“There was a follow-up the next day.” He turned the pages swiftly. “Car was recovered a few hundred feet downstream with the body of the driver wedged behind the wheel. The other two haven’t been found yet. Here it is.” He nodded his head as he scanned the story swiftly. “Parradine was driving. Switzer in the back seat handcuffed to Allerdice. With the two guys handcuffed together, no one gives them a Chinaman’s chance of having got out alive, and the best guess by experts is their bodies may well have been carried downstream and out to sea by the flood current, and never be recovered. So, where does that put us?”
“Damned if I know.” Shayne’s voice was deeply puzzled. “A woman who may or may not have been Mrs. Allerdice told me she had hitchhiked from New Orleans to meet her husband tonight. Later an unknown man called me to demand the eighty grand he insisted Jack Bristow had on him when he reached Lucy’s place. And—” he added slowly, “don’t forget that Jack told Lucy a dead man had shot him.”
“And remember the man over the phone told you he had told Mrs. Allerdice you had killed Hugh, too. But according to this story, Hugh Allerdice died in an accident three days ago.”
“And according to the woman,” said Shayne disgustedly, “her husband telephoned her in New Orleans two days ago to meet him tonight in front of the Eighteenth Street rooming-house. Look through those stories and see if you can find out anything about a wife.”
Rourke turned back to the first dispatch and began reading the body of it. He nodded after a moment. “Beatrice Allerdice.” He frowned at Shayne. “The man on the phone mentioned her name was Beatrice, didn’t he?”
He looked back at the paper and began reading aloud, “‘Reached by telephone at her dingy two-room apartment on Rampart Street late this afternoon, Mrs. Beatrice Allerdice, young and attractive widow of the convicted man burst into tears and hysterical denunciations of the police when informed of her husband’s death. The youthful wife, it will be recalled, stayed by her husband throughout the trial, repeatedly asserting his innocence and pointing to their lack of money to employ adequate counsel as proof that her husband had not stolen the money as alleged. “They’ve murdered my Hugh,” she screamed defiantly over the telephone to a representative of this News Service this afternoon. “They weren’t satisfied with railroading him for a crime he didn’t commit, but had to murder him, too. It was all a plot on the part of the police. I don’t believe those cops died at all or even that it was an accident the car went over the bridge. You’ll see when they recover the car.”’ Maybe the gal had something at that,” said Rourke meditatively as he glanced up from his reading. “Though from where I sit, I’d guess the shoe was on the other foot.”
“You mean that Allerdice manufactured the accident somehow to escape?”
“Well, we know now that at least one of the cops was killed. If Allerdice was guilty and had the eighty grand stashed away with a confederate, or hidden, there was enough money involved to have fixed a getaway like that.”
He turned back to the paper and read further, nodding again. “Nothing, really, to prove it was an accident. It was a deserted stretch of road and the only witness was an approaching motorist who was driving toward the bridge at high speed and suddenly saw it go over the side. Nothing to prove there wasn’t a highjacking first, then the police car sent over to hide it.”
Michael Shayne sat down wearily in a wooden chair. “All right. Let’s assume Hugh Allerdice did escape that way and phoned his wife next morning to hitchhike to Miami and meet him here. What then? What significance did the rooming-house have? Bristow and the strangled girl? Could Allerdice be the one who phoned me?”
“Could be. Though it doesn’t make much sense for his own wife to have been tied up in the trunk of his car.”
“Maybe he wanted to get rid of her and not share the money.”
“But he’d arranged to have her meet him here,” argued Rourke.
“So she said,” reminded Shayne. “We don’t even know she is Beatrice Allerdice. And there’s still no connection with Bristow. Listen. Do you have back files of a New Orleans paper? Can we backtrack to the date of the robbery and the trial? There should be pictures of all of them at that time.”
“Sure. We should have a file for a month or so back. Let me check the date if it gives it here.” Rourke studied the story again, said doubtfully, “Almost two months ago. I don’t know—” He went to the rear of the musty file room, turned on more lights, and began searching while Shayne sat hunched forward on his wooden chair, dragging deeply on a cigarette and moodily reviewing the few things they knew and the great many things they didn’t know about the affair.
