One Night with Nora Read online

  “You make it sound depraved and indecent!” she flared angrily. “It’s not true. I do love Ralph, and I know he loves me. All I could think of was making him remember how much we loved each other so he would forgive me, and we could start all over again.”

  “So, we come to tonight,” the redhead said casually. “Fill me in on that.”

  “I can’t,” she said brokenly. “I can’t explain it at all. All I did was follow Mr. Bates’s instructions to the letter.”

  Shayne’s eyes were very bright. He swiveled forward in his creaky desk chair and asked, “Who is Bates?”

  “Why, he’s our lawyer in Wilmington. I just told you.”

  Shayne creaked back and said, “Go on, Mrs. Carrol.”

  “Well, he, Mr. Bates, suggested that we might get a detective in Miami to find out where Ralph had moved to. Then I could try once more for a reconciliation. It all seemed so simple and logical when we planned it in Wilmington,” she went on in the faltering tone. “A detective was to get a key to Ralph’s room. All I had to do was unlock the door and slip in sometime after midnight. I just knew it would work.”

  “Sure, it would have worked. You would have had him right back if you’d gotten into his bed instead of mine. The question is, how the devil did you make such a mistake?”

  “I don’t know,” she cried wildly, straining forward with her hands clenched. “Do you think I would have subjected myself to this—this inquisition if I had known? I flew down from Wilmington yesterday and checked in at the Commodore. Everything was arranged. There was a message for me from the detective, enclosing a key to Ralph’s room and a sketch of the apartment, so I could get around in the dark without waking him too soon. I was to wait in my room until the detective phoned that Ralph came in for the night. He called me about one o’clock. I waited awhile, until I felt sure Ralph would be asleep; then I taxied over here and slipped quietly upstairs. And that’s all.” She made a gesture of finality with her hands, reached for her cognac glass, took a long swallow, chased the liquor with ice water, and sank back in the chair as though exhausted.

  Shayne tugged at his ear lobe, his gray eyes somber. He considered her story and wondered how much of it was true. Her words and her tone had the ring of sincerity, but it was impossible for him to understand how anyone could have mistaken his apartment for the one occupied by her husband, considering the years he had lived here and how well known he was to all the employees.

  Shrugging his wide shoulders, he swiveled forward and picked up the telephone, waited a moment until a hoarse and unfamiliar voice said, “Yes, sir.”

  He frowned at the instrument and asked, “Is this Dick?”

  “No, sir. Dick is sick and I’m substituting for him. Can I help you?”

  Shayne hesitated, then asked, “Do you have a Ralph Carrol registered here?”

  “One moment, please.”

  Nora Carrol slid to the edge of her chair. “Please,” she pleaded, “oh, please don’t tell him.”

  Shayne held up a broad palm for silence and covered the mouthpiece with his fingers. “Hold it,” he whispered. “Let me find out if your husband is in this hotel.”

  He waited a moment.

  “Mr. Ralph Carrol is in two-sixteen. Shall I ring him, sir?” the clerk asked.

  Shayne hesitated, then said, “No, thanks. Skip it for now.” He slowly cradled the receiver and said, “Your husband is in two-sixteen, one floor directly above. Could you have mistaken the number?”

  “No. That is, I don’t see how I could have. The key opened your door. The same key wouldn’t fit both of them, would it?”

  “If it does,” Shayne growled, “the management is going to get hell in the morning. Let’s see that key.” He held out a broad palm and waited while she picked up a black suède purse. After a period of digging and fumbling she produced a flat brass key and handed it to him.

  Shayne observed its shiny newness, turned it over and found that it had no room number stamped on it. Otherwise, it appeared to be a duplicate of the familiar one he had carried on his key ring for so many years. He shrugged, tossed it on the desk, and asked, “Do you want to go up one flight and try it on your husband’s door? He should be sound asleep now, and you should be able to seduce him without too much trouble.”

  Nora Carrol sprang to her feet, and said angrily, “You’re insufferable! You make my wanting Ralph back sound cold-blooded and bitchy.”

  “Maybe,” said Shayne moodily. “I’m sore at being wakened so enticingly and so futilely. Call me tomorrow and let me know how you make out.”

