Too Friendly, Too Dead

by Brett Halliday

  Shayne thoughtfully finished his second cocktail and waited appreciatively while a third was set before him. Then he picked up a menu and suggested, “Shall we order dinner? I have to be back at the airport a little after eight.”

  “Yes. Let’s.” She began looking at her menu also, and Shayne asked, “Can you suggest anything in particular?”

  “Their pot-au-feu is wonderful, if you like it. They make it as a specialty for two. A whole chicken in one pot, with herbs and vegetables and wine.”

  Shayne said, “It sounds perfect to me,” and nodded to the waiter, who was listening attentively.

  “When you did see Rose again, her husband had left her?”

  “Yes. Just walked out without a word. After she’d been supporting him for two or three months. It was good riddance, of course, and she never wanted to see him again.”

  “Did she?”

  “I don’t think so. I didn’t see her much for about a year. Then suddenly she called me up about two months ago and asked me to have dinner with her. She was happy and excited… more like the old Rose I’d known before her marriage. And she had some kind of secret scheme for getting a lot of money. Oodles of it, she told me. But she was very mysterious and wouldn’t tell me how she was going to do it. Just that she was going to Miami the next day, and when she came back she’d call me and maybe we’d take a trip around the world together, and like that.

  “She was so romantic. Always imagining things and making up stories. Like pretending to be a rich debutante when she first met Rutherford. So I was skeptical when she told me this, but she insisted it was true this time. She seemed so very positive that I was halfway convinced myself. And I kept waiting to hear from her, and never did. Not a word. And I called Bonwit’s after a couple of weeks and they said she’d quit her job and they had no new address for her. And I went around to her old place and they didn’t know anything. Now it’s your turn,” Blanche told Shayne soberly. “I’ve told you everything and you haven’t told me anything.”

  “At this point,” said Shayne frankly, “I’m not sure what I’ve got to tell you. Does the name of Kelly mean anything to you? Ever hear Rose mention it?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Or George Nourse?”

  “No. Who are they?”

  “A couple of names that have come up in connection with Fitzgilpin’s murder last night. Both of them more or less leading back to his trip to New York a year and a half ago.”

  Shayne paused as their chicken was placed before them in a large earthenware pot. He waited while the waiter deftly served joint portions to them, appreciatively sniffed the aromatic steam arising from his plate, and asked Blanche one final question.

  “Did you ever know of Rose having a prescription for sodium amytal? It’s a high-powered sleeping drug.”

  “No. Rose never took anything like that while she lived with me. Why?”

  “That’s what killed Jerome Fitzgilpin last night. He was poisoned by sodium amytal.”

  “Do you suspect Rose had anything to do with his death?” Blanche leaned toward him, her young face showing concern and strain. “Why? What reason can you have?”

  “Right now,” growled Shayne, “I’m not being reasonable. I’m clutching at straws. You’ve been frank with me, and you deserve to know the truth. Eat your chicken while I explain what brought me to New York to talk to you.”

  He started at the beginning with a recital of Fitzgilpin’s death and the homicide investigation which had followed. When he concluded the story, he spread out his hands and admitted, “That’s all I’ve got, Blanche. Admittedly, it’s damned little. If we only knew what Rose had in mind when she took off for Miami. You say she spoke of a lot of money. How much would have been a lot to a girl like Rose? Ten thousand? Fifty thousand? Half a million?”

  “Fifty, I should think. Not ten. Not the way she was talking. But fifty or a hundred thousand would be really big money to her.”

  “How could she possibly plan to get her hands on a sum like that? Think carefully, Blanche. You knew Rose. If it were an inheritance, she would have given you the details. You must have wondered about it… why she was so secretive. Didn’t you come to the conclusion that she’d planned something illegal… something she knew you wouldn’t approve, and thus didn’t tell you?”

