Brett Halliday

This Is It, Michael Shayne

Chapter One

Deadline for Death

MICHAEL SHAYNE STEPPED from the deep-sea fishing boat onto the wharf and walked toward his parked car with a rolling motion of his rangy body. Since early morning he had ridden the ocean swells under a clear sky, and now his face tingled with the cool night breeze on sunburned skin, and his eyes were drowsy from strain and the glare of bright sunlight on the water. He felt stretchy and yawny, luxuriously relaxed after a day of good-fellowship combined with moderate amounts of aged liquor, and a fair day’s catch.

He was humming lazily when he reached the car. Getting in, he drove toward his apartment. He anticipated stripping off the damp, salt-sticky polo shirt and faded dungarees, taking a warm shower, and perhaps reading in bed a couple of hours before gratifying the urge of mind and body with a good night’s sleep.

He stopped humming abruptly, remembering that Lucy knew nothing of his fishing trip and was probably worried. He had forgotten, momentarily, that in order to persuade her to resume her job as his secretary he had rented office space in a six-story building downtown after more than fifteen years of doing business in his apartment.

He scowled at the misty windshield, jerked the steering-wheel around just in time to swing left at an intersection, and drove to his office. Conscientious and efficient, Lucy might be waiting even at this late hour if there was an urgent call from a client.

It was eight-thirty when he stood before the door with Michael Shayne—Private Investigator lettered in gold on the frosted glass. There was no light inside, but he unlocked the door and went in, switched on the overhead light, and since there was no message on Lucy’s desk, he went on to another door marked Private.

Three memos, separated by penciled lines on a large pad, lay on his brand new oak desk beside a special-delivery letter in a square white envelope. He read the memos first:

9:30 a.m. Call Miss Sarah Morton at the Tidehaven hotel at once. Urgent.

1:40 p.m. Miss Morton called.

4:52 p.m. Get in touch with Sarah Morton no matter what time of night you get message—but try to sober up first.

At the bottom of the page she signed Lucy Hamilton in her precise handwriting, and added, I waited till eight.

Shayne grinned at the full signature and the last personal lines, all reprimands for his unexplained absence, then picked up the letter.

The envelope was of rich, heavy paper, addressed by typewriter and with no return address. It was stamped at the main post office at 7:42 p.m.

Opening it carefully at the pointed flap, he took out a single sheet of heavy note paper folded once. Several enclosures fluttered to the floor, three small squares of white paper all about the same size and evidently clipped from a large sheet, and a smooth bit of green paper somewhat smaller in size. Two of the white squares appeared blank. The third fell face up and showed words in uneven print, cut from a slick magazine and pasted on to form a message: TWO MORE DAYS.

Shayne stooped and picked up the green enclosure first. It was half of a five-hundred-dollar bill, ripped across the middle. Perplexed and frowning, he gathered up the other two white squares and turned them over. He read: YOU HAVE THREE DAYS TO GET OUT OF MIAMI ALIVE, and: ONE DAY LEFT

He laid them on the desk and unfolded the note. There was a printed facsimile of Sara Morton’s signature in blue, but no address, and the note was undated. He read:

Dear Mr. Shayne:

It is now six-thirty and I have given up hope that you will contact me before it is too late. I enclose the notes which my secretary will explain to you, and one-half of a retainer which I trust you will earn by bringing my murderer to justice,

In haste,

Sara Morton

The signature was in blue ink and scarcely distinguishable from the printed name. Shayne read the note through twice, rumpling his coarse red hair angrily and swearing at a woman who would calmly sit down at six-thirty to type an enigmatic note that indicated she expected a threat of murder to be carried out and giving no hint as to whom she suspected.

And one-half of a retainer.

What the devil did she mean by that? To pique his interest? Her secretary probably had the other half, with instructions to turn it over to him if she were murdered and he caught the murderer.

He put the letter down and looked up the number of the Tidehaven, dialed it, and when a feminine voice answered he said, “Miss Morton, please,” and waited. He listened to the steady rings, his gray eyes bleak as he counted—one, two, three, four, five, each one sounding flatter, more hollow, stopping abruptly on the fifth.

The hotel operator said, “Sorry. Fourteen twenty-two does not answer. Shall I connect you with fourteen-oh-eight?”

“Why?”

“Miss Morton’s secretary is in fourteen-oh-eight.”

Shayne said, “Try it.” He slid the telephone to the edge of the desk nearest a green filing-cabinet, stretched the cord its full length, and his long arm barely reached the handle of the top compartment. He eased it out with the tips of his fingers, got hold of the neck of a half-empty fifth of Monnet, and lifted it out just as the ringing at the other end stopped and the operator said:

“Sorry. Fourteen-oh-eight does not answer.”

“Have Miss Morton paged.” He moved back to the desk, eased one hip down on a corner, and laid the receiver on its side long enough to uncork the bottle. He picked it up and took a long drink while he waited.

A low, rich voice said, “Ye-e-ss?”

“Miss Morton? Mike Shayne calling. I just came in and found your message—”

“This is Miss Lally speaking,” the voice interrupted. “Miss Morton’s secretary. I heard her being paged.” She paused, and Shayne thought he detected a faltering, uncertain quality when she asked, “Did you say you’re Mr. Shayne?”

“Michael Shayne,” he said impatiently. “Where is Miss Morton? I found a memo of three urgent calls from her on my desk.”

“Did you try her room?”

“Of course I tried her room before having her paged. Where can I reach her?” he demanded irritably.

“Please, Mr. Shayne—just a moment.” Her voice rose to a higher pitch, with a hint of terror.

He could hear a mumbling of voices close to the phone through a hand not quite tight over the mouthpiece; then his bushy red brows shot up in surprise at hearing a familiar masculine voice say: “Mike? Tim Rourke.”

“What’s doing over there, Tim?”

“You’d better come over, Mike.” The reporter sounded half tight, but deadly serious. “Do you know why Miss Morton called you this afternoon?”

“No. I’ve been fishing all day. I found her message when I came in.”

“Where are you now?”

“At my office.”

“Good,” said Rourke. “Miss Lally and I will wait in the cocktail lounge.”

Shayne pressed a button to break the connection and swiftly dialed another number, setting his jaw and frowning as he waited. Timothy Rourke was an old friend, and Shayne knew he was not easily upset. What the devil was a reporter from the Miami News doing—?

He snapped his fingers, suddenly remembering Sara Morton. Lucy’s spelling of the first name had thrown him off, and he had been too absorbed with the get-out-of-town notes to identify her immediately when he saw the printed name on the message. Rourke had done a human interest story on her in the Sunday News—her exploits in crime-reporting on the national scene. There were pictures of a slender and vitally beautiful woman—thirty-five, perhaps, with sharp, intelligent eyes and distinctive features. Sara Morton was practically a legend, a roving reporter for a national syndicate who was feared by the underworld and criminals in high places.

Lucy Hamilton’s eager voice cut his recollections short. “Hello.”

“Lucy—I just got in and I—”

“Michael! Where on earth were you all day?”

“I wasn’t,” he said, grinning briefly. “I was on water. But never mind that now,” he went on soberly. “This Sara Morton—didn’t she tell you anything about what she wanted?”

“Not a thing—except it was terribly urgent. I kept telling her you’d be in or phone any minute and I’d have you call her—until the last time. Then I had to confess I hadn’t the faintest idea how to reach you,” she said in a small, hurt voice; then went on crisply, as she had begun: “She didn’t say much, but I had a feeling she was quite upset, because she insisted that you call her, no matter what time you came in. If you’re going to have an office and keep a secretary you might at least—”

“Save it for tomorrow, angel,” he interrupted. “I’m on my way to the Tidehaven right now.” He replaced the receiver slowly, heard her say, “Good night, Michael,” faintly, before it clicked.

His sense of drowsy relaxation had vanished, the polo shirt and faded dungarees forgotten. His gaze was cold and remote, flickering over Lucy’s memos, the cut squares of paper with their threatening warnings, and, finally, the special-delivery note.

A single phrase leaped out at him: I have given up hope. She had waited for his call until six-thirty, and—

He wadded the memo sheet into a ball and thrust it into a side pocket, replaced the note and enclosures in the envelope, and went out and down to his car.

The Tidehaven Hotel faced Biscayne Bay and was only a short distance, but from habit he drove the three blocks and parked in the inner lane of the Boulevard opposite the marquee.

The doorman raised his brows and drew them together disapprovingly when Shayne approached, his eyes sliding from the redhead’s tousled hair to the soiled canvas sandals, but he hastily opened the door and Shayne strode through without a glance at the immaculate uniform.

He slowed when he saw Rourke and Miss Lally in the cocktail lounge just off the sumptuous lobby. They sat in the center of a horseshoe booth with leather-cushioned seats. Rourke’s sharp and emaciated profile was toward Shayne as he bent close to the girl with feverish intensity.

Shayne paused a moment to study Miss Lally while the patrons observed him with expressions befitting their various stages of inebriety.

His general impression of her was one of roundness, and of white skin rarely seen in Miami. She was chubby rather than fat, and her face missed being round by a chin that was firm and slightly pointed. Her eyes were round and sooty with dark lashes and brows contrasting severely with her short blond hair worn plain on top and curling at the ends. She wore a silvery gray skirt and a short-sleeved Eton jacket, and the round blue collar of her blouse hugged her white neck girlishly. She was nibbling on an arm of her tortoise-shell glasses frame dangling in her hand as she gazed wide-eyed at Rourke, looking more like a rapt, chubby child than the secretary of crime-reporter Sara Morton.

Shayne moved on and was standing at their table before they saw him.

“Mike—sit down,” said Rourke. “We’re worried about Miss Morton, Bea and I.” His tone was amorous on the last three words, but he made the introductions with precise and semi-intoxicated formality.

Shayne shook his head at a hovering waiter and sat down. “Have you found out where Sara Morton is?” he asked, glancing from one to the other when they straightened around facing the table.

“Not a word, Mr. Shayne,” said Miss Lally in the low, full voice he had heard over the phone. “Did I understand you to say you had not contacted her?” She slid the arms of her tortoise-shell glasses behind her ears.

The transformation was instantaneous and shocking. She was efficient and late twenty-ish, stout instead of chubby.

Trying not to stare, Shayne said, “That’s right. I’ve been fishing all day. What did she want?”

“There was—it was a private matter. That’s why she didn’t want to call in the police. I—don’t understand. Now that she’s gone out I don’t know what to think.” The effort to keep her voice steady was apparent and the faltering uncertainty seemed to be more from worry than fright.

“The hell of it is,” Rourke interjected, “I had an appointment with la Morton here in the cocktail lounge at six. Miss Lally kept it instead. You tell him, Bea,” he ended, turning his slaty, feverish eyes toward her.

A perpendicular frown came between her eyes and flitted away, leaving smooth, white skin. “I went to her room a few minutes before six to remind her she was to meet Mr. Rourke. She didn’t unlock the door when I knocked. She sounded terribly upset—or frightened. I’ve never known her to be afraid. She isn’t the type.”

“Sara Morton is the type to play fair by giving a man-eating tiger the first two bites,” Rourke interrupted grimly. “She’s the gal who broke into the big time years ago by becoming the moll of one of Capone’s original mob to get an exclusive.”

Shayne said, “I read your Sunday story, Tim. What did she say when you knocked on her door, Miss Lally?”

“Just that she was expecting a very important telephone call and had to wait for it if it took all night.”

“From me?” Shayne asked.

“She didn’t say, Mr. Shayne. At the time I didn’t realize she hadn’t been able to reach you today. She told me not to bother about her but to go down and tell Mr. Rourke—” She paused abruptly, and a pink flush washed up in her neck and face, and the tips of her ears were red.

“To tell Tim what?” Shayne prompted gravely.

Miss Lally took off her glasses and her eyes, large and round and sooty again, were lowered. “She told me to—tell him to try—making passes at me for a change because she didn’t believe he had another—another—”

“Another what?” Rourke demanded indignantly.

She caught her lower lip between her teeth, polished her glasses carefully, and put them on again. “I never quote Miss Morton verbatim—when she’s vulgar.” She spoke primly, and her face was white again when she resumed her low-voiced recital:

“The reason I’m so worried about her right now is because she appears to have gone out before you called her—after telling me emphatically she was going to stay there all night if necessary.”

“Maybe it wasn’t my call she was waiting for,” Shayne suggested.

“I think it was. You see, she hasn’t received any call since I talked to her at six o’clock. I checked with the switchboard operator after I talked to you. Do you think we should—do anything?” The frown came and stayed longer now, accentuating the worried tone in her voice.

Shayne didn’t answer immediately. He stared down at the table, rolling his ear lobe between thumb and forefinger, acutely conscious of the threatening messages and the note in his pocket. He didn’t want to discuss them in the presence of Rourke. Not yet. Miss Lally wouldn’t want to, either.

He pushed his chair back and stood up. “I think we might go up and see if she’s in her room. She may have fallen asleep.”

Miss Lally finished her stale drink and stood beside Shayne, the top of her head even with his shoulder, while Rourke took out his billfold and laid some money on the table. When he joined them they went into the lobby and across to a bank of elevators and. up to the fourteenth floor.

Miss Lally led the two men down a corridor, around a corner, and past several doors to number 1422. With her hand on the knob she turned a strained and frightened face up to Shayne. “See,” she whispered, pointing to the transom, “there’s a light in her room.”

Shayne reached past her and rapped sharply on the door. The corridor was quiet as a tomb and they waited without breathing, listening, hearing nothing in the silent room beyond the door.

Beatrice Lally began twisting the knob frantically, calling Miss Morton’s name loudly, begging her to open the door.

“Do you have a key?” Shayne asked.

“No—I—but I have a key to fourteen-twenty,” she stammered.

“What good will that do?” he demanded irritably.

She didn’t answer, but turned toward the next door with Shayne striding behind her. Rourke lifted his spine from the wall he had relaxed against, untangled his crossed feet, and followed them.

Miss Lally had the key in the lock, explaining, “There’s a connecting bathroom. I do my typing in here. Miss Morton always takes two rooms with a connecting bath if she can’t get a suite,” she ended, pushing the door open.

One of the twin beds had been removed to make room for a typewriter desk, a metal file, and two tables that were cluttered with papers, clipped portions of manuscripts, and reams of typing-paper. A chromium ash stand overflowed with cigarette butts, and wadded sheets of discarded script spilled over the top of the wastebasket onto the floor.

Miss Lally nodded toward an open door and said, “That’s the bathroom,” whispering again, her glasses dangling from her fingers, her eyes round and frightened. “She never latches the door on her side. Please, if everything is all right, don’t let her know I had anything to do—with this. She’d be terribly angry with me.”

Shayne looked at her for a moment before going to the door. There was little doubt that she was terrified of her employer’s wrath; and he wondered, vaguely, what sort of woman Sara Morton really was as he stepped into the tiled bathroom and switched on the light.

Rourke was close behind him when he knocked on the closed door leading into the bedroom. There was no answer. Shayne turned the knob and pushed the door open slowly.

Sara Morton lay at the foot of a twin bed that had a rumpled spread and knotted pillow. There was an ugly gash in her throat and blood stained the rich carpeting around a shaggy, soaked white rug under her head and shoulders.

Shayne’s first reaction was, oddly, one of numbing disappointment, for now he would never really know what sort of a person Sara Morton had been.

Chapter Two

Advice for a Reformer

SHAYNE AND ROURKE STOOD VERY STILL, side by side, blocking the doorway. They heard Beatrice Lally’s whisper from the other door, tense and breathless.

“Is—she isn’t there, is she?”

Shayne’s elbow jabbed Rourke’s fleshless ribs before he started backing out. Rourke turned, half bent, with both hands pressed against his side, and followed him out.

Shayne was saying rapidly, “Take Miss Lally to her room, Tim. We’re going to have to work this fast and make no mistakes. Give her the lowdown when you get her to her room, and for God’s sake keep things quiet. I’ll be along in three minutes.”

Without a word, Rourke took the girl’s arm and led her out. Shayne watched them go, knowing he needed no reply from the reporter who had worked with him for years and who had not fully recovered from a bullet wound he received some three years ago.

Shayne bolted the door on the inside and went back to the death room, stood to the right of the body where less blood had seeped onto the carpet from the shaggy rug, and looked at her for a long moment.

Sara Morton wore a green hostess gown with flowing skirt and plunging neckline. Blood was caked between her firm breasts and over the bodice. The gold belt circling the slender waistline was clean, and the green, red, and blue gems in the buckle twinkled in the light of the ceiling fixture. Below the short puffed sleeves her firm, shapely arms were clear of blood, up-flung in a gesture of defiance.

Following the tapering lines of her right arm he saw a small diamond-rimmed platinum watch circling her wrist. Carefully kneeling outside the circle of congealing blood, he examined it. The tiny hands pointed to two minutes after eight. He frowned and looked at his own watch. The time was 9:05. He bent his ear close to her watch and was surprised to hear the regular ticking.

The frown deepened to a heavy scowl as he tried to evaluate the significance of nearly an hour’s difference. If her watch was slow when she wrote the note it was actually 7:30 instead of 6:30. Could she write it, seal and stamp it, and get it to the post office so fast?

That would have to wait until later, he decided, and studied the wisp of green paper clutched in her hand. He easily read the numerals in the exposed corner, and without touching it to feel the texture, he knew it was the other half of the five-hundred-dollar bill.

He rocked back on his heels with sweat dripping from his face. In death she held out a challenge to him to match it with the half she had enclosed in the special-delivery letter. Sara Morton was speaking to him, and her words seemed to linger there in the silent room.

This is it, Michael Shayne. At the moment of my death this is my way of saying to you what I left unsaid in my hasty note.

He took his handkerchief out and mopped sweat from his eyes and face, then touched his knuckles to her cheek. The flesh was cool. Room temperature. He judged she had been dead at least an hour, probably much longer.

The wound in her throat puzzled him. It was evident from the quantity of blood that the jugular had been severed with one vicious blow, but the cut was jagged, gaping in the center. The killer had either used a dull instrument, or a sharp one had been fiendishly twisted before it was removed.

He stood up abruptly and went to the front door. The inside latch was bolted. That meant that however the killer had entered the room, he had left through the connecting bathroom.

He turned and carefully surveyed the room through bleak, narrowed eyes. Everything was in order except the one rumpled bed where she had probably tried to relax while tensely awaiting his phone call. There was no sign of a struggle. Sara Morton had either been taken unawares by her murderer entering through the bathroom from 1420, or she had unlocked her door and admitted him with no thought of personal danger.

Yet, if her note meant what it seemed to imply, she felt herself to be in the gravest danger when she typed and mailed it, a fact that was borne out by her refusal to unlock her door even for her secretary at six o’clock.

There was a small metal typewriter table with an open portable close to a window across the room. He moved slowly toward it and stood with his hands clasped behind his back, studying the articles on the table. The box of heavy white stationery with the blue signature at the top was open beside the typewriter. On the other side was a folded copy of the previous day’s Miami Herald, and on top of it was a pair of shears with long tapering blades such as editors use for clipping copy.

But these were no ordinary shears. The handles were of gold, ornately designed and chased by a master craftsman. The points of the blades were very sharp, and he shuddered inwardly as he glanced from them to the gaping wound in Sara Morton’s throat. They were clean and shining, but if the murderer had used the shears as a weapon, the homicide boys would determine the fact with chemical tests.

The telephone had been moved from between the twin beds and placed beside the typewriter table. There was a memorandum pad on the stand, and a muscle tightened in Shayne’s cheek when he saw his name written at the top of the pad, and directly underneath it his office telephone number. Below that was a series of jerky pencil marks, but none of them seemed to be more than the unconscious doodling of an extremely nervous person.

He was reaching for the pad to rip the sheet off when he suddenly decided it would be to his advantage to leave it there for the police to see. He glanced at his watch, jerked out his handkerchief, and went out through the bathroom, wiping the doorknobs clean as he passed through on his way to the corridor. The outer door clicked shut on the night latch, and he went swiftly down the hall to Miss Lally’s room.

The door moved slightly when he rapped, and he pushed into the room where Rourke and the dead woman’s secretary sat on the double bed. Her head rested against the reporter’s bony shoulder and his arm was around her. Tears streamed down her face, and Rourke’s slaty eyes held the bewildered look of a man who had failed to stop a woman from crying.

Shayne closed the door and walked over to the bed, grinning humorously at Rourke, but his voice was harsh and urgent when he said:

“Miss Lally.”

She jerked her head up and looked at him with wet, sooty eyes. Her glasses lay on the bed beside her. Rourke put his handkerchief in her hand and she obediently blew her nose and wiped her eyes.

“Miss Morton is dead,” said Shayne, spacing the words evenly. “It happened at least an hour ago. Possibly two or three. We can do only one thing for her now. You’ve got to get hold of yourself.” He paused a moment, rubbing his angular jaw, his eyes thoughtful.

Miss Lally’s sobbing gradually stopped after a long, audible sigh. “I’m all right now,” she said. “Shouldn’t we notify the police?”

“Tim will do that—in about five minutes,” he said absently, then went on decisively: “Get a toothbrush and a wrap if you think you’ll need it. Don’t try to take anything else—”

“A toothbrush?” she interrupted, peering up at him with round, astonished eyes.

“Go wash your face,” he ordered. “We’ll all go down to the lobby together as if nothing had happened. Do you know any particular bars or restaurants where Miss Morton is known and where she might be expected to drop in during an evening?”

Miss Lally covered her amazement with the thick-lensed glasses and stammered, “There’s the—Golden Cock up the street. And over on the Beach—”

“You and I are going out to look for her,” he cut in. “Don’t forget the toothbrush. You may not get back here tonight.”

She saw his face clearly now, and responded to his quiet assumption of authority by getting up and going into the bathroom.

When she closed the door, Rourke said angrily, “Look here, Mike, if you think I’m going to stay here and be your fall guy—”

“You’re going to stay right here like any sensible reporter who’s lucky enough to be on the inside of a hot case, and get all the dope from the police investigation,” Shayne said firmly. “I need time—and freedom from the cops tailing me, Tim.” He paused a moment, then hurried on. “If I can keep Miss Lally away from the police until I can get all she knows about the Morton woman, and keep it quiet—you know how it is, Tim. She’d be in danger if the murderer thought she knew too much and found out the police had her up for questioning.”

“But what the hell do I tell the police?” Rourke protested.

“You don’t. Joe Clarkson, the night dick, will tell the police. Look, Tim, when we go down to the lobby you go to the bar for a drink. Put it down fast, act like you’re worried, then find Joe and tell him about your date with Sara Morton and the secretary meeting you instead. The truth about everything that can be checked. But don’t tell him I’d been fishing and hadn’t contacted her. You assume I talked to her on the phone, but didn’t tell you what she wanted.”

He paused a moment, tugging at his left ear lobe, his gray eyes narrowed. “We came up together to see why Miss Morton didn’t answer her phone, knocked on her door and got no answer, and the three of us came here for Miss Lally to get a wrap before going out with me to find her. Miss Lally didn’t mention having a key to fourteen-twenty,” he went on swiftly as the secretary re-entered the room. “You won’t know about the connecting bathroom. You’re mad because she stood you up on an important engagement. Act tight if you want to. Tell Clarkson you’ll call in the police and cause a stink if he doesn’t go up with you and investigate.”

Rourke lay sprawled on his back on the bed. His eyes were closed, and his only response was a deep groan when Shayne paused for a moment.

“Clarkson will find fourteen twenty-two latched on the inside when he tries a passkey. The light is on, and you have real reason for alarm now. He’ll know about the connecting rooms. You go in and discover the body together. Got it?”

“Sure,” muttered Rourke. “Did you talk to her?”

“Leave that for later. You can tell the police Miss Lally told you about Miss Morton phoning me. There’ll be a Herald reporter with them. See that he gets a story in the morning edition playing up the fact that Sara Morton phoned me today and that I dashed out with her secretary looking for her. Ready?” He turned to the girl who waited with a light coat over her arm.

She nodded, her face paler than its normal whiteness, accentuating the red of her lips, her eyes small and doubtful behind the glasses. “Will it be—all right for me to evade questioning by the police?” she asked. “Isn’t there a law?”

“There’s no law against your passing out from shock and grief,” said Shayne. He took her arm, and Rourke followed them out the door.

In the elevator Shayne said in a bantering tone, “Tell Tim to get lost, Bea,” for the benefit of the other passengers. “It was all right for you to cadge drinks off him, but I’m here now.” He drew her closer to him.

“Okay, so I’m ditched,” said Rourke sullenly, taking the cue promptly. “Twice in one night. If you find that Morton dame you can tell her for me—”

“Sh-h-h,” cautioned Shayne, glancing around at the strange faces with simulated dismay. “Miss Morton is probably waiting for you in the bar right now,” he went on cheerfully as they reached the lobby and he pushed his way out past the reporter with a firm grip on Miss Lally’s arm.

Rourke scowled, took a step forward as though to follow them, shrugged, and turned toward the barroom.

The same doorman raised the same brows as the couple went through the doorway, and added an icy stare when Shayne paused to ask:

“Do you know Miss Morton by sight? Sara Morton, the newspaper writer.”

“I’m afraid not, sir,” he answered snootily, plainly indicating that he had no intention of discussing the lady with a tramp in faded dungarees.

Shayne hurried his companion across the southbound traffic lanes to his parked car, opened the door for her, stalked around to the other side, and pulled away fast.

Miss Lally relaxed against the cushion and sighed. “I was glad to get away from that reporter so I could talk to you privately, Mr. Shayne,” she said in the low, controlled tone he had first heard. “I do know why Miss Morton phoned you. I know she wanted it kept quiet, but now I suppose it will have to come out.”

“I know, too,” he said. “That’s why I wanted to get you away where we could talk and act fast without being held by the police.” He eased over to the outer lane and increased his speed. “We’ll be at the Golden Cock in a moment. Wait until we’ve asked there for her.”

“Why do you keep up this farce when we know she’s back—back there in her room—” Her voice began to tremble and she didn’t finish the sentence.

“That’s exactly why we have to ask around for her. You’re in this with me now. You’ve got to play up. Right now we’re accessories after the fact. Every movement we make from now on will be checked by the police, and we’ve got to do every damned thing we would do if we were actually looking for Sara Morton in her favorite restaurants and cocktail bars.”

He slowed and turned into a circular, palm-lined drive leading off the Boulevard to a low building on the bayfront with the words Golden Cock flickering off and on beneath a huge rooster shimmering in golden lights. As they approached the canopy Shayne covered one of her hands with his and asked:

“Can you pull it off?”

“I’m all right,” she answered steadily.

He stopped and a beautifully caparisoned doorman opened the door and stood smartly at attention.

Shayne asked, “Do you know Miss Sara Morton by sight?”

“Mr. Shayne,” he said with a genial smile. “Is she a kind of oldish woman—this Miss Morton?”

“No. We’ll have to go in,” he said to the girl. “Or would you rather sit in the car and wait while I check?”

“I’ll go with you.” She opened the door and got out.

Shayne got out and circled the car. “Leave it here unless I send word to park it,” he said to the doorman. He took Miss Lally’s arm and they went into a small, ornate anteroom and past the check stand to the door.

A tall man in evening clothes hurried to greet them, frowning unhappily at Shayne’s informal attire, but his voice was pleasant when he said:

“Hello, Mr. Shayne. I’m afraid there isn’t a table right now.”

Shayne grinned disarmingly and said, “Don’t worry, Harold. I’m not going to embarrass you. Miss Lally and I are looking for her employer, Miss Sara Morton.”

“That’s quite a coincidence,” he said genially. “A friend of hers is expecting her. Been waiting for some time.” He nodded toward a man in impeccable white evening dress seated on a plush chair near the dining-room entrance. “She should be here soon,” he added.

The man’s profile was toward them. He was young and slender with a hint of arrogance in his aquiline features. His mouth was petulant, and he looked straight ahead as one determined not to look toward the entrance again for a woman who was late for a dinner engagement

Shayne felt Miss Lally give a slight start and tighten her fingers on his arm. He jerked his head around and looked at her just as she eased her glasses off.

“It’s Mr. Paisly,” she breathed. “He’s—”

She stopped when Mr. Paisly deigned to look once more toward the entrance. He came to his feet and rushed toward them, an anxious, hopeful smile lighting his face, and a large diamond glittering on the third finger of his right hand.

“Miss Lally!” he said vivaciously, the smile revealing a row of perfect white teeth. “Did Sara send you? What happened to her? I’ve been waiting since before seven.” He raised an arm gracefully and looked at a delicate platinum watch, trenched his brow with a row of frowns. “She’s generally so punctual. I don’t understand.” He let the frowns go and went on petulantly: “She might at least have telephoned me, don’t you think?” His big dark eyes held hurt and self-pity and gentle reproach.

“Miss Lally and I came here hoping to find her,” Shayne said quickly, before Beatrice answered.

“Excuse me,” she said. “Mr. Shayne, Mr. Paisly. Mr. Edwin Paisly. He’s Miss Morton’s—fiance.” The pause was definite and significant.

Paisly seemed to notice Shayne for the first time. His mouth tightened with disapproval and his brows went up. They stayed up while his eyes slithered all the way down to Shayne’s soiled sandals while Harold, the manager, hastily explained.

“This is Michael Shayne. Our famous detective.”

“Oh! That Shayne?” Paisly did a fast double-take and became agitated. “Is anything wrong? You say you’re looking for Sara—has anything happened? Tell me the truth at once, Miss Lally. I have a right to know.”

“She appears not to be at the hotel,” Shayne said casually. “I have a business matter to discuss with her. We are making the rounds trying to find her.”

“A business matter, you say? I wasn’t aware that she—that is, Sara hadn’t confided in me—what I mean is,” he stumbled on, “when she made this dinner date with me tonight she said nothing about expecting to talk business with a private detective.”

