Pay-Off in Blood

“Then you don’t think Belle was carrying a torch for him?”

“The only person that female is carrying a torch for is big and broad-shouldered and red-headed, and he’s seated right across from me this minute,” retorted Lucy. “As for Celia: she lives in a sort of little dream-world of her own that’s difficult to penetrate.”

They were both silent for a time while they attacked their delicious stuffed pancakes with gusto. When Lucy sighed and slowed down, she said, “You know, you haven’t told me very much about the Ambrose case, Michael. You did say he was being blackmailed, and I know you got yourself beaten up and kicked around last night, but that’s about all I do know.”

Shayne said, “I don’t know a lot more than that. There are several curious angles. Like somebody taking a flashbulb picture of the blackmail pay-off… certain indications that the money was paid to the wrong person… and an empty strongbox in the doctor’s office soon after he was knocked off.” He frowned and forked up the last scrap of chicken from his plate, shaking his head in perplexity. “None of them add up to very much. Ready for coffee?”

Lucy nodded. “And then I’d better get back to the office, hadn’t I? Your mention of the flash-bulb picture reminds me of Mrs. Montgomery and her boy, Cecil. I told you she was pretty vague about his trouble, but I’m afraid he got his picture taken last night, too… in some sort of embarrassing circumstances. Did I tell you she mentioned money, Michael? To the effect that it was no object?”

He said, “No, Lucy. You didn’t mention that.” He looked at her consideringly, tugging at his left ear-lobe while the waiter removed their plates and put coffee in front of them.

He said, “That’s most interesting. Do you remember her telephone number?”

“No. It was a Miami number. I’ve got it written down on my pad.”

“Just what did this Mrs. Montgomery say, Lucy?”

“You weren’t interested before,” she protested. “You just gave her the brush-off. Let her get another detective, you said, with a wave of your hand.”

“I’m interested now. Try to remember what she said.”

“I never knew you to be so money-hungry, Michael. All right, all right,” said Lucy hastily. “Let me see. She wanted to see Mr. Shayne at once. It was very important, and I was to tell you that money was no object. You were to drop whatever else you were doing to see her.

“When I explained that you didn’t take cases just for money, and asked for details, she said that she was afraid her boy, Cecil, had been very indiscreet last night and had been caught in the act by a photographer.

“I told her as sweetly as I could that you aren’t particularly interested in juvenile delinquents, and she interrupted to say icily that Cecil wasn’t really a little boy… past thirty, in fact, even though he hadn’t yet reached the age of discretion. And that’s about all, Michael. I promised you’d call her as soon as you came in… and her telephone didn’t answer when I did call. You remember?”

Shayne nodded brusquely. He took a sip of hot coffee and set the cup down, reaching for his wallet. “Drink yours up, Lucy. And then let’s get back to the office.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Lucy Hamilton had her own car at the restaurant, and the doorman whistled hers up before Shayne’s. She pulled away with a wave of her hand, and the detective followed her across to the mainland a few minutes later.

He didn’t speed crossing the Causeway, but drove slowly in a relaxed and meditative mood, mentally going over and over the unanswered questions in the Ambrose case, and still coming up with no answers that fitted the facts as he knew them.

The outer door of his office stood open when he got out of the elevator, and Lucy was already bending over her desk and looking at her pad when he walked in. She glanced around to ask, “Shall I try to get Mrs. Montgomery now?”

He nodded, and crossed over to settle one hip on the low railing beside her desk.

She sat down and dialled a number. He lit a cigarette while she said briskly, “Mrs. Montgomery, please. Michael Shayne’s office calling.”

There was a pause and then Lucy said, “Mrs. Montgomery? Mr. Shayne… returning your call.”

She handed the instrument to him, and he said, “Shayne speaking.”

“I must say, Mr. Shayne, that you’re very lax about returning my call.” She didn’t really sound particularly sweet or little or old to Shayne. Her voice was brittle and dry.

He said, “My secretary tried to get you as soon as I came in this morning, and got no answer. Since then, I’ve been… occupied.”

“H-m-m. Trying to keep your own skirts clean in the Ambrose murder, I presume.”

“What do you know about that?”

“I read the newspapers and even watch television occasionally. Has the case been solved yet?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

She said peremptorily, “I must see you at once. Come to this address.” She gave him a street number in the Southeast bay area, one of the older and more expensive residential sections of the city, and her telephone clicked decisively.

Shayne passed his phone back to Lucy, and she looked at him with eager curiosity as she replaced it. He rubbed his chin reflectively and said, “It may tie up with Ambrose somehow. I’ll go out and see her.”

The Montgomery residence was in reality a mansion. One of those old, three-story, coral stone monstrosities built in the early 1900’s in the center of its own stonewalled and lavishly landscaped acres. It was one of those that had refused the blandishments and the million-dollar offers of land speculators in the Twenties, and remained aloof and alone in this backwash of the modern city.

The grounds were untended now, a mass of tropical verdure that had taken over the formal gardens of yesteryear, and the old stone house was weathered and desolate in appearance.

Shayne parked under a wide porte-cochere in front that was rampant with flaming bougainvillea, and when he cut off his motor he was surrounded by hushed silence and the overpowering incense of magnolia blossoms.

He got out and mounted stone steps to a wide veranda with worn, creaking boards underfoot, crossed to heavy, double oak doors where a large, wrought-iron knocker was seemingly the only way a visitor could announce his presence. He tried the knocker skeptically, and was surprised when the door opened at once. A trim young girl, wearing a maid’s black dress and a maid’s wispy, white apron stood in front of him, and, beyond her, he saw a dim, vaulted hallway, leading into the cavernous depths of the house.

She said, “Mr. Shayne?” and, when he nodded, she stepped back and said, “Madam expects you. Come this way, please.”

Shayne followed her down the long hall for at least forty feet, past closed doors on both sides, to an archway with portieres, which she parted for him to enter.

The room was pleasant and well-lighted by a chandelier and wall-sconces on all sides, carpeted from wall to wall with a light blue rug that gave back a springy feel to his feet, pleasantly furnished with good, modern furniture that harmonized with the rug and the golden-flecked wallpaper.

Mrs. Montgomery sat facing him across the room, in a wheelchair with big, rubber-tired wheels. She was a large, grossly-fat woman, with completely white hair that needed brushing, snapping black eyes, almost hidden by the rolls of fat on her face, wearing an absurdly youthful bed-jacket of baby-blue silk with peek-a-boo lace strained over the bulging breasts and threaded with pink ribbons tied in bow-knots at the throat and short sleeves. A knitted afghan was tucked in at the sides of the chair to cover the lower portion of her body.

There was something grotesque and something frightening about her silent scrutiny as Shayne hesitated on the other side of the room, and the words, “sweet,” “little,” and “old” flashed through his mind.

Her voice was unexpectedly resonant and placid now. “Well, Mr. Shayne. You needn’t stand there gawking. Sit down and I’ll ring for a drink, if you like.”