Pay-Off in Blood ms-41

by Brett Halliday

  Michael Shayne stood on the sidewalk looking after his departing car with anger building up inside him. Damn Tim Rourke, anyway! What in hell was the matter with the reporter? He’d never pulled a stunt like that on Shayne before. Goddamit! If he wanted a picture of the blackmail pay-off for reasons of his own, why in hell hadn’t he warned Shayne in advance? That photographer might easily have got himself shot. Shayne’s finger had been tight on the trigger when he whirled, after the flashbulb went off.

  He turned and strode away through the night toward his hotel on the north bank of the Miami River, still boiling with rage at Timothy Rourke.

  Everything had been beautifully set. Everything had gone off on schedule, without a hitch. A perfect blackmail pay-off… in front of a lot of people, none of whom suspected anything. Twenty thousand dollars in a sealed white envelope exchanged for the incriminating documents in a similar white envelope. Everybody satisfied, and the whole thing washed up. Except for the photographer. That might be a complication. And Shayne had agreed to accompany Dr. Ambrose tonight… as a favor to Tim Rourke… simply to see to it that there weren’t any complications.

  He damned Timothy Rourke again as he approached the side entrance to his apartment hotel. He’d been all set for a quiet evening at home and an early jump into the hay when Rourke had intervened.

  Shayne went in the side door and up the two flights of stairs, bypassing the lobby, seething with rage. He rammed the key into his door and strode to the center table and dropped his short-barrelled.38 into the open drawer before pouring four ounces of cognac into the waiting wineglass and drinking half of it.

  The ice cubes had melted in the tall glass on the table. Shayne carried it into the kitchen and emptied the glass, put in more ice and fresh water. He sloshed it around to get it cool and drank off half the glass, then carried it back into the living room and asked Pete for Timothy Rourke’s home number. He listened to the telephone ring seven times at the other end of the line before hanging up.

  Then he called the News and got the City Room, and was told that Mr. Rourke was not in and they didn’t know where he could be reached. Before the newspaper connection was broken, Shayne asked hurriedly, “Is George Bayliss around?”

  There was a long wait while people checked. Then he was told that Bayliss was also out of the office, “Off duty,” so he was informed.

  He held on doggedly and asked for George Bayliss’ home telephone number. He had to identify himself before he got it. Then he hung up and told Pete to try that number.

  Again, he listened to the phone ring seven times without getting an answer. He slammed it down angrily, tossed off the rest of his drink and poured himself another.

  He sipped the top off the glass so he could carry it without spilling any, and took it into the kitchen. He put water on to boil for the dripolator, methodically measured four heaping tablespoons of coffee into the top, and put a heavy iron frying pan on the stove with the heat turned high.

  He tossed half a cube of butter into the pan, got out the pound of ground chuck and mashed it up in his hands, sprinkling both sides liberally with Lawry’s Seasoned Salt and working it into the meat with his fingers.

  The coffee water was boiling, and the butter had melted in the frying pan and was sizzling and brown. He reduced the heat, mashed the pound of meat flat between his palms into a thick patty, and dropped it into the hot grease.

  He poured the water into the top of the dripolator and drank half the cognac, got out a spatula and turned the gas flame high for a moment, then turned the hamburger and lowered the flame, and sipped at the rest of his drink.

  He got out a dinner plate and slid the beautifully-browned-on-both-sides and still-red-in-the-middle hamburger onto it, carried it into the living room, and returned to get a mug of strong, black coffee.

  He ate the entire pound of meat with gusto, washing it down with coffee, carried the empty plate back to the kitchen sink and poured another mug of coffee to which he added a couple ounces of cognac in the living room.

  He settled back comfortably with a cigarette and the coffee royal, and let himself think blissfully about bed.

  A good ten hours of shut-eye was what he needed. If it hadn’t been for Tim Rourke’s interference, he would have been asleep at least an hour ago.

  He yawned widely and carefully forced himself not to think about Rourke. Tomorrow would be time enough for that.

