Michael Shayne's Long Chance (15 page)

“Do you mean that an officer of the law—a
captain
is mixed up in the dope racket?” Lucile’s eyes were round with wonder.

Shayne stared at her for a long time before he said, “Are you trying to kid me?”

Lucile’s brown eyes misted. She said, “Maybe you won’t believe me, but I’ve never come in contact with the police before. I’ve always thought they were people who protected the public.”

Shayne laughed harshly, but he laid a big hand gently on her covered shoulder. “You’re learning.”

“You don’t mean that Denton had
me
doped—and had you knocked out?”

“Yeh, that’s right,” Shayne told her. “Then when he learned that you were a witness in the Little case—against Henri—he was still more worried. It’s my guess that Denton owns a piece of the Daphne Club. When something like that gets tangled up in a murder investigation a lot of dirty linen is likely to get washed out.”

“Why did he—think up such an awful thing?”

“Because it was the smart thing to do,” Shayne told her with a scowl. “It cuts all the ground out from under us. In the first place, he’ll hold that picture as a whip to keep me in line. If I should choose to disregard it, let him publish it and let your reputation be damned, I’d still not be much better off. It would knock your testimony against Henri into a cocked hat. No one would believe a woman like that, and there’d be the added suspicion that I had connived with you to get you to testify that way. That’s why Denton had us caught in that raid together—that’s why he checked up and forced you to give your right name.”

Lucile said, “It must be terribly funny to you—remembering that I told you I learned the facts of life a long time ago.”

Shayne said softly, “No. It isn’t funny. I knew what you meant.”

Wriggling to a sitting position, she said, “You can forget about me and my reputation—if that will help.”

“It won’t,” Shayne muttered. “With Evalyn dead, there’s no one to corroborate your story. And even if it should be believed, what of it? It points to Evalyn as well as to Henri, and Evalyn has confessed.”

“Do you think she did it? I can’t believe it.”

“Denton got a deathbed confession,” he said. “That closed the case as far as I can see.” He went to the breakfast table and took a long drink from the cognac bottle.

When Shayne returned, Lucile was sitting rigidly upright on the couch. Her young face was tense with thought. “I’ve been thinking. From what you’ve told me, Captain Denton is thoroughly dishonest. Do you suppose he made up that story about Evalyn confessing?” She picked up the newspaper. “It says here that he was the only witness. No one else heard her confession. If he walked in and found her dying—”

“Or dead,” Shayne supplemented harshly. “Sure. Denton’s an opportunist. It would have been too perfect to pass up. But we haven’t any proof.”

Shayne paced the length of the room and came back to sink into the comfortable chair opposite the couch. He closed his eyes and massaged his left earlobe gently.

Lucile watched him, but said nothing. Perfect quiet was in the room until Shayne hunched forward and said, “I’m going to use your telephone.”

“You know where it is,” she said.

Shayne stalked to the instrument and called Harry Veigle. When a voice answered, he said, “Mike Shayne, Harry.”

“Mike—where the hell have you been hiding? Wherever it is, I hope you’re well hidden.”

“Is it that bad?”

“It is, Mike. Your prints are all over the bottle.”

“And?”

“The girl’s, too. But there’s one thing, Mike—all the prints on the neck of the bottle are blurred. A smart lawyer might do something with that in court. Looks as if the killer wore gloves when he swung it.”

“No other prints?”

“Well—I did bring out another partial set,” Veigle said cautiously. “Enough for identification, maybe.”

“Can you bring them out clear enough to do any good?”

“Hell, you know how this experting goes. For a goodly fee I could point out reasons for believing the murderer made them. But I’m fairly certain they’re not a woman’s prints, Mike. According to the morning paper—”

“Yeh. I know. Get hold of Evalyn Jordan’s prints, Harry. Check them and call me back.” He gave Veigle Lucile Hamilton’s telephone number.

“You sure you don’t want me to ditch this bottle? A smart D. A. could make an awful lot out of it. I’ll smash it—”

“No!” Shayne said sharply. “Hang onto the bottle. Make enlarged sets of all three prints and call me as soon as you check with the Jordan girl’s.”

“All right, Mike,” Veigle said mournfully. “Monkey business, is it? But if you’re smart—”

“I’m not. I’m dumb enough to stick my neck out a mile.” He hung up and returned to the living-room, a set look of decision on his gaunt features.

