Murder and the Wanton Bride

by Brett Halliday

  “I know you, Walsh.” Shayne pushed forward and the thin man gave way reluctantly. The apartment was small, with a couch that could be opened into a bed. Ashtrays overflowed with cigarette butts, and a whiskey bottle and pitcher of ice cubes stood on an end table by the couch.

  “Who do you think you are, busting in here like this?” asked Walsh in a reedy, aggressive voice.

  Shayne pulled the door shut and pushed his hat far back on his forehead to glower at the other detective. “Take a good look, Walsh, and then get ready to do a lot of talking fast … before the cops get here.”

  Walsh took a good look and pursed his lips tightly, taking a backward step. “Mike Shayne! I remember meeting you once.…”

  “That’s right. That was before I knew you weren’t fit to be a scab on a decent private detective’s butt,” Shayne said harshly. “So that takes care of the preliminaries. We haven’t got much time, Walsh. A Mrs. Barstow from Denham hired you a few months ago to investigate a certain Belle Carson, married to the local banker. You went to Atlanta and sucked your client for all the money she could pony up, and then disappeared without making a report to her. I want to know what you found out about Belle Carson in Atlanta.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” snarled Walsh. “If I did, I sure wouldn’t tell you.…”

  Shayne slapped him hard, knocking him back against the wall and spilling his highball over the front of him.

  “I’m talking about murder, Walsh.”

  “Murder?” He straightened himself with twitching lips, his blue eyes hotly venomous and avoiding Shayne’s. He set down the empty highball glass and began backing away toward the center of the room.

  “Carson’s murder,” said Shayne flatly. “The man you were blackmailing.”

  “Carson?” Walsh stopped backing away, stood flat-footed with his lower jaw drooping laxly. “I swear I don’t know what you mean,” he said in a tone that Shayne instinctively believed.

  “You don’t deny you were blackmailing Carson?”

  “Of course I deny it. What do you mean coming here and accusing me …?”

  Shayne doubled his right fist and took a step forward. Walsh cringed and scrambled backward toward a table along the wall, reaching desperately behind him for the handle of a closed center drawer.

  Shayne reached him before he got the drawer open, slammed a hand down on his shoulder and flung him spinning toward the couch where Walsh collapsed. Shayne strode after him and stood looking down at the frightened man with bleak eyes.

  “I know you got something on Belle Carson in Atlanta and doublecrossed your client by not reporting back to her. I know you used the information to extort money from Carson. I know Carson came to Miami last night and telephoned you here from his hotel before he was shot to death. And I’m telling you, Goddamn it, that the cops are going to know all of that very shortly and be up here asking you the same questions I’m asking. I haven’t any time to waste, Walsh. Either tell me, or I’ll beat it out of you.”

  Walsh lay back half on his side and whimpered, “I don’t know anything about any murder. The rest of it … all right, so maybe I did dig a few bucks out of a banker. Why not? It was worth it to him.”

  “What was worth it?”

  “To hush up the fact that his wife committed bigamy when she married him. He was a big-shot in Denham and couldn’t afford a scandal, and God knows I didn’t tap him hard. Just five C’s a month. Hell, he could afford it. You’d done the same, I betcha, if you ran onto an easy thing like that. Christ, if a man don’t feather his own nest in this lousy racket, who’ll do it for him?”

  “So we’ve got that straight.” Contempt grated in Shayne’s voice. “Let’s get a couple of other things straight. How can you deny knowing Carson was murdered last night a couple of blocks from here? There’s a paper right there on the floor with his picture on the front page.” He pointed down at a crumpled newspaper.

  “But it said … it said an unidentified body,” quavered Walsh, sitting up and drawing back to the other end of the couch with all the dignity he could muster.

  “And that’s one angle the cops are going to third degree you on. You admit you saw his picture and knew he hadn’t been identified. Why didn’t you identify him?”

  “But I didn’t know it was Carson. Don’t you understand? I don’t know it now except you say so.”

  “You admit you were blackmailing him … talked to him on the telephone last evening?”

