Too Friendly, Too Dead ms-44

by Brett Halliday

  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.”

  Rourke patted the Rodman file as Shayne sat down beside him. “This just goes back a little over two months, but I think it’s what you want.” He opened it to display the first clipping, a brief story with a New York dateline, headed: ROMANTIC OCEAN INTERLUDE.

  Shayne leaned forward to read the story which began: “When the S.S. Alexander docked at pier 14 this afternoon, reporters were given the details of a moonlit-studded and tropical nights romance which culminated in a seagoing wedding three nights ago performed by Captain Jesse Bergstrom, Commander of the Bermuda vacation liner.

  “The happy couple are Mr. and Mrs. Rutherford G. Rodman who became acquainted on the cruise and plighted their troth in Bermuda before the return trip began.

  “The radiant bride is the former Betsy Ann Durand of Miami, Florida, daughter of land-developer and real-estate tycoon, G. A. Durand of Miami, and the couple plan to set up residence at the Durand estate on Miami Beach.

  “The personable groom is clubman and industrialist Rutherford G. Rodman from Cincinnati, Ohio, who told this reporter he plans to liquidate his holdings in the mid-west and devote his future energies to managing the Durand properties in Florida.

  “It was the first venture into marriage for both bride and groom…”

  Shayne read the newspaper clipping no further. He pushed it aside, his forehead furrowed in thought. “If it’s the same Rutherford G. Rodman…”

  “It is,” Rourke assured him happily. “Here’s a story from our society section five days later. Betsy Ann Durand is headline news in Miami, and we had a photographer out to meet their plane.”

  He showed Shayne a second clipping, much longer than the dispatch from New York, featuring a somewhat cloudy shot of a man and woman poised at the top of the steps leading off a jet plane with their arms around each other.

  The picture of the man was quite clear, and was unmistakably that of the same Rutherford G. Rodman whose photograph Shayne had been carrying around inside a folded menu all day. The bride was wearing a wide, floppy-brimmed hat which obscured her features somewhat; she was as tall as her husband and stood very straight and gracious beside him.

  Shayne studied the picture briefly without bothering to read the text. “That’s our boy,” he muttered. “This Betsy Ann Durand, Tim?”

  “One of the important catches in Miami society,” Rourke told him. “You’ve heard of Durand. An associate of Flagler in the old days. Left a lot of millions when he kicked off ten years ago. Betsy Ann was the only child and inherited most of it. Rodman did all right for himself this time.”

  He opened the bulging folder marked Durand, and began leafing through it. “Here’s Betsy Ann at Hialeah last year. And another one of her opening the Flower Show at the Woman’s Club.” He slid two glossy portraits out to show Shayne, and the detective studied them with at first a bewildered and then a growing and more positive sense of recognition.

  He said, “It’s Mrs. Kelly, Tim. Goddamn it, it has to be Mrs. Kelly!”

  15

  “Mrs. Kelly?” echoed Timothy Rourke.

  “That’s right. The woman who tried to take out a quarter-million dollar policy on her husband. This Betsy Ann Durand fits Fitzgilpin’s secretary’s description of her to a T.” Shayne closed his eyes and brought to his mind a vivid memory of Mrs. Perkins’ voice that morning. He quoted aloud: “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.” He opened his eyes to look down at the pictures of Betsy Ann Durand again. “How’s that for a description of the heiress?”

  “Absolutely perfect. The secretary was right, you know, about no man ever paying her attention. She must be in her mid-thirties now, and everyone figured her for a confirmed spinster.”

  “So she was ready and ripe for a good-looking no-good like Rodman on a tropical cruise. Are they in Miami now?”

  “I’m sure they are. They reopened the big house on the Beach. But, Mike. Why in hell would she want to take out a big policy on her new husband? She’s the one with the money. Millions of it.”

  “Who knows why a woman does anything? Maybe she figures he’s worth that to her. Sort of coppering her bet.”

  “Why would she use an alias?”

