The Private Practice of Michael Shayne (8 page)

APPROACHING Seventy-ninth Street from the south, Shayne took it slow. There were few shore-line estates behind the Bath Club. The strip of land between the drive and ocean was grown over with scrubby palmetto and creeping thorn vines, pierced at intervals by deep sand ruts where bathers drove off the pavement to park and make it on foot to the beach.

By daylight it was difficult to determine which was the last dead-end street before coming to Seventy-ninth, and Shayne passed the turnoff before he was certain it was the spot where Grange had met his death the night before.

He pulled his right wheels from the pavement when he saw there was no other street turning off ahead, parked and got out to saunter back along the sandy shoulder.

Cars passed him from both directions, but no one paid any attention to him. With his hands in his pockets, he strolled into the ruts deeply cut by the ambulance and police cars last night, back to the spot where the death car had been standing backed up to the cliff overlooking the sea.

He knew that Peter Painter would have made an exhaustive search of the vicinity that morning, so he didn’t waste any time looking for clues he was not likely to find.

Shayne scowled at the matted growth covering the low sand dunes between the street and the shore. It would be a miracle if any object was ever found in it. Searching among the thorn-pronged palmettos was hazardous to shoes and clothes and hands.

He look a position near where Grange’s car had stood, stepped back a few paces, picked up a stone calculated to weigh about the same as a .32 automatic. He pitched the stone with all his strength, watched it sail through the air and clump down to the stubby undergrowth.

Fixing his eyes on the spot until it was definite in his mind, he walked back to the pavement and waited. It was not long before a car slowed to park. A man and a woman got out, wearing bathing suits and carrying blankets.

Shayne approached the man and said, “I wonder if you would give me a little assistance? I’m a detective investigating a murder that occurred here last night.”

“Of course.” The man was plainly flattered. “I hadn’t realized this was the spot. We always stop here to go swimming.”

Shayne nodded and led the way in long strides to the murder spot.

“I’ve got a hunch about the death gun,” he explained. “I’m going to look for it, and I want a reputable witness who will testify to its position and condition if I find it.”

“Of course.”

The man was curious and expectant, entering into the game with the zest of a small boy playing cops and robbers.

Shayne was careful to start out on an aimless course to the point where his rock had fallen. The man searched diligently, unmindful of his scratched legs, pawing into clump after clump of palmettos, tearing away the treacherous vines. Shayne stayed close to him, and when at last he saw the weapon said nothing until the man let out a triumphant whoop.

“Here! Here you are!”

“Swell!” Shayne commended. “Say, you ought to be doing the detecting instead of me, mister.”

He dropped a handkerchief over the pistol and picked it up, examined it closely while the man looked on with keen interest.

“Look—its jammed,” the man pointed out, his eyes popping with enthusiasm. “Say—maybe—”

“I’d like to have a sworn statement to what you’ve witnessed here,” Shayne said. “My name is Shayne, and you may have seen by the papers that they’re trying to hang this killing on me. You can understand why I wanted a witness to prove this pistol was actually found here.”

“Sure—I’ll be glad to, Mr. Shayne.”

“You’re a resident in Miami—or here on the beach?” Shayne inquired.

“Lived here for fifteen years,” the man exuded. “If you want to know about me just ask—”

“That’s fine,” Shayne interrupted. He named a lawyer on the beach and said, “If you’ll drop by his office and tell him I sent you and what I want, he’ll fix up an affidavit for you to sign. Just leave it with him.”

“Sure. I’ll go back to the car and write down the name,” the man promised.

“I think I’ll stick around awhile,” Shayne said. He smiled. “I might find some other interesting clues.”

The man hesitated, his eyes involuntarily going to the palmettos in a searching gaze, came back to Shayne with a pensive, wishful expression.

“Okay. My name’s James Hilliard. I’m in the telephone directory if you need me.”

He held out his hand to Shayne, then picked his way carefully back to his car and his wife.

Shayne waited until they had gone on down to the water, then walked back to the spot where Grange’s car had been parked. He examined the ground between that spot and the edge of the sand dune overlooking the beach.

The loose sand had been badly trampled, and it was poor stuff to hold footprints, anyway.

He went on to the edge of the steep bank and looked over at a spot where someone had slid down hurriedly, nodded without surprise at a row of high-heeled footprints leading across the firm sand and down beach, disappearing at a point where the high tide had come in during the night to wash them away.

Shayne struck a purposeful stride going back to his car. He drove back to the mainland on Seventy-ninth and made his way to a modest stucco bungalow on Forty-sixth Street.

A boy of three was playing on the lawn when Shayne got out and started up the walk. His big blue eyes widened when he saw the detective. He ran to meet him with outstretched hands.

Shayne stopped to toss him in the air, and the child gurgled with glee, circling Shayne’s neck with moist chubby arms and yelling, “What’d you bring me, Uncle Mike? What’d you bring me?”

“Just myself—and a nickel for a soda-pop. How’s that?” He set the lad down and produced a nickel from his pocket and put it in the child’s dirty hand. “Is your daddy home?”

“No. But mommie’s here. Daddy’s gone—gone away.” He caught Shayne’s hand to go with him into the house.