  “Thanks for releasing me,” she replied acidly, “and I hope I never see you again.” She took a couple of steps toward the door, but stopped abruptly as heavy, measured footsteps sounded in the corridor.

  A knock sounded on the door, hard and insistent.

  Running to Shayne, she breathed, “Do you suppose they called Ralph from the desk to say you’d asked about him? If he finds me here with you like this—” Her eyes were frantic, and her gesture indicated Shayne’s pajamas and bare feet.

  Shayne was on his feet. “Whoever it is,” he said swiftly, “get into the bedroom and keep out of sight.” He picked up her two glasses as he spoke and shoved them into her hands. Nora sprinted into the bedroom and closed the door.

  A louder knock came, accompanied by a gruff voice that ordered, “Open up.”

  Shayne glanced over his shoulder to make certain the bedroom door was closed, then opened the front door.

  He scowled at the florid-faced, bulky man who stood on the threshold.

  “Thought I recognized your voice, Will,” he said casually. “Come in and tell me what the hell keeps you awake at this hour of the morning.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Police chief will Gentry had been Shayne’s friend and antagonist for many years, and a frequent visitor to the detective’s second-floor suite. He entered the room stolidly and glanced with interest at the glass of ice water and empty cognac glass on the desk.

  “So you’re up, too,” he pointed out mildly. “Bad conscience keep you awake?”

  Shayne closed the door and followed him to the center of the room while Gentry settled himself in the chair Nora Carrol had just vacated.

  “Too hot to sleep,” the redhead replied. “My conscience is as pure as a lily right now.” He seated himself, picked up the cognac bottle, and said, “Drink?”

  Will Gentry shook his graying head and took a thin black cigar from his breast pocket. “Too hot for drinking, too,” rumbled Gentry. He bit off the end of the cigar and lit it, then asked, “What do you know about Ralph Carrol?”

  Shayne’s glass was against his lips. He held it very still, arched ragged red brows meditatively, and didn’t reply for at least twenty seconds. He set the glass down and asked, “Who was that again?”

  “Carrol. Ralph Carrol.”

  “Oh, yeh, Carrol. I thought that was what you said. What’s your interest?”

  Gentry’s slightly protuberant eyes met Shayne’s in a level gaze. “I’m asking the questions right now, Mike. How well do you know Carrol?”

  “I don’t,” said Shayne promptly.

  “Don’t waste time lying to me. When did you see him last?”

  “I never saw him in my life, Will. Not to my knowledge.”

  “Why did you call down to the desk a few minutes ago to ask if he was registered here?” probed the chief.

  Shayne hesitated, lowering his lids over the glint of excitement and interest in his eyes. Finally, he blurted out, “How the devil do you know that? It hasn’t been more than five minutes ago.”

  “That’s why I’m particularly interested,” Gentry told him patiently.

  “There could be a thousand reasons,” said Shayne lightly. “Maybe I had a date with his wife and wanted to be certain the guy was in bed and would stay put while I kept it.”

  “Cut it, Mike. I just want one reason. The real one.”

  Shayne sobered and said quietly, “I’m
not sure I can give you the real reason without betraying a confidence. I certainly can’t without knowing your reason for asking.”

  “If it’s any news to you,” Gentry rumbled, “Ralph Carrol is dead. You know better than to hold out on a murder investigation.”

  Shayne’s eyes were hooded, his face expressionless, but he was thinking fast. In a sense, the chief’s statement came as no great surprise. From the moment Gentry asked his first question about Carrol, Shayne had realized that it must be something like this that placed the Chief of Police in the hotel at the same time Shayne made his query to the desk. The substitute clerk had relayed the information to the police, of course. A bad break for the detective which would not have occurred if Dick had been on the switchboard.

  “In that case,” he said, after a short silence, “I think you’d better get your answers from the source, Will.” He strode across to the bedroom door, and opened it.

  Nora Carrol jumped up from the edge of the bed, a question forming on her lips. Shayne led her into the living-room and said to Gentry, “This is Mrs. Ralph Carrol.” And to the girl he explained gently, “Will Gentry is our police chief. He tells me your husband has been murdered.”

