Too Friendly, Too Dead

by Brett Halliday

  Shayne said quietly, “We’re not cops.”

  “Then how come you’re around asking questions?” The bartender seemed unduly belligerent and his close-set eyes were slitted as he glared at the two men.

  “Rourke here is a reporter covering the case,” Shayne told him evenly. “He’d like a quote from you.”

  “Quote, I don’t know nothing about the stiff, unquote,” snapped Horseface showing his teeth in what was intended to be a grin but came out a sort of sneer. “Say! You’re that private eye from Miami, ain’t you?”

  Shayne nodded. “I’m working on the case. The way I get it, Fitzgilpin used to drop in here for a couple of beers in an evening.”

  “That his name? Fitzgilpin? Never heard it before. Like I already told the cops…”

  “But we’re not cops,” Shayne reminded him gently. He had his wallet out and he extracted a twenty-dollar bill and laid it on the counter. “We’re willing to pay for information. You notice a short, plump-faced guy in around midnight flashing a roll?”

  “Friday nights are busy and the joint was jumping,” Horseface told him shortly. He turned away with the bill in his hand and rang up the price of their two drinks, turned back and ostentatiously counted out the exact change in front of Shayne. “No charge for that info. And it makes me nervous having reporters and private snoopers hanging around. Boss don’t like it either.”

  Shayne said, “We’re not interested in Pete Elston’s gambling room upstairs. What we want…”

  “You already got all you’re gonna get,” snapped the bartender. He turned his back on them and strolled down the bar to stand in front of the two beer-drinkers and rest his elbows on the bar.

  Timothy Rourke grinned sideways at the redhead as he sipped his bourbon and water with relish. “Methinks our friend protests too much.”

  Shayne shrugged his wide shoulders. “Elston wouldn’t like it one little bit if a guy were mugged after drinking down here. He pays plenty for protection, but not to Homicide.” He finished his drink and picked up a half-dollar and rapped sharply on the bar. The two other patrons glanced up the bar at them, but Horseface kept his back turned to them.

  Shayne called loudly, “Two more, bartender.” He continued to keep his back turned.

  The grin faded from Rourke’s face as Shayne slid off the bar stool and stalked back to confront the bartender. The reporter remained seated on his stool, turning his head to observe Shayne going into action with pleasure and interest.

  The two beer-drinkers sat rigid, staring down into their glasses with complete absorption as Shayne stopped beside them. Horseface pretended not to notice his presence. He was talking fast in a low voice, “… so there was this dame, see? And she says to me…”

  Shayne reached over the bar and tapped him lightly on the shoulder. “My friend and I would like another round.”

  Without turning his head, the bartender snapped, “I said you already got all you’re gonna get in here. Can’t you take a hint? No private snoops or reporters wanted.”

  Shayne’s voice remained dangerously calm. “You’re getting out of your depth, bud.”

  “Am I?” The bartender turned his head to sneer at the rangy redhead. “I gotta right to refuse service to anyone. See that sign back there?” He jerked his thumb back over his shoulder. “Strikes me you had enough already, Mister. I wouldn’t want you passin’ out in my place and then maybe getting rolled down the street. Law says I ain’t allowed to serve no drink to a drunk.” He spread his lips wide and smirked across the bar at Shayne. “So whyn’t you just go on quiet and pass out some other place?” He slid his right elbow off the bar as he spoke, and his hand disappeared under the mahogany.

  Shayne’s left hand shot out and his fingers closed around the bartender’s scrawny neck. Horseface gurgled and tried to back away, his right hand coming up from under the bar swinging a two-foot length of leaded pool cue.

  Shayne laughed shortly and released his neck to clamp his big left hand about the man’s wrist.

  The weighted cue was interrupted in mid-swing. Shayne put pressure on the wrist and the bartender gasped loudly in pain and the cue clattered down to the mahogany.

  Shayne released his wrist and stepped back. He said, “Two more of the same,” and strode back to seat himself beside Rourke again.

  The bartender hesitated a long moment, his bony face working convulsively, then sullenly moved up behind the bar and placed two more drinks in front of them. Shayne counted out the exact change for the drinks and pushed it across the bar. Horseface turned away without a word, moved to the center of the bar where he began washing glasses as though he had no interest in anything else in the world except getting the glasses clean as fast as he could.

