Dividend on Death Read online

  “I see.” Shayne nodded slowly. “You want me to arrange to keep the crazy girl from murdering her mother while you observe her?”

  “Bluntly, yes.” Dr. Joel Pedique nodded his small head with a birdlike motion.

  “Do you want her tailed from the moment of the mother’s arrival?” Shayne became very brisk and businesslike.

  “I hardly think that will be necessary.” The doctor smiled thinly. “I feel that a rather informal watch will be sufficient. It is a matter which must be handled with discretion and the utmost privacy. I—wondered if you might undertake it yourself instead of sending an operative.”

  “I might,” Shayne told him casually. “It will cost you more.”

  “That’s perfectly splendid.” Dr. Pedique stood up enthusiastically, slipped his right hand inside his coat and drew out a fat wallet. “I suggest that you drop over tonight after dinner and meet Mrs. Brighton and the girl. Everything could be arranged quietly.”

  Shayne stood up. “I’ll be there,” he promised, “about eight-thirty.”

  Dr. Pedique nodded and fiddled with his wallet.

  “Two hundred for a retainer,” Shayne told him.

  Dr. Pedique’s eyebrows shot up. Shayne stared at him coldly. The doctor reluctantly drew out two one-hundred-dollar bills. Shayne crumpled them in his hand and led the doctor to the corridor door.

  “Eighty-thirty,” he said as he let the doctor out. Dr. Pedique bowed stiffly and went down the corridor. Shayne closed the door and walked back to the table, smoothing the bills out between his fingers. He opened the drawer, took the pearls out, rolled them up in the bills and stuck the wad in his coat pocket.

  Then he grinned and muttered, “Now, if the old lady would come around and hire me as her bodyguard, the setup would be perfect.”

  CHAPTER 2

  AT SEVEN-THIRTY, SHAYNE CAME up a side street from Flagler to the service entrance of his apartment hotel. Down concrete steps and through a door into a square vestibule, then up two flights and to the right.

  In his apartment, he crossed to the table, took the wadded pearls and bills from his pocket, unrolled the pearls and let them lie shimmering on the table while his eyes brooded over them. After a minute, and leaving the bills on the table, he carried the pearls into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and took out the hydrator, which held a head of lettuce. He put the pearls in the bottom, scattered lettuce leaves over them, and replaced the pan.

  When he returned to the living-room, he was carrying a glass and a pitcher of crushed ice cubes and water. He set these things down on the table and brought out a bottle of Martell five-star cognac and a wineglass from a cupboard. Shayne’s actions were apparently almost unconscious; the precise somnambulism of habit was in every motion, an automatic smoothness that lasted while he sat down, poured a drink, and lit a cigarette. There was nothing in his face to show what he was thinking.

  For the next half hour he sat silently, alternately sipping from the wineglass and the water glass, lighting one cigarette from another. Finally he stood up, turned out the lights and went out. His expression had not altered, but there was purposefulness in his walk.

  The elevator deposited him in a large and ornately furnished lobby. Shayne thrust his way across it toward the desk, caught the clerk’s eye, and received a negative shake of his head. Without stopping he went on, out through the side front entrance and across to a row of garages, where he unlocked the padlock on one door and folded himself into the driver’s seat of a middle-aged car. Once the car was backed out, Shayne drove a winding course to Southeast Second Street, thence east to Biscayne Boulevard, and north on the right-hand drive. He paid no attention to his route, and very little to the other cars on the road.

  At Thirteenth Street he turned to the right at the traffic circle and sped over the causeway across the Bay. When he reached the peninsula, he drove as far east as the ocean would allow, then turned north. His watch told him it was eight-twenty; the place could hardly be more than a few minutes ahead of him. Shayne relaxed imperceptibly at the wheel; he began to look around him. There was little traffic on the wide street, and few strolling figures in Lummus Park, He checked the house numbers as he drove along, and a short distance beyond the Roney Plaza, slowed and turned into a winding concrete drive between granite gateposts.

