Murder by Proxy (15 page)

“Mighty potent stuff… Cordon Bleu. Induces delusions of grandeur and pipedreams. I’m strictly off the stuff until I tie this case up in a knot.”

“Which you’re going to do in New York this afternoon?”

“Which I
hope
to do in New York this afternoon,” Shayne corrected him.

His buzzer sounded and he lifted the phone. “Jim? Those were mighty pretty pictures you sent me, but they were a real monkey wrench. No chance you made a mistake, huh?”

He listened a moment and nodded glumly. “All right, Mike Shayne rides again. You got a pretty good pipeline into the New York Police Department?”

“Couple of guys there will give me the time of day… if I pay for it,” Gifford told him cautiously.

Shayne grinned at the phone. “I know you better than that, Jim. Listen. I’m arriving by jet at International Airport four-forty this afternoon. Lucy will give you the airline and flight number. I want you to meet me, Jim. Wangle a duplicate set of Ellen Harris’ fingerprints from Headquarters. Miami Beach sent them up for positive identification of the body. And have a fingerprint man at the airport with you. It would be nice if you could bring along the same man who took the comparison prints from the Harris apartment in New York.”

“Would you like the Police Commissioner to come along, too?” Gifford demanded sarcastically.

Shayne said cheerfully, “Bring him, by all means, if he wants to come along. See you at four-forty, Jim. Lucy, give him the flight dope.”

He hung up.

“Won’t you give me an inkle, Mike?” pleaded Rourke. “You’re beginning to look as though you’d swallowed a whole cage full of canaries.”

“That’s the reason you don’t get even an inkle,” Shayne told him firmly. “I felt this same way yesterday afternoon, and look what happened.”

Jim Gifford, who met Michael Shayne with a hearty handclasp at the International Airport in New York that afternoon, was a big, smiling man with an intelligent face and an easy grace. They had known each other since the old days when both were operatives for Worldwide, and had retained a mutual respect and liking for each other after they both branched out on their own.

With Gifford was a short, somewhat stout man with an olive complexion, a bushy, black mustache and an affable smile. Gifford introduced him as Angelo Fermi, a detective on the New York police force, and he told Shayne as the three of them made their way out of the crowded terminal toward Gifford’s car in the parking lot, “Only inducement I could hang in front of Angelo’s nose to get him out here this afternoon, was that that you’d tell him how to get a Fermi show on television.”

Shayne grinned and told the New York detective, “You wouldn’t like it. If you ever watched my show, you’d know why I don’t.”

“I’d like the money that is in it,” Fermi told Shayne with conviction. “I have this idea for a series built entirely on the use of fingerprint evidence to solve otherwise insoluble cases. Everything authentic and taken from the records. I have been gathering material for twenty years, but I do not know how to approach the networks.” His liquid black eyes were hopeful.

Shayne said, very seriously, “I’ll tell you what, Fermi. If this thing comes off this afternoon the way I think it will, Brett Halliday will be up here getting the dope from you to help him make a book out of it. Brett is the one who knows all the T-V angles. You talk it over with him and he’ll give you the straight dope.” Gifford had stopped beside a plain, black sedan in the parking lot, and was opening the door on the driver’s side. Shayne let Fermi get in first, and followed him. “You’ve got a set of Ellen Harris’s fingerprints?” he asked as Gifford pulled out of the lot.

“Yes. And my kit in back.” Fermi hesitated, his dark eyes alertly curious. “Jim has not told me exactly why I am here with you this afternoon.”

Shayne spoke past him to Gifford at the wheel. “I want to go to Ruth Collins’ place on the West Side first. Will her room-mate be home?”

“I think so.” Gifford looked at his watch. “The only time I’ve been able to catch her there is between five and seven in the evening.”

“Are you the one who was assigned to check the dead woman’s prints in the Harris apartment?” Shayne then asked Fermi.

“Yes. A routine assignment. Do you have any question about the validity of the identification, Mr. Shayne?”

Shayne said, “I’m sure you know your job. But there’s some hocus-pocus here that I hope I’ve got figured out. I don’t want to tip my hand beforehand to what I’m hoping to find because I don’t want you to be influenced in advance. Let’s just say I want you to do the same sort of job on Ruth Collins’ apartment as you did on the Harris apartment last Sunday for the Miami Beach police.”