  Blanche nodded miserably. “Yes. I did think that. She was a peculiar girl. Nice, but… but, she was hard too. She was an orphan and had to make her own way from the time she finished high school. She didn’t exactly feel the world owed her a living, but she did feel… oh, I don’t know exactly. That whatever she could get out of life, she deserved. That’s why… she saw nothing really wrong about tricking Rutherford Rodman into marriage by making him believe she was rich. Later, when it developed he’d tricked her too, she was philosophical about it.”

  “Blackmail?” suggested Shayne gently. “Would that be out of her line?”

  “I don’t know,” Blanche confessed miserably. “Under certain circumstances. If the person had a great deal of money and Rose felt he didn’t deserve any decent consideration. Yes, I think I can see her justifying blackmail under those conditions.”

  “Someone like Rutherford Rodman,” said Shayne flatly.

  “Yes. Certainly Rutherford,” said Blanche with spirit. “I’m positive Rose wouldn’t have hesitated to blackmail him if she were given the opportunity. But he had no money.”

  “Neither did Jerome Fitzgilpin,” said Shayne broodingly. “Not the sort of money that would appeal to Rose. I just don’t know at this point. You’ve been a big help,” he told Blanche, finishing his chicken and glancing at his watch. “And you’ve got a date to go dancing. Shall we just have coffee and skip dessert?”

  “Oh, yes,” she said a trifle ruefully. “I never eat dessert though I can’t seem to lose a pound. You will let me know about Rose, won’t you? As soon as you find out anything. The one thing I can’t understand is why she didn’t let me know. That last night when I saw her… she promised me so faithfully that she would let me know how things turned out. I can’t think of any reason why she hasn’t even dropped me a card.”

  Shayne could think of one reason, but he didn’t mention it to Blanche. If blackmail had been Rose’s object, it was a pretty dangerous project to embark upon.

  They finished their coffee while talking about trivialities, and Shayne found a taxi outside which dropped Blanche at her apartment and then took him back to the airport in ample time for him to put in a call for Timothy Rourke at the News before his plane took off.

  “I’m at the New York airport,” he told the reporter. “Catching an eight-thirty plane back. Eastern, Flight number six. Meet me at the airport?”

  “What in hell are you doing in New York?” groaned Rourke. “All hell has broken loose here. The widow Fitzgilpin has disappeared and Painter is having kittens all over the place.”

  “Disappeared? When? How?”

  “No one knows. She just turned up missing when Painter finally got around to her. She and both the children. I guess he suspects you spirited them off to New York with you. Did you?”

  “Hell, no,” growled Shayne. “I don’t know any more about it than you do. Has he caught up with Nourse yet?”

  “That’s another thing,” said Rourke aggrievedly. “I’m sitting on that and wondering when in hell it’s going to blow up under me. Yeh. Painter caught up with Nourse. In L. A. this afternoon. Nourse is there and swears he hasn’t been in Miami for over a year. Painter believes him.”

  “Doesn’t Petey realize it’s only five hours by jet plane to Los Angeles?”

  “Evidently not. Anyhow, that’s when he decided it was time to interview the widow… and she wasn’t home when he got there. Have you got her hid out, Mike?”

  “No. Look, I’ve got to get on that plane, Tim. One thing I want you to do. Check on any unsolved murders in the last couple of months. Unidentified bodies of gals in their mid-twenties on either side of the bay. I’ve run in
to a missing person here in New York.”

  “Right now I don’t remember… wait a minute,” said Rourke with rising excitement. “I think there was such a one, Mike. I’ll have to check it out, but…”

  “You check and have all the dope for me when I get there. They’re calling my plane right now. See you at the airport, Tim.”

  14

  Back at the Miami airport Shayne found Timothy Rourke, as expected, waiting for him at a small table just inside the bar. The reporter had a drink in front of him, and he was alert and eager as Shayne sat down and ordered a drink. “What’s this fast trip to New York about? Damn it, Mike. Why don’t you keep me posted?”

  Shayne said, “Hold your horses. I’ll bring you up to date fast enough. One thing at a time. Is Linda Fitzgilpin still missing?”

  “Right off the face of the earth. And Painter is really gunning for you. He blames you for preventing him from getting her story earlier.”

