Michael Shayne's Long Chance (13 page)

The door opened and Lucile looked out timidly. When she saw Shayne handcuffed she ran to him with a little cry and threw her arms around his neck. “What’s happening?” she sobbed against his undershirt. “I don’t understand—I don’t remember—”

Shayne said coldly, “We were doped and brought here, undressed and put to bed together, and then the cops staged a raid.”

One of the cops dragged Lucile away from him, thrust her forward toward the stairway leading down. “Cut out the stuff, sister, and get on down with the other floosies.”

Her brown eyes made a wild appeal to Shayne. He nodded and said, “Go ahead before these bastards manhandle you. I’ll be down.”

“You’re damned right you will. Start walkin’.”

Shayne held his handcuffed wrists out to the man who had put them on him. “How about unlocking these things and let me finish getting dressed? I guess I went kind of crazy,” he confessed ruefully.

The cop smiled good-naturedly and said, “Sure.”

The bluecoat whom he had knocked down was coming toward Shayne with his fists doubled and a snarl on his face. The other officer shouldered him aside and commanded, “Go on down and help load ’em in the wagon, Groat. I’ll bring this guy along.”

The officer unlocked Shayne’s handcuffs and said, “Go ahead and put your shirt on. I know it’s tough to get hooked like this, but hell! we’re only following orders. It’ll only be a suspended sentence for you guys that were here.”

Shayne went back into the room and put on his shirt and coat. He couldn’t find his hat. He took out his wallet. “How much would it be worth to get the girl and me off?” He drew a sheaf of bills from the wallet.

The cop said regretfully, “It ain’t that I wouldn’t like to, but it’s like this. They got that picture, see? And we had strict orders about pulling this raid. I’m afraid you’ll have to come along to court.”

Shayne fanned the bills out. They were all twenties and tens. “That picture is worth all this to me.”

“Sorry, Mister. I sure could use that scratch. But I couldn’t get the picture. That was a news guy that Captain Denton sent along with us.”

Shayne said, “I tell you it’s a frame. That girl doesn’t belong here.”

“I can’t help it, Mister. You’ll have to go along and tell it to the judge. Come on, we’re holding up the parade.” Shayne put the money back in his wallet and went down scuffed wooden stairs, through a parlor with paintings of nude women that looked dispirited and ghastly in the pale light of morning.

Shayne was greeted by a chorus of giggles from inside the patrol wagon. Half a dozen slovenly drabs sat along a bench on one side, and three men huddled together on the opposite seat.

He saw Lucile trying to smile at him as the rear door slammed shut and was locked on the outside. He sat down as the wagon lurched away and demanded of the women, “Which one of you runs that joint?”

A big-bosomed, hard-featured blonde said, “Madame Goiner wasn’t there when they pulled the raid. But we got nothin’ to worry about. She’s got a mouthpiece that’ll pay our fines like a slot machine hittin’ the jackpot.”

“Have any of you ever seen this girl before?” Shayne pointed to Lucile.

They all turned to look at her. A small, dark-eyed woman smiled and said, “You’re new at the house. Sorta fresh at this, too, ain’t you? Tough to have this happen the first night, but you’ll get used to it.”

When Lucile started to say something Shayne shook his head for silence. “The easiest way out of this is to keep your mouth shut,” he told her. “We’ve got no proof that’s worth a damn. The more fuss we cause the worse it’ll be.”

The patrol wagon came to a jolting stop and the barred doors were unlocked and swung open. “End of the line,” an officer said cheerfully. “Everybody out.”

Lucile clung to Shayne’s arm as they were marched down the walk. The other women were chattering and laughing cheerfully.

Lucile said tensely, “I don’t understand. How did we get there?”

Shayne said grimly, “It’s one of the oldest frames in the business—and the hardest to prove. We haven’t got a chance. Go on with the rest of them and don’t give your right name.”

They were herded into the court building and down a wide corridor to a dingy courtroom where a bored and sleepy judge was dispensing his particular brand of justice to the tag-ends of humanity dredged up from the city’s gutters during the night.

A yawning clerk sat beside the judge, making entries as each case was disposed of—a steady flow of drunks and pickpockets and every type of riffraff along the aisle in front of the judge’s bench.

A dapper little man rose smilingly to greet Madame Goiner’s girls as they took their places at the end of the line receiving sentences. He shook his finger at them chidingly, moved along with them laughing and talking.

