Too Friendly, Too Dead

by Brett Halliday

  Brett Halliday

  Too Friendly, Too Dead

  1

  The ringing of her bedside telephone awakened Linda Fitzgilpin as daylight was breaking on Saturday morning. She awoke confused and startled from some sort of bad dream, and was immediately conscious of a splitting headache and a foul taste in her mouth. The window was closed and heavy drapes drawn tightly over the west window of her bedroom, so the room was very dark and she had no idea what time of night it was.

  She shook her head dismally as she reached for the telephone, propping herself on one elbow to put it to her ear. She said, “Hello,” and a man’s voice answered:

  “Mrs. Fitzgilpin?”

  She said, “Yes,” and he asked, “Is Mr. Fitzgilpin there?”

  Still confused and half asleep, Linda replied, “Why… yes. Just a second,” and lowered the telephone to call, “Jerome.”

  There was no reply from the twin bed across the room, and she wondered how long she had been asleep and if Jerome hadn’t come in yet. She let go of the telephone and fumbled for the light switch and turned on a shaded light. Her husband’s bed was empty and neatly made up. Fear struck at her sharply and she lifted the instrument and said, “No. No he isn’t here. Who is this and why are you calling? What time is it?”

  “It’s a little after six, Mrs. Fitzgilpin.” The voice became soothing and essayed a cheery note. “It probably isn’t important, but does your husband drive a Fifty-seven Chevrolet sedan? Dark blue?”

  “Yes. Who is this?” Fear was giving way to panic, and Linda sat bolt upright, staring wide-eyed across at Jerome’s unused bed. Six o’clock in the morning! He had never in his life stayed out…

  “This is Sergeant Main speaking. Miami Beach Police Department. Please describe your husband, Mrs. Fitzgilpin.”

  “Jerome is forty-five. Five feet seven and he weighs about a hundred and fifty pounds. Brown hair that’s getting thin in front; brown eyes and a small mustache. What… has happened?”

  “Brace yourself for a shock, Mrs. Fitzgilpin.” All of the attempted cheeriness had vanished from the sergeant’s voice. “I’m afraid I have very bad news for you. When did you last see your husband?”

  “Why he… he wasn’t in when I went to bed. I took a sleeping pill and… he isn’t here now. Tell me! What’s happened?”

  “I’m terribly sorry to break it to you this way, Mrs. Fitzgilpin, but I’m afraid your husband is dead. A man answering your description of him was found early this morning close to his parked automobile. His wallet was missing and there was no identification on the body so we had to check out the license number.” The voice went on talking, but Linda Fitzgilpin dropped the instrument on the bed and put both hands over her face and the tears came and racking sobs shook her body.

  Not Jerome! It couldn’t be Jerome. It couldn’t happen. It had happened. Because he wasn’t here in bed. He hadn’t come home. And a body answering her husband’s description had been found close to his parked car.

  Gradually the racking sobs ceased. She sank back on the pillow and stared up at the ceiling, and slowly became aware of noises coming from the telephone lying beside her. Listlessly she picked it up and heard the police sergeant saying sharply and anxiously, “Mrs. Fitzgilpin, are you there? Are you there, Mrs. Fitzgilpin?”

  “I’m here,” she told him. “Where else would I be?”

  “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” she responded viciously. “Just fine and dandy. Why shouldn’t I be?” She began laughing hysterically while the tears continued to stream down her cheeks.

  “Try to get hold of yourself,” the sergeant admonished her. “We’re not certain yet, you know. It may not be your husband at all. Until we have a positive identification we can’t be sure.”

  “It’s Jerome all right,” she said sadly. “Don’t you understand? He didn’t come home to bed. He’s never done that before in his life. He wouldn’t stay out all night if… if…” Her voice broke again and the sergeant broke in hastily, “Would you like a doctor or a nurse? I can call the Miami police and arrange…”

  “No,” she said sadly. “What could a doctor or a nurse do for me?”

  “Well… have you someone…?” The sergeant paused awkwardly. “It will be necessary for you to come to the morgue to make a formal identification. We’ll be glad to send a police car over to pick you up.”

