One Night with Nora

by Brett Halliday

  Her hope was short-lived. A reporter from the Herald was lounging at the desk when she was brought in. He glanced at the pair without much interest. Then his bleary eyes widened in recognition as he studied Lucy more closely.

  He was a short, fat man, partially bald, and, as the young officer propelled Lucy nearer the desk, he jumped up and exclaimed, “What’s up? You’re Lucy Hamilton, Mike Shayne’s secretary, aren’t you?”

  “Hell, no. Who’s that?” She looked him in the eye and screwed her face up defiantly. “I ain’t nobody’s secretary.”

  The fat reporter whooped with laughter. “Okay, sister. But that’s what the shamus insists on calling you. What gives, Hagen?” he asked the young officer.

  Hagen was plainly shocked. He studied Lucy with a puzzled expresson on his face. “You say this is Shayne’s secretary?” he asked incredulously.

  “Sure. Lucy Hamilton. Who did you think you had in tow?” the reporter said. “How about a story?”

  “I—” He gulped and turned to the night sergeant, “Is the chief in his office?” he asked.

  “Yeh. He’s expecting a report from you.”

  “Hold her right here,” said Hagen nervously, “while I speak to the chief. I don’t—uh—know what the charge will be.”

  Lucy shrugged and sat down on the wooden bench in front of the desk. It was evident that the desk sergeant had never seen her before, and she was determined to play her role until she was called into the chief’s office.

  She studied the fat man out of the corner of her eye. She felt sure he was a reporter, but she couldn’t recall his name. He had to be the Herald reporter who had followed Shayne’s career for years. He didn’t like the detective because he had so often been scooped on Shayne’s exploits by the redhead’s close friend, Timothy Rourke, of the rival Daily Hews. Lucy decided she might as well play her role to the hilt.

  “You, bud, got a reefer on you?” she asked in a harsh voice.

  The reporter laughed immoderately, stood up, and held out an open pack of cigarettes. “Will a plain old Camel suit you, Miss Hamilton?”

  Lucy said dejectedly, “I guess it’ll have to, if that’s the best you’ve got.” She took one, put it between her lips, and when he bent forward to light it, she looked up into his face and said pensively, “Can you get hold of Michael?”

  He put the match to the cigarette, and, as she drew on it, he said, “Afraid not. The way I hear it, Gentry would like to do that very thing right this minute. You want to make a statement about the murder of Ralph Carrol?”

  “I can’t, but Michael might give you a scoop if you could find him and tell him I’m here.”

  Hagen came up to them looking subdued and harassed. “Come with me, Miss Hamilton,” he grated. “The chief wants you.” He took her by the arm and lifted her from the bench. When the reporter started to follow them, he turned and said curtly, “The chief said alone.”

  “Hey! What’s the charge?” the fat man called to him, but Hagen did not answer. He led Lucy firmly to a door in the rear and ushered her into Gentry’s office.

  The chief was savagely chewing on the cold butt of a black cigar.

  “Good morning, Chief.” Lucy’s voice was demure.

  “What the hell kind of game are you and Mike playing, Lucy?” he demanded in a thunderous rumble.

  She stiffened her shoulders and said, “I want to see a lawyer.”

  “You’re going to come clean and tell me what you were doing in Mrs. Carrol’s hotel room. What’s this story about some man jumping you there?”

  She said, “I want to see a lawyer.”

  Gentry pounded his fist on his desk, took the soggy cigar from his mouth, glared at her, and said slowly, “If you don’t talk, Lucy, lots and fast, I’m going to have you booked as a common hotel thief, on every charge confessed by you to Officer Hagen.”

  Lucy clamped her lips and said nothing.

  The chief hurled the cigar butt viciously in the general direction of a brass spittoon, and stood up heavily.

  “Book Miss Hamilton on the basis of her confession, Hagen,” he said in a weary voice. “I’m going home and get a few hours’ sleep.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Michael Shayne left his hotel through the side door unobserved and long-legged it to the row of garages at the rear of the building. The faint light from a low-hanging moon afforded enough light for him to unlock his private garage, and back his black sedan out without turning on lights.

