Shayne muttered, “Let’s hope she’ll keep it the way I told her to.”
“You can’t hold out much longer,” Rourke warned him.
“I know. But damn it, Tim! If there’s any way in the world to do so I want to avoid tossing Muriel to Painter and you boys. A story like that will hang over her head the rest of her life. Even her fiancé who seems a nice enough kid, probably won’t be able to stomach the whole truth.”
“If she is responsible for Gleason’s death, you won’t be able to keep it hidden.”
“I know that as well as you do.” Shayne tossed off his drink savagely. “That’s why I’ve got a lot of things to do before her plane lands at seven.”
“Such as what?”
“Such as: Who is Saul Henderson? According to Mrs. Gleason, that isn’t his name. What’s the connection between Gleason and him, going back to the period before she and Gleason were married. Get your paper to work on Henderson’s background, Tim. Contact the News Services in New York and have them start some discreet digging. Get us some ammunition before seven o’clock.”
“I’ll try,” Rourke said doubtfully. “It’s pretty early in the morning to get any real action out of New York.” He yawned and got up. “What will you be doing?”
Shayne said, “I don’t know.”
“Sitting on your dead butt while I dig up information for you?” suggested Rourke good-humoredly.
Shayne said, “It’s your story you’re going after. Hell, I don’t even have a client or a retainer.”
“You meeting the seven-ten plane?” asked Rourke casually as he strolled toward the door.
“Let’s meet at the airport about six-forty-five to see if you’ve got anything. The coffee shop.”
Rourke said, “Fine,” and went out with a farewell wave of his hand.
Shayne paced the floor for a time after the reporter left, considering and discarding various plans for getting background information on Gleason and Henderson in a hurry. As Rourke had pointed out, it was an awkward hour to get anything definite done—and it was even an hour earlier in Illinois than in Miami. However, Shayne didn’t know how busy he would be later in the day, and he decided he might as well get a couple of angles started.
He consulted his old address book from the center drawer of the sitting-room table, and found a Chicago number which he called.
He sat and listened while the phone rang at least a dozen times in the Midwestern city, and he grinned happily when a surly and sleepy voice finally replied.
“That you, Bitsy?”
“Yeh. Who’s that sounding so happy to wake a guy up?”
“Gee, I’m sorry about that,” said Shayne with elaborate concern. “When I knew you, pal, you’d just about be ready for bed at this hour.”
“Then it was a hell of a lot of years ago,” yawned Bitsy Baker in Chicago. “Who is this?”
“Mike Shayne.”
“Mike… Shayne? I’ll be damned. You in town, Mike?”
“Nope. Miami.”
“What’s up?” The voice was suddenly wide-awake and businesslike.
“You free to take on a little job?”
“Soon as it gets daylight out here.”
“Write this down, Bitsy. Algonquin, Illinois. Know where it is?”
“Sure. Out in the country a little way.”
“Get out there by the time the farmers start waking up. There’s a Harry Gleason just been killed here tonight. Lived in Algonquin ten years. Bartender in some bar. Get every damned thing you can on Harry Gleason and his wife, Hilda, a native of the town. What I want mostly is background on Gleason. As far back as you can get. He may have had a different name in the past. Check the cops, newspapers and friends… you know.”
“Sure, I know.”
“Also, these last two months, Bitsy. Any strangers been in town to see him. Any talk he’s done around the bar about a trip to Miami or prospects for picking up some quick dough. Get whatever you can and call me collect at my office.” Shayne gave him the number. “Say, ten o’clock this morning, your time. I’ll know by then whether I want you to do any more.”
“Sure, Mike. How’re things otherwise?”
Shayne said, “Dull.”
“Same here. Ten o’clock. By.”
Shayne said, “Good-by, Bitsy,” and hung up. He took another small drink and paced the floor a short time longer, and then called the Henderson number on Miami Beach.
Mr. Henderson’s voice answered promptly, indicating that the financier hadn’t been any more able to sleep than Shayne had.
The detective slurred his voice into a slangy southern drawl: “That there Mister Henderson?”