The vital thing missing was some sort of tie-up between the Allerdices, Jack Bristow, and the girl who had been strangled tonight. Thus far there were only the two tenuous things. Both Bristow and Allerdice were from New Orleans. And Mrs. Allerdice (if she was Mrs. Allerdice) had claimed her husband had told her to meet him in front of the rooming-house. The presence in the death room of the slip of paper containing Lucy’s address indicated, of course, that Jack Bristow was probably the man whom Gladys Smith was supposed to have secreted in her room for some weeks.
Shayne tugged at his ear lobe and looked up hopefully as Rourke returned carrying a heavy file of papers. “We’re in luck. Just got under the deadline before they clear the old ones out. Here’s your first story.”
He spread the New Orleans paper out under a bright light and began to read:
“‘Hugh Allerdice, youthful bank messenger for the City Trust Company, was being held by police late this afternoon on suspicion of theft in the disappearance of an eighty-thousand-dollar payroll being transported by the bank messenger to the Atlas Construction Company earlier today.
“‘“There are altogether too many unexplained discrepancies in this young man’s story,” said Captain Allen P. Welles of the Theft Squad in a prepared statement handed to the press at four o’clock. “We are making no charge against him as yet, but will continue questioning him until we are satisfied.”’”
Shayne grunted angrily. “I know their third-degree methods. Ten to one they beat a confession out of him by midnight.”
Rourke continued reading: “‘According to Allerdice’s story, he left the bank at ten o’clock this morning with the payroll in a leather bag locked to his wrist with a steel chain. Within half a block of the bank, he claims a large black sedan drew up beside him and two men leaped out and threw a heavy sack over his head, overpowering him and thrusting him into the back of the sedan which then moved away rapidly. Unfortunately for Allerdice, no witnesses have come forward to confirm this part of his story.
“‘He was beaten unconscious, he claims, and when he came to slightly after noon, he was lying beside a country road outside the city limits and the moneybag was missing. He made his way to a telephone and reported the incident to police headquarters, and has stoutly maintained his innocence of any complicity in the affair throughout an afternoon of intensive questioning. Authorities refuse to specify what the alleged discrepancies are in his story, but Captain Welles appeared convinced it was wholly untrue.’
“Wait a minute, Mike!” Rourke went on excitedly. “Here’s something: ‘A reporter who went to the small house in the Paradise section occupied by the Allerdices and a roomer, Mr. Jack Bristow, found no one at home in midafternoon, and was informed by neighbors that Mrs. Beatrice Allerdice, piquant and beautiful young wife of the accused bank messenger, is in a hospital where she recently underwent an operation for appendicitis. Neighbors further stated that the young couple appeared to have been in financial difficulties recently, and that Mr. Allerdice has been greatly worried about meeting the cost of his wife’s illness.’ That’s about all of any importance in this first story,” Rourke ended, turning to the following day’s paper.
Shayne was sitting very erect, his gray eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “So Allerdice snatched eighty grand, and Jack Bristow was rooming with him when it happened. Now this begins to add
up. Keep going, Tim.”
Rourke had been scanning the second day’s story. “There’s a picture of the Allerdices here, and a small inset of Bristow. Take a look at her, Mike. She the one?”
Shayne got up eagerly to lean over and study the three pictures. He shook his head slowly after a time. “Could be. I wouldn’t swear to it either way. Look at the Bristow picture. You wouldn’t recognize him for sure, either. I see Captain Welles got his confession,” he added ironically.