  “Sure, I admit that. I got nothing to hide,” said Walsh virtuously. “But I didn’t know that was Carson’s picture in the paper. Don’t you get it? I never saw the man in my life. I didn’t want to see him. I wrote him a letter and said five C’s a month was all I wanted. So he mailed the checks to me. When he didn’t show up last night, sure I wondered, but I had no reason to connect him with a dead man. I figured he changed his mind or something.”

  “What did he say on the phone?”

  “That he was in town for the night and wanted to see me. It was early in the evening and I had a date. I said fine and how about a little later. He said fine that he was having dinner at the Chez Dumont a couple of blocks down the street and how would eleven o’clock be? So I made it back at eleven, passing up a hot piece, if you know what I mean, just to be here. And he didn’t show, damn it. Made me sore as hell.”

  “So you knew he was eating at the Dumont and was headed here after dinner,” said Shayne coldly. “That’s all Peter Painter is going to want, Walsh. That, and the fact that you were blackmailing him. You’re the only man in Miami who could spot him on that street corner at eleven o’clock. Maybe you didn’t pull the trigger yourself,” said Shayne disgustedly. “I give you credit for setting up an alibi. But once Painter gets you in his back room, it won’t take him long to bust that down. Where’s your telephone?” He turned to look around the small disordered room and saw it on a stand near the door. He went to it swiftly and was lifting the receiver when Walsh ran to him and jiggled his arm, demanding frantically, “Who you gonna call? I swear to God, Shayne.…”

  “I’m calling Painter,” said Shayne shortly. “Who else? I’m out on a limb on this, and you’re my peace offering to Painter.” He grinned down wolfishly at the frightened man. “And it’s a pleasure to turn you in, Walsh. For once in my life, I feel real civic-minded.”

  “Don’t do it,” protested Jeffery Walsh, dancing up and down with impatience and fright. “I swear I didn’t. If you’re out on a limb now, like you say, it won’t help you any to call in the cops. Not to give them me. Where’s my motive, for God’s sake? Suppose I do admit he was paying me five hundred a month? That makes me the last guy in the world to kill him. You ought to see that.”

  Shayne replaced the receiver slowly. In a sense, Walsh was right. No use going off half-cocked and calling Painter in too soon. If Walsh couldn’t be made to fit for the killing, Shayne would still be very much on the spot.

  He said gruffly, “The way I see it, and the way Painter will see it … Carson was tired of paying hush money to you and threatened to expose you. That’s what he came to town for. That’s a plenty good motive for you.”

  “But it wasn’t like that at all,” said Walsh frantically. “In fact, he hinted over the phone that he wanted to make one big cash settlement with me instead of paying out money each month. I told him that about ten grand would fix me up just right, and that’s what he was going to talk over with me. Think I would have killed a guy who was about ready to kick over ten grand?”

  Shayne said, “No. I certainly don’t think that of you, Walsh. On the other hand, that’s only your story. You can’t prove a word of it with Carson dead. It’s a lot more logical to assume that he was cutting you off and threatening to turn you in for blackmail at the same time. Which gives us one hell of a motive for your gunning him. We’ve still got you marked as the only person in Miami who knew Carson would be leaving that particular restaurant a few minutes before eleven o’clock. I think you’ll look v
ery good to Painter.”

  He reached for the telephone again, but Walsh grabbed his arm and tugged at it frantically. “Wait a minute, Shayne. Don’t go off half-cocked. You just walked into this case this morning. Maybe there’re some things I know about that you don’t. Remember, I been working on the deal for several months.”

  “Such as what?” growled Shayne, holding the phone lifted and his finger hovering over the dial.

  “Such as Whitey Buford and a kidnapping rap. But you haven’t even heard of Whitey.” There was a smirk of triumph in Walsh’s voice and Shayne hesitated, studying his face with bleak eyes. Then he shrugged and began dialling a number.

  Walsh tried to pull him away from the phone, exclaiming angrily, “Damn it, Shayne. I’m trying to tell you.…”

  Shayne tucked the receiver between his chin and shoulder, released his left hand to give Walsh a backhanded slap that sent him reeling. He kept on dialling the number he wanted, growling, “Keep out of this until I ask you to come in.”