  He drained the coffee mug to its delectable dregs, got another cigarette going, and dragged himself to his feet. He turned out the living room lights and began shedding clothes on his way into the bedroom.

  He was naked down to his shoes and socks when he reached the bed, and he threw back the covers and sat on the edge, unlaced his shoes and kicked off his socks.

  He padded across to the window and opened it wide, went back and turned off the light and slid under the covers with a sigh of contentment.

  The telephone beside his bed began to ring. It was an unlisted number which only a very few people very close to him had.

  He dragged his mind back to awareness, groped in the darkness for the telephone and lifted it to his ear and muttered, “Hello?”

  He came fully awake and mad as hell when he heard Tim Rourke’s voice saying urgently, “Mike! Listen to me, Mike.”

  “You listen to me,” he grated. “What the goddam hell did you mean…?”

  “Did you go with the doctor, Mike? Make the pay-off?”

  “You ought to know,” he roared. “Goddamit, Tim…”

  “He’s dead, Mike.”

  Shayne held the telephone away from his ear and shook his head angrily. He put it back and asked, “Who’s dead?”

  “Doctor Ambrose, poor bastard. Gunned down in his own driveway on the Beach.” Rourke gave him the street address. “I just got a flash from the office. See you there.”

  The reporter hung up.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Michael Shayne lay very still for at least a full minute, staring upward into the darkness while unanswered questions churned through his mind. Ambrose dead? In the name of God, why? He’d made the pay-off in front of Shayne. Everyone had been satisfied. Maybe his death had nothing to do with blackmail, of course, but that was just too damned coincidental.

  Yet it couldn’t be worth risking a murder rap for the blackmailer to get the stuff back from the doctor. He must realize that the twenty grand he’d gotten tonight had bled his victim dry.

  The photograph? He hadn’t seemed particularly perturbed about it in the restaurant. Even if he had suspected that Ambrose had arranged to have the picture taken in order to identify him, he hadn’t kicked about it.

  Of course, there was a good chance that the man who received the money was just a go-between… that the real blackmailer had stayed in the background. In that case, the incident would have been reported back to him. And…?

  At that point in his thinking, Shayne sighed and reached out and turned on the bedside light. God! the bed felt good. He was dead for sleep.

  He threw back the covers and swung his legs over the edge, got a fresh undershirt and shorts from the bureau and put them on. He picked up his slacks from the floor where he had shed them only a few minutes before on his way to bed, grabbed a fresh sport shirt and finished dressing fast.

  The Miami Beach address meant that Peter Painter was in charge. That meant that Shayne was going to have a lot of questions to answer when he showed up on the murder scene. The longer he delayed making his appearance, the worse it would be.

  He went out of the apartment hurriedly, and down in the elevator. Pete was alone in the lobby behind the desk. He looked curiously at the detective and said, “Hey, Mr. Shayne. I thought you was bedded down for the night. When you came in at eight o’clock, you said that all hell couldn’t pull you out of your room tonight.”

  “That’s what I thought.” Shayne broke his stride to pause momently at the desk. He recalled, now, that he and Ambrose had gone down the stairway when they left because t
he doctor’s car was parked on the side street, and that he had returned the same way. Thus, Pete was not aware that he had already been out once since coming in at eight. It might be a good idea to keep it that way.

  He said, “At least I grabbed a couple of hours, Pete. Any calls come for me, I’m over on the Beach consorting with a dead man.”

  “Sure, Mr. Shayne.” Pete’s jaw dropped as he watched the rangy redhead hurry out the front door.

  Shayne got his car from the hotel garage where he had carefully parked it for the night, earlier, and gunned it to the Boulevard and then north toward the Causeway to Miami Beach.

  He found Dr. Ambrose’s house on a quiet side street in one of the older residential sections of Miami Beach without difficulty. There were several police cars parked along the street, and an ambulance was backed into the driveway with spotlights brilliantly lighting the doctor’s sedan that stood directly in front of a closed double garage beside a neat, white stucco house.