Not more than 30 minutes elapsed after they entered the courtroom before the dapper little mouthpiece was standing before the judge and saying crisply, “I represent these unfortunate women, Your Honor. I desire to enter a plea of guilty as charged, inmates of a disorderly house.” The judge was a wizened little man with tired eyes. He smiled wearily and did not lift his eyes when he said, “You’re building up a nice clientele. If the women will give their names to the clerk, you may settle for all at once. Ten and costs.”

The women started giving names to the clerk. There was a stir at the back of the room. Shayne turned and saw Captain Dolph Denton making his way behind the railing to the bench. He reached the clerk just as Lucile said, “Josie Smith,” in response to his question.

The captain simulated a start of surprise and peered closely at Lucile. “You’re under oath,” he warned her. “Give your right name.”

Lucile tossed her head angrily, and Shayne realized that she did not know who Denton was. “I said Josie Smith,” she said tartly.

“Your Honor,” Denton said to the judge, “I happen to know that this young lady’s name is Lucile Hamilton. For the sake of the record—”

“Yes, indeed,” the judge said sternly. “Do you realize that I can hold you in contempt of court for falsehood under oath?”

Lucile shrank back and her face went white when Captain Denton pronounced her real name. She turned frantic eyes on Shayne. He nodded to Lucile and hoped she understood, then caught Denton’s eye. The captain smiled jovially and waved a friendly hand at Shayne.

“I’m sorry,” Lucile said to the judge. “I didn’t mean to be contemptuous, Your Honor.” To the clerk she said in a clear voice, “Lucile Hamilton is right.”

Denton stepped back and folded his arms as Shayne stopped in front of the judge. A cop muttered, “With one of the girls, Your Honor,” and the judge intoned, “Frequenting a disorderly house, guilty or not guilty.”

Shayne said, “Guilty.” He didn’t trust himself to look at Denton.

“Thirty days suspended next case,” the judge chanted, as though he had long ago discarded punctuation marks.

Shayne moved on to the recording clerk. Denton stepped closer, a sneer on his thick lips. Shayne looked at Denton and said, “Mike Shayne, Hyers Hotel.”

Denton smiled and moved to Shayne’s side. “It was smart not to make a fuss, shamus. Judge Roberts throws the book at a guy when he pleads not guilty.”

Shayne muttered, “I’ve never seen a slicker frame.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Denton smiled broadly at the compliment. “We do have our own way of fixing things here. Maybe you’ve forgotten.”

Shayne thrust his hands deep in his pockets and asked, “What’s the picture worth?”

“I haven’t seen it yet,” Denton chuckled, “but Kearny says it’s a honey.” His loud guffaw was obscene. “The two of you sitting up in bed like a pair of scared rabbits and naked as jaybirds in sheddin’ time. You were smart not to make me introduce it as evidence.”

“What’s it worth to you?” Shayne repeated grimly.

“Just for you to get out of town and quit horsing around. Two-thirty this afternoon is the deadline. It’s got to be run while it’s hot. It’ll be spread over tonight’s paper if you don’t play wise. With a story of how and when.”

Shayne kept his bunched fists in his pockets. “I’ve still got a case to break. Are you giving me Henri?”

“Hell, no. That was all a mistake. Forget that crazy story you dreamed up and get out of town. You haven’t got a thing on Henri.”

“I’ve still got Lucile’s testimony.”

Denton roared with coarse laughter. “One of Madame Goiner’s girls? That’ll go over fine in court. Don’t be a fool, Shayne. You’re whipped. Get out of town and leave me alone.”

Shayne’s gray eyes held a hot glint. “You don’t know me very well, Denton, but I think we’re going to get real well acquainted. I’m still on a case.”

“Have you seen this morning’s paper?”

“No.”

“Better take a look. While you were out having yourself a hot time I was solving your case.” Denton walked away chuckling.

Lucile hurried across to Shayne. “Who is that man? How did he know my name?”

Shayne took her arm and steered her toward the door. “He’s a police captain here in the Quarter. Name’s Denton. I’ll tell you all about it after I see a paper.”

A newsboy had an armful of
Times-Picayunes
on the sidewalk. Shayne tossed him a coin and took one. When he opened it, a headline screamed at them:

Margo Macon Murder Solved!
In smaller print, Shayne read aloud to Lucile: “‘A deathbed confession by Evalyn Jordan early this morning ended police search for the murderer of pretty Margo Macon in the French Quarter last night.’”