  He followed a sweeping gravel drive that led to the street at the other end of the block from the hotel, avoiding the front entrance, where he knew there would be a concentration of police cars.

  He eased into the street and made a right turn before switching on his headlights. He then drove swiftly to Flagler, and east to Biscayne Boulevard where he turned north and stepped hard on the accelerator to keep his four-o’clock appointment at Seventy-Ninth Street.

  Relaxed behind the wheel, Shayne started thinking about the events of the past few hours. He began with the rustling noises he had heard coming from his apartment living-room. Everything had happened so fast after that, climaxed by Gentry’s entrance announcing Ralph Carrol’s murder, that he had not had time to think clearly and figure things out.

  Now, his reaction was vehement anger that someone, somewhere in Miami might be representing himself as Michael Shayne, and in a divorce action! The sort of thing he never touched, no matter what fee was offered, much less for a lousy five hundred dollars. He shook his head viciously and told himself that this sort of thinking would get him nowhere.

  Forcing himself to discard for the moment the sessions with Nora Carrol and Gentry, he went back to the telephone calls immediately following their departure. First, the man who had given his name as Ludlow had expected him to recognize his voice and know what he was talking about.

  Ludlow had said, “He was dead when I got there … I didn’t give my name when I reported to the police because I didn’t know what your position was, but I know enough of your reputation … if they drag you into it, and then you tell about me, I’ll be in a spot. Wait a minute … this ain’t Shayne. The cops have already—”

  Then the click of the phone and silence.

  That was fairly clear, Shayne thought morosely, or would be, if he were mixed up in the situation as Mrs. Carrol and the Wilmington attorney claimed. He summed up the Ludlow angle.

  Ludlow had discovered Carrol’s body, reported it to the police, and was now panicky. He wanted to be assured that he could be kept in the clear. He had been certain that Michael Shayne had arranged the reconciliation scene. He had gotten Shayne’s apartment number from Information. That made sense. Anyone seeking to reach him at three-thirty in the morning would get his number from that source. But Ludlow suddenly came to the conclusion that Michael Shayne’s voice didn’t sound right. He had hung up. He had expected another voice to answer, but had been too excited and afraid, at first, to recognize his error.

  Scowling through the windshield, he thought of Nora Carrol and wondered how much of her story was true.

  He turned his thoughts to the more immediate future when he would meet his second caller at Seventy-Ninth Street. The man had said, “You wouldn’t know my name … but it’s very important. We must keep Nora out of it … ten thousand dollars to forget everything you know about tonight … I don’t trust you … if you’re on the square and there aren’t any cops, you’ll get your money!”

  Ten thousand dollars! A nice round sum, as Shayne had told the man over the phone. But what was it being offered for? That had not been made clear. Was this caller another who believed that he had set the scene for Mrs. Carrol’s entrance to her husband’s bedroom? Or did he know the truth and was offering Shayne money to keep still about what actually happened?

  There was almost no traffic on the boulevard, and the roadside filling-stations and refreshment stands were dark.

  The designated station on the southeast corner of Seventy-Ninth appeared to be
deserted when Shayne pulled into the drive. There was no car, and no sign that his caller was waiting. Shayne parked in front of the pumps and cut off his motor. He looked at his watch and saw it was three minutes past four. He yawned, took out a cigarette, and leaned forward to press in the dashboard lighter.

  There was a faint sound in the night silence at his right. He jerked his head aside to see the figure of a man materialize in the faint moonlight from the deep shadow of the station building.

  The man moved toward Shayne’s car. Still leaning forward with the unlighted cigarette drooping from his lips, his fingers on the lighter, as he waited for it to heat and pop out, Shayne watched the man come toward him.

  He was medium-sized and wore a hat that shadowed his face. He stopped beside the open right-hand window and asked cautiously, “Shayne?”