  The general look of the place was luxurious but conventional to the point of dullness. There was a carefully tended terraced lawn on the left and a wide landscaped area of tropical shrubbery. The dark bulk of a huge mansion showed as he followed the drive to a porte-cochere, bougainvillea-draped in front. Lights shone from the lower windows.

  An elderly woman in a maid’s uniform opened the door. He told her his name, and she said he was expected in the library and would he follow her?

  Shayne did, down a dimly-lit vaulted hallway, past a balustraded stairway. A woman was descending the stairway, and she reached the bottom just as Shayne passed. She wore the white uniform of a nurse and carried a napkin-covered tray. She was a full-bodied blonde of about thirty, with predatory eyes.

  Shayne glanced at her as he passed and caught a fleeting, almost animal look on her face. Her lips were pouted as though in assent, though he had not spoken to her.

  The maid led him on to the end of the hall and turned down a narrower one until she stopped outside a wide partly-open door and said, “They’re expecting you inside.” He hardly noticed her noiseless, gliding retreat. It took plenty of money, he reflected, to get that kind of service.

  Light streamed through the narrow opening, and there was the low hum of voices. Shayne bent his head and listened but could distinguish no words. He pushed the door open a little more and looked in.

  There was the sound of slithering feet on the carpet behind him. Sharp fingers dug into his arm. He turned to look into the white face of Phyllis Brighton. She looked ghastly in the dim light. The lashes were drawn back from her eyeballs as though by some mechanical device, and the pupils were so contracted that the entire eyeball seemed to consist only of smoky iris. Shayne saw that she was wearing a flimsy chiffon nightgown and that her feet were bare. Streaks of blood showed darkly red down the front of her nightgown.

  He stared at her face and at the crimson stains, his mouth thin and hard. When he saw her lips begin to move, he thrust her back away from the doorway.

  She spoke in a flat, low monotone. “I’ve done it. You’re too late. I’ve already done it.”

  Without replying, Shayne pushed her back farther from the door and held her out at arm’s length to study her. Her eyes stared back, but he felt that they didn’t really see him. She stood stiffly erect with her gown hanging slackly from shoulders and breasts. Her lips continued to move, but no articulate words came forth. There was only a low moan each time she exhaled. When she lifted one of her hands, he saw that the inside of the palm was smeared with blood. He caught her wrist as she started to grasp his arm. The abruptness of his motion had some effect on her; she drew back from him, her eyes still staring and sightless, and then turned and led him down the hall. Shayne followed, holding tightly to her wrist. Her bare feet glided soundlessly on the carpet, and her breath wheezed in and out between set teeth. There was a back stairway at the end of the hall. Shayne put his left arm about her shoulders as they climbed the stairs side by side. Her flesh was cold under the thin gown. At the top of the stairs she turned to the right and stopped in front of a closed door. Her head moved jerkily, and her face was contorted with grief or remorse.

  “She’s in there.”

  Shayne opened the door and fumbled for a wall switch, keeping his arm tightly about Phyllis’s shoulders.

  The switch lighted a shaded floor lamp standing near the foot of a bed. Shayne moved inside, and the girl moved with him. He closed the door softly with his heel and gazed down somberly at the body of a murdered woman lying outstretched on the bed. One white hand trailed down limply toward the floor, and there was the slow drip of blood into a thickening pool on the carpet.<
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  Shayne’s arm tightened about the girl’s shoulders as a shudder traversed her body. He roughly turned her away while he stepped near the bed and looked down silently at the woman whom he had promised to protect from harm. She wore, he noticed, a gray tailored traveling-suit, with gray blouse and shoes, and she appeared not to have struggled against death. Blood was clotted on the white pillow and continued to seep from a gaping wound in her throat.

  Shayne turned away from the bed, his left arm crushing Phyllis to him. Three traveling-bags stood in partially unpacked disarray near the door. A fitted overnight bag lay open on the brocaded bench before the vanity, and there were toilet articles scattered out in front of the mirror. Half carrying the girl, Shayne moved to the vanity. There was an open hammered-silver jewel case holding a miscellany of personal jewelry. An elaborately tooled handbag of gray leather lay beside the jewel case.