He stopped reading and folded the paper, took Lucile’s arm and led her toward a taxi. “You go straight to your apartment and stay there,” he ordered gruffly. “Don’t let anyone in and don’t be lured away by any telephone calls. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

INSPECTOR QUINLAN SAID, “YOU look like something no cat would bother to drag in. What have you been doing with yourself?”

Shayne grinned, ran his fingers lightly over his bruised face and stiff stubble of red whiskers. He sat down and said, “I guess I’m getting soft. There was a time when I could take a few beatings and doped drinks in my stride. Your New Orleans gorillas are too much for me.” He spread the morning paper out on the Inspector’s desk. “What do you know about this?”

“Not much more than I read in the paper,” Quinlan admitted. “Have you read the whole story?”

“I glanced through it as I walked here.”

“Denton turned it into some good publicity. What actually happened seems to be that the Jordan girl got scared or remorseful and took poison. A routine call went to Denton’s precinct and he rushed out in time to catch her confession before she died. It was pure chance. But the news story reads as though Denton was relentlessly tracking her down when she took the poison. As though he cracked the case by smart detective work while the rest of us were sitting around twiddling our thumbs. I haven’t been able to locate the Hamilton girl,” Quinlan went on wearily, “to check that part of the Jordan confession dealing with what led up to the murder.”

“Her story checks.”

Quinlan cocked an inquisitive eyebrow at Shayne. “Have you talked with her?”

“Yeh. The Hamilton girl left Jordan and Macon together at ten o’clock. They had quarreled over a man—an old sweetie of Evalyn Jordan’s. He came to the apartment, not knowing Evalyn was there. Lucile left, thinking they were making up the quarrel because Barbara—Margo—was throwing the guy over. That’s why she went away and left them.”

“Lucile?”

“Lucile Hamilton.”

“It’s confusing as hell,” Quinlan grumbled, “all those names. Let’s stick to Barbara Little for Macon. How did you locate her—I mean Lucile Hamilton?”

“In the telephone directory,” Shayne told him.

“We tried the Lucile Hamilton on North Rampart. She was out. Hasn’t answered her phone all night.”

“I was out with her.”

“Well, I guess that washes the whole thing up. To tell you the truth,” Quinlan continued, “I’d hoped her story might not jibe with the one Denton claims the other girl told him before she died. I wouldn’t put it past him to have made up the confession just to get the publicity and steal a march on my department.”

Shayne asked abruptly, “What have you got on Drake? And have you heard from Joseph P. Little?”

“My wire caught Little on the train you said he was on. He wired me he was changing trains to get back to Jacksonville and would fly, if possible, and reach here as soon as he could.”

“And Drake? Does he still claim to be the girl’s uncle?”

“Not only claims to, but it looks as though he is her uncle. He called New York as soon as he got back to his hotel last night. My man was on the switchboard and heard him receive the news that his wife had died yesterday afternoon. Not only that, but the nurse who answered told him that his wife’s brother was on his way to New York from Miami, and complained about not having an address where she could reach Drake.”

Shayne shook his head moodily and tugged at his left earlobe. “I don’t get it. I’ll be goddamned if I get any of it. Little must have lied like hell when he sent me here.”

Both men fell silent for a time. Shayne was the first to speak. “I guess that’ll all come out when Little gets here. Anything else about Drake?”

“Nothing important. He’s fairly well known at the Angelus from other trips he has made to New Orleans. The clerk isn’t positive about the time he picked up that phone message from his niece, but believes it was around one o’clock.”

“Which checks with his story.” Shayne lit a cigarette and asked, “Have you learned what he was doing up to that time?”

“No, but I think I know why he doesn’t want to produce an alibi unless he’s forced to. He’s one of those old boys who likes to hit the really hot spots. The ones where everything goes, and where a man doesn’t like to admit he has been.”

“Like the Daphne?”

“That’s one of them.” Quinlan looked curiously at Shayne. “You seem to get around for a man who’s been out of town for years. The fact is, Drake left the hotel early last night with a hustler for the Daphne.”

Shayne said, “Sure. It was Henri Desmond.”

“That’s the lad.” Quinlan’s perplexity deepened. “You weren’t kidding last night when you claimed to have your own ways of getting information.”