  The lighter popped forward. Shayne straightened with the glowing disk in his hand. This voice was husky, too, but not furred with sleep or drink as it had sounded over the telephone.

  Shayne said, “Yeh. Expecting me?” He put the lighter to his cigarette.

  The man said, “Yeh.” He opened the door and slid into the seat, looking at Shayne curiously. “You’re the private eye? I’ve heard lots about you.”

  Shayne leaned forward to replace the lighter. From this lower position he glanced sideways and upward beneath the hat brim. His companion was young and thin-faced with commonplace features and a blond mustache.

  Shayne settled back and asked, “What’s all this about ten grand?”

  “Ten grand?” The young man laughed nervously. “I wouldn’t know about that. I was just to meet you here, see?” He closed the car door and added in a cautious voice, “You drive west a ways on Seventy-Ninth while I watch to make sure there’re no cops following.”

  Shayne took a long drag on his cigarette. “You mean you’re not the man who telephoned me?”

  “Gosh, no. I was sitting in this bar, see? There was this man sitting beside me and he asked, did I want to make fifty dollars fast. Well, with me down to my last buck, I says, ‘Sure,’ and then,” he paused, putting his head out the window to look back. “I’m supposed to make sure nobody follows us,” he said nervously. “You’d better start driving toward Little River a ways. Then I take you to him, see?”

  Shayne started the motor and swung out into the intersection and west on Seventy-Ninth. “This man who hired you, what does he look like?”

  “I dunno,” said his companion vaguely. “Middle-aged, I guess. Broad-shouldered and wearing horn-rimmed glasses.”

  “You were sitting in a bar,” Shayne prompted. “When was that?”

  “Half hour ago, I guess. I was sitting there, just killing time with a last drink before going home to the wife, I hadn’t noticed him much, until he sat up suddenly and gave a jerk that knocked over my drink. I started to get sore, but he apologized and ordered me another one. I could see he was pretty excited about a newscast that was coming over the radio.” Again he interrupted his story to look back as they rolled across the F.E.C. tracks. “Make the next right turn,” he ordered, “and take it slow for a few blocks.”

  Shayne slowed down and made the turn, then asked, “What was the newscast about?”

  “Mostly about a murder. Some fellow named Carrol that’d been found dead in a hotel. Stabbed to death, I think. You could tell that was what made him so jumpy. Stop here,” he ordered abruptly, “and turn off your lights. We’ll wait a few minutes and if nothing comes along I’ll show you where to go.”

  The redhead cut his motor and lights, and rolled to a stop beside the pavement.

  “After he bought me another drink for the one he’d knocked over,” the young man went on with evident relish, “he asked me if I’d listened to the murder report from the first. Said he hadn’t paid much attention until the murdered man’s name was mentioned. He wanted to know if I’d heard them mention the dead man’s wife.”

  He turned for another look at the deserted street behind them. “I told him they hadn’t, and that sort of worries me now,” he confided earnestly to the detective. “Because I hadn’t been listening careful. I didn’t hear them mention anything about the dead man’s wife, but I thought he was just curious. I didn’t think it mattered much. So I said no—you know, the way a man will in a bar. Just making conversation, sort of. And then he asked me if they’d mentioned your name, Michael Shayne. So, I said no again, and then he got up and went back to the telephone.”

  The man again looked back, then said, “It’s okay, I guess. I got to be sure no cops follow us. That was the thing he told me to be careful about when he came back from telephoning. I don’t get my fifty bucks if anything like that happens. Drive back to the boulevard now, and turn north from Seventy-Ninth Street.”

  Shayne started the motor, made a U-turn, cruised back to Seventy-Ninth, and turned east to recross the railroad tracks.

  “I sure hope I didn’t give him the wrong steer,” the thin-faced man went on dubiously, “about the radio not mentioning Mrs. Carrol’s name. That’s what interested him most, I’m sure. Was I right, do you think? I swear I didn’t hear them say anything about a woman. Just that the police had an anonymous tip, and found the guy dead in his bed. Did you hear the broadcast?”

