“It was. Until this comparison the Beach police had theorized it was fired from a rifle in the hands of some fool kid. That’s one reason they had written it off as probably accidental.”
“Anything else?”
“One more curious thing, Mike. Henderson called in to report another threat against his life early this morning. An anonymous telephone call from someone who claimed to be a friend of Gleason’s. Henderson swears he didn’t recognize the voice and has no idea who it was. But it scared him plenty.”
Shayne chuckled happily over the telephone. “Keep this under your hat, Tim, but don’t you waste any time chasing down that lead. The guy’s initials are M. S.”
There was a very brief silence over the wire. Then Rourke sighed, “Why, Mike?”
“Just trying to foul the waters a little,” Shayne told him cheerfully. “Anything else from your pipelines to Henderson’s past?”
“Nothing yet. And that’s sort of curious in itself. Right now it looks as though he appeared from nowhere a few years ago and feathered his nest with nice soft banknotes by marrying a wealthy widow.”
“With a nubile stepdaughter,” said Shayne grimly.
“With a nubile stepdaughter,” agreed Rourke no less grimly.
Shayne said, “Keep on digging,” and hung up.
He leaned back in his swivel chair and took a lazy drag on his cigarette as Lucy hurried into his office with color flaming in her cheeks.
“I heard everything Tim said, Michael.”
“No reason why you shouldn’t.”
“You are mixed up in the Henderson case, aren’t you?”
“Sort of.”
“Why didn’t you tell me… instead of pretending you didn’t know what I was talking about when you came in?”
He said mildly, “You went to some lengths to tell me Painter had it all solved while I was sleeping late.” He yawned wildly. “Get Will Gentry on the phone and ask him…”
His desk telephone interrupted him. Lucy compressed her lips firmly and reached for it. She said, “Michael Shayne’s office,” then nodded and said in a subdued voice, “He’s right here, Chief Gentry.”
Shayne took the instrument from her and said, “I was about to call you, Will.”
“Sure. Any time you want a job done for free, just call on the Miami Police Department, Mike.”
“That’s what I always figured,” said Shayne cheerfully. “Service with a smile. What you got this time, Will?”
“Some hocus-pocus about fingerprints you turned in to Sergeant Calhoun without bothering to get an authorization from me.”
“And?”
“Where’d you lift those prints, Mike?
“You know that crazy hobby I’ve got… lifting fingerprints? It’s a sort of compulsion with me. Every time I see a nice set of prints…”
“Come off it, Mike.” Gentry’s voice was bluntly forceful. “Calhoun says they tie in with the Henderson kill on the Beach.”
“They do.”
“How?”
“That’s Painter’s baby, Will. You wouldn’t want to horn in on his territory.” Shayne made his voice mildly reproving.
“Goddamit, Mike!” Gentry paused to regain control of his temper. “The man’s a fugitive, Mike. Don’t cover up for him.”
“I won’t. What’s the rap against him?”
“Arson and manslaughter. Twenty years ago in Endore, Colorado. The man’s name is Ernie Combs.”
Shayne frowned and tugged at his left earlobe with right thumb and forefinger. He repeated aloud, “Endore, Colorado?” nodding at Lucy to make a note of it. “That’s all you got, huh?”
“That’s all Washington gave us. I’ll tell you this right now, Mike…”
Shayne said, “Thanks a million,” and hung up. He looked at his watch and told Lucy, “It’s too early in Colorado to call anybody, but try it anyway. Get the police department or sheriff’s office in Endore, Colorado.”
She nodded efficiently and hurried out to the other office.
Shayne mashed out his cigarette and his gray eyes were very bright. He got up and went behind the desk to a filing cabinet and took a bottle of cognac from the second drawer. He uncorked it and turned to a water cooler where he nested two paper cups together and was pouring amber liquid into them when his buzzer sounded. He strode back to the desk and lifted the instrument to his ear, took a sip of cognac as Lucy said, “I have Chief of Police Dyer of Endore, Colorado, on the wire, Mr. Shayne.”