“At the time,” said Shayne blandly, “she probably hoped to be finished in time to keep her appointment. What time was she supposed to meet you?”

“Seven o’clock. She said she was meeting a reporter at her hotel for cocktails at six, but promised to get rid of him within an hour.”

“And you’ve been waiting here since seven?”

“Since before seven,” he corrected, coloring slightly at Shayne’s tone of doubt. “She doesn’t like for me to interfere with her professional duties,” he continued defensively. “She’s a very busy woman, and I kept thinking she would come as soon as she could possibly get away.”

“If we run into her within the next half hour,” he said kindly, “we’ll remind her you’re waiting.” He took Miss Lally’s arm and they turned to go.

“Thank you,” Paisly said with an inflection that indicated he would like to say something else.

As they drove away from the Golden Cock, Shayne said, “This Paisly isn’t exactly the sort of specimen I’d expect Sara Morton to go for.”

“He’s just the type she does go for,” she confided. “He’s years younger. I guess he brings out her latent maternal instincts. She always has someone like him dancing attendance.”

“Does she marry all of them?” Shayne asked with a hint of amusement as he circled the drive leading to the Boulevard.

“She has never gone that far. I don’t know about this time. Perhaps she really would have gone through with it. I’m sure he seriously expected her to.”

Shayne turned north, then east on 14th Street, and a few minutes later drove into a line of late evening traffic headed across the County Causeway to Miami Beach.

“The two places she’s known over here are the Green Barn and the Red House,” Miss Lally told him.

“They’re both Leo Gannet’s layouts,” muttered Shayne. “Does Gannet know what she’s after in Miami?”

“Oh, yes. She never wasted time being devious in making her investigations. I think she took a perverse pleasure in dropping into those two places often. I understand they have both closed their gambling-rooms since she started visiting them.” She spoke without rancor, with a touch of weariness or sorrow.

“Gannet must love that,” said Shayne with a chuckle. “The gambling concession in either of those joints would net several thousand dollars a night.”

“She told me four days ago Mr. Gannet had offered her twenty-five thousand dollars to get out of Miami and stay out,” Miss Lally revealed.

“She didn’t take it?”

“She laughed in his face and told him her professional integrity wasn’t for sale.”

“Your Miss Morton must have been quite a gal.”

“She was magnificent, Mr. Shayne.” Her voice was tremulous, but she steadied it and went on firmly: “That’s why there’s something you should know about. I didn’t want to mention it in front of Mr. Rourke, but now I suppose it’ll have to come out in the investigation.”

“The threatening letters?”

“Oh! You know about those? Then she did get in touch with you today?”

“She sat down in her room behind a locked door at six-thirty and wrote me a note that was delivered to my office by special-delivery some time before eight-thirty,” Shayne told her grimly. “After she had given up hope that I’d get her messages tonight.” He took the envelope from his pocket, handed it to her, and switched on the dome light.

Shayne’s face was impassive as he skillfully threaded his way through the three lanes of traffic, letting Miss Lally take her own time reading the last words her employer wrote before she was murdered.

The girl sighed when she finished, replaced the note and enclosures in the envelope. “She must have gone out and dropped the letter in the mail chute immediately after typing it. Why didn’t she tell me she took those threats seriously instead of sending me to the bar to meet Mr. Rourke? I could have stayed with her—had him come up—” Her voice broke gradually and ended on a note of despair.

“Then you didn’t think she took the threats seriously?”

“Of course not. Not really. She laughed at the first two, yesterday and the day before. You see, she’s had this sort of thing happen before on assignments like this. People try to frighten her away.”

“Like Leo Gannet trying to buy her off?”

“That—and the threats. She always laughed them off.”

“She showed you those notes?”

“I showed them to her,” Miss Lally corrected him. “I open all the mail and select whatever I think she needs to handle personally. That must be what she meant when she said I could tell you about them.”

“Go on,” urged Shayne. “Tell me.”

“There isn’t much. They came in envelopes bought at the post office. The addresses were typed. They were mailed locally, and nothing in them but the crude warnings, and no return address, naturally.”

“What became of the envelopes?”

“I imagine she destroyed them. All except the final one this morning. That may be in her room. I’m surprised she didn’t destroy the messages, too.”

“She laughed at the first two, but reacted differently on the third one—this morning?” Shayne prompted

“Yes. I—had a peculiar feeling something happened to convince her they might not be just the work of a crank. She seemed to—well, expect the one this morning. The minute I showed it to her she asked me to try to get you on the phone. I imagine Mr. Rourke had told her about you. I suggested the police, but she insisted it had to be a private investigation. That’s why I thought—why I wondered—” Her voice trailed off as if her mind was not quite clear about what she wondered.

They were at the end of the Causeway, and Shayne slowed for a traffic light. He made a left turn and drove slowly toward Leo Gannet’s swanky Green Barn.

“You think she guessed who sent the threats?”

“I had never seen her so upset. She sent me out of the room while she phoned you. I should have known then it was something dangerous, after working with her so long and knowing all about everything. Hindsight is a miserable thing,” she ended in a strained voice. “You keep trying to turn time back so you can do the things you know you could have done to keep it from happening.”

Shayne said, “Yeh,” absently, and they drove the short distance in silence.

He parked at the curb outside the brilliantly lighted two-story stucco structure and got out. “I’ll make this one alone—and quick,” he said.

He was back within two minutes. “Just one more stop to put ourselves in the clear and convince Will Gentry we didn’t enter room fourteen-twenty tonight.” He got in and gunned the motor, pulled away fast, then asked, “Who else has a key?”

“I’ve been worried about that ever since I heard you tell Tim Rourke her door was double locked,” she confided. “Does that mean the murderer went in through my office?”

“He must have left that way. And it’s the only way he could have gone in unless she unlocked her door for him.”

“I have the only key,” Miss Lally told him unhappily. “And I don’t even know who else knew about us having the two rooms and always leaving the bathroom doors unlocked. Except Edwin Paisly, of course.”

Shayne thought that over a moment. “It wouldn’t be difficult for anyone to find that out,” he assured her. “A buck or so to the room clerk. You were about to tell me something you were wondering about a while ago,” he reminded her. “When Miss Morton insisted on a private investigator instead of police.”

She hesitated briefly, took off her glasses and nibbled on the end of the frame. They were on the Ocean Drive now, passing the Roney Plaza, nearing Gannet’s second Beach club.

“It’s her husband, Ralph Morton. He has followed her here.” Her low voice was suddenly venomous.

Shayne glanced aside, surprised at her words, her tone. “Her husband?” he echoed. “I didn’t know she had one. You said she was engaged to that Paisly character.”

“She was. Oh, she hadn’t lived with Ralph Morton for years. He’s a scoundrel and I don’t know why she hadn’t divorced him long ago. Perhaps she kept him as a safety valve to prevent her various young men from becoming too serious. But this time I think she really intended to marry. She filed papers when we first came to Miami. If he didn’t contest the case, the divorce would have been granted as soon as she completed the legal residence requirements next week.”

“Was he going to contest it?”

“We didn’t know. Papers were served on him when the suit was filed, but we didn’t hear anything from him until this morning when he phoned he was in town.”

“Did he say anything about the divorce?”

“Not in so many words. But there’s always trouble when he turns up.” She sighed deeply, as if the anger she felt wearied her.

“What sort of trouble?” Shayne persisted.

“He gets drunk and makes scenes. I mail him a check for five hundred every month. Wouldn’t you think that would satisfy him?”

“Doesn’t it?”

“No. He’s always after her for more. He sponges on her reputation. Goes around and introduces himself as her husband and pretends they work together and runs up bills and gets loans on the strength of her credit.”

Leo Gannet’s Red House was on their right, at the end of a short street leading to the ocean. Shayne turned into the street, squinting ahead and frowning at the lights showing in both upper-and lower-floor windows.

“Say, do you remember whether both floors of the Green Barn were lighted?”

“Certainly. There was light all over.”

“But you said Gannet closed down his gambling-rooms because Sara Morton kept dropping into his places unexpectedly.”

“Do you mean they gamble on the second floors?” she asked. “They were closed. She told me so herself.”

Shayne slowed the car to a crawl as they approached the club. He glanced down at his dungarees and muttered, “I’m not dressed for crashing a joint like this. They don’t know you here, do they?”

“No. I seldom go anywhere socially with her.”

Shayne thought for a moment, said, “I’ll pull up in front and let you out. Go inside and act as if you know your way around. Go straight up the stairs on your left and drop a few bucks on the roulette table—and mingle. Try to find out when they reopened, but be careful not to arouse any suspicion. Come down in about fifteen minutes and have the doorman call over the loudspeaker for Miss Lally’s car. I’ll swing around and pick you up.” He stopped in front of the marquee and the doorman hurried to open the door.

Miss Lally stepped out and said coolly, “I may not be here long, Michael. Please stay in the car and be ready to pick me up.”

“Very well, Ma’am,” said Shayne. He pulled into a well-lighted parking-lot and stopped near the exit. There were a number of cars parked, a few limousines, around one of which a group of uniformed chauffeurs smoked and talked.

Shayne locked the ignition and got out, lit a cigarette, and wandered to the end of a tall, unclipped hibiscus hedge that hid the ocean from view. There was no moon, and he stood for a moment looking up at the star-sprinkled sky and listening to the dark breakers rolling in, then circled swiftly around the hedge and made his way to the rear of the club building.

Cautiously opening the first door he came to, he went into a service entrance and on through to a storeroom with a door on either side. On the left he heard kitchen sounds, and after hesitating briefly he quietly opened the door on the right. It opened onto a narrow hallway with steps leading to the second floor. He climbed the steps to a small landing and stood for a moment before a closed door before trying the knob. The door was heavy and solidly locked. He located an electric button and pressed steadily for a time, relaxed against the jamb, and waited.

A key turned in the lock and the door opened a few inches. The ceiling fixture outlined a bulky figure wearing a dinner jacket, and a broad, unintelligent face was stuck through the narrow opening.

“Leo in?” Shayne asked.

“Who wants to know?”

Shayne’s shoulder hit the door with the weight of his body behind it. The man reeled backward, off balance, and Shayne stepped through into a corridor, saying, “I want to know, punk. The name is Shayne and I’m in a hurry.”

He stopped at the first door on his left and opened it. Leo Gannet sat behind a desk in the center of the room talking to a tall, white-haired man who stood across from him.

Gannet was a short, thin man with an enormous head shaped like a pumpkin and a long, scrawny neck on the stem-end. His thick black hair was parted in the middle and smoothed down on the flat top. His forehead bulged above thick black brows and his full, well-shaped lips moved slowly as he spoke in soft tones. His eyes were large and dark and softly shining. From his expression, he might have been urging the man to give up his life of sin and hit the sawdust trail.

Gannet glanced idly at Shayne, then turned away as the dinner-jacketed man pushed in and grated, “This guy crashed in the back way, Leo. Do you want I should—”

Gannet said quietly, “It’s all right, Mart. Get back where you belong.” He ignored Shayne and turned back to the white-haired man.

“Take his marker up to one grand, but if he tries to go past that, send him in to me.”

The man nodded and started out. Shayne put out a long arm to block his exit and said, “I’m looking for Miss Sara Morton. Has she been around tonight?”

The man paused and turned to glance at Gannet.

“She hasn’t been in tonight and she won’t be in,” said Gannet. “Get back to your tables, Breen.”

Shayne let the man go and walked over to the desk to face the gambler, who asked, “What do you want, Shayne?”

“Miss Morton.” Shayne grinned down into the softly solemn eyes, stepped aside and hooked the toe of his shoe around a chair leg, dragged it across the rich, red carpet, and sat down.

“She’s not here tonight,” the gambler told him in a tone that could have been mistaken for deep regret.

“I didn’t think she was,” Shayne admitted, “when I saw you were running again. How do you know she won’t be in?”

“Because she won’t be able to get past the front door in the future.” Leo Gannet sighed and leaned back in his swivel chair. “Women reformers,” he murmured. “What’s she to you, Shayne?”

“Somebody’s trying to run her out of town.”

“Give her some advice from me. Tell her she’ll run like hell if she’s smart.”

“And if she isn’t smart?” Shayne lit a cigarette and narrowed his eyes at Gannet through a cloud of smoke blown in his direction.

“I know for a fact,” said the gambler dispassionately, “that if she keeps on poking her nose into things that don’t concern her she has a fair chance of never leaving town.”

“Is that a threat?”

“Advice.”

“Do any of your boys spend their spare time cutting out paper dolls?” Shayne asked blandly.

“I wouldn’t be surprised. Some of the punks you get nowadays—” He slowly straightened in his chair and rested his elbows on the desk. “What’s that crack got to do with anything?”

“It just occurred to me, when I saw Mart—”

The door was suddenly and violently flung open and Miss Lally stumbled in, then fell sprawling on the rug from the force of a shove. Her glasses fell off, and she slowly rose to her knees sobbing angrily while a heavy man with colorless, pig-like eyes explained:

“Here’s one of that Morton dame’s stooges, Chief. You told us—”

Shayne was on his feet, but stayed where he was when he saw the gun in Leo Gannet’s hand, knowing that the soft glow in his eyes and the gentle smile on his lips were more dangerous than the stupid leer and twisted mouth of the punk who had shoved the girl into the room.

“Take it easy, Shayne, while we talk this thing over,” said Gannet quietly.

Chapter Three

No Bribes Today

SHAYNE REMAINED STANDING and kept a wary eye on the gun. “You aren’t playing this very smart, Gannet.”

“I’m playing it my way,” he said, regret in his tone as he leaned forward with the gun pointed at Shayne’s midriff.

Miss Lally stopped sobbing and wiped her eyes. With the light coat clutched in her arm, she retrieved her glasses, smoothed her disheveled hair with her fingers, and attained a measure of prim dignity the instant she slid the glasses in place, in spite of her crouched, undignified position.

The man who had shoved her into the room looked even less intelligent than Mart. He was beginning to recover from his surprise at seeing Shayne, and muttered hoarsely:

“I didn‘ know you had comp’ny, Chief. You told me if the Morton dame stuck her nose in we was to give her the works.”

“It’s okay, Henry,” Gannet assured him, “if you’re right about Miss Morton sending this woman here.” He kept his eyes on the redhead as he spoke, then asked, “Is he right, Shayne?”

“I sent Miss Lally in here to look around,” he answered.

Miss Lally started to rise from her knees and Shayne went over, took her hand, and pulled her to her feet

Henry started toward him with a muttered oath. Shayne stepped swiftly in front of her to face Henry, balanced lightly on the balls of his feet, his upper lip curled back and baring his teeth. His right hand was balled into a big fist against his thigh. “Try shoving somebody nearer your size this time,” he said happily.

Henry stopped, glanced at Gannet for a signal, and the gambler said, “Close the door first, and take him if he wants it that way,” with a gentle sigh of resignation.

Henry turned to close the door. As he swung back Shayne saw the glitter of brass knuckles from his right hand and stepping in fast, hit him hard on the jaw before he completed the turn.

He heard a cry of warning or of terror from Beatrice Lally. His first surprise blow sent Henry reeling and, enraged by the knuckles, he drove three more jolting blows against the man’s chin. Henry slumped against the closed door, and as he slowly sagged to the floor Shayne delivered a left, a right, and another left, and was only vaguely aware of the smothered oaths and sounds of a struggle behind him. Henry’s knees gave way and he slid to the floor, a grotesque figure with his heavy shoulders supported by the door and his head hanging limply forward.

Shayne whirled around with both hands clenched, stopped and stared in disbelief, then his mouth twitched into an appreciative grin at Beatrice Lally standing behind Gannet’s swivel chair. Her coat covered Gannet’s face and neck, drawn tight by the sleeves which she was inexorably twisting and tightening while the gambler groaned and gasped for air.

Two swift, long-legged strides carried Shayne to the desk, where he twitched the wildly waving automatic from Gannet’s hand. “Better let him come up for air now, Miss Lally,” he said, forcing the grin from his face as she released the sleeves and stepped back.

Shayne had the loaded clip out of the gun and in his pocket and was ejecting the cartridge from under the firing-pin when Gannet finally clawed the garment from his head. His face was flushed and his breathing hard. He massaged his thin neck with a thin hand, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly.

“I—thought he was going to shoot you when you hit that man,” faltered the girl. “I didn’t know what to do.”

“You did all right,” Shayne told her, grinning. He laid the empty automatic on the desk. “If Miss Lally hadn’t thought fast, you might have plugged me, Gannet.”

“Am I—supposed to thank—her for that?” he gasped.

“You could do worse,” Shayne told him dryly. He turned to look at the recumbent Henry, who was beginning to groan, trying to lift his square, hairy hand to his pulpy face. “Another paper-doll cutter,” he muttered, turning back to Miss Lally, who had retrieved her coat once more and was attempting to smooth out the twisted wrinkles in the sleeves. “What did you find out in the gambling-room? And why did that gorilla jump you?”

“It’s quite evident they reopened the gaming-room only this evening,” she said, ignoring Gannet’s presence, and speaking in her normal low, assured voice. “I was moving about talking to people as you told me to when I ran into Carl Garvin. I tried to avoid him, but he recognized me and asked in a rather loud voice if Miss Morton was with me. I tried to shush him, but he had been drinking. Then that man interfered.” She pointed to Henry, who now had both hands to his face and moaned spasmodically.

“He asked Mr. Garvin if he meant Sara Morton and he said he did, and that I was her secretary. Then that man grabbed my arm and pulled me away. Said Mr. Gannet wanted to see me in his office. He hurt me,” she ended in a hurt, girlish tone, sliding the glasses off and looking up at Shayne with round, naked, and sooty eyes.

Shayne grinned briefly and jerked his red head meaningfully at the groaning man, then asked gravely, “Who is Carl Garvin?”

“He’s the local office manager of the syndicate Miss Morton works for.”

“Is Garvin a regular here?” Shayne demanded of Gannet.

Gannet had stopped massaging his scrawny throat and it was as red as a turkey’s wattle. Venom replaced the soft glow in his eyes, and he snarled, “Ask him yourself.” One hand moved toward a row of buttons on his desk as the other picked up the gun.

“Don’t touch that button, Gannet,” Shayne grated. “And don’t count on the gun. It’s empty.” He was thinking swiftly, deciding that Mart and Henry were the only gorillas on duty, feeling certain of it when Gannet’s fingers stopped short of the buttons.

“Who gave you the go-ahead to reopen this evening?” Shayne demanded.

“Nobody gives me the go-ahead, shamus. No she-reporter from New York can tell me whether I open up or stay closed. The Morton dame can go straight to hell,” he exploded, and the venomous anger he had stored up behind his soft voice and limpid eyes burst out in damning expletives against Miss Morton.

Shayne looked down at him with a grin intended to further infuriate Gannet, who had established a reputation for remaining calm, no matter what the provocation. The gambler’s face was growing dangerously red. Shayne shrugged his wide shoulders and turned to take Miss Lally’s arm.

“We are walking out of here, Leo,” he said. “Down the front stairs. If you’re as smart as I always thought you were, none of your boys will try to stop us.”

Henry pulled himself up on wavering legs as they started to the door. He squinted at Gannet through swollen eyes, staggered aside, and Shayne opened the door. They went out and down the corridor to the wide front stairway.

Shayne glanced down at Miss Lally’s bespectacled face as she moved primly beside him and said, “You act as if this were all in a night’s work. That was a darned good tackle on Gannet.”

“I’ve been Miss Morton’s secretary for ten years,” she told him. “Since I was nineteen. I’ve encountered hoodlums of that type before. Do you think his reopening the gaming-rooms tonight is an indication that he knows she’s dead and can’t bother him any more?”

Shayne squeezed her arm for silence as they reached the bottom step, where entry to the upper floor was blocked by a velvet rope and guarded by a dapper young man with sparkling black eyes and a thin black mustache.

He had been looking up at Shayne’s incongruous apparel with an expression of horrified disbelief. Shayne grinned and lifted his hand airily, saying, “Leo sent me down to show his dame to her car.” He closed one eye in a slow wink and the young man unhooked the rope.

In the foyer others looked at them curiously, but no one interfered. They went past the doorman without a glance and down the driveway to his car, where Shayne left her to open the door for herself and hurried around to make a fast getaway.

When he turned south on Ocean Drive and was speeding toward the Venetian Causeway he referred back to her question.

“It would have been fast work for Gannet to get things opened up and running in the short time that’s elapsed since Morton was murdered. Still, it’s a good bet.”

“But he could have known beforehand,” she pointed out.

“Yeh,” said Shayne absently.

“We know he tried to bribe her to leave town. And then those threatening letters began coming—”

“Which Leo Gannet didn’t send her,” he said irritably. “He’s a businessman and might arrange to have her rubbed out, but he’d never pull that sort of Dick Tracy stunt.”

“Why not? It seems to me that would be the smart way to do it, to make people like you—people who know him—think he didn’t.”

Shayne didn’t answer at once. He was thinking back to Gannet’s behavior. Losing control and showing an outsider his true nature was unprecedented insofar as he knew. “Crooks like Gannet aren’t so devious,” he muttered. They rode swiftly and silently for a while; then he slowed for the toll booth, fished out the right change, and stopped to pay it.

When he had the car going sixty again he said, “I want to hear more about Sara Morton’s husband. And if I don’t show up soon Will Gentry’ll have a radio pickup out for both of us,” he added grimly.

“Oh, I’d forgot about—”

“I’d like to keep you away from the police tonight,” he cut in, “if I can swing it. This place I’m taking you to is my secretary’s apartment. Miss Lucy Hamilton. She’ll give you a drink and bed you down on the studio couch, but I want your promise not to leave her place for anyone or anything until you hear from me.”

“I’ll do whatever you say,” she agreed meekly. “But—why are you going to so much trouble, Mr. Shayne? You didn’t even know Miss Morton.”

“Have you forgotten she retained me to take the case if she was murdered tonight?”

“That torn bill? I wonder what she meant by sending you that. It’s no good without the other half, is it?”

“She had the other half clenched in her hand when she died,” he told her in a tight-jawed mutter that was almost a low growl.

Miss Lally drew in her breath sharply and wilted against him, sliding her glasses off and letting her hand fall laxly in her lap. “I can hardly realize it yet,” she sobbed. “It doesn’t seem real. At first I felt dazed, but now when you speak of her being dead it seems you must be talking about someone else. Some stranger. N-Not M-Miss Morton. She was so vitally alive.”

Shayne put his arm around her shaking shoulders. He had wondered how long her self-control would last, and was surprised that the inevitable reaction had been so long delayed. He drove to the mainland with one hand on the wheel, not saying anything, and when he stopped in front of Lucy’s apartment she sat up, blew her nose, and wiped her eyes. “I’m all right now,” she said. “It’s just that all at once I—”

“You’ve been terrific,” he told her warmly, giving her shoulder a final squeeze before removing his arm. He got out and looked up at the windows of Lucy’s second-floor front apartment. Enough light showed through the drapes to assure him she was not asleep.

“Come on. Miss Hamilton is still up,” he said, opening the door for her. “I’ll go up for a drink, and if you feel like it you can fill in the gaps I’m still vague about.”

He was gentle with her crossing the walk and going up the steps, sensing that she couldn’t see without her glasses; and in the lighted vestibule he again had the impression of a chubby childishness about her, the misty eyes and the round blue collar hugging her white neck.

He frowned as he pushed the button, then grinned fleetingly when the buzzer sounded instantly, as though Lucy waited with her finger on the answering button in her apartment.

Lucy was in the open doorway wearing a sheer dressing-gown over blue silk pajamas. Her hair was tousled and a frown of surprise or dismay flitted across her smooth brow when she saw Miss Lally.

“Michael! You might at least have let me know. I was almost ready for bed,” she said.

“It’s okay, angel,” he said. “This is Miss Lally. Miss Lally, Miss Hamilton. She needs a drink and a place to sleep tonight where the cops won’t bother her,” he went on swiftly, herding them into the room, without giving them a chance to acknowledge the introduction. “And make it fast on the drinks. I have to be moving.”

“Of course, Michael. How do you do, Miss Lally, and what would you like to drink?” She smiled a welcome, added chidingly, “You don’t have to be rude, Michael.”

“Please call me Beatrice,” Miss Lally said with a wan smile. “Could you—do you have the makings for a daiquiri?”

“With the lemon juice already squeezed,” Lucy said and disappeared through the open archway into the kitchenette.

Shayne invited the girl to sit on the couch and pulled a chair up to sit facing her. He took out a package of cigarettes and after lighting one for each of them he asked abruptly, “You say Miss Morton’s husband is in Miami and called you at the Tidehaven this morning?”

Her mouth twisted in a grimace of disgust. “He wanted to see her at once—wanted to know when she’d be in. I didn’t tell him,” she said defiantly. “I hung up on him.”

Shayne rubbed his jaw thoughtfully, vaguely conscious of a stubble of beard. “Do you know where he’s staying?”

“No. But I think he saw her this afternoon. I was typing in the other room. The bathroom door on my side was closed and I didn’t consciously listen. In fact, I typed fast and tried not to listen when I heard a man’s voice. He was angry and talking loud and I thought it was Ralph.”

“But you couldn’t swear it was Morton?”

“No.” She hesitated, closed her eyes, and opened her purse, reached in for her glasses, and put them on. “I wouldn’t want to swear to it, Mr. Shayne,” she said, looking at him levelly.

Lucy came in with a tray, her brown eyes reflecting the gay smile on her lips. “Here they are. I hope—oh!” She saw Miss Lally’s glasses, recovered swiftly from the shock, and resumed: “I do hope the daiquiri will taste right.” She set the tray down without adding, “Beatrice,” as she had intended. She handed Shayne a triple cognac and a glass of ice water. “So you can guzzle and go.” She laughed, then carefully lifted the brimming daiquiri glass and passed it to Miss Lally. “You’d better take a big swallow before it spills.”

Miss Lally took a big swallow while Lucy picked up her water and cognac mixture, generously iced, and sat down on the edge of the couch.

“Did you succeed in reaching Miss Morton, Michael?”

“Yeh. But too late,” he said morosely. “She was murdered a couple of hours before I got to her. Miss Lally has been Sara Morton’s confidential secretary for ten years.”

Lucy said, “Oh! How terrible!” Miss Lally’s hand trembled violently and her drink sloshed over the rim and onto her dress.

Lucy grabbed a cocktail napkin from the tray and pressed it on the wet spot. “Michael and I are so accustomed to reaching for a napkin when we need one—” she began apologetically.

“Miss Lally’s upset and nervous,” Shayne broke in. “We had a few bad moments, and you can thank her for the bullet I didn’t get in my back. Talk to Lucy as much as you can tonight,” he went on, turning to the girl. “Tell her everything—about Miss Morton, your work with her, the assignment she was working on in Miami.” He finished his drink, chased it with ice water, and stood up. His face was gaunt, and his eyes stared bleakly over Lucy’s head, not seeing the fear on her face.

“Take good care of her, Lucy, and stay right here with her in the morning until you hear from me.” He turned and strode to the door, opened it, hesitated briefly, then said, “I’ll call you when I can, but I expect to be moving fast. And don’t worry.”

In his car, Shayne made a U-turn and drove back to the Boulevard, drove south past Bayfront Park and Flagler Street to a right turn on Southeast First. He parked at the side entrance of his apartment hotel, got out, and went through a short hall to the lobby.

The night clerk, a thin, precise little man with pale blue eyes, began beckoning him with rapid crooks of a forefinger and urgent jerks of his head. Shayne was striding toward the desk when he was intercepted by Edwin Paisly, who jumped up from a chair near the elevator.

The young man’s face was strained, and a single lock of damp blond hair hanging down his forehead seemed, oddly, to give a disheveled look to his entire appearance. He got in front of Shayne, and when the redhead didn’t stop he walked backward, saying excitedly, “Mr. Shayne, I have to talk to you. I’ve been waiting and waiting. Really, Mr. Shayne—”

“Sit down over there and take it easy while I have a word with the clerk,” Shayne growled, stepping aside and going past him without slowing. Over a period of years Shayne had learned to judge by the night clerk’s expression whether his important news concerned a blonde or a brunette. The utter lack of any secretive and knowing look in John’s pale eyes told him now it was neither.

“I been waiting to catch you when you came in,” he said. “They told me I wasn’t to tell you, but if you’re dodging them as I know you want to sometimes I knew you’d like to know.”

“What?” Shayne asked patiently.

“They’re waiting up in your apartment—that reporter friend of yours and the big dumb-looking cop that comes here sometimes. It was him that said I wasn’t to tell you they were up there.”

Shayne smothered a grin at his description of Will Gentry, Miami’s chief of police. He said, “Thanks, John. I’m not dodging them, this time, but you never can tell when a tip like that may keep me out of jail.” He turned and crossed the lobby to where Paisly sat slumped in a chair in a far corner. “Didn’t Miss Morton show up for the dinner date?” he asked.

“No. I waited another half hour after you and Miss Lally left, then called the hotel. I don’t think they rang her room at all, Mr. Shayne. Some man answered and demanded to know who I was and what I wanted with Miss Morton. He was frightfully rude, and I’m afraid I replied rather sharply. Then he said he was a policeman and that I should come to the hotel at once.” Paisly didn’t get up from the chair, but sat up stiff and straight. He had combed his hair back sleekly, and seemed restored to his former immaculacy.

“Did you go?” Shayne asked, staring steadily down at him.

“Certainly not.” Paisly’s dark eyes fluttered up to meet Shayne’s gray gaze, then turned away. “At first I considered it rank impertinence. Then I began wondering what was wrong. Do you think it was the police, Mr. Shayne? Will they arrest me for not coming at once as I was ordered? And what do you suppose is the matter?”

