One Night with Nora

By Brett Halliday

A naked intruder leads Mike Shayne to one of the strangest cases of his career

Mike Shayne is never surprised to wake up with a woman in his bedroom—unless she’s a stranger. The private investigator is dozing when he hears someone creep through the door, undress, and slip into bed. When he turns on the light, the lady is just as shocked as he is. Her name is Nora, and she was told she’d find her husband here. Fortunately, she’s much better off having found Shayne.
 
Nora’s spouse came to Miami to establish residency, which is the first step toward getting a divorce. By slipping into Shayne’s bedroom, she would’ve spoiled his scheme, but someone gave her the wrong information. Her husband is staying on the floor above. When Nora finally reaches the right room, she finds that the man she’s been looking for has been murdered, and her only alibi is a detective who’s starting to wish the naked dame had never found her way into his room.

One Night with Nora is the 23rd book in the Mike Shayne Mysteries, but you may enjoy reading the series in any order.

• Language: English
• Publisher: MysteriousPress.com Open Road
• Release date: Aug 18, 2015
• ISBN: 9781504014557

Brett Halliday

Brett Halliday (1904–1977) was the primary pseudonym of American author Davis Dresser. Halliday is best known for creating the Mike Shayne Mysteries. The novels, which follow the exploits of fictional PI Mike Shayne, have inspired several feature films, a radio series, and a television series. 

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

The night was hot, humid, and still in Miami. Clad only in pajama bottoms, Michael Shayne lay spread-eagled on the double bed, hoping for a vagrant breeze to cool his rangy body. For hours he tossed restlessly, and at last fell into a fitful sleep.

A slight sound awakened him. He opened his eyes and lay motionless, listening. The dim light of a waning moon shone through the open windows. He wondered what time it was and how long since he had fallen asleep. He turned on his side, and yawned groggily. He was about to close his eyes again when he saw the rectangle of yellowish light coming through the bedroom doorway.

A shuffling, slithering sound reached his ears. Wide awake now, and alert, he swung his long legs cautiously over the edge of the bed and stood up. Two steps took him to the bedroom doorway. The living-room door was ajar, and the light from the hotel corridor faintly outlined objects in the room.

Leaning against the doorjamb, Shayne observed a sexless, shapeless figure seated in a chair near the wall. The figure was bent double, fumbling with something on the floor. Then it stood up, and hands caught at the hem of a garment, raised it; and when the garment was removed, the slender, curvacious form of a woman stood before him. Her hair had fallen over her forehead. She tossed her head to fling it back, ran fingers through it, and glided noiselessly to the living-room door.

Briefly, her body gleamed like ivory in the yellowish glow. She eased the door shut. There was a slight click. She turned the knob, made certain the latch had caught, and then turned toward the bedroom guided only by the moonlight from the open windows.

Shayne took a quick step backward, frowning in deep perplexity. He felt a strong desire to stride forward, grab her, and demand the reason for her intrusion; but he did not move. He watched her glide past the door and go on to the bathroom a few feet farther on. She went in, closed the door, and snapped on the light.

Stepping forward again, Shayne stood for a moment watching the rim of light under the bathroom door. A muscle twitched in his angular jaw, and he rubbed it meditatively. In all the years he had been a detective this, he decided, was the most fantastic thing that had ever happened to him. Passion, anger, astonishment, and curiosity intermingled in him as a grin spread his wide mouth.

He crept back to the bed and stretched out on one side. As he waited for the woman’s next move, he tried to identify her silhouette, tried to figure how and why she had gained entrance to his apartment. He looked at the luminous dial of the electric clock on the bedside table. The time was 2:20.

Listening to the trickle of water in the bathroom, he concluded that he had never seen her before. He had no female acquaintances who would act in this manner, and there were no keys to his apartment in circulation among any persons of either sex.

Yet, this woman seemed to know her way about. She had ignored his open bedroom door and gone straight to the bathroom. She acted, in fact, exactly like a wife who had returned from an extra-marital assignation and did not want to awaken her husband.

Shayne’s body tingled again. He would be less than human, he told himself, if he were not intrigued by the situation. He found it extremely pleasant to lie there, in the dark with the knowledge that a naked woman was within a few feet of him, and that, in a few minutes she probably would slip quietly into his bed.

Shayne didn’t have long to wait. He heard the bathroom door open, the click of light, and the slow tread of bare feet coming toward him. His muscles stiffened involuntarily, and through half-closed eyes he watched her go around the bed. With difficulty, he kept his breathing deep and regular.

She smoothed the pillow on her side, then eased herself onto the far edge of the mattress. For a while she lay motionless, flat on her back, her arms circled above her head.

Presently she stirred, turned toward him and moved nearer. He heard the softly whispered word, Darling, and her finger tips trailed lightly across his chest.

Shayne gave up all pretense of sleep. He reached out a long arm, clamped a palm on her bare flank, and said, Hi.

Her muscles contracted convulsively under his grip. She raised herself on one elbow, and cried out in surprise and fright, You’re awake!