“Yep. Which Allerdice repudiated the next morning and refused to sign. Said they put words in his mouth and he was so groggy by midnight he would have confessed murdering his wife to get them to lay off. But they charged him, all right, and claimed they had sufficient evidence to send him up without the confession. But here’s the interesting part, Mike. ‘Police who sought to interview Jack Bristow, roomer at the Allerdice ménage have been unable to discover any trace of him as we go to press. According to Allerdice, he packed his bags and departed abruptly the day preceding the theft without saying where he was going. He had been unemployed for some time and owed three weeks rent, and Allerdice admitted he had been nagging him about paying up and believes that may be the reason he went away. The police have no reason to believe he took any part in the robbery, but are seeking him as a possible material witness.’”
“And I’ll bet he never did turn up,” said Michael Shayne swiftly. “Neither he nor the missing eighty grand.”
“No,” conceded Rourke, turning pages rapidly and glancing at the few follow-up stories which had drifted from the front to inner pages. “You’re right, of course. He and the money disappeared, though the police never seemed to connect the two things.”
“If they had, they wouldn’t have publicized it. So, there it is, Tim. At least part of the picture is pretty clear. We have Bristow clearing out the day before the robbery and disappearing. A week or so later a girl named Gladys Smith turns up in Miami and rents a room for herself where she was hiding out a man. Hugh Allerdice is convicted of robbery in New Orleans and is either killed or escaped three days ago. Mrs. Allerdice arrives in Miami tonight to meet him in front of the rooming-house where Jack has been hiding. But Gladys Smith is strangled in her room, Jack is shot in the belly in the vicinity, and makes it to Lucy’s, where someone slips up the fire escape to knock him off. Later I get a phone call asking for the eighty grand Jack was supposed to have had on him. Those are the facts we know. How do they add up to you?”
“Do you think Jack engineered the robbery in New Orleans, knowing Allerdice would be carrying the money next morning? That Hugh didn’t suspect it at first, but later might have begun to? Then arranged to escape while being taken to prison, and followed him here to collect the dough?”
“Something like that seems indicated.” Shayne shrugged and got up. “Could be they were in cahoots on the New Orleans snatch, and Allerdice turned the money over to him to hold for a split after he was released. But he got convicted instead, and Jack felt safe in hiding out and hanging on to all of it. One thing we’ve got to be certain of first,” he went on grimly, “is whether the woman who drowned in the back trunk of the gray sedan was Mrs. Allerdice or someone else.”
“If we had someone who could definitely identify her—” said Rourke doubtfully.
“There’s one chance. Not for a positive identification, but quite possible for a negative answer.”
“How?”
“Remember the first story of the robbery? It said Mrs. Allerdice had just been operated for appendicitis and intimated her husband might have stolen the money to pay for it?”
“Sure, but—”
“So we go to the morgue fast and take a look at her.”
“But you already looked at her when she was alive, and so did I, but we couldn’t identify the newspaper picture.”
“We didn’t see her with her clothes off,” Shayne reminded him bluntly. “If she has a recent scar from an operation she may well be Mrs. Allerdice. But if she hasn’t got such a scar, we’ll know damned well she isn’t. Come on if you want to stay with me on this.”
“You know I do.” Rourke trotted after him as Shayne hurried out with long-legged strides. “You’re not going to Gentry with all this?”
“Not yet,” said Michael Shayne grimly. “What would he do with what we’ve got? You know as well as I do that he’d lock us both up while he investigated. I want a little more time on my own.”
Chapter Fourteen
There was one night attendant on duty in the anteroom of the morgue when the detective and reporter got there. He sat dozing behind a scarred desk with a bright droplight directly overhead. He yawned widely and showed a gap where two front teeth were missing when he grinned recognition of Shayne and Rourke.
“You two ghouls again, eh? Been months since I seen either of you. Can’t think what brings you around tonight. Only fresh meat we got is kinda thin an’ bony an’ hardly worth a trip down here to look at.” He cackled thinly at his own macabre humor. “Nossir. Ain’t a thing on hand you’d either one go for.”
“You have got the woman who was drowned in Biscayne Bay tonight?” Shayne asked.
“Oh, yeh. She’s the only fresh un. You boys come down to identify her?”
“To take a look and see if we can.”
