Michael Shayne's Long Chance (12 page)

Denton said, “Start talking.”

“What do you want me to talk about?” Shayne took a cigarette from a pack and lit it.

Rudy Soule leaned back and clasped long fingers behind his head. In a silken-smooth voice, he observed, “Don’t try to hold out on us. We’ve got the girl, too. She’s still out, isn’t she, Henri?”

The sullen-faced young man nodded. “She was, the last time I looked.”

Shayne puffed thoughtfully on his cigarette. He couldn’t quite figure the setup. There was something screwy about the whole thing. If he could put his finger on that screwiness—

“I never knew what hit me downstairs,” he complained. “How’d you get wise to me?”

“I saw you come in,” Denton growled. “If you’d drunk your Tom Collins like the girl did you wouldn’t have needed a bust on the head.”

“So—that was it. I should have known from the taste of the damned thing.” He looked at Henri. “You haven’t thanked me for bringing Lucile.”

Henri Desmond was startled. He said, sullenly, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Things were beginning to come clear to Shayne. Denton had recognized him as soon as he entered. It looked as though Henri had kept his mouth shut about his part in it as soon as he learned the identity of Lucile’s escort.

“The hell you don’t,” Shayne said. “Why did you invite us here in the first place?”

Both Denton and Soule turned to stare at Henri. Henri pushed his lips into a deeper pout and whined, “That crack on the head Bart gave you must of knocked you cuckoo.”

Shayne laughed shortly. “You shouldn’t start to sell out and then get cold feet, Desmond.”

“The guy’s crazy,” Henri panted. “I never saw him after he tried to horn in this evening till just now.”

“What’re you trying to do, Shayne? What kind of bunk is this?” Denton demanded.

“It looks like you’d better start cleaning your own house,” Shayne told him sardonically. “Your boy friend is the one that tipped me off to this setup.”

“He’s lying,” twanged Henri.

Soule said, “Shut up, punk.” The words were like a whiplash across Henri’s dark face. Soule turned to Shayne. “Go on talking, copper.”

“Don’t blame him too much. He’s worried about his own skin.” Then he added carelessly to Denton, “If you’re looking for a fall guy to take the rap for the Margo Macon killing, he’s ready-made for it.”

“How does he figure in that?” Soule asked harshly.

“I can prove he did it,” Shayne answered quietly.

“You can’t. It’s a lie. Every word of it’s a lie. I didn’t have him come here.” Desmond’s voice rose.

Neither Denton nor Soule paid any attention to Henri. Shayne reached in his pocket and took out the card Lucile had given him. He flipped it on Soule’s desk and asked, “Does that look like I’m lying?”

Soule picked it up, glanced at it, and passed it to Denton without speaking.

“Henri was on the make for Margo Macon,” Shayne went on smoothly. “Two witnesses heard them quarrel at ten o’clock and heard him threaten to kill her. It looks like he got panicky when he realized what their evidence would do to him. He can’t locate one of the girls, and when he found out I’d got to the other one, he asked us to meet him here to make a deal with us. If you hadn’t happened to see me when I came in, Denton, I figure Henri would already have traded me what I wanted on you for keeping him in the clear.”

Denton started to his feet with his two big fists swinging and his face contorted with rage. He growled at Henri, “You rat! I’ll teach you!”

“Sit down, Denton,” Soule snapped. Again, his arrogant voice cut like a whiplash. He had not taken his eyes from Shayne’s face. “Don’t let this redhead get you going.
He’s
mixed up in the Macon killing, isn’t he?”

“Yeh, but—” Denton went back to his chair. “Quinlan turned him loose,” he said heavily, “after I had a rope tied around his neck. I don’t know what the score is there.”

Soule turned thoughtful eyes on Henri. “How do you figure in it?”

“I don’t. Not the way he makes it sound. I was up there, sure. I had a run-in with Margo. I got sore at her for junking me, but I never killed her.”

“Why’d you get Lucile and me here?” Shayne asked harshly. “You’d heard the word passed around by Denton that I was dynamite. You know I’ve had a yen from years back to hang something on him.”

“I didn’t know anything about it. I didn’t know you were coming with Lucile.”

Soule said, “Lucile?”

“Lucile Hamilton,” Henri admitted sullenly. “In the other room.” He hesitated, scowled heavily and burst out, “Don’t look at me like that. I knew I was in a jam. Both those girls heard me at Margo’s—Evalyn Jordan and Lucile Hamilton. I don’t know where Evalyn’s got to. I thought if I could put it up to Lucile I might get her to forget about me being there. God knows the cops will be riding my tail if they find me. You don’t want that,” he ended defiantly. “You nor Captain Denton neither.”

