Murder by Proxy (9 page)

If not her husband, then whom had she suspected of keeping track of her movements in Miami so that she felt the need to cover up her tracks?

Of course, the simpler answer might be the correct one. It was entirely possible that she did just want to go out on the town and had tired of Gene Blake’s company after an hour or two. It is simple enough to strike up an acquaintanceship with a fellow gambler at a roulette table, and as Peggy had phrased it in the hotel, maybe the chemicals were right with this new man. In that case it was going to be much more difficult to trace a casual bystander than if there had been a previous connection between the two.

A young officer opened a door into the waiting room and stuck his head in. “The chief is ready for you, Mr. Shayne.”

Shayne got up and nodded to the couple, and preceded them into Painter’s office.

The detective chief looked up irritably from a desk littered with papers. He was a small, dapper man, with a very black, pencil-thin mustache.

He snapped, “What is it, Shayne? I’m extremely busy.”

Shayne said, “I’ve brought in a couple of people who want to make statements about Mrs. Herbert Harris.”

“Harris?” sputtered Painter. “That New York woman who’s been sleeping out a couple of nights? What’s your interest in her?”

“The New York woman who’s been missing since Monday night,” the redhead corrected him. “I’ve been retained to find her.”

“He came to
you?”
Painter’s voice trembled with wrath. “After I assured him everything possible would be done to locate her without publicity or a scandal? Why?”

“Possibly,” said Shayne modestly, “because I have a reputation for being one of the best men in my field in the entire country?”

“Who says so?”

“Mr. Harris,” said Shayne. He shrugged and grinned innocently. “I thought maybe you told him Petey, because he came straight to my office from here.”

“I told him nothing. Except that we have far superior facilities for that sort of work than any private detective, and that it would be a waste of money to hire one.”

“What have your facilities turned up?”

“Nothing very definite… as yet. We have determined that she allowed herself to be picked up in the Beachhaven bar Monday evening by some smooth-talking gigolo, and went out with him evidently determined to make the rounds. We have a pick-up on her rented car, of course, and as soon as we locate that I’m positive it will lead us to her and her paramour.” Shayne shrugged and nodded toward the couple who stood close together, unhappily waiting to be noticed. “Here’s your smooth-talking gigolo, Painter. And standing beside him is
his
paramour of the moment. Do you want statements from them, or don’t you?” Peter Painter gulped back an oath and his black eyes glittered as he turned slowly to survey Gene and Peggy. “All right, Shayne,” he said in a choked voice. “How’d you dig them up?”

“By using my own facilities. You want me to sit in while they tell you what they know about Mrs. Harris, or shall I leave them to you? By the way,” he added, “I understand that Harris left a picture of his wife with you… a different pose from the one he brought me. It might be a good idea to let them identify it as well as the one I showed them.”

“I’m perfectly capable of deciding how to obtain an identification, Shayne.” He stabbed at a button on his desk, and when the young officer came in from a door on the opposite side of the room, he snapped, “Get your notebook to take down a couple of statements, Peters.”

Shayne moved back unobtrusively to a corner of the room and seated himself. When the stenographer was ready, Painter said, “Now. You first.” He stabbed a forefinger at Blake. “Step up here and tell me what you know about Mrs. Harris. Your full name, address and occupation first.”

Blake gave his name and address, and after momentary hesitation stated that his occupation was, “Salesman… unemployed at present.”

Painter then opened a drawer and drew out an 8x10 photograph and put it in front of him. “Do you recognize this woman?”

Blake studied it and nodded. “I met her in the Beachhaven cocktail lounge for the first time Monday evening, and she told me she was Mrs. Ellen Harris from New York.”

Painter nodded and leaned back with narrowed eyes. “Go ahead and tell me what happened.”

Shayne listened alertly while Blake retold his story of the evening in a straightforward and terse manner. The only thing he left out that Shayne could ascertain, was any mention of his arrangement with Willy Arentz to steer customers into the Gray Gull.

Painter heard him out without comment while the statement was taken down in shorthand. Then he questioned him closely about the man whom Blake claimed he had last seen with Ellen, without eliciting any more detailed description than Shayne had gotten. Painter was withering in his demands for details about the subsequent sleeping arrangements between Blake and Peggy, and his contempt for the woman showed through clearly when he began questioning her.