“This is Henderson, yes. Who’s calling?”
“This here’s a frien’ uh Harry’s, pal.”
There was a long pause and Shayne wondered if the man would hang up. He didn’t. He asked uncertainly, “Harry who?”
“Harry Gleason, thass who.” Shayne chuckled evilly. “You didn’ reckon it was all ended nice an’ clean an’ sweet just from you knockin’ Harry off, did yuh?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea what you are talking about.” Henderson was breathing hard and the words sounded as though he almost strangled over them.
“I reckon you kin guess. I’ll be seein’ yuh.” Shayne hung up and wiped beads of sweat from his forehead. He fervently hoped that Henderson was sweating too.
He looked at his watch and went into the kitchenette to put water on the stove to boil, and measured coffee into a dripolator. When it boiled, he poured it into the top and went into the bathroom to shave, then stripped off his clothes and took a fast shower.
Twenty minutes after making his call to Henderson, dressed in fresh clothes and with a mug of hot black coffee at his elbow, Shayne called the Beach number again.
Again Henderson’s voice answered as if he had been sitting waiting for the instrument to ring.
“Mike Shayne, Henderson. I suppose you know your victim has been identified.”
“Yes, I… a reporter called me half an hour ago. Some man from the Midwest, I understand. But under the circumstances, Shayne, I hardly think the word ‘victim’ is the correct designation for him.”
“Let’s let it ride until we have a better one,” Shayne suggested blithely. “A man named Harry Gleason, eh?”
“So they say.” Henderson sounded very unhappy about it.
“What do you think of the story his wife told the police?”
“I was given only the gist of it. I have no comment. I never heard of the man before. But, Shayne…” his voice suddenly became imploring, “… now that you’re on the line… I wonder… I need to talk to you,” he ended desperately. “I just had another very peculiar telephone call and I’ve been wondering what to do. I would like to engage your professional services,” he added formally.
Shayne said wolfishly, “I don’t know whether they’re for hire to you or not. But I’m willing to discuss it with you.”
“Right away? Could you come over?” Henderson sounded pathetically eager.
Shayne said, “I can be there in half an hour,” and hung up. He finished his coffee with satisfaction, and went out to drive over to the Beach.
The sun was up over the Atlantic when he arrived at the Henderson house. There were no cars in the driveway, but an unmarked sedan was parked unobtrusively on the street just beyond the entrance, and the man sitting behind the wheel was smoking a cigarette and had the brim of his hat pulled low on his forehead. Shayne grinned at this evidence of Painter’s thoroughness, and turned in the drive to park in front of the door.
Henderson opened it for him as soon as he pressed the button. He was fully dressed and clean-shaven, but his thin features were strained and his eyes were bloodshot.
“Come right in, Mr. Shayne.” He led the way through the archway and dropped disconsolately into a deep chair beside an ash tray piled high with half-smoked cigarette butts. “This has been a most harrowing experience.” He rubbed the bac
k of his right hand wearily across his eyes. “It was good of you to come. This last occurrence has completely unnerved me.”
“Tell me about it.” Shayne sprawled his rangy body into a chair near him.
There was a bottle of Drambuie and a stemmed liqueur glass on the table beside Henderson’s chair. The glass held a small portion of the thick liqueur, and he picked it up and drained it, asking Shayne, “Would you care for some? Or something else perhaps?”
Shayne shook his head. “I switched to coffee an hour ago. What have you to tell me?”
“There was an anonymous telephone call. Mysterious and definitely threatening.” He settled back and half closed his eyes and repeated what Shayne had said to him over the telephone almost word for word.
“Yet I swear I don’t know anyone named Harry Gleason,” he protested as he finished. “I can’t make head nor tail of it. But it does indicate that… that my life is still in danger. I beg you to take the case, Mr. Shayne. Find out who is threatening me, and why.”
“I’ll consider it if you’ll come clean with me.”
“But I have… ah… come clean with you.”
Shayne said, “You can make a start by telling me what name you used before you started calling yourself Saul Henderson.”