  “No. But I’m quite sure you were right in saying they didn’t mention her,” Shayne reassured him. He reached the Seventy-Ninth Street intersection and again swung north on the boulevard. “How long do we keep this game up?”

  “It’s just a little ways now. Take it easy and I’ll tell you. Is this really going to be a payoff? Is that what you meant by asking me about ten grand? That’s what you dicks call ten thousand dollars, isn’t it? Why’s the guy so worried about you bringing the cops? Is he the murderer? Gosh, if I’d thought that I’d of turned down his fifty bucks flat. But you’re used to it, huh? Playing ball with murderers? Or was it maybe the wife that did it and he’s covering up for her?”

  “I don’t know,” said Shayne absently. “How far is it now?”

  The young man was peering ahead uneasily. “The next turn-off, I think. Yeh, that’s it. To your right and down to the bay. That’s where he said to bring you.”

  Shayne turned right off the boulevard, drove past a couple of small frame houses, and then along a deserted stretch of paved street that dead-ended against the shore of Biscayne Bay.

  The moon was dipping low on the horizon and there the faintest pre-dawn glow was in the sky. His headlights picked out a parked car at the end of the street. Its front bumper touched the steel cable stretched across the road.

  Shayne let his car roll up on the right side of the car and looked curiously into the front seat. It appeared to be empty.

  As he bent slightly forward and down to cut off his lights and motor, he felt his passenger shift his position on the seat beside him. He started to turn in that direction when a bomb exploded against his head.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The morning sun, in a cloudless sky, slanted through the windshield and one window of the car. Michael Shayne’s body lay uncomfortably sidewise on the front seat, his right leg was bent beneath him, and his left foot drooped against the brake pedal.

  Consciousness returned slowly. He tried to shift his numb right leg. The movement brought searing pain to his head. He opened his eyes a crack, and the bright sunlight stabbed his injured nerves like a lance.

  He closed his eyes quickly, and lay for a long time trying to remember what had happened. For a while he lay inert, then memory flooded his aching head.

  The ride with the young punk, the detours, and finally, their arrival at a spot on the bayfront. The car parked there had been empty. The man who was anxious to pay him ten thousand dollars to keep Nora Carrol’s name out of her husband’s murder had been nowhere in sight. He recalled his mustached companion’s description of the man who had hired him—big, broad-shouldered, and wearing horn-rimmed glasses. And he remembered the explosion.

  Vaguely, he wondered what time it was, but
dreaded opening his eyes again.

  Bit by bit the incidents of the night floated through his mind in confused sequence, and all of a sudden he was possessed by a terrible anger. Anger at himself for being so stupid, and at the punk who had taken a shot at him.

  He pulled himself up slowly to a sitting position. His head throbbed violently. He rested it on folded arms atop the steering-wheel, and kept his eyes closed.

  After a while he opened them, and, gritting his teeth against the pain, he shifted his position and looked in the rearview mirror. A wave of nausea swept over him. Pain throbbed at the rear of his right temple. His hairline partially concealed the raw wound, an abrasion between the ear and the right temple. There was considerable swelling, and a circle of dried blood surrounded the injury. He turned his head carefully and looked down at the dried blood on the cushion.

  There was utter silence on the isolated shore of the bay. Through aching eyes he saw that the sun was well up and shimmering on the smooth surface of the water. The other car was gone, of course, and his watch showed that the time was 9:18, and that he had been out cold for about five hours.

  He got out of the car and forced his cramped legs to hold him erect. He staggered to the cable barrier, ducked under it, and made his way down the sloping embankment. Taking a handkerchief from his hip pocket, he wet it in salty bay water and gingerly removed the bloodstains from the wound and the side of his face. He took off his light suit jacket, found bloodstains on the collar, threw it across his left arm, and went up the incline with the damp handkerchief against his face.

  He examined his car before getting in, and found a jagged hole in the metal top of the sedan, close to the windshield and almost directly above the steering-wheel. The impact had pushed the jagged edges of metal outward, and he knew the gun had been fired from below, and inside the car.