  “No!” she said sharply. “Not a police car. I’ll get someone. I’ll be fine. How… soon?”

  “You don’t need to hurry, Mrs. Fitzgilpin. Any time in the next hour or so will be fine. If you’re sure you’re all right now…?”

  She said flatly and harshly, “I’m as all right as I’ll ever be,” and replaced the telephone on its cradle. Then she sank back and closed her eyes tightly and lay on her back, fighting for self-control.

  Let’s see now. The children. Oh, God! the children. How could she tell them? How do you tell your children that they no longer have a father? A loving, kind father whom they both adored.

  A long, shuddering sigh escaped her lips, and slowly she forced herself to sit up. Forced herself to look across again at the unused bed which Jerome had occupied all during the fifteen years of their married life.

  It was still as empty as it had been when she first looked. She lowered her gaze to the empty highball glass on the bedside table and the uncorked whiskey bottle on the floor beside it. She knew better than to take whiskey with sleeping pills at night. Why had she done it last night? If she hadn’t knocked herself out and slept so soundly she would have realized that Jerome hadn’t come home… that something terrible must have happened. But what good would that have done?

  She got up and walked across the carpeted bedroom barefooted, wearing a white nylon nightgown. She went past the empty bed without looking at it again, and out into the sitting room where the new light of morning streamed in through the east window. The door to the children’s bedroom was tightly closed.

  She crossed to it and opened it silently. They were both sound asleep. Nine-year-old Ralph characteristically curled up with his knees under his chin, the covers twisted about his thin body; and Sara, sleeping peacefully and blissfully, her angelic, pouting face framed by brown ringlets of fine hair… just the color of her father’s hair.

  Linda closed and latched the door softly and turned back. Let’s see now. She must think. Today was Saturday. No school for the children. She had to go over to Miami Beach. The policeman had said there was no need to hurry. But it was something she had to do.

  If she could get away before the children woke up… make certain that it was Jerome lying on a cold slab in the morgue…

  She shuddered and forced herself to think coherently. That nice Lucy Hamilton in the apartment one floor below. She worked for a private detective. She would know about these things.

  Linda went back into the bedroom and found Lucy’s number written in the front of the telephone book and dialed it.

  2

  Michael Shayne’s telephone wakened him ten minutes later on that same Saturday morning. He came suddenly out of the depths of sound sleep, blinked at the early morning light streaming in his window, and let the instrument ring five times before stretching out a long arm to bring it to his ear.

  He said, “Shayne,” in a gruff and non-committal voice, but came fully awake when his secretary’s voice came incisively over the wire:

  “Michael. Please come over here right away.”

  “Sure, Angel. Where’s here? What’s up?”

  “My place, Michael. That is, the apartment above me. Three-B. The Fitzgilpins. It’s terrible. Her husband. He didn’t come home last night and the Beach police just called. She has to go to the morgue to… identify him. I
thought if you’d go with her…” Lucy Hamilton’s voice trailed off, and Shayne said swiftly:

  “Right away. Hold the fort.”

  He threw back the covers and stood up, unbuttoning his pajama top with one hand while he rumpled his bristly red hair with the other. He dressed in a hurry, splashed water in his face and on his hair so he could comb it into some semblance of order, then strode into the living room and glanced longingly into the kitchen and the dripolator standing on the drainboard. But he had told Lucy “right away,” so he compromised by hastily downing a couple of ounces of cognac to fortify him, then hurried out to get his car from the hotel garage.

  Driving north on Biscayne Boulevard through the cool pre-sunlight of the spring morning, Shayne scowled as he recalled everything he could about the Fitzgilpins, who occupied an apartment on the floor above Lucy.

  He had met both of them once, he recalled vaguely, having a drink with Lucy in her apartment. There were children, he thought, and he knew Lucy liked the family… particularly the wife. What was her name? He couldn’t bring it to mind, but he did remember that she was red headed and lissome, and a good ten years younger than her husband. A nice, quiet, inoffensive guy. Some sort of small business on the Beach, Shayne thought.

