obvious suspect should be eliminated.
That left Bart, Ralph, Doris and Gerry. Well, Ina, too. Dirk’s wife. Though it was difficult to see what possible motive she could have for killing Vincent Torn. There was nothing to indicate she even knew the man. If the motive for Torn’s death had been jealousy, that certainly left Ina Dreer out.
And also Doris. Unless, by chance, Doris had secretly been in love with Torn. But she was alibied by Ralph. Just as he was alibied by her. Almost exactly the same sort of situation as existed between Aline and Dirk.
In that case… if it were a manufactured alibi… Ralph was a possibility. The presence of Aline’s bag in his car was highly suspicious. Of course, he had glibly explained how it came there, but was that explanation the true one?
Could Ralph have driven Aline to the Halcyon Hotel… followed by Torn? Could not Torn have discovered them together and been killed by Ralph in an ensuing fight?
No. We knew Ralph had left her on her doorstep as he claimed. The telephone call to Torn proved she had gone into the cocktail lounge and borrowed a dime from the bartender after Ralph dropped her.
It all began to get hazy and tenuous when I reached that point in my speculations. I kept coming back to Dirk, and the clever manner in which he had induced Aline to provide him with an alibi while leading her to believe he was doing her a favor by providing her with one.
Once we found out the true identity of the man whom Elsie called Dirk, I felt we’d be well on the way to the solution of two murders.
So I rolled over and went to sleep.
11
At eight-forty in the morning, a taxicab deposited a tall, rangy redheaded man at the door of the Berkshire hotel. He carried a small, zippered overnight bag and wore a light tan Palm Beach suit and a creamy Panama tilted back on his forehead. He strode in briskly, waving aside the doorman who reached for his bag, went to the desk and said, “Brett Halliday?” to the clerk.
The clerk looked at him speculatively and said, “Oh yes, Halliday.” He cleared his throat rather loudly, glanced beyond the redhead at a man wearing a gray business suit who was conversing in low tones with the Bell Captain. He said, “One moment,” and stepped behind a partition to the switchboard, and the man in the gray suit sauntered up beside the desk and said quietly, “Were you asking for Halliday?”
The rangy man turned slowly to look at him. He saw a pleasant face with a strong jaw and alert blue eyes. He asked curtly, “What’s your interest?”
The man opened his wallet and displayed a badge. He said, “Detective Grayson from the Precinct. You a friend of Halliday?”
The redhead nodded, his gray eyes narrowing slightly. “From Miami, Florida. Michael Shayne.”
The clerk had returned to his position behind the desk, and he leaned forward eagerly as Shayne gave his name. “I thought I recognized you from your last trip, Mr. Shayne.” He said to the New York detective: “You know… this is Michael Shayne. The detective…”
Grayson nodded. He said flatly, “I know. Want to come along up, Shayne?”
“Sure. But what the hell is this?” protested the redhead. “Is Brett in some kind of trouble?”
“They’ll tell you all about it upstairs.” Grayson led the way to a waiting elevator and they went up. They got out and went down the corridor to the open door of a hotel suite. Three men were in the sitting room. They all turned to look as Grayson said from the doorway, “Here’s a friend of Halliday’s just got in from Miami. Name of Michael Shayne.”
All three of the men were dressed conservatively in dark suits. “Dick” was stamped unmistakably on the faces of two of them. The third was a solidly built man. A pleased smile lighted his face as he hurried forward with outstretched hand. “Mike Shayne! You couldn’t have turned up at a better time. You any idea where Brett is?”
Shayne said, “My plane landed less than an hour ago. Halliday was expecting me to join him here this morning. Why are the cops interested?”
“We’ll do the talking, Ed,” the larger and older of the two plainclothesmen interposed. He had a lined face that was weary from lack of sleep. He introduced himself to Shayne without offering his hand. “I’m Peters, of the Precinct Squad. I’m carrying the case. This is Lieutenant Hogan from Homicide.”
“And I’m Ed Radin,” the first speaker interposed. “An old friend of Halliday trying to help out. I remember him telling me a couple of days ago that you were flying up for the weekend, and he promised to fix it for me to meet you.”
Shayne caught the nuance of anxiety in his tone and was instantly alerted to play along with the falsehood Radin had just told. He said, “You write too, don’t you? True crime stuff?”
“You and Ed can go into all that later on after you’ve answered a few questions,” said Peters impatiently. “Remember you’re sitting this one out on sufferance, Ed. Now, Shayne. Where’s Halliday hiding?” The three words came out like bullets.
Shayne looked astonished. “Hiding? What the hell from?”
“You claim you don’t know?”
“I don’t know one damned thing about any of this,” protested Shayne vehemently. “I flew up this morning to join Halliday for the weekend. He knew I was coming, and I expected him to be here waiting. That’s all I know. Now: What’s happened?”
“Not much,” said Peters pleasantly. “Looks as though he killed a dame last night and has taken it on the lam. You any ideas where he might try hiding?”
“Killed a dame?” echoed the redhead. “Brett Halliday? You must be crazy.”
“Maybe,” said Peters imperturbably. “We’ve got a dead woman and our only suspect is missing. You add it up.”
“I will,” said Shayne angrily. He turned to Ed Radin. “What’s the dope on all this?”
“It’s a long story,” Radin evaded. “Essentially, Brett’s the last person known to have seen the dead girl… and now he’s inexplicably missing when they come to question him. I’d like to give you the whole story,” he went on earnestly, “and see what you make of it. You must know him better than anyone else in the world, and we’re lucky you’re here to help out. Don’t you think so, Lieutenant?” he asked the tall officer from Homicide who hadn’t spoken yet.
“Oh, sure,” Hogan said sarcastically. “I’ve read some of those books about you, Shayne. Make one of your famous passes and give us Elsie Murray’s murderer, and we’ll all go home and get some sleep.”
A muscle twitched in Shayne’s jaw at the lieutenant’s sneering tone. He shrugged wide shoulders and deliberately walked across the room to a low table holding an almost empty bottle of cognac. “Anybody mind if I have a drink of Brett’s liquor?”
“Don’t touch the bottle or anything in the room,” said Peters sharply. “We haven’t fingerprinted anything yet.”
“Let’s get out some place where we can talk,” said Ed Radin wearily from behind him. “You don’t need us, do you?” he asked Peters.
“Hell no. You two smart lads go ahead and solve our case for us. In the meantime, if either of you are hiding Halliday, you’d better keep him damn well hid.”
“We’ll do that,” said Shayne angrily. He strode to the door and picked up his bag where he had dropped it, went out into the corridor followed by Radin.
Neither of them said anything until they reached the elevator. Then Radin removed his hat, rubbed his hand over his head wearily and said, “They’re not bad… for cops. They don’t know Brett personally, and damn it! he didn’t help matters by running out before they got to him.”
The elevator stopped and they got in. Downstairs, Shayne registered and gave his bag to a bellboy to take up to the room assigned to him while Radin waited silently. “Dining room’s through here,” the New York crime writer suggested. “How about food while we talk?”
“And drink,” said Shayne. He followed Radin through a small rear lobby into a cheerful dining room where a few early risers were at the white-covered tables. The captain led them to a secluded corner, but shook his head