“Have tuh put your names down right here.” The attendant produced two cards and picked up a pen. “You know the rules good as I do. Lemme see, now—” He made a pretext of scratching his bald head in perplexity, glancing up slyly at the redhead.
“Seems like I had oughtta remember your name from somewheres. Seen your picture in the papers, maybe?”
Shayne said good-naturedly, “President Eisenhower and the mayor of New York. That’ll look good in your records. Which box is she in?”
“Number four, Mr. President,” said the little man gleefully. “I knew I’d seen that mug of yours somewheres.”
Shayne shrugged and he and Rourke went down a passageway to a heavy door opening onto a flight of stairs leading down into the concrete-lined coldroom. Neither of them spoke as they went down. The attendant had been using the same routine for ten years and seemed to think it was as funny now as when he first thought it up.
The air in the small square room was dank and very chill. Although it was pure and air-conditioned, it never seemed to lose the indefinable odor of the countless corpses that had come and gone during the years. There were two white enamel tables in the center of the room, a bank of white, oversize filing cabinets along one wall. Each cabinet had three drawers, six feet long and about three feet square, with consecutive numbers neatly stenciled on the front of each.
Shayne drew in a deep breath and seized the handle of the top drawer in the second row and pulled it out. A white cloth covered the naked body of the woman he had last seen in Rourke’s company at the tourist cabin when she hesitantly disavowed recognition of Jack Bristow.
The thin features were horribly contorted in death. Lips drawn far back in a grimace to show bloodless gums and sharp teeth, eyeballs bulging from their sockets, flesh showing the typical color that comes from death by strangulation.
Neither man wasted more than one glance at the face. In the bright overhead light, a welt on her stomach showed clearly. Both had seen the scars left by an operation for appendicitis, and to their nonprofessional eyes, this looked typical and had the appearance of being rather recent.
Shayne pulled the cloth over her body and shoved the drawer shut. “So that really doesn’t prove anything except that we can’t say she isn’t Mrs. Allerdice. Doc Martin will have made a preliminary investigation. We can ask him how long ago the operation was, but it’s my guess it was about the right time.”
“Mine, too,” agreed Rourke as they turned back to climb the stairs. “What’s our next move?”
This was decided for them before Shayne had an opportunity to reply. When they re-entered the anteroom, they saw Chief Will Gentry and Doc Martin, ranking police surgeon of Miami, standing in front of
the desk in conversation with the bald man.
Gentry rocked back on his heels and regarded them balefully as they approached, demanding angrily of Shayne, “Where’s Lucy Hamilton, Mike? I want her down here.”
“Lucy Hamilton?” Shayne didn’t have to simulate the surprise in his voice. “In bed, I guess. What you want her for?”
“I think you know, Mike.” Gentry’s voice was uncompromising. “And she isn’t at home. At least, she doesn’t answer her phone.”
Shayne stiffened. He said, “I don’t know, Will. Tim and I left her there half an hour ago, and I told her to get some sleep.”
“Damn it, Mike! Don’t give me a runaround.” Gentry’s face was choleric, his voice heavy with suppressed anger. “If you’re hiding her out so she can’t come down here to tell us whether or not this woman is Arlene Bristow, I swear to God in heaven it’ll mean your license.”
“Arlene Bristow?” Again, Shayne’s astonishment was genuine. “What on earth gave you that idea? So far as I know, Miss Bristow is in New Orleans.”
“Then why were you and Tim looking at her?” demanded Gentry. “I’ve had enough lies out of you tonight, Mike. You’re going to start coming clean.”
“Hold it, Will.” Shayne’s voice was even, but it became hard to match the chief’s accusation. “I haven’t lied to you. Certainly not about Lucy. If she isn’t at home I’m more worried about her than you are.”
“You haven’t answered me,” Gentry pounded at him. “Why did you and Tim make a trip down here unless it was to see if she answered Lucy’s description of Jack Bristow’s sister?”
“Because we wondered if she might be someone else.” Shayne looked past Gentry to the police surgeon. “You notice that scar on her tummy, doc?”
Death Has Three Lives Page 11