  Rourke gulped some of his bourbon appreciatively and smacked his lips. He said loudly, “Damned if I know why, but this one tastes better than the first one.”

  Shayne relaxed and grinned at his old friend. He said, “It’s on account of the service. Something psychological about getting served with a smile.”

  They sat and finished their drinks in silence and the bartender continued to wash and dry glasses as though his life depended on it.

  When both their glasses were empty, they got up and walked out of the bar together. In the bright sunlight outside, Rourke looked at Shayne with brightly expectant eyes and asked, “You going to let him get away with that?”

  “With what?”

  “I’ll swear he’s covering up something.”

  “Sure he is,” Shayne agreed amiably. “But I need something to pressure him with. I’ll come back for another talk when I get hold of it.”

  Rourke chuckled and said, “You seemed to be pressuring him fairly effectively when he let go that home-made billy.”

  Shayne said, “Right then, I wanted a drink. I got it. You headed back to your office?” he asked abruptly.

  “I’d better get a story written.”

  “Give me the address of Fitzgilpin’s insurance office. I’ll drop in there and see what I can find out.”

  Rourke consulted his penciled notes and provided the address. Then they went to their own cars and separated.

  6

  Michael Shayne found the office of the Fitzgilpin Insurance Agency on the ground floor of a run-down office building about ten blocks north and west of the Sporting Club. The door of the office stood open and a plump, pleasant-faced woman was typing behind a desk in the anteroom, facing the outer door.

  She appeared to be in her mid-thirties, wearing a fresh, white shirtwaist and a brown skirt, and her eyes were red-rimmed from weeping.

  She looked up from her typing as Shayne paused in the doorway, pushed back a straggling lock of brown hair from her forehead, and frowned nearsightedly at him. “Yes? Is there something I can do for you?” Her voice trembled slightly and her teeth gnawed nervously at her full lower lip which already had most of the rouge chewed off it.

  Shayne took off his hat and stepped inside. “Are you Mr. Fitzgilpin’s secretary?”

  “Yes. That is… I was.” She blinked her nice brown eyes and a single tear slid out from beneath each lid and coursed down her cheeks. She lifted her lids and faltered, “Perhaps you haven’t heard yet…?”

  Shayne said hastily, “I have heard. In fact, that’s why I’m here. I’m a private detective and also a personal friend of the Fitzgilpins. My name is Michael Shayne.”

  “Oh yes. Of course.” Her eyes were wide now, still moist, but friendly and welcoming. “I should have recognized you from pictures I’ve seen in the papers. I didn’t know Mr. Fitzgilpin knew you, Mr. Shayne. I never heard him mention your name.”

  “His wife… widow… is a close friend of my secretary’s,” Shayne told her, sitting down in one of the two chairs in the small reception room. “She called me this morning as soon as the tragic news reached her, and I’ve promised to do what I can to help.”

  “Oh, Mr. Shayne. Isn’t it terrible? I can hardly realize it yet. Jerome… Mr. Fitzgilpi
n was such a wonderful man. Always so kind and considerate to everyone. Who would do such a dastardly thing as that?”

  Shayne said, “I hope you can help me find out, Miss…”

  “Mrs. Ella Perkins. That is, I’m a widow. Have been for ten years. Ever since I came to work for Mr. Fitzgilpin. I never had a better employer or a position that I enjoyed more. It was positively a pleasure to work for Mr. Fitzgilpin and do things for him. Is it true, Mr. Shayne, that he was poisoned?”

  Shayne said, “I’m afraid it is. Have the police been here?”

  “Yes. An hour ago. They asked all sorts of the most outrageous personal questions. About Mr. Fitzgilpin and the intimate details of his family life. Did they quarrel, and did he have women friends… and did he ever date me.” She clasped her plump fingers together in front of her and gulped back a sob. “I got the distinct impression that they… they can’t suspect her, can they, Mr. Shayne? I didn’t know her well, but she seemed such a nice person. And I know he was devoted to her and the children. Just an old-fashioned family man… I always felt he was. He didn’t have an enemy in the world, and I told those policemen so.”

