This Is It, Michael Shayne Page 11

  From the beginning he had been inclined to sympathize with the financier who was writhing in the net cast about him by an unscrupulous blackmailer. Of all the crimes in the book he detested blackmail most, and it had been difficult to work up any real feeling about Sara Morton’s death since learning of her attempted extortion scheme.

  True, blackmail didn’t excuse murder in the eyes of the law, but in Harsh’s case, considering his enormous loss if she exposed him, it was a pretty fair excuse.

  If Harsh had lured Beatrice away and murdered again in order to conceal his first crime, that was a far different matter. Insofar as he could see now, Harsh was the only person involved who could possibly have guessed where Miss Lally was. There was no way, with his present knowledge, of tying Harsh and Paisly together, yet whoever telephoned her had instructed her to leave the cab a block from Paisly’s hotel.

  This might be a mere coincidence, but he didn’t believe in coincidences when they involved several people mixed up in murder. There could be strong connections between the two men which weren’t apparent on the surface. He would not be surprised at anything he found if he should dig into Paisly’s background.

  He shrugged off all the questions puzzling him when he reached the peninsula and stayed on Fifth Street until he arrived at an all-night bar.

  He parked and went in, consulted the telephone directory, and found Burton Harsh listed with a business and residence address. The residence was far up the beach, just south of 79th Street, evidently one of the large estates in that vicinity fronting on the ocean.

  Shayne drove faster going north. He hoped the financier had already delivered the money to his hotel as promised, but whether he had or not there would have to be an immediate showdown.

  Clouds covered the stars now, and a sharp inshore wind lashed the dark waves that thundered against the bulkheads and the shore on his right. The speeding car carried him swiftly beyond the closely built section, past huge resort hotels on the ocean front, and on to the residential section where metal plates on stone archway entrances bore the names of the owners.

  The Harsh estate was spacious and surrounded by a low wall of limestone rock. Shayne stopped beyond high gateposts with a chain stretched between them. He cut his headlights and got out, walked back, and ducked under the heavy chain.

  A wide oiled driveway curved toward the house between boxed hedges of Australian pines, and beyond, the palms and formal shrubbery and a three-story mansion seemed blended in one dark mass. As he made his way, the wind in the palms and the crash of the waves drowned his footsteps.

  The windows of the house were dark except for a streak of light below a drawn shade in a ground-floor room. Shayne stopped before the window and looked around. The drive circled to the left and led to a four-car garage with living-quarters above.

  Not more than ten feet away he saw a car parked in the drive. He went toward it, noting with tingling excitement that it was a shabby coupe in the lower price range, at least five years old and not at all the sort of automobile likely to belong to anyone living in the Harsh mansion. The tingle spread through his whole body when he touched the hood and found it warm.

  Without hesitation he went back to the path leading to the lighted window. The shade was up about four inches. The window sill was some four feet from the ground, and Shayne bent down and peered into what appeared to be a small library.

  Burton Harsh sat in a deep, brightly cushioned wicker chair and smoke curled lazily upward from a cigar in his left hand. He held a highball glass in his right. His profile was toward the window, and he was apparently listening to someone who stood at the far corner of the room.

  Moving to the extreme end of the window, Shayne saw the beginning of a fireplace and mantel. Then he saw a man’s hand reach out and set a drink on the mantel. The hand was white and slender and shaky, and glancing back to Harsh, he gathered from his look of worried concentration that the visitor was relating unpleasant news.

  With the roar of wind and ocean it was impossible to hear a word that was spoken through the tightly closed window. Shayne straightened up, retraced his steps, and turned the corner where a flagstone path led to the front door.

  He found the electric button, put his finger on it, pushed, and waited.

  Chapter Eleven

  The Waiting Corpse

  HE WAITED SEVERAL MINUTES before anything happened. A faint glow finally showed through leaded panes of glass in the door. He took his finger off the button. The ceiling porch light came on and the front door was opened a few inches to allow Harsh to peer through.

