“So you think one of them killed him?”
“Not my son, Mr. Shayne. But I am afraid his friend may have been tempted.”
“Where is Cecil now?” demanded Shayne.
“He is in New York,” she told him calmly. “After he told me last night what had happened, I insisted that he take an early plane north. I am not going to have him questioned and badgered by the police.”
Shayne said quietly, “If he has information about a homicide, he can be brought back to testify, Mrs. Montgomery.”
“That is what I expect you to avoid. You gave me your word to keep Cecil’s name out of it.”
Shayne said, “I told you I would, if we can solve the murder without bringing him into it. Who is the man Cecil suspects?”
“His name is Fritz Harlan. That’s just about all I can tell you, Mr. Shayne. It is practically all that Cecil told me. I don’t know the man personally. From things Cecil has said, I gather that he is a person who is known to the police and has a variety of unsavory contacts in the city. It shouldn’t be difficult for an experienced man like you to get on his trail.”
Shayne said, “We’ll see.” He paused, marshalling his thoughts. “This Fritz Harlan knew Cecil was turning twenty thousand dollars over to Ambrose last night? At your son’s suggestion and request, he arranged to have a photographer present to make a record of the pay-off? He had arranged with Cecil to meet him afterward and deliver the picture? He didn’t show up as had been arranged? Then, when Cecil learned that Ambrose had been murdered… presumably to obtain possession of the envelope containing your twenty thousand dollars… Cecil jumped to the conclusion that Fritz had committed the murder to get his hands on the money? Is that the essence of your thinking… what you are trying to tell me?”
“It all sounds logical, doesn’t it?”
“Sure,” agreed Shayne morosely. “On the other hand, Dr. Ambrose sounded pretty damned logical last night himself. How do I know your story is any straighter than his was?”
“You don’t,” she agreed promptly. “But, if you find Fritz Harlan, I don’t think you’ll have to look any further for your murderer.”
“If we do find him and arrest him, isn’t he likely to tell the whole story of your being blackmailed on Cecil’s account? It’s pretty difficult, Mrs. Montgomery, to keep all one’s dirty linen from being washed in public when there’s a homicide investigation involved. I wouldn’t want you to think I’m promising anything that I can’t deliver.”
“I think I’m going to trust you, Michael Shayne,” she told him abruptly. “Frankly, I don’t know what else to do under the circumstances. I want you to understand one thing, however: I would and will be perfectly happy if Dr. Ambrose’s murderer goes scot-free. I have a feeling that a lot of people were relieved and happy to hear about his death last night.”
“You think he was blackmailing others at the same time he was collecting money from you?” Shayne asked her bluntly.
“I have only my intuition to go on, but I do believe that… yes. From certain small hints he let drop… I think he made a practice of it over the years.” She paused, collecting her thoughts. “From my own experience, I suggest that women patients of a doctor are likely to confide very intimate details of their personal life to him. In nine cases out of ten, probably, there would be nothing in such confidential revelations that would provide material for blackmail. But in each tenth case…”
She paused, looking at the detective shrewdly. “And think what a wonderful position a doctor is in to collect a certain sum each month from his victims. Most of them are married, with husbands, who pay the monthly bills. They can’t ask for extra money from their husbands to pay blackmail each month, but it is easy for them to agree to have a small extra amount tacked onto their medical bill each month. What husband questions his wife closely as to how many visits she paid the doctor that month? Considering the temptation,” she ended, “it is probably to the credit of doctors that more of them don’t turn into blackmailers.”
Shayne grinned at this rather novel idea. “Perhaps they do.” He paused, collecting his thoughts again. “Was your son a gambler, Mrs. Montgomery?”
“Cecil? No. Why do you ask that?”
“Are you quite positive?” persisted Shayne.
“Yes. That is… I know where his money went. I gave him a definite allowance and required him to account for every expenditure that he made.”
“What about his friend, Fritz Harlan? Was he connected with the gambling crowd?”
“I really don’t know. I should think not because my son did not associate with that type of person.”
Shayne nodded and got to his feet thoughtfully. “I appreciate all the information you’ve given me, Mrs. Montgomery. If anything else important comes to your mind, please call my office.”
She said austerely, “You’re perfectly welcome, I’m sure. May I say: good hunting, Mr. Shayne.”
He said, “Thanks,” and went out of the room to find the maid waiting in the hall to escort him to the front door.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Shayne drove directly to Police Headquarters. Sergeant Fillmore shook his head when the rangy detective strode into the I. D. office. “I haven’t come up with anything on those three, Mike. Either they’ve been careful to stay out of trouble, or else they haven’t been operating long enough in Miami to pile up a record I can put my finger on.”
Shayne said, “Drop them, Sergeant. I think I’ve got an angle for contacting them personally. But I’ve got a full name for you to make another check. Harlan. Fritz Harlan. Strike any chord with that phenomenal memory of yours?”
“Maybe it ain’t so phenomenal, Mike.” Sgt. Fillmore shook his grizzled head sadly. “Fritz Harlan? Extortion, too?”
“I doubt it. If he’s got a record, I’d look under homos.”
“Fritz Harlan,” the sergeant repeated thoughtfully, walking to the rear of the square room that was lined with filing cases.
Shayne leaned one elbow on the counter and lit a cigarette while Fillmore slid a drawer from a filing cabinet and began thumbing through the alphabetically arranged folders.
He came back whistling cheerfully and carrying a thin cardboard folder. “Here he is. Nothing vicious about the guy, Mike. Mostly, ‘Consorting with Known.’ Pulled in half a dozen times during the past six years.”
“Got a current address for him?”
“Sure.” Fillmore turned to the final, typewritten entry in the folder. “He’s on probation.”
“Who’s handling it?”
“Lincoln. You know him, don’t you?”
“Sure. Everybody knows Honest Abe.” Shayne hesitated, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “Anything in your files on Montgomery? Cecil?”
“I’ll check.” Again the sergeant went back to his filing cases, but this time with no result. He came back, shaking his head.
Shayne nodded without surprise. “His mama has got enough money to cover up for him. Will Abe be around this time of day?”
“Probably up in the Probation Department. Else they can put you onto him.”
Shayne thanked Fillmore and went out of his office. Upstairs he found Abraham Jones Lincoln at his desk. He was a roly-poly man with twinkling, brown eyes, and he greeted the redhead cheerfully, “What’s with you this morning, Shamus?”
“I’d like to get a line on one of your boys… Fritz Harlan.”
“Not one of my boys… not really and truly, I mean.” Lincoln made his voice high-pitched and girlish.
Shayne grinned and asked, “Can you put your finger on him?”
“Sure. He’s clerking in a downtown store. What’s the squeal, Mike? Has Fritzie got frisky again?”
“I don’t know for sure. What does he look like, Abe?”
The Probation Officer used much the same words to describe Fritz Harlan that George Bayliss had used early that morning.