He set the nested cups down and said, “Chief Dyer? I’m sorry to bother you so early in the morning, but we’ve got a murder case here in Miami that you may be able to help us with.”
A rasping voice chuckled, “Chickens have been up out here for two hours so ’tain’t so early. Say your name is Shayne?”
“Michael Shayne. How far do you go back on the force, Chief?”
“Further’n you, I reckon, son. What you wanta know?”
“Twenty years ago,” Shayne told him succinctly. “An arson job. You still have a warrant outstanding for Ernie Combs?”
“That murderin’ son-of-a-bitch,” grated the thin voice over more than two thousand miles of telephone wire. “You got him there?”
“Did you say murder, Chief?”
“Close enough. Wife died in the hospital two months afterward givin’ birth to a boy-child, but it was the burns that killed her. I allus swore I’d get that Ernie…”
“A man named Gleason implicated with him?”
“Harry Gleason. Yep. He took his rap and served his time like a man. But that goddamned slippery Ernie Combs…”
“We’ve got him on ice for you here, Chief,” Shayne interrupted him. “Any reward offered?”
“There was ten thousand put up when it happened more’n twenty years ago. I reckon maybe it still stands good.”
Shayne said, “I’ll be in touch with you later,” and hung up. He reached for the cognac and downed it, crushed the two paper cups together in his right hand with savage intensity as Lucy reappeared in the doorway and asked eagerly, “Who is it, Michael? I don’t even know what…”
With slow deliberation, Shayne said, “Go out and close the door, Lucy. Don’t put any calls through. Nothing.” He got up slowly, his gaze bleak and abstracted, while Lucy withdrew quietly and drew the door shut behind her.
Michael Shayne stood at the window for a long time, looking down at the slow-moving traffic going eastward on Flagler Street while a frown of fierce concentration creased his brow and his mind played with the broken and jagged pieces of the puzzle that had been put into his hands.
When the telephone finally recalled him to his desk, he saw with a start of real surprise that it was almost eleven o’clock.
Lucy Hamilton said apologetically, “I know you told me not to bother you, Michael, but there’s a long-distance call from some man named Bitsy Baker, and he insists…”
Shayne said, “Put him on, angel.”
Bitsy’s voice came over the line a moment later, “Mike, I’m in Algonquin, but I haven’t got much.”
“Give it to me.”
“Harry Gleason is a quiet sort of Joe. Well-liked here, with a nice wife. No one knows much about him or where he came from. Close-mouthed cuss, I guess. He sort of turned up here ten years ago…”
“How about the last couple of months?” Shayne put in sharply.
“Yeh. Well, he has been sort of changed and surly. No one seems to know why he took off suddenly or where he went. Then his wife disappeared too. They all figure he took a run-out powder on her and she followed him. If you want me to keep on digging, Mike…” Bitsy Baker’s tone was questioning and apologetic.
“You can drop that angle,” Shayne said decisively. He hesitated, rubbing his angular jaw thoughtfully. “You know a town in Illinois named Denton?”
“Yeh. Little place south of here. Close in to Chi. You got something there?”
Shayne said, “I…” Then after a thoughtful pause he said decisively, “I
think it’s something I’d better handle myself. Bill me for your time, Bitsy, and thanks.”
He depressed the cradle and released it, told Lucy in the outer office, “Check with information to see if a telephone is listed under the name of Combs in Denton, Illinois. I don’t have any address. That’s C-o-m-b-s, angel.” He hung up and sat back and relaxed broodingly until Lucy reported: “There is a Denton number for a Roy Combs, Michael. The only one in Denton.”
“Can you dial it direct?”
“I think so. I’ll check.”
Shayne got up and picked the open cognac bottle from the top of the filing cabinet and strode into the other room. His secretary was looking in the front pages of the telephone book and she looked up and nodded as he lowered one hip onto the low railing beside her desk with the bottle dangling from his big hand. She said, “I can dial it.”
“Go ahead. And give me the phone.”