  The opening widened immediately and the financier greeted him with a disapproving frown. “Shayne! Why are you disturbing me here at this hour? I delivered the money to your hotel as agreed.”

  “Have much trouble getting that amount of cash?” Shayne asked pleasantly.

  “Not a great deal. I had to stop at three places before accumulating the full sum.”

  “What three places?”

  Burton Harsh’s frown deepened. “What possible reason can you have for asking a question like that? I’ve met your demand, Shayne, and I fail to understand—”

  “I have a good reason,” Shayne interrupted him. “Have you any special reason for not telling me?”

  “No—but I don’t see—”

  “Then quit stalling and tell me.”

  “Very well—if you insist. I cashed a check for two thousand at the Flamingo, one for twelve hundred at the Silver Crescent, and procured the last eighteen hundred at the Eldorado. Does that satisfy your curiosity?”

  Shayne reviewed the locations of the three widely separated night clubs. If Harsh was telling the truth, it was fairly certain that getting the cash together and delivering it to his hotel would have required all the time that had elapsed since they separated, leaving him very little spare time to have arranged or taken part in Miss Lally’s abduction.

  “It satisfies me for the moment,” he said evenly, “subject to checking the truth of your story by inquiring at those places.”

  Harsh bristled visibly. “See here, Shayne, I don’t like your tone,” he complained. “I don’t understand any of this. Why should you doubt me, and what earthly difference does it make?”

  “Why don’t you invite me inside for a drink, and I’ll explain why it all matters a great deal.”

  “Really—it’s quite late,” he hedged, “and I confess I’m pretty much worn out. I was on my way to bed when you rang.”

  “There are things we need to talk over.” Shayne moved forward and Harsh reluctantly stepped back to allow him entrance to a wide hallway.

  “Very well, then,” said Harsh, covering his irritation with a casual tone and a poker face. “There’s a small sitting-room off here if you really feel it’s important.” He turned right and had his hand on a doorknob when Shayne stopped him:

  “Wouldn’t the library be more comfortable? The one back this way on the other side of the house.”

  “Really, Shayne—don’t you think you’re taking advantage—ah—being somewhat rude?

  “Not at all,” Shayne answered imperturbably. “As my host, it seems to me you’re being rude if you don’t ask me back to your private study to join you in a drink—and to meet your other guest,” he added as though it were a casual afterthought.

  Harsh’s hand dropped nervelessly from the knob. His strong, irregular features appeared to turn into wax and melt into a mass of wrinkles. He was suddenly a frightened old man, and the solid bulk of his body seemed to shrink under the impact of Shayne’s words.

  “How did you know?” he faltered, the hint of a whine breaking through. “I don’t understand how you knew I had another guest,” he continued, controlling his voice with an effort and managing to show slight indignation.

  “Never mind that now.” Shayne took his arm and turned him toward the rear of the hall.

  With slumped shoulders, Harsh went with him, gradually forcing himself erect. After a dozen or more steps he sud
denly halted and faced Shayne:

  “I don’t know what you suspect, but I assure you that Carl’s visit is the most natural thing in the world. We’ve been discussing the effect of Miss Morton’s death upon the possible publication of the story, Shayne. Carl is in a position to help me prevent publication, and we’ve merely been trying to devise some method of getting hold of the manuscript.”

  Harsh had stopped less than ten feet from a door on the right. It stood ajar and light shone through. He spoke in a firm tone which would easily carry inside the room, and Shayne realized that if they had been discussing anything else, Carl Garvin was now warned not to continue the discussion.

  “I have several questions to ask Garvin,” Shayne told him. “Several points in this whole thing which you and he can clear up for me, now that I’ve got you together.” He went on to the door and shoved it open, and Harsh followed him reluctantly.

  Garvin was sitting tensely erect in a wing chair near the closed fireplace. He was in his mid-twenties, with a high forehead that bulged slightly below a thinning hairline. He wore rimless, pinch-on glasses, and his upper teeth protruded enough to give his face a faintly fatuous grin. He was smoking a cigarette and trying nervously to balance a highball glass on the irregular weave of the wicker chair arm.

