Pay-Off in Blood

him.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

This morning, Shayne parked directly in front of the doctor’s office. He went briskly down the flagged walk and found the door closed. He turned the knob and discovered it was locked. There was an electric button beside the door, and he put his thumb on it. He could hear a buzzer sounding inside the office, but nothing happened.

While he stood there in the morning sunlight, a young and pretty girl in a nurse’s uniform looked out at him from the open door of the adjoining office. “They’re not open today. Didn’t you read in the paper about Dr. Ambrose?”

Shayne said, “Yes. But I thought his nurse would be here.” He turned away from the locked door toward her. “Do you know Belle? Miss Jackson?”

“Oh, yes. Quite well. Isn’t it terrible about the doctor? He was such a nice, gentle man. I don’t see why anyone would do a thing like that.”

“Do you happen to have Miss Jackson’s address?”

“No. But I know it’s here on the Beach. She always came to work by bus. It might be listed in the telephone book,” she offered helpfully.

Shayne asked, “Do you mind if I look?”

“Of course not.” She turned away from the open door to the interior of a reception room similar to the one next door Shayne had glimpsed briefly the preceding night. She went behind her desk and leafed through the directory, and looked up and nodded. “Belle Jackson.” She started to read off the street address, and Shayne said, “If I could borrow a piece of paper…”

She said, “I’ll write it down for you.” She did, and handed it to him, her eyes bright with curiosity. “You’re that famous detective from Miami, aren’t you? Michael Shayne?”

He said, “I’m Michael Shayne,” and accepted the slip of paper. “Thanks a lot.”

“Do you have any idea who did it? I remember I was still working when he left the office last night about seven. He smiled at me so nicely as he went past the door, and called out, ‘There are better things for a pretty girl like you to be doing of an evening.’ He was always kidding me about working so hard and not having dates.”

Shayne asked, “Why don’t you?” as he backed out of the door.

“Oh, I do. All I want. You tell Belle if there’s anything I can do, to just call me.”

Shayne said, “I will, and thanks again.” He walked back to his car, glancing down at Belle’s address. It wasn’t very far. South of Fifth Street near the bay side of the peninsula. He got in his car and circled back, threading his way among narrow streets until he found the address. He frowned incredulously, and checked the number on the paper again to be sure he had it right. It was one of the very old buildings of Miami Beach, that had been built long before the Beach became an exclusive and luxurious resort center. A two-story building of crumbling stucco built around a patio with outside iron stairways leading up to private little balconies by which the tenants could go to and from the beach in dripping bathing suits without discommoding their neighbors. There were beach towels and bathing suits displayed on most of the balconies, and a squad of small children playing in the patio.

It had been originally designed for cheap summer rentals where a family could come from the mainland and occupy cramped quarters near the Bay at weekly or monthly rates, and Shayne knew it was the sort of place now occupied mostly by permanent residents who worked on the Beach and could not afford the higher rentals farther north.

A professional woman like a registered nurse, he thought, should be able to afford better living quarters. What was it the doctor had said last night? Something about paying his nurse over six thousand dollars a year.

He shrugged and opened the door to get out. Maybe Belle Jackson had a pair of crippled parents and a couple of small children to support. Or maybe she was a miser and preferred to live like this and hoard her money.

He crossed the sidewalk to the main entrance, and went into a small, damp-smelling hallway that had rows of dingy mailboxes with names above them. He found one marked Miss B. Jackson, and the number I-F. He went out and started to circle the patio, finding, as he had guessed, that the first-floor apartments were numbered I and alphabetically.

I-F was halfway down on his right. The children stopped their noisy play and stared at the stranger with bright, inquisitive eyes, and there was a curious sort of silence in the sun-drenched courtyard as Shayne stopped in front of I-F and knocked on the door.

The door opened after a brief interval, and Belle Jackson faced him across the threshold. She wore her white nurse’s uniform this morning, and it bulged in the right places. Her hair was neatly coiled up in braids again at the back of her head, and though her eyes were red-rimmed, her face was carefully made up and she seemed placidly in control of herself.

Her baby-blue eyes widened and she blinked at him, and then she said, “It’s Mr. Shayne, isn’t it?” She hesitated only momentarily, sucking in a full underlip between her teeth, and then stepped backward, saying formally, “Won’t you come in, Mr. Shayne?”

He entered the dim coolness of a large, disordered room. A double bed, which could obviously be folded into the wall in daytime, occupied the left side of the room. It was unmade, with rumpled covers, and an open suitcase lay on the end of it, half-packed. Across the room, bureau drawers stood open, and a couple of dresses lay on the bed beside the suitcase. On the right, an archway opened onto a very small and very compact kitchenette, and there was a closed door on the left which Shayne assumed led into the bathroom.

It was just about the layout he had expected to find in this building, and he knew it must rent for about $75.00 per month.

There was one overstuffed chair and two straight chairs and a cardtable against the wall. A coffee-cup and a jar of instant coffee stood on the cardtable. Two pairs of stockings and a brassiere were draped over the back of the big chair. Belle Jackson picked them up and dropped them on the bed and said, “Won’t you sit down? I was just having a cup of coffee.” She waved toward the table. “There’s hot water on the stove and I can get another cup…”

Shayne grimaced at the thought of instant coffee and said, “No, thanks. I’ve had my coffee this morning.” He sat down and smiled at her. “You go right ahead. I just came from the office where I thought I’d find you this morning.”

She sat in a straight chair in front of the coffee cup with her profile to him. “There’s no need for my being there. Doctor’s dead.”

She spoke the two words thoughtfully, as though she needed to keep on saying them aloud, and listening to the sound of them, to make the fact real to her.

Shayne said, “There must be the telephone to answer… appointments to cancel.”

“The answering service will transfer all calls to Dr. Transom, who always covers for Doctor.” She lifted the coffee cup and drank from it as though she enjoyed the stuff.

Shayne glanced at the half-packed suitcase on the bed, and asked, “Are you going on a trip?”

“No. Just out to Doctor’s house for a few days. I telephoned Mrs. Ambrose this morning and insisted that I would stay with her for a little. My salary is paid through the week,” she went on placidly, “and I thought that was the least I could do for Doctor.” She put down her empty coffee cup and turned a tortured face toward him. “Have they found anything about who did it? That policeman seemed awfully stupid last night, but Mr. Rourke told me you’d be handling the case, and that you never failed to get your man. Have you got him yet?”

“Not quite yet. I hoped you might help me.”

“How?”

“You’ve been with him many years,” Shayne said gently. “You probably know more about him than anyone else… including his wife.”

“Celia?” she said simply. “She’s a child.”

Shayne lit a cigarette and leaned forward. “What enemies did he have, Belle? Who wanted him dead?”

“Doctor?” she said wonderingly. “Enemies?”

Shayne said, “Someone shot him last night.”