This Is It, Michael Shayne Read online

  “But here is the angle that made me threaten to kill her, Shayne,” he went on in an even, controlled voice. “I have a wife and two lovely daughters. Viola will graduate from finishing-school this year. Mary is only fourteen. None of them have the faintest inkling of this thing. My wife is a wonderful woman and I can depend on her to stand by me at all cost. But how can you make children understand—?” His voice broke, and he hastily put the cigar between his teeth and took a deep drag on it before resuming:

  “I frankly confess I’m pleading with you—just as I pleaded with Miss Morton. Haven’t I made restitution for that one youthful mistake? Must everything I’ve laboriously built up for years be swept away?

  “I asked Miss Morton those same questions a week ago—as soon as I learned she had dug up that old story and planned to expose me in one of her syndicated articles. She had the unmitigated gall to lecture me about her sacred duty as a citizen and the ethics of her profession. My God! I was fool enough to think her protestations were sincere. I argued with her on the basis of decency and humanitarianism, pointed out that nothing would be gained by digging up that old charge now, and that many people would be irremediably hurt. And like a fool I thought I had made some headway. She promised to think it over seriously and I believed her. And all the time she must have been wondering how much she could shake me down for.” He spoke with rising anger and without the slightest physical gesture. When he stopped talking his square jaw appeared to be set in defiant anger, but Shayne decided it was made that way, for he smoked in a completely relaxed manner.

  Impatient to get on with Harsh’s story, Shayne asked, “How did you first learn Miss Morton was planning to publish the story?”

  “Carl Garvin told me. Carl manages the local office of her syndicate and she asked him to dig up certain information about me here, not realizing, of course, that he would come to me with it at once.”

  “Is Garvin a good friend of yours?”

  “He’s engaged to marry Viola, my eldest daughter. I must say Carl has acted splendidly throughout. He first did his best to dissuade her from her plan. When she wouldn’t be dissuaded he came to me with sympathy and understanding. Not many young men would stand by after learning that his future father-in-law has an old murder indictment hanging over his head.”

  “When did you realize Miss Morton had no intention of killing the story?”

  “Yesterday. When I received her demand for money. I keep forgetting you don’t know that part. She couldn’t have been very proud of it, and that’s why she called on a private detective for protection instead of the police.

  “It was a very polite blackmail letter,” Harsh continued bitterly. “Cleverly composed. I doubt whether I could legally prove attempted extortion from the wording of it. She sent me a carbon copy of the story, and explained she was holding the original while she made up her mind whether to publish it or not. She pointed out that such a sensational story would create wide interest and add to her stature as a crime reporter as well as bring a large sum of money. In view of this loss to her she suggested I make the noble gesture of paying her twenty-five thousand dollars. The implications were veiled, but it was a definite threat to publish the story and ruin me if I didn’t come across.”

  Shayne swore softly and shifted his position. “I had no idea she was that type of person,” he confessed.

  “Take it from me, Shayne, the whole transaction has a practiced and professional ring. With twenty years of experience in digging up criminal records and having unlimited access to any records she wants all over the country, there’s no telling how many others she has blackmailed. It was probably one of her victims who drove her own shears into her throat,” he ended helplessly, “just as I threatened to do last night.”

  “Do you mean you actually anticipated the method used by her murderer?” Shayne asked.

  “I told her I would enjoy shoving the point of those fancy shears into her blackmailing heart,” he said savagely.

  Shayne gave a sharp whistle and said dolefully, “If Miss Lally testifies she heard you use those words, you’ll really be on the spot. Give me your alibi for tonight.”

  “I was out in my motor cruiser all day—alone. When I sobered up this morning I had a horrible hang-over and a nagging uneasiness that I’d made a fool of myself by going to Miss Morton last night. I couldn’t face anyone, not even my wife, so I slipped away early and drove down to a little fishing-lodge below Homestead. I stayed on the water all day and drove back just in time to keep a seven-o’clock dinner appointment with Carl at the Seven Seas. He drove home with me afterward and stayed until about nine o’clock.”