  He came stiffly to his feet as Harsh pushed in behind Shayne and said, “This is the detective I told you about, Carl. Michael Shayne. His coming at this time is quite fortuitous, because we can all three discuss this thing.”

  “How do you do, Mr. Shayne,” Garvin said cordially. “I’ve known you by reputation for some time.”

  Shayne acknowledged the introduction tersely, then said, “I’ve some questions to ask you before we go into your problem, Garvin.” He turned to Harsh. “Remember what I told you earlier tonight? The only way in God’s world for me to keep your name out of this murder investigation and prevent the entire story from being made public is to solve the case fast before the police get around to you.”

  “I understood it was solved.” Garvin’s voice was reedy and tremulous. “Aren’t the police convinced that Miss Morton’s husband killed her?”

  “They’re looking for Ralph Morton,” Shayne agreed impatiently, “but I’m not at all sure he won’t have an alibi. It may develop that she was still alive at seven-thirty—more than an hour after he was seen entering her room.”

  “That will clear me, also,” Harsh reminded him. “Sit down, Shayne.” He waved toward a chair and sank into his own with a sigh of relief. “I told you that Carl and I met for dinner at seven.”

  “I know.” Shayne sat down and looked at Garvin, who was standing beside the mantel again. He said evenly, “How deep is Leo into you?”

  “Leo Gannet?” The gambler’s name came out in a surprised squeak, and Garvin’s pale gray-green eyes popped with astonishment.

  “Don’t try to stall,” said Shayne harshly. “I know you’re in over your head, but I want to know exactly how much.”

  “I don’t see what that has to do—that it’s any of your business,” he said, switching his answer hastily.

  “Maybe not,” Shayne admitted, “but it’s one of the things bothering me right now. How much, Garvin? Ten grand?”

  Garvin’s expression told Shayne his guess was not too high. His flushed face and general manner revealed that he had had too much to drink to be quick-witted, and as he hesitated in replying, Burton Harsh broke in impatiently:

  “Aren’t Carl’s finances his own business, Shayne? If he has been gambling beyond his resources, I’m sure he can work it out for himself.”

  Shayne gave the financier a sharp look, recalling that Harsh had given him the impression earlier that Garvin’s gambling was restricted to social games with comparatively low stakes.

  “Then the question is,” he resumed, “what sort of collateral did you put up to get that kind of credit from Gannet?” He addressed his words to Garvin, but included Harsh with an occasional glance as he continued. “Leo doesn’t let anyone get into him that deep unless he’s sure of collecting. I’m not forgetting that it was worth twenty-five grand to Leo to induce Miss Morton to leave town without completing her assignment. When she turned down his money, I’m wondering if he didn’t offer you at least a part of that amount to help get rid of her. Wasn’t that it?” he demanded.

  Garvin had dropped into a chair. “Certainly not,” he answered. His high-pitched voice was steady now, and he explained: “Miss Morton was on assignment from New York, and the local office had no control over what she wrote. Good Lord, don’t you think I would have killed the story she was doing on Mr. Harsh if I had any such power?”

  “I—don’t know.” Shayne was silently thoughtful, undecided whether to pursue that line further. “Whether you had the power or not,” he said, “it wouldn’t be difficult for you to make Gannet think you did.”

  Garvin re-enforced his nerves by finishing his drink. “Suppose I did let him get some such idea?” he argued. “Is that a crime? All I wanted was a chance to recoup my losses. If I had been able to get square with him—”

  “But you kept getting in deeper,” Shayne interrupted, “until it reached the point where he was refusing you further credit and you were faced with the necessity of making good on your boasts. Where were you between six-thirty and seven tonight?” he ended abruptly.

  “Good Lord!” Garvin’s glass was knocked to the floor by a nervous jerk and shattered on the tiles. His thin face grew white and he gasped, “You can’t think that I—you’re not actually accusing me of murder?”

  “You had a motive. Do you have an alibi?”