She answered his biting questions with composure, making it very clear that she did not consider her personal life any of his damn business, stating for the record that her name was Margaret Gold, that she was a divorcee living on alimony payments from her ex-husband who was a businessman in Baltimore. She had been in Miami Beach at the Fontainebleau for three days, she said, before meeting Gene, and had checked out Tuesday afternoon to move into the Seaspray with him as Mr. and Mrs. Blake. Her version of the evening at the Gray Gull was the same as she had given Shayne. She hadn’t really noticed the man who was with Ellen.

Painter gave a grunt of disgust when she finished, and told them both, “Remain in the outer room while we have these statements typed. Then you will be required to sign them under oath.”

“Can we go then, Chief?” asked Blake hopefully.

“Back to your hotel bedroom for more fun and games?” snarled Painter. “I don’t know. There’s a law about that. I’ll decide later. Go in there and wait until you’re called.”

When they had gone out and the stenographer had departed to transcribe his notes, Painter took notice of the detective again. “Any discrepancies in their stories?”

Shayne shook his head. “Just the way they told it to me.”

Painter smoothed his mustache with a thumbnail and purred in a voice that dripped malice, “I can’t see this helps us any. It simply makes it more apparent than ever that Mrs. Harris came down here with hot pants, ready to take on the first man she could pick up. This Blake didn’t suit her taste, so she grabbed the next one.”

Shayne said, “Maybe. Maybe not.” He stood up and stretched. “You can’t say I didn’t cooperate this time, Painter. I hope you’ll do the same if you get anything.”

Before Painter could reply, there was a light rap on the outer door and a detective entered carrying a copy of the first edition of the
News.
“You seen this story, Chief?”

He hurried forward and spread the newspaper out in front of Painter. From where he stood Shayne could see a large picture of Ellen Harris reproduced on the front page.

He edged toward the door and had his hand on the knob when Painter called to him in an infuriated voice, “Shayne! Now, by God to hell…”

Shayne kept on going and pulled the door tightly shut behind him. He went out a side exit and circled around to his parked car, got in it and drove away.

Before deciding what his next logical step should be, he stopped to telephone Lucy Hamilton and asked if Jim Gifford had called from New York.

“Not yet,” she told him excitedly. “But Tim Rourke just hung up the phone. The paper’s only been out half an hour and they’ve already found Mrs. Harris’ car. Parked right there in the Beachhaven parking lot. Tim’s on his way there now.”

Shayne said, “So am I, angel. Stand by for Gifford’s call, huh?” He hurried out to head for the Beachhaven.

When Michael Shayne reached the Beachhaven parking lot, he found Robert Merrill at the entrance with a young man whom he told Shayne was the attendant on duty until six o’clock. “Ed called the
News
first and then told me,” he explained. “I guess you know they offered a fifty-dollar reward for information about the car, and, as soon as Ed read the description, he realized there was a similar convertible that had been parked here several days, and he checked the license number. I called the police,” Merrill added, “and the rental people to send up an extra set of keys. It’s right over there… locked up tight. Hell of a thing, isn’t it? Right here in our lot all the time.”

“Been sitting here ever since Monday?” Shayne asked the lad.

“I don’t know for sure. I just happened to notice it standing there, you know, without really noticing. I couldn’t say when, or whether it’s been there all the time or not. But I know I haven’t seen it go in or out.”

“There’s no one on duty from six at night until eight in the morning,” Merrill explained. “If a guest wants to use his car, a bellboy will bring it around or he can take it in or out himself.”

Timothy Rourke’s shabby sedan pulled up just then, and the reporter climbed out with a wide grin. “The power of the press, huh?” he greeted Shayne and Merrill. “And a fifty-buck reward.” He had brought a photographer with him, and he added briskly, “I’d like a shot before Painter gets here. You the one called in the tip?” he asked the attendant.

“Yes sir. Ed Beagle’s my name.”

“I’m Rourke from the
News.”
He shook the lad’s hand heartily. “Which one is it? How about a picture of you standing behind it pointing to the license number for the paper?”

