Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 5, No. 3, August 1959
Death Creeps Slowly
by Brett Halliday
Mike’s case involved a blonde, a missing person and a very ugly racket. And there was, of course, a shake-down murder angle.
I
The pair Lucy Hamilton ushered into Michael Shayne’s office was a distinguished-looking couple. The man, about sixty years old, had glistening snow-white hair and a white, hairline mustache. He was solidly-built and his craggy face gave the impression that he was used to giving commands, and equally used to having them obeyed.
His companion was in her early fifties, with an erect, still slim and shapely figure. Graying hair was attractively arranged around a face whose lack of lines suggested she had the wisdom and means to patronize only luxury beauty shops.
They were both dressed in expensive but conservative clothes.
“Mr. Whitney and Miss Lake,” Lucy announced.
Shayne nodded to the woman, shook hands with the man and indicated chairs. Lucy raised an eyebrow at him in silent inquiry as to whether he wanted her to stay and make notes. When Shayne shook his head, she withdrew and closed the door behind her.
Reseating himself behind his desk, the redheaded detective said, “I understand from our phone conversation that your son is missing, Mr. Whitney. I also believe you said you’re down here from New York. Were the two of you vacationing here?”
“William’s a Miami resident,” Milford Whitney said in a formally precise tone. “He worked — works for the Lake Travel Agency, run by Miss Lake here. I flew down when Mabel phoned me he was missing.”
“Mabel?” Shayne asked, glancing at the woman. “That you, Miss Lake?”
She nodded. “Milford and I are old friends. It was on his request that I gave Bill a job.”
Shayne ran fingers through his coarse red nair. “What were the circumstances of the boy’s disappearance?”
“He’s hardly a boy,” the woman said quickly. “He’s past thirty.”
Shayne looked at Whitney, who said, “Thirty-one last August. Mabel can tell you the details better than I. I was in New York when it happened.”
The redhead looked back at Mabel Lake.
“There’s not much to tell,” she said. “Last Monday — not yesterday, but a week ago — Bill didn’t show for work. When he failed to show Tuesday also, I phoned his apartment, but got no answer. Wednesday, when he missed a third day, I phoned again, then finally went over there. The building supervisor had no recollection of seeing him around since the previous Saturday night, when he caught a brief glimpse of him — leaving alone about seven-thirty. Then I called the police and reported him missing.”
Shayne asked curiously, “You didn’t try even a phone contact until Tuesday? Then waited another twenty-four hours before going to his apartment? Why?”
Mabel Lake flushed slightly. Avoiding Whitney’s eyes, she said in a low voice, “He’d missed work without excuse before.”
Milford Whitney said in a bitter tone, “I’m afraid my son isn’t very dependable, Mr. Shayne. I tried him in a half dozen spots in my own company, and finally had to let him go. It got to be such a company joke that the boss’s son couldn’t handle any job, it was disrupting the whole organization. I asked Mabel to try him out because I thought getting him away from New York night clubs might work a change. But I guess it was wishful thinking. Miss Lake has been more than lenient with him.”
“I see,” Shayne said. He gave his left earlobe a thoughtful tug, and said to Mabel Lake, “If he was last seen on Saturday, actually four days elapsed before you reported it. Is that right?”
Mabel nodded. “Then I waited two more days before phoning Milford. I thought—”
When her voice trailed off, Whitney said glumly, “She thought he was probably just off on a drunk. Until the police told her what they found in his apartment.”
“What was that?”
“A supply of heroin and what the police refer to as a rig,” Whitney said with bitterness. “A syringe and spoon and alcohol lamp. Apparently my son is an addict, Mr. Shayne.”
Shayne’s shaggy eyebrows drew together in a frown. “What else did the police say?”
“Nothing. There isn’t a single clue. They’ve been unable to find a single person who saw him after his building supervisor saw him leave his apartment ten days ago.”
“Any of his friends or associates have theories?”
The woman said, “He doesn’t seem to have any close associates, Mr. Shayne. The police turned up a night-club photographer he had a few dates with, but otherwise he seems to have spent his time alone.”
Whitney said, “He’s always been something of a loner. Maybe it’s partly my fault for being too strict on the boy when he was young. I’m afraid it gave him an inferiority complex quite early in life. They say people don’t turn to alcohol or drugs unless they feel inferior.”
Shayne said, “Who’s the nightclub photographer?”
Mabel Lake frowned thoughtfully, finally shook her head. “I’m afraid I can’t recall the name. I suppose you could get it from the police.”
Shayne grunted, “Not much to go on. Why do you think I can find your son if the police can’t, Mr. Whitney?”
“Maybe you can’t,” Whitney said wearily. “But they’re not accomplishing anything. As nearly as I can gather, all they did was broadcast his description, then sit back and wait for someone to phone in. I understand that if you take a case, at least you work at it.”
“Sure,” the redhead said. “When there’s something to work on. I’ll look into it, if you like. But I can’t guarantee results on the skimpy information you’ve given me.”
“I’d appreciate it if you’d try anyway, Mr. Shayne.” Whitney reached for his checkbook. “I’ll give you a retainer.”
“See my secretary on the way out,” Shayne said. “She’ll explain the rates and give you a receipt. Do you have a picture of your son?”
Drawing out his wallet, the man removed a three-by-five photograph. It was of a handsome but sullen appearing young man with even features and a deeply-cleft chin. After glancing at it, Shayne turned it over, wrote William Whitney, age 31 on the back and glanced up.
“Description?” he asked.
“About five eleven, a hundred and eighty pounds, dark brown hair and brown eyes.”
Shayne wrote down the information, then rose to indicate that the interview was ended. “Where may I reach you, Mr. Whitney?”
“I’m staying at the Statler,” Whitney said, rising also.
Mabel Lake said, “Do you want my address, Mr. Shayne?”
Shayne glanced at her. “I know where the Lake Travel Agency is. And I assume your home address is in the book. If I need you for anything, I’ll get in touch, Miss Lake.” He crossed the room to hold open the door.
Fifteen minutes after Milford Whitney and Mabel Lake left, Shayne was at Police Headquarters. He found Chief Will Gentry in his office.
Will Gentry was puffing a little too rapidly on a blunt cigar, with something less than a contented look on his beefy face. He raised his eyes from the papers he was poring over when Shayne entered, and his expression momentarily lightened. Then it became morose again and he said heavily, “Morning, Mike.”
Dropping his lank frame into a chair, the redhead lit a cigarette. “How are you, Will. Troubles?”
“Always,” the chief said, indicating the pile of papers before him. “Paperwork. Bah! We should save it for cops over eighty. What can I do for you?”