Brett Halliday
This Is It, Michael Shayne
Chapter One
Michael Shayne stepped from the deep-sea fishing boat onto the wharf and walked toward his parked car with a rolling motion of his rangy body. Since early morning he had ridden the ocean swells under a clear sky, and now his face tingled with the cool night breeze on sunburned skin, and his eyes were drowsy from strain and the glare of bright sunlight on the water. He felt stretchy and yawny, luxuriously relaxed after a day of good-fellowship combined with moderate amounts of aged liquor, and a fair day’s catch.
He was humming lazily when he reached the car. Getting in, he drove toward his apartment. He anticipated stripping off the damp, salt-sticky polo shirt and faded dungarees, taking a warm shower, and perhaps reading in bed a couple of hours before gratifying the urge of mind and body with a good night’s sleep.
He stopped humming abruptly, remembering that Lucy knew nothing of his fishing trip and was probably worried. He had forgotten, momentarily, that in order to persuade her to resume her job as his secretary he had rented office space in a six-story building downtown after more than fifteen years of doing business in his apartment.
He scowled at the misty windshield, jerked the steering-wheel around just in time to swing left at an intersection, and drove to his office. Conscientious and efficient, Lucy might be waiting even at this late hour if there was an urgent call from a client.
It was eight-thirty when he stood before the door with Michael Shayne-Private Investigator lettered in gold on the frosted glass. There was no light inside, but he unlocked the door and went in, switched on the overhead light, and since there was no message on Lucy’s desk, he went on to another door marked Private.
Three memos, separated by penciled lines on a large pad, lay on his brand new oak desk beside a special- delivery letter in a square white envelope. He read the memos first:
9:30 a.m. Call Miss Sarah Morton at the Tidehaven hotel at once. Urgent.
1:40 p.m. Miss Morton called.
4:52 p.m. Get in touch with Sarah Morton no matter what time of night you get message-but try to sober up first.
At the bottom of the page she signed Lucy Hamilton in her precise handwriting, and added, I waited till eight.
Shayne grinned at the full signature and the last personal lines, all reprimands for his unexplained absence, then picked up the letter.
The envelope was of rich, heavy paper, addressed by typewriter and with no return address. It was stamped at the main post office at 7:42 p.m.
Opening it carefully at the pointed flap, he took out a single sheet of heavy note paper folded once. Several enclosures fluttered to the floor, three small squares of white paper all about the same size and evidently clipped from a large sheet, and a smooth bit of green paper somewhat smaller in size. Two of the white squares appeared blank. The third fell face up and showed words in uneven print, cut from a slick magazine and pasted on to form a message: TWO MORE DAYS.
Shayne stooped and picked up the green enclosure first. It was half of a five-hundred-dollar bill, ripped across the middle. Perplexed and frowning, he gathered up the other two white squares and turned them over. He read: YOU HAVE THREE DAYS TO GET OUT OF MIAMI ALIVE, and: ONE DAY LEFT
He laid them on the desk and unfolded the note. There was a printed facsimile of Sara Morton’s signature in blue, but no address, and the note was undated. He read:
Dear Mr. Shayne:
It is now six-thirty and I have given up hope that you will contact me before it is too late. I enclose the notes which my secretary will explain to you, and one-half of a retainer which I trust you will earn by bringing my murderer to justice,
In haste,
Sara Morton
The signature was in blue ink and scarcely distinguishable from the printed name. Shayne read the note through twice, rumpling his coarse red hair angrily and swearing at a woman who would calmly sit down at six- thirty to type an enigmatic note that indicated she expected a threat of murder to be carried out and giving no hint as to whom she suspected.
And one-half of a retainer.
What the devil did she mean by that? To pique his interest? Her secretary probably had the other half, with instructions to turn it over to him if she were murdered and he caught the murderer.
He put the letter down and looked up the number of the Tidehaven, dialed it, and when a feminine voice answered he said, “Miss Morton, please,” and waited. He listened to the steady rings, his gray eyes bleak as he counted-one, two, three, four, five, each one sounding flatter, more hollow, stopping abruptly on the fifth.
The hotel operator said, “Sorry. Fourteen twenty-two does not answer. Shall I connect you with fourteen- oh-eight?”
“Why?”
“Miss Morton’s secretary is in fourteen-oh-eight.”
Shayne said, “Try it.” He slid the telephone to the edge of the desk nearest a green filing-cabinet, stretched the cord its full length, and his long arm barely reached the handle of the top compartment. He eased it out with the tips of his fingers, got hold of the neck of a half-empty fifth of Monnet, and lifted it out just as the ringing at the other end stopped and the operator said:
“Sorry. Fourteen-oh-eight does not answer.”
“Have Miss Morton paged.” He moved back to the desk, eased one hip down on a corner, and laid the receiver on its side long enough to uncork the bottle. He picked it up and took a long drink while he waited.
A low, rich voice said, “Ye-e-ss?”
“Miss Morton? Mike Shayne calling. I just came in and found your message-”
“This is Miss Lally speaking,” the voice interrupted. “Miss Morton’s secretary. I heard her being paged.” She paused, and Shayne thought he detected a faltering, uncertain quality when she asked, “Did you say you’re Mr. Shayne?”
“Michael Shayne,” he said impatiently. “Where is Miss Morton? I found a memo of three urgent calls from her on my desk.”
“Did you try her room?”
“Of course I tried her room before having her paged. Where can I reach her?” he demanded irritably.
“Please, Mr. Shayne-just a moment.” Her voice rose to a higher pitch, with a hint of terror.
He could hear a mumbling of voices close to the phone through a hand not quite tight over the mouthpiece; then his bushy red brows shot up in surprise at hearing a familiar masculine voice say: “Mike? Tim Rourke.”
“What’s doing over there, Tim?”
“You’d better come over, Mike.” The reporter sounded half tight, but deadly serious. “Do you know why Miss Morton called you this afternoon?”
“No. I’ve been fishing all day. I found her message when I came in.”