All the color drained from Henderson’s face at the same time that the strength oozed from his body. He wilted in his chair, white-faced and panicky. Then he called on some inner reserves and swung angrily to his feet.
“I don’t know what your game is, Shayne, but whatever it is, I don’t like it. You’ve been throwing out veiled hints and implications ever since yesterday afternoon, and I’ve had enough of it. I’ll see you to the door.” He swung on his heel and walked stiffly toward the archway and Shayne came quickly to his feet to follow him, pausing by his host’s chair to pick up the empty liqueur glass carefully by the fragile stem, and drop it into the side pocket of his jacket.
Henderson was standing holding the front door wide open when Shayne ambled out. He stood in frozen-faced silence while Shayne paused to say, “My secretary will bill you for this visit, Henderson,” and he closed the door loudly behind the detective.
Shayne drove swiftly back to Miami and stopped at police headquarters where he found Sergeant Calhoun on duty in the Identification Department. He took the liqueur glass carefully from his pocket, handling it by the flared bottom, and told the sergeant:
“This should have some pretty good prints that might have a bearing on that Beach killing. Get an authorization from Chief Gentry if you need it, but I wish you’d rush them to Washington fast.”
Sergeant Calhoun said cheerfully, “I’ll get them off first, and ask for the authorization later, Mike,” and Shayne hurried out of the building to his car and drove directly to the airport.
It was two minutes after seven o’clock when he got his car parked and reached the coffee shop. Timothy Rourke occupied a stool near the door, nursing a cup of black coffee. Shayne sat beside him and said, “The same” to a white-jacketed waiter. “Any luck, Tim?”
“About what you’d expect. A few unimportant items going back past his marriage to Mrs. Graham. Reading between the lines, there’s nothing to indicate he was very much of anybody or had too much dough until he latched onto the rich widow. As soon as offices open in New York, there’ll be a squad of legmen going around interviewing everyone who had contact with him before his marriage.” He looked at his watch as the waiter put a cup of coffee in front of Shayne. “Plane’s due in about three minutes. On time, they say.”
Shayne nodded absently, taking a sip of hot coffee and wishing he were home drinking his own brew. “Watch out for Henderson to blow a gasket when I try to grab hold of the girl for a quiet talk. Shove him around a little if you have to in order to give me a crack at her.”
Rourke nodded as the loudspeaker announced the arrival of Muriel Graham’s flight from New York. They got up and joined a small group of waiting people moving toward the gate through which incoming passengers would come. As they worked their way toward the gate, Shayne nudged Rourke and pointed toward Peter Painter flanked by two Miami cops standing squarely in front of the barrier. “Petey isn’t missing a bet.”
“And there’s Henderson, who doesn’t look too happy to see him,” Rourke rejoined, jerking his head toward the harried-looking mayoralty candidate pushing his way through to come up immediately behind the chief of detectives.
The redhead and the reporter watched with interest as deplaning passengers streamed toward the gate. There weren’t too many arrivals on this early flight, and Shayne didn’t see Jane Smith among them. He was beginning to wonder if she had missed the plane or had intentionally stayed away when he saw a very tall and slender, dark-haired girl at the end of the line stop in front of Henderson and say something to him, and then languidly accept his outstretched hand.
With a bleak look of questioning on his face, Shayne shoved forward just as Painter moved in officiously and took the tall girl’s arm.
“Miss Muriel Graham?” he demanded.
She looked sideways and down at his hand on her arm while Saul Henderson thrust his face close to Painter’s and grated, “This is my stepdaughter, yes. But she’s very tired from her trip and I’ll have to ask you to excuse us now. Later… after she’s rested…”
“I want to talk to her now, Henderson.” Painter kept his hand firmly on her arm and drew her away, nodding curtly to one of the uniformed policemen, who interposed his bulk between the girl and Henderson.
Shayne tapped Painter on the shoulder as the little man turned away with the girl, paying no heed to Henderson’s loudly voiced objections.