  “At noon today he was thanking me for it. You heard him yourself.”

  “Yeh. But that was noon. Level with me, Mike. Did you arrange to have her hide out from Painter?”

  “No. In fact the last time I spoke to her… before noon… I extracted a solemn promise from her that she’d tell him the exact truth when he came around. When did he discover she was missing?”

  “About five o’clock. After he’d checked out Nourse in L. A. and become convinced the man hadn’t been in Miami last night. You’re sure he was, Mike?”

  “No. I’ve only the widow’s word for it. No one else saw him that I know of.”

  “Any reason for her to lie about it?”

  “I sure as hell can’t see any.” Shayne sipped his drink and frowned. “It was about the worst sort of admission she could make, and I had to drag it out of her piecemeal. Painter went to her place at five?”

  “Yeh. With Sergeant Drake from Miami Homicide. They got no answer at her door, and got the super up to let them in… fearing, I guess, that maybe she’d done both herself and the youngsters in. No sign of them. Everything in order. No evidence of packing or hurried departure. He figured, naturally, that you’d spirited her away.”

  “Naturally,” Shayne agreed blandly. “After all, she is a good-looking redhead. We’ll find her, Tim. I can’t believe she’s gone very far. What did you pick up on that other? Any unidentified female bodies in the last two months?”

  “Just one.”

  “That’s all I need. Give.”

  “It was just about two months ago.” Rourke got some notes from his pocket and consulted them. “Body of a young woman washed up on the West shore of Biscayne Bay about Eightieth Street. She’d been in the water several days and just wore a slip and underwear. Her face had been bashed in, and several days in the water hadn’t improved her appearance. There was never any identification. Missing Persons put flyers out on her all over the country with no results. And you know something, Mike?” Rourke paused dramatically, pleased as a child with the secret he was about to impart.

  “Not very much.”

  “Autopsy showed she was full of sodium amytal when she was beaten and thrown in the water. How do you like that?”

  “Very much. Rose McNally.”

  “Who?”

  “Mrs. Rutherford Rodman. Remember the photograph I showed you this morning? Together with this menu?” Shayne got them from his pocket and showed Rourke the picture again. “That’s Rose McNally when she got married over a year ago. The man is Rutherford Rodman. Jerome Fitzgilpin was a witness at their wedding.”

  “How do you know all this?” Rourke asked helplessly.

  “That’s why I flew to New York. Rose disappeared from there headed for Miami about two months ago. She told a girl friend she was excited about getting her hands on a big wad of money. How does that figure to you?”

  “Attempted blackmail?”

  Shayne shrugged. “She wouldn’t be the first blackmailer who ever turned up floating in the water.”

  “But who, Mike? Where would blackmail come in? And how does that connect with Fitzgilpin’s murder last night?”

  “The sodium amytal connects the two. It worked successfully once two months ago, why wouldn’t it work again? Murderers aren’t too imaginative.”

  “But why?”

  “That’s for us to figure out.”

  “The way I get it, Fitzgilpin did the couple a favor purely out of the goodness of his heart. Why should someone kill him for that?”

  “What reason did anyone have for killing him? That’s what we’ve been up against from the beginning. Friendliest man in the world without a single known enemy. Yet someone fed him poison. That’s been the stumbling block. Now it begins to look as though he was killed because he was so friendly.”

  “Hell of a note,” muttered Rourke, turning up his glass. “Generally when you dig back into a man’s life you discover scads of people who wanted him dead the worst way.”

  “That’s right. So you trace down a few alibis and find one that doesn’t stand up, and that’s it.” Shayne sighed and rubbed his angular jaw reflectively. “That’s not the way it comes out this time.”

  “There is the widow. She admitted having an affair and asking him for a divorce.”

  “Yeh,” Shayne agreed noncommittally, “we’ve still got the widow.”

  “Only, we haven’t got her. She did take a run-out powder, damn it. If you’ve got any idea where to find her…”

  “Let Painter find her,” said Shayne grimly. “Right now, I believe Linda’s story: That she and her husband were reconciled and she hadn’t seen or heard from Nourse until he turned up unexpectedly last night. Women don’t normally kill a husband who has been good enough to take them back after an affair like that.”

