street.

  He deftly poured the martini in a chilled glass and caught Michael Shayne’s eye with a welcoming nod, slid the brimming glass in front of a customer and turned mechanically to reach behind him on a shelf for a bottle of Shayne’s favorite cognac.

  With his fingers touching the bottle, he hesitated and then jerked his hand back as though the glass were hot. He moved a few steps to his right instead, opened a small refrigerator and removed a quart bottle of milk.

  Holding it beneath the level of the bar so it couldn’t be seen, he strolled back and blandly greeted Shayne who had found an empty space at the end:

  “Afternoon, Mr. Shayne.” He cocked his head critically on one side to study the rugged features of the redhead. “You’re looking remarkably well, sir, if you don’t mind my saying so. That is to say … everything being considered.”

  Shayne leaned both elbows on the bar and said, “I don’t mind you’re saying so at all, Pat. So maybe you’ll oblige me with a drink.”

  “Right you are, sir. Just what the doctor ordered.” With his left hand the bartender set a highball glass on the mahogany, uncapped the milk bottle and poured the glass full in front of Shayne’s horrified gaze.

  “Finest Grade A in Miami,” Pat assured him blandly. “You just drink that straight down, Mr. Shayne, and you can be assured, it’s myself, that’s telling you.…”

  Shayne said helplessly, “Milk? For God’s sake, Pat.…”

  “Milk it is, Mr. Shayne.” Pat’s voice was brisk and unnecessarily loud, causing faces to turn toward them from all down the bar. “As soon as I saw that thing in the paper this morning, I says to myself: ‘If I know Mike Shayne, he’ll be in strict training for a return bout from this minute on,’ and I up and ordered this here ’specially for you, knowing you’d be likely to drop in today for lunch.” He held up the quart bottle proudly so everyone could see it.

  Shayne grimaced and said wearily, “You’re a real comedian, Pat, but I’ll do my training out of the same bottle I’ve always used … if you don’t mind.”

  Pat shrugged elaborately, his face expressing sad concern. “Whatever you say, Mr. Shayne. It’s your own interests I’ve got at heart and you can lay to that. Well do I remember when Duffy laid down the law to me in my younger days. Dan Duffy, that was. Trainer of Champions they called him when I was a broth of a boy with my own two fists.” At this point, Pat danced back from the bar and assumed a fighter’s stance with his doubled fists in front of him. “I remember Duffy saying to me.…”

  There were appreciative chuckles along the bar, and Shayne interrupted him to say, “All right, Pat. So I got myself clouted last night, and I agree it’s funny as hell. You can set out the bottle of Monnet now.”

  “If you insist, Mr. Shayne.” Pat looked genuinely downcast, and turned to wink down the length of the bar at his grinning audience. “Cognac it is, though if you’d take my advice.…”

  “The advice he needs,” a chuckling voice broke in behind Shayne as a hand descended on his shoulder, “is to lay off the blondes when they’re squired by jealous husbands.”

  Shayne didn’t bother to turn his head, but said out of the side of his mouth, “You and Pat should work up an act together, Tim.” He hunched his rangy body aside to allow Timothy Rourke to squeeze in beside him, glowered down at the glass of milk while Pat ceremoniously set out a four-ounce wineglass and poured it nearly full of cognac, then placed a tall glass of ice water beside it.

  Rourke’s figure was bony and almost scarecrow thin. He was a top reporter on the Daily News and Shayne’s closest friend in Miami. He wrinkled his nose delightedly at Pat and nodded when the bartender set out a double shot-glass and reached for a bottle of rye, and told Shayne joyfully, “We’re running a real spread in the News. Complete with statements from Lucy and a report from the ringside doctor, and we’re angling for an exclusive comment from Dr. Kinsey on the comparative merits in American males of sexual and physical prowess.”

  Shayne growled, “Dr. Kinsey has been dead for over a year, so that’s going to be a trifle difficult.” He drank deeply from his cognac glass and followed it with a sip of ice water. “You got a booth for us, Pat?”

  “Mr. Rourke’s regular one.” Pat nodded his bald head and added in a tone of blandishment. “All in good fun, Mr. Shayne. If there is a return bout I’d like to be in your corner … even if you do train on Monnet.”

  Shayne grinned and gathered up his two glasses to follow Rourke back to a vacant booth with a RESERVED sign on the table.

  They settled themselves opposite each other with Rourke facing the front, and the reporter leaned forward to demand seriously, “What in hell is the dope on the Martinique thing, Mike? I slashed our story to a brief item on page four.”

  Shayne shrugged and said, “The guy was tight, and when his wife came to our table he blew his top. Lydia Cornwall,” he added slowly. “A friend of Phyllis’, Tim. Do you remember her?”