  “That’s easier to understand. Probably she did know her proposal was illegal, and she was trying Fitzgilpin out. If he’d responded, she would have given her real name. As it was, she left no trail behind her.”

  Both men were silent for a moment, staring down at the pictures and clippings and trying to see how this new development fitted into Fitzgilpin’s death.

  “We’ve got several things,” Shayne said slowly. “We know he concealed his first wedding from his new wife. The clipping says it was the first marriage for both of them. That story was in a New York paper two months ago. If Rose read it she might well have been tempted to try a little blackmail.”

  “Just because he hadn’t told his wife he’d been married before?”

  “Well… that. And we don’t even know if he’d gotten a divorce, Tim. Rose hadn’t mentioned it to her best friend if there had been a divorce. Bigamy would make a nice juicy blackmail item. With him married to a millionairess this time. If that were true, you can’t blame Rose for thinking she was in a position to come down to Miami and collect a wad of cash.”

  “Instead of which,” said Rourke, “she collected a lethal dose of sodium amytal.”

  Shayne nodded somberly. “That’s the way it’s beginning to look. And it would lead directly to Fitzgilpin’s murder also. Don’t you see how one would follow the other? Assume Rodman did kill her when she showed up in Miami demanding money for her silence. He’d feel safe then. Until suddenly a couple of weeks ago he came across Jerome Fitzgilpin’s name in the interview you printed. According to Blanche Carson in New York, none of them knew Miami was Fitzgilpin’s hometown. But Jerome Fitzgilpin is quite an unusual name. Think how Rodman would feel knowing that one of the witnesses to his first wedding lived right here. Married to a rich woman, there were bound to be pictures of him in the papers and stories about him. Sooner or later, Fitzgilpin would see a picture and read one of those stories. And he’d wonder what had happened to Rose McNally. Rodman would really have been in a sweat if that’s the way it was.”

  “But he couldn’t be sure this Fitzgilpin was the same man.”

  “No. And that’s why he sent his wife to the office to see the man and find out if he was the right one.”

  “That doesn’t make sense,” protested Rourke. “Your theory is that everything depended on him keeping the truth from Betsy Ann. How could he send her to the office to find out?”

  “God knows what sort of story he dreamed up to get her to do it. Don’t forget that all our information points to Rodman as a fairly accomplished con man. He could have thought up some tale that would send her to Fitzgilpin. A woman like that… she’s probably completely enamoured of him and eager to believe any damned thing he tells her.”

  “I’ll buy that much,” Rourke agreed. “But still and all… it’s a pretty far-fetched theory.”

  “Have you got a better one?”

  “No. Not right now.” Rourke scowled and began gathering up the clippings and pictures and putting them back in their proper folders.

  Shayne shrugged and said, “There’s one good way to find out.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Ask him.” Shayne looked at his watch. “Do you know where the Durand house is?”

  “Vaguely. It’s one of those little islands dredged up on the east side of the Bay that stick out from the peninsula.”

  “A handy pla
ce to toss a former wife into the water and have her turn up on the other side of the Bay a few days later,” Shayne commented drily.

  “Exactly. You going to take Painter along?”

  “Hell, no.” Shayne looked at him in surprise. “Right now, this has got to be strictly off the record. Do you suppose the address is in the phone book?”

  Rourke shook his head, reaching for a well-thumbed directory. “Not Rodman. But Durand should be.” He opened the book and looked for a moment, then nodded. “Five-sixteen Loma Vista. That’s out… oh, around Sixtieth Street.”

  Shayne said, “Why not give him a call, Tim? Find out if he’s in, so we won’t waste a trip.”

  “What’ll I say?”

  Shayne looked at him in surprise. “Hell, that you’re a reporter and want an interview with him to get his expert opinion on the future of land values on the Beach.”

  “At this time of night?” scoffed Rourke, reaching for his telephone nevertheless.

  “At least we’ll find out if he’s home.”