“What’s happened?” Lucile asked hastily. “You look as though you’d had a reprieve.”

Shayne said slowly, “This may be it, Lucile.” He strode across the room and back pounding his hard right fist into the palm of his left hand. “If Denton faked that Jordan confession I may have him wide open. It may be crazy, but—” He stopped suddenly and stared at her. “Have you got the guts to play along with me? If I play my hunch and it fails, Denton won’t hesitate to use that picture. You’ll be publicly branded as a prostitute. Do you want to take that chance?”

She started to answer at once, but he held up his hand, said, “Wait—this isn’t any time for heroics. You don’t know anything about me—except that I’ve got you into a hell of a jam.”

She met his gaze squarely. “I think I know you better, Michael Shayne, than I’ve ever known any man.”

He said hoarsely, “Don’t make a mistake, Lucile.”

“I won’t.” Her eyes were shining.

He resumed his pacing. “We’ve got to decide right now,” he warned her. “There won’t be any quitting if I start. I can call it all off—let the whole thing go as it stands. Get out of town this afternoon—or I can take a long chance.” He stopped beside the couch and looked down at her. “And it’s just that—a long chance,” he warned her harshly. “I’ve got a wild hunch I can prove Denton deliberately faked Evalyn Jordan’s confession,” he went on. “There’s only one way to do that—by producing her real murderer. But—it’s only a hunch.” He emphasized the last sentence heavily.

“You’ve played hunches before, haven’t you?”

“Always. But that was when only I was involved. You’re in this with me—up to your neck. It won’t be any picnic if things go wrong. We won’t have a leg to stand on. It’ll be a stinking mess and you’ll be square in the middle of it.”

“You don’t think Evalyn killed Margo?”

“No.”

“Then I don’t see that there’s anything to decide. There’s only one right thing to do.” She caught one of his hands and pulled him down to sit beside her.

“I’m not a child, Mike,” she said quietly. “And I haven’t any folks—no one who’ll be hurt by the scandal if things go wrong. I have to keep on living with myself. How do you think it would be if I said no, and all my life lived with the knowledge that a murderer may be walking the streets free because I was afraid to take a chance with you?” Her soft finger tips caressed the back of his hand. “You wouldn’t be very proud of me if I did that. It’s strange that what you think of me matters, but it does.” She laughed softly. “I’m not making love to you, but I’d hate myself forever if I forced you to do something for which you’d hate yourself.”

Shayne said huskily, “I’ve known one other girl like you, Lucile.”

“What became of her?”

“She died.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, and gave his hand a final pat.

He continued to sit on the edge of the couch. “New Orleans has been good for me. I’ve been here about sixteen hours, and I’ve been beaten up by the cops, arrested on a drunk and disorderly charge, accused of murder, blackjacked, Mickey-Finned, given a suspended sentence on a frame, and, by God, I feel fine.”

“And had your picture taken,” she reminded him.

“I needed something to wake me up,” he confessed. “Twenty-four hours ago I didn’t believe I’d ever be interested in another case.”

“I’m glad if I’ve helped.”

“You’ve helped plenty.” Shayne went into the breakfast nook to get the cognac bottle, asking, “Want some of this stuff straight?”

“No, thanks. That hot mixture was pretty insidious. If I had another drink I’d probably insist that you make an honest woman of me.”

Shayne took a drink and replied seriously. “A little while ago I was going to suggest that as a possible out if things go wrong this afternoon.”

Lucile laughed lightly. “It won’t be necessary. I feel completely honest.”

Shayne looked at his watch. The time was ten o’clock. “I’m going to make a long-distance call.”

He dialed the operator and said, “I want to get Timothy Rourke in Miami, Florida. Person to person.” He gave her Tim’s residence number and waited, explaining to Lucile, “Tim Rourke is a reporter who’s always played ball with me in Miami. If this story breaks the way I hope it will—”

He was interrupted by the operator. “Here’s your party—go ahead.”

“Tim?” Shayne said into the mouthpiece.

“Mike?” Rourke groaned. “You’ve been leading with your chin again. I might have known.”

Shayne said, “Shut up and listen. This is costing me money. Will your expense account stand a plane hop down here for an exclusive on a hell of a story?”

“Your hanging isn’t that important. You can give me your last words right now—”

“I’m not horsing. If your paper isn’t interested—”

“Who said I wasn’t interested? What about a plane?”