  She went white and swayed against him. “Murdered?” she gasped with a convulsive sob.

  Shayne put his arm around her waist and half carried her to a chair opposite Gentry and eased her onto it. He held his brandy glass to her lips. “Drink this,” he ordered.

  Gentry had risen, his rumpled eyelids rolled high as he stared at the girl in complete bewilderment.

  Nora Carrol stiffened. Resisting Shayne’s efforts, she seemed ready to spring from the chair. She looked up into Gentry’s agate eyes, then subsided meekly and drank the remaining ounce of liquor in the glass. A series of retching coughs came with her sobs. Shayne thrust the water glass into her hand and stood over her while she gulped it down.

  “Get hold of yourself,” said Shayne swiftly. “Sit right where you are, and repeat your story to Chief Gentry. And tell all of the truth this time. If you lied to me in one single instance before, now is the time to change it.”

  “I didn’t lie,” she protested, suddenly shaken from her shock and grief by his accusation. “Why should I?”

  “I don’t know,” he growled. “But I’ll be getting some clothes on and I’ll leave the bedroom door open while you’re talking. You might just happen to remember something else, this time, that’ll be important.

  “She’s all yours, Will,” he went on to Gentry. “When you’re through with her, you’ll know as much about this as I do.”

  He turned away to the bedroom, and scowled heavily, as he listened to Nora Carrol’s tearful, anxious questions about her husband’s death.

  Gentry parried them, giving her no more information than he had given Shayne. Ralph Carrol had been murdered and the police were in his apartment one floor up, investigating the affair, at the time the substitute clerk reported Shayne’s inquiry about the dead man.

  In the bedroom, Shayne stripped off his pajamas and began dressing. Through the open door he heard the girl give Gentry the same story she had told him, with only minor and unimportant variations. Her voice broke several times when she spoke of her relationship with the dead man.

  He finished dressing and strolled into the living-room buttoning the sleeves of a fresh white shirt as she completed her recital. He grinned briefly at the expression of open disbelief on Chief Gentry’s broad, florid face.

  Circling the pair, he sat down in the swivel chair and refilled his cognac glass. He rocked back and listened with interest as Gentry asked the same question he himself had asked upon learning that Ralph Carrol was occupying the suite directly above.

  “Could you have mistaken the number, Mrs. Carrol?” Chief Gentry asked. “Are you sure you were told to come to one-sixteen instead of two-sixteen?”

  “I’m positive.” Nora Carrol was composed now, dry-eyed and tight-lipped. “It was written out in the instructions that were waiting for me at the hotel when I arrived yesterday; and distinctly repeated again over the telephone tonight.”

  “I suggested some such mix-up, too,” Shayne told Gentry moodily. “A sure way to check would be to try the key Mrs. Carrol has on her husband’s door. That’s it right there on the desk. I’m interested in finding out if a key made for two-sixteen also fits my lock.”

  Gentry picked up the shiny new key and studied it. “All these Yale keys look alike to me,” he rumbled. “But we’ll have to leave the test to an expert, Mike. The first men who arrived here, after getting the report on Carrol, couldn’t get a duplicate key from the new man on the desk. He couldn’t find a master key, either. So they forced the lock of two-sixteen to get in, and it’s jammed. It would be impossible to make the test right now.”

  Shayne thought for a moment, then said, “Look, Will, I’m damned anxious to know whether this is just a crazy mistake, or whether this woman was given a key to my room, and sent here for some definite purpose, while her husband was being murdered. Seems to me a lot depends on that. Let’s do this. Call upstairs and have the key to number two-sixteen brought down. If it doesn’t unlock my door, then we’ll know that this key couldn’t possibly unlock his.”

  “Good enough.” Gentry reached for the phone and spoke into it briefly.

  Shayne went into the kitchenette to replenish his glass of ice water. When he returned, he said, “I think it’s our turn to have a little dope from you, Will. When was Carrol murdered?”

  The chief removed the soggy cigar from his mouth and aimed it at the wastebasket. “There was a telephone call about two twenty-five. A man called. Didn’t give his name. He was excited, and all he said was that there was a dead man in room two-sixteen at this hotel, and then he hung up. A patrol car got the flash and got here a few minutes later.