At that time in the afternoon, Gifford chose the Triborough Bridge as his best approach to the upper West Side, and he was able to make fairly good time through traffic so that it was slightly before six o’clock when he drew up in front of an old four-story brown-stone building on West 76th Street.

They all got out, and Angelo Fermi got his black leather case from the back seat that looked like a doctor’s bag, and they mounted the steps leading into a small foyer with mailboxes on either side. Gifford checked the boxes and found one with the typewritten names, Collins-Cranshaw, under the number 1-C.

He pressed the bell button under the number, and after a moment there was a buzz from the automatic door release. Shayne turned the knob and led the way into a dim-lighted hallway with numbered doors on either side. A door on the left-hand side opened down the hallway and a striking brunette peered out. Shayne was in front and close to her, and he asked, “Miss Cranshaw?”

“Yes… I’m… Kitty Cranshaw.” She peered curiously past him at Gifford and Fermi, and half-closed the door, asking, “What is it?”

“Police, Miss Cranshaw,” Shayne told her pleasantly. “About your room-mate who appears to be missing. May we come in and ask a few questions?”

“Have you found Ruth?” She opened the door and drew back to let the three men file past her into a large, high-ceilinged room in a pleasant state of disorder.

Shayne said, “Not exactly, Miss Cranshaw. It’s a matter of identification,” he explained. “This is Detective Fermi, who would like to collect some fingerprints. And Inspector Gifford,” he added casually.

“Fingerprints of whom?” she demanded suspiciously, following them into the sitting room.

“You first, Miss Cranshaw, if you don’t mind,” Fermi said briskly, crossing to a center table and opening his bag. “Just for the record, so we’ll be able to definitely distinguish between your room-mate’s prints and yours.” He removed some articles from his bag and placed them on the table. “It’ll only take a moment, if you’ll just come here and put your fingertips on this inked pad.”

Miss Cranshaw stood back with her hands nervously clasped behind her. “Isn’t that an invasion of personal privacy? I think I’ve read that no one can be forced to have their fingerprints taken for the record unless they are charged with a serious crime. You’re not charging me with any crime, are you?”

“This isn’t actually for the record, Miss Cranshaw.” Fermi smiled disarmingly. “We have to positively identify Miss Collins’ fingerprints from those we can find here, and in order to do so, we must have a set of yours, so they may be eliminated. You should be able to understand that.” He didn’t say,
“Even
you,” but is was implicit in his tone.

She smiled dubiously and said, “Well, I guess so.” She advanced hesitantly and let him expertly ink the tips of her fingers and get her prints on his pad, and he thanked her and then asked, “Do you have separate bedrooms?”

“Yes. Ruth’s is there.” She pointed to a closed door, “On the right. I don’t think… I’ve been in there since she left.”

Fermi thanked her and disappeared with his bag through the door she indicated. She turned to Shayne and Gifford and asked in a worried voice, “What have you found out about Ruth? Didn’t she go to the Catskills at all?”

“Apparently she didn’t, Miss Cranshaw. In fact…” He hesitated. “Detective Shayne is from Miami, Florida,” he told her firmly. “There is some reason to think… did she ever say anything to you to indicate that she might be planning to go to Florida instead of the Catskills? Did you notice, for instance, whether she packed things more suitable for the South than the mountains?”

“No,” she said instantly. “I didn’t notice that at all. Quite the contrary. What do you think has happened to her?”

Before Gifford could reply, Fermi pussy-footed back from the bedroom. He carried his bag closed and there was a look of satisfaction on his face. He nodded to Shayne and Gifford and said, “All right as far as I’m concerned.”

“Get what we wanted?” Shayne asked.

“Plenty.” He went briskly toward the door and the other two men followed him out leaving a very perplexed Miss Cranshaw standing in the middle of the room staring after them.

When Jim Gifford pulled in to the curb in front of a large apartment building on the East Side, he nodded with satisfaction at a dark blue 1962 Buick parked directly in front of his car. “Our friend, Harris, made it all right. That’s his Buick right there.”

“How do you know it’s his?” Shayne asked as the three men got out. “You’ve never seen it… or him either.”