“I think it would be smart to get over to the hotel and find out,” said Shayne gruffly. “Tell them you were detained on the way.” His eyes didn’t waver as he waited for a reply, but Paisly’s upward glance never reached higher than the round neck of his polo shirt, and Shayne turned abruptly away.

Paisly leaped up and caught his arm. “There’s something else I’ve got to know. Why did Sara call in a private detective today?”

“That’s my business.”

“It’s mine, too,” said Paisly fiercely. “We’re going to be married in a few days—just as soon as her divorce is granted. Doesn’t that make a difference?”

“I think you’d better ask her,” Shayne told the frightened young man.

“Oh, no. I—I wouldn’t want to do that.” His slender, manicured right hand slid into his pocket and came out with a platinum money clip holding a thin sheaf of folded bills. He removed a C-note, saying, “I simply want to know what she consulted you about. I don’t expect you to betray any professional confidences, but I have a right to know if there’s some hitch in the divorce.”

“Go peddle your pennies somewhere else,” Shayne told him roughly.

Paisly reluctantly unclipped another C-note. “I’m a little short of cash just now, but”—he tilted his head slightly and gave Shayne a shrewd, man-to-man smile—“things will be different after we’re married. I’ll be perfectly frank and admit it means a great deal to me, Mr. Shayne. Sara is a lovely person, and I simply don’t believe I could stand it if anything happened to interfere with our marriage. I’m sure you know what I mean.”

There were certain delicate nuances here which Shayne didn’t quite comprehend. Paisly was trying to thrust the two bills into his hand while he babbled on. “No matter what Sara may have told you today I want you to understand that I truly love her. No matter what she suspects or what she may have told you today. Please accept this as a token payment, and I give you my word of honor to double whatever fee she offered you—after our marriage, of course.”

Almost unconsciously one of Shayne’s fingers closed over the bills Paisly was pressing against his palm. He frowned at them, only half hearing Paisly’s words as he went on intensely:

“Every bit of this came out of that secretary’s nasty mind. She hates me. She hates any man Sara looks at twice. If any man ever looked at Miss Lally she’d probably faint. And that makes her hate all men, don’t you see? So she’s taking out her hatred on me right now.” He fluttered slim white hands in exasperation.

“And she influences Sara so. In an unhealthy way, I’m sure. After we’re married Miss Lally must go, at once. I imagine she realizes that, so she has deliberately set herself to poison Sara’s mind against me. That is what she consulted you about—the divorce, I presume,” he ended uncertainly.

Shayne straightened the one finger holding the bills and they floated to the floor. “Where were you between six-thirty and seven tonight?” he asked abruptly.

He thought Edwin Paisly was going to cry. His mouth primped up and he said, “Oh, you! What does it matter where I was?” and his tone figuratively stamped its foot.

“It may matter a great deal,” Shayne grated.

“You’re supposed to be a detective,” Paisly snapped. “Find out for yourself, nosey.” He reached down and snatched the two bills from the floor and hurried out of the lobby.

Shayne debated a moment whether or not to follow him, decided against it, and took the elevator up to his apartment.

Chapter Four

This Is Murder

SHAYNE WAS HUMMING when he unlocked his apartment door and stepped inside. He heeled the door shut and stopped humming to raise bushy, questioning brows at Timothy Rourke, lolling in a big chair in the middle of the room with a highball glass in his hand.

“What are you doing here, Tim?” Then he registered what he hoped to be both surprise and pleasure when he saw Chief Gentry’s solid figure occupying more than a third of the couch. He was chewing on the frayed butt of a black cigar and nursing a half-filled shot glass.

“And our estimable chief of police. Glad to see you’re making yourselves at home. I know you’ll excuse me—” He started for the bedroom, stripping the polo shirt over his head. Tossing it through the open door, he turned and asked:

“By the way, Tim, did Miss Morton turn up at the hotel?”

“Hold on, Mike,” Gentry rumbled, forestalling Rourke’s reply. “What’s your rush?”

Shayne grinned wryly and rubbed the red bristles on his face. “I don’t mean to be inhospitable, Will, but I’ve got to grab a fast shave and change. There’s more liquor—”

“You’re not going anywhere, Mike. Not right now.” Gentry spoke flatly, not turning his head.

“I thought this was a social call,” said Shayne with pretended consternation. “There’s a dame waiting for me and I promised to make it fast.”

“Miss Morton’s secretary?”

Shayne strode to the couch and faced Gentry, his back toward Rourke. “See here, Will—” He caught the chief’s eye and made frantic gestures to indicate he didn’t want to answer questions in the reporter’s presence.

Gentry was not impressed. He rolled his rumpled eyelids down, studied the soggy, flattened end of the cigar butt, and asked, “Where is she, Mike? What have you and she been up to?”

“Dropping in a few places trying to get a line on Sara Morton,” Shayne told him. He made a half-turn and snapped, “What the hell, Tim? Did you call in the cops because I stole your girl?”

“Cut the clowning,” growled Gentry. “Where is Miss Lally?”

“What’s it to you?” Shayne growled back. “Miss Lally is free, white, and well past the age of consent.”

Gentry leaned forward and dropped the cigar butt in an ash tray, grunted as he leaned back, and said with deceptive mildness, “I want to question her as a murder suspect.”

“Murder? Beatrice a suspect?” Shayne said angrily, rumpling his hair. But Gentry wasn’t looking. He was calmly lighting a cigar. Shayne turned to Rourke and demanded, “What in hell is this about, Tim?”

Rourke’s slaty eyes were on his nearly empty glass. He said quietly, “Sara Morton is dead. She was evidently dead when you and Beatrice and I tried to rouse her around nine o’clock in her hotel room.”

“Suicide?”

“I said murder, Mike,” Gentry reminded him.

“But you didn’t say Sara Morton.”

Gentry glanced up at Shayne with eyes like streaked granite. “Suicides don’t jab a pair of long-bladed shears into the jugular and then go in the bathroom to wash the blood off the weapon, carry it back in the room, and then lie down to die. Not without dripping a little blood along the way, they don’t.”

Shayne swore softly and went to the wall liquor cabinet, got out a bottle of cognac, and poured three ounces in a wine glass. He drank half of it and took the glass with him as he resumed his standing position between Rourke and Gentry.

“How can you suspect Miss Lally, Will? She was in the Tidehaven bar with Tim from the time she came down after talking with Miss Morton through a locked door until I got there. Right, Tim?”

“Every minute—except maybe two minutes when she went to the ladies’ room,” Rourke declared. “I can swear it wasn’t more than two minutes. Not time enough by any stretch of the imagination to get up to the fourteenth floor and back, much less do the job in fourteen-twenty.”

“There you are, Will,” said Shayne. He sat down beside the red-faced, stolid chief of police. “We know she was alive at six when her secretary talked to her?”

“How?”

“Hell, she didn’t talk through the door with her throat cut,” Shayne flared.

“We have only the secretary’s word that she talked. Doc Cantrell says it’s quite possible Sara Morton was killed shortly before six.”

Shayne finished his cognac and thumped the glass down on a table. “Is that your only reason to suspect her—because Cantrell says she could have died before six?”

“There’s lots more.” Gentry took his time blowing a puff of cigar smoke, turned his head to study Shayne suspiciously. “You seem to have fallen hard—and fast, Mike.”

“Take off her glasses and she’s not bad,” he said tersely. “What’s the ‘lots more’?”

“The death-room door was double locked,” Gentry rumbled placidly. “Only exit for the murderer was through the adjoining room, which Miss Lally used for an office. She has the only key.”

“You don’t need a key to get out of a room,” Shayne protested with moody impatience.

“According to Miss Lally’s story, Miss Morton wouldn’t unlock the door even for her at six,” Gentry pointed out. “Said she wasn’t coming out until she received a phone call. Do you think she unlocked the door to let her murderer in?”

“Do you suppose the murderer announced his intention when he knocked on her door?” Shayne countered.

“But it was someone she knew,” the chief stated flatly. “She wasn’t afraid of whoever killed her. Just stood there with her back turned and let her pick up the shears and plunge them in the side of her throat.”

“Or him,” said Shayne.

“It looks like a woman’s job to me. A sudden outburst of rage. Those shears are the sort of thing a woman would grab up to do the job.”

“That’s damned little evidence to support suspicion of murder,” Shayne contended.

“There’s more. And I’d rather hoped you could supply me with the clincher. Why was Miss Morton so anxious to get hold of you all day? We know she phoned your office three times.”

“I was fishing all day. I went straight to my office from the boat and found a memo listing three calls from her. That was eight-thirty—when I called her room and had her paged. Tim must have told you about it. He was with Miss Lally when she took my call in the lobby.”

“Will knows about that,” Rourke said. “But you didn’t tell us you hadn’t talked to her, Mike. I had the impression you had.”

“Too bad you didn’t,” Gentry said. “I’m pretty sure she suspected Miss Lally planned to murder her. She would have told you all about it if you’d been in your office where you belonged. That’s the trouble with you damned private eyes. No system—no regular office hours.”

“What makes you so sure Morton suspected Miss Lally?” Shayne asked. “Where’s your motive?” He sat bent forward with bare forearms on his knees, and he spoke with sharp impatience.

“They had a fight around two o’clock this morning,” Gentry told him calmly. “Around two a.m. Did Lally tell you about that?”

“She had no reason to. If she had known Miss Morton was dead and she was under suspicion—What did they fight about?” he broke off abruptly.

“That’s what I want to ask Miss Lally. It must have been a pretty hot brawl. The party in the adjoining room called down and complained about the noise. He said they were quarreling about money. When the night manager went up, Miss Lally was in the connecting room, crying and packing a bag. Miss Morton had the manager move her secretary to another room. Said she didn’t want her sleeping in fourteen twenty-two any longer.”

Shayne scowled heavily and tugged at his left ear lobe. “I thought the adjoining room was just used as an office. Beatrice Lally is down the hall in fourteen-oh-eight.” He appealed to Rourke. “You stopped in with us when she got her wrap, Tim.”

“She was moved into that room a little after two this morning,” Gentry said grimly. “Up to that time she slept in the connecting bedroom as well as using it to work in. That’s something else Miss Lally didn’t think to tell you,” he ended with heavy irony.

“I didn’t have time to get her life story,” Shayne snapped, glowering at the faded dungarees. “I have a hunch she might get a little more intimate if you’d let me change and keep my date with her.”

“Where is she, Mike?” rumbled Gentry. “She hasn’t gone back to the hotel. The Tidehaven is covered, and my men have instructions to call me here the minute she turns up.”

“She didn’t go back to the hotel. I dropped her off at a friend’s to have a few drinks while I came home to clean up.”

“What friend?”

“Now wait, Will. I’ll see that you get her for questioning just as soon as you convince me there’s any real evidence tying her in with murder. Just because they had a scrap and Morton had her moved to another room—” He shook his head and turned to Rourke.

“How about it, Tim? You knew Sara Morton. Wouldn’t you guess she was difficult to get along with?”

“Like a buzz saw,” said Tim emphatically. “She was hot stuff and knew she was hot stuff. The incomparable Sara—and don’t you forget it—was her theme song.”

“There you are, Will.” Shayne spread out both hands. “It’s natural for two women like Morton and Lally to get on each other’s nerves when they’ve worked so closely together for ten years.”

“Don’t forget their argument last night was about money, Mike,” said Gentry.

“So what? You’ve got the word of the man in the next room. Maybe Miss Lally wanted a raise.” Shayne’s voice was harsh with anger.

Shayne and Gentry had worked successfully together for many years, and now, seeing Shayne’s anger and impatience rising, Gentry became calm. “I don’t think it was that, Mike. The tie-up is this: The best we can figure, the murder was committed during a quarrel over money.”

“What do you base that on?”

“This.” Gentry took a rumpled half of a five-hundred-dollar bill from his vest pocket and handed it to Shayne. “It was in the dead woman’s hand,” he said quietly. “Looks like the murderer tried to snatch it away and tore it in two, then got panicky and killed the dame and left her lying there without taking time to pry her fingers open to get out the other half of what they were fighting over.”

Shayne placed the half of the bill on the table and smoothed it with the tips of his fingers, turning it over and over, pretending to examine it carefully. “One thing more,” he said. “How’d you happen to find the body?”

“I found it,” Rourke said. “I had another drink at the bar and got worried after you went off with Bea. I was sore, too, I guess.” Rourke paused for a short, mirthless laugh, then continued: “I got to brooding over being stood up by one dame and then having another one walk out on me with a lug like you, Mike. Anyhow, I was tight enough to doubt that la Morton would walk out of the hotel without even stopping by the bar to say hello and good-by. So I hunted up the house dick and made him take me up to her room. When his passkey wouldn’t unlock the door, he tried to brush me off. Said the reason she had her door bolted on the inside was because she didn’t want to be bothered. His tone of voice intimated she particularly didn’t want to be bothered with a drunken bum like me.

“I got mad then,” the reporter went on, his slaty eyes avoiding Shayne. “I told him I knew her well, and was afraid she might have taken an overdose of sleeping-pills. I pointed out that she wouldn’t have left her room with the lights on. He could see the light through the transom, and he got scared and finally unlocked the adjoining room. We went in through the bathroom—and there she was.”

Shayne swore softly and looked surprised. He was relieved to learn that their plan had worked and the police had no suspicion they’d both seen the body previously.

Holding the bill out to Gentry, he asked, “What would you do to the guy you caught with the other half of this, Will?”

“Lock him up for murder.”

A slow grin twisted Shayne’s wide mouth. “I’ve been trying to decide whether to hold this out on you or not. I guess I’d better confess.” He reached in the pocket of his dungarees and got out the special delivery envelope from Sara Morton. He fished out his half of the bill and handed them both to Gentry. “See if they fit.”

Timothy Rourke leaped to his feet and came over to watch Gentry fit the pieces together. “Did you get that off Beatrice, Mike?” he exclaimed incredulously. “For God’s sake—”

“Spill it,” Will Gentry said grimly, rolling his rumpled eyelids up slowly and turning to Shayne. “And it better be good if you don’t like the inside of my jail.”

Shayne hesitated, tapping the envelope with its enclosures against his knee, then said decisively, “Wait one minute while I check what I hope will be an alibi for Miss Lally that even you will have to accept, Will.” He looked up at Rourke, who was still standing before Gentry, puzzling over the torn bill.

“Do you know what time Beatrice met you in the bar, Tim?”

“Six o’clock,” Rourke said promptly.

“Are you sure? Can you swear to it?”

“I’ll be glad to. My date with Morton was for six. I got there a couple minutes early and checked my watch with the lobby clock to make sure how much too early I’d arrived. It was two minutes of six. I went straight to the bar and was just sitting down at a table when Beatrice came in.”

“Is that good enough for you?” Shayne asked Gentry. “You’ve heard Rourke say that afterward she wasn’t out of his sight long enough to go up fourteen floors and back.”

“I’ll take Tim’s word for it,” the chief agreed after a moment’s consideration. “But we’ve still got before six o’clock,” he added impatiently.

“No we haven’t,” Shayne told him evenly. “We’ve just got after six-thirty.” He flipped the envelope over into Gentry’s lap and rose with a simulated yawn. “I forgot to mention that I found that waiting for me at my office when I got there at eight-thirty.” He went to the liquor cabinet, brought back a bottle of cognac, and poured a drink.

Gentry had pulled the contents of the envelope out, and two of the pasted-word threats lay on the floor. Rourke picked them up while Gentry read the brief note from the dead woman.

Shayne said, “Help yourselves to a drink,” and took his glass with him when he sauntered into the bathroom. He ran the hot water and began lathering his face. He looked around with pretended surprise when Gentry roared from the bathroom door.

“What the hell do you mean by holding out on me, Mike. Get that damned lather off your face so we can talk.”

Shayne reached for a straight razor. “But that clears Miss Lally, doesn’t it? I told you I had a date.”

“Cut it out, Mike. This is murder.”

Shayne sighed and wiped the lather from his face with a hot washcloth and followed Gentry into the living-room. When the chief resumed his seat, Shayne faced him with a look of injured innocence and said, “That’s a privileged communication, you know. From a client.”

“Was your half of the bill in that envelope when you opened it?” Gentry demanded.

“If you read what she wrote—”

“I read it,” Gentry cut in heavily. “What did you find out from Lally about those three threats?”

“Not much. One each day in a plain post-office envelope with the address typed. The first two envelopes were destroyed, but she thinks the one that came this morning may be in Miss Morton’s room.”

“No such luck,” said Gentry sourly. “The wastebasket was clean. Nothing at all turned up. Who does Lally think sent them?”

“How would she know?” With both hands shoved deep in the dungaree pockets, Shayne took three slow steps up and back again, then added, “Leo Gannet offered Miss Morton twenty-five grand to get out of town a few days ago.”

“Why?”

“I presume,” said Shayne, walking again, “she was tying his gambling activities in too closely with police graft and political corruption. That was her assignment, wasn’t it, Tim?”

“Something like that. A general expose of crooked operations during the winter season. Any investigation would bump into Gannet from several angles.”

Shayne stopped opposite Gentry. “Morton’s been needling him just for the hell of it, I guess. Dropping in during the evening at his Green Barn and Red House. Worried him enough so he closed down the upstairs rooms in both places. Until tonight,” he went on grimly. “I didn’t know she was dead, you see, when Beatrice and I stopped in looking for Miss Morton; but Leo was definitely not pleased when I asked him how come he’d reopened tonight.”

Gentry frowned distastefully at the soggy cigar butt in his hand. “When Gannet couldn’t buy her off and couldn’t frighten her off—?”

“I don’t actually believe he’s dumb enough to send threats like that,” Shayne broke in. “But he’s got some dumb bunnies working for him. Any one of them might have thought it a smart idea.”

“Why do you figure she didn’t call the police about the threats?” demanded Gentry.

“You’d have to ask her that. Beatrice says the first two didn’t seem to bother her, but when the third came she asked her to look up my phone number.”

“Sara Morton hated the police and distrusted all of them,” Timothy Rourke said. “She’s spent her life reporting criminal conditions in the big cities around the country and I guess that’d disillusion almost anyone.”

“All right,” said Gentry harshly. “So she sits in her room all day behind a locked door trying to reach Shayne. But at six-thirty she gives up trying. She’s convinced the threats mean business and she’s slated to die tonight. So what does she do then?” He pounded his fist on his heavy thigh and the veins in his red face were purple. “Failing to reach Shayne, does she condescend to call in the police? No! She sits down at her typewriter and writes Mr. Shayne a letter, begging him to catch her murderer after he bumps her off. Nuts! No sane person would sit there and wait for death.”

There was a stillness in the room when Gentry finished his reasonable deduction and threw his slightly smoked and half-chewed cigar toward a wastebasket beside Shayne’s desk.

“Sounds like she might’ve got herself into something she couldn’t quite face,” Rourke offered lightly.

Gentry grunted sourly, and Shayne said, “Maybe she wasn’t sane. I never met her. But you have the evidence right there in your hand. She did exactly that, whether you like it or not.”

“Where’s that secretary?” Gentry demanded again.

“Probably passed out by this time, the way she was pouring stuff down when I left her. You have to admit that Sara Morton’s letter clears her.”

“I don’t admit anything,” Gentry rumbled. “I want to talk to her. Now.”

Shayne’s gray eyes glittered angrily. “What’s the matter with you tonight, Will? You’ve got proof enough—”

“There’s no proof Morton actually wrote the letter at six-thirty,” Gentry broke in stubbornly. “Perhaps her watch was wrong. By God! It was wrong,” he roared, pounding his thick thigh with a fleshy fist. “Almost an hour slow. It was still ticking when we found her. If she timed the note by her watch—” He paused to consider the difference this would make.

“An hour slow,” Shayne said mockingly, watching the triumph die out of the chief’s beefy face. “So if she went by her watch, it was actually seven-thirty when she wrote the note.”

“Suppose the murderer pushed the hands back an hour,” Rourke suggested. “Maybe he tried to stop it at a certain hour to give the impression it stopped when she fell—to set the time of death in our minds, but it failed to stop.”

“Either way you’re going to have a difficult time proving she wasn’t alive at least as late as six-thirty,” Shayne pointed out with growing impatience and anger. “And that definitely lets Miss Lally out.”

“It could have been written earlier,” Gentry maintained, but there was no certainty in his tone now, then added weakly, “Maybe her watch is no good at all.”

“Hell of a watch,” growled Shayne, “for an up-on-her-toes newspaper woman.”

“She’d have hurled it on the floor and ground it to bits, diamonds and all, if it hadn’t kept perfect time,” Rourke said with a wicked chuckle.

Shayne poured a small drink in his glass and downed it, turned to Gentry and said in a determinedly controlled voice, “Look, Will. Why don’t you settle this thing once and for all by calling the post office? That letter is stamped at the main post office at seven forty-two. Ask them what pick-up from the Tidehaven would fit that time.”

Gentry nodded sourly, heaved his solid bulk up from the couch, and went stolidly to the telephone on Shayne’s desk, while Rourke added a slug of cognac to his stale drink and Shayne poured himself another. When Gentry cradled the phone he conceded, “The letter must have been dropped in the mail chute between six-ten and seven-fourteen. The seven-fourteen pick-up fits.” He rubbed a pudgy palm wearily over his eyes and forehead, then his heavy lids rolled slowly up, like miniature Venetian blinds, and his vein-streaked eyes were hard as granite when he said, “I want Miss Lally’s story. Tonight.”

“You’re not going to get it,” said Shayne calmly.

“What are you pulling, Mike?”

“It’s my case,” Shayne told him stubbornly. “I don’t want you and your dumb clucks in homicide horning in. But I’ll give you something you can work on,” he went on, using another of his well-worn tactics. “Find Ralph Morton, Sara’s no-good husband whom she supports. He called Miss Lally this morning and said he’d just reached town and wanted an appointment with his wife. She hung up on him, but thinks she heard his voice in the next room this afternoon when she was typing.”

Gentry eyed him suspiciously, asked, “Why would her husband want to stick a pair of shears in her throat?”

“She’s divorcing him. That’ll probably end the five hundred a month she’s been paying him to stay out of her hair.”

“So he kills her to stop her from paying him half a grand a month,” said Gentry with heavy sarcasm.

Shayne was unbuckling the belt of his dungarees. “Maybe he’s legally entitled to half her estate or something. Here’s one more thing, if you’re interested. She was divorcing her husband to marry a punk several years younger than she. Name of Edwin Paisly.” Shayne described him with relish. “Just a bit swishy and with all the earmarks of being more interested in her money than in her. Ask him where he was between six-thirty and seven, and don’t blame me if you get your wrist slapped.” He had the dungarees unbuttoned and he held them up with both hands as he started toward the bathroom again.

“Hold it, Mike.” Gentry’s voice was peremptory. “What else did you get from Miss Lally?”

“Very little.” Shayne continued into the bathroom without turning his head.

Gentry followed him to the open door. “No matter how little—I want it. And I want to question her.”

Shayne shook his red head stubbornly. “You can question her tomorrow.”

“Why not tonight, Mike? What the devil are you covering up?”

“Nothing. But if I told you my real reason for keeping her away from you tonight, you’d have to horn in. Leave me alone and I’ll solve your damned case for you.”

Will Gentry was silent for a moment while Shayne began lathering his face, then told him ominously, “You’re ‘way out on a limb, Mike. Don’t try to push me around like you do Peter Painter over on the Beach.”

“Then quit acting like Painter,” Shayne advised him irritably.

Gentry’s beefy face became a deeper red. His lips parted but he closed them firmly, turned about, and plodded from the room without another word.

Timothy Rourke got up after the outer door closed behind Chief Gentry and strolled to the open bathroom door with a scowl twisting his thin features. “I think you’re wrong on this, Mike.”

“I haven’t asked for your opinion.”

“But you’re going to get it just the same. If you’ve let that Lally doll go to your head so you don’t know who your friends are—”

Shayne picked up his razor and said disinterestedly, “Go ahead and get it off your chest, but don’t mind me if I shave at the same time. I’ve got a hot date.”

Rourke choked over what he was about to say. He glared at the detective with unconcealed disgust, then turned on his heel and strode out angrily.

Chapter Five

One Pinch Of Shamus

SHAYNE STOPPED SHAVING and looked at his watch as soon as the door closed behind Rourke. The time was two minutes past eleven. He hurried out and turned on the small radio on the bedside table, switched to a local newscast and heard:

“… death weapon was identified by Timothy Rourke, well-known reporter for the Miami News and close friend of the murdered woman, as a highly prized possession of Miss Morton’s, a testimonial gift presented to her by the Better Citizenship Bureau of Akron, Ohio, two years ago, in gratitude for her outstanding public service in exposing criminal conditions in that city.

“At this time there are no new developments in this sensational case, but keep tuned to this station for on-the-spot bulletins for which we will interrupt any of our regular programs.

“Police are still seeking Michael Shayne, nationally famous private detective of this city, and the dead woman’s private secretary, Miss Beatrice Lally, for questioning. It is known that Mr. Shayne and Miss Lally left the hotel together, shortly after nine o’clock, to search among her favorite nightspots for Miss Morton, apparently unaware that she was dead at that time. It is known that Miss Morton sought professional advice from Mr. Shayne shortly before her death, and police are confident that information in his possession will point to the identity of the killer as soon as he can be reached.

“Do you wake up feeling irritable and sluggish in…”

He snapped the dial and, returning to the bathroom, shaved hurriedly, showered, and padded to a chest of drawers in the bedroom as he toweled his rangy body. He was buckling a belt around the waist of gray flannel slacks when the telephone rang. He answered on the bedside extension: “Mike Shayne speaking.”

A cultured masculine voice said, “Please listen carefully, Mr. Shayne. I’m calling from a public booth at a roadside tavern, so don’t try to trace this call. I will be miles away before anyone could get here if you notified them.”

“Fair enough. Who are you and what do you want?”

“I heard the eleven o’clock newscast,” the voice went on, “and learned that Miss Sara Morton has been murdered.” He spoke with breathless intensity and a note of desperation.

“That’s right.” Shayne waited, tugging at his ear lobe, his eyes narrowed thoughtfully as he tried to identify the voice.

“When was she murdered, Shayne? The newscaster didn’t say, and it is vitally important to me.”

“Why?”

“Because—” His voice faltered, and Shayne could hear his heavy breathing; then he went on urgently, “Was she alive as late as seven o’clock?”

“I don’t know why I should give out such information,” said Shayne impatiently.

“Would you like to earn ten thousand dollars, Shayne?”

“I wouldn’t turn it down.”

“I didn’t think you would,” he said, “from what I’ve heard about you. Have you told the police what Miss Morton consulted you about today?”

“No.”

“And the secretary? Has she talked to the police since learning of Miss Morton’s death?”

“I have her stashed away where the police can’t get at her until I say the word,” Shayne told him. He paused briefly, then added carefully, “I had a hunch you might be willing to pay a little something to keep this quiet.”

“Then—you know who I am?”

“I think I know your name,” Shayne lied tranquilly.

“I assure you that I did not kill her, Shayne.” His voice broke on a falsetto key like the changing voice of a teen-aged boy.

“But you have no alibi for before seven?” Shayne said.

“Precisely. And even if that alibi is sufficient, you can readily understand that a police investigation would bring the whole story to light—and ruin me.”

“Naturally.” Shayne scowled heavily, wondering how long he could keep the man talking without giving away the fact that he hadn’t the faintest idea what he was talking about.

“If you and the secretary could be induced to listen to reason—that is, I infer the secretary knows all about it. She must have typed the script.”

“I think I can handle Miss Lally,” Shayne broke in, “but there’s no use discussing a thing like this on the phone.”

“My thought exactly, Shayne.” His tone held a hint of hope. “I suppose I’ll have to trust you to come alone. If you will give me your word of honor—”

“That’s no good,” Shayne broke in again, harshly, and sweat dripped from his face. “If you make arrangements now and something goes wrong—the police get onto you from another angle or manage to follow me—you’d never believe I hadn’t turned you in… Let’s do it this way,” he continued, improvising swiftly. “Can you be in the barroom of the Golden Cock on Biscayne Boulevard in half an hour?”

“I can just about make it. But if this is a trap—”

“How can it be trap?” Shayne interrupted. He took a chance and added, “I don’t know what you look like, so it’ll be safe enough for you to go there. Do you know me by sight?”

“I’ve seen your picture in the papers.”

“I want to handle this so you’ll know I haven’t double-crossed you no matter what happens. The Golden Cock bar will be crowded, and I’ll mingle in the thickest of the crowds. The police may tail me and be watching. Don’t speak to me or give yourself away in any way. Have a brief note wadded up to slip into my right hand, telling me where to meet you. I’ll stay in plain sight after you give it to me, and won’t communicate with anyone until I go out to my car and read the note. You can follow me to make sure I’m not being tailed. Then you’ll know I’m on the level.” Shayne paused, feeling uncertain, yet hopeful. He knew it wasn’t very good, but it was the best he could think of on the spur of the moment.

“That sounds like a lot of melodramatic hocus-pocus,” his caller complained.

“That’s the way it has to be if you want to see me tonight,” he said flatly. “At the Golden Cock in half an hour.” He cradled the receiver before the man could make further protests.

There was no rush now. The Golden Cock was only ten minutes away. Shayne selected a gray and red tie, tied it carefully, then put on a Palm Beach coat a shade darker than the slacks. He combed his wet hair and pulled a clean gray hat down over it, determined that the genial manager of the Golden Cock should not have to apologize for his appearance.

In the living-room he poured a stiff drink and sat down to wait.

The case was breaking even faster than he had anticipated. He wondered who the devil his caller was, frowning because he hadn’t been able to trick him into giving his name. But there was no way he could have found out without revealing the fact that he had not talked to Sara Morton.