“No,” said Soule smoothly, “we don’t want that. But you should have told me, Henri.” He was purring now, like a father chiding an erring son. “If you’d come to me we would have fixed something up.”

“I was afraid you’d be sore.” Henri dropped his head. “When Lucile came in with this stool, I was afraid to tell you I’d sent for her.”

“Let me have Desmond,” Shayne suggested. “All I want is the girl’s killer.”

“That,” Soule said, “is an idea.” He looked at Denton with raised brows.

“I don’t trust Shayne,” Denton said heavily. “Sure, he wants a fall guy for the murder. He needs an out. But after he gets that, he still knows too much about our hookup.”

“Thanks to the young man who invited him here,” Soule purred.

“Yeh. Thanks to Henri. But that’s not the point right now. I say let’s hang the murder on Shayne.”

“Henri fits a frame lots better than I do,” Shayne told them wolfishly. “He had the motive. I swear that’s all I want,” he went on earnestly. “I came to New Orleans on one job. When that’s finished I’m through here.”

“Sounds all right to me,” said Soule. “Henri’s been getting too free with those cards he passes out. Like Drake. He’s going to use us for an alibi if the pressure gets hot. That means publicity. Gives a place a bad name.”

“Denton tipped me to Drake,” Henri expostulated sullenly. “If you want to get sore—”

“Nobody’s sore,” Soule told him calmly. “The harm’s been done and we’ve got to patch it up.” He addressed Shayne. “Do you need any more than you’ve got or will you be satisfied with Henri?”

“Damn you,” raged Henri, “you’d sell me out like that! Not if I know it. I’ll bust things wide open, and I know plenty to bust it with.”

Shayne grinned at Soule. “Sometimes murderers get an attack of conscience and commit suicide when they think they’re going to get caught. That way they don’t do any talking afterward.”

“It’s an idea,” Soule agreed. “How do you like it?” He looked at Denton for sanction.

“Shayne’s talking you into something,” Denton grunted suspiciously. “I’d like it better if
he
got an attack of conscience and committed suicide.”

“You’re forgetting the two girls,” Shayne reminded him. “Their evidence will pin it on Henri if you let it go that way. With me, you’d have to see that neither of them ever did any talking.”

“He’s right,” Soule said evenly. “It’s a lot cleaner using Henri.”

Henri sobbed. “Oh, God! You’re talking about me—like I was already dead. Like I didn’t matter.”

“If you can give us a better out, let’s have it,” Soule suggested with thin-lipped viciousness.

“Will both girls tell the same story?” Denton asked Shayne.

“They both witnessed the quarrel and heard Henri threaten Margo. Lucile left right away and the other girl stayed. Hell, she may even have seen Henri do it. Quinlan may have hold of her right now. Maybe I don’t need anything you can give me.”

The telephone rang on Soule’s desk. He picked it up and said, “Yes, just a minute,” and handed it to Denton. After a moment, Denton asked, “What was the name of that other girl?”

“Evalyn Jordan,” Henri answered.

Denton nodded, barked into the phone, “Keep it in our precinct till I get there. Don’t let anybody in to see her. If she does any talking it’ll be to me.” He slammed the receiver down and swung to his feet. “The Jordan girl has tried to kill herself. I’ll call you back as soon as I find out what’s what.” He tramped from the room.

There was a short silence after Denton left. Henri Desmond was slumped back against the wall staring apathetically at the floor. Soule studied him thoughtfully, then pushed his chair back and got up. He put his hand on Henri’s shoulder and said, “Maybe something will come up.”

Sitting crosslegged on the floor, Shayne was congratulating himself upon feeling so well physically, but when he tried to get up, his knees were weak and wobbly and his head swam. He caught the back of the chair which Denton had vacated and held on until the dizziness passed, then said, “I’ll buy us all a drink if anyone will join me.”

Soule said, “I don’t see why not.” He went to his desk and pushed a button. Immediately, a waiter appeared in the doorway and Soule ordered three drinks.

Bart stood in a watchful attitude behind Shayne, his blackjack swinging. Shayne winced and appealed to Soule, “Does that gorilla have to look at me like that?”

Soule said, “I’m sorry you don’t like Bart’s looks, but I want to be sure you stay here.”