  “Anybody to swear you were out in the boat or to testify when you drove in from Homestead?”

  “Not a soul. I didn’t stop anywhere on the road, and there was no one else at the lodge.”

  “So from the police viewpoint you may have driven in half an hour early after brooding all day, gone to the Tidehaven, and polished off Miss Morton before keeping your date at the Seven Seas with your future son-in-law.”

  “That’s correct,” Harsh agreed steadily. “If she was killed before seven.” He drew in a long breath. “Was she?”

  “We’re not sure,” Shayne told him. “There are certain indications that she was alive at seven-thirty. Other evidence points to six-thirty as the latest we can be sure of.”

  “If you can fix the time as seven-thirty, Shayne,” he said impulsively, “and keep my name out of the papers—I’ll double my first offer.”

  “I’ll have to talk to Miss Lally,” Shayne muttered. “And I need Carl Garvin’s confirmation of what you told me. Also his impression of Miss Morton. Is Garvin a heavy gambler?” he asked abruptly.

  “Carl—a gambler?” Burton Harsh sounded genuinely surprised. “I’ve played some dollar-limit poker with him, but I have an idea that’s about the highest stakes he can afford. Why do you ask that?”

  Shayne said, “It doesn’t matter.” Again he moved restlessly, shifted his position. “What I don’t understand is why you bothered to send Morton those foolish letters trying to drive her out of town. She already had the dope for her story, so what did you hope to gain?”

  Harsh moved his solid body for the first time, jerking his torso tensely erect. “What are you talking about? What letters?”

  “It was kid stuff, Harsh, to cut words out of advertisements and paste them on slips of paper. Not very smart, either. Don’t you know that paste and paper and even scissors marks can be scientifically traced and identified?”

  “I haven’t the remotest idea what you mean,” Harsh protested vigorously, and for the first time since their telephone conversation Shayne detected fear and uncertainty in the financier’s voice.

  “Sure you don’t know?”

  “I give you my word of honor that I have not sent any communication whatsoever, written or pasted, to Sara Morton.” It was a flat statement of fact, but again there was a hint of doubt and of fear behind the words.

  “Someone mailed her a threat every day for three consecutive days. The third one came today, setting tonight as the deadline for her to get out of Miami. Without the knowledge of your threat last night, the police are acting on the assumption that the threat was carried out.”

  “Describe them to me—in detail,” Harsh insisted. He was greatly agitated, and there was little doubt in Shayne’s mind that this was the first he had heard of the threats.

  “I’m handling that end of it for you,” Shayne reminded him. “Or will be as soon as you make a down payment on the ten grand. Say half now and the balance when it’s ended and your name has been kept out of it.”

  “But suppose my name comes into it in spite of your efforts, Shayne?”

  “You’ll be out that much.”

  “It seems to me the entire sum should be payable only in the event you succeed.”

  “I don’t do business that way. If you’re not prepared to lay half of it on the line right now, we’ll call the whole thi
ng quits.”

  “And you’ll go to the police with this information I’ve given you tonight?”

  “Why not? I’ve got my own neck to think about. If I don’t get paid for sticking it out, why should I bother?”

  Harsh frowned and puffed on his cigar for a moment, then said, “You understand I don’t carry that sort of money around with me. If you’ll take a check—”

  “You may be in jail charged with Sara Morton’s murder before I could get a check certified tomorrow morning,” Shayne told him cheerfully.

  “Then why am I paying you at all?” argued Harsh in an irritated tone.

  “The next few hours are the important ones. The only way to keep you absolutely in the clear is for me to move fast and turn up the murderer before the cops force me to let them have Miss Lally. For that, you’re going to pay five grand on the line.”

  “The banks are closed. I don’t see how you expect me to meet such a demand.”

  “Nuts. You’re well enough known around town so there are a dozen night spots that will cash your check for a thousand or more. Get the cash to me at my hotel within an hour if you want to buy my co-operation. Turn it over to John, the night clerk, and have him put it in the safe.”