He drank deeply from the neck of the bottle while she dialed the long-distance circuit and the Denton number she had written down. She listened a moment and gave his local number to the operator and then silently handed the instrument to him.
He heard it ringing far away in Denton, Illinois, and then it stopped and a woman’s voice said, “Hello?”
“Is Roy at home?” asked Shayne gruffly.
“No. He won’t be back until a little after lunch. Is that Pete?”
Shayne said, “No,” and hung up. He told Lucy, “Get me a seat on the first jet flight to Chicago. Round trip. With a return reservation this afternoon if you can.”
16
It was less than a half-hour drive by taxi from the O’Hara Airport to the small town of Denton. Shayne had the driver stop at a filling station on the outskirts of the village, where he consulted a telephone book and got the street address of Roy Combs. The station attendant told him to continue as they were to the first traffic light, then turn left for a block and a half.
They did so, and drew up in front of a small sunbathed house in a row of similar small, frame houses, each with its neat rectangle of front yard and attached one-car garage.
There were small children playing in some of the other yards, but none in front of the Combs’ residence. Shayne got out and told the driver to wait with his flag down, and strode up the cinder walk to the front door framed by trellised roses. There was no electric button, so he knocked and waited.
The door opened and a young girl stood in the dimly cool interior looking out at him questioningly. She wore tight, black Toreador pants and a fresh white cotton blouse, and was barefooted. Smooth black hair with curling tips hung down on each side of her face to frame the piquant features.
Shayne took off his hat and said gravely, “Hello, Jane Smith.”
A little cry of terror and of recognition escaped her lips. Her black eyes widened and she put her right hand impulsively up to her mouth, gnawing at the knuckles with sharp white teeth like a small child in the face of catastrophe.
Otherwise, neither of them moved for a long moment. Then she wrenched her gaze away from Shayne’s and turned partly aside with a half-sob, bending her head abjectly so the long black hair swung forward and formed a curtain to hide her face.
Shayne stepped inside the square living room and closed the front door behind him. As his eyes adjusted themselves from the bright sunlight, he gazed somberly about at the worn rug on the floor, shabby cretonne slipcovers on the furniture and two Grant Wood reproductions on the walls. The sitting room was clean and tidy, and spoke of lower-middle-class poverty.
His gaze went back to the slender figure of the girl whose head was still bowed and turned away from him, and then it lifted and went beyond her to the figure of a young man standing in the open doorway beyond her. He wore cotton slacks and a Tee-shirt, and his sandy hair was damp and freshly brushed.
Shayne said sardonically, “And Paul Winterbottom. Last time I saw you was in a Miami bar, Paul. Or do you prefer to be called Roy?”
“It’s Mike Wayne!” The young man’s tight features fell apart suddenly. He blinked his eyes vacuously and his mouth drooped open. Then he got hold of himself and darted forward fiercely to put his arm tightly about his wife’s slender waist, and he exclaimed too loudly… for Shayne’s benefit rather than hers: “Don’t you worry, Hon. We haven’t done anything… no matter what he says.”
She turned into his encircling arms and clung to him, sobbing. He wet his lips and glared defiantly over the top of her head at the Miami detective.
Shayne dropped his hat on a low table and lowered his rangy body into a deep chair near the door. He said dryly, “I have a seat reserved on a four-o’clock plane back to Miami. Let’s get some talking done.”
“All right,” said the young man fiercely. “So you chased us down. So what? You can’t pin anything on us. We haven’t done anything wrong.”
“Have you seen today’s paper?”
“No.”
“Your father shot and killed a man in Miami last night,” Shayne informed him bleakly.
Roy Combs staggered back, releasing his wife. He stuttered, “My… father?”
Free of his arms, the girl straightened and tossed her head back, then whirled to face Shayne, advancing toward him soundlessly on bare feet, hands outstretched, curved and clawlike.
“Don’t call him that.” Her voice and face were dangerously calm. “Don’t ever call him that.”
“Wait, Beth.” Roy stumbled forward and caught her arm, pulled her back. “Who did he kill, Mr. Wayne?”