That was his one trump card, the supposition that he knew a great many things he didn’t know. If word got around that Miss Morton had been unable to reach him for consultation the case was apt to drag out interminably.

He finished off the cognac and went down in the elevator and out through the side entrance without seeing any of Gentry’s men. He got in his car and drove leisurely to the Golden Cock, watching through the rear-view mirror, but seeing no car that appeared to be tailing him.

He drove past the doorman and parked his car where he could find it in a hurry and as near the exit as possible, got out and sauntered back to the entrance.

The manager hurried to greet him, saying, “Well, well, back again, Shayne. Miss Morton hasn’t showed up yet, but I have a nice table where you can—”

“Thanks, Harold,” he said, “but I just dropped in for a drink. Miss Morton has been located.” He turned from the dining-room entrance and went into the crowded cocktail lounge, stopping just inside the doorway to light a cigarette and letting his gaze wander slowly over the faces toward him, hoping to spot the man who should be watching for him if he had already arrived. He nodded to several acquaintances who lifted a hand or voice in greeting, then moved into the room. He noted the presence of three plainclothesmen who had the unmistakable brand of homicide squad stamped all over them. He wondered idly whether they anticipated the coming contact or merely hoped to pick up information because Sara Morton was known to frequent the Golden Cock.

He forced his way in as close to the bar as possible, caught the bartender’s eye, and held up two fingers. “Cognac coming up, Mr. Shayne,” he said with a smile of recognition, and less than half a minute later, Shayne stretched a long arm past two rows of shoulders to exchange two one-dollar bills for the double shot. He transferred the glass to his left hand and let his right arm dangle at his side with the palm turned outward as he moved casually into the crowd. Twice he paused to chat with friends, grinning to himself when the headquarters men followed him, keeping a wary eye on his movements, but not coming in close enough to prevent a note being slipped into his hand.

Twice he stiffened and held himself ready to close his hand when knuckles touched his palm, but nothing happened. He relaxed and moved on to give the man a better chance to step in beside him unobtrusively.

A girl in a red dress, with big breasts and hopeful eyes, caught his left arm and began chattering vivaciously:

“Mike Shayne! Of all things! It’s been ages, darling. Still chasing murderers and blond gun-molls—and catching the molls?” She squealed with delight at her witticism.

Her stooped, gray-haired escort said mildly, “Don’t mind Ethel, Mr. Shayne. She’s had six bourbons, and if I don’t get her out of here—”

Shayne didn’t hear what he was saying. Two men stood close to his right side, their backs toward him. A waiter passed in front of them with a laden tray balanced precariously in his right palm. Both men stepped back to avoid him, bringing them in contact with Shayne’s hand.

He felt the sharp corner of a wadded bit of paper pressed against his palm. One of the homicide dicks he had spotted stood in front of him and not more than three feet away, eyeing him with poorly concealed interest.

Shayne suddenly developed a chummy interest in the chatter of the girl in the red dress and her gray-haired companion, not moving a muscle except to grip his right hand into a fist.

He laughed heartily when the girl laughed, turned his head casually to glance at the two men who had been momentarily close enough to pass a note.

One was tall with a hook-nosed profile and not much chin. All he could see of the other man was square shoulders and the round back of a partially bald head.

Shayne excused himself, saying, “Nice to have seen you again, Ethel,” and began moving casually but definitely toward the exit, his right hand clenched at his side.

Forcing himself to walk slowly as he neared the door, he was ready to step out and increase his speed through the lobby when a tall, quiet-faced man straightened from a lounging position against the wall and caught his right arm just above the wrist. At the same instant a bulky man pushed in on the other side to wedge him tight against his brother officer.

“We can do this without any fuss,” the tall man said quietly, “or we can have fuss and cuffs.”

Shayne set his teeth hard together. “You boys must be new,” he grated. “I don’t remember seeing you around.”

“We’ve seen you around, shamus,” the bulky man assured him. “Do you walk in the manager’s office quiet, or do we make it a pinch?”

“Is it a pinch?” Shayne demanded hotly. He twisted his right wrist unobtrusively and strained to free it, but the tall man gripped it solidly and brought his other hand across to close over Shayne’s fists as though he guessed the redhead wanted to drop something from it.

“It’s a pinch if you want it that way,” he said.

“What charge?” Shayne growled.

“Drunk in a public place will do long enough to go over you,” said the bulky cop implacably.

They started forward, and Shayne went with them. “Wait’ll I see Will Gentry,” he said bitterly. “You two mugs will be pounding the pavement by this time tomorrow. You must be damned new in Miami, or you’d know Will and I are just like—” He tried to lift his right hand to demonstrate.

“Don’t get your guts in an uproar, Shayne,” the tall man advised. “You’ll get your chance to complain to the chief.”

They reached a paneled door marked Manager. It stood slightly ajar. They pushed it open and shoved Shayne inside.

“Hello, Mike.” Will Gentry sat solidly in a swivel chair behind the manager’s desk.

Shayne’s eyes glittered with anger. “So this is the way you decided to play it,” he said savagely.

Gentry shifted his dead cigar to the other corner of his mouth and agreed imperturbably, “This is the way I’m playing it.” He narrowed his eyes at Shayne’s clenched fist and added, “Open it up and let’s see the note, Mike.”

Chapter Six

A Stranger Takes a Hint

“WHAT NOTE?” Gentry glanced inquiringly at the two officers.

The bulky one nodded emphatically and said, “He didn’t drop it. Soon as he started out I followed him and watched his fist after I gave Allen the office, and he grabbed him at the door.”

“Open up, Mike,” Gentry ordered.

The trenches in Shayne’s cheeks deepened. He drew in a long breath and said:

“So you did tap my wire. I had a hunch you were going to pull something like that. That’s why I kept the guy from giving anything away over the phone. I didn’t mind you casing the joint here and trying to pick him up,” he went on angrily, “but you should have warned these clucks to leave me alone until I got the line I needed. We’ll never solve the case now—the way you’ve messed it up.”

“What about the man who passed the note?” Gentry asked the bulky one.

“I’m not sure which one of four or five guys might’ve done it. I stayed close as I could without interfering, but there was such a—”

“I imagine the note will give us the information we need,” Gentry broke in happily. “He’ll spill what he knows when we get him to headquarters.”

“But there isn’t any note,” Shayne told him. “Whoever he is, he may not even be here yet. Or if he was out there, he saw me get picked and beat it.”

“No one has beat it since you were picked up,” Gentry assured him. “I’ve got men blocking the exits. Give it to me, Mike.” He creaked the swivel chair forward and held out his heavy hand, palm up.

Shayne shook his red head slowly. “I’ve never lied to you, Will. In all the years—”

“You lied to me tonight,” rumbled Gentry, “when you swore Miss Morton hadn’t succeeded in contacting you today. Don’t forget I’ve got a transcript of your telephone conversation to prove it.”

“You’re a fool, Will.” Shayne spoke the words flatly, regretfully. “If you weren’t so damned bent on proving me a liar you’d realize I was playing the guy along, pretending I knew all about him when I didn’t know anything. You’ve ruined my one chance to get any real information out of him.”

He held his arm out and slowly spread his fingers out. His hand was empty.

Gentry stared in disbelief and surprise, then his beefy face grew dark with anger. “That won’t do, Mike. I’ll have Allen and Bates search you right here if you don’t hand it over.”

“Isn’t that getting pretty high-handed, Will?” Shayne’s voice was deceptively gentle. “You can push me so far—”

“And farther if I decide to.” Gentry bit the words off curtly. “I’m not fooling, Mike. If you make any trouble, you’ll run your business for the next six months from a cell in my jail.” He nodded to the two officers. “Get the note off him.”

Shayne shrugged, then stood still as the men moved in, suppressing his rage as they explored every pocket, and every possible place where a small note might be concealed, their faces showing anger and complete consternation when they started taking off his shoes and socks.

Allen stood up, scratched his head as protruding eyes went over Shayne as if he expected to see the note pinned, on his suit, and reported, “It’s not on him, Chief. I don’t get it.”

“I swear he couldn’ve got rid of it,” the bulky one began.

“There never was a note,” Shayne grated. His temper went out of control as he put on his socks and shoes. He tied the last lace, stood up and smoothed his coat, lit a cigarette, stepped over and lowered one hip to a corner of the desk.

“Your men messed everything up by moving in before any note was passed. Our man is probably out there now biting his nails and wondering how in hell he’s going to make contact.”

“He’s still bottled up,” Gentry muttered. “We can go over the lot of them—”

“And find out what?” Shayne demanded hotly. “All we know about him thus far is that he’s some man who has had some connection with Miss Morton that makes him a logical suspect for her murder. No name. No description. Nothing. So you’re going to shake down a barroom full of men looking for what?” His voice was savagely jeering.

“From the way you talked to him on the phone—”

“Nuts. You know damned well I was playing him along.”

“You admit guessing your line was tapped and that you deliberately prevented him from naming a time and place to meet where we could have picked him up,” Gentry exploded.

“Of course I did. The one thing I don’t want is for you to pick him up.”

“Because he offered you ten grand to keep him put of the investigation.”

“Maybe. That’s reason enough. But there’s another reason. You’d realize it if you took time to think. You grab him and he clams up. Without an alibi for the time between six-thirty and seven he admits he’s definitely on the spot. So he won’t tell you anything. Why should he? But he’ll spill his guts if I get to him alone and handle him right. He thinks I already know what his connection is.”

“And Miss Lally knows, too,” Gentry reminded him. “All we have to do is ask her—”

“You’re not going to ask Miss Lally anything,” Shayne cut in. “Don’t you see? This bird will make a deal with me only so long as he thinks I can keep his part in it quiet. It’ll all be off the minute he learns that either Lally or I have talked to you.”

“You mean the ten-grand deal will be off.”

“I mean the ten-grand deal,” he conceded. “And maybe the inside dope that’ll solve a murder for you. Who in hell are you, anyway,” he added angrily, “to talk about ten-grand like it was peanuts? How much does the city pay you to mess around and prevent me from catching murderers?”

Will Gentry’s face was purple. He glared at the two officers and roared, “Report back to headquarters and put on uniforms. Show up for patrol duty tomorrow morning.”

Shayne waited until the door closed behind them, his face turned aside to hide a grin, then leaned forward and said soothingly:

“You can’t help making mistakes when you have to depend on a couple of farmers to be intelligent, Will. For God’s sake let’s quit fighting and put our heads together the way we’ve done in the past. I never let you down; and if I can pick up a hunk of cash for myself, why should you get in my way?”

“I don’t like the way you’re holding Miss Lally out on me,” he said grudgingly.

“I wanted this chance for somebody like the character who phoned to contact me,” Shayne said persuasively. “Let’s assume he’s the one who has been sending the threats to Sara Morton—and ended up by murdering her. He evidently feels that Miss Morton suspected him. He hears over the radio that she consulted me today, and feels sure she passed her suspicions on to me. But as long as he thinks I’m the only one who knows, who has enough extra information to take whatever Miss Lally knows about him and add it up to murder, then he’s frantic to get hold of me and make a deal before I spill it to the cops.”

“For ten thousand dollars,” Gentry reiterated harshly.

“All right. For ten grand. Let him pay it. I’ve got a newspaper reputation for making deals like that and he feels safe. But you know I never protected a killer.” Shayne took a final drag on his cigarette and rubbed it out in an ash tray, eased himself farther onto the table, and nursed a knobby knee between his hands while Gentry made up his mind.

“How do you propose we handle it now?” Gentry asked slowly.

His profile was toward Gentry now. Without turning his head, he said, “I don’t see any way of doing it—unless you make up your mind that a guy who hasn’t double-crossed you in nearly fifteen years isn’t going to start now.”

“Suppose I grant that, Mike?”

Shayne shifted his position to face Gentry again. His eyes were very bright. “Then we work it this way. If our man was out there we can be sure he tore up the note when he saw me picked up by your men. Your men have the place bottled up and he couldn’t have got away.

“Call your men off, then you and I will put on an act. We’ll go out together—and you’ll be sore. We’ll go into the bar, and you refuse a drink and demand for the last time that I tell you where Miss Lally is. I’ll make a crack about the privacy of information received from a client, then announce I’m going home to bed. Play it right, and he’ll call me again to make another appointment as soon as I get home. And for God’s sake pull your man off my telephone line.”

Gentry grunted noncommittally, then said, “We can try it,” dubiously. “When will you let me know what you get?”

“If he calls and you trust me to meet him without interference, you’ll be hearing from me shortly. Pull your men off, then let’s go into the act.” Shayne swung to his feet.

The foyer was empty when they went out together. Gentry stepped to the outer door and spoke a few words to a man standing just outside, then came back and they went into the barroom with Gentry saying angrily:

“One of these days I’m going to run you in, Mike, so help me. This is murder, and I’ve got a right to any information you’ve got.”

“I’ve given you everything I’m going to. Come on and have a drink—just to show there’re no hard feelings.”

“I mean it, Mike.” Gentry stopped, his lower jaw thrust out pugnaciously. “I’m asking you for the last time where Miss Lally is.”

Into the sudden quiet, with all eyes turned toward them, Shayne said, “And I’ve told you she’s too upset to be questioned tonight. Don’t bother to put a tail on me when I leave here,” he went on contemptuously, “because I’m not going near Miss Lally. If you won’t drink with me, I’m leaving.”

Shayne stalked out through the foyer, slowed when he was out of sight of the barroom patrons, and dallied on the way to the car he had parked so strategically for getting away as soon as he knew where to go.

He stopped with his hand on the car door when the doorman’s voice came over the loud-speaker ordering a car to the front. The name sounded like Harsh, or Garsh.

He got in and circled, drove slowly toward the front exit, and saw a wide-shouldered man of medium height waiting beside the doorman. He continued without increasing speed, turned right, and stopped a hundred feet away.

When the other car turned right, he pulled away from the curb, loafed along at twenty miles an hour for a dozen blocks, watching the rear-view window with interest and noting that the driver stayed consistently a block behind him and showed no desire to pass.

Shayne sped up and drove on a few blocks until he reached a short street that dead-ended against the bay. He turned right and drove to the end, parked at an angle with his bumper touching the rail, and shut off the lights and motor.

A moment later another car turned in and came slowly toward him. He straightened and bent a little forward to let the headlights outline his head and shoulders.

The car drew up beside him and a man got out. Shayne opened a door to let the man slide in beside him, saying casually:

“I had an idea you’d take the hint and follow me.”

Chapter Seven

A Man on a Spot

SHAYNE RECOGNIZED HIS VOICE when the man asked anxiously:

“What went wrong, Shayne? I had a note ready and tried to put it in your hand, but you closed up tight—refused to accept it. Then you started out and those men picked you up.”

“Dicks from headquarters,” Shayne explained. “I spotted one of them watching us just when you tried to push the note in my hand. It wasn’t safe to take it. They didn’t get anything out of me about you, and I had an idea you’d stick around for another try.”

“Wasn’t that Chief Gentry you were quarreling with?” he asked nervously.

“That’s right. He’s pretty sore because I refused to tell him why Miss Morton called me today. And I’m keeping Miss Lally away from him until I hear your story and decide what I’m going to do.”

“I didn’t kill her, Shayne. I shan’t deny to you that I’m glad someone did. I was a fool to threaten her last night, but I lost my temper—as any man would under the circumstances.”

“And you can’t prove you’re innocent,” said Shayne. “Your threat, coupled with her death in less than twenty-four hours, puts you right on the spot.”

“I have no alibi until seven o’clock. God! If I’d only known it was going to happen—Exactly when was she killed?”

“We’ll skip that for a minute. Even if you can prove you didn’t kill her, you’re willing to pay ten grand to keep your connection with the case quiet?”

“I’m willing to pay that amount to someone I can trust to keep their word. You, for instance. They say you’re unscrupulous about money, but never double-crossed anyone who trusted you. It wasn’t because of the money that I refused to meet Miss Morton’s demand,” he blurted out angrily, “but because I don’t believe it’s ever worth while to pay tribute to a blackmailer. Once they get the first payment they never stop until you’re sucked dry. But I don’t suppose she told you that part of it,” he ended bitterly.

“No—she didn’t mention she was blackmailing you.”

“Naturally not. I wonder how many times she’s pulled this same stunt in the past—posing as a reformer and going around the country collecting medals for cleaning up rackets while she runs a blackmail racket on the side.” He sighed heavily and relaxed the tension that had kept him sitting erect.

Shayne offered him a cigarette. He declined with thanks, and Shayne took his time tapping one on the steering-wheel, striking a match, lighting it, and blowing a cloud of smoke through the window, waiting to see whether he would volunteer any more information.

“You’d better tell me the whole thing your way,” he suggested when the silence grew awkward. “Then I can balance your story against what I already know and decide whether I can afford to cover up for you.”

The man cleared his throat. “Tell me—first—did that secretary hear me make that crazy threat last night?”

“I don’t know. She didn’t mention it to me. What makes you think she might have overheard?”

“Why—I gathered she was sleeping in the next room. The Morton woman called through the bathroom for her to come in after I shot my mouth off. I could hear her plainly when she responded, but I left before she came in.”

“Then she didn’t actually see you?”

“No—but I imagine she heard the whole thing. I didn’t realize it was a connecting bathroom and—well, I had one too many drinks under my belt and guess I talked pretty loud. But how could I know someone else was going to murder her today?” he ended defiantly.

“We’ll assume for the moment that someone else did.”

The man took a long cigar from his pocket. Shayne’s match book was still cupped in his palm. He hastily struck one, held it to the cigar, and studied the man’s features by the brief flare.

He saw strong, irregular features that went well with the heavy shoulders. Around fifty, Shayne guessed, and just before the match flickered out he met Shayne’s gaze squarely.

He pulled on the cigar until the end glowed evenly all around, then said quietly, “I presume you know I am a moderately wealthy man, Shayne. Head of my own company, Burton Harsh Associates—real estate and building promotions. One thing Miss Morton probably didn’t tell you, and it isn’t generally known, is that right at the moment our cash resources are spread pretty thin. During this inflationary boom we’ve been pyramiding investments until we’re top-heavy. Not that we aren’t fundamentally sound,” he added quickly. “We’re quietly unloading, and within ninety days will be in a position to weather any sort of crisis. But right now—as of today—a scandal such as the Morton woman threatened—might easily sweep away everything. If our creditors were to come down on us all at once—force us to liquidate—” He paused.

The last statements were labored and jerky, and when he failed to continue and give the catastrophic results, Shayne sat quietly for a while and tried to remember what he had heard or read about the man. The name of Burton Harsh was vaguely familiar, and he gradually recalled having seen it prominently listed in charity drives, meetings of local business leaders, and civic betterment associations.

“There is that angle,” said Harsh. “And don’t think Morton didn’t know all about it. She’s been digging inside information about my organization for a week. No matter what else can be said about the woman, she did have a faculty for ferreting out facts.

“But here is the angle that made me threaten to kill her, Shayne,” he went on in an even, controlled voice. “I have a wife and two lovely daughters. Viola will graduate from finishing-school this year. Mary is only fourteen. None of them have the faintest inkling of this thing. My wife is a wonderful woman and I can depend on her to stand by me at all cost. But how can you make children understand—?” His voice broke, and he hastily put the cigar between his teeth and took a deep drag on it before resuming:

“I frankly confess I’m pleading with you—just as I pleaded with Miss Morton. Haven’t I made restitution for that one youthful mistake? Must everything I’ve laboriously built up for years be swept away?

“I asked Miss Morton those same questions a week ago—as soon as I learned she had dug up that old story and planned to expose me in one of her syndicated articles. She had the unmitigated gall to lecture me about her sacred duty as a citizen and the ethics of her profession. My God! I was fool enough to think her protestations were sincere. I argued with her on the basis of decency and humanitarianism, pointed out that nothing would be gained by digging up that old charge now, and that many people would be irremediably hurt. And like a fool I thought I had made some headway. She promised to think it over seriously and I believed her. And all the time she must have been wondering how much she could shake me down for.” He spoke with rising anger and without the slightest physical gesture. When he stopped talking his square jaw appeared to be set in defiant anger, but Shayne decided it was made that way, for he smoked in a completely relaxed manner.

Impatient to get on with Harsh’s story, Shayne asked, “How did you first learn Miss Morton was planning to publish the story?”

“Carl Garvin told me. Carl manages the local office of her syndicate and she asked him to dig up certain information about me here, not realizing, of course, that he would come to me with it at once.”

“Is Garvin a good friend of yours?”

“He’s engaged to marry Viola, my eldest daughter. I must say Carl has acted splendidly throughout. He first did his best to dissuade her from her plan. When she wouldn’t be dissuaded he came to me with sympathy and understanding. Not many young men would stand by after learning that his future father-in-law has an old murder indictment hanging over his head.”

“When did you realize Miss Morton had no intention of killing the story?”

“Yesterday. When I received her demand for money. I keep forgetting you don’t know that part. She couldn’t have been very proud of it, and that’s why she called on a private detective for protection instead of the police.

“It was a very polite blackmail letter,” Harsh continued bitterly. “Cleverly composed. I doubt whether I could legally prove attempted extortion from the wording of it. She sent me a carbon copy of the story, and explained she was holding the original while she made up her mind whether to publish it or not. She pointed out that such a sensational story would create wide interest and add to her stature as a crime reporter as well as bring a large sum of money. In view of this loss to her she suggested I make the noble gesture of paying her twenty-five thousand dollars. The implications were veiled, but it was a definite threat to publish the story and ruin me if I didn’t come across.”

Shayne swore softly and shifted his position. “I had no idea she was that type of person,” he confessed.

“Take it from me, Shayne, the whole transaction has a practiced and professional ring. With twenty years of experience in digging up criminal records and having unlimited access to any records she wants all over the country, there’s no telling how many others she has blackmailed. It was probably one of her victims who drove her own shears into her throat,” he ended helplessly, “just as I threatened to do last night.”

“Do you mean you actually anticipated the method used by her murderer?” Shayne asked.

“I told her I would enjoy shoving the point of those fancy shears into her blackmailing heart,” he said savagely.

Shayne gave a sharp whistle and said dolefully, “If Miss Lally testifies she heard you use those words, you’ll really be on the spot. Give me your alibi for tonight.”

“I was out in my motor cruiser all day—alone. When I sobered up this morning I had a horrible hang-over and a nagging uneasiness that I’d made a fool of myself by going to Miss Morton last night. I couldn’t face anyone, not even my wife, so I slipped away early and drove down to a little fishing-lodge below Homestead. I stayed on the water all day and drove back just in time to keep a seven-o’clock dinner appointment with Carl at the Seven Seas. He drove home with me afterward and stayed until about nine o’clock.”

“Anybody to swear you were out in the boat or to testify when you drove in from Homestead?”

“Not a soul. I didn’t stop anywhere on the road, and there was no one else at the lodge.”

“So from the police viewpoint you may have driven in half an hour early after brooding all day, gone to the Tidehaven, and polished off Miss Morton before keeping your date at the Seven Seas with your future son-in-law.”

“That’s correct,” Harsh agreed steadily. “If she was killed before seven.” He drew in a long breath. “Was she?”

“We’re not sure,” Shayne told him. “There are certain indications that she was alive at seven-thirty. Other evidence points to six-thirty as the latest we can be sure of.”

“If you can fix the time as seven-thirty, Shayne,” he said impulsively, “and keep my name out of the papers—I’ll double my first offer.”

“I’ll have to talk to Miss Lally,” Shayne muttered. “And I need Carl Garvin’s confirmation of what you told me. Also his impression of Miss Morton. Is Garvin a heavy gambler?” he asked abruptly.

“Carl—a gambler?” Burton Harsh sounded genuinely surprised. “I’ve played some dollar-limit poker with him, but I have an idea that’s about the highest stakes he can afford. Why do you ask that?”

Shayne said, “It doesn’t matter.” Again he moved restlessly, shifted his position. “What I don’t understand is why you bothered to send Morton those foolish letters trying to drive her out of town. She already had the dope for her story, so what did you hope to gain?”

Harsh moved his solid body for the first time, jerking his torso tensely erect. “What are you talking about? What letters?”

“It was kid stuff, Harsh, to cut words out of advertisements and paste them on slips of paper. Not very smart, either. Don’t you know that paste and paper and even scissors marks can be scientifically traced and identified?”

“I haven’t the remotest idea what you mean,” Harsh protested vigorously, and for the first time since their telephone conversation Shayne detected fear and uncertainty in the financier’s voice.

“Sure you don’t know?”

“I give you my word of honor that I have not sent any communication whatsoever, written or pasted, to Sara Morton.” It was a flat statement of fact, but again there was a hint of doubt and of fear behind the words.

“Someone mailed her a threat every day for three consecutive days. The third one came today, setting tonight as the deadline for her to get out of Miami. Without the knowledge of your threat last night, the police are acting on the assumption that the threat was carried out.”

“Describe them to me—in detail,” Harsh insisted. He was greatly agitated, and there was little doubt in Shayne’s mind that this was the first he had heard of the threats.

“I’m handling that end of it for you,” Shayne reminded him. “Or will be as soon as you make a down payment on the ten grand. Say half now and the balance when it’s ended and your name has been kept out of it.”

“But suppose my name comes into it in spite of your efforts, Shayne?”

“You’ll be out that much.”

“It seems to me the entire sum should be payable only in the event you succeed.”

“I don’t do business that way. If you’re not prepared to lay half of it on the line right now, we’ll call the whole thing quits.”

“And you’ll go to the police with this information I’ve given you tonight?”

“Why not? I’ve got my own neck to think about. If I don’t get paid for sticking it out, why should I bother?”

Harsh frowned and puffed on his cigar for a moment, then said, “You understand I don’t carry that sort of money around with me. If you’ll take a check—”

“You may be in jail charged with Sara Morton’s murder before I could get a check certified tomorrow morning,” Shayne told him cheerfully.

“Then why am I paying you at all?” argued Harsh in an irritated tone.

“The next few hours are the important ones. The only way to keep you absolutely in the clear is for me to move fast and turn up the murderer before the cops force me to let them have Miss Lally. For that, you’re going to pay five grand on the line.”

“The banks are closed. I don’t see how you expect me to meet such a demand.”

“Nuts. You’re well enough known around town so there are a dozen night spots that will cash your check for a thousand or more. Get the cash to me at my hotel within an hour if you want to buy my co-operation. Turn it over to John, the night clerk, and have him put it in the safe.”

A concentrated frown between Harsh’s eyes was the only outward evidence of his tormented mind. “See here, Shayne, I trust you to keep quiet, but what about that Miss Lally? How do I know she hasn’t already talked—or will go to the police any minute.”

“You have my word for that,” said Shayne dryly.

“But how can you be sure? You believe you have her safely hidden from the police, but even while we’re sitting here she may be telling them all about me.”

Shayne thought for a moment, then proposed, “Let’s drive to the nearest public phone. I’ll call her and let you listen to what she says. If that doesn’t satisfy you, you’ll have to take your chances. And make up your mind fast,” he added grimly. “If I’m to earn the second half of your fee, I should be moving right now.”

“I seem to have little choice in the matter,” said the financier stiffly. He unlatched and opened the door.

“Practically none,” Shayne agreed, drumming his finger tips on the steering-wheel. “Follow along in your car and I’ll stop at the first joint with a public phone.”

He started the motor when Harsh got out; backed around, and drove slowly back to the Boulevard. He waited for Harsh’s headlights to come up behind him, then turned south for a block and a half to an all-night beer-and-hamburger dispensary.

Burton Harsh parked his car and followed Shayne inside and to the rear, where Shayne stepped inside a phone booth and closed the door. He dialed Lucy Hamilton’s number, opened the door, and motioned Harsh to crowd in beside him.

Lucy answered, and he said, “Hello, angel. Put Beatrice on, please.” He turned his head slightly and held the receiver so Harsh could listen with him.

“Miss Lally speaking,” the girl said.

“Shayne. Before you say anything else I want you to know another party is listening in. Please answer me honestly, but don’t volunteer any additional information. Do you understand that?”

“Of course,” said Miss Lally. She sounded prim and calm and sober.

“Have you talked to the police since you learned Miss Morton was dead?”

“No.”

“Have you mentioned Mr. Burton Harsh’s visit to Miss Morton’s hotel room last night to anyone?”

They both distinctly heard a gasp—of surprise or dismay—or shock. Then, after a brief silence, Miss Lally replied steadily, “No, Mr. Shayne. I haven’t. Not even to you. I don’t know how you learned about—”

“Never mind that. You understand that you are to stay where you are and under no circumstances talk to anyone about the case until I give you the word?”

“I understand that, Mr. Shayne.”

“Good. Now, go on to bed.”

“One moment, Shayne,” Harsh interrupted swiftly from beside him. “What about the original copy of the story Miss Morton wrote about me? I told you she sent me a carbon. If the police have found that among her stuff, they will certainly realize it gives me a motive for her murder, and are probably already looking for me.”

Shayne said, “Let me check.” He said into the mouthpiece, “Miss Lally?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know anything about the original copy of a story Miss Morton had dug up about Burton Harsh?”

“Why, yes. I have that in a file with some other important papers in my own bedroom. She told me several days ago she had decided not to publish it, but wanted it kept in a safe place for a time.”

Shayne looked sideways at Harsh. “The police have had no reason to search Miss Lally’s bedroom, which is down the hall from the connecting room she was in when you heard Miss Morton call her. Satisfied?”

“It sounds all right. If you can get hold of that original and destroy it.”

“I’ll get it,” Shayne assured him, “and turn it over to you so you can destroy it.” Into the phone, he said, “That’s all, Miss Lally. Relax until you hear from me.”

He hung up and told Harsh, “The next thing for you to think about is delivering five grand in cash to my hotel within an hour. I may not be there to receive it, but give it to the desk clerk and get a receipt.”