  A concentrated frown between Harsh’s eyes was the only outward evidence of his tormented mind. “See here, Shayne, I trust you to keep quiet, but what about that Miss Lally? How do I know she hasn’t already talked—or will go to the police any minute.”

  “You have my word for that,” said Shayne dryly.

  “But how can you be sure? You believe you have her safely hidden from the police, but even while we’re sitting here she may be telling them all about me.”

  Shayne thought for a moment, then proposed, “Let’s drive to the nearest public phone. I’ll call her and let you listen to what she says. If that doesn’t satisfy you, you’ll have to take your chances. And make up your mind fast,” he added grimly. “If I’m to earn the second half of your fee, I should be moving right now.”

  “I seem to have little choice in the matter,” said the financier stiffly. He unlatched and opened the door.

  “Practically none,” Shayne agreed, drumming his finger tips on the steering-wheel. “Follow along in your car and I’ll stop at the first joint with a public phone.”

  He started the motor when Harsh got out; backed around, and drove slowly back to the Boulevard. He waited for Harsh’s headlights to come up behind him, then turned south for a block and a half to an all-night beer-and-hamburger dispensary.

  Burton Harsh parked his car and followed Shayne inside and to the rear, where Shayne stepped inside a phone booth and closed the door. He dialed Lucy Hamilton’s number, opened the door, and motioned Harsh to crowd in beside him.

  Lucy answered, and he said, “Hello, angel. Put Beatrice on, please.” He turned his head slightly and held the receiver so Harsh could listen with him.

  “Miss Lally speaking,” the girl said.

  “Shayne. Before you say anything else I want you to know another party is listening in. Please answer me honestly, but don’t volunteer any additional information. Do you understand that?”

  “Of course,” said Miss Lally. She sounded prim and calm and sober.

  “Have you talked to the police since you learned Miss Morton was dead?”

  “No.”

  “Have you mentioned Mr. Burton Harsh’s visit to Miss Morton’s hotel room last night to anyone?”

  They both distinctly heard a gasp—of surprise or dismay—or shock. Then, after a brief silence, Miss Lally replied steadily, “No, Mr. Shayne. I haven’t. Not even to you. I don’t know how you learned about—”

  “Never mind that. You understand that you are to stay where you are and under no circumstances talk to anyone about the case until I give you the word?”

  “I understand that, Mr. Shayne.”

  “Good. Now, go on to bed.”

  “One moment, Shayne,” Harsh interrupted swiftly from beside him. “What about the original copy of the story Miss Morton wrote about me? I told you she sent me a carbon. If the police have found that among her stuff, they will certainly realize it gives me a motive for her murder, and are probably already looking for me.”

  Shayne said, “Let me check.” He said into the mouthpiece, “Miss Lally?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know anything about the original copy of a story Miss Morton had dug up about Burton Harsh?”

  “Why, yes. I have that in a file with some other important papers in my own bedroom. She told me several days ago she had decided not to publish it, but wanted it kept in a safe place for a time.”

  Shayne looked sideways at Harsh. “The police have had no reason to search Miss Lally’s bedroom, which is down the hall from the connecting room she was in when you heard Miss Morton call her. Satisfied?”

  “It sounds all right. If you can get hold of that original and destroy it.”

  “I’ll get it,” Shayne assured him, “and turn it over to you so you can destroy it.” Into the phone, he said, “That’s all, Miss Lally. Relax until you hear from me.”

  He hung up and told Harsh, “The next thing for you to think about is delivering five grand in cash to my hotel within an hour. I may not be there to receive it, but give it to the desk clerk and get a receipt.”

  He pushed Burton Harsh out of the booth and shut the door again and put another nickel in the slot. He dialed Timothy Rourke’s newspaper, got the city room, and was told that the reporter was out working on an assignment.

  He tried Rourke’s apartment number. When there was no answer he inserted the nickel again and dialed police headquarters, watching Harsh through the glass door, noting the deep frown between his eyes, the doubt and uncertainty in his expression. In the light, the financier looked haggard and weary and deeply troubled.