“Charter one,” Shayne said shortly. “It shouldn’t be more than a three-hour hop that way.”

“I don’t know about chartering one. The expense account may not stretch that far.”

“It’s the only way. I’ve got a deadline to meet. Yes or no?”

“Yes, if you say it’s worth it.”

“I’ve never given you a bum steer, Tim. Bring a picture of Barbara Little if there’s one around.”

“There is—one that we ran on the suicide scare.”

“Bring it. Call me from the airport the minute you land.” Shayne gave him Lucile’s number and hung up.

“Tim Rourke,” he continued to Lucile, “is a sort of ex-officio press-relations council. And God knows we’ll need all the drag we can get from the press if my guess goes wrong.”

“It won’t,” she told him confidently.

Shayne combed his hair with his fingernails, leaving it standing on end. “I’ve got two or three things to do,” he said. “Why don’t you try to get some sleep?”

“I won’t have to try.” She yawned prettily, patting her open mouth with her palm. “When I think of those poor wage slaves at the office, not knowing the luxury of a life of sin—”

Shayne said, “You’re a shameless hussy. If anyone calls for me it’ll be Harry Veigle. Take the message. He’ll tell you whether or not Evalyn’s prints are on the cognac bottle that killed Barbara. If not, ask him to meet me at Quinlan’s office with the bottle and prints at one-thirty.”

“What about that bottle? I meant to ask you when I heard you phoning before.”

“It’s the one we drank out of yesterday afternoon. I found it before the police did.” He put on his coat and hat and started toward the door, saying, “I’ll be back before Rourke can call me from the airport.”

“Where are you going, Mike? Not—into any more trouble,” she cried anxiously.

“God forbid.” He grinned. “I’m going to see if I can find a rat hole for Denton to crawl into if it comes to that.” He paused with his hand on the doorknob, stalked back to pick up the paper Lucile had discarded and glanced through the front-page story again. He asked, “What was Evalyn Jordan’s address?”

She gave him the street number and added, “It’s an old house made over into apartments on Ursuline just off Royal.”

Shayne dropped the paper and thrust his hands deep in his pockets. “Do you happen to know anyone else in the same building?”

“Yes. There’s another girl from the office living right next door to Evalyn—the corner apartment in the right rear upstairs.”

“What’s her name?”

“Celia Gaston. She and Evalyn were close friends.”

Shayne pushed his hat back and tugged at a lock of hair. “Does she live alone?”

“Yes, I’m quite sure she does. She’s much older than most of the girls in the office. Sort of an old maid. But she’s not there now—what on earth are you up to?”

“Not there? Are you positive?”

“Of course I am. She’s away on a two weeks’ vacation. She left last Saturday.”

Shayne muttered, “That’s a break I didn’t hope for,” and strode from the room.

FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER a taxi pulled up outside an old two-story stuccoed house on Ursuline just off Royal. The driver was a hatchet-faced youth with bright inquisitive eyes. He turned to ask his passenger, “This the place you want?”

“This is it.” Shayne took $5 from his wallet and gave it to the cabbie. He said, “Keep your motor idling. I’m going in and I may come out in a hurry. There’ll be another five for you if you’re ready to make a quick getaway.”

The youth’s eyes sparkled with avidity and curiosity. “Look, Mister, I don’t mind picking up some change, but I don’t want to get in no trouble. Ain’t this the house where that girl killed herself last night?”

“You won’t get into any trouble. You see, I’m a detective,” he explained, “and I’ve got some evidence cached here. The solving of the case will depend on whether I get away without being caught. So keep your motor running.”

“Jeez! A detective? Sure, Mister, I’ll be waiting.”

Shayne walked in a leisurely manner to the front door, opened it, and sauntered in. A wide stairway led up from a narrow hall, and double doors opened into a gloomy parlor. There was the stale smell of cooking odors and when he peered into the parlor the stench of tobacco and old smoke was in his nostrils. The windows were closed and the shades fully drawn. The only light was the pale glow through the shades.

Walking over to a large ash tray on a table beside a plush-covered couch, Shayne lifted the lid and scooped up a handful of cigarette butts and returned to the hall. He went up the stairs, and as he approached the landing a Negro woman emerged from a door on the left carrying a dust mop and an armload of soiled linen. She dropped the linen on the floor and went to a door across the hall. She was humming when she entered the room, leaving the door slightly ajar.