  A dulcet voice over the telephone said, “Miami Daily News. Good evening,” and Shayne asked for the City Room.

  A moment later he had Timothy Rourke on the wire, and the reporter told him excitedly:

  “I don’t know how this fits, but one Whitey Buford, convicted of kidnapping the Barnett boy in Atlanta a few years back, escaped from the Georgia state pen last week, killing a guard while he made his getaway. That mean anything to you, Mike?”

  “It might. Is he still loose?”

  “Nothing on him yet. Here’s the complete story, Mike. I told you I covered it locally and I’ve checked back on the files. Buford was arested by the FBI in Miami on Labor Day, nineteen fifty-four, on an anonymous tip. He had the Barnett boy with him, unharmed, and admitted the kidnapping. Hell, he had to. They caught him with his pants down. But he insisted he hadn’t got any ransom, and the family swore they’d paid off to the tune of fifty grand. But he didn’t have a penny of it when arrested, and they always figured he’d stashed it here in Miami some place just before the arrest. That hurt him at the trial because it looked like he was still holding the boy after the pay-off. So he drew life.

  “Since his escape from the penitentiary last week, there’s been an intensive alert for him in Miami on account of the cops figure he headed back here to dig up the fifty grand ransom money. Any of that do you any good, Mike?” Tim Rourke’s voice was anxious as he ended.

  Shayne said slowly, “It might, Tim. Got a description of Buford?”

  “Yeh. There was a spread in the News a week ago with a picture of him. I got it here in front of me.”

  “Let me guess,” said Shayne. “Long nose and sharp, thin features. About forty. Four years in jail would pale him up.”

  Rourke said, “That’s as good as I could do sitting here looking at the picture. You got a line on him?”

  Shayne said, “The bastard took a shot at me a few hours ago. Keep on forgetting I called you, Tim.”

  He hung up and turned slowly to Walsh who was cowering back against the sofa and who had listened avidly to his end of the conversation. He said, “You were about to tell me about Whitey Buford and a kidnapping rap in nineteen fifty-four. Go ahead and tell me.”

  Walsh was breathing hard. “I guess you got most of the same dope. I saw it in the paper last week where Whitey had broken jail and was maybe headed here where they always thought he’d hid the ransom money. One thing, though, I betcha don’t know. It never did come out in the newspapers and I dug it up in Atlanta when I was checking Belle out with the local cops.”

  Shayne said, “What? It better be good if I don’t call Painter to pick you up.” He still held his left hand over the telephone.

  “Belle’s husband was the pay-off man,” said Walsh thinly. “Not a word of that ever came out in the papers or at the trial, but when he drove away from his house that night before Labor Day he had fifty thousand dollars in small unmarked bills in the suitcase he carried. The kidnapper had designated him as delivery boy, and he was a trusted employee of the Barnett Lumber Company. The cops always figured Buford killed him here in Miami after he made the pay-off, but there wasn’t any proof of that at all.”

  “Did Belle know it?” Shayne demanded savagely.

  “No one knows. She denied any knowledge of it at the time. Claimed Richard Watson never told her a damned word. That he just up and disappeared for no reason at all.

  “But who knows the truth about any of it?” Walsh went on eagerly. “Maybe Belle did know. Maybe Watson never did deliver the ransom like Buford claimed, and maybe he split it with Belle before leaving her like he did. Who knows? I heard you say on the phone that somebody took a shot at you a few hours ago. Whitey Buford? Did Belle Carson tell her second husband about Whitey after he escaped, and was Whitey out gunning for Belle and Carson because he figured she’d kept her share of the money he feels is rightfully his? There’s a better motive for Whitey gunning Carson last night than you can possibly build up for me.”

  “The only difference is,” said Shayne slowly, “that there’s nothing to indicate Carson even knew who Whitey was or had any contact with him. But we do have you, Walsh.” He lifted the telephone again and started dialling. “I think Painter will be satisfied to nail you to the cross.”

  Walsh sucked in his breath sharply and lunged at Shayne, his eyes wild with fear and anger.

  The redhead again tucked the receiver between chin and shoulder, and this time he met the other private detective’s rush with a solid, jolting left to the point of the jaw.