  “They wasted a few minutes trying to get a key, as I told you, then they broke in. The lights were out and everything in the room was in perfect order. Carrol’s body was naked, and he evidently died without a struggle. He had been stabbed with a sharp silver paper knife.”

  Gentry paused, his agate eyes regarded Nora solemnly. “Did your husband own a silver paper knife, Mrs. Carrol?”

  “Why, y-yes.” Her composure wilted at the question, and she began to sob again. “I d-don’t know whether he brought it with him. He m-may have. He always opened his letters with it.” She stiffened abruptly and demanded, “How do you know it’s Ralph who’s dead? There must be some mistake, some kind of mix-up like the one that brought me to this apartment instead of his.”

  “The body was identified as Carrol’s by the elevator operator and the bellboy,” Gentry told her in a kindly tone. “I’ll want you to make a positive identification, of course.” He rose heavily when a knock sounded on the door. “That’ll be the key of two-sixteen.”

  He went to the door, followed by Shayne, opened it, and took the key from the young patrolman who stood there. Shayne watched with keen interest as Chief Gentry tried it in the lock. The key slid in about halfway and refused to go farther. “You want to try it?” he asked Shayne.

  Shayne removed the key and examined it carefully. It was old and tarnished, and plainly stamped with the numerals 216. He tried it in the lock, and as before it stuck halfway and would go no farther. Shaking his red head, he admitted sourly, “No soap,” and handed the key to the waiting patrolman.

  Gentry dismissed the young officer. “All right, Hagen. Take it back, and tell Sergeant Hale to stay there until I come up.”

  He closed the door. “That knocks the accidental theory in the head, Mike,” he said. “If we can believe Mrs. Carrol, she was deliberately sent to this hotel, and to your apartment tonight, with a key that opened your door, at just about the same time her husband was being stabbed to death on the next floor. What I want to know now is why.” He sat down heavily and plucked a fresh cigar from his pocket.

  “That is the question I want answered,” said Shayne grimly. “And I think we’d
better ask the guy who sent her here. Who is he?” he demanded abruptly of Nora Carrol.

  She jerked her head up, blinking tears from her eyes. “Wh-at? Who is whom?” she faltered.

  “Who is the detective who located your husband in this hotel and told you he was in one-sixteen? Who furnished you with a key to my place, and telephoned you a little after one o’clock to say the coast was clear for you to attempt a reconciliation? What’s his name and where can we locate him?”

  Nora Carrol’s damp brown eyes turned slowly from Shayne’s bleak and demanding gaze to Gentry’s set and uncompromising mouth.

  “I think he’s quite well known in Miami,” she said. “His name is Shayne. Michael Shayne.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Incredulous silence followed her quiet pronouncement of Michael Shayne’s name. Unaware of the bombshell she had exploded, she lowered her head to dab at her eyes.

  Shayne recovered his speech first. “No, by God!” he began hotly.

  “Hold it, Mike,” the chief interrupted with an angry bellow. “I don’t want a word from you. Drink your cognac and keep your mouth shut. If you say one word, and I mean it, Mike, one word, before I’m finished, I’ll have you taken in and locked up until I get to the bottom of this.”

  Shayne nodded morosely. He took a long drink, lit a cigarette, and said quietly, “Go to it, Will. I’m just as curious as you are.”

  The angry interchange between the two men brought Nora’s head up again. A frown creased her smooth forehead, and she appeared genuinely confused. “Isn’t Mr. Shayne a well-known detective?” she asked Gentry in a meek voice. “I understand he has a very good reputation.”

  “Depends on who you ask about him,” growled Gentry. He shifted his unlit cigar across his mouth, bent forward, and planted a hand on each broad thigh. “Describe Shayne for me, Mrs. Carrol.”

  “Why, I haven’t met him personally. I thought I told you that. There was a letter from him, enclosing the key, waiting for me when I checked in yesterday. Then two telephone calls—one in the afternoon to check my arrival and confirm everything, and the other one at one o’clock.”