  Shayne pulled into the curb behind the police cars and got out. He walked up the sidewalk toward the driveway, and encountered a uniformed policeman who was shunting curious householders from up and down the street away from the scene.

  Shayne stopped beside the harassed policeman and asked, “Has Tim Rourke got here yet?”

  “That Miami reporter? Yeh. You got business with him?”

  Shayne said, “More with Chief Painter, I guess. He here, too?”

  “Sure. What kind of business, Mister? There’s been a murder committed, you know.”

  Shayne said, “I know.” He started down the drive toward the group of men on the lawn at the left side of the doctor’s sedan.

  The policeman called out, “Hey, you! Wait. I didn’t say you could…”

  Shayne kept on walking toward the group. A tall, lanky figure standing in the background and peering over the heads of some others, turned and saw him approaching. Timothy Rourke moved back swiftly and exclaimed, “Mike! What happened with you and the doc?”

  “Just what you set up,” said Shayne irritably. “Tell you about it later. What’s the dope?”

  “Just got here myself.” The reporter shook his head despondently. “But they say it looks like he was ambushed here when he drove up. Took a bullet in his heart when he got out of his car to open the garage.”

  “When?” Shayne demanded.

  “I don’t know that yet. I just got here…”

  Another, shorter, figure detached itself from the group and moved toward them. Chief of Detectives Peter Painter was a slender man who appeared to bounce on the balls of his feet as he walked. He was immaculately dressed, as always, and the pencil-line of his mustache was very black against his upper lip in the glare of the ambulance floodlights. He said, “Rourke… and Mike Shayne. What do you two want here?” He stopped on the grass in front of them, squaring his shoulders belligerently.

  Rourke said, “I’m after the story, Chief. I called Mike as soon as I got the flash from my paper.”

  “Why?” demanded Painter, rocking back on his heels. “Why did you call Shayne?”

  “Because he thought you might be able to use some help,” Shayne told him harshly. “If you don’t need any information… if you’ve got the case all solved and wrapped up tight… that’s just fine with me. I’ll go back to bed where I belong.”

  He started to turn away, but Painter said stridently, “Wait, Shayne! If you’ve got any relevant information, I demand that you give it to me. You can’t just walk away…”

  “The hell I can’t,” grated Shayne through set teeth. “I jump out of bed and break the speed limits to get over here like any good citizen to help you out, and, by God.…”

  “Wait a minute, Mike,” groaned Timothy Rourke. “I called him because I knew he saw Doctor Ambrose earlier this evening,” he told Painter.

  “How did you know that?” demanded Painter suspiciously.

  “Because I sent the doctor to see him. I don’t know whether that has anything to do with what happened here, but I thought you ought to know about it.”

  “What did happen here?” asked Shayne quietly.

  “When did you see Ambrose?”

  “He came to my apartment about eight-thirty. Damn it, Petey,” Shayne went on impatiently, “I’m willing to cooperate, but I want some idea of what I’m walking into. When was he killed?”

  “A few minutes after ten o’clock, the best we can place it.” Painter thumb-nailed his mustache and peered up at Shayne’s rugged face suspiciously. “That mean anything to you?”

  Shayne looked at his watch. It was shortly after eleven o’clock. He said truthfully, “It could mean a lot… if the time is right. Any witnesses to swear to it?”

  “The next door neighbor noticed his car turn into the driveway a few minutes after ten. He didn’t think anything of it until about half an hour later when he took his dog for a walk and noticed the car still standing here in front of the closed garage, headlights still on and engine running. He also noticed the overhead light on inside the car, indicating that a door had been left open. He came over to investigate. Dr. Ambrose was lying beside the open left-hand door, shot once through the heart. Now, what does that mean to you?”

  Shayne said, “He was being blackmailed. He had an appointment to make a twenty grand pay-off at the Seacliff Restaurant in Miami at nine-thirty. If he kept that appointment, it looks as though he drove straight here without any stops along the way.” He paused briefly and then said, “At my place he showed me a thick white envelope which he said contained twenty thousand dollars. Did you find it on him?”

