Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 1, No. 1, May 1957 (British Edition)
Bring Back a Corpse!
by Brett Halliday
Shayne didn’t want to take on the job of finding Homer Wilde’s vanishing business manager. But Lucy Hamilton was one of the great TV star’s adoring fans. So, within fourteen hours, the redheaded detective found himself winging his way to New York on a Super-Constellation. Assignment—
I
Michael Shayne had never seen his secretary look so happily flustered. She sat in her desk chair beyond the low railing, smiling at the telephone mouthpiece. She was saying, “But it’s too early. Mr. Shayne never gets in before ten in the morning and I—”
Her head was pulled sharply around at his abrupt entrance. She swallowed hard and stuttered, “Just a moment, please. Mr. Shayne just came in,” then cupped her hand over the phone and said in a small, awed voice, “It’s Homer Wilde, Michael. Take it in your office quick.”
Shayne crossed to the railing in two unhurried strides and leaned an elbow on it, grinning indulgently down at Lucy. “You talk to him, Angel. You seemed to be doing all right when I interrupted.”
“Please, Michael,” she begged. “Don’t you understand? It’s Homer Wilde himself. He wants to see you.”
“For what?” Shayne shook a cigarette from a crumpled pack and stuck it between his lips.
“I don’t know. But it must be awfully important for him to call you so early. He wants you over at his hotel on the Beach right after his broadcast tonight.”
Shayne yawned and put fire to his cigarette and said, “The hell he does. Tell him to hunt up another errand boy.”
Lucy Hamilton’s brown eyes blazed at Shayne. Gurgling sounds were coming from the phone, and she removed her hand to say in a dulcet tone, “Yes, Mr. Wilde. I’m terribly sorry, but Mr. Shayne is tied up just for the moment. I’ll have him call you right back, if you’ll give me your number.”
She listened to more gurgling sounds, biting her lower lip anxiously. “I see,” she said. “Of course. Just one second.”
Again she covered the mouthpiece and turned her head to glare up at her red-headed employer. “He doesn’t want you to call him. He just wants you to get over there before midnight.”
Smoke wreathed from Shayne’s nostrils and the irritating grin remained on his rugged face. “Tell him to go jump in the ocean,” he said pleasantly.
“Michael, if you don’t...” Lucy gritted her teeth and turned back, uncovered the phone to say, “Yes, Mr. Wilde. Mr. Shayne will be delighted. Suite Six forty-two? He’ll be there.” She slammed the instrument down and stood up to confront Shayne defiantly.
“Mike, I’ll never, never forgive you if you don’t even go over to see what Mr. Wilde wants. Maybe... I could even meet him in person, if he retains you.”
Shayne’s grin faded slowly, to be replaced by a baffled expression. “I never knew you were like that, Lucy. My God! Wilde is nothing but—”
“Nothing but the most important and best-loved television personality in the country,” she interrupted, bitingly. “That’s all he is. Every girl I know would gladly give her right arm to meet him. That’s all!”
Shayne said, “I’ll be triple-damned.” He clawed strong fingers through his coarse red hair, shaking his head in perplexity. “I never thought—”
“You just never think, period!” she interrupted again, more violently. “Well, I’m a female human being even if you don’t realize it, Michael Shayne. If you don’t go over to the White Sapphire Hotel tonight I’ll never speak to you again in my life.”
Shayne grinned again, this time with real mirth. He straightened his tall frame and leaned over the railing to crook his forefinger beneath Lucy’s firm chin.
“The White Sapphire it is, angel. Shall I bring you his autograph?”
“You can tell him I’m one of his greatest fans and am dying to meet him,” she responded promptly. “I do hope it’ll be a long assignment.”
Shayne shrugged and said, “Relax, Lucy. I’ll go. Now, let’s forget about Homer Wilde and get to work.” But strangely enough, as the day went on, the detective found it difficult to keep Wilde out of his thoughts. He had never seen the television performer because he didn’t even own a set, but he knew who Homer Wilde was, of course.
No one who read a newspaper could fail to know something about him — especially in Miami, where the star broadcast his nationwide shows several times during each winter season.
But he didn’t know what to expect when he entered the Miami Beach hotel suite at five minutes past midnight, though it certainly wasn’t what he found on the other side of the door — a short, slender, curly-haired man with an engaging awkwardness of gesture and a face whose normal night club pallor was masked by a blistering red sunburn.
He gripped Shayne’s hand firmly and lowered long lashes over his eyes with an odd, self-conscious coyness as he exclaimed. “This is simply great of you, Shayne. It’s Mike, isn’t it? I know all about you, Mike. Read every one of those excellent books your friend Halliday writes about your cases. Great stuff. Say, now...” Stepping back to look up appreciatively at the rangy redhead, “How’d you like to appear as a guest on my show next week in New York, Mike? You’d kill the people. You’d really be a natural. How about it?”
Shayne shook his head and said, “Sorry, fellow. You stick to your last, and I’ll stick to mine.” His voice hardened. “That isn’t why you got me over here, is it?”
“As a matter of fact — no. It struck me just now when I got a look at you.” Wilde turned and strode up and down the thick carpet, thrusting hands deep into the pockets of his cream-colored slacks.
“I’m in a jam, Mike. My business manager is missing. Ben Felton. Been with me for years. Just disappeared into the blue. You got to find him quick.”
Shayne shrugged and moved over to a deep chair and sank into it while Wilde continued to stride up and down nervously. “Better try the police. They’ve got the organization and it won’t cost you anything.”
“Damn the cost! No, I can’t have the police in this, Mike. No publicity, see? If a word of this leaked to wrong people all hell would be on fire. Maybe you’ve read about this dinosaur deal I’m working on to set up a hotel syndicate here in the Beach. There’s been a lot of stuff in the papers...” He removed one hand from his pocket and waved it vaguely, as a seal might wave a flipper.
Shayne shook his red head and said, “No. I carefully avoid reading any of that crap they print about TV big-shots. What’s a hotel deal got to do with it?”
Wilde stopped in mid-stride with a pained expression on his beet-red face. “You don’t read...?” Then he shrugged manfully.
“But I’m sure my secretary can fill me in. She’s a terrific fan of yours.”
“Is, eh?” Wilde looked deprecatorily pleased. “Perhaps she’d like a personally-autographed picture.”
“I’m sure she would,” Shayne said wearily. “Look. You were hot about me getting over here tonight. So I’m here. So what’s the pitch?”
“You’ve got to find Ben Felton. This twenty-million-dollar deal is hanging fire until I get his signature on some papers. And it won’t hang fire much longer. I think the bastard ran out just to queer the whole pitch. He doesn’t like it, see? He argued with me about going into it until I put my foot down and reminded him it was my own goddamned money. Then he disappeared. Find him.”
Shayne said mildly, “That’s not much to go on. If he’s hiding out...”