He pushed Burton Harsh out of the booth and shut the door again and put another nickel in the slot. He dialed Timothy Rourke’s newspaper, got the city room, and was told that the reporter was out working on an assignment.

He tried Rourke’s apartment number. When there was no answer he inserted the nickel again and dialed police headquarters, watching Harsh through the glass door, noting the deep frown between his eyes, the doubt and uncertainty in his expression. In the light, the financier looked haggard and weary and deeply troubled.

Gentry answered. Shayne pitched his voice high and spoke crisply: “City desk calling. Tim Rourke around?”

“Hold on a minute,” Gentry rumbled, then a muffled: “It’s for you, Tim.”

“Yeah?” said Tim.

“Don’t call my name before Will,” Shayne said cautiously and in a low voice. “You still too sore at a guy to get in on a story?”

“I’m never too sore for that,” Rourke told him heartily. Too heartily, it seemed to Shayne. “What’s up?”

“Meet me for a drink at the Hotaire in ten minutes.”

“Sure.”

Shayne hung up and stared absently at the telephone, his bushy red brows drawn together in a frown. Rourke wasn’t the sort to hold a grudge—yet he wasn’t the sort to cheerfully turn the other cheek. He sounded a little too exuberant, a little too eager to forgive and forget—as though he and Will Gentry had something up their sleeves.

Chapter Eight

Laughing Up the Wrong Sleeve

THE HOTAIRE WAS A SMALL BAR on Miami Avenue a few blocks north of Flagler. Rourke was resting his bony frame against the bar when Shayne entered. He smiled blandly and lazily lifted his hand in greeting as Shayne approached and he straightened up to join him.

“What you been doing, Mike?”

“Trying to earn an honest dollar.” Shayne caught the proprietor’s eye, ordered drinks, and led the reporter to an empty booth. “What’s new with you?” he asked when they were seated opposite each other.

“Nothing. When your call came I was sitting in Gentry’s lap waiting to hear if you’d made that contact Will’s men messed up at the Golden Cock.”

“So he told you about that,” Shayne muttered.

“Will felt plenty bad about it,” Rourke assured him earnestly, “after you explained how you were trying to work some bird for information. You could’ve told me what you were up to at the apartment,” he went on in an injured tone, “and I would have left without having to be slapped in the face.”

Again Shayne was suspicious that Rourke was laughing up his sleeve, although his face was deadly serious and his voice sounded sincere.

A waiter brought a double shot of cognac and a double rye and water. Shayne paid him and waited until he went away to say impatiently:

“Okay. The way you guys were acting, I didn’t know how else to get rid of you so I could move if the guy called.”

“What happened after you left the Golden Cock? Will said you were going back to your place,” Rourke explained ingenuously, “and wait for the man to call again. Did he?”

“Gentry knows whether he did or not,” Shayne growled. “With his tap on my line did he actually think I was going back to wait for another call?” He lifted his glass and drank half the liquor, set the glass down, and studied the reporter’s face intently. “Look, Tim, do you want to help me break the Morton case? Or do you want to play around with Gentry while he tries to?”

“I walked out of his office to meet you here, didn’t I?” Rourke’s voice was gently reproachful.

“Okay. What did you think of Sara Morton as a person? Forget about her professional ability.”

“She was a tough baby inside and out, and plenty on the make for a fast dollar. She came up the hard way and intended to stay up, no matter what it took to do it.”

Shayne twisted his glass round and round while he considered this information, then asked, “How’d she play it?”

“Both ends against the middle,” said Rourke promptly. “You got something special on your mind, Mike?”

“Beatrice Lally claims she turned down twenty-five grand from Leo Gannet.”

“Sure. That’s what I mean. That’s a hunk of money, but la Morton was regularly pulling down from two to four times that much annually. If she walked out of Miami without a story, word would get around fast that she was slipping. Pretty soon there wouldn’t be any fifty or hundred grand income. Why kill the goose for one small piece of a single golden egg?”

“I see how that would work.” Shayne’s expression cleared. That was one thing that had bothered him about Harsh’s story. He hadn’t been able to reconcile Miss Morton’s turning down money from Gannet and at the same time trying to extort a similar sum from Harsh. Now he thought he understood. The Harsh story was a sort of sideline she had happened upon while pursuing the real story that had brought her to Miami, the one involving Gannet. There would be no loss of prestige in dropping the Harsh story, but failure to expose Gannet’s racket would be a blow to her reputation.

“She must run on to a lot of stuff around the country that various guys would pay to keep out of the headlines,” said Shayne. “You heard any rumors about anything like that?”

“Nobody gets very far in the newspaper business playing that way,” Rourke told him emphatically. “You may play certain things down in a story, or suppress them, but you don’t take money for it. Not and keep Morton’s reputation year after year.”

“All right. But I may make you eat those words. Do you know Carl Garvin?”

Rourke’s slaty eyes showed surprise. “Sure. I run into him now and then.” He grinned and added, “Morton and Garvin got along just like that,” holding up both index fingers and moving them apart the full length of his arms.

“Why?”

“She worried him. Garvin’s not a newspaperman. Just a glorified office boy for her syndicate. He’s probably a tenth cousin to a vice-president. He sits on his lazy butt and draws a fair salary for clipping an occasional story and rewriting it over the wire. I think he took a journalistic course in some swanky eastern college, and do those guys ever think they know their stuff,” he added with heavy sarcasm.

“What control did he have over Morton?” Shayne asked. “What she did in Miami and what she wrote?”

“Damned little. He was afraid she’d upset the status quo by sending out stuff so hot the syndicate would begin to wonder why he’d been sitting on it. Nominally, a job like his carries the responsibility of clearing syndicated stories, but I doubt whether Morton ever showed her stuff to Garvin.” He grinned again and added, “By refusing to co-operate he could have slowed her down some.”

“What sort of guy is Garvin? Personally, I mean.”

“A bit of a high-flyer. Lives on the Beach and moves with the society crowd over there. Going to marry some rich dame, I’ve heard.”

“Burton Harsh’s daughter,” Shayne supplied casually.

“Yeah?” Rourke emptied his glass.

Watching him closely, Shayne saw no indication that the reporter connected Harsh’s name with the Morton case. “Then you don’t know much about the man’s character?” he said.

“Very little,” Rourke acknowledged. “But I came here to get in on a story, Mike. So far all you’ve done is pump me. You got any new angles?”

“I’m starting right now,” Shayne promised. He stood up and took a handful of coins from his trousers pocket, picked out several, said, “Order us a couple more drinks while I make a phone call.”

He consulted the directory and found a Carl G. Garvin listed with a residence address on the Beach. The phone rang twice and was answered by the cultured voice of an elderly woman:

“Hello.”

“May I speak to Carl?” Shayne said.

“My son isn’t in,” she said, “but I expect him soon.”

“Could you tell me where I might find him?”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t know. May I take a message? Or perhaps have him call you?”

“This is Timothy Rourke,” Shayne said. “Tell Carl I’ll get in touch with him tomorrow.”

She said she would be happy to, and Shayne hung up, went out to consult the directory again, and called another Miami Beach number.

A man’s voice answered with a polite “Good evening—Red Barn.”

“I want to talk to Mr. Carl Garvin. Have him paged upstairs.”

“Please hold on. I’ll see if I can locate Mr. Garvin.”

Shayne held on, scowling through the glass door of the booth and wondering what in hell he was going to say to Garvin when he answered.

A new voice said dubiously, “I believe Mr. Garvin is in the manager’s office at the moment. Is the matter important enough to—?”

“Sure,” Shayne cut in swiftly, a tingle coursing down his spine with the knowledge that his hunch had been right. “Switch me to Leo’s private wire.”

After a few clicks and a buzz, Leo Gannet’s sanctimonious voice said, “Yes?”

“Let me speak to Carl Garvin.”

“Garvin left thirty minutes ago. Sorry, but—”

“I’ve got to find him,” Shayne said urgently. “This is a friend of his and I’ve got some money that belongs to him. I promised to see him tonight, but I got tied up—” He let his voice trail off and listened hopefully.

His hunch paid off. “I—see. You must be the one—” He paused, then said, “Did Mr. Garvin have a definite appointment to meet you tonight?”

“Not definite.”

“The reason I asked is that when he left here I was under the impression he was meeting someone who owed him money,” Gannet went on in his deep, resonant voice. “In fact, I expect him back in an hour or so. If you do see him, tell him I’ll be here until four o’clock.”

“I’ll do that,” Shayne promised blithely. He hung up and went back to the booth, slid into the wooden seat opposite Rourke, and shook his head sadly:

“It was a bum steer, Tim. I’m afraid I dragged you down here for nothing.”

“That’s all right.” Rourke took a drink from his refilled glass and asked, “Did you happen to hear the midnight newscast?”

“No. Why?”

“I thought maybe you hadn’t,” said Rourke casually, “or you wouldn’t have made that crack about breaking the case while Gentry tried to.”

Shayne had his glass halfway to his lips. He held it there and stared at the reporter for a moment, grated, “Give, Tim,” and downed a long drink of cognac.

“You’ll get some credit,” Rourke assured him generously. “It was your tip that put Will on the right track.”

“Give,” he said again.

“Ralph Morton. If they haven’t picked him up yet, they soon will. Remember, you told Will to look for Sara’s good-for-nothing husband.”

The strained tightness went out of Shayne’s face. “Glad my tip helped. What about Ralph Morton?”

“I went down to our morgue after I left your place and dug up an old picture of Sara Morton’s husband,” Rourke explained happily. “We showed it around the Tidehaven, and sure enough, the doorman and one of the elevator operators identified him as a man they’d seen around the hotel about six o’clock.”

“So?” Shayne waited with lifted brows, noting the exultant expression in the reporter’s eyes.

“Then we were in luck. Covering the fourteenth floor, we found a guest who went down the corridor from his room at six-fifteen and saw Ralph Morton pounding on his wife’s door and calling for her to open up. He said the man was obviously drunk, and he hurried past so as not to get mixed up in any trouble, but he’s positive of the identification.”

“Good work,” Shayne said with admiration.

Rourke’s eyes looked puzzled at the note of genuine pleasure in Shayne’s voice. “Sure it’s good work,” he said stubbornly.

“With Ralph Morton tagged for the job,” Shayne went on happily, “I suppose Will won’t bother about checking Edwin Paisly.”

“Paisly?” Rourke frowned over the name, then grinned and said, “Oh—la Morton’s current heart-throb.”

“Do you know him?” Shayne growled.

“I remember running into him once at the Golden Cock when they were having cocktails. As a matter of fact, Will did check on him. Seems he had a dinner date with her at seven and he sat around waiting for her like a good little boy until around nine-thirty. He called her at the hotel to find out why she hadn’t come, and the cops answered. They invited him over, but he didn’t accept.”

“I know about that. Who is he?”

“I don’t know anything about him except that when Morton introduced him that time she said he was an actor, but neglected to mention any roles he’d played. I imagine she picked him up and brought him to Miami to gigolo her around. She has a reputation for having handsome young men escorts. She had one a few years ago she’d gotten out of some sort of shady deal and was reforming him,” he ended with a grin.

“He’s another one with an alibi from seven o’clock on,” Shayne muttered. “If we could prove Miss Morton didn’t know her watch was an hour slow when she wrote that note to me—they’d all three have alibis.”

“I don’t know what three you’re talking about,” the reporter admitted, “but Ralph Morton is the boy who is really up the creek without any alibi.”

“That’s all to the good,” Shayne said cheerfully. “And if it’s true, it’ll earn me ten grand just like that.” He snapped his fingers loudly and hurried on: “Now I can afford to buy you another drink.” He beckoned to the waiter and got out his billfold.

When the waiter came over he said, “Bring Mr. Rourke anything he wants to drink. Nothing for me.” He laid a bill on the table and got up.

“What’s your hurry, Mike? Don’t you think it’s a little late to keep that date with Bea now?” He grinned and added, “I imagine she and Lucy are sound asleep by now.”

Shayne stopped in mid-stride and turned back to the grinning reporter. “What gave you the idea she’s at Lucy’s?”

Rourke shrugged his thin shoulders. “Where else would you drop her off while you came to your apartment, knowing the cops would probably be there? You must have some sort of hex on Lucy to get her to take in your other women and then lie about it. She denied everything when I called and asked to speak to Miss Lally.”

“My secretary never lies,” Shayne told him with a scowl. “She also goes to church on Sunday, is kind to her aged mother—and I’m going to get her an unlisted number so my idiotic friends won’t bother her with their gags.”

He turned and strode out and down the block to his car, got in and drove directly to the Boulevard, then north to Lucy Hamilton’s apartment.

It was well past midnight and the neighborhood was quiet, the windows dark, and Shayne sat behind the steering-wheel for several minutes before deciding to go in instead of telephoning to make certain Miss Lally was still with Lucy.

He went in and pushed the button for three long, steady rings before the buzzer released the door latch. Sweat was streaming down his face when he grabbed the knob and went in and up the stairs.

Lucy’s pajamaed and robed figure was outlined in the doorway, and he saw that she was looking past him with stony eyes as he approached. Her body stiffened when he put his hands on her shoulders, and she stepped back, folded her arms across her breasts.

“So you didn’t bring her back with you,” Lucy said in a cool, detached voice, while burning anger replaced the stony stare in her brown eyes.

Shayne went in and closed the door, demanded harshly, “Didn’t bring who back?”

“That Lally woman! Your dear Beatrice. The next time, Michael Shayne, that you—”

“Hold it, Lucy, for God’s sake,” he groaned. “What do you mean? Isn’t she here?”

“You should know,” she spat at him.

“Why should I know?” He caught her shoulders again and shook her roughly. “What’s this all about?”

She ducked away from him. “She went to you fast enough when you whistled. Oh, no, I wasn’t to come. And that nasty-nice smile of hers when she told me coyly you’d warned her particularly not to tell me where you were meeting her.”

Shayne sank down on the couch and asked hoarsely, “What happened, Lucy? Where did she go?”

“Where you told her to, of course—and the minute she hung up the receiver after you telephoned. Wild horses wouldn’t have held her—and practically telling me to my face she was—”

Shayne reached both arms out and pulled her down beside him. “Get hold of yourself, Lucy. This is serious. I didn’t phone her to come anywhere. Tell me exactly what happened.”

Chapter Nine

The Lady Vanishes

LUCY PULLED AWAY FROM HIM and sat sideways on the edge of the couch to face him, seeing for the first time the worried lines in his gaunt face. “There’s nothing to tell,” she said, “except what you already know. You told her to meet you—”

“If she said I told her to meet me some place, she lied,” Shayne cut in harshly. “I made that phone call for the benefit of another guy who was listening in and wanted to be assured she hadn’t talked to the police.”

“I’m not talking about that call,” she said, the puzzled expression clearing from her eyes. “She told me all about that. It was the second call—half an hour later.”

“Second call?” He stared at her in astonishment. “I only called once. Tell me about this other one—exactly what time was it?”

“A little after midnight. We turned on the midnight newscast and listened to the first part, about the Morton case, then turned it off and I—”

“Hold it,” said Shayne swiftly. “Was anything said that could have tipped off a listener that Miss Lally was spending the night here with you?”

“No.” Lucy shook her head decisively. “The only mention of her was that the police hadn’t located her for questioning. It was mostly about Miss Morton’s husband—how he had been positively identified as being in her room at six-fifteen, and it seemed practically certain he had murdered her.”

Shayne leaned back against the cushion and said, “All right. Now go on about the phone call. Place the time as close as you can.”

“Between ten and fifteen minutes after twelve,” she told him. “Do you mean someone else called and pretended to be you—and lured her away from here?”

“You should be able to recognize my voice over the phone by this time,” Shayne growled. “My God! Lucy, I thought I could trust you to take care of her.”

“But I didn’t answer the phone that second time,” she snapped. “I didn’t even hear it ring. I was under the shower with a bathing-cap over my hair and ears. She answered it. You couldn’t expect her to recognize your voice—or was that a gag about you two meeting for the first time tonight?”

“It wasn’t a gag, Lucy,” he said with weary impatience. “Tell me what happened without all these interpolations.”

“I came out of the shower and opened the door a crack to let the steam out and some air in. She was just ending the conversation, and I heard her say, ‘Just as fast as I can get there.’ I stuck my head out the door and asked her who had called. That’s when she turned all nasty-nice and coy. She blushed and tossed her head with a certain gleam in her eyes and said it was you and she was to hurry and meet you right away.”

“And?” Shayne demanded when she paused thoughtfully.

“I was just thinking about the way she can use her eyes when she hasn’t got those awful glasses on,” she interposed, and seeing the scowl on Shayne’s face hurried on:

“I said I’d throw on something in a hurry and go with her, thinking you wouldn’t want her to leave here alone, but she said oh, no! that you had said particularly she was to come alone. I decided—well—that you had your private reason for telling her that, so I didn’t argue with her, but I did ask where she was meeting you.

“She really got defensively coy then and said she was so sorry but you wanted her to keep it a deep secret and not to tell me anything. So, what would you expect me to think or do? If you think I’m going to interfere with your making love to every—”

“You should know me better than that,” he broke in irritably, suddenly sitting erect and looking into her troubled brown eyes. He laid a big hand over her interlaced fingers in her lap. “Don’t worry, angel. But we’ve got to think fast what to do about her.”

She swallowed hard and said, “I guess I messed things up, but I don’t know what I could have done, Michael. She’s bigger than I am, and I couldn’t have held her by force. I—I guess I could have followed her—if I hadn’t been so—so angry. Do you think she’s in danger? Do you think it was the murderer who pretended to be you on the phone?”

“I think the only thing that’s really in danger is my collecting the first half of a ten grand fee,” he told her. “It was Will Gentry, of course. Gentry and Tim Rourke together. They probably had one of Gentry’s men make the actual call in case you answered the phone. Tim told me he called earlier but you refused to tell him anything.”

Lucy nodded and her face brightened. “About eleven-thirty. I recognized his voice and simply denied that I knew anything at all about a Miss Lally. What do you mean about losing a fee, Michael?”

“A man named Burton Harsh. I jockeyed him into laying five thousand on the line within an hour on my promise to keep Lally away from the police. The fool got tight and threatened to kill Sara Morton last night.” He gave Lucy a brief resume of Harsh’s story, added, “If Harsh learns that Gentry has Miss Lally before he deposits that down payment at my hotel he won’t deposit it.”

He sat for a moment tugging at his left ear lobe and frowning, then muttered, “If they really do have Morton’s husband tagged for the job, there’s no reason Harsh’s threat need be made public. If I can reach Gentry and get him to listen to reason—”

He swung up from the couch and started for the phone, saying, “How about a drink, angel, while I call Will.”

He dialed headquarters and asked for Gentry when a strange voice answered.

“The chief is out at the moment,” the man told him. “Can I help you?”

“It’s a personal matter,” Shayne hedged, “having to do with Miss Beatrice Lally, a witness in the Morton case.”

“Oh—yes. We want very much to get in touch with Miss Lally. If you have any information as to her whereabouts, please give it to me.”

“I understood she had given herself up and was with the chief now,” Shayne said.

“I’m afraid you’ve been misinformed. Hold on just a moment. By the way, who is this calling?”

“Captain Holden, Miami Beach Homicide,” Shayne answered. “We’ve got some questions to ask the Lally woman.”

“I see. Hold on, Captain.”

Shayne hung on, the trenches in his cheeks deepening, and sweat standing on his forehead. He took out a handkerchief and wiped his face, then held out his hand for the drink Lucy was bringing in. He had time for a quick swallow before the man at headquarters said:

“I don’t know where you got your information about Miss Lally, Captain. She isn’t here. However, it’s possible Chief Gentry has made contact and is with her now. May I call you back?”

“Don’t bother,” Shayne grunted, dropping the instrument on its prongs and glaring at it. He took another drink, and Lucy handed him an ice-water chaser.

“Did you find out anything, Michael?” she asked.

“I think it’s all right. I don’t believe Beatrice is in any danger. Will is out of the office—probably meeting her some place they arranged over the phone.”

“I’m glad it isn’t anything worse than that,” she breathed. “I got to thinking, back there in the kitchen, and I was afraid it might be the murderer and she was in danger. And it would have been my fault.”

Shayne’s gray eyes were bleak and staring. He said, absently, “You had no way of knowing it wasn’t me.”

“But I should have known,” she persisted. “I should have known it was a trick to get her out of here when she gave me that hocus-pocus about not even telling me where she was to meet you. That was a dead giveaway, but instead of using my head I got mad. She did look young and pretty with her glasses off; and I guess she has got what you’d call sex appeal,” she ended in a small, self-accusing voice.

Shayne finished his drink, set the glass down, and went over to put his arms around her. Tears swam in her eyes and he kissed her lids gently, forcing the tears to her cheeks. He kissed her lips not so gently and said:

“Now will you stop accusing me of making assignations with other women?”

She nodded her head, gasping for breath, and she was laughing when he let her go. “What will you do next, Michael?”

Shayne’s mouth twisted in a humorous grin. “About what, angel?”

“Michael Shayne! You know very well what I mean. About Miss Lally.” Her cheeks flamed suddenly and her eyes were very bright.

“I’ll have to find Will and see if he’s ready to play ball with me by keeping Burton Harsh’s name out of the papers.”

“He will agree, won’t he? If they catch Ralph Morton and pin it on him?”

“Probably.” He thought for a moment, asked, “How did Beatrice leave here? Afoot or by cab?”

“She phoned for a cab to pick her up here. I gave her the number.”

“What company?” Shayne picked up his hat and jammed it down over his unruly red hair. “With the new radio dispatching system they’re using and with two-way radios in the cabs, it’s not difficult to check the destination of any fare.”

“Why do you want to check her destination? That is, if you’re sure Chief Gentry has her.”

“I’m not sure of anything. What company did she call?”

“Martin’s Cab Company. The one I always use.”

Shayne rubbed his jaw reflectively and muttered, “I don’t know anybody at Martin’s.” He reached for the telephone, asking, “What’s the number?”

Lucy called the number as he dialed. When the cab company answered, Shayne said:

“One of your cabs was called to this address to pick up a party about twelve-fifteen.” He gave Lucy’s street number and continued casually, “I’m afraid she got mixed up and went to the wrong address. Would it be difficult for you to check your records and let me know exactly where she went?”

“It wouldn’t be difficult,” the voice said, “but we don’t give out such information without authorization. If you’d like to give me the correct address I can check and let you know whether they are the same.”

“Okay,” Shayne said in a resigned tone. “I didn’t much hope you’d fall for that. This is Michael Shayne speaking. I’m a detective and I’m trying to trace the party who left this address in one of your cabs at approximately twelve-fifteen.”

“A detective?” The voice was more dubious now. “If this is a legitimate police matter—”

“I’m private, but it’s still legitimate. What in hell do I have to do to get it—a court order?”

“I’m sorry, sir, but I’m just the night dispatcher and don’t have authority to give out such information except to the police.”

Shayne muttered an oath and hung up. Lucy stood beside him, her young face anxious again. “It’s all my fault for letting her leave here,” she said.

“It’s going to be all right,” he assured her, “but I’d better check personally with Will.”

“Is there anything I can do, Michael?”

“Sure. Go back to bed and get your beauty sleep.” He caught her to him roughly and kissed her, then turned her around by the shoulders and gave her a little shove toward the bedroom. “I’ll call you if anything turns up,” he promised, and hurried out

Chief Will Gentry was alone in his private office when Shayne reached police headquarters a few minutes later. Gentry rolled his heavy lids up slowly and watched the detective’s approach with weary, solemn eyes.

“How’s it with you, Mike?” he rumbled. “Did that fellow call you back?”

“I didn’t suppose you were interested any more.” Shayne swung a straight chair around with the back toward Gentry and straddled the seat, folded his long arms across the top and rested his chin on them. “Rourke told me you had the Morton case busted wide open with her husband tagged for the killer.”

Gentry drummed blunt fingers on his desk. “Two or three things don’t check very well,” he grated. “We pretty well place him in her room at six-fifteen, but that letter she wrote said six-thirty, Mike.”

“And her watch was an hour slow,” Shayne reminded him. “So that may have meant seven-thirty.”

“I haven’t forgotten that. And why the devil would a husband send threatening notes to his wife? Why would he want to run her out of town?”

“Miss Lally might help you on that,” Shayne said blandly. “Did she tell you about Morton phoning her this morning?”

“You know damned well Miss Lally hasn’t told me anything. If she knows where to locate him—”

“Don’t feed me that, Will,” Shayne interrupted. “What I’m interested in right now is how much she told you about a certain party who visited Miss Morton last night and shot off his mouth about murdering her.”

“How can she tell me anything when you’ve got her locked in your harem?” Gentry growled. “If you force me to get out a search warrant for her, Mike, I swear I’ll see you rot in—” With his murky eyes fixed implacably on Shayne’s face his voice gradually lowered and he stopped with his jaw dropping in consternation at the expression on Shayne’s face.

Shoving his chair back, Shayne got up and leaned over the desk, said, “This is no time for horsing around, Will,” hoarsely and urgently. “Haven’t you got Miss Lally?”

“Certainly not. Haven’t you?”

“Please, Will,” he pleaded. “It’s important as hell. Do you swear you don’t know where she is?”

“Rourke guessed she might be at your secretary’s apartment,” said Gentry, plainly baffled at Shayne’s tone and manner.

“Tim!” Shayne’s eyes grew dangerously bright. “Where is he?” he demanded. “Where has he been the last half hour or so?”

“Right now he’s out in the press room. For the last half hour or so he has been out with me in a squad car chasing down a bum steer on Ralph Morton.”

Shayne straightened up, took off his hat, and clawed at his hair. He said slowly and absently, “Somebody has got her, Will. Somebody who wants her shut up permanently.”

Chapter Ten

Girl Hunt

“WHAT THE DEVIL DO YOU MEAN, Mike?”

“Just that. Somebody telephoned her at Lucy’s apartment about twelve-fifteen and pretended to be me and arranged to have her meet him some place. Whoever did it was cagey enough to warn her not to tell even Lucy where she was going.

“I thought, of course, it was you, Will,” he went on, his eyes bleak and a heavy scowl between them. “I knew you were sore about my keeping her away from you—and Rourke suspected where I had her. I was sure you’d suspect, too, when you started bearing down on finding her. I wasn’t too worried, except I was afraid my little game of hocus-pocus with a guy named Burton Harsh might be busted up. But if it wasn’t you or Rourke—”

“It wasn’t,” Gentry said gravely. “I was sore about your hiding her, but I trusted you to take care of her. Who else knew where she was?”

“That’s the hell of it, Will. No one knew. No one could possibly have known.” Shayne thrust his hands deep in his pockets and walked up and down in front of the desk.

Gentry creaked his swivel chair back and chewed savagely on his cigar. “Yet someone phoned her there,” he growled. “If you’ve let the killer get hold of her, Mike—”

“I know,” Shayne broke in harshly. “Don’t waste time throwing it up to me. She called one of Martin’s cabs to pick her up at Lucy’s place,” he went on swiftly. “About twelve-fifteen. I tried to find out from the cab company where she went but they refused to give me the dope. They’ll give it to you.”

Gentry had already creaked forward and was reaching for the telephone. He spoke into it tersely while Shayne straddled the chair again and lit a cigarette with shaking hands, puffed on it while he went over in swift sequence everything that had happened since he deposited Beatrice Lally at Lucy’s apartment. Who could possibly have guessed where she was?

Leo Gannet? He could have put a tail on his car when he left the Beach with the girl. Frowning in concentration, he went over every minute of the fast drive across the Venetian Causeway. He couldn’t swear there hadn’t been a car following him. He hadn’t thought much about it at the time. But he felt certain he would have noticed, instinctively, if there had been. He had worked at the business too long, developed a sort of sixth sense, and even when he wasn’t working and had no conscious realization that he was doing so, he always knew when a car was behind him—staying that certain distance behind.

If not Gannet, who else? Harsh, Garvin, Morton, Paisly? These were the only names that had entered into any phase of the murder investigation insofar as he knew, and two of them he hadn’t even met.

Edwin Paisly? He was apparently a newcomer in Miami and probably didn’t know he had a secretary.

Burton Harsh was not a newcomer. Harsh knew all about Michael Shayne, as did any constant newspaper reader in the city. He had known how to reach him at his hotel apartment, and had recognized him by sight at the Golden Cock. Also, Harsh had contacts in the city. It wouldn’t be difficult for him to learn that Lucy Hamilton was his secretary.

Did he have reason to suspect that was where Beatrice was hiding? Shayne’s clenched palms were wet and his eyes tightly shut as he went over his conversation with Harsh. Harsh had not once, that he recalled, named Miss Lally, but referred to her as that secretary. She was the person he feared most. Had he, in his distraught mind, figured it out and decided, after all, not to trust the arrangement they had made?

He had been careful to close the door of the telephone booth in the beer joint, and even interpose his body between Harsh and the phone when he dialed Lucy’s number. It was possible to hear the faintest whir of the dial, he knew, but he couldn’t accept the probability that Harsh could discern the number he dialed.

He had often heard rumors of smart operators who claimed to be able to recognize a number by counting the clicks, but he had yet to meet such a man. He had, in fact, wasted several weeks when he was much younger, trying to train himself to do the trick, and had given up in disgust.

No. Harsh could not have learned Lucy’s number that way. Then how else?

Shayne opened his eyes wide as one remote possibility came to him. He had swung back the booth door to admit Harsh as soon as he finished dialing. Lucy answered the phone. But he had not spoken her name. What he had done was possibly as bad. He had addressed her as “angel” in Harsh’s hearing. It was barely conceivable that Harsh might know this casual term of intimacy applied to Lucy, or guessed it, or contacted someone who knew.