  “That’s what everyone says about him,” agreed Shayne. “Do you always work on Saturdays, Mrs. Perkins?”

  “I come down every Saturday morning to bring the records up to date for the week-end. He stays late on Friday nights, you know, and I like to have everything entered and filed and fresh for Monday morning.”

  “I understand he collects a certain amount of cash every Friday night. Do you know how much it was last night?”

  “Yes. The police asked me that. Two hundred and sixty-two dollars and forty cents.”

  “And he always took it home with him?”

  “Always. You see we have no safe here in the office and he felt it was safer that way. He’d stop by the bank to deposit it on Monday morning.”

  “How many people do you suppose knew this was his habit?”

  “I simply don’t know. It’s not the sort of thing he’d mention casually, is it? On the other hand, he was always so friendly. Even with complete strangers. He’d never think it was something he should conceal. He was so confiding. So full of goodwill himself that he would never suspect anyone else of having an ulterior motive.”

  “Do you know who his last client was last night?”

  “Yes. The police asked me that and I checked the record. A man named Julian Summerville. He paid a nineteen dollar premium and that’s the last entry for the night.”

  “You don’t know what time that was?”

  “No. Mr. Fitzgilpin generally stayed until nine or ten o’clock on Fridays.”

  “This Summerville,” probed Shayne. “Was he an old client? Particularly friendly? Would your employer have been likely to ask him out for a drink?”

  “I don’t believe so. I know the police took his name and address, so I assume they’re checking with him.”

  “All right, Mrs. Perkins. What’s your opinion of this? You were probably closer to Mr. Fitzgilpin than anyone else in the world… excluding his wife. And I know lots of secretaries who are actually much closer to their employers than their wives are. No offense intended,” he went on hastily, seeing a hurt, protesting look on her face. “Certainly you know a great deal more about his business… his daily associates. How was his business, by the way? Would you say it was thriving?” Shayne let her see him glance disparagingly about the small and shabby reception room.

  “I don’t know what you mean by thriving,” she responded with more spirit than she had shown before. “His income was adequate for his needs, and the business has grown steadily every year since I’ve been here. Actually…” and her face began to glow with pride. “… just recently Mr. Fitzgilpin was honored with an award that is given annually by an insurance association in the United States for being among the top ten brokers in the country showing an increase in policies sold during the year. He was interviewed by a reporter for the Miami paper and had a real nice write-up. He didn’t want to expand too much,” she went on earnestly. “He liked having a one-man office and maintaining a direct personal contact with every one of his clients. He wanted to know them… about their personal lives and their problems. He felt strongly that every insurance policy he sold should be tailored to each individual’s particular situation and needs… that he was performing an important service to his clients rather than just sitting back and collecting money from them. He was such a good man…” She broke down at this point and began crying helplessly, rocking forward over her typewriter with her hands over her face.

  Shayne lit a cigarette and smoked it thoughtfully, letting her cry herself out. She accomplished this in a couple of minutes, straightened up and blew her nose loudly with Kleenex, wiped her eyes and told him tremulously, “I wish I could be more help to you, Mr. Shayne, but I just can’t think of anyone who wanted Mr. Fitzgilpin dead or who would benefit by it.”

  “Yet, someone did,” Shayne reminded her. “His wife mentioned one peculiar thing this morning,” he went on. “About an incident some weeks ago when a woman came in and wanted him to break the rules by issuing a large policy on her husband’s life without his knowledge. Do you recall that?”

  “Oh, yes. Very well. It was most peculiar. It wasn’t as long ago as that. Not more than ten days. I remember she telephoned for an appointment the day after the interview appeared in the paper and I thought maybe she’d read it and got his name from that. Because she was a complete stranger and wouldn’t say who had recommended him… you know, the way most people do if they come to an insurance office. And she acted funny when she did come in the next day. He was busy with another client when she arrived, and she sat and talked to me for fifteen minutes at least. I tried to be nice to her because she had mentioned a quarter-million dollar policy when she telephoned and we never had anything near that big in this office before. But she seemed more interested in Mr. Fitzgilpin than she did in getting a policy. She sat right in that same chair you’re sitting in and asked all sorts of funny questions. Like, how long had I worked here, and did he go out of town very often, and did he enjoy going to New York and when was the last trip he’d made, and all like that. It just seemed so funny.”