  So, now he was in the morgue; and there was a sorrowing, red-headed widow and a couple of fatherless children. His scowl deepened. Why did such things happen to nice, quiet, inoffensive people? There were thousands of no-goods infesting Miami and the Beach who wouldn’t be missed by anybody if they suddenly kicked the bucket. But they were still alive this morning, and a nice, little guy like Jerome Fitzgilpin (yeh, that was his name… Jerome. And his wife’s name was Linda) wasn’t around any more.

  Lucy Hamilton opened the door of apartment 3-B when he rang the bell. She had no makeup on, and her curly brown hair was a mess, and she had been crying. She wore bedroom slippers and a fluffy chenille robe over a pair of white silk pajamas, and she put out her hands to him and said, “Oh, Michael,” in a stifled voice as he came through the doorway.

  He put his arms around her and held her closely and understandingly while she pressed her face against his shoulder and cried some more. She drew back after a moment and looked up into his face with tear-wet eyes and said simply, “I don’t know why. But when something like this happens… so close to home… it makes you want to… be sure you still have someone.”

  Shayne patted her shoulder and said gruffly, “I know, Angel.” And he did know. He had been close to violent death so often, had seen the reactions of so many people suddenly confronted with the fact of death. There was an instinctive groping toward someone close… someone whom you cared for… who cared for you.

  He closed his big hand on Lucy’s shoulder and squeezed it hard, then pulled the door shut and glanced about the living room with ragged red eyebrows lifted inquiringly.

  “Linda is in the bedroom getting dressed,” Lucy told him. “The two children are still asleep. I thought if you’d drive her to the Beach, I could stay here with them. They know me and won’t be frightened if they wake up and Linda is gone.”

  He said, “Of course. What happened?”

  “Linda doesn’t know. Except Jerome didn’t come home last night, and they phoned her this morning to say they’d found his body close to his parked automobile and they wanted her to come and identify him. He always keeps his office open late on Friday nights. It’s an insurance business, you know, and the majority of his clients are salaried people who carry small policies and pay premiums weekly in cash. He stays open on Friday nights to accommodate them, and brings the cash home. Several hundred dollars generally. He often stops off at a tavern for a beer or two… that’s all he ever drinks when he’s away from home… and doesn’t get home until about midnight. So Linda thought nothing of it last night when she took a sleeping pill and went to bed at eleven. And she didn’t wake up until the phone rang this morning. The police told her that Jerome’s wallet was missing, and they had to check the car registration to get his name. He was such a nice little man, Michael. So gentle and friendly. I never knew a friendlier, nicer man.”

  The tears came into Lucy’s eyes again. “Who would do a thing like that? Just for a few hundred dollars. You’ve got to find out, Michael.”

  He patted her shoulder again and said absently, “Sure, Angel. We’ll get the bastard that did it,” his gaze going past her to the bedroom door that was opening to admit Jerome Fitzgilpin’s widow.

  She looked ten years younger and a hell of a lot prettier than he remembered her from that one brief encounter in Lucy’s apartment. She was tall and slender, with softly waved, copperish red hair, and there was a fine-drawn look about her face which betrayed an emotional tension which she otherwise concealed admirably. She wore a simple black sheath dress belted tightly at the waist, with no adornment. Her lips were lightly rouged and her voice was muted and composed as she advanced with a faint smile on her lips and with hand outstretched, saying, “Mr. Shayne. It was good of you to come.”

  He took her slender hand and received a firm pressure from it, and told her, “I’m very happy…” He paused awkwardly and corrected himself in a gruff voice, “I’m very glad to do anything I can.”

  Linda nodded her head slightly and turned to Lucy. “The children will probably sleep for another hour. You’re sure you don’t mind staying with them?”

  “Of course not.” Lucy’s voice was warm and reassuring. “What else are friends for?” She hesitated, glancing down at her robe and slippers. “Why don’t you and Michael sit down for a minute while I slip downstairs and change?”