On the other hand, what could Harsh gain by luring Beatrice away? He had already spilled his story back there in the car. Did Miss Lally know something he hadn’t told? Some positive bit of evidence Harsh couldn’t bring himself to tell that directly tied Sara Morton’s murder around his neck?

It was a possibility. Harsh had wanted to be assured repeatedly that Miss Lally hadn’t talked. He had been doubtful throughout that he, Shayne, could prevent her from talking. If he convinced himself that she hadn’t yet spilled the really damning evidence, he would have worked fast to make sure she didn’t have another chance.

Gentry broke into his bitter cogitations when he cradled the receiver and said:

“Got it, Mike, but I don’t know how much help it is. Miss Lally had the driver take her to the corner of Northeast Second Avenue and Twelfth Street. She got out on the southeast corner and tipped the driver a quarter. He saw her start walking back the other way, but drove on without seeing where she went.”

“Second and Twelfth,” Shayne muttered. “Whoever phoned her was smart enough to tell her to get off at the corner and walk to wherever she was to meet him. There are dozens of rooming-houses and small hotels within a few blocks. There’s the Edgemont Hotel on Eleventh—”

“The Edgemont!” Will Gentry pounded his fist on the table resoundingly. “That’s what I’ve been trying to get hold of ever since I heard where she went. Miss Morton has made quite a number of calls to the Edgemont from her hotel,” he went on in response to Shayne’s quirked and inquiring eyebrows. “One of the things we turned up in our investigation. We don’t know, of course, who she called—what room number.”

Shayne was already on his feet and yanking his hat brim down. “Get some men over there, Will. Fast. And spread others all over that neighborhood. It’s probably too late now, but make it quick,” he ended as he went out the door into the corridor.

Three minutes later Shayne’s brakes screamed as he jammed them on at the curb in front of the Edgemont. He flung himself out, noticed the three taxicabs parked up above, and rushed into the large, ornate lobby. It was empty except for the clerk at the desk and two dozing porters.

He strode to the desk and demanded, “Do you have a Ralph Morton registered here?”

“Morton, sir?” The clerk blinked and shook his head nervously. “Indeed not. I heard over the radio that he—”

“Paisly?” Shayne interrupted. “Edwin Paisly?” The moment he spoke the name he saw the answer in the clerk’s eyes. “What room number?”

“Why—I believe he’s in four-nineteen. If you’re from the police—”

“I am,” he cut in harshly, “and I’m on my way up to Paisly’s room. Send your house dick up after me, and any other cops that come in.”

“But I’m quite sure Mr. Paisly’s not been in all evening,” the clerk called after him as he started for the elevator. “His key is here.”

“How long have you been on the desk?” Shayne asked, turning back slowly.

“Since midnight. I noticed a message in his box with the key.”

“Let me have the message.” Shayne held out his hand.

The clerk moistened his thin lips, hesitated, glanced up at Shayne’s eyes, and hurried to get the slip of paper from the pigeonhole.

Shayne read: Received at 5:40. Call Miss Morton at once. He laid the message on the desk as a uniformed officer and a plainclothesman hurried into the lobby and over to the desk.

“Do you boys know what you’re looking for?” Shayne asked.

“Only to co-operate with you.”

“A young lady got out of a cab at Twelfth and Second about twelve-thirty,” Shayne told them wearily. “She was probably meeting Sara Morton’s murderer. Sara Morton’s fiance is registered here, but apparently hasn’t been in the hotel since five-forty. Edwin Paisly in four-nineteen. The boys can take it from there. If you can locate Paisly—if anyone in the neighborhood saw him meet a woman on the street about twelve-thirty—” He ran his hand across his forehead, then clenched it into a tight fist. “The woman is Beatrice Lally, Sara Morton’s secretary,” he went on, his arm falling futilely to his side. “She’s wearing a gray two-piece suit with a blue blouse—blond hair, about five-five and plump. Might be wearing thick horn-rimmed glasses. If she’s still alive she probably knows who killed her employer.” He strode past them and went out to his car and pulled away.

There was a radio patrol car at the next corner. He could hear two or three sirens converging on the spot as he drove on to the Boulevard and turned north. There was nothing more he could do there to help find Beatrice Lally. The local police were much better equipped than he to search the neighborhood and make inquiries, and to trace Edwin Paisly.

His eyes were bleak as he turned east at 14th Street to cross Biscayne Bay for the second time that evening. Whatever had happened to the girl was essentially his fault, and he accepted the blame, but regrets were never any good. The thing now was to repair the damage that might have been done by her disappearance, to make sure the murderer did not profit by his cunning in luring her away from Lucy’s apartment before she could be questioned by the police.

Both car windows were down, and the clean salt air blew some of the cobwebs from his mind as he drove across the County Causeway at a moderate speed. He relaxed at the wheel and mentally reviewed everything that had happened since he stepped inside his office at 8:30 and found the special-delivery letter from Sara Morton.

There wasn’t much. Nothing he could really put his finger on. A lot of elusive things that melted away when he tried to put on the heat. Burton Harsh’s story. Damn it, the man didn’t act like a murderer. Yet, by his own confession he had murdered at least once. Or had been suspected so strongly that he had been indicted for the crime.

From the beginning he had been inclined to sympathize with the financier who was writhing in the net cast about him by an unscrupulous blackmailer. Of all the crimes in the book he detested blackmail most, and it had been difficult to work up any real feeling about Sara Morton’s death since learning of her attempted extortion scheme.

True, blackmail didn’t excuse murder in the eyes of the law, but in Harsh’s case, considering his enormous loss if she exposed him, it was a pretty fair excuse.

If Harsh had lured Beatrice away and murdered again in order to conceal his first crime, that was a far different matter. Insofar as he could see now, Harsh was the only person involved who could possibly have guessed where Miss Lally was. There was no way, with his present knowledge, of tying Harsh and Paisly together, yet whoever telephoned her had instructed her to leave the cab a block from Paisly’s hotel.

This might be a mere coincidence, but he didn’t believe in coincidences when they involved several people mixed up in murder. There could be strong connections between the two men which weren’t apparent on the surface. He would not be surprised at anything he found if he should dig into Paisly’s background.

He shrugged off all the questions puzzling him when he reached the peninsula and stayed on Fifth Street until he arrived at an all-night bar.

He parked and went in, consulted the telephone directory, and found Burton Harsh listed with a business and residence address. The residence was far up the beach, just south of 79th Street, evidently one of the large estates in that vicinity fronting on the ocean.

Shayne drove faster going north. He hoped the financier had already delivered the money to his hotel as promised, but whether he had or not there would have to be an immediate showdown.

Clouds covered the stars now, and a sharp inshore wind lashed the dark waves that thundered against the bulkheads and the shore on his right. The speeding car carried him swiftly beyond the closely built section, past huge resort hotels on the ocean front, and on to the residential section where metal plates on stone archway entrances bore the names of the owners.

The Harsh estate was spacious and surrounded by a low wall of limestone rock. Shayne stopped beyond high gateposts with a chain stretched between them. He cut his headlights and got out, walked back, and ducked under the heavy chain.

A wide oiled driveway curved toward the house between boxed hedges of Australian pines, and beyond, the palms and formal shrubbery and a three-story mansion seemed blended in one dark mass. As he made his way, the wind in the palms and the crash of the waves drowned his footsteps.

The windows of the house were dark except for a streak of light below a drawn shade in a ground-floor room. Shayne stopped before the window and looked around. The drive circled to the left and led to a four-car garage with living-quarters above.

Not more than ten feet away he saw a car parked in the drive. He went toward it, noting with tingling excitement that it was a shabby coupe in the lower price range, at least five years old and not at all the sort of automobile likely to belong to anyone living in the Harsh mansion. The tingle spread through his whole body when he touched the hood and found it warm.

Without hesitation he went back to the path leading to the lighted window. The shade was up about four inches. The window sill was some four feet from the ground, and Shayne bent down and peered into what appeared to be a small library.

Burton Harsh sat in a deep, brightly cushioned wicker chair and smoke curled lazily upward from a cigar in his left hand. He held a highball glass in his right. His profile was toward the window, and he was apparently listening to someone who stood at the far corner of the room.

Moving to the extreme end of the window, Shayne saw the beginning of a fireplace and mantel. Then he saw a man’s hand reach out and set a drink on the mantel. The hand was white and slender and shaky, and glancing back to Harsh, he gathered from his look of worried concentration that the visitor was relating unpleasant news.

With the roar of wind and ocean it was impossible to hear a word that was spoken through the tightly closed window. Shayne straightened up, retraced his steps, and turned the corner where a flagstone path led to the front door.

He found the electric button, put his finger on it, pushed, and waited.

Chapter Eleven

The Waiting Corpse

HE WAITED SEVERAL MINUTES before anything happened. A faint glow finally showed through leaded panes of glass in the door. He took his finger off the button. The ceiling porch light came on and the front door was opened a few inches to allow Harsh to peer through.

The opening widened immediately and the financier greeted him with a disapproving frown. “Shayne! Why are you disturbing me here at this hour? I delivered the money to your hotel as agreed.”

“Have much trouble getting that amount of cash?” Shayne asked pleasantly.

“Not a great deal. I had to stop at three places before accumulating the full sum.”

“What three places?”

Burton Harsh’s frown deepened. “What possible reason can you have for asking a question like that? I’ve met your demand, Shayne, and I fail to understand—”

“I have a good reason,” Shayne interrupted him. “Have you any special reason for not telling me?”

“No—but I don’t see—”

“Then quit stalling and tell me.”

“Very well—if you insist. I cashed a check for two thousand at the Flamingo, one for twelve hundred at the Silver Crescent, and procured the last eighteen hundred at the Eldorado. Does that satisfy your curiosity?”

Shayne reviewed the locations of the three widely separated night clubs. If Harsh was telling the truth, it was fairly certain that getting the cash together and delivering it to his hotel would have required all the time that had elapsed since they separated, leaving him very little spare time to have arranged or taken part in Miss Lally’s abduction.

“It satisfies me for the moment,” he said evenly, “subject to checking the truth of your story by inquiring at those places.”

Harsh bristled visibly. “See here, Shayne, I don’t like your tone,” he complained. “I don’t understand any of this. Why should you doubt me, and what earthly difference does it make?”

“Why don’t you invite me inside for a drink, and I’ll explain why it all matters a great deal.”

“Really—it’s quite late,” he hedged, “and I confess I’m pretty much worn out. I was on my way to bed when you rang.”

“There are things we need to talk over.” Shayne moved forward and Harsh reluctantly stepped back to allow him entrance to a wide hallway.

“Very well, then,” said Harsh, covering his irritation with a casual tone and a poker face. “There’s a small sitting-room off here if you really feel it’s important.” He turned right and had his hand on a doorknob when Shayne stopped him:

“Wouldn’t the library be more comfortable? The one back this way on the other side of the house.”

“Really, Shayne—don’t you think you’re taking advantage—ah—being somewhat rude?

“Not at all,” Shayne answered imperturbably. “As my host, it seems to me you’re being rude if you don’t ask me back to your private study to join you in a drink—and to meet your other guest,” he added as though it were a casual afterthought.

Harsh’s hand dropped nervelessly from the knob. His strong, irregular features appeared to turn into wax and melt into a mass of wrinkles. He was suddenly a frightened old man, and the solid bulk of his body seemed to shrink under the impact of Shayne’s words.

“How did you know?” he faltered, the hint of a whine breaking through. “I don’t understand how you knew I had another guest,” he continued, controlling his voice with an effort and managing to show slight indignation.

“Never mind that now.” Shayne took his arm and turned him toward the rear of the hall.

With slumped shoulders, Harsh went with him, gradually forcing himself erect. After a dozen or more steps he suddenly halted and faced Shayne:

“I don’t know what you suspect, but I assure you that Carl’s visit is the most natural thing in the world. We’ve been discussing the effect of Miss Morton’s death upon the possible publication of the story, Shayne. Carl is in a position to help me prevent publication, and we’ve merely been trying to devise some method of getting hold of the manuscript.”

Harsh had stopped less than ten feet from a door on the right. It stood ajar and light shone through. He spoke in a firm tone which would easily carry inside the room, and Shayne realized that if they had been discussing anything else, Carl Garvin was now warned not to continue the discussion.

“I have several questions to ask Garvin,” Shayne told him. “Several points in this whole thing which you and he can clear up for me, now that I’ve got you together.” He went on to the door and shoved it open, and Harsh followed him reluctantly.

Garvin was sitting tensely erect in a wing chair near the closed fireplace. He was in his mid-twenties, with a high forehead that bulged slightly below a thinning hairline. He wore rimless, pinch-on glasses, and his upper teeth protruded enough to give his face a faintly fatuous grin. He was smoking a cigarette and trying nervously to balance a highball glass on the irregular weave of the wicker chair arm.

He came stiffly to his feet as Harsh pushed in behind Shayne and said, “This is the detective I told you about, Carl. Michael Shayne. His coming at this time is quite fortuitous, because we can all three discuss this thing.”

“How do you do, Mr. Shayne,” Garvin said cordially. “I’ve known you by reputation for some time.”

Shayne acknowledged the introduction tersely, then said, “I’ve some questions to ask you before we go into your problem, Garvin.” He turned to Harsh. “Remember what I told you earlier tonight? The only way in God’s world for me to keep your name out of this murder investigation and prevent the entire story from being made public is to solve the case fast before the police get around to you.”

“I understood it was solved.” Garvin’s voice was reedy and tremulous. “Aren’t the police convinced that Miss Morton’s husband killed her?”

“They’re looking for Ralph Morton,” Shayne agreed impatiently, “but I’m not at all sure he won’t have an alibi. It may develop that she was still alive at seven-thirty—more than an hour after he was seen entering her room.”

“That will clear me, also,” Harsh reminded him. “Sit down, Shayne.” He waved toward a chair and sank into his own with a sigh of relief. “I told you that Carl and I met for dinner at seven.”

“I know.” Shayne sat down and looked at Garvin, who was standing beside the mantel again. He said evenly, “How deep is Leo into you?”

“Leo Gannet?” The gambler’s name came out in a surprised squeak, and Garvin’s pale gray-green eyes popped with astonishment.

“Don’t try to stall,” said Shayne harshly. “I know you’re in over your head, but I want to know exactly how much.”

“I don’t see what that has to do—that it’s any of your business,” he said, switching his answer hastily.

“Maybe not,” Shayne admitted, “but it’s one of the things bothering me right now. How much, Garvin? Ten grand?”

Garvin’s expression told Shayne his guess was not too high. His flushed face and general manner revealed that he had had too much to drink to be quick-witted, and as he hesitated in replying, Burton Harsh broke in impatiently:

“Aren’t Carl’s finances his own business, Shayne? If he has been gambling beyond his resources, I’m sure he can work it out for himself.”

Shayne gave the financier a sharp look, recalling that Harsh had given him the impression earlier that Garvin’s gambling was restricted to social games with comparatively low stakes.

“Then the question is,” he resumed, “what sort of collateral did you put up to get that kind of credit from Gannet?” He addressed his words to Garvin, but included Harsh with an occasional glance as he continued. “Leo doesn’t let anyone get into him that deep unless he’s sure of collecting. I’m not forgetting that it was worth twenty-five grand to Leo to induce Miss Morton to leave town without completing her assignment. When she turned down his money, I’m wondering if he didn’t offer you at least a part of that amount to help get rid of her. Wasn’t that it?” he demanded.

Garvin had dropped into a chair. “Certainly not,” he answered. His high-pitched voice was steady now, and he explained: “Miss Morton was on assignment from New York, and the local office had no control over what she wrote. Good Lord, don’t you think I would have killed the story she was doing on Mr. Harsh if I had any such power?”

“I—don’t know.” Shayne was silently thoughtful, undecided whether to pursue that line further. “Whether you had the power or not,” he said, “it wouldn’t be difficult for you to make Gannet think you did.”

Garvin re-enforced his nerves by finishing his drink. “Suppose I did let him get some such idea?” he argued. “Is that a crime? All I wanted was a chance to recoup my losses. If I had been able to get square with him—”

“But you kept getting in deeper,” Shayne interrupted, “until it reached the point where he was refusing you further credit and you were faced with the necessity of making good on your boasts. Where were you between six-thirty and seven tonight?” he ended abruptly.

“Good Lord!” Garvin’s glass was knocked to the floor by a nervous jerk and shattered on the tiles. His thin face grew white and he gasped, “You can’t think that I—you’re not actually accusing me of murder?”

“You had a motive. Do you have an alibi?”

“No. But I assume the elevator man can verify the time I left.” He paused, extremely agitated, and moistened his short upper lip with the tip of his tongue.

“Where? What elevator man,” Shayne pressed him.

“I was at my office until a quarter of seven. I went down in the elevator at that time, then drove to the Seven Seas to meet Mr. Harsh for dinner.”

“Was anyone in the office with you?”

“No—”

“You can’t be serious about this, Shayne,” Harsh interjected angrily, tactfully easing his voice back to normalcy as he interceded in Garvin’s behalf. “I’ll vouch for Carl personally. He’s practically my son-in-law. If he needs money to pay off some foolish gambling debts, he knows he has only to ask me.”

Shayne lit a cigarette and blew several puffs of smoke toward the ceiling. Harsh, by his own admission, could vouch for Garvin’s gambling debt only if the story failed to appear in print. Sara Morton had been in a position not only to ruin him financially, but bring disgrace upon his family, and, alive, she could with one stroke leave Carl Garvin at the mercy of Leo Gannet’s thugs, also. Harsh and Garvin could have been together since a quarter of seven. The exact time of Sara Morton’s death was not established. Did Harsh meet Garvin immediately after Garvin left his office and go to Morton’s apartment, kill her, and then go on to the Seven Seas for dinner to establish an alibi?

During the short silence, Harsh sat solidly in his chair. Garvin mixed himself another drink at the chromium-plated bar against the wall and walked nervously around the room, clutching the glass tightly in an effort to keep his hand from shaking.

Shayne rubbed his jaw reflectively and turned to Harsh. “When did you learn that your future son-in-law was gambling considerably heavier than the dollar limit you mentioned tonight?”

“Tonight—just a short time ago,” he answered stubbornly. The heavy lines were still in his face and the natural, determined set of his square chin was at variance with the haggard look in his eyes.

Shayne considered this briefly. Tonight meant tonight, but a short time ago could mean a day—a week. He took a casual puff on his cigarette, turned to Garvin, and asked bluntly:

“Where did you go after leaving Gannet’s office tonight—after he put the screws on you for money or for some action on Sara Morton?”

Garvin dropped limply into his chair, sloshing the liquor in the half-filled glass over the rim. “Why—I went home,” he stammered, avoiding Shayne’s hard gaze. “I had encountered Miss Lally earlier, and Gannet told me she had been there with you. I knew nothing of Miss Morton’s death at that time. I heard it over the radio when I was getting ready for bed, and I thought I should come here at once and discuss it with Mr. Harsh.”

Shayne ground his cigarette in an end-table ash tray and growled, “We’d all make out a lot better if you’d stop lying to me. I know you didn’t go directly home from Gannet’s office and I know you promised to get hold of some cash and take it back to him tonight. Where did you expect to get cash at this hour?”

“I don’t know where you get all your information,” Garvin said sullenly. “I told Gannet I’d pay up as soon as I could. I was worried—and suppose I did stop for a drink or so on my way home,” he ended defiantly.

“Did it take you an hour to get a drink or so?”

“What if it did?” he flared. “Why are you cross-questioning me like this?” He brought the glass shakily to his lips and drained it.

“Where were you at twelve-fifteen?”

“I—don’t—know.” He spaced the words evenly and spoke with shrill vehemence. “I don’t keep a timetable of every move I make. But I would have if I’d realized I was going to be put on the witness stand and grilled like this.”

“See here, Shayne,” Harsh cut in impatiently, “you stated a moment ago that Carl had a motive for killing Miss Morton. Did you mean that? Do you think for one moment he’s the type to commit murder to curry favor with a gambler and get a small debt canceled?”

“Someone has been writing Miss Morton letters threatening her life unless she left town at once,” Shayne answered Harsh, but for the benefit of Garvin, whom he watched narrowly for some reaction, “Who? It’s not the sort of thing Leo Gannet would think of. The letters were prepared by someone with access to a paste pot and sharp scissors such as are used in an editorial office. If Garvin didn’t send them—”

“Which I didn’t,” he broke in caustically. “It’s preposterous. But I—I think I can tell you who was sending her such letters.”

“Who?”

“Ralph Morton—her husband. He came to my office several days ago and asked me what hotel his wife was stopping at. I knew nothing about the strained relationship between them, so I told him. Then he became abusive and wanted to know exactly how long she had been in Miami. I looked up the date for him. He began to rave, and told me of her intention to divorce him.”

Carl Garvin grew more and more excited as he continued to relate the incident. He took off his glasses and gesticulated with them. “Morton mentioned the fact that a few more days would complete the legal residence requirements, and had the effrontery to offer me money if I could devise some subterfuge to induce the syndicate to send her to some other state immediately—before her Florida residence was established. I told him, of course, that such a thing was entirely beyond my power to arrange, and finally got rid of him.”

Shayne considered this briefly, remembering also that Garvin showed no surprise upon hearing of the threatening notes. He said, “So Ralph Morton and Gannet were both offering you money to get Sara Morton out of town. What was Morton’s offer?”

“I didn’t encourage him to mention any sum,” said Garvin with dignity. “You can see that it must have been Ralph Morton who sent the threatening letters you mentioned.”

“Maybe. Where is Morton staying?”

After a barely perceptible pause Garvin replied, “I don’t know,” too emphatically.

“He must have given you an address. How were you to get in touch with him?”

“I wasn’t going to get in touch with him,” said Garvin, growing sullen again.

“Look—he comes in and makes you a proposition,” Shayne said patiently. “Even though you turned him down as you claim, he must have hoped you might change your mind—and he wouldn’t have left without telling you where to contact him.”

“If he did, I don’t remember.”

“But you made a note of it,” Shayne said flatly. “It’s in your office some place.”

Again there was a faint hesitation before he said, “It may be,” in an overly indifferent tone. “I don’t see—”

“The hell you don’t,” Shayne burst out savagely. “You know the police are looking for him. Why are you holding out his address? Do you hope he’ll get away?”

Garvin’s apathy was shattered abruptly. “I hadn’t thought—I didn’t realize the importance—you’re right,” he stammered, coming to his feet and drawing his slender frame erect. “I should have thought of it at once. I’ll go to my office and see if I can find it.”

“I’ll go with you,” Shayne grated. “But before we go there’s one more thing I need, Harsh. That blackmail note you received from Sara Morton.”

“It’s right here.” All three men were standing, and Harsh went to a secretary and drew a square white envelope from a pigeonhole. He handed it to Shayne.

The paper was of the same heavy consistency as the special delivery he had received. The address was typed, and the envelope bore no return address. He took the single sheet of notepaper out and saw Sara Morton’s printed blue signature at the top. The final paragraph read:

I don’t wish to discuss this matter with you further, and suggest you mail this sum to me immediately with a signed note stating that I am to consider it full payment for services rendered.

Sincerely,

The signature was in blue ink and as nearly like the printed name as signatures usually run.

After reading it, Shayne glanced at Garvin and asked, “Have you seen this?”

“Of course. Mr. Harsh called me over to see it last evening.”

“Can you identify the signature as Miss Morton’s?”

“Why—I presumed it must be. It certainly looks the same as the printed name at the top of all her notepaper.”

“Which would make it a simple matter for anyone to forge a duplicate at the bottom.”

“What are you getting at?” Harsh broke in sternly. “Who else could or would wish to write a letter like that and forge her signature?”

“I don’t know,” Shayne admitted absently. He folded the note, replaced it in the envelope, and thrust it into his pocket. “Is the carbon of Morton’s story on you here?” he asked.

“I have it locked in a private safety deposit box.”

“Okay.” Shayne turned to Garvin and said, “Let’s go.”

Outside, the black clouds to the east were cut through with long streaks of lightning at frequent intervals, followed by distant rolls of thunder. They pushed against the sudden gusts of wind to Garvin’s shabby sedan, and Shayne said, “Get in and I’ll ride with you to the entrance.”

Garvin backed around and drove slowly, stopped before the entrance. Shayne leaped out, said, “Hold on a minute,” and ducked under the chain. He hurried to his car, made a U-turn and drove back past the high gateposts, got out and unhooked the chain. “Go ahead,” he yelled. “I’ll follow you.”

Back in his car, he slipped the idling motor into gear, fell in behind the sedan, and followed it a few blocks north, then across the bay on the 79th Street Causeway to the mainland. Here Garvin turned and drove past the Little River section, then south on Miami Avenue, and stopped in front of a dark and dilapidated four-story building on 46th.

Shayne pulled in behind him, parked, and got out to join Garvin, who waited with a key ring in his hand. “We’ll have to walk up two flights,” Garvin said nervously. “The elevator stops at ten o’clock.”

The building was in complete darkness. Garvin unlocked and opened the front door, switched on a dim light that showed a hall leading past a single elevator to a stairway in the rear. Shayne followed him two flights to another door. This he unlocked and reached in to turn on the light.

They entered a small, messy office with a teletype machine in one corner, a large desk littered with clipped news stories and pages of typed script that appeared to have no orderly sequence, and as he walked across the room his big feet stepped on or kicked aside wadded copy paper. He hoped earnestly that Garvin wouldn’t have to hunt through the scrambled papers on his desk for Morton’s address.

But Garvin went confidently to the swivel chair and sat down, began pulling out drawers and pawing through them with a frown of concentration rimming the bulge higher up on his forehead, and muttering to himself as he searched.

The frown went away when he took a scratch pad from the bottom drawer and held it out to Shayne. “Here it is. I remember now. I tossed it in here after Morton left. The bottom drawer was open and I hit my shin on it when I got up.”

Shayne wasn’t listening. The Ricardo Hotel was scribbled on the pad. He asked, “Where is the Ricardo?”

“On Eleventh Street between First and Second Avenues. He didn’t give me the room number.”

“Let’s get out of here.” Shayne’s eyes were very bright. The address was within a block of the corner where Beatrice Lally had dismissed the cab. He whirled and started to the door, kicking balled paper aside, and reached it before realizing he heard no sound behind him.

He turned and saw Garvin settled back in his swivel chair lighting a cigarette. “I said let’s go,” he growled.

“Go on, if you want to. It’s not my business to chase murderers. Particularly one as unpleasant as Ralph Morton.” Garvin’s tone was cold, almost insolent.

Shayne strode back to the desk and leaned over it. A muscle quivered in his lean jaw. “You’re coming with me,” he grated, and his arm shot out toward Garvin’s face, palm open.

Garvin skidded the swivel chair back and took off his glasses a second before Shayne’s hand hit his face. He leaped to his feet and protested angrily:

“See here—you can’t use your high-handed—”

“I haven’t got time to argue.” Shayne started around the desk.

Garvin shrank back before the bleak and driving urgency in Shayne’s gaunt face. He began sidling away toward the door. Shayne backtracked and caught his thin arm in a hard grip and shoved him out the door, waited while he closed and locked it, then impelled him down the stairs and across the sidewalk to his car. “We’ll leave that crate of yours here,” Shayne said flatly. He jerked the door of his own car open just as a gust of wind caught Garvin’s hat and sent it sailing through the air.

“My hat,” panted Garvin. “Have you gone crazy? You can’t—”

Shayne held the door of his car open and leaned against it, half-lifted the slender man, and shoved him into the front seat. The door whipped shut with a bang when he took his weight from it. He hurried around to get under the wheel, gunned the motor savagely, lurched away from the curb, and was doing thirty in second gear before Garvin recovered sufficiently to drag himself erect.

“I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve such treatment,” he whimpered. “I’m willing to co-operate, but I certainly don’t intend—”

“Shut up,” Shayne snapped. He was in high gear now and the needle flickered past sixty-five as they roared south on the deserted avenue.

Minutes later he screamed to a stop in front of the Ricardo Hotel on 11th Street. “Get out and come in with me,” he ordered Garvin as he unlatched his door and got out.

He hurried into a small, shabby lobby and his heavy, rapid footsteps on the bare floor roused the drowsing clerk before he reached the desk.

The old man sat up, yawned, and closed his mouth with a click when Shayne leaned across the desk and demanded, “What’s Ralph Morton’s room number?”

“That’ll be—uh—three-oh-nine. Look here, mister—”

Shayne turned away impatiently. Carl Garvin was entering the lobby with stiff dignity in ludicrous contrast to his disheveled appearance. His thin hair was twisted by the wind, his clothes rumpled. He had his glasses in one hand and was rubbing his right eye. He walked a trifle faster when he saw Shayne waiting near the elevator.

“There’s something in my eye,” he complained dismally when he reached Shayne. “It pains me frightfully, and I’m afraid—”

“You forced me to push you around,” Shayne said grimly, pushing Garvin into the elevator. “Three.” The door closed and he went on to Garvin: “If anything has happened to Miss Lally, I’m holding you directly responsible for it.”

“Miss Lally? What has she—?” The elevator stopped. Garvin settled his glasses on his nose and stepped out in stiff, disapproving silence while Shayne said, “Hold the elevator here,” to the operator.

He hurried after Garvin, noting the room numbers, reaching his side just as he stopped in front of 309.

Shayne knocked loudly, then turned the knob and pushed the door open.

The room was dark and silent.

He felt inside for the wall switch and snapped on an overhead light.

A dead man was slumped across the bed, and as Shayne’s gaze slowly circled the room he saw a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles lying on the floor to the left of the door. The massive frame was twisted and one of the thick lenses was shattered.

Shayne knew before he stooped to examine them more closely that they were Beatrice Lally’s.

Chapter Twelve

“—Like Being in a Coffin.”