“Sure. That’s it, right there.” Ed pointed to the cream-colored Pontiac convertible across the lot with its top up now.

Rourke took him by the arm and led him across to pose him behind the car, and Shayne drifted away behind them as Painter’s car came up fast, leaving Merrill to explain things to the detective chief.

Shayne peered through the windows for a look inside without seeing anything at all while Rourke secured a couple of pictures, and then he circled around the car and stopped suddenly, wrinkling his nose as a faint breeze came to him from the direction of the car. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Painter and Merrill beginning to walk toward them, and he went quickly to Rourke and said in a low voice, “Have your photographer standing by to get a fast shot of the interior of the trunk when the keys get here. Painter won’t like it, but
you
found the car.”

“My God,” said Rourke. “What makes you think…”

Shayne said, “Take a smell for yourself. Four or five days in the sun…” He broke off and strolled away as Painter came up and demanded of Ed Beagle, “You the one reported the car? Why didn’t you call the police instead of the newspaper?”

“It was the paper that offered the reward,” Beagle told him stoutly.

“Been here all the time, eh, and you didn’t even notice it until a reward was offered? Or were you keeping it under your hat hoping there would be a reward?” The lad shuffled his feet nervously and looked to Merrill for support. “I’m not supposed to report cars in the lot if they’ve got a hotel sticker on them. It wasn’t that I really noticed it. Not until I read the paper and got to thinking…

Painter turned away with a snort of disgust as another police car rolled up and two uniformed technicians got out. “Try the door handles for fingerprints outside. You say they’re bringing extra keys?” he added to Merrill.

“The Avis people. They should be here any minute.”

“Has Harris been notified?” Shayne asked him.

“How’d you get here so fast, Shayne?” demanded Painter. “Is this some kind of put up job between you and Rourke? Why did you hurry out of my office as soon as you knew the
News
was out? Came straight here, didn’t you?”

“After phoning my secretary and getting Tim’s message,” Shayne told him. “Has he, Merrill?”

“Harris? No. He should be, I guess. Ed, go ring the doorman and ask Mr. Harris to come out here.”

While the boy trotted away to the telephone that connected him with the doorman, a U-Drive-It pickup truck drew up and a man in white coveralls got out. “You need some keys for a Pontiac here?”

“Right here, fellow,” Painter said officiously. He went toward the convertible, warning, “Just unlock the doors without touching any surface. Do you have a mileage record on it?”

“Yeh. When it went out Monday.”

Shayne moved back to stand beside Timothy Rourke while the mechanic unlocked the right-hand door without touching the handle and then went around to the driver’s side.

Rourke stood at the rear of the car tensely beside his photographer. He muttered, “Damn if I don’t believe you’re right, Mike. Can you get them to unlock the trunk?”

Shayne went to the Beach fingerprint man who was standing beside Painter, waiting to get at the interior of the car, and asked him casually, “Did you check the handle of the trunk? It should be opened, too.”

“Yes,” Painter said instantly. “Check it if you haven’t.” And to the mechanic, he ordered, “Open up the back, too, while you’re about it.”

The fingerprint man dusted the trunk handle for fingerprints with negative results, and stepped back. The
News
photographer had his camera up and ready when the mechanic unlocked the trunk and lifted it, stepping back quickly with a startled oath as the odor of putrefied flesh rushed out of confinement and assailed his nostrils.

The alert photographer got his picture all right… of the body of a woman cramped up in the confines of the trunk on her back with knees drawn up to her breasts.

With the exception of the mechanic, every man there was more or less inured to the sight of violent death, but this was one of the most gruesome sights any of them had ever experienced.

They all stood well back from the car, grim-faced and staring, while the locked-in odor was absorbed and carried away by the fresh breeze.

The dead woman wore a red cocktail dress, the hem of which was up around her waist, displaying long and well-fleshed legs. She was also a blonde.

That’s about all any of them could tell about her at this point. Her face had been brutally smashed in so that she was totally unrecognizable. Before death, she might well have been as beautiful as the picture of Ellen Harris showed her to be… or she might have been so ugly that no man would look at her twice.