  “Cornwall? Lydia Cornwall?” Timothy Rourke blinked his deep-socketed eyes and his almost-emaciated features grew thoughtful. He shook his head. “I don’t tie it up. I didn’t know too many of Phyllis’ friends, Mike.”

  “I know. Actually, I didn’t either.” Shayne frowned, twisting his wineglass in circles on the table. “What about Richard Kane? He strike any note with you?”

  The reporter had covered every major news break in Miami for almost two decades, and his memory for names and people who had been in the news was phenomenal, but now he frowned and shook his head again. “I read the Herald story about last night. Seems he’s a fairly wealthy contractor with a place on the Beach.”

  “Work on it a little,” Shayne urg
ed him. “Anything to do with his marriage. Wife-trouble. Stuff like that.”

  Rourke continued to shake his head. “I can check the morgue after lunch.” His eyes glittered brightly as they studied the detective across from him. “What aren’t you telling me? Have you been playing around with the blonde?”

  Shayne drained his glass and looked around for a waiter to refill it. He said disgustedly, “Hell, no. That’s just it. I took a sock last night for nothing at all.” He rubbed his bony jaw reflectively. “Kane was in such a hurry to jump me, that I just wondered.…” He shrugged and gave up his glass to a waiter who stood beside them while Rourke emptied his also.

  Then he said, “I had a phone call at the office this morning.” He went on to relate how Lydia had telephoned him thinking her husband was safely away from the house, and how Kane had broken in on them from the upstairs extension. He ended by spreading out his big hands, “So Kane is now thoroughly convinced that I’m his wife’s lover, and he probably thinks she calls me every day as soon as his back is turned. Which makes me think maybe he has some good reason for believing the worst of her, and I wondered if there had been any previous record of discord between them.”

  The waiter brought their second drinks and took their luncheon order.

  Rourke said, “It sounds like something I’d stay the hell away from, Mike. What the devil? If there’s nothing personal between you and. Lydia.…”

  “She was one of Phyllis’ friends,” Shayne reminded him.

  “Someone Phyllis knew. You don’t know how well. No reason why she should presume on that after all these years.”

  “But she’s in trouble, Tim. Damn it, she’s really frightened.”

  “Probably with good reason,” the reporter said sourly. “If I were playing around and married to a guy with enough moxie to flatten Mike Shayne with one swing, by God, I’d be frightened, too. He probably beats her up every night before they turn in. And maybe she deserves it. You stay out of it, Mike. What will Lucy think if you go meddling between a man and his wife? You’ve never fooled professionally with stuff like that.”

  Shayne drank half his cognac, his gray eyes bleak and the muscles in his face tightening so the hollows in his cheeks deepened. He said somberly, “The son-of-a-bitch shouldn’t have warned me off, Tim. That’s the one thing I can’t stomach. How long would I last in my business if I let threats decide which cases I’d take or turn down?”

  “You haven’t got a case yet. Just an hysterical wife looking for a broad shoulder to weep on, it seems to me. You’ve always steered a wide course away from hysterical wives in the past.”

  “Sure. But this woman is frightened, Tim. I’ve a feeling she really needs help.”

  “Let the police help her,” said Rourke callously. “Admit the truth, Mike. The only trouble is that you’re faced with a challenge. If Kane had kept his mouth out of the affair, you would have given the gal some fatherly advice and gone on your way. As it stands now, you’re constitutionally unable … oh, oh!” His voice changed abruptly as he looked past Shayne’s left shoulder toward the front of the restaurant. He continued in a lower tone: “Don’t look now, but I’ve got a feeling that all my good advice is wholly academic. Keep hold of your crazy, goddamned temper, Mike. Unless I’m nuts, Pat is going to have his hopes for a return bout realized long before he expected it.”

  Shayne didn’t bother to turn his head. He asked, “Kane?”

  “Yep. From his picture in the Herald. Breathing fire from both nostrils. He’s talking to Pat now, and you know that crazy Mick isn’t going to pass up a chance to see some action. Who knew you were lunching here?”

  “Only Lucy.”

  “She wouldn’t pass the word to him. Oh, oh! Pat’s given him the word and here he comes, Mike.”

  “Not if she knew who he was,” Shayne agreed casually. “But I always tell her I’ll be here if anything comes up.” Shayne hunched his wide shoulders forward over the table and lifted his cognac glass to his mouth. He drained it and set it down as a familiar, harsh voice spoke from the aisle beside him:

  “I want to talk to you, Shayne.”

  Timothy Rourke was on his feet and leaning forward over the table before Shayne turned his head to look at Kane. The reporter said explosively:

  “If you have the faintest idea what’s good for you, you’ll turn around and get out of here fast.”

  “Suppose I haven’t the faintest idea what’s good for me?”