How long did you expect me to keep on sleeping under these circumstances? Shayne said in an amused voice.

She screamed, and leaped from the bed.

You’re not Ralph! she shouted in alarm.

No, he agreed. I’m not Ralph.

Then who are you? What are you doing here? she gasped, backing away. With one arm and hand she tried to cover her breasts, while with the other hand, she attempted to conceal the spot that Eve once covered with a fig leaf.

Why shouldn’t I be here in my own bed? Shayne demanded reasonably.

But this is Ralph’s room. Where is he? What kind of trick is this? The woman moved around the foot of the bed as she spoke. Her voice was strained with fright and anger. She grabbed at the top sheet to cover her nakedness, but it was firmly tucked in and did not give.

Shayne sat up and propped both pillows behind him. This, he told her coolly, has been my apartment and my bedroom for more years than I like to remember. I’m turning on the light, he warned. Let’s see who you are and what this is all about.

The woman sprang through the doorway as the light came on. Shayne glimpsed a heart-shaped face framed in brown hair, and a slender, youthful body only partly concealed by arms and hands.

Please, please stay in there until I can get some clothes on, she begged. "I’ll only be a minute. There has been a terrible mistake. I thought you were my husband. Please stay there."

Like hell I will, Shayne grated. And let you run out on me before I find out what this is all about?

No! I tell you it’s all a horrible mistake! her voice was sincerely pleading. I’ll get dressed in the bathroom and then I want an explanation. I don’t understand any of this, but I intend to get to the bottom of it.

I could do with an explanation myself, Shayne growled. He glanced at the clock again. The time was 2:26. He was amazed that only six minutes had elapsed since he last noted the time. He retrieved his pajama top from the floor where he had tossed it earlier and pulled it over his tousled red hair. Then he lit a cigarette and leaned back comfortably against the pillows.

Shayne crushed out his cigarette, got up, and padded into the living-room in bare feet where he turned on the ceiling light. A black suède slipper and a gossamer bit of blue nylon lay on the floor beside the overstuffed chair where the vision had sat a short time ago. He picked them up, strode to the bathroom door, and knocked.

Don’t you dare come in here! she screamed.

I wouldn’t intrude for the world, he retorted amiably. You overlooked your brassière and a shoe. Open the door a crack and I’ll hand them to you.

She opened the door a trifle. Her hand groped through the aperture and he put the apparel in it. She drew back hastily, saying, It was so dark out there.

Then why didn’t you turn on the light? You seem to know your way around pretty well.

I still think this is Ralph’s apartment, she snapped angrily, and that you’re playing some sort of—

Trick, Shayne supplied ironically. You’re beginning to sound like a broken record, baby. Get dressed and get out here, and we’ll talk about it.

Shayne strode to the front door, opened it, and examined the lock carefully. There was nothing to indicate that it had been tampered with. He clicked it shut and went into the kitchenette where he switched on the light and tried the door leading to the fire escape. It was securely locked, and the key hung on the nail where he always kept it.

Shayne’s mouth was grimly set and his eyes were puzzled. His thoughts flashed back to several occasions when his apartment had been opened by police, or by Chief Gentry, himself. A few times both the front and back locks had been forced by criminals who had left plenty of evidence. He swore under his breath and muttered, And now, bygod, a dame opens my door with a key, strips herself, and crawls into my bed.

Shaking his red head savagely, he went to the refrigerator, took out a tray of cubes, and carried it to the sink. While tepid water ran over the bottom of the tray, he took two glasses from the china cabinet and set them on the drain-board; twisted the plastic container and spilled ice cubes into the sink. Then he filled the two glasses with ice.

I just don’t know what to say, said a girlish voice from the open archway behind him. "I’m completely confused. I’ve never seen you before in my life, but I know this is the right apartment."

Shayne turned slowly and studied her for a moment. He said, I’ve never seen you before, baby, but you look good. His steady gaze went over her body. Even with clothes on.

How dare you! she exploded. There was maturity and courage in her uplifted chin and in the dark eyes that met his with angry challenge.

Hold it, Shayne ordered. Stand where you are and let’s have a better look at you in the light.

She wore a tailored suit of light material, beige or sun tan in color, that fitted her trim figure well. A vivid-yellow scarf was fluffed out under her chin. Her brown hair was tousled, giving her a youthful appearance.

Well, what have you to say for yourself? she asked curtly.

Just this. My apartment is number one-sixteen. I live here. I don’t know your Ralph and I don’t know you. Have a drink?

I—I could use one, she stammered.

Shayne’s back was turned while he filled the glasses with water. He swung around with them in his hands.

"How could there be a mistake? she stormed. The key fitted your door perfectly. The whole place is exactly the way it was described to me. It must be Ralph’s place."

It isn’t, he said shortly, moving toward her. She stepped aside to let him pass into the living-room where he set the glasses on the battered oak desk. Sit down and make yourself comfortable. Maybe we can make some sense out of this if we work at it over a drink. Cognac all right for you? he added on his way to the liquor cabinet.