A Negro came in with a tray of three-ounce glasses and a quart of Bourbon. Soule filled the glasses and handed one to Shayne. He said placidly, “That’s the best medicine I know of for Bart’s blackjack.”

Shayne grinned and said, “I’d drink it even if it was a Mickey Finn.” He tipped it up and let it drain down his parched throat.

Soule laughed shortly and pushed the other two glasses aside. He said, “It was.”

Shayne stared at his empty glass, wrinkling his nose in disgust. He said, “If you want me put away I’m glad it’s this way instead of under the ear.”

“We try to be considerate of our guests. It was for your own good,” Soule said earnestly. “You’ve got a rep for not knowing when to stop, and Bart might not be so gentle next time.”

Shayne said, “Thanks.” His tongue felt thick and heavy, and his lips were dry and numb. His fingers were slow taking a cigarette from the pack, and refused to hold the match he tried to strike.

He muttered, “I’ve always wondered how a Mickey worked.” The cigarette dropped from his lips. He felt a pleasing lassitude coming over his body. His head sagged forward and he slid gently and ungracefully from the chair.

SHAYNE WAS HAVING A PLEASANT DREAM of being back in his Miami apartment. He dreamed that it was night and he was in bed with his wife, Phyllis. His hand touched hers and she snuggled a little closer to him. She was asleep, but he was awake, and he decided he would stay awake to enjoy the cozy sense of contentment.

Something wakened him. The dream was blended with reality. He had a hell of a hang-over. His tongue scraped the walls of his parched mouth, and his head was splitting with pain. He lay very still for fear it would fly into pieces if he dared to move.

There was a confusing clamor all around him. The shrieks of women and the heavy thud of hard heels on bare floor. Somewhere, far away, a police whistle sounded shrilly.

Shayne moved his arm. His hand contacted something soft and warm. The something moved, snuggled closer to him. He forced his eyes open and dragged himself to a sitting position, his mind still confused with the dream and with reality. The room was certainly not his Miami apartment.

Again he felt movement beside him, and turned his aching eyes to see Lucile Hamilton sitting up, staring about wildly. Her hair was a disheveled mass and the covers had fallen from her naked body. Instinctively, he made a grab for the covers to draw them up, put his arm around her to drag her down on the pillow.

A blinding flare from a flashlight bulb flooded the room. A grinning man was backing away through the doorway, dismantling a camera from a tripod as he went. A red mist blotted out the room and the cameraman from Shayne’s gaze. He threw back the covers and lunged to his feet only to find the door barred by a bluecoat swinging a nightstick.

“Take it easy, buddy, or you’ll get a rap on the head.”

Through the red haze, Shayne saw other grinning cops in the hall outside. The cameraman had disappeared. He shivered, and for the first time realized that he was stark naked. He took a step backward and rusty bedsprings creaked as he sat down abruptly. With his back toward the girl, he said, “Stay down under the covers until I get some clothes on.”

He found them hung in disarray on a chair beside the bed. On the floor beside a chair, Lucile’s clothing lay in a little pile.

“Be quick about it,” the bluecoat ordered gruffly from the doorway. “We can’t be holding the wagon for you two.”

Shayne pulled his undershirt over his head and slid into his shorts. As he pulled on his pants he said to Lucile, “We’ve been framed, kid. Keep your chin up.”

“Sure you’ve been framed.” The cop guffawed from the doorway. “We shoulda warned you we was gonna pull a raid.”

Shayne buckled his belt. His first mad burst of anger had simmered down to cold rage. He picked up his shirt, turned to meet Lucile’s imploring eyes staring up at him from the edge of the covers. He said, tersely, “I’m sorry. We’ll get out and let you get dressed.”

“I’m staying right here,” the bluecoat growled.

Shayne started toward him with fists clenched. “You and I are going out while the lady gets dressed.”

“The lady, is it?” The cop grinned widely. “I s’pose the two of you are married an’ all? Didn’t even know this was a cat-house—”

Shayne was close enough to reach the policeman’s jaw with an uppercut. He put his shoulder and all his anger and sickening realization of the situation into the blow.

The cop’s head snapped back and his eyes went blank. Shayne gave him a shove and stepped out over his prostrate body, jerking the door shut.

Two policemen were herding disheveled drabs and an occasional protesting man down the stairs. They converged on Shayne and pinioned his arms, cursing him violently. He tried to drag himself free, but one of them snapped handcuffs on his wrist while the other knelt on the floor to help the bluecoat.