“Harry Gleason.”
They stood close together in front of him, trembling and looking at each other.
Shayne kept his voice hard and impersonal. He said, “Sit down on the sofa, you two, and answer some questions.” He got out a cigarette and lit it while the frightened young couple moved back and sat down side by side on the sofa, holding hands tightly and with their eyes fixed on Shayne as though he were a bomb with a short fuse that was burning down fast.
“How much do you know about what happened in Endore, Colorado, more than twenty years ago?”
“Everything,” said Roy Combs bitterly. “When Harry Gleason finished his stretch in the penitentiary, he took me out of the State Home where I’d been since birth and put me with a private family where he paid my room and board until I finished high school. Then he showed me the old clippings and told me the whole story about my father and mother. And now you say Harry’s dead. Henderson killed him? Just like he killed my mother…” He broke off into dry sobs.
Shayne said, “I’m afraid it was self-defense. Gleason came to his house with a gun at midnight, and Henderson shot first.”
“I don’t believe it. He just fixed it to look that way. Harry wouldn’t have ever done that. He was hell-bent on peace. He made us promise we wouldn’t do anything to Henderson after he saw him on television that time and knew he was still alive.”
Shayne shook his head. “There’s evidence that Gleason made one previous attempt with the same gun he threatened Henderson with last night. And whoever you hired to plant the bomb on Henderson’s boat didn’t help matters either,” he went on deliberately. “With two unsuccessful attempts on his life in the last few days, he had every legal right to shoot first without asking questions when Gleason turned up on his doorstep last night.”
“We don’t know anything about a bomb,” said Roy fiercely. “We didn’t hire anybody to do anything. You tell him, Beth.”
“I couldn’t find anybody who’d do it,” she said listlessly. “Even with that wonderful story I thought up and offering them all the money in the world. They still wouldn’t do it. Just like you,” she ended with a faint curl of her upper lip. “All I got was good advice like you gave me.”
“It was a crazy idea from the word go,” put in her husband vehemently. “My God! if I’d had the faintest idea what Beth was up to, I’d never have let her go to Miami. But she claimed she just wanted to find out what kind of man he was… to spy out the situation for Harry and
help him put the clamps on him later.”
“To blackmail him?” asked Shayne harshly.
“Call it blackmail if you want to. I don’t. I didn’t blame Harry one bit. God in heaven! think what he’d been through on account of him.”
“What,” asked Shayne, “had he been through?”
Then the whole story of perfidy and cowardice and near-murder almost a quarter of a century before poured out of the young man’s eager lips while Shayne sat very quiet in the small living room and listened to it.
In mid-depression years, Ernest Combs and Harry Gleason were equal partners in a wholesale business in a suburban community near Denver, Colorado. With slack times and a succession of bad breaks, they faced the prospect of losing their business and everything they had invested. With a large stock of heavily mortgaged and completely insured goods in an isolated warehouse, the two desperate men had hit upon the expedient of selling off the stock secretly and at a high discount, and salting away the proceeds in cash—then burning the empty warehouse to the ground and collecting insurance on the non-existent contents.
The plot had been carefully planned and was put into effect one wintry evening when a heavy snowfall made it difficult for fire engines to operate.
One terrible hitch occurred at the last moment after the fire had been carefully set in several places and the two partners were escaping safely. Combs’ young wife, seven months pregnant, had learned of their plan and gone to the warehouse to stop them, unknown to either of them.
It wasn’t until the incendiary flames were raging and they were both safely outside the building that they became aware that Mrs. Combs was trapped inside and would surely perish unless they took prompt action to save her.
According to young Roy Combs’ bitter story, the two men reacted differently under stress. Combs cursed his wife’s stupidity in putting herself in jeopardy and washed his hands of the whole affair, disappearing into the night without a trace—and taking with him the entire cache of cash the two men had secreted.
Harry Gleason, on the other hand, turned in the other direction to turn in a fire alarm and then sped back into the burning building in an effort to save his partner’s wife.
The Homicidal Virgin Page 13