Brett Halliday - Dividend on Death

The girl who faced Michael Shayne in his downtown Miami apartment was beautiful, but too unblemished to interest Shayne particularly. She was young, certainly not more than twenty, with a slender niceness of figure that was curiously rigid as she sat in a chair leaning toward him. Her lips were too heavily rouged, and her cheeks were too pale.

She said, I am Phyllis Brighton, as though her name explained everything.

It didnt. It didnt mean a thing to him. He said, Yes? wondering why there should be that expression of self-loathing in her eyes; she was too young and too beautiful to have that look. The pupils of her eyes were contracted and cloudy beneath heavy black lashes, and they stared into his face with a fixed intensity that wasnt quite sane.

Were on the Beach, the girl told him as though that should convey a great deal. She drew herself stiffly erect in the deep chair, gloveless fingers weaving together in her lap.

Shayne said, I see, without seeing at all. He stopped looking into her eyes and leaned back, loose-jointed and relaxed. You dont use the phrase in its slang meaning, I suppose?

What? The girl was beginning to loosen up a trifle in response to Shaynes easy manner.

You dont mean youre down on your luck-a beachcomber?

A nervous smile hovered on her tight lips. Shayne had an idea there would be a dimple in her left cheek if she relaxed and really smiled. Oh, no, she explained. Were at our Miami Beach estate for the season. My-father is Rufus Brighton.

Things began clicking in Shaynes mind. She was that Brighton. He crossed inordinately long legs and clasped his hands about one bony knee. Your stepfather, I believe?

Yes. Phyllis Brightons words came with a rush. He had a stroke in New York four months ago-only a month after he and Mother married while I was in Europe. They were sending him down here away from the cold when I arrived so I came down with him and the doctor and his son.

Brightons son? Shayne asked. Or, the doctors?

Mr. Brightons son by his first marriage. Clarence. Mother stayed in New York to attend to some business matters and she is arriving this afternoon. Her voice grew shaky on the final words.

Shayne waited for her to go on. There was no hurry or impatience in his mind. It was quiet and comfortably cool in the apartment above the Miami River, and he had nothing urgent on hand.

Phyllis sucked her breath in sharply and faltered, I-dont know how to say it.

Shayne lit a cigarette and didnt help her out. She had something inside her that she would have to get rid of her own way.

I mean-well-youre a private detective, arent you?

Shayne rumpled his coarse red hair with his left hand and looked at her with a fleeting grin. Thats a nice way of saying it. Ive frequently been called worse-with emphasis.

She looked away from him, wet her lips. Her next question came with a rush.

Did you ever hear of someone killing a person they loved devotedly?

Shayne shook his head slowly. Im thirty-five, Miss Brighton, and Im never sure that I know what a person means when he speaks of love. Suppose you tell me whats on your mind.

Tears came into Phylliss eyes. She flung out her hands toward him. Oh, I have to! I just have to tell someone or Ill go mad!

Shayne nodded, repressing an impulse to suggest it wouldnt be a long journey. He looked directly into her eyes and asked, Who are you thinking about killing, and why?

She jerked back involuntarily, and her breath came out between clenched teeth. Its-Mother.

Shayne said, U-m-m, and looked away from her, taking a deep drag on his cigarette. The girls answer had startled him for a moment, accustomed as Michael Shayne was to surprising revelations from clients.

You think Im crazy, dont you? The girls voice was almost out of control.

Were all slightly haywire at times.

I dont mean that way. I mean really crazy. Oh, I know I am. I can feel it. It gets worse every day.

Shayne nodded agreement, and mashed out his cigarette in a tray on the small table between them. Havent you come to the wrong place? Sounds to me as though you need an alienist instead of a detective.

No, no! She placed the palms of her hands flat on the table and leaned sharply forward. Full red lips were drawn away from white teeth, and her eyes were clouded with fear. They tell me Im going crazy. Sometimes I think theyre trying to drive me crazy. They say I may try to kill Mother. Theyre making me believe it. I wont let myself believe it but then I do. With Mother coming this afternoon- Her voice trailed off to silence.

Shayne lit another cigarette and pushed his pack toward her. She didnt see it. She was staring upward into his face.

You got to help me. Youve got to.

All right, agreed Shayne soothingly. Ill help you. But Im no good at guessing games.

She said, Its-its-I cant bear to talk about it. Its too awful. I just cant.

Michael Shayne slowly unlimbered himself and stood up. He had a tall angular body that concealed a lot of solid weight, and his freckled cheeks were thin to gauntness. His rumpled hair was violently red, giving him a little-boy look curiously in contrast with the harshness of his features. When he smiled, the harshness went out of his face and he didnt look at all like a hard-boiled private detective who had come to the top the tough way.

He smiled down at Phyllis Brighton, turned away from her, and crossed the living-room of his apartment to an open east window which let in the afternoon breeze from Biscayne Bay. Better, he figured, to give her a chance to spill the whole thing. It didnt look like a real case, but he wanted to give her a chance.

Take it easy. His voice was unruffled, steadying. Youve got things bottled up inside of you that you need to get out into the open. I dont think you need an alienist after all. I think you need someone to talk to. Go ahead. Im listening.

Thanks. The word was a faint whisper which barely carried to him across the stillness. If you only knew-

Shayne did know, sort of. He remembered reading the papers, and he could guess at other things that hadnt been in print.

He said, Youre not going crazy, of course. Count that off your list. You wouldnt realize it if you were. He paused. About your mother-

Shes coming this afternoon. From New York.

You told me that.

I hear them talking about me when they think Im not listening. I heard them last night-talking about having me watched when Mother arrives. She shuddered. Thats what gave me the idea of coming to you-myself.

Youve said they several times. Who are they?

Doctor Pedique and Monty. Mr. Montrose. Hes Mr. Brightons private secretary.

Shayne turned and lounged against the window, elbows hooked on the sill.

What basis is there for their fear? Whats it all about? Do you hate your mother?

No! I love her. Thats-what they say is the matter. A rush of blood crimsoned Phylliss cheeks beneath Shaynes steady gaze. She lowered her eyes.

This seemed to him to be getting them nowhere. Suppose you tell me just what they do say. Shaynes voice was gently impersonal. Dont make any excuses or explanations. Let me sort things out for myself first.

Phyllis Brighton clasped her hands together and began Jo speak in a glib, curiously sickening patter, as though the words had been committed to memory and she was delivering them without letting herself consider their meaning. They say Ive got an Electra complex and its driving me insane with jealousy because Mother married Mr. Brighton and Ill kill her before Ill let him have her.

Is it true? Shayne threw the question at her before she had time to catch her breath.

She raised her opaque eyes to his and cried out a vehement, No! then dropped them and added as if the words might strangle her, I dont know.