  Shayne opened it with his free hand and dumped its contents out. There was a lipstick and compact, a wad of bills, and a neatly folded cablegram, a small leather key-tainer. He smoothed the cablegram out and read it with a frown.

  HAVE VERIFIED AUTHENTICITY AND WILL RETURN IMMEDIATELY USUAL ROUTE CABLE WHETHER NEW YORK OR MIAMI

  HENDERSON

  It had been sent from London a week before, to Mrs. Rufus Brighton in New York. Penciled on the bottom were the words: Will meet you in Miami.

  Shayne stuffed the cablegram in his pocket. Phyllis Brighton stirred inside the circle of his arm and began moaning. He led her to the door, put both his hands on her shoulders and shook her. Her eyes came open, and she stopped moaning.

  “Where is your room?” Shayne formed each word distinctly.

  She shook her head as though too dazed to understand, but reached falteringly for the doorknob. Shayne switched off the light and closed the door. Phyllis moved stiffly ahead of him down the hall to another door which stood partly ajar and which she entered.

  A bed lamp burned at the head of a bed which he saw had lately been occupied. On the rug beside the bed lay a large wooden-handled butcher knife. The blade was stained red, and the grip was smeared with blood.

  Shayne pushed Phyllis down on the bed and stared at the knife. Then he looked at her and asked, “Is that what you did it with?” His face and voice were expressionless.

  She shuddered and did not look at the knife. “I just woke up and—and there it was. I—don’t know. I guess—it must be.”

  Shayne said, “Stand up.”

  She obeyed like a docile child.

  “Look at me.”

  She looked at him. The pupils of her eyes had expanded to normal size but they were still glassy and unfocused. He asked, “How do you know you did it?”

  “I just woke up and knew.”

  “Did you remember doing it?”

  “Yes. As soon as I saw the knife I remembered.”

  Shayne shook his head. Her voice was dull, as if the words were unimportant to her. Something stunk about the entire setup. He didn’t know just what. There wasn’t time to dig into it now.

  He said, “Take off your nightgown. It’s got blood on it.”

  Still staring into his eyes, Phyllis’s hands went stiffly downward, gathered up the bottom hem of her gown and lifted it over her head.

  Shayne turned his eyes away and held out his hand for it. Beads of sweat stood on his corrugated forehead. This was a hell of a time to be thinking about—anything except earning that string of pearls Phyllis had given him. Keeping his gaze averted, he said, “Give me the nightgown.”

  She put it in his hand and waited further orders.

  He balled the soft material up in his fingers and said, “Now go in the bathroom and wash your hands and dry them. Get another nightgown and put it on.”

  His eyes followed her across the room to the bathroom door. When she went inside he shook his head, then bent and picked up the knife by the blade. He wrapped the bloody nightgown around the handle and transferred his hold there. Then he unbuttoned his coat and slipped the knife, blade downward, into the inside pocket; forcing the point through the lining until the handle rested against the bottom of the pocket. He then stuffed the rest of the nightgown inside the pocket and buttoned his coat.

  Phyllis Brighton came out of the bathroom, took a clean nightgown from a hanger in the closet, and slipped it on.

  Shayne stood beside the bed and watched her. She came back and stood before him numbly, as though she had no will of her own, but waited for him to instruct her.

  “Get into bed,” he said. “Cover up and turn out the light and go to sleep or pretend to sleep. Forget about everything. Everything, do you understand?”

  “I understand,” she said in a flat, weary voice.

  “You’d damn well better.” He watched her get in bed and waited until she turned out the light. Then he went out in the hall and closed the door. He hesitated a moment as he observed the key in the outside lock. With a scowl almost of uncertainty, he turned the key, left it in the door, and strode down the hall toward the stairs.

  He met no one as he padded back to the library. The entire incident had not delayed him more than ten minutes. This time he did not hesitate before the door.

  Four men were seated in the library when he went in. Dr. Joel Pedique, who had visited him that afternoon; Dr. Hilliard, a tall, ascetic man with eyeglasses fastened to a wide black ribbon, whom he knew; and two others who he guessed were Mr. Montrose and Clarence Brighton.

  “The maid told me I was expected,” Shayne said as he stepped into the room.