  “No. But I assume the elevator man can verify the time I left.” He paused, extremely agitated, and moistened his short upper lip with the tip of his tongue.

  “Where? What elevator man,” Shayne pressed him.

  “I was at my office until a quarter of seven. I went down in the elevator at that time, then drove to the Seven Seas to meet Mr. Harsh for dinner.”

  “Was anyone in the office with you?”

  “No—”

  “You can’t be serious about this, Shayne,” Harsh interjected angrily, tactfully easing his voice back to normalcy as he interceded in Garvin’s behalf. “I’ll vouch for Carl personally. He’s practically my son-in-law. If he needs money to pay off some foolish gambling debts, he knows he has only to ask me.”

  Shayne lit a cigarette and blew several puffs of smoke toward the ceiling. Harsh, by his own admission, could vouch for Garvin’s gambling debt only if the story failed to appear in print. Sara Morton had been in a position not only to ruin him financially, but bring disgrace upon his family, and, alive, she could with one stroke leave Carl Garvin at the mercy of Leo Gannet’s thugs, also. Harsh and Garvin could have been together since a quarter of seven. The exact time of Sara Morton’s death was not established. Did Harsh meet Garvin immediately after Garvin left his office and go to Morton’s apartment, kill her, and then go on to the Seven Seas for dinner to establish an alibi?

  During the short silence, Harsh sat solidly in his chair. Garvin mixed himself another drink at the chromium-plated bar against the wall and walked nervously around the room, clutching the glass tightly in an effort to keep his hand from shaking.

  Shayne rubbed his jaw reflectively and turned to Harsh. “When did you learn that your future son-in-law was gambling considerably heavier than the dollar limit you mentioned tonight?”

  “Tonight—just a short time ago,” he answered stubbornly. The heavy lines were still in his face and the natural, determined set of his square chin was at variance with the haggard look in his eyes.

  Shayne considered this briefly. Tonight meant tonight, but a short time ago could mean a day—a week. He took a casual puff on his cigarette, turned to Garvin, and asked bluntly:

  “Where did you go after leaving Gannet’s office tonight—after he put the screws on you for money or for some action on Sara Morton?”

  Garvin dropped limply into his chair, sl
oshing the liquor in the half-filled glass over the rim. “Why—I went home,” he stammered, avoiding Shayne’s hard gaze. “I had encountered Miss Lally earlier, and Gannet told me she had been there with you. I knew nothing of Miss Morton’s death at that time. I heard it over the radio when I was getting ready for bed, and I thought I should come here at once and discuss it with Mr. Harsh.”

  Shayne ground his cigarette in an end-table ash tray and growled, “We’d all make out a lot better if you’d stop lying to me. I know you didn’t go directly home from Gannet’s office and I know you promised to get hold of some cash and take it back to him tonight. Where did you expect to get cash at this hour?”

  “I don’t know where you get all your information,” Garvin said sullenly. “I told Gannet I’d pay up as soon as I could. I was worried—and suppose I did stop for a drink or so on my way home,” he ended defiantly.

  “Did it take you an hour to get a drink or so?”

  “What if it did?” he flared. “Why are you cross-questioning me like this?” He brought the glass shakily to his lips and drained it.

  “Where were you at twelve-fifteen?”

  “I—don’t—know.” He spaced the words evenly and spoke with shrill vehemence. “I don’t keep a timetable of every move I make. But I would have if I’d realized I was going to be put on the witness stand and grilled like this.”

  “See here, Shayne,” Harsh cut in impatiently, “you stated a moment ago that Carl had a motive for killing Miss Morton. Did you mean that? Do you think for one moment he’s the type to commit murder to curry favor with a gambler and get a small debt canceled?”

  “Someone has been writing Miss Morton letters threatening her life unless she left town at once,” Shayne answered Harsh, but for the benefit of Garvin, whom he watched narrowly for some reaction, “Who? It’s not the sort of thing Leo Gannet would think of. The letters were prepared by someone with access to a paste pot and sharp scissors such as are used in an editorial office. If Garvin didn’t send them—”