  “What was her name?” Shayne interposed.

  “Mrs. Kelly. That’s the only name she ever gave. And not even any address or anything. Because after she did go in and talk to Mr. Fitzgilpin and told him what she wanted him to do, he gave her short shrift. I never saw him so vexed before. He was quite insulted to think anyone would come to him with a proposition like that. Like he said to me, a rich woman like that must certainly have a lot of insurance business of one sort or another, yet here she was coming to him to buy a huge policy like that. You see, she pretended to him that she didn’t know it was against the law to do that, but he was sure she did know, and that’s why she didn’t go to her regular broker.”

  “Do you think she was a rich woman?” Shayne probed.

  “Oh, I guess she was, all right. Great big diamonds on her fingers and a mink jacket that must have cost a fortune. Poor thing, though, I felt sorry for her before I found out what she was trying to get Mr. Fitzgilpin to do. She was pathetic with all her jewelry and mink. She was a woman who looked dowdy no matter what she wore. She was tall and awkward with big hands and feet, and a great, big nose and a thin mouth. You could just imagine her as a young debutante sitting on the sidelines and never getting asked to dance no matter how much money her family had.”

  “You didn’t hear from her again?”

  “I should say not,” she told him with satisfaction. “Not after Mr. Fitzgilpin got through telling her off.”

  Shayne sat back for a moment, drawing on his cigarette and tugging thoughtfully at his left earlobe. Two things had occurred recently that were out of order in the even tenor of Jerome Fitzgilpin’s life. He had received a national award for salesmanship and been interviewed by the News, and a woman had come to his office a day or so later in an effort to i
nduce him to sell her a quarter of a million dollar policy on her husband’s life without his knowledge or consent.

  And now he was dead.

  Were those two seemingly unrelated events tied together somehow? And if so, could they possibly constitute a motive for his murder? Mrs. Perkins’ thought that Mrs. Kelly might have come to him as a result of seeing the interview in the paper was a possibility, of course. But why would his refusal of her lead to murder?

  Shayne leaned forward and mashed out his cigarette butt in a clean ashtray on Mrs. Perkins’ desk.

  He glanced aside at the closed door labeled PRIVATE, and asked, “Do you mind if I go into Mr. Fitzgilpin’s office to take a look around?”

  “No reason why I should mind, but I don’t know what you expect to find. The police already looked around without finding anything.”

  She got up and moved around her desk to open the door for him, and Shayne asked her, “Did he keep his personal checkbook here? Any private records?”

  “No. Nothing like that. Just the office accounts, and I take care of those. I can assure you everything is in perfect order.”

  She switched on an overhead light and stepped back to allow the detective to enter a small, neat office with window shades tightly drawn to exclude the morning light. There was a bare desk with a swivel chair behind it, two comfortable leather chairs for clients to sit in, and three green metal filing cabinets ranged along the wall behind the desk. Shayne stood in the doorway for a moment, looking at the swivel chair and imagining the figure of the little man he had seen in the morgue sitting there. An inoffensive, friendly little man, eager to be of service to his clientele, patiently listening to their small troubles and sometimes giving them a helping hand in times of financial stress.

  “You call me if you want me to explain any of the files or anything,” Mrs. Perkins said nervously from behind him. “I know right exactly where everything is.”

  Shayne said absently, “I don’t suppose our answer is going to be in the files.” He moved across the room slowly, circling the desk and seating himself in Fitzgilpin’s swivel chair which creaked softly under his weight. There was a flat center drawer, and three deeper drawers on the right side of the desk. He shrugged non-committally as he sat there, relaxing and letting his mind go as blank as possible. This was where the dead man had sat daily, where he had transacted his business, interviewed clients, and whatever else an insurance broker did during office hours. He had sat in this chair behind this desk last night while a succession of small-salaried people had come to his office after their own work was done, laying grubby bills and silver in front of him to pay up weekly premiums on their small policies.