  “Then who…?”

  “There’s that goddamned telephone call. Kelly!” Shayne ran knobby fingers through his bristly red hair. “If we could only tie someone named Kelly into the picture. A woman looking for an insurance broker who is willing to disregard the rules and sell her a quarter-million dollar insurance policy on her husband’s life without his knowledge. Just the first premium on that policy would be a hunk of money. I wonder if she went elsewhere after Fitzgilpin turned her down. I suppose there are plenty of crooked brokers who would arrange a deal like that.”

  “No doubt.”

  “If she did succeed in putting it over, we’d be doing the husband a favor by telling him. How many Kellys do you suppose there are in Miami?”

  “Several hundred. It’s a damned common name. Almost like Smith or Jones, I think.”

  “Yeh,” said Shayne slowly. “Almost as common as Smith or Jones. I wonder, by God, if we’ve been barking up the wrong tree.”

  “How?” asked Rourke alertly.

  “It just occurred to me that if you wanted to choose a common name as an alias you’d be smart to choose one like Kelly instead of Smith or Jones.”

  “So?”

  Shayne shrugged. “It’s an idea, that’s all.”

  Rourke looked disapprovingly at his empty glass, then glanced down at the picture of the newly-married couple still lying face up on the table. He picked it up and turned it to get a better light, and frowned angrily. “I’ve still got that sneaking hunch I had when I first saw this picture. That I should know the guy. That I’ve seen him somewhere recently. Rodman, you say?”

  “Rutherford G. Rodman. At least that’s the name he gave the New York license bureau.”

  “Rodman?” Rourke closed his eyes tightly and savored the name while Shayne watched him hopefully, knowing the reporter’s uncanny ability to remember faces he had seen maybe only once or twice in the sometime distant past.

  Slowly a change came over Rourke’s tight-drawn features. They relaxed and he opened his eyes wide. “I think I’ve got it, Mike. Hold onto your horses, but by God, I think I have. Let’s get the hell over to the News morgue.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Don’t push me.” Rourke pushed back his chair. “Do
n’t kill the image. It’s tenuous right now. I’ve got to hold onto it. See you at the office.”

  He hurried out of the room almost at a trot, head thrust forward and thin shoulders hunched as though he were a hunting dog following an almost indefinable scent.

  Shayne paid the bill and left almost immediately behind him. He got his car from the parking lot where he had left it a few hours earlier and drove at a moderate pace toward the News office.

  Driving through the balmy hush of the Miami night he was conscious of the beginning of a driving excitement that welled up inside of him. He was coming close to an answer. He knew he was. All his past experience told him he was on the edge of it. Somehow the tangled threads were beginning to untangle. He didn’t know how it would happen, nor where the various threads would lead, but he knew it wouldn’t be long now. He had all the various pieces of the puzzle in his hands and it was only a matter of time before they fitted themselves together into a clear pattern.

  As yet, there certainly was no discernible pattern, clear or otherwise. He discovered he was in no hurry to reach the newspaper office. The answer would be there. He had no real doubt of that. He had seen Timothy Rourke in action too often in the past to doubt the veracity of the reporter’s hunch this time.

  In the meantime, Shayne enjoyed seeking the answer in his own mind, and he refused to be annoyed when he did not find it. Somewhere at the end of the line was a two-time murderer who had employed sodium amytal twice to kill his victims. It was a vicious, cold-blooded method of killing, and he wouldn’t regret tracking the murderer down.

  He felt wholly calm and impersonal about it as he parked outside the News and went in to see if Rourke was at his accustomed desk in the City Room. The reporter was there waiting for him. Slouched back in his chair with two cardboard files he had gotten from the morgue in front of him, and with a satisfied smile on his thin face.

  One of the files was fat and bulging with newspaper clippings, and the other was thin. The fat one was labeled “Durand,” the thin one bore the name, “Rodman.”