One Night with Nora

by Brett Halliday

  Shayne cautioned, “Don’t get too tight. I may need some more help from you later on.”

  The waiter came with the check. Shayne laid a bill on the tray and said, “After I go and the young lady has drunk that up, throw her out or make her buy her own.”

  The waiter looked at the bill, smiled, and said, “Yes, sir,” and went away.

  Shayne said, “There’s one more question right now, Ann. Do you know anyone named Ludlow?” He stood up abruptly.

  She thought for a moment and shook her black head slowly. “I’ve never heard the name. And if you must go, send that waiter back here with a double shot of the same—without coffee.”

  Shayne nodded and gave her a crooked grin. “You’ve been a big help, Ann. Call me if you think of anything else that might be relevant. Leave a message with my secretary if I’m not in.”

  He pressed his knuckles against her white cheek, said, “So long,” and hurried out.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Back in his office, Shayne settled down at his desk and hoped to get some answers to the dozens of questions chasing each other around in his mind. One of the most perplexing was exactly what Margrave had expected to gain by making his vehement and somewhat absurd accusation against the Vulcan Chemical Corporation.

  He realized that large, long-established and supposedly solid organizations sometimes engaged goon squads or hatchet men to gain certain objectives, mainly in the realm of labor relations. And he had not the slightest doubt that murders had been discreetly arranged in the past, and would be in the future.

  But the idea of the Vulcan Corporation stooping to murder in order to win a lawsuit against an individual seemed incredible, especially when the method employed by the killer was a knife, actually a letter opener, evidently owned by Carrol himself. Hired killers were apt to use less personal weapons, such as a blast of machine gun bullets after the victim had been lured to a certain position at a specified time.

  Yet, Margrave—the man who had willingly advanced a thousand-dollar fee, and who insisted that no expense be spared—was positive that Vulcan had engineered Carrol’s murder, and he expected Michael Shayne to prove this fact.

  Against Margrave’s sober and businesslike accusations there were those of his unsober and romantic daughter, Ann plainly bitter and frustrated, whose long crimson nails were eager to claw Nora Carrol’s eyes out, but who would settle for a verdict of guilty for Nora Carrol as her husband’s murderer.

  The wound in Shayne’s head throbbed dully, distracting his thoughts. He poured cognac into the glass on his desk and drank it, swiveled back in his chair, and closed his eyes.

  The drink relaxed his body and eased the pain, and his mind became more alert. Ann Margrave had indicated that Vulcan not only had a good chance of winning the suit without resorting to murder, but that Carrol was determined to throw in the sponge, as soon as his wife’s influence was completely removed by divorce, and admit he had connived with Margrave to withhold from them a discovery which, under his contract, was their property.

  If Ann could be believed.

  That was an important point—a crucial point, maybe. It was quite possible that Ann was blinded by her hatred of Nora. At the moment, Shayne was willing to bet a large sum that Ann was the author of the anonymous notes Carrol had received about his wife.

  Why Margrave had called him in on the murder investigation was still an enigma. There was the matter of public relations, of course. Quite naturally, the police had refused to consider the Vulcan Corporation a serious suspect. Perhaps Margrave merely sought headlines and sensational news stories by hiring Shayne to investigate the corporation. It was an exciting theory, and one that would be eagerly picked up by the press throughout the country, if a man with Michael Shayne’s reputation were to make such a statement. No matter how guiltless the corporation, or what the outcome of the investigation, some of the stigma would linger. It might well affect the judgment of a jury when the suit against Carrol’s estate came to trial.

  Another disquieting question, at the moment, was whether or not Margrave had been aware of Nora’s plan to quash the divorce, and did he know that Nora believed Michael Shayne to be the man who had arranged it for her? If so, he had certainly given no indication of that knowledge or belief during their interview. Still, it was quite possible, and he considered the ramifications of the idea thoroughly.

  Had Nora communicated with Margrave since Carrol’s death to tell him how the plan had miscarried?

  There were so many things he didn’t know, he reminded himself irritably. He made a mental list.