  Linda nodded again and said abstractedly, “Of course. I’m sure there’s no… hurry. The sergeant said… to come any time.”

  She moved back to seat herself carefully on the sofa while Lucy went out. All her movements were somewhat mechanical, as though she were consciously thinking them out in advance, consciously willing each muscle to act.

  Shayne got out a pack of cigarettes and shook one loose, advanced toward her with the pack held out. “Will you have a cigarette, Mrs. Fitzgilpin?”

  “Thanks.” She accepted it and glanced briefly up into his face with haunted, gray eyes. “Please call me Linda. I don’t feel like Mrs. Fitzgilpin this morning.”

  Shayne struck a match and held it for her. Then he lit one of his own and moved back to a chair by the window. “I don’t want to sound Pollyanna-ish or anything like that, Linda, but Lucy tells me there’s no positive identification yet. Just the fact that your husband’s car was found near a body. There may be a dozen other explanations.”

  “No.” Her voice was strong and positive. “Jerome would never stay away from home all night. He never has in all the years we’ve been married. He was very considerate and always phoned me even if he was only going to be half an hour later than I expected him.”

  “He didn’t phone last night?”

  “No. Fridays he stays late at the office. Until nine usually. Then he usually stops off at some bar for a beer or two, and he often gets interested talking to people and doesn’t get home until midnight. Friday night was… was sort of his night to do that, you see, and I didn’t object. I urged him to stay out one night a week. He’d never drink more than two or three beers,” she went on strongly, as though feeling a deep need to establish this fact, “no matter how late he stayed out. So I never worried about him. He loved people. Different kinds of people. The sort he’d meet on Friday nights in a neighborhood bar.” Her voice was musing now, her eyes lowered as though she were talking to herself. “He was so friendly and interested, he’d draw them out to talk about themselves. Tell him all sorts of personal things.

  “Why… why?” she cried out suddenly, lifting tragic eyes to stare at him. “Why would anyone hurt him, Mr. Shayne? He never hurt anyone in his life. He didn’t have an enemy in the world.”

  Shayne said, “If it’s going to be Linda, you’d better start calling me Mike.” He shook his head angrily and rumpled his red hair
with knobby fingers.

  The buzzer sounded and he got up to admit Lucy who had changed into a light print dress. Linda got up too, mashing out her cigarette. “If the children wake up before I get back, Lucy, tell them… oh God, I don’t know what you should tell them.”

  “Better not tell them anything until we know for sure,” Lucy said briskly. “Just that something came up and you both had to go out. Luckily, I’ve babysat before, so they won’t be surprised to find me here.” Lucy met Linda in the middle of the room and squeezed her arm tightly. “Go along with Michael and don’t worry about the children.”

  Linda nodded and compressed her lips tightly and hurried out of the apartment in front of Shayne.

  He followed her down the two flights of stairs, admiring the set of her shoulders, the proud lift of her head. At least, he wasn’t going to have an hysterical female on his hands. Not for a time at least. Not until the initial shock had worn off and she was confronted with the inescapable fact of widowhood.

  She sat in the front seat of Shayne’s car beside him and composedly folded her hands in her lap and looked straight ahead through the windshield while he drove across the Causeway to Miami Beach. Neither of them spoke during the drive, but her shoulder touched his lightly on occasion as he sped around a curve, and he felt a warm sense of understanding and communion between them which he believed she shared and which was gratifying under the circumstances. She was Lucy’s friend, he reminded himself, and this made him want to be her friend also.

  She sat very still in the car and breathed a deep sigh when he pulled into the parking lot behind police headquarters where one room of the building was arranged as a temporary morgue until bodies could be removed to the County Morgue on the mainland.

  He got out and went around to open her door and helped her out, and held onto her arm tightly as he led her through a side door and down a short corridor to an unmarked closed door which he opened without knocking. There was a small anteroom with a desk and a shirt-sleeved police officer sitting behind it. He grinned recognition at the redhead and greeted him heartily, “Hi there, Shamus. What brings you…?” and stopped abruptly when he saw the pale-faced woman beside the detective.