THERE WAS UTTER SILENCE in the room—and something else Shayne couldn’t quite define as he stared at the broken thing that could rob Beatrice Lally of her girlish prettiness in the brief instant required to slide the arms behind her ears. Then a gust of wind rattled the lone window in the room, and he realized that the stench of stale smoke, the fumes of alcohol, and the sweetish odor of blood were thick and stifling.

He started to the window, remembered Garvin, and whirled around to see him still standing in the door. His face was ashen, and his gray-green eyes were glazed with terror.

“Is—he—dead?” Garvin asked in a hoarse whisper.

Shayne gave a snort of disgust. “Is it Morton?”

Garvin nodded and continued to stare while Shayne went to the window. The sashes were locked. He turned the latch and yanked the window open. A blast of wind emptied an ash tray on the table in front of it before he could lower the sash again. He left it open an inch and went over to the bed.

Ralph Morton was lying on his back and there was a neat round hole in his right temple. A splotch of blood on the counterpane showed where blood had soaked through onto the sheets and mattress. He was a large, heavy-featured man, and a stubble of black beard stood out against the death pallor of his face. A small pearl-handled automatic lay on the bed close to his right hand, and Shayne guessed it to be either a .22 or .25. There was an empty glass on the bedside table, and a whisky bottle was overturned on the floor beside it.

Shayne picked up the telephone receiver and when the drowsy clerk answered gave police headquarters’ number. Gentry answered, and Shayne asked:

“Picked up anything on Miss Lally yet?”

“Nothing, Mike. I’ve got Paisly’s room staked out in the Edgemont, but he hasn’t showed yet. There’s no evidence she went there. My men worked the neighborhood, but no luck.”

“Call them off, Will. Bring your homicide boys to the Ricardo Hotel on Eleventh. Room three-oh-nine.”

“What’s up, Mike?” Gentry’s voice changed from a weary rumble to alert interest. “Is she there? Dead?”

“She’s been here, all right,” Shayne said grimly. “But Ralph Morton is the stiff.” He hung up and turned to see Garvin hesitantly advancing across the threshold. He was staring down at the broken spectacles with the glazed terror still in his eyes.

“They look—like—Miss Lally’s,” he stammered. His pointing finger trembled. He looked from the glasses to the body on the bed and exclaimed, “Good Lord, Shayne! Do you think she did it?”

“Right now I’m not trying to think,” Shayne told him. “Stand where you are and don’t touch anything until Gentry’s boys get here.” He went across to the open bathroom door and glanced inside, came back, took Garvin firmly by the arm and led him out into the hall.

“When were you up here to see Morton last?” he asked casually.

Garvin trembled violently. “I haven’t been here at all. I told you—”

“Keep your voice down,” Shayne admonished. “We don’t want to wake up the whole floor. You told me a lot of things,” he went on wearily. “Now I want the truth.”

“But I’d even forgotten this address,” Garvin whispered hoarsely. “Even having that memorandum at the office had slipped my mind until you reminded me of it.”

“That was all hocus-pocus. You also told me you didn’t know Morton’s room number, but you walked straight to this door from the elevator and stopped.”

“I—heard the desk clerk give you the number,” he whispered desperately.

“No, you didn’t. You were outside the lobby door when he told me. And I’m guessing now that you knocked your hat off in the wind purposely when I insisted that you come with me. You hung back outside until I was ready to come up so you could rush past the clerk with your glasses off and rubbing your eye in the hope he wouldn’t recognize you. Quit stalling, Garvin. With a hat on your head and your glasses on, you know he’ll recognize you.”

“I did come up to see him yesterday,” Garvin quavered. “But he was drunk and abusive, and—”

The elevator stopped on the third floor and the first contingent of police filed out. Shayne nodded to them and jerked his head toward the open door of 309.

When the men came up, Shayne stopped a tall thin man and said, “Lend me your hat a minute, Riley.”

The man glanced at Shayne’s bushy red head and started to grin, but when he saw Shayne’s grim face he looked puzzled. He slowly lifted a snapbrim brown felt from his head and handed it over, stood by while Shayne passed it to Garvin and demanded, “Put it on.”

Garvin set the hat on top of his head. It was half a size too small, and he made no attempt to pull it down until Shayne said grimly, “Don’t stall, Garvin. Put it on and pull the brim down the way you wear yours.”

Both men could hear Garvin’s teeth grinding together as he yanked the hat to a tight fit and pulled the brim low. Shayne said, “Thanks, Riley. I’ll bring it back in a minute.”

Riley went into 309 and Shayne led Garvin to the elevator, where the boy was leaning out and staring with goggle-eyed wonderment toward the death room.

“Have you ever seen this gentleman before?” Shayne asked the boy pleasantly.

“See here, Shayne.” Garvin’s voice cracked on an absurdly high note. He started to remove his glasses, but Shayne ordered sternly, “Keep them on.”

“I—reckon—” the Negro boy stammered, rolling his eyes fearfully from Shayne to Garvin.

“There’s nothing to be afraid of,” Shayne said soothingly. “Just tell the truth and you’ll be all right.”

“I reckon he’s rightly the one what was heah not more’n a hour ago askin‘ fo‘ three-oh-nine,” he blurted out rapidly. “Didn’t stay but jes‘ a li’l while.”

“I was a fool to think I could get away with it,” Garvin said miserably. “But when I looked in that room and saw him lying there, blood trickling out and gunpowder smelling in the room, I—I didn’t know what to do. I realized he’d killed himself,” he broke off hysterically.

The elevator buzzer was sounding frantically while the Negro boy’s eyes bulged with curiosity and fear, and his hands seemed paralyzed.

“Take it down,” Shayne ordered, and heard the door close as he walked toward the death room with Garvin. “Are you going to claim Morton was dead before you got here?”

“He was. I tell you he was lying there just like you saw him. The light was on, and when he didn’t answer my knock I tried the door. It was unlocked, so I opened it and looked in. I know I should have reported it, but I didn’t think of anything but getting out as fast as I could. I was frightened.”

“Why?” Shayne insisted.

“Because—Good Lord, Shayne. I didn’t want to be caught here with a man who’d just shot himself.”

They had reached 309 and Shayne glanced in at the homicide experts. “Suicide or murder?” he asked.

Riley looked up, shrugged, and spread out his hands significantly, then walked over to Shayne. “It could be either,” he said.

Garvin had removed the tight-fitting hat. He handed it to Riley without a word or a glance. Riley looked at Shayne with a grin, but Shayne was looking toward the elevator.

The door opened and Will Gentry stepped out, followed by Tim Rourke and Lieutenant Hastings, who was in charge of the homicide division. They stopped at the door, and Shayne answered the unspoken questions in Gentry’s eyes:

“Ralph Morton is dead and Miss Lally’s glasses are lying on the floor just inside the door—broken. This is Carl Garvin, who paid Morton a visit about the time it happened, but sneaked away without reporting it. Claims he thought Morton had shot himself.”

Garvin moved unsteadily and leaned against the wall. Shayne swung around and demanded, “What about Miss Lally? Did you see her here? Was it you who phoned her to meet you here?”

Garvin’s face was gray. He began to retch and clawed at his throat, reeling sideways and then sliding limply to the floor. He lay very still on his side and the smell of liquor from a sour stomach rose from the vomit oozing from his mouth.

Shayne looked at him for a moment, then said to Gentry, “He’s all yours,” and swung on his heel toward the elevator.

“Hold on, Mike,” Gentry called out “Where are you going?”

“To see what I can find out about Miss Lally,” he flung over his shoulder. He got out a five-dollar bill as he approached the boy, who now stood boldly outside the elevator, watching and listening.

“You hit the jackpot a moment ago,” Shayne told him. “How are you on ladies?”

“I dunno, suh.”

“About an hour ago,” Shayne interrupted. He swiftly described Miss Lally and her glasses, and added, “It may have been a little more or a little less than an hour ago.”

The boy shook his head, looking wistfully at the bill in Shayne’s hand. “I tell you how ‘tis,” he confided. “We gets lotsa ladies goin‘ in an’ out all hours. Don’t none of ‘em hardly wears glasses, though.”

“This lady might not have had hers on,” Shayne said. “Think hard. It would have been around twelve-thirty.”

“Sho wish I could say, but I jest cain’t.”

Shayne heard a commotion in 309 and turned to see Rourke’s head peering through the door and beckoning to him frantically.

Thrusting the bill into the boy’s hand, Shayne broke into a trot. Rourke met him outside the door and said excitedly:

“It’s Beatrice, Mike! They found her locked in the closet. I’m afraid she’s dead, too.”

Shayne stepped past him to the doorway. Beatrice Lally was lying on the floor and one of the detectives was applying artificial respiration. She was as limp as a rag doll and looked pitifully helpless with her hair disheveled and her clothing torn. Streaks of dirt and tears mingled on her waxen white face.

Gentry got in front of Shayne and shoved him back as he started toward the girl. “Take it easy, Mike,” the chief advised gruffly. “She’s breathing. She’ll come out of it. But my God, she must have been locked in there with no air for an hour or more.”

Shayne thought swiftly of the dead, thick air in the room when he first entered with Garvin. He caught Gentry’s arm and growled, “Where’s Garvin?” after looking around the room and not seeing him.

“In the next room,” said Gentry sourly. “It’s empty and I shoved him in there when he pulled that faint—or a phony. Where’d you get him, Mike? Where does he fit in?”

“He’s the local manager for Miss Morton’s syndicate. He first denied knowing Morton’s address, but we got it from his office and came here. I caught him in a couple of lies and he finally admitted coming here after midnight to see Morton. Claims the room was unlocked and the light on and Morton was lying like that when he looked in. So he beat it.”

Shayne spoke swiftly and in a low voice, watching Beatrice Lally steadily. When she blinked her eyes and moaned, he elbowed Gentry aside and pushed forward to drop on his knees beside her. She moved her head restlessly and her eyes fluttered open, only to close quickly as though to shut out the painful light.

When she finally held them open long enough to see Shayne’s grimly concerned face, she smiled faintly and said:

“What happened?” Her voice was a whisper and her round, sooty eyes looked wonderingly into his. “I came here—like you said—and—and someone hit me.” She shivered and closed her eyes tightly.

Shayne realized then that the window was wide open and a cool, strong breeze was blowing in, but the gusty blasts of the impending storm has passed. “Better close that window,” he said. “She’s shivering with cold.”

Miss Lally was trying to sit up. Still on his knees, Shayne put his arm around her and lifted her to her feet as he came up. There was a dull reddish bruise high on her right cheekbone, just in front of the ear. Shayne kept his arm around her. She drew in a deep breath, moistened her lips, and looked around dazedly.

“Get her a glass of water,” Shayne ordered, and helped her to the only comfortable chair in the shabby room.

Gentry brought the water and she drank a few sips gratefully. “When you feel like talking—”

She puckered her near-sighted eyes at the chief and Shayne explained:

“This is Chief Will Gentry. But don’t talk until you feel like it.”

“I was unconscious for a time, I guess. Then I came to. Or, it seems I did. Perhaps I dreamed it. It’s like a horrible nightmare,” she went on, stopping to breathe deeply after each short sentence, while the men moved in closer to hear more clearly the words she spoke only slightly louder than a whisper. “It was all black and silent. Like being in a coffin. I screamed and pounded—and crawled around like an animal. I was so weak. Then everything faded. There wasn’t any—air—to breathe.”

“You were locked in the clothes closet over there,” Shayne explained gently. He looked at Gentry, who was bending close to her on the other side of the chair. “Do you think it’s wise to question her now, Will? Sometimes a case of shock has serious consequences.”

“It’s all right,” Beatrice said. “I’m all right now. I can breathe again. I’ll take another sip of water, please.”

Gentry held the glass until she had it firmly in her hand. She took larger swallows now, draining the glass. When Gentry took the glass and set it aside, Miss Lally squinted up at Shayne and asked:

“What happened? You said you’d be waiting for me.”

“Tell me exactly what I did say.”

“Don’t you remember?” She frowned and rubbed her hand weakly across her eyes, murmuring, “My—glasses.”

“I didn’t phone you at Miss Hamilton’s,” he told her patiently. “It was some other man.”

“His voice—sounded like yours,” she faltered. “He called me by name and said he was you and I was to meet him right away in his hotel room. Number three-oh-nine,” she went on, her voice growing gradually stronger and her breathing freer. “But I wasn’t to tell anyone where I was going. Not even Miss Hamilton. And I shouldn’t come directly here by cab because it might be traced, but to get out at a corner and walk a block or so. And I did, and—” Her voice trailed off and she began rubbing her eyes like a sleepy child. “Please, may I have my glasses? My eyes hurt and I can’t see very well.”

“Your glasses are broken,” Shayne told her. “You say someone struck you?”

“The minute I opened the door.” She shuddered with the memory. “I knocked and a man asked who it was. I still thought it was you. I told him my name. He said to come in. I opened the door and took one step inside. Then the lights went out and something hit me on the head.” She touched the bruised spot with shaking fingers. “I didn’t see anything or anyone. It was just black—like death—until I sort of half came to. But I’ve told you about that. If it wasn’t you, Mr. Shayne, who was it?”

“I don’t know,” he said soberly. “Try to recall the voice. Could it have been Ralph Morton?”

She frowned briefly, closing her eyes to concentrate. “I don’t think so. Oh, I don’t know,” she cried out in despair. “How can I tell? I thought it was you.”

“I think we’ve got enough from her right now,” Gentry said gruffly. “There’s an ambulance downstairs. She’d better get to a hospital for a thorough examination.”

The back of her chair was toward the bed. Shayne and Gentry each took one of her arms and helped her up. The other men stood back, and with Shayne’s body blocking her short vision she was carried out without discovering the sheet-covered body of Ralph Morton.

In the hallway Gentry turned her over to the ambulance driver and his assistant, waited until they were in the elevator with the door closed, then turned a quizzical gaze on Shayne and asked:

“What do you make of it now, Mike—with all the inside information you’re holding out on me?”

“I’m not holding out anything, Will. That is—” He hesitated, shrugged his rangy shoulders, and said, “Not any more, I’m not. With Garvin tied into this so closely, you’ll have to hear where Burton Harsh comes in and decide for yourself.”

“Do you think Morton lured her here—attacked her and locked her in the closet and then either shot himself or was shot by someone who came in after she passed out?”

“I don’t know. How would Morton have known where to phone her?”

“I thought you might tell me that,” Gentry rumbled mildly.

“I want to talk to Garvin. And I’d like to get my hands on one Edwin Paisly.” Shayne started to the door next to 309 and Gentry went with him. He had his hand on the doorknob of 311, and before turning it he asked in a low voice:

“Do your boys make Morton murder or suicide?”

“Could be either from the preliminary examination,” Gentry told him. “But they’re inclined toward murder. No suicide note—several small indications—”

Shayne nodded and pushed the door open.

Chapter Thirteen

Suicide Doesn’t Fit

CARL GARVIN SAT DEJECTEDLY on the edge of the bed with his face buried in his hands. Gentry dismissed the officer on guard with a gesture and closed the door when he went out, then stood with his back against it while Shayne walked over to Garvin.

“What time did you come here tonight?” he asked.

Garvin lifted a wretched face. “It was about twelve-thirty. I don’t know exactly. I was brooding about things and wondering how to get hold of enough cash to satisfy Gannet. As I told you, I didn’t know at that time that Miss Morton had been murdered. I decided to come and talk to Morton about the proposition he made me. I knew, of course, that I couldn’t help him to persuade her to leave the state before she got the divorce, but thought I might be able to get some money from him by pretending I had thought of a way.” He drew in a deep breath and expelled it like a long, bitter sigh.

“The rest of it happened just as I told you,” he went on in a high-pitched monotone. “When I saw him lying there and smelled fresh gunsmoke I thought he had just shot himself. I realized that if I reported it to the police I’d have a lot of explaining to do, and I was too confused and upset to think clearly. I didn’t even go into the room. Just stood in the doorway for a moment and went away.”

“Directly to Burton Harsh to report to him that Ralph Morton was dead?”

“Yes. I thought he should know. It was all mixed up with Miss Morton blackmailing him, you see, and I still didn’t know she was dead. He told me that part of it when I got there.”

“Had you discussed Ralph Morton with Harsh? Given him the name of this hotel?”

“No. I swear I didn’t. I don’t believe Mr. Harsh knew anything about him until I told him tonight.”

“Leo Gannet told you Miss Lally left his place with me. Did he also tell you where I took her?”

Garvin removed his glasses and blinked up at Shayne in bewilderment. “No. I wasn’t interested in Miss Lally.”

“How and when did Harsh communicate with you between midnight and twelve-thirty?”

“He didn’t. I hadn’t seen him since we parted after dinner. I stopped for a few drinks—as I told you.”

“I know what you told me,” growled Shayne. “Miss Lally received a phone call from some man pretending to be me, which brought her to Morton’s room just before or after you were there. What do you know about that?”

“Nothing. I swear I know nothing about her being here.” Garvin covered his face with his hands and bent forward until his hands rested on his knees.

Shayne turned away, took a few steps toward the door, then whirled back to the moaning man.

“Isn’t it a fact that you and Harsh met outside your office at a quarter to seven and drove straight to Sara Morton’s hotel and murdered her before going to dinner? If she published Harsh’s story he’d be ruined financially and couldn’t raise the money to pay off your debt to Gannet. If you didn’t pay off you knew Gannet’s punks would take care of you in the usual way. Maybe Sara Morton didn’t suspect you of sending the threatening notes, and you’d be the one person she’d unlock her door for. It was a perfect set-up, wasn’t it, Garvin?” he ended savagely.

“No—no!” Garvin swayed and fell sideways on the bed and his body shook violently.

Shayne stood for a moment looking down at him with deep disgust, then went over to Gentry and said, “Call in your man, Will.”

Gentry opened the door and called the guard in. He went out with Shayne, and they stopped midway between the two doors while Shayne explained the Burton Harsh-Carl Garvin aspect of the case more fully.

“All three of them,” he ended grimly, “Harsh, Garvin, and Morton, had a reason to get Sara Morton out of the way fast. Leo Gannet, too.”

Riley came out of 309 with long, hurried strides, stopped short when he saw the chief and Shayne in the corridor. “Oh, here you are,” he said, and held out some crumpled pages of a magazine. “We found them in Morton’s wastebasket. They’re pages with words clipped out of the text. I just had one look at those threatening letters in your office, Chief, but the way I recall it, it looks like this is where they came from.”

Will Gentry reached in his pocket and drew out the three messages, handed them to Riley and said, “Check them against what seems to be cut from those pages—for positive identification.”

Shayne was scowling heavily, and when Riley went back to 309 he muttered, “Looks as if we know now who sent her the letters, at least. Morton had the strongest motive for getting her out of town before a certain date.”

“We’ll talk this development over later,” Gentry said, holding up a big hand to stop him. “In the meantime I’ll take Garvin in and bring Burton Harsh over from the Beach. With their stories and with what Miss Lally can tell us we may be able to make some sense out of this hash.”

“I’ve got five grand riding on keeping Harsh in the clear,” Shayne reminded him.

“If he’s in the clear,” said Gentry flatly, “I won’t stand in the way of your collecting.” He rolled his heavy lids up to look searchingly at Shayne. “Seems to me you tried to get Garvin to convict him.”

“I was trying to break a confession out of Garvin. I thought he might clear Harsh.” He rubbed his jaw reflectively and added, “Harsh has a pretty good alibi for both murders.”

“They’ve all got good alibis for Sara Morton’s murder,” Gentry exploded. “From seven o’clock on. Even Paisly.”

“We don’t know anything about an alibi for Morton.”

“That would tie it all up very neatly,” rumbled Gentry, “with his suicide to top it off and close the case. Too damned neatly, Mike. It doesn’t happen that way. I’ve never yet known a murderer to commit suicide just to make things easy for the cops.”

“But it could be that way this time,” Shayne argued. “Any fingerprints on the gun?”

“His. All over it. But hell, you know how easy it is to wipe a gun clean and press his prints on it.”

Shayne worried his left ear lobe between thumb and forefinger, staring morosely at the bare, worn floor. “Who got Miss Lally over here and knocked her senseless and locked her in a closet to smother? And why? Ralph Morton? And if he intended to kill himself, what in hell did that accomplish?”

“Let’s take it this way: Suppose it was Morton who phoned her to come over for some reason we don’t know. While waiting for her someone comes in and blows a hole in his head. Garvin, for my money,” Gentry said contemptuously, then resumed in his normal rumble:

“Before he can get out of the room she arrives and opens the door. He douses the light fast before she sees either him or the dead man, socks her on the head, and then doesn’t know what to do with her. He doesn’t want to kill her, but on the other hand can’t afford to leave her lying there where she may return to consciousness any moment and give the alarm. So he compromises by locking her in the closet and beating it.”

“That would fit Garvin,” Shayne agreed dispassionately, “if we can break his alibi. Those seven o’clock alibis bother me.”

“They bother me, too,” Gentry confessed gravely. “Her watch being an hour slow—”

“Wait a minute, Will.” Shayne gripped his arm hard. “Maybe we’ve been going at that watch the wrong way.” He paused briefly to clarify the sudden thought in his mind, then continued slowly and carefully:

“Suppose her killer knew she had written that letter to me giving the time as six-thirty? She might have just finished it and not sealed the envelope. So he mails it for her, enclosing the incriminating threats which he didn’t send. But—he turns her watch back an hour, hoping we’ll think it was slow when she typed the letter—then hurries out to get himself a good clean alibi for seven o’clock on.”

Gentry grunted sourly. “That would fit either Garvin or Harsh—or Paisly. They tell me you talked to Paisly at the Golden Cock when you went there with Miss Lally. What do you make of him, outside of being a wrist-slapper?” he added with a fleeting twinkle of humor.

“Slick and on the make. And he hates and fears Beatrice Lally,” Shayne said reflectively. “I don’t know why, but she can tell us. Could you check with the hospital and see if it’s all right to question her?”

“Right away.” Gentry was turning away when Lieutenant Hastings came out of 309.

“I’m through here,” he told the chief. “There isn’t much. The bullet was fired a few inches from his temple, entering the brain and killing him instantly. Somewhere around twelve-thirty, with a half hour leeway in either direction. Those words pasted on the three pieces of paper were definitely clipped from the pages Riley showed you, but we found no scissors or paste in the room. No definite fingerprints except the dead man’s. The twenty-five automatic has been fired once and was fully loaded to begin with. A woman’s gun,” he added. “Few men ever bother with a toy like that. You got any females on tap for this?”

“Only one,” Gentry admitted, “but I hardly see how Miss Lally fits. Bring Garvin down to headquarters—and send a couple of men to the Beach to pick up Burton Harsh for questioning. What’s the address, Mike?”

Shayne gave him instructions for reaching Harsh’s place by the most direct route, then asked Hastings, “What’s your personal opinion, Lieutenant? Could it be suicide?”

“Could be. But I’d say no. He’d been drinking some, and I never knew a drunken suicide who didn’t leave some sort of a sob note. It isn’t a contact wound, although fired close enough for him to have held the gun. Take my word for it, Mike. It’s murder.”

Shayne nodded and said, “I’m glad to hear it. Suicide wouldn’t fit what I have in mind.”

“Such as what?” demanded Gentry.

“I’d rather not say yet, Will. Not until we have a talk with Beatrice Lally to check against the statements we get from Harsh and Garvin and Paisly. You picked up Paisly yet?”

“The boys’ll pick him up—if they haven’t already,” said Gentry confidently.

They went to the elevator, where the Negro boy waited with one hand on the door and the other on the lever, ready to give instant service. He rolled his big eyes up at Shayne and asked fearfully, “When they gonna bring out the daid man?”

“Pretty soon now,” Shayne told him.

The boy hunched his thin shoulders forward and drew them together and his body shook.

“He’s harmless now,” Shayne assured him as the elevator stopped four inches too soon and they stepped down into the lobby.

Gentry went to a telephone booth and called the hospital, inquired about Miss Lally’s condition, hung up and called headquarters, then rejoined Shayne.

“She’s okay,” he said. “I’m having her brought to my office.”

“There’s something I want to check on with the clerk,” Shayne said, and they went together to the desk where the old man sat tensely erect and wide awake.

He described Miss Lally and asked whether she had come to the hotel around twelve-thirty.

“Didn’t happen to notice a woman like that go up. She might of, though, without me seein‘ her. I don’t bother much about who goes in and out if they don’t stop for a key.”

“Who runs the night switchboard?” Shayne asked.

“I tend to it—after midnight.”

“Any outgoing calls from three-oh-nine after twelve?”

“Nope. One come in for Morton, though. Right after I took over.”

“Did he answer it?”

“Right away. Like he might’ve been expectin‘ a call.”

“You didn’t just happen to listen in on what they said?” Shayne pressed him.

“I got other things to do besides listen to private telephone-calls,” he answered with dignity.

“Would you recognize the voice if you heard it again?”

“How could I now? Somebody says three-oh-nine and that’s all. I couldn’t say if it was a man or woman, much less remember the voice to recognize it.”

Shayne turned away with angry reluctance and said to Gentry, “That knocks one theory into a cocked hat. If it wasn’t Ralph Morton who called Beatrice Lally to come here, who in hell was it?”

“The murderer,” said Gentry.

“But why? So he’d have a witness to the killing?” he asked ironically.

Gentry shrugged his heavy shoulders wearily. “Because she knew something that made her dangerous to him, maybe. We’re going to need answers to a lot of things from Miss Lally,” he growled. “One thing I want you to remember, Mike. If you hadn’t played smart and held that girl out on me in the beginning we’d probably know all the answers by this time.”

Chapter Fourteen

Just One Question

BEATRICE LALLY’S FACE looked freshly scrubbed and powdered; her lips were rouged, and her blond hair was fluffed around her face to hide more than half of the small bandage in front of her ear. Her round, sooty eyes held an expression of wonderment as she sat across the desk from Chief Will Gentry at police headquarters. She puckered them and squinted at Shayne, who sat on her right, as though to make certain he was still there. Timothy Rourke sat on her left, his slaty eyes feverish with anticipation.

Chief Gentry consulted a sheet of paper containing penciled notes. “I think you can give us information on a lot of important points, Miss Lally. First, there’s Edwin Paisly. We haven’t been able to locate him yet. Do you know where we can find him?”

She turned to Shayne. “Have you told Chief Gentry about us meeting him at the Golden Cock, waiting for Miss Morton to keep a dinner date?”

“I’ve told the chief everything I know,” he said gravely, “and I advise you to do the same.”

“Of course,” she said quietly. “I think I know where you can find Edwin Paisly. I’ve been having him followed by a private detective for the past week. There’s a woman in Coral Gables whom he visited a great deal when he wasn’t with Miss Morton.”

She gave him the woman’s name and address. Gentry wrote it down, pressed a button, and an officer entered immediately.

“Pick up Edwin Paisly if he’s at this address,” Gentry said, passing him the slip of paper. “And bring in whoever is with him. Keep them separated and try to find out how long Paisly has been there tonight, and specifically whether he was there before seven o’clock.”

“Right away, Chief,” the officer said, and went out.

“Now then, Miss Lally,” he resumed, “you say you’ve had a private detective watching Paisly. Was that Miss Morton’s idea?”

“Oh, no. It was entirely my own idea. She was hypnotized by that man,” she said vehemently, “and refused to listen to a word against him.”

“You disliked him?”

“I saw him for what he was.” She tried to suppress her anger, but hatred for Paisly was more convincing in her low, tight tones than in an angry shout. “Marriage to him would ruin her career. He would wring her dry of money—to spend on other women.”

“And you would lose your job?” Gentry probed.

“Probably. He was afraid of me because I had her complete confidence. I was prepared to give up my position if she married him.”

Gentry was rumbling, “We’ll go into that further after we’ve talked to Paisly. Now, Miss Lally, I want you to tell us about the quarrel you had with your employer early yesterday morning.”

She turned to Shayne again and asked in a low, tight-lipped voice, “You mentioned Mr. Harsh to me over the phone. Do I have to—tell Chief Gentry all about—that?”

“He already knows about that old story Sara Morton dug up about him and the letter he received from her demanding twenty-five thousand for suppressing it,” he told her. “Tell us about his visit to her hotel room night before last.”

“One thing at a time,” Gentry growled, with a hard glance at Shayne.

“It’s all right,” said Miss Lally. “They’re sort of mixed up together, anyway.” Color had washed into her face and neck. She folded her hands in her lap and turned back to the chief.

Gentry picked up a pencil and began doodling on the bottom of his notation sheet.

“I had hoped—I still hope,” she resumed, drawing a deep breath and puckering her eyes at Gentry, “that her character needn’t be publicly smirched. Of course, if Mr. Harsh killed her I suppose there’s no way it can be kept quiet. But I—it’s still so difficult for me to believe. I’ve been so close to her for years and never suspected she would do a thing like that.” She paused and nervously touched the small bandage before her ear.

“Get on to your quarrel,” Gentry said.

“It’s—after this,” she faltered in a hurt voice. “It was after midnight when Mr. Harsh came. I was asleep in fourteen-twenty, and wakened gradually at the sound of angry voices through the bathroom. My door was closed, but hers was open, so I didn’t hear much. Just enough to realize the horrible accusation he was making. Then she knocked on my bathroom door and called me. I got up, but by the time I put on my robe and got in there he had gone.”

“Did you hear him make an actual threat against her life?” Shayne asked.

“No. Not in so many words. But she told me he had. I was so confused—so horrified and ashamed for her that I’m afraid I spoke out very strongly. I couldn’t understand it. She had told me a couple of days previously that she had decided not to use the story because it would blacken a man’s character unnecessarily and possibly bring financial ruin to him and his associates. I had been proud of her for making that decision. Then to learn that she was still holding the threat of publication over his head to extort money from him—” Miss Lally’s mouth primped up like a hurt child’s and her voice broke, and tears ran down her cheeks.