  The identity of Ludlow.

  The identity and motive of the man who tried to kill him.

  The identity of the man who attacked Lucy in Nora’s hotel room.

  The identity of the man who had represented himself as Michael Shayne to Bates, and the method by which he had carried out the impersonation.

  Had Nora Carrol been furnished a key to his room by mistake, or for some definite reason?

  Shayne swore angrily under his breath when he reached this point in reviewing the unknown quantities.

  Everything pointed to some sort of prearrangement. With Ann Margrave’s information of the actual relationship between husband and wife, which was somewhat at variance with Nora’s version, this began to make sense. Ann was positive that Ralph Carrol had ceased to love his wife and that a reconciliation was impossible. If this were true, Nora must have suspected that her husband would refuse to let her stay through the night, and thus the attempt was doomed to failure.

  Taking that as a reasonable hypothesis, another way of putting Carrol on the spot must have suggested itself. The exact reverse of the usual divorce setup where a husband is lured into the other woman’s room where he can be discovered by detectives who will testify in court.

  If Nora had been desperately determined to hold Carrol as her husband, the redhead reasoned, she might well have arranged such a frame-up with the detective who called himself Shayne. Ludlow, then, might well be the witness who had planned to catch husband and wife together in the bedroom and whose testimony would serve to throw the divorce action out of court.

  At this point in his thinking, Shayne took the classified telephone directory from a desk drawer, opened it at the P’s and found the heading: Photographers: Commercial.

  Running his forefinger down the list his eyes glinted with interest when he came to the name Ludlow, John P. in small type. The address was on North Miami Avenue. He pressed a button for an outside line, and dialed the number. A woman’s voice answered, repeating the number.

  Shayne said, “Mr. Ludlow, please.”

  “I’m sorry,” the voice replied, “but Mr. Ludlow is not in.”

  “When do you expect him back?”

  “I’m not sure.” There was a brief pause, then: “Can I help you?”

  “I don’t know.” Shayne managed to sound a trifle uncertain and embarrassed when he added, “It’s—ah—a rather delicate assignment. I was given Mr. Ludlow’s name.”

  “I understand.” The voice purred encouragement. “Who is speaking?”

  “Mr. Bigelow, of the law firm of Barnes, Bigelow, and Carson,” he improvised swiftly. “It’s on behalf of one of our clients. I believe it would be better to speak directly to Mr. Ludlow. If you’ll have him call me?”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but Mr. Ludlow is out of the city for a few days; but our Mr. Pilcraft is thoroughly discreet, and I suggest I have him call you.”

  “I prefer to make this arrangement with Mr. Ludlow himself. If you will tell me where he can be reached out of town—”

  “I’m sorry, but I really can’t say,” she said, the purring quality gone from her voice.

  “Could you give me his home telephone number?” he persisted. “I might get the information there.”

  “I can’t give out that information. If you’d like Mr. Ludlow to call you when he returns—”

  “It won’t be necessary,” he told her, and hung up
. He took out the alphabetical directory and searched through the L’s. This yielded a N.W. 18th Street address for John P. Ludlow. Shayne dialed it, and another woman’s voice said, “Yes?”

  “I’d like to speak to Mr. Ludlow.”

  She said, “He’s not here,” and hung up.

  Shayne settled back and rubbed his jaw reflectively. It looked as though he had struck pay dirt. He got up abruptly and went into the outer office where he paused at Lucy Hamilton’s desk and said, “If Tim calls, tell him his car is parked in front where it was before. Here are the keys.” He tossed them on the desk, looked at his watch, and added, “You stay in till I get back, huh? Have some lunch sent in. There may be some calls.”

  “Of course. But Michael—”

  “Hold the questions, angel,” he said on his way to the door, “until I get some answers.”

  “Oh! You!” she flung after him.

  Shayne closed the door quietly but firmly on her protests, and long-legged it to the elevator.

  At the parking-lot, an excited attendant hurried over to tell him that the police had been going over his car. Shayne got behind the wheel and started the motor, saying, “It’s okay, Jim,” and drove away.