  Gentry answered. Shayne pitched his voice high and spoke crisply: “City desk calling. Tim Rourke around?”

  “Hold on a minute,” Gentry rumbled, then a muffled: “It’s for you, Tim.”

  “Yeah?” said Tim.

  “Don’t call my name before Will,” Shayne said cautiously and in a low voice. “You still too sore at a guy to get in on a story?”

  “I’m never too sore for that,” Rourke told him heartily. Too heartily, it seemed to Shayne. “What’s up?”

  “Meet me for a drink at the Hotaire in ten minutes.”

  “Sure.”

  Shayne hung up and stared absently at the telephone, his bushy red brows drawn together in a frown. Rourke wasn’t the sort to hold a grudge—yet he wasn’t the sort to cheerfully turn the other cheek. He sounded a little too exuberant, a little too eager to forgive and forget—as though he and Will Gentry had something up their sleeves.

  Chapter Eight

  Laughing Up the Wrong Sleeve

  THE HOTAIRE WAS A SMALL BAR on Miami Avenue a few blocks north of Flagler. Rourke was resting his bony frame against the bar when Shayne entered. He smiled blandly and lazily lifted his hand in greeting as Shayne approached and he straightened up to join him.

  “What you been doing, Mike?”

  “Trying to earn an honest dollar.” Shayne caught the proprietor’s eye, ordered drinks, and led the reporter to an empty booth. “What’s new with you?” he asked when they were seated opposite each other.

  “Nothing. When your call came I was sitting in Gentry’s lap waiting to hear if you’d made that contact Will’s men messed up at the Golden Cock.”

  “So he told you about that,” Shayne muttered.

  “Will felt plenty bad about it,” Rourke assured him earnestly, “after you explained how you were trying to work some bird for information. You could’ve told me what you were up to at the apartment,” he went on in an injured tone, “and I would have left without having to be slapped in the face.”

  Again Shayne was suspicious that Rourke was laughing up his sleeve, although his face was deadly serious and his voice sounded sincere.

 
; A waiter brought a double shot of cognac and a double rye and water. Shayne paid him and waited until he went away to say impatiently:

  “Okay. The way you guys were acting, I didn’t know how else to get rid of you so I could move if the guy called.”

  “What happened after you left the Golden Cock? Will said you were going back to your place,” Rourke explained ingenuously, “and wait for the man to call again. Did he?”

  “Gentry knows whether he did or not,” Shayne growled. “With his tap on my line did he actually think I was going back to wait for another call?” He lifted his glass and drank half the liquor, set the glass down, and studied the reporter’s face intently. “Look, Tim, do you want to help me break the Morton case? Or do you want to play around with Gentry while he tries to?”

  “I walked out of his office to meet you here, didn’t I?” Rourke’s voice was gently reproachful.

  “Okay. What did you think of Sara Morton as a person? Forget about her professional ability.”

  “She was a tough baby inside and out, and plenty on the make for a fast dollar. She came up the hard way and intended to stay up, no matter what it took to do it.”

  Shayne twisted his glass round and round while he considered this information, then asked, “How’d she play it?”

  “Both ends against the middle,” said Rourke promptly. “You got something special on your mind, Mike?”

  “Beatrice Lally claims she turned down twenty-five grand from Leo Gannet.”

  “Sure. That’s what I mean. That’s a hunk of money, but la Morton was regularly pulling down from two to four times that much annually. If she walked out of Miami without a story, word would get around fast that she was slipping. Pretty soon there wouldn’t be any fifty or hundred grand income. Why kill the goose for one small piece of a single golden egg?”

  “I see how that would work.” Shayne’s expression cleared. That was one thing that had bothered him about Harsh’s story. He hadn’t been able to reconcile Miss Morton’s turning down money from Gannet and at the same time trying to extort a similar sum from Harsh. Now he thought he understood. The Harsh story was a sort of sideline she had happened upon while pursuing the real story that had brought her to Miami, the one involving Gannet. There would be no loss of prestige in dropping the Harsh story, but failure to expose Gannet’s racket would be a blow to her reputation.