  Rourke dialed the number and waited. Shayne lit a cigarette, frowning absently at the spiral of blue smoke that rose up past his eyes. It was all pretty pat. Too pat? Who could say? Everything seemed to fit. And it was the only answer that did fit, he told himself. He listened to Rourke say, “Mr. Rodman, please.”

  And then, “This is a reporter on the News in Miami. It’s important that I speak with Mr. Rodman as soon as possible.”

  He paused a moment, then shook his head and said, “No, thanks. I’ll try again in about an hour.” He hung up and told Shayne, “I got a British accent you could cut with a knife. A butler, I bet, if they still have such things on the Beach. Mr. Rodman is out, but is expected to return within the hour.”

  Shayne nodded and said, “So we’ve got a little time to kill. Look in your directory again and see if you can find a number for Mrs. Ella Perkins on the Beach.”

  Rourke started looking without asking why. In a moment he gave Shayne a telephone number and address, and the detective reached to lift the phone from his desk and said, “I’ll talk to her if she answers.”

  Rourke dialed the number for him, and after several rings a sleepy and somewhat worried voice answered, “Yes? Who is it?”

  “This is the detective who was in your office this morning, Mrs. Perkins. Michael Shayne.”

  “Oh yes, Mr. Shayne. Whatever is it? I’m afraid I was asleep…”

  “Sorry to disturb you, but something important has come up. Would it put you out terribly if I stopped by in about half an hour for just a minute?”

  “Of course not, Mr. Shayne. Is it something to do with… Mr. Fitzgilpin?”

  “You may be able to identify a murderer for me,” he told her grimly, then added reassuringly, “Not in person. But by looking at a picture.”

  “I’ll certainly do my best,” she faltered.

  He hung up and told Rourke, “Let’s take one of those pictures of Betsy Ann Durand with us. With Mrs. Perkins’ positive identification we’ll be in a better position to put pressure on Rodman.” They drove over together to Miami Beach in Shayne’s car, and found Mrs. Perkins’ address was in a neat apartment building only a few blocks from the insurance office. Shayne left Rourke in the car while he went in with the photograph in his hand and rang the bell of her ground-floor apartment.

  She opened it at once, wearing a faded, gray housecoat and with her hair done up in curlers. “You’ll have to excuse my appearance, but I was asleep when you called like I said, and I just didn’t take time…”

  He said, “That’s perfectly okay, Mrs. Perkins. I appreciate you seeing me at this late hour. I want you to look at this picture and tell me if you’ve ever seen the woman before.”

  She took the picture from him and looked at it. “Yes. Of course,” she said at once. “It’s a picture of that Mrs. Kelly. You remember. The one I told you about who came to see Mr. Fitzgilpin…”

  “About taking out an insurance policy on her husband without his knowledge,” Shayne ended for her grimly. “Thank you, Mrs. Perkins. That’s the one positive link I needed.”

  “But… was it her did it, Mr. Shayne? Whatever on earth…?”

  He said, “I think you’ll be able to read all about it in the newspaper tomorrow morning. Go on back to bed knowing that you’ve done more to break the case than any other single person.”

  Back in the driver’s seat of his car, he told Rourke jubilantly, “Got it. No question whatsoever about her identification.”

  He started the motor and drove northward, letting Rourke watch for street signs and direct him to the Durand mansion.

  It was a huge, three-storied pile of weathered coral standing alone on a small man-made island in the Bay, reached by traversing a short private bridge from the bayshore.

  There was dim light showing in a second-story window when Shayne stopped under the wide porte-cochere beside a black Thunderbird.

  They got out and Shayne slid his hand over the sleek hood of the other car as they went by. It was very warm to his touch.

  They mounted stone steps and Shayne found an electric button and put his finger on it. He held the button pressed down for at least ninety seconds before a light showed behind the glass pane above the door.

  He took his finger off the bell and waited, heard a chain being released inside and then the door opened cautiously. A broad, solemn-faced man of middle age confronted them. He was in his undershirt and suspenders, and there was a look of outrage on his face. “I say now. Whatever is the meaning of this?”