  The Ludlows’ number on 18th Street was a small stucco bungalow in the middle of a row of small stucco bungalows. A little girl of three or four was making sand pies in a sandbox under a coconut palm in the unkempt yard. She looked up and watched Shayne gravely as he went up the walk to the front door and rang the bell.

  A woman came to the door, wiping her hands on her apron. There were lines of irritation and worry on her thin face; her lips were tight and her eyes coldly wary as she surveyed the stranger on her doorstep.

  “Mrs. Ludlow?” he inquired.

  “Yes.” She stood at the hooked screen door and made no move to open it.

  “I’m very anxious to see Mr. Ludlow,” Shayne told her smoothly. “I called his office but the girl said he was out and that you might be able to tell me where to reach him.”

  “Was that you called awhile ago?” she demanded.

  “Yes.” Shayne tried what he hoped would be a disarming smile. “My business with your husband is so important that I thought I’d run out and explain personally.”

  “What business?” she demanded in a clipped voice.

  “I represent a local firm employing more than a thousand people, and we want to have individual photographs taken for use on a new type of identification badge we’re issuing.”

  “Why pick out Jack for a job like that?” She spoke with bitterness, and from her words Shayne felt she implied that there were many better-known commercial photographers in Miami who would be a more logical choice.

  “It happens to be a personal contact with one of our executives,” Shayne explained. “When the project was discussed at conference this morning, one of our vice-presidents said your husband was just the man for the job, and he’d like to see him get it. Naturally, we don’t like to go over his head, and besides, I gathered he was an old friend of Mr. Ludlow’s. It’s a matter that has to be decided today.”

  “I see.” For an instant hope came into her eyes, but it went away. “It’s just our luck for him to pull a stunt like this when something good was coming up. I don’t know where he is,” she ended listlessly.

  “But you must have some idea,” Shayne persisted. “When he left home this morning—”

  “He wasn’t home this morning,” she interrupted. “Not since last night. He phoned this morning and said he’d be away a couple of days on business. He never tells me anything,” she went on, her lips tight and her voice weary. “Ask that big blonde he keeps down at the studio. He tells her things, I guess.”

  “I see,” said Shayne gently. “Thank you very much, Mrs. Ludlow.”

  He went back to his car and drove slowly to North Miami Avenue and turned southward toward the address of Ludlow’s studio.

  He found the number above an entrance crowded between a shoe-shine parlor and a delicatessen. Faded lettering on the door read: Ludlow Photographic Studio. Beside the door was a plate-glass window with heavy drapes drawn.

  Shayne hesitated for a moment with his hand on the doorknob. The “big blonde” angle sounded promising, but thinking back to his telephone conversation, he didn’t know what approach to try on her. He shrugged, opened the door, and heard a bell tinkle inside.

  He entered a small square studio furnished with two easy chairs, a couch, several large movable light fixtures on adjustable standards with huge silver reflectors, and a portrait camera mounted on a tripod in one corner. Against one wall was a luridly painted backdrop depicting a beach with palm trees reaching out to the ocean. A covering of dust on everything gave the room the appearance of disuse.

  A narrow corridor led back along the right-hand wall, and as Shayne closed the street door he heard the clack of high heels on the bare floor.

  She was blond, not more than three inches shorter than Shayne, and carrying at least as many pounds which were strategically distributed. She paused, just inside the studio, and studied the redhead with a direct and pleasant gaze that was frankly curious.

  She said, “Something I can do for you?”

  “That will depend on a lot of things,” said Shayne with a grin. “Are you married, for instance, and is the guy the jealous type?”

  She didn’t smirk or look coy. She merely continued to study him impersonally. “You didn’t come here to ask me that.”

  “No. It just popped out unintentionally. Is Jack around?”

  “No. You a friend of his?”

  “From way back. I’ve always felt kind of sorry for Jack, knowing his wife, but he never mentioned you.”

