Pay-Off in Blood

He said, “I’m Michael Shayne, Mrs. Ambrose. A private detective whom the doctor consulted last evening.”

“A private detective? But how absurd! Why should Philip consult a private detective?”

“Because he was being blackmailed, Mrs. Ambrose. Don’t you remember being told last night…”

“I remember some sort of vicious innuendo being made,” she told him calmly. “I think you had better go away now. Do come in, Belle.” She drew the larger woman inside composedly.

“Mr. Shayne is working on the case, and wants to help find Doctor’s murderer,” the nurse told her. “He’d like to ask you a couple of questions.”

“Oh, very well.” Celia appeared completely indifferent. She nodded to Shayne. “You may bring her bag in, if you wish.”

She turned away from the open door, holding Belle’s arm lightly, and led her across the room, saying, “You’ll have the blue room at the back. I’ve closed up Philip’s room, of course, and, later on, I hope you’ll help me go through his things.”

The two women disappeared down a hallway to the left without a backward glance from either of them toward Shayne, and he carried Belle’s bag into the living room and closed the front door.

He stood there, flat-footed, looking about the basically feminine room and reinforcing the first impression he had received last night.

It was not a room designed for a man to relax in comfortably after a hard day at the office. He tried to imagine Dr. Ambrose and Celia inhabiting it happily together over the years past, and the picture refused to focus clearly.

He heard the light clack of high heels returning from the rear, and he moved forward to one of the overstuffed chairs, noting that there wasn’t an ashtray in sight, and putting aside his desire for a cigarette.

The doorbell rang behind him as Celia reentered the carpeted room, and she made a little moue at the sound and went past him to open the door.

He sat down on the edge of the chair, and his body stiffened as he heard a familiar voice say brightly,

“Good morning, Madam. I represent the Women’s Civic Betterment Association, and I would appreciate just a few minutes of your valuable time to get some statistical information for a survey we’re making that is of vital importance to every homeowner in Miami Beach.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

With her back toward him, Celia Ambrose blocked his view of the speaker, and he listened with absorbed interest as the widow replied, “Not this morning, I’m afraid. I’m very busy and…”

“But it will take just a moment and it’s vitally important that I contact every person in the block. Just one or two questions, Madam.”

Shayne rose slowly to his feet as Mrs. Ambrose backed away reluctantly from the doorway. Lucy Hamilton pushed forward vivaciously with a notebook and a pencil in her hand, and she stopped suddenly when she saw her employer standing in the middle of the room, looking at her with amused tolerance.

She said, “Oh…” and then managed a gay little laugh. “I didn’t know the man of the house was in. That’s just dandy. It’s so seldom I do find the husband at home…”

“My husband is dead,” said Mrs. Ambrose woodenly. “This is a private detective.”

“A detective?” Lucy sobered at once and pursed her lips. “He doesn’t look like one,” she told Celia. “Are you sure…?”

“I’m just going,” Shayne said hastily. “Good day, Mrs. Ambrose. Perhaps I can see you this afternoon.” He strode forward and past his brown-haired secretary, giving her a simulated glare in passing. Behind him, he heard Celia Ambrose say composedly, “I don’t like that man’s manners at all. Now, what was it you wanted?”

He went down the walk toward his car parked in front, and wondered how the devil Lucy had failed to recognize it and realize that he must be inside. He wasn’t at all sure she hadn’t. It would be just like her to put on an act like that in full knowledge that he was listening to her inside the room.

A wry smile twisted his lips as he got in and drove away. You had to hand it to Lucy. She did pull that sort of thing off well. He hoped Nurse Jackson would come out and join them while Lucy conducted her interview. He would be exceedingly interested to know how she reacted to Belle.

At the Miami Beach Police Headquarters, Shayne had no difficulty this morning getting into Chief Painter’s private office.

The head of the detective division sat rigidly upright behind a wide expanse of clean-surfaced desk and regarded the redhead with snapping black eyes that managed to appear accusing. “You’ve been long enough coming in, Shayne.”

Shayne said, “I was checking a couple of things.” He pulled a straight chair closer to Painter’s desk and sat down. “What can you do for me?”

“What can you do for me?” Painter challenged. “I want to know more about Dr. Ambrose’s blackmail payoff last night.”

“I’d like to know more about it myself.” Shayne unconsciously touched the twin lumps on his head and winced. “Have you heard anything about the possibility that he handed his money over to the wrong man?”

“What’s that? Don’t hold out on me, Shayne!”

“Why should I hold out? I was the Patsy in the deal.” Shayne hesitated and then said carefully, “Tim Rourke tells me you checked the Seacliff and got some kind of confirmation that Ambrose met his blackmailer there at nine-thirty… as I assumed.”

“Yes. That is… it’s all pretty vague. I couldn’t get a definite identification of the doctor, but the description is close enough. What do you know about a flashlight picture being taken of the transaction?”

“Rourke mentioned that.” Shayne frowned thoughtfully and lit a cigarette. “Ambrose certainly didn’t tell me he had anything like that in mind.”

“You think Ambrose arranged it?”

“Who else?” argued Shayne. “Remember, I told you he claimed he didn’t know who was blackmailing him. It looks to me as though he wanted some proof the pay-off had been made, and hired a man to take a picture.”

“What’s that got to do with your suggestion that he paid off the wrong man?”

“A lot, maybe. I don’t know. Here’s how it went.” He proceeded to give Painter a straightforward account of his encounter in the hotel lobby with Jud and Phil, and his interview with the Boss at the Bayside Hotel. “You figure it out,” he urged when he ended. “Seems to me that picture of the man receiving the money from Ambrose might be damned important.”

“I still don’t see who killed the doctor… or why,” exploded Painter.

“I don’t either,” Shayne agreed mildly. “That’s your problem. What’s this thing Tim Rourke told me about the doctor’s office last night?”

“You mean the nurse and the empty strongbox?” Painter asked reluctantly.

Shayne nodded. “What do you make of it?”

“It just gets screwier and screwier,” muttered Painter. “According to the woman’s story, he had some private papers in the box which he had asked her to destroy if anything happened to him. But someone beat her to it. When she searched the office, after learning the doctor had been murdered, she found the box open and empty.”

“Not forced open?” Shayne asked urgently.

“No. Unlocked with a key, from all indications. The office door, too.”

“Was there a key-ring in the doctor’s pockets when you checked his body?”

“No. His wallet was intact… but no key-ring.”

“Why in hell,” asked Shayne thoughtfully, “would his murderer make the effort and risk the danger of going to his office and emptying that strongbox? What was in it to make it worthwhile?”

“You tell me,” suggested Painter.

“If none of these other things had happened,” said Shayne slowly, “I would assume the strongbox held some documents that referred to the matter the doctor was being blackmailed about. But why would he keep them? And why would someone want to get hold of them