Anything. Anything at all. She crossed to a chair near the desk and sat down. I haven’t got over my fright yet. I—you—well, you can’t expect me to be calm after finding myself in bed with a perfect stranger. Her lips trembled and her hands were clenched together tightly in her lap.

Shayne’s brows quirked upward, and his gray eyes were wary. He padded to the desk holding a bottle of Croizet, gave her a crooked smile, and said, It must have been quite disconcerting, if you’re telling the truth. He began pouring cognac into her glass, and added, Say when. Out of the corner of his eye he saw her stiffen.

What do you mean? she flared. Of course it’s the truth. Do you think I intended to go to bed with you?

Her glass was full to the brim. He filled his own glass and said amiably, It would be a flattering assumption. I confess no woman has ever been so smitten with my charms that she forced entrance to my bedroom, but I can be optimistic, can’t I? If I hadn’t opened my big mouth so fast there in the beginning, maybe—

You—you beast!

Shayne lifted his glass, held one out to her, and said, Skip it. Let’s drink to what might have happened.

A flush spread over her cheeks and she lowered her eyes as she took the glass in a trembling hand. I’d have known, she stated flatly. "Before you spoke a word, I sensed it wasn’t Ralph. But I kept telling myself it had to be. Don’t you see? Even when you said ‘Hi’ in a voice that sounded strange, I was so sure in my own mind—"

Your drink, Shayne interrupted. It’s spilling. Suppose we drink to your husband. Then, he went on firmly, you can start at the beginning and tell me how you came to mistake my apartment for his.

She took a drink, sputtered and coughed, reached quickly for the ice water, and gulped a mouthful. She regained her composure after a moment. The cognac seemed to ease her tense muscles. I don’t know, she murmured, just where to start, because I still don’t understand. I was definitely told apartment one-sixteen. And the key fitted. Everything here is just the way I expected it to be—the kitchen door there, the bathroom, and bedroom. She looked around with wide, wondering eyes.

Someone told you that your husband would be asleep here tonight? Shayne asked patiently. Someone gave you a key to my apartment so you could slip in? Why? I don’t know anyone who’d play a trick like that. Was your husband supposed to be expecting you?

Oh, no, she answered hastily. He didn’t know. That was the whole thing, don’t you see? She took a small sip of cognac, and set the glass on the desk. That’s why I undressed so quietly in here. I didn’t dare turn on a light for fear of wakening him. I knew that if I could just, you know, get in bed with him before he knew I was there, he’d have to— She paused, her face crimson. Can’t you see I had to do it? she burst out. "Because I know he still loves me. It’s just his crazy pride. I had to have a chance to break it down, and show him that nothing is really different—that he’s still my husband, and I’m still his wife. You do understand, don’t you?" she ended, leaning tensely toward him.

Hell, no, said Shayne curtly. He took a sizable drink of cognac, leaned back in his swivel chair, and lit a cigarette. Now, start at the beginning. What’s your name?

Nora Carrol. Mrs. Ralph Carrol. She glanced down at a plain platinum wedding band and a diamond solitaire. She turned the rings on her finger as she continued, We live in Wilmington. That is, we did, until Ralph came to Miami a few weeks ago to establish residence for a divorce. Her shoulders sagged, and she lapsed into silence.

And? Shayne questioned sharply.

She lifted her face. Tears were streaming down her cheeks. Shayne got up, padded into the bedroom, and returned with a handkerchief. Flipping it from a square, he tossed it in her lap. She wiped her eyes and face, drew a long breath, and expelled it with a tremulous sigh.

"I suppose I have to tell you all of it. You’ll never believe me unless I do. Well, we’ve been married less than a year. We were terribly happy. Ralph was so sweet, at first.

"Then he started getting those anonymous letters accusing me of the most dreadful things. He didn’t believe them, of course, but when they kept coming he began wondering. He started spying on me. That made me angry, because he didn’t love me enough to have faith in me.

So, I did a dreadfully foolish thing. I began flirting to get back at him. And then, there was a week-end party and I—I drank too much. She jerked herself erect and added in a stricken voice, Well, I made a damned fool of myself. She covered her face with Shayne’s handkerchief.

Shayne took a long drink, lit another cigarette, and waited

Reviews for One Night with Nora

[davewilde-1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Nude Women, Hotel Rooms, & Murder

Waking up and finding a scantily clad dead woman in your bed is a staple of detective fiction. In this Mike Shayne mystery, Halliday( the original Brett Halliday- Dresser) twists that staple of detective fiction around and has Shayne wake up with an unknown naked woman entering his room. She's not dead, but of course there's a corpse nearby and strong evidence implicates Shayne. This story is filled with all the breakneck twists and turns of a Shayne story with nearly nonstop action. But the setup is not that of a classic mystery in that Shayne doesn't really have a client (for the most part), is sort of confused as to what is going on, and is sort of swept along by events. Industrial espionage, identity theft, drunken lushes, dirty photographers, and more appear in this story.