“You run along and play,” Shayne told him. “I want to talk to your mother.”

He gave the child a pat and a gentle shove into the unkempt lawn.

At the door Shayne knocked, then opened the screen and stepped inside, calling, “Helen?”

It was hot and sticky inside the littered living-room. Here was every evidence of not only poverty, but of a woman’s impoverished spirit. Shayne glanced around the room with hard, unsympathetic eyes. He called Helen again, louder.

Helen Kincaid appeared in the stucco archway leading into the dining-room. She wore a gingham dress and a rumpled apron. Her eyes were black and enormous in a pale, perspiring face, and she patted stringy locks of moist dark hair back into place with a hand reddened from recent immersion in hot water.

She said, “It’s you, Michael,” in a tired, flat monotone. Shayne nodded.

“Have you heard from Larry yet?”

“No. Nothing since the telegram I told you about this morning.” She came close to him with fright showing in her eyes. “Is anything wrong, Michael?”

Shayne’s big hands caught her elbows roughly and he looked down into her eyes.

“What makes you ask that?”

“Because—he acted so strangely last night. He—oh, why did you quarrel with him!”

Shayne’s hands dropped to his side. He turned back into the living-room and slumped into a chair upholstered in faded needlepoint.

“Tell me how he acted. I want to know everything he did and said last evening.”

Helen Kincaid sat in a low rocker in front of Shayne, but she didn’t look at him. Her profile was sharp, and her whole expression was one of dissatisfaction, almost of shrewishness. She looked to be a few years older than her husband, and gave the impression that she had long ago given up trying to retain her youthful loveliness.

“He came in raving about you,” she told him listlessly. “Said you had let him down—turned against him. He was furious when I reminded him of all the things you’d done for us. He had some big deal on that he was awfully secretive about. He called somebody and made an appointment for eleven o’clock, then stamped out about nine o’clock saying he was going to give you one last chance to prove your friendship.”

“And you haven’t seen him since?”

“No. The telephone woke me up this morning. A telegram from Larry in Jacksonville.”

She stared past Shayne vacuously for a moment, a picture of dejection and hopelessness. Then she turned listless eyes upon him and asked, “What’s wrong, Michael? Why did you quarrel with Larry?”

“Didn’t he tell you?”

Helen Kincaid’s expression took on a spark of interest at the harsh tone of Shayne’s voice. She studied him with a puzzled frown, said, “No. He didn’t tell me anything. He never does—any more.”

“Didn’t he accuse you of being in love with me?”

She was startled. Panic showed in her big dark eyes. Sharp teeth caught her underlip tightly.

“He—he said something silly like that.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I told him it was too late for that,” she cried with sudden passion. “I told him I might have married you long ago, but I made a mistake and chose him instead.”

“For which,” said Shayne fervently, “I thank God.” Tears welled into her eyes and ran down her pale cheeks. She started to speak, but Shayne said harshly, “Don’t waste your cheap tears on me. I’m not interested. I admit I was taken in by your pretty face five years ago—just as you took Larry in. You’re no damned good, Helen. Any girl who lets circumstances rob her of her pride and ambition at twenty-six was no good to start with. You’ve nagged at Larry about money until he’s reached the state he’s in today. Whatever happened to him, you’ll be to blame. And stop your darned sniveling.”

“Wh-a-at,” she sobbed, “has happened?”

“I don’t know.”

Shayne lit a cigarette, got up and paced around the room, his features twisted into a frown of furious concentration.

Helen’s sobbing gradually subsided and she dabbed at her face with a corner of her apron.

“You—hate me, don’t you?” she faltered.

“No. I don’t waste energy hating people. I just can’t be bothered. You’ve let selfishness make you despicable. A whore walking the streets has more honor than you. At least, they give value received. You demand everything and give nothing. Look at you—look at this room.”

He stopped in midstride and pointed a long finger at her.

“You slop around the house like a gin-soaked hag. Larry was a good clean kid with ideals when you married him. You’ve driven him to—to be something else with your eternal complaining. I’ve watched it happen. And now—it’s too late.”

“What do you mean?” Helen sprang to her feet, stood tense before him. “What has happened to Larry?” Her voice was clear, commanding.

“What do you care? He carries insurance.”

Color flamed in her cheeks. Her breath came in convulsive gasps, then she slapped him hard on the cheek. “That’s a lie,” she raged. “I do care.”

“You’ve got a hell of a way of showing it.”

Shayne observed her with calculating eyes. With her cheeks aflame and her eyes bright with anger she was almost beautiful again. The muscles at the corners of his mouth twitched and he took a deep drag on his cigarette to keep from smiling.

She swayed back into her chair and covered her face with her hands. Shayne went to a window where he stood looking out.

Helen’s sobbing was loud in the little room. It rose almost to the pitch of hysteria, but Shayne kept his back stubbornly turned. Slowly the sound died to rasping, long-drawn sighs. She got up and left the room hurriedly.

Shayne remained at the window until he heard her re-enter ten minutes later. He turned to see that she had changed to a fresh dress, combed her hair, washed, rouged and powdered her face.

She said humbly, “Perhaps I deserved the things you said to me.”