  She showed visible signs of thawing and took a couple of steps forward, as though about to ask him to have a seat, when the telephone in the back room rang. She said, “Excuse me a minute,” and went to answer it.

  Shayne followed her down a short hall to a door on the left which opened into a small cluttered office. The telephone was on a desk to the right of the door, and her back was toward Shayne as she leaned over to answer it.

  She said, “No. He won’t be in today,” paused, and reached for a pencil. She jotted down a telephone number, then said, “I’ll have him call you tomorrow or next day,” and cradled the receiver.

  There was a strong overhead light, and, lounging against the threshold watching her, Shayne saw that she had the clean fresh coloring of a buxom farm girl. He was much closer to her here in the smaller room, and when she turned to face him his mouth spread in a slow grin.

  Her eyes widened and the pleasant expression on her face changed slowly to one of dismay, and then to fear or anger, or both. She drew in a sharp breath and exclaimed, “I know who you are now. I’ve seen your pictures in the paper. You’re that private dick, Mike Shayne. Get out! Haven’t you caused Jack enough trouble already?”

  “Not half as much trouble,” Shayne told her grimly, “as I’m going to cause if you don’t tell me where he is.”

  “I don’t know.” Her eyes blazed with angry defiance. “And I wouldn’t tell you if I did.”

  “You’re making a mistake,” he said gravely. “Don’t you know he’s mixed up in a murder?”

  “If he is, you got him into it. Get out!”

  Shayne said mildly, “All right. But tell your boss the longer he hides out the worse it’ll be for him.” He turned, went down the hallway to the studio and across it in firm strides that echoed loudly. The bell tinkled when he opened the door, and he marked time for a couple of steps, then closed it quietly. He waited a moment, listening, before tiptoeing back through the studio.

  He reached the office doorway just as the blonde seated herself at the desk with her back to him and lifted the telephone. Watching over her shoulder, Shayne memorized the number she dialed.

  After a moment she said sharply, “Three-one-nine, please.” Her breathing was audible, and beads of perspiration glistened on her plump neck.

&n
bsp; “But I know he must be in,” she said impatiently. “Ring him again.”

  Then, as though a sixth sense warned her, she turned her head and glanced toward the door. Her eyes rounded, and her mouth sagged open, when she stared up into Shayne’s face. She slammed the phone down and sprang up with her hands clawed.

  Shayne beat a strategic retreat and reached the outer door in a few long strides. He hurried to a public-telephone sign on the corner, went in, and dialed the number she had dialed.

  A voice said, “Hotel Trainton. Good morning.”

  Shayne hung up and went out to riffle through the telephone directory. The Trainton Hotel was in the southwest section of the city. He trotted out to his car.

  Some twenty minutes later he entered the gloomy and unprepossessing lobby of the Trainton and went to the desk, where an elderly man in shirt sleeves was leaning on the counter chewing tobacco.

  “A friend of mine checked in early this morning. Three-one-nine, I think he said. Is he in now?”

  The clerk shook his grizzly head. “Just had a phone call for him. He didn’t answer.”

  “You see him go out?”

  “Didn’t notice. Took his key if he did.”

  Shayne said brusquely, “I’m afraid there’s trouble. Get a duplicate key and let’s go up.”

  The old man shifted his wad of tobacco and continued to lean on the counter. “You the cops?”

  “Private.” Shayne took out his wallet, showed his card, and extracted a ten-dollar bill. “Let’s get going.”

  The bill disappeared, and the clerk turned to pluck a key from a box behind him. A bellboy was dozing on a bench near the desk. The clerk nudged him awake as he went by and said, “Watch the desk a minute, Ned,” then led the way to the elevator.

  Shayne followed him down a musty, dimly lit hall to a door on the left. After a perfunctory knock he inserted the key and eased the door open. The shade was drawn at the single window and the room was quite dark. The clerk switched on an overhead light, grunted, and stepped back with a gesture for Shayne to look inside.

  Wearing only a pair of shorts, the occupant of the room lay sprawled face downward on the bed. There was a strong odor of whisky in the tightly closed room.