  “Then you’ll stick your neck out and get clobbered,” snapped Rourke. “For God’s sake, Mike, let me handle this goon,” he went on angrily with a side glance at the red-headed detective who was turned to look at Kane now, with his hands flat on the table in front of him, half-supporting his weight.

  Michael Shayne said easily, “Why, no, Tim. I think he came here looking for me. So, he’s found me. So, let him have his say.”

  “You bet I’ll have my say, Mike Shayne.” Richard Kane rocked back and forward on his heels, both hands thrust deep into the patch pockets of a tweed sport jacket, his black eyes narrowed down at the detective.

  “I gave you fair warning last night, and I repeated it this morning. Stay away from my wife, Shayne.” His voice was loud and it carried through the unnatural silence gripping the restaurant.

  Shayne said disgustedly, “Oh, for Christ’s sake!” and he straightened up abruptly, his thighs pushing the table forward so Rourke was pinioned between it and the seat.

  “Get out,” Shayne told Kane in a low, intense voice.

  Kane took his hands out of the pockets of his jacket and doubled them into big fists. He thrust his jaw forward pugnaciously and said, “Maybe you’d like to put me out?”

  Shayne came unleashed. He twisted in the constricting space between table and seat, drove his right fist solidly to the aggressively outthrust chin of Richard Kane.

  As the bulky figure staggered back and started to go down, Shayne watched him through a red haze while he twisted out of the narrow space and smashed his left fist into the other side of the falling man’s jaw.

  Kane went to the floor heavily, and Shayne stood over him with doubled fists for a moment, breathing hard and glaring downward, until Rourke’s thin fingers dug into his arm and pulled him back, while the reporter moaned:

  “Mother of God, Mike! Sit down and take it easy. I’ll have to write this story for the News.”

  Shayne turned his back on the sprawled figure of Kane, and sat down, pulling the table toward him to make more space for Rourke.

  He said conversationally, “The crazy son-of-a-bastard doesn’t know when he’s well off. When you do write it up, Tim, be very sure you make it clear that his wife is a client of mine … and I don’t let anybody come between me and my clients.”

  He picked up his cognac glass and sucked the last drop from it while employees of The Beef House helped Richard Kane from the floor and hustled him out, then he turned to call happily to a waiter:

  “Tell Pat I want another and this one is on the house. I’m really going into training now.”

  6

  The telephone was ringing when Shayne opened the door of his hotel apartment at eight o’clock that evening. He tossed his hat on a rack near the door and crossed the room in unhurried strides to scoop up the instrument from a center table and say, “Shayne speaking.”

  He frowned morosely when Lydia’s voice came over the wire: “Michael! Your phone has been ringing and ringing.…”

  He said, “I just came in. Hold it a minute.” He laid the telephone on the table, pulled off his jacket and dropped it on the back of a chair, crossed to the liquor cabinet while loosening his tie. He took down a bottle and a four-ounce glass, carried them into the kitchenette where he turned on the cold water tap, got a tray of ice cubes from the refrigerator and set it in the sink under the running water. He filled the glass nearly to the brim with cognac, then put partially melted cubes in a taller glass, filled it with cold water. His movements were unhurried, smoothly mechanical wi
thout a single wasted motion, and the morose frown stayed on his face as he carried the two glasses back and set them on the table beside the unpronged telephone. He settled himself comfortably and lit a cigarette, took an appreciative sip of cognac and chased it with a little ice water before finally lifting the phone and saying, “Are you still there, Lydia?”

  She said, “Of course I am. I have to talk to you. Are you … alone, Michael?”

  He said, “Yes. Are you?”

  “I don’t blame you for asking after what happened this morning. I was so humiliated, Michael.”

  “I did ask,” he reminded her mildly.

  “What? Oh … am I alone? Yes. I certainly wouldn’t have called otherwise. I’m on the upstairs phone this time and I just watched Richard drive away. From the window here I can see all the way down our drive to the street and he can’t possibly sneak back without my knowing it. So it’s perfectly safe this time.”

  Shayne grimaced and said, “It’s not that I give much of a damn for myself. Did your husband tell you what happened today?”

  “He hasn’t spoken a word to me since he stalked out of the house this morning. He came home half-tight about six and sat around and sulked and drank some more, and went slamming out a few minutes ago without saying a word. I know how he is, Michael. He won’t be back until midnight or later, and then he’ll be blind drunk. What did happen today?”

  Shayne said, “Get a late edition of the News.”

  “Did you see Richard, Michael?”

  “I saw him,” Shayne said grimly. He took a sip of cognac and went on, “I have no idea what your personal set-up is, but the way your husband is acting I think you’d better get out from under fast.”

  “That’s what I want to talk to you about, Michael. Right now. Tonight. I’ve just about reached the end of my rope.”

  “Would you like to meet me some place?”

  “I can’t. I don’t even have a car any more.”

  Shayne said, “There are still taxis running.”