Michael Shayne's Long Chance by Brett Halliday Read Free Book Online Page A

didn’t make a very good impression when he tried to tell his story to the desk sergeant, who was an old hand at listening to the incoherent complaints of the drunk.
    Shayne was booked on a charge of drunk-and-disorderly conduct and resisting arrest when the two officers told of finding him staggering around in an alley in the Quarter molesting passers-by and putting up a fight when they tried to reason with him. He was thrown into the bullpen with the drunks and vagrants.
    It took him the better part of three hours to persuade a turnkey to bother Chief McCracken with a telephone call at his home.
    The chief appeared in person at the barred door. His naked-appearing face and head were highly flushed and his chins quivered with anger. “What the hell, Mike—you might’ve stayed out of trouble the first night you hit town. You used to carry your liquor like a man.”
    Shayne laughed painfully and shortly. “Denton doesn’t appreciate my interest in his precinct. You know damn well I’m not drunk.”
    The turnkey opened the door, and Shayne went with the chief to the sergeant’s desk for his release. He had managed to brush some of the dirt from his clothes and had combed his blood-matted hair with his knobby fingers.
    The desk sergeant was very sorry for the mistake and made overtures to Chief McCracken which Shayne interrupted by saying softly, “You’ll know me the next time they bring me in.”
    As they walked through the doorway and out into the clean night air, Shayne filled his lungs and exhaled rapidly several times. He said, “Thanks, John. Sorry to have bothered you.”
    “Come on out to the house,” Chief McCracken urged impatiently, “and let’s talk this thing over, Mike. You’ve got to go easy—”
    “On Denton?” Shayne interrupted harshly. “Sorry, John. I’ve got work to do, and I’ll make a jackass out of fDenton before this is over. Thanks again for springing me. We’ll talk when this case is finished.”
    Chief McCracken groaned and muttered something indistinguishable as Shayne hailed a taxi, got in, and said, tersely, “To the Hyers Hotel.”
    He sank wearily against the cushioned cab seat and picked hard particles of dried blood from his cheek. His eyes were closed, but relaxation was impossible.
    Arriving at his hotel he emerged from the taxi, paid the driver, and stood on the sidewalk contemplating his soiled suit. He made a detour to the back of the hotel, found a service entrance, and went into a narrow hallway leading to stairs behind the elevator. He climbed to the third floor without meeting anyone, unlocked his door, and went in.
    The French doors leading onto the balcony were closed, the cream-colored shades drawn. Shayne ran a big hand over his eyes, looked again. The shades of the high double windows were drawn, also.
    He was positive he had left the French doors open, but he couldn’t remember about the windows.
    Then his roving eyes focused on the dresser. He winced with more than physical pain. The photograph of Barbara Little, alias Margo Macon, was gone.
    He went hastily to the French doors, flung them open and looked out. The windows of Apartment 303 were dark. He scowled, turned and hurried into the bathroom and grimaced at his sorry reflection in the mirror above the lavatory. There was an ugly cut in the center of the bump over his left eye, and the shaggy brow was matted with blood.
    He stripped off his coat and shirt, bathed his face in cold water, and went in to get a fresh shirt and tie from his suitcase. He unbuttoned the fresh shirt slowly, staring at the dresser. There was no doubt that he had left the photograph there. He couldn’t be mistaken.
    Margo—Barbara herself must have sneaked in and taken it. So she did believe him when he said he was a detective. He muttered aloud, “Damn a snooping dame.”
    He hurriedly slid his arms into the shirt sleeves and rammed the tail into his trousers, buttoned his trousers and fastened his belt. He groped for a