  Walsh went down in a heap on the floor in front of him, and Shayne stepped around him and calmly completed dialling the number he had started.

  He said, “Homicide, please. Peter Painter, if he’s available.”

  He listened a moment and said rapidly, “All right, Sergeant. Park Plaza Apartments here on the Beach. Number six-ten. A man named Jeffery Walsh is the man whom Walter Carson telephoned from his hotel room shortly before he was murdered last night. Walsh was blackmailing him, and had a date to meet him at eleven o’clock. If you get some men here fast, you’ll find Walsh passed out in his apartment waiting for you. Six-ten, the Park Plaza.”

  He replaced the receiver, shutting off the squawking voice of the homicide sergeant demanding to know the name of the person who was calling.

  He whirled and walked out, leaving the unconscious body of Jeffery Walsh on the floor behind him, went down the elevator and out through the lobby to his rented car parked in front.

  He got in it and was pulling away from the curb when he heard the keening of a siren coming up fast behind him, and he knew that he could very well leave Jeffery Walsh to the tender mercies of Peter Painter.

  16

  Even though he was driving a rented car which Shayne trusted they didn’t know about yet, he realized he couldn’t afford to hang around Miami Beach very long if he expected to stay out of jail and wind up the case. But he did have one more stop to make on this side of Biscayne Bay, and the faster he wound up his business here, the better off he’d be.

  Accordingly, he drove sedately away from the Park Plaza, made two turns in as many blocks and pulled into the curb less than half a block from the Chez Dumont restaurant.

  He got out and walked to the marquee where he turned in, finding the small foyer empty of waiting diners at this late hour of the evening. The dining room beyond the foyer was only half-occupied, and there was no velvet rope guarding the entrance. But the maitre d’ was there, and he smiled welcomingly at the tall redhead and inquired suavely, “One … for dinner?”

  Michael Shayne shook his head and said, “I’m after some information.” He opened his right hand to show the maitre d’ a folded ten-spot. “About a customer of yours who got himself killed last night after dining here.”

  “A customer of ours, M’sieu?” The head-waiter’s expression indicated horrified disbelief. It implied that the exclusive clientéle of the Chez Dumont simply were not the type to get themselves mixed up w
ith anything as sordid as that. Yet his fingers closed over the ten-dollar bill and it disappeared as if by magic.

  “A man named Carson,” said Shayne. “It happened right down the street about eleven o’clock last night as he was leaving here. You must have read about it in the papers.”

  “That one?” The maitre d’ spread out his hands. “No name was given for the body, nor was it said he had dined here.”

  “He’s been identified as Walter Carson,” Shayne told him. “From out-of-town. He had a nine o’clock reservation last night. I want to know whether he ate alone, whether anyone spoke to him while he was at dinner, whether he made any telephone calls from here during that time.”

  “Mr. Carson? But yes.” The maitre d’ turned from Shayne to a small stand on his left and thumbed back through a list of reservations for the previous night. “From Denham, no? The dinner reservation was requested by mail in advance. For nine o’clock. Table number thirty-eight. You wish to consult the waiter who served him?”

  Shayne said, “Please.”

  He stepped back into the foyer and lit a cigarette and waited a few minutes until the maitre d’ reappeared with a placid-faced, middle-aged man who walked as though his feet hurt him.

  Yes, he remembered the customer at table thirty-eight who had sat alone for almost two hours and left a tip amounting to exactly fifteen percent of the dinner check. No, he hadn’t recognized him from the picture of the corpse in the morning paper, although he now readily agreed it might well have been the lone customer who had ordered one dry martini and insisted on telling a stale joke about the mixing of martinis, had gone on to sweetbreads à la financière and crêpes suzette, and had lingered at the table overlong for the amount of the tip he had finally left for the waiter.

  No, he had seen no one approach the customer at number thirty-eight during dinner or speak to him, and he was not aware of any telephone calls being made or received during the two hours Mr. Carson had been at his table. Of course, he could not state with certainty that the diner had not left his table to make a phone call during that time. Mr. Shayne would have to understand that Chez Dumont was understaffed and the waiters were overworked and had to take care of many customers during a two-hour period.