Gifford chuckled as they walked to the entrance. “I know his license number. Hell, I can tell you the color of the socks he wore on his last birthday.”

There was no doorman. They entered a parqueted foyer with neat rows of shining brass mailboxes. Detective Fermi, who had been there before, said, “I think it was Seven D,” and glanced at a mailbox to confirm the number. He nodded and led the way to a self-service elevator that was waiting, and they went up to the seventh floor.

Shayne pushed the button on 7-D, and after a moment Herbert Harris opened the door. He was in his shirtsleeves and tieless; his face was unshaved and haggard. He had a highball glass in his hand, and he looked at Shayne and the others in disbelieving astonishment. “Mr. Shayne! What on earth are you doing in New York?”

“You hired me to do a job,” Shayne told him levelly, moving forward while Harris backed away into a large, pleasant and very neat sitting room. A suitcase stood near the bathroom door with Harris’ jacket draped over it. “You paid me a fair-sized retainer,” he added. “And I intend to earn it. These are two New York detectives, by the way. Gifford and Fermi.”

Harris nodded politely, but it was evident that he was more puzzled than before. “I hired you to help find my wife when she was missing,” he blurted out. “I’m perfectly satisfied with the results you got.”

Shayne said, “I’m not. I’m still looking for her, Harris.”

“You’re still… looking?” he asked weakly. “But she… her funeral was yesterday morning.”

Shayne shook his head. “Not your wife’s funeral. The body of Ruth Collins was cremated in Miami yesterday morning. Where is your wife hiding?”

“This is utterly fantastic.” Harris dropped into a chair, rubbing the back of his left hand across his eyes. “Have you gone mad? Dozens of people in Miami identified my wife’s photograph.”

Shayne said easily, “Oh, it was your wife who was in Miami Monday evening drawing attention to herself. But it wasn’t her body in the trunk of the convertible she had rented. That was Ruth Collins.”

“But she… it
was
Ellen,” Harris cried out desperately. “The Miami Beach police checked her fingerprints here in New York to get a positive identification.”

Shayne said, “I know all about that. Detective Fermi, here, is the man who came to this apartment to get comparison prints. Tell us how you went about it, Angelo.”

Fermi shrugged and said, “The place was neat as a pin, just as it is now. Of course, there are always prints to be found if a place has been lived in, no matter how carefully it’s been cleaned. I dusted in the bathroom and bedroom, particularly a dressing alcove there that the wife would normally use. I found plenty of clear prints, all about a week old, that corresponded exactly with the set sent up by Miami Beach. There were also a man’s prints, and a few of another woman which I assumed to be the maid.”

“There you are,” said Harris. “How can you go against what this detective tells you?”

“I don’t go against it. I just have a different explanation. I’m sure that you and your wife cleaned up all her prints as carefully as you could before she left for Florida on Monday. Then you brought your secretary in after you left the office that day. Ruth Collins had left her apartment that afternoon with her bag packed, ostensibly for a two week vacation in the Catskills. Instead, she moved in here very happily to play house with you for two weeks. You encouraged her to use the bathroom, of course, and your wife’s dressing table. When you were sure the evidence was complete, you shot her in the heart, Harris, and then beat her face in beyond recognition. You must have really hated her to do that sort of job. What was she holding over your head? Something from the office? Had you been dipping into company funds? Is that why you needed the insurance money on your wife so desperately that you’d murder another woman to get it?”

“No, no,
no!”
Harris cried out wildly against the flood of accusations. He jumped to his feet, dropping his glass on the rug. “This can’t be happening to me. It’s the most insane thing I ever heard. The autopsy showed that my wife’s body had been placed in the trunk of the convertible within a couple of hours after her death… not later than Tuesday night.”

Shayne said coldly, “The autopsy indicated that her body had been crammed into the trunk of
some
car within a couple of hours after her death. But it wasn’t the convertible, and it wasn’t in Miami, Harris. It was the trunk of your Buick right here in New York. The New York police have your car down at their chemical laboratory right now,” he ended disgustedly. “They’re making tests that will prove beyond a shadow of doubt that your secretary’s body spent four days in the back of your car before it was transferred to the convertible in Miami early Saturday morning.