  Painter shook his head. “Nothing like that at all.”

  Shayne said quietly, “Then he must have kept the appointment at nine-thirty and got rid of it.”

  “Now wait a minute, Shayne. Why did he come to you in the first place?”

  “Tim sent him. He had a crazy idea of hiring me to go along as a sort of bodyguard while he made the blackmail pay-off.”

  “It wasn’t crazy at all,” retorted Rourke. “Sounded like a lot of sense to me. Nobody was likely to start anything with you backing his play. Damn it, Mike! Didn’t you go with him as I asked you to?”

  Shayne looked at his old friend expressionlessly. “You know how I feel about blackmail and paying them off,” he growled.

  “But I asked you as a personal favor…”

  “Let me get this straight,” Chief Peter Painter broke in importantly. “You claim you refused to help him, Shayne?”

  “I told him, goddamit, that I could lose my license by aiding and abetting blackmail. I told him I considered it immoral and unethical,” Shayne added truthfully and righteously. “I also warned him that it never worked. That no blackmailer was ever satisfied, but always came back for more. I advised him to refuse to pay, and to go to the police for protection.”

  “Mike!” protested Rourke, aghast. “You let that innocent, little guy go off alone to meet a blackmailer with twenty grand in his pocket?”

  “It certainly doesn’t sound like you or your methods, Shayne,” commented Painter suspiciously.

  “He got my goat with his holier-than-thou attitude,” said Shayne angrily, and, again, truthfully.

  “I asked him what he did when a woman came to him needing an abortion desperately just because she’d made one tiny mistake in the past. Know what he said?”

  “Being a reputable physician,” said Painter with unction, “I’m sure he would have refused.”

  “Exactly,” Shayne blazed at him. “He washed his hands of the whole thing. All right. I happen to be a reputable private detective. I want nothing to do with blackmail pay-offs. I told him so.”

  “Mike,” groaned Rourke again. “If you’d listened to me…”

  “How did he react to that?” interrupted Painter.

  “He insisted on going through with it.”

  “Did he?”

  Shayne said, “When he left my place at about nine-fifteen he was headed for the Seacliff Restaurant
to keep a nine-thirty appointment with his blackmailer.” He chose his words carefully as he spoke, saying the exact truth, though certainly not the full truth.

  “Who was he meeting?” demanded Painter.

  “He refused to tell me. As a matter of fact, he insisted he didn’t know the man’s identity. I don’t know whether he was holding out or not,” Shayne continued truthfully. “He didn’t want me to interfere either before or after the pay-off, and claimed that all he had was a telephone number… which he also refused to turn over to me.”

  “He told me the same thing,” muttered Rourke. “When he came to me about it, I advised him the same way you did, Mike. But he was determined to make the pay-off tonight and end the affair. I thought he would be safer accompanied by you than going it alone. That’s why I sent him over to your place. And you turned him down cold, Mike?” Rourke’s voice was troubled, wondering. “Even when I told you the way I was indebted to him? That’s what sticks in my throat. That’s what I’ll never forgive you for. If you’d done as I asked, damn it, he might not be lying here dead.”

  “What do you think that has to do with it?” Shayne demanded angrily. “If he made the contact and passed on the money…”

  “But we don’t know he did,” Rourke pointed out. “When you refused to help, maybe he decided not to chance it alone. If he came home carrying that money with him, it would have been a perfect motive for murder.”

  Shayne said, “That’s theorizing. It couldn’t take him an hour to drive from my place here. The timing is right to indicate that he made the contact at nine-thirty, and then drove here.”

  Peter Painter was listening restlessly to the irritated exchange between the two men who had always been the closest of friends. Now he decided it was time to assert his authority.

  “You claim he refused to tell you who was blackmailing him, Shayne. What was he being blackmailed for? What did he expect to receive in return for his twenty thousand dollars tonight? That might be very important.”