Murder by Proxy by Brett Halliday Read Free Book Online

door marked PRIVATE. She entered and closed it behind her, and reappeared a moment later to hold it open invitingly. “Come right in, Mr. Harris.”
    Shayne was rising from a swivel chair behind a wide, bare desk when Harris strode in on hard heels. The detective was in his shirtsleeves and his collar and tie were loosened at the throat. He leaned forward over the desk to hold out his hand, and asked, “What can I do for you, Mr. Harris?”
    “Find my wife.” Harris shook hands negligently, and Shayne found his palm cold and lax. He sank into a chair and stared across the desk at the redhead and said coldly, almost arrogantly, “They tell me you’re one of the best men in your field in the entire country.” Shayne realized his visitor was under a tremendous strain, and probably suffering from shock. He reseated himself and said mildly, “It’s nice to hear I have that sort of reputation. What about your wife?”
    “She’s disappeared. Vanished right into thin air. Five days ago and no one has done anything. They’re not doing anything now. They seem to take it for granted that women disappear without leaving a trace in Miami.”
    “Who are ‘they’, Mr. Harris?”
    “A man named Merrill at the Beachhaven Hotel. And that nincompoop of a detective chief… Painter, I think his name is. They don’t care.”
    Shayne said, “Start at the beginning about your wife. Is she staying at the Beachhaven?”
    “She checked in there last Monday afternoon. She telephoned me in New York about five o’clock to say she had had a pleasant flight down and that everything was fine. That’s the last communication I’ve had from her. According to the people at the hotel, she rented a car and had it brought around, and went out for a drive after changing into a dress from her travelling clothes. They have a record of her signing for four drinks in the lounge about seven o’clock. That’s all. No one has seen her since. Her bed hasn’t been slept in… her bag isn’t even unpacked. They’ve known this ever since Tuesday morning when the maid went in to do her room, and reported it… and they’ve done absolutely nothing about it. Didn’t notify me that my wife was missing… haven’t notified the police. They evidently just sat around on their dead butts, goddamnit, lecherously assuming that Ellen had rushed out as soon as she reached town to shack up with some man.” He pounded Shayne’s desk with a doubled fist, his voice savage and his face contorted with anger.
    “And you don’t accept that explanation?” Shayne asked flatly.
    “No, I don’t. And if that’s what you think, I’ll find someone else to help me.”
    “I don’t think anything yet, Harris.” Shayne made his voice sharp to get through to the man. “I don’t know your wife, of course.”
    “That’s just it. None of them do. They simply assume she must be a round-heeled floozie who could hardly wait to reach Miami before jumping into bed with some other man. That’s what they want to think. They aren’t even checking other possibilities.”
    “I know Bob Merrill at the Beachhaven,” objected Shayne. “He’s a very competent and conscientious man.”
    “I’m sure he’s competent for the job he holds,” Harris sneered. “Security Officer. All he’s interested in is the hotel’s security. He practically admitted to me that as soon as he discovered last Tuesday that my wife’s hotel bill was on her Carte Blanche card, and payment was thus guaranteed, he didn’t bother to investigate further. It wasn’t any of his concern what had happened to one of their guests.”
    “Well,” said Shayne thoughtfully. “Was it, Mr. Harris? Let’s try to put this in its proper perspective. A hotel could get itself into a lot of trouble and lay itself open to libel suits if it jumped to the wrong conclusion in a case like this. A guest has a right to a certain amount of privacy. There’d be hell to pay if hotels made a habit of reporting back to