  Dr. Pedique rose and bowed from the hips. “We have been waiting for you, Mr. Shayne.”

  Shayne smiled and said, “Hello, Hilliard.”

  “Good evening, Shayne.” Dr. Hilliard didn’t get up, but smiled courteously.

  “Mr. Montrose, Mr. Shayne,” said Dr. Pedique.

  Mr. Montrose was a wispy little man, bald and cleanshaven. His clothes seemed too large for him, and his face was a pasty-white. He stood up and bowed, and Shayne nodded curtly.

  “And this is Clarence Brighton,” Dr. Pedique went on, his voice becoming more effusive.

  The youth crossed his ankles in front of him, looked at Shayne in low-lidded indifference, and muttered something.

  Shayne looked the boy over carefully as he took the chair Dr. Pedique offered him. About twenty, with a slender, well-knit body, slack mouth, and furtive hazel eyes. His hands were small, and the two first fingers of the left hand were heavily stained with nicotine. All in all, there was an obvious but ill-defined air of defiance about him.

  Shayne said, “Well?” and let his gaze slide to Dr. Pedique as the latter resumed his seat.

  “We were discussing you and some of your exploits,” Dr. Pedique told him. “Doctor Milliard has been kind enough to tell us something about your work.”

  Shayne lit a cigarette and grinned amiably at Dr. Milliard. “Hope you didn’t tell them anything they shouldn’t know, doc. These people are my clients.”

  “I assured them that you generally get results,” he answered seriously. Dr. Milliard was one of the most respected members of his profession in Miami, an officer of the local Medical Association, and prominent in civic affairs.

  “That’s all right. So long as you didn’t tell them how I go about getting results.” Shayne then turned to Pedique. “I’m here on business. Everything’s all right so far, I judge,” he said casually.

  “Oh, yes. Yes, indeed. Mrs. Brighton went to her room immediately after dinner and is resting from the trip. She asked me to bring you to meet her before you go away. The—ah—patient is resting quietly, also.”

  “That’s great,” said Shayne. “Now, have you worked out any definite plan of action?”

  “That, I should think, would be for you to decide.” Dr. Pedique cocked his head, nodded with pursed lips. “With all the facts in hand, you may proceed as you see fit.”

  Shayne nodded and turned again to Dr. Milliard. “How about it, doc? Is Pedique having a pipe dream or
is there any danger of the girl harming her mother? How do you see the setup?”

  Dr. Milliard brought the tips of his fingers together in front of his chest. “I can’t venture a prediction, having no more intimate knowledge of the case than a somewhat cursory observation has given me. I do approve, however, of taking all possible precautions.”

  “Christ!” Shayne complained, “it’s as hard to get a definite opinion out of one of you birds as a lawyer.”

  Dr. Milliard smiled suavely. “Mental cases require careful study and observation over a long period,” he told Shayne. “I haven’t,” he added, “been consulted on Miss Brighton’s case.”

  Shayne shot a look at Dr. Pedique. “You’ve kept her to yourself, huh?”

  Dr. Pedique smiled thinly. “I felt perfectly capable of coping with her case. With Mr. Brighton I did consider that a consultant was necessary.”

  “See here,” Shayne said abruptly, “how does the girl’s name come to be Brighton? I understood she wasn’t his daughter.”

  “He adopted her at the time of his marriage,” Mr. Montrose explained. “It was his desire that she be legally regarded as his daughter.”

  Shayne watched Clarence as Mr. Montrose ended. The boy’s lips poked out sulkily. He uncrossed and recrossed his ankles.

  “You’d better let me have a talk with Mrs. Brighton and see if I can arrange a sensible method of going about this,” Shayne said. He stood up, and Dr. Pedique arose hurriedly. “By the way,” Shayne added, “how does she take this? Mrs. Brighton, I mean.”

  “She was much relieved when I outlined the arrangement,” Dr. Pedique said. “She is greatly concerned about the girl, of course, but she admitted to me that she had felt cause for alarm on previous occasions.” He slid through the door and held it for Shayne who passed through with a nod of his head toward the three men remaining in the library.