  “Police business,” Shayne told him curtly, moving forward so he couldn’t close the door. “Call Mr. Rodman, please.”

  “Mr. Rodman has retired, I’m afraid. Police business, you say. And what may I ask…?”

  “Roust him out,” Shayne interrupted. “He hasn’t been retired long.”

  “What’s the meaning of this intrusion, Albert?” The incisive question came from behind Albert and above him. He stepped back and turned, opening the door wider so Shayne could see the tall and darkly handsome figure of Rutherford Rodman standing on the landing of a wide stairway that led directly up from the entrance hall.

  He wore a foulard dressing gown tightly belted around his slim waist, and he looked every inch the Master of the Manor. He also held a heavy. 45 automatic in his right hand by his side with every indication that he knew how to handle it.

  16

  “These men say they are police officers, Sir,” Albert replied.

  “Policemen? At this time of night?” Rodman lifted one eyebrow ironically. “Suppose you show Albert your credentials before you come any farther inside my house.”

  “I didn’t say we were cops,” Shayne told him. “I said we’re here on police business. I’m a private investigator from Miami, and this is my associate, Mr. Rourke.” He got out his wallet and flipped it open to show the butler his I.D. card.

  “A private detective?” said Rodman. “If this is police business, why aren’t the police here to conduct it?”

  “You can have them if you prefer. In a matter of minutes,” Shayne told him. “I’m giving you a chance to answer some questions privately which may obviate calling in the police at all.”

  “His credentials seem to be in order, Sir,” Albert said nervously, handing Shayne’s wallet back to him.

  “Very well then.” Rutherford Rodman descended the stairs slowly, lowering the barrel of his pistol and letting it dangle at the end of his arm. “Show them into the library, Albert.”

  The butler switched on another light and led them down a short hall on the right to a large, gloomy room with its walls lined with books. Rodman followed them in and crossed to a fireside chair and laid his automatic on a table beside it. He said, “That will be all, Albert, but remain on call.”

  Albert said, “Very well, Mr. Rodman,” and soft-footed out.

  “Now,” said Rodman. “What is this about? You say your name is Shayne?”

  The redhead sat down
in a chair near Rodman and nodded. “That’s right.” Rourke unobtrusively took a chair slightly behind Rodman and took some copy paper from his pocket.

  “I’m investigating a murder that occurred here on the Beach last night,” Shayne explained amiably to his host. “I think you may be able to give us some valuable information. The dead man is Jerome Fitzgilpin.”

  Rodman nodded thoughtfully, making a tent of his ten fingers in front of him. Not a flicker of expression showed that the name meant anything particular to him. “I read about it in the paper,” he said indifferently. “Really, I don’t know what sort of information you expect me to have.”

  “You knew him, didn’t you?”

  “A man named Fitzgilpin?” Rodman looked surprised. “Not that I am aware of.”

  “You knew him in New York a year and a half ago well enough to ask him to be a witness at your first wedding.”

  Rodman sat rigidly still, looking down at his hands and pressing the palms tightly together.

  “Was that his name? The little fellow who stood up with us? I didn’t even know he lived in Miami, and his name has slipped my mind entirely.”

  “Wouldn’t you like to change that to: You didn’t know he lived in Miami until you saw a write-up about him in the paper two weeks ago?”

  Rodman looked up with a flash of anger. “No, I wouldn’t. What makes you suggest that?”

  Shayne shrugged. “You do admit a former marriage in New York to a girl named Rose McNally at which Fitzgilpin was a witness?”

  “I’ve stated I don’t recall the man’s name,” snapped Rodman. “Possibly it was Fitzgilpin.”

  “And,” Shayne went on smoothly, “you admit you concealed your first marriage from your present wife?”

  “Is that a crime? I consider it wholly a private affair what I may or may not have told my wife.”

  “I suspect it was a bit of perjury,” Shayne told him cheerfully. “I believe you have to swear to the facts when you take out a wedding license. But we’re not interested in perjury. How about bigamy, Mr. Rodman?”