“You’re making a mistake, Petey. This girl is…”
“An important witness whom I’m taking into custody for questioning,” Painter told him officiously. “I don’t need any advice or interference from you, Shayne.”
The redhead shrugged and stepped back with a quizzical grin on his face while Painter triumphantly led the girl inside the terminal building with Henderson still being forcibly detained from following them by the policeman.
Timothy Rourke studied his friend’s face speculatively, and muttered, “You might have known Painter wouldn’t pass up a bet like this. Hell! You might as well quit covering for Henderson. Let the girl tell her story.”
“I’m not covering for Henderson. I was trying to tip Petey off. That girl isn’t Muriel Graham, Tim.”
“She isn’t? Didn’t you hear Henderson introduce her as his stepdaughter?”
“I heard him,” Shayne agreed grimly. “But she’s a ringer, Tim. That’s not my Jane Smith. Remember that Henderson made the contact in New York personally and arranged to have her fly down. God knows what sort of story this one will tell Painter.”
“Well, you hoped to keep Muriel out of it,” chuckled Rourke. “It’s not your fault that Painter wouldn’t listen when you tried to tell him the truth.”
Shayne muttered, “Yeh. You can be a witness that I tried to warn him, Tim. But he was so damned afraid that I would horn in…”
He grinned suddenly and delightedly, and moved toward the building entrance with long strides. “Maybe I’ve still got time to wrap this up while Painter is listening to whatever story Henderson wants him to hear.”
15
In the airport parking lot, Shayne paused beside the reporter’s car while Rourke got in. He said “I’m headed home for a cup of decent coffee and some heavy thinking. Keep in touch with Painter on the Beach for anything they turn up on Gleason… and push those New York inquiries on Henderson. Tim, I’m getting a stronger hunch all the time that this whole case had its beginnings ’way back in his past.”
“Who do you suppose the girl is that Henderson has brought in to impersonate his stepdaughter?”
The redhead shrugged. “He was really on the spot there. He must have sweated blood early this morning knowing Muriel would almost certainly break down and spill her guts if she were hauled back here to testify. Gi
ve the guy credit for thinking fast,” he went on angrily, “and arranging things neatly. She’ll load Painter with a story about what a wonderful father Henderson has been to her, and he’ll swallow it hook, line, and sinker.” He turned and strode off to his own car while Rourke lifted a hand in farewell and drove away.
Two hours and four mugs of coffee later, shaved and freshly dressed, Michael Shayne entered his office on Flagler Street and found Lucy already at her desk in the anteroom. She glanced at her watch meaningfully and said, “Practically the crack of dawn, Mr. Shayne. I don’t suppose you’ve even had time to glance at the morning paper?”
“As a matter of fact, I haven’t, angel. Anything important?”
She shrugged and pursed her lips. “A little matter of a midnight killing at your friend’s, Mr. Henderson, house on the Beach. I don’t suppose it interests you particularly.”
He paused with his back half to her, in the act of hanging his hat near the door, realizing suddenly that she was completely unaware that he had been mid-wifing the case since about two o’clock. He said, “You know how badly I need my beauty sleep in the morning. Got a copy of the paper?”
She held it out to him. “Peter Painter has it all solved anyhow. You’re to call Tim Rourke at his office.”
Shayne said, “Get him,” turning toward the open door of his private office and reading the headline: Prowler Shot By Householder.
In his office he tossed the paper down and sat wearily behind his bare, flat-topped desk. He slowly lit a cigarette and dropped the match into a tray as his phone buzzer sounded. He scooped it up and said, “Tim?”
Rourke’s voice said, “A couple of interesting things from Beach homicide. Item one: A fast report from Washington on Gleason’s fingerprints identify him as an ex-con. He did a ten-year stretch in the Colorado pen for arson. Released twelve years ago. Item two: Ballistics says that the twenty-two pistol Gleason carried is the same gun that fired the bullet into Henderson’s automobile in the first murder attempt against him a few days ago.”
Shayne said, “I didn’t know that was a twenty-two also.”
The Homicidal Virgin Page 12