“Would Carl Garvin have known of her decision to kill the story—at the time she told you about it?” Shayne asked.

She looked at him with wet and wondering eyes. “I don’t know.”

“Did Miss Morton clear her stories through his office?”

“Not—actually. She generally liked to have a local man check her stuff for accuracy.”

“Then it’s possible she had informed Garvin of her decision?” Shayne asked.

“I suppose it’s possible,” Miss Lally agreed. “But hardly likely since she still hoped to extract money from Mr. Harsh. She knew Mr. Garvin was engaged to Viola Harsh, and that he’d naturally tell the good news to Mr. Harsh as soon as he learned it.”

“She’s right, Mike,” said Gentry impatiently, laying his pencil aside and folding his arms across the desk. “To tell Garvin would be the same as telling Harsh. Is that what you quarreled with Sara Morton about?” he asked Miss Lally.

“Yes. I forgot myself—and I guess I stormed at her for doing such a despicable thing. She laughed at me in that hard, cynical way she had. She got terribly angry at me, and I guess we made a disturbance, because the manager phoned up about it. That made her furious. She blamed it all on me and had the manager prepare another room for me—and made me move out at two o’clock in the morning.”

She wasn’t crying now, but a tear stood in each eye and her straight black lashes were wet. She pressed a moist, balled-up handkerchief against them, and resumed wearily:

“Neither of us mentioned it the next morning. We both tried to pretend nothing had happened. We always passed off little spats that way. I tried to forget what she was going to do, and tried to tell myself it just proved she was human, after all. I blamed it a lot on Edwin Paisly,” she said, suddenly vicious at the mention of his name. “He had an unwholesome influence on her. She’s been so different these last few months.”

Shayne took the blackmail letter Harsh had given him from his pocket and handed it to Gentry. “Here, Will, take a look at this and compare the signature with the one she wrote me just before she died.”

Gentry spread the two notes on his desk and examined the signatures closely. Shayne got up and leaned across to compare them. After a long moment Gentry said:

“I’m not a handwriting expert, but they look the same to me.”

“And to me,” Shayne agreed morosely. He picked up both notes, folded them, and thrust them in his pocket. He sat down again, and Gentry asked:

“Anything else significant occur yesterday?”

“There were two things,” Beatrice said diffidently. “Ralph Morton called me in the morning and said he wanted to see his wife. I hung up on him.” Her lips rolled out in a sour grimace.

“Did he tell you where he was staying?” Gentry asked sharply.

“No. I got the impression he had just arrived in town.”

“What was the second thing?”

“She had a visitor late in the afternoon. I thought it was Ralph. But as I told Mr. Shayne, I didn’t go in to see. Both bathroom doors were closed and I couldn’t hear anything but a muttering of voices.”

Gentry dropped a soggy cigar butt in the trash basket beside his chair, took out a fresh one and turned it around to examine the wrapper. He bit off the end deliberately, took his time about lighting it, then squeaked his swivel chair back.

“Now we come to the telephone call,” he rumbled, “and your hurried trip to the Ricardo Hotel at twelve-thirty. Are you positive you didn’t see anything in that room before the light went out and you were knocked unconscious?”

“Not a thing. It all happened so fast—”

“And you don’t even know who the occupant of that room is?” he broke in casually.

“No. I went there to meet Mr. Shayne. I thought it was his room. Isn’t it?” Her round eyes held a moist question when she puckered them at Shayne.

“I have an apartment on the river,” he told her.

She was widening her eyes in surprised wonderment when Gentry hunched forward and asked abruptly:

“Have you ever seen this before?” His tone was a harsh growl.

Miss Lally jerked her head around and saw a pearl-handled .25 automatic in Gentry’s square palm and not more than two feet from her naked, near-sighted eyes. She squinted at it worriedly, a perpendicular frown in her smooth white forehead. She leaned closer to examine it.

“Why—it looks like—I think—it’s one Miss Morton used to have,” she faltered. “I can’t be sure, of course, unless I check the serial number with her permit. But it’s the same kind hers is—was.”

“One she had, Miss Lally?” Gentry probed.

“Yes. Up until about a year ago. It was stolen. She always thought Ralph took it. He always took anything of hers he wanted and could get hold of. Where—where did you get it? I understood Miss Morton was stabbed.”

“She was. But a bullet from this gun killed Ralph Morton in room three-oh-nine at the Ricardo Hotel around twelve-thirty tonight.”

“Ralph Morton—dead? At the Ricardo where I—I—went tonight?” She drew away as far as the back of the straight chair permitted, staring at the pistol with hypnotic fascination.

“He is. And if his body hadn’t been discovered in that room by Shayne when it was,” he said grimly, “it is more than likely you would be dead, too. Suffocated in that closet.”

She gasped, looking slowly from Gentry to Shayne, her white skin suddenly suffused with a yellowish pallor. “Then you—found me?” she murmured.

“And lucky for you. Now you know why I asked if the voice over the phone sounded like Ralph Morton’s,” Shayne said.

“How horrible!” she burst out “Was he—murdered—too?”

“We think he was,” said Gentry flatly. He chewed the cigar, dead since the first puffs, across to the other side of his mouth, then resumed:

“It appears he hadn’t just arrived in Miami, but has been at the Ricardo several days and is the one who sent Miss Morton the threatening letters trying to force her to leave Miami before she completed her residence requirements for a divorce.”

“Ralph—sent those letters? Then he’s the one who killed her. But—” she included Timothy Rourke in her round of questioning glances now—“but who killed him? And who phoned me to go to that room? I don’t believe it was Ralph.”

“We’re fairly certain Ralph Morton didn’t phone you,” Gentry told her. “But it had to be someone who knew Morton’s room number—and who also knew Shayne had left you with Miss Hamilton. When we find that man—”

He was interrupted by a knock on the door and Riley opened it to report:

“We’ve got Mr. Harsh out here, Chief. He wants to phone a lawyer.”

“He can have all the lawyers he wants after we charge him with something,” rumbled Gentry. “I’ll be ready for him in a few minutes. Keep him away from Garvin.”

The door closed and Gentry asked, “Anything you want to ask Miss Lally, Mike?”

“There’s one thing I want very much to ask her. About Miss Morton’s watch, Miss Lally—was it any good?”

“Why, yes. It was a very expensive watch.”

“But did it keep time? Did she have it repaired often?”

“It always kept perfect time,” she declared. The puzzled expression in her eyes cleared, and she said, “Oh—you mean about it being an hour slow, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“That was one of her idiosyncrasies. She refused to ever change to daylight-saving time. She kept it on Standard the year ‘round.”

“Didn’t that cause certain difficulties?”

“Oh, no. She was so used to it she always made a mental correction when she was where daylight saving was in effect.”

“As it is here right now,” Shayne muttered. “I guess that tears it, Will. Even if her watch did say seven-thirty when she wrote me the note she would have typed the correct time.” His bushy brows met over a scowl and he rubbed his lean jaw reflectively.

“Then none of the men involved has an alibi,” Gentry said heavily. “You’ve been most helpful and cooperative,” he told Miss Lally. “I may need more from you later, but right now I can’t think of anything else.”

“Then may I go back to the hotel? My eyes are terribly strained from going so long without my glasses. I have an emergency pair at the hotel.”

“Wait a minute,” said Shayne. “They should be bringing Paisly in soon, and I’d like to ask him a couple of questions in your presence.”

“Do you think it’s important?” She sounded tired and disappointed.

“Why do we need her, Mike?” Gentry demurred.

“I want her to listen carefully to his voice, for one thing, and see if she can recognize it as the voice that lured her to Ralph Morton’s hotel room.”

“But I’ve heard his voice often,” she argued. “The man on the telephone didn’t sound a bit like him.”

Shayne looked across at Timothy Rourke, who had gradually slumped in the straight chair until his vertebrae rested on the seat. His chin rested on his chest and his eyes were closed.

“Tim—wake up,” Shayne yelled,

Rourke’s eyes popped open. “I’m not asleep,” he said crossly. “And don’t yell at me.”

“Look, Tim, you told me Paisly used to be an actor. You know what kind? Was he an impressionist?”

“My guess would be the female chorus,” Rourke grated. “Back row. I told you she didn’t say.”

“Look, Beatrice,” he said. “If Paisly has studied acting he could probably imitate my voice. He heard me talking at the Golden Cock. When you listen to him this time, try to recall the telephone conversation and see if you hear any of the same inflections.” He stood up and stretched and added casually to Gentry, “Mind if I use your phone?”

“Who you calling this time of morning?” the chief asked suspiciously.

“Lucy. I promised I’d call her. She’ll be sitting on the edge of the bed waiting to hear from me.” He sauntered over to the chief’s desk and lifted one of the phones just as the man who had been sent to pick up Paisly opened the door and announced:

“We’ve got Paisly outside, Chief. And the dame who lives in the house. They think it’s a morals charge,” he added with a grin.

“Bring both of them in,” Gentry ordered.

Lucy answered just as Gentry spoke. Shayne shifted his position to watch Beatrice’s strained face as she waited for Edwin Paisly to be brought in.

He spoke softly into the mouthpiece. “Did I wake you, angel?”

“I’ve been waiting for you to call, Michael. Is Miss Lally all right?”

“She’s okay,” he assured her. “We’re in Will Gentry’s office right now and I’m going to take her home in a few minutes and tuck her in bed.”

“Then will you stop by here, Michael? I can’t possibly go to sleep until you tell me what happened.”

“Better take a pill,” he muttered. “I may be a long time with her. I’ve got to get hold of Sara Morton’s story on Harsh so I can destroy it before this thing blows up in my face and I lose half my fee.”

He looked around with the receiver to his ear as the door opened again and Edwin Paisly was ushered in. Behind him was a long-limbed blonde wearing sandals and a zippered housecoat. She glared at the occupants of the room with tight lips and contemptuous eyes.

Shayne spoke just above a whisper into the mouthpiece, “Hold it a minute, angel,” while he watched Paisly gesticulate in vehement protest at the outrage as the officer pushed him along. He was fully clothed, but disheveled, his hair twisted in little tufts across the front where it was longer, as if feminine fingers had playfully tried to curl it, and there was lipstick smeared around his mouth. He stopped suddenly and his features tightened with loathing and anger when he saw Miss Lally seated primly across the desk from Will Gentry.

“I knew you must be at the bottom of this,” he shrieked vindictively. “I hope you’re satisfied with all your snooping and spying.”

Lucy’s voice was protesting in Shayne’s ear, wanting to know what was going on, declaring she’d wait up hours for him to tell her—that she’d never go to sleep now.

“It’s no use, angel. Beatrice and I may even end up at my place—and you know she’s already got her toothbrush with her.” He grinned as he listened a moment, said, “Good night,” softly, and hung up.

“… and I was glad to tell the police where they could find you if that’s what you mean,” Beatrice was saying. “Staying with that woman while you pretended to make love to Miss Morton.”

“Who’s this dame, Eddie?” Paisly’s companion regarded Miss Lally haughtily with her hands on her skinny hips. “What kinda bum rap—?”

“I’ll ask the questions,” Gentry growled. “Where were you before seven o’clock last night, Paisly?”

“I was—at Ellie’s place,” he said sullenly, his breath coming in snorting anger. “She’ll tell you I was there.”

“What time did he come back to your place after failing to meet Miss Morton for his dinner date?” Shayne put in quickly to the girl.

She turned her head and looked him up and down coldly. “About ten o’clock. He’s been there ever since, and whaddaya want to make of it?”

“How many phone calls did he make after ten o’clock?”

“I didn’t make any,” Paisly said violently. “We were together all the time and Ellie can swear I didn’t.”

“And her testimony is worth about a dime a barrel,” grunted Gentry sourly. “This is no good, Mike. He has had hours to prime her to tell whatever story he wanted.”

Shayne nodded agreement and turned to look searchingly at Miss Lally, who was leaning forward intently. Her eyes were half closed and her head was turned sideways in a listening attitude.

He sauntered over to her. She motioned him to bend down, putting a finger to her lips to indicate she wanted to whisper something. “I just don’t know,” she told him. “I think it might be. But it’s so important I wouldn’t want to swear to it without—you know—”

“I see,” he whispered, then straightened up and raised his voice to Gentry. “She’d be much better able to tell by listening over the telephone, Will. Why not have her call you here after a while and you can try it out then.”

Paisly was twisting his head rapidly to look from one face to the other with complete bafflement. He appeared relieved when Gentry ordered, “Take these two out and keep them separated. I’ll have Harsh first, and then Garvin—and then I’ll be ready for Paisly.”

“May I go to my hotel now, Chief Gentry?” Miss Lally asked once more.

“But stay there,” the chief admonished. “I’ll want you again later.” He looked at Shayne, and again he nodded in agreement. When Shayne started toward the door with the girl, Gentry called out, “Don’t you want to sit in on questioning these birds, Mike?”

“I’ll be back,” Shayne answered blithely. “Beatrice and I have a date—remember? Don’t forget she’s going to call you to listen to Paisly’s voice on the phone. After that, if you don’t know who your murderer is, I’ll tell you. I’d tell you now,” he added with an infuriating grin, “except there’s something I need to pick up at the Tidehaven Hotel first.”

They went out and closed the door. Shayne hustled Beatrice down the corridor to a side exit and out to his car, got in and pulled away fast.

“Did you mean that, Mr. Shayne,” she asked anxiously, “or were you just fooling the chief?”

“I think I know,” he told her, “but I wanted to get away and go to your hotel room with you to pick up that story Miss Morton wrote about Harsh before the police get it. It’s worth money to me.”

“I don’t know about the carbon copy,” she said nervously. “Miss Morton kept it for some reason when she told me to file the original away.”

“The carbon is safe enough,” Shayne assured her.

Miss Lally shivered and sighed. She sat primly erect, as though too tired to relax, and they drove in silence to the Tidehaven Hotel.

The lobby was dimly lit and empty except for one clerk. They went to the elevator and up to the 14th floor without speaking. She led the way down the hall and unlocked the door of her bedroom, and Shayne stood back to let her precede him inside.

She went directly to the bureau and fumbled in the top drawer, sighed with relief as she lifted out a spectacle case and opened it.

With a duplicate pair of glasses on, Miss Lally became once more the epitome of a primly efficient and sexless secretary. She stooped to open the bottom drawer of the bureau and drew out a bulging cardboard folder, riffled through the papers inside, and handed Shayne a dozen typewritten sheets clipped together at the top.

He glanced at the first page and tucked the manuscript under his arm with a satisfied nod. She was facing the mirror, and she leaned forward to study her disheveled reflection with a rueful grimace. “I look and feel as though I’d been put through a meat chopper,” she murmured. “I hope you don’t mind if I just flop into bed.”

Shayne was standing very close to her. He reached his left hand around and covered the back of her hand gripping the edge of the bureau. “I have just one question, Beatrice.”

“What is it?”

“Why did you kill Ralph Morton?”

Chapter Fifteen

The Crowning Touch

HER BACK WAS TOWARD HIM, touching the front of his coat, his arm reaching around her side and his hand still covering hers. The top of her head was just under his chin. She didn’t move or breathe for a full minute.

Then she turned and lifted her face, sliding the glasses off, and looking up at him with round, sooty eyes that held only defeat.

“So—you know,” she breathed. She crumpled against him and pressed her face against his chest, sobbing like an exhausted child. “I’ve been so frightened—so alone—keeping it locked up inside me. I want to tell you, Mr. Shayne. It will be a relief. And you can tell me what to do.”

He put his arms around her and she clung to him until she stopped crying. When she drew away she asked tremulously, “Can we go—some place where it’s quiet and maybe—we could have a drink?”

“My place?” Shayne suggested.

“Oh, yes,” she breathed. “I’d like that.”

He said, “I know,” and withdrew the key from the lock.

They went in silence to the elevator and down to the car. Miss Lally sat self-consciously close to the door while Shayne drove slowly to a garage half a block from his hotel, left the car there, and they walked back together.

Neither of them spoke, but she put her hand in his as they neared the entrance. He squeezed it gently and held it as they went through the lobby and past the desk where he nodded casually to the clerk. In the elevator he spoke just as casually to the operator, asking, “Much going on tonight?”

“Not much, Mr. Shayne.” The operator didn’t look at Miss Lally as they rose to the third floor. He opened the door and said, “Good night, Mr. Shayne,” before closing the door.

Beatrice was gripping his hand. She said shakily, “They do this sort of thing very well at your hotel, Mr. Shayne. As though you often bring women to your room.”

He stopped in front of his door and said angrily, “I’m not bringing you to my room. We’ll go in and have a drink and I’ll listen to your story. Then you can trot back to your own bedroom if you’ve convinced me I can conscientiously decide not to turn you over to the police.”

He unlocked the door and strode inside, tossed his hat on a hook near the door, ruffled his red hair, and asked, “What do you want to drink?”

She had closed the door quietly and was leaning against it. “Do you have rum?”

“A daiquiri? Sit down and make yourself at home while I mix one.”

He stopped at the wall liquor cabinet and took out a bottle of light rum and carried it to the kitchen. He used bottled lemon juice, and returned shortly with her drink and a glass of ice water.

Beatrice was sitting on the couch. Her glasses lay on the serving-table, and she had removed the short jacket of her suit and fluffed her hair. She had turned out the top light, leaving only a shaded table lamp burning on a table against the wall.

Softly lighted, she looked young, defenseless, and she leaned eagerly forward when he set her drink before her. He poured himself a drink from the bottle of cognac he had left on his desk and sat down beside her. She picked up the glass that was full to the rim with rum, lemon juice, and ice and drank half of it, quickly covering her mouth to hide a sour grimace at the strong taste of rum. “I needed that,” she said when she could speak, and turned her body slightly toward him. “Please understand this, Mr. Shayne. I’m willing to do what is right. If telling my story to the police will help them catch Miss Morton’s murderer, I’m willing—more than willing to do so. I want you to decide.”

“I will,” he said shortly. “And I’m listening.”

She puckered her eyes at him, unsure of herself before his bleak gaze and the deep trenches in his cheeks. “I was so terribly confused when I first came to in the hotel room and saw you and all those men. When I didn’t tell the truth then, I didn’t know what was best—later.” She appealed to him by timidly touching his arm with her hand. “You do believe me, don’t you? That I would have told the truth eventually if I became convinced it would help catch the murderer?”

Shayne took a long drink of cognac and chased it with ice water. “I’m not believing anything until I hear the whole story,” he said harshly.

She took her hand away. “Tell me—first—how did you guess?”

“A number of small things that added up only one way. When you speak of catching Miss Morton’s murderer—does that mean you’re convinced Ralph Morton didn’t do it?”

“No,” she said quickly. “I just don’t know. Did he?”

Shayne settled back and warmed half a tumbler of cognac between his palms. “I’d like to hear from you first.”

“It’s still like a horrible nightmare. I was so dumbfounded when I opened the door and saw Ralph Morton in that room instead of you. He was awfully drunk, Michael.” She spoke his first name tentatively and a little gasp of surprise or apology followed.

“Go back a little,” he ordered gruffly. “You went up to three-oh-nine, as you told Gentry, still thinking I had called you?”

“Of course. I had no reason to think otherwise. I knocked and a man’s voice said come in. The door wasn’t locked, and I opened it. He was sprawled out on the bed and I thought he looked surprised when he saw me. As though he expected someone else. I asked Ralph if you had got there yet and he didn’t even answer. He just leered at me. He got up and grabbed me and blew his foul whisky breath in my face and said insulting things. He was slimy and revolting, and I fought him as hard as I could. He tripped once and nearly fell. I started to run, but he caught my ankle and dragged me down to the floor and started cursing me. That’s when he struck me with his fist.” Her mouth primped up and she put her finger tips to the bandage. Tears covered her eyes, but she tightened her lips and the tears didn’t overflow.

“That’s when I was first really afraid. It was one of those things that just don’t happen to people. But it was happening to me. That’s when I saw the gun on the bedside table beside a bottle of whisky. He was puffing and out of breath and staggering, and I snatched the gun. I heard the whisky bottle fall to the floor, then everything turned sort of blurry and red.” She covered her face with her hands and shuddered. Shayne took a sip of cognac and waited. When she took her hands from her face she looked at him with imploring eyes. “I didn’t hear the gun go off. I wasn’t conscious of it, but suddenly I was standing over him and there was—a hole—in his head—and blood.” She fell against Shayne and sobbed uncontrollably.

Shayne held her until she was calm. “Finish your daiquiri,” he said gruffly, “then tell me how you came to lock yourself in the closet where you almost suffocated.”

The ice had melted, weakening the drink, and she finished it with a few swallows. “That’s too horrible to think of. And nerve-wracking. I hardly had time to realize what had happened when there was a knock on the door. I knew it was still unlocked, and that whoever it was could just turn the knob and catch me in there with him—dead.

“I was too frantic to think. I guess I acted automatically. The gun had dropped on the bed close to his hand. I grabbed it and wiped it clean and put it in his hand and curled his fingers around it. I was terrified for fear it would go off again.” She shuddered and sank weakly against the couch, her hands clenched tightly in her lap.

“The closet door was open,” she resumed after a moment. “The person at the door knocked again, impatiently. I stepped in the closet and shut the door quietly. I didn’t realize for several minutes that the door had latched and locked me in. There wasn’t even a doorknob inside. I hardly dared to breathe. I thought I could hear sounds in the room and kept expecting someone to open the door any minute. That’s when I made up the story I would tell whoever found me. The same story I told you and Chief Gentry. It was all I could think of.

“After a while everything was quiet. It was a strange silence—like my ears were all stopped up. Then I started hurting in my chest. I couldn’t get a good breath. I was sweating all over, and I knew I had to get out of there.

“That’s when I discovered there wasn’t a doorknob inside. The door was so tight I couldn’t even see a crack of light from outside. I went all to pieces and flung myself against the door time and time again, but it didn’t budge. I tried to scream, but not a sound came out. I kicked and pounded on the door until I was too weak to stand up. Then I fell to the floor and crawled around like a trapped animal looking for a place to get out. And that’s all I remember,” she ended, and expelled a breath in a series of jerky sighs.

Shayne took a long drink of cognac and an ice-water chaser. “It was a brutal experience,” he said quietly, “and you tell it very well. Now, let’s have the truth.”

She stiffened and squinted at his set features. “I’ve told you everything—just as it happened,” she said.

“You’ve told it the way you hope I’ll think it happened,” he corrected her harshly.

“Please, Mi-Michael,” she stammered. “I’m so tired. I can’t fence with you tonight.” She moved slowly as if to stand up, then whirled about and threw herself into his arms, clasping her arms around his neck and pressing against him.

He stiffened his neck when she tried to pull his head down. Her lips were parted and her sooty eyes were wide open and misty.

“It might be interesting to kiss a murderess,” he said in a calm, speculative tone, “but I think I’ll skip it if you don’t mind.”

She relaxed and closed her eyes, squeezing a tear from under each lid. “That’s a horrible word, Michael,” she said drearily. “Is it really murder—what I did?”

“It’s murder when you go to a man’s room of your own volition with a gun in your handbag and the determination to kill in your mind.”

“But I’ve told you—”

“A lot of lies mixed in with a few grains of truth,” he said brutally, pushing her away from him. He stood up and took his empty glass from the table, went to the desk and refilled it. Returning, he toed a light occasional chair along, stopped on the opposite side of the serving-table, and sat down.

“You had every intention of killing Morton when you went to the Ricardo Hotel,” he resumed, “after covering yourself carefully with a story about a fake telephone call.”

“But it wasn’t a fake. Lucy can tell you.” There was naked fear in her eyes.

“Lucy didn’t hear the phone ring at all,” he snapped. “You waited until she was under the shower and couldn’t know whether it rang or not. Then you called Morton to tell him you were coming over. When Lucy came out of the bathroom and caught the tag-end of the conversation you gave her the story about me calling.”

“Have you lost your mind, Michael? It wasn’t that way at all. Lucy will tell you—”

“I say it was,” he cut in sharply. “And so does the switchboard operator at the Ricardo,” he added untruthfully.

“That horrid old man—” She burst out angrily.

“Heard every word you said,” he supplied. “No call went out from three-oh-nine tonight, but your call came in about twelve-fifteen.”

“Suppose I did go over to see Ralph,” she jerked out viciously. “But the rest of it happened just as I told you. He misinterpreted my reason for going there at that time of night.”

“I’ll grant some of it did happen as you’ve told it,” Shayne said wearily, “but I don’t believe there was any struggle. You warmed up to him just as you’ve been doing to me, and then you let him have it. Carl Garvin messed up your plan by knocking on the door and opening it. I imagine you planned to write some sort of scrawled suicide note, didn’t you, after slipping those magazine pages you’d clipped the words out of into Ralph Morton’s wastebasket. You knew the police would find them—and assume that he sent those threatening notes to his wife.”

“Michael!” she exclaimed. “I don’t understand—”

“Oh, yes you do,” he burst out savagely. “You felt yourself pretty much of an expert at murder by that time—after the beautiful job of improvisation you did after killing Sara Morton.”

“Michael!” she wailed. “You can’t seriously think—” Her voice broke and she was weeping again.

“Save your tears,” he snapped. “You knew you had to kill Ralph Morton when you heard the midnight newscast saying he was seen outside her door pounding for admittance about six-thirty. No one saw him go in, and no one knew he didn’t get in because she was dead. But he knew. And your whole complex alibi depended on us believing she was alive at six-thirty. That’s why you double-locked the door, as an insurance against someone, a maid, for instance, opening the door and discovering the body before six-thirty.”

“You are insane, Michael Shayne. Do you think I’d have locked myself in that closet where I almost suffocated on purpose?” She blew her nose and wiped her eyes.

“I’m pretty sure you didn’t lock yourself in with any intention of suffocating. Where were you when Garvin opened the door? Behind it? When he ran away after seeing Morton’s body you thought he was hurrying to report it to the police. You figured you didn’t have time to get out of the hotel, so you smashed your glasses on the floor in front of the door, then locked yourself in the closet, thinking you’d be found within a very few minutes. That minor bump on your head was easily self-administered.”

She stared at him in helpless amazement. “I don’t see how you can think such things,” she said weakly.

“Your glasses were not on the floor when Garvin opened it,” he stated flatly. “But they were there when he and I arrived together an hour later. What does that do to your story?”

She drew in a long quivering breath and said wildly, “It’s all so preposterous! Have you forgot that special-delivery letter you got from Miss Morton! If you’ll check the pick-up times for mail at the Tidehaven you’ll see it had to be mailed between six-ten and seven-fourteen. Mr. Rourke will tell you I met him at six o’clock downstairs. If she mailed it after I met him—”

“That’s what made a damn near perfect alibi,” Shayne agreed. “If she had written and mailed the letter, you’d be in the clear. But I can prove she didn’t do either. You wrote the letter on her typewriter. I imagine you’ve pretty well perfected copying her signature, but not so well as to fool an expert. You had already shoved those fancy shears in her throat some minutes before six o’clock. After writing the note, you hastily concocted a series of three threatening messages to serve as a blind for mailing the letter—and to make me believe that was the reason she was so eager to contact me all day. It was a simple matter from then on. You didn’t have time to go up to the fourteenth floor and murder Sara Morton in those three or four minutes you left Rourke in the cocktail lounge. But it was plenty of time to drop the letter in the mail box.”

Beatrice Lally was crumpled on the couch with both hands over her face. There was no tearful weeping now. Her body shook with dry, convulsive sobs.

Shayne had his chair tilted back and his head rested against his clasped hands. His eyes stared thoughtfully at the ceiling and his voice was calm as he continued his inexorable summing up:

“I thought there was something fishy about those enclosures from the beginning. Will Gentry put his finger on it when he wondered why the devil Sara Morton waited behind a locked door for death to come without even asking for police protection after giving up hope of contacting me. You overplayed your hand—as most murderers do.”

He thumped the front legs of the chair down and unclasped his hands from the back of his head, took the two letters he’d brought from Gentry’s office and selected the special-delivery one.

“This letter to me is evidently typed on Miss Morton’s personal typewriter as distinguished from yours by comparing it with this script of the Harsh story I brought along. But the same person typed both notes and the script. Don’t you know that a person’s typing is as distinctive as handwriting? Any expert will testify that you typed the letter. You’ve probably signed her letters for years, as well as opening and sorting all mail, as you told me yourself.”

The girl on the couch writhed and moaned, but she didn’t take her hands from her face.

“That’s where you made your first big mistake,” he went on. “As soon as I read the blackmail note to Burton Harsh, I knew you wrote it. You told him to mail the money directly to Miss Morton. It would have been insane for her to tell him that, because you open all her mail before she sees it. But it was perfectly safe for you to try it—after learning three days before that she was killing the story on her own initiative.

“And that’s why you had to kill her,” he continued, disgust and contempt rising in his voice. “Because Harsh got tight and came to her room and angrily protested the note. She realized immediately that you were trying to extort money from him by using her name—and that’s what the violent quarrel was about.”

Miss Lally’s moans had gradually subsided. She sat up and her eyes blazed at him. “If you’re so damned smart and knew I killed her, why did you make a fool of yourself stirring up a mess with Mr. Harsh and Carl Garvin—and Paisly?”

“I didn’t say I knew you killed her,” he said mildly. “I only stated that I knew you had written the letter. But Harsh didn’t know you wrote it. Nor Garvin.”

“And you don’t know it either,” she screamed in wild anger.

“Wait till I finish,” said Shayne. “I’m giving you credit for being plenty smart. You brooded about things all day while she tried to get in touch with me to tell me what you’d been doing. She probably wanted me to check back for several years and find out how often you’d done the same thing successfully in other big cities. Just before six o’clock, when you found out she hadn’t been able to reach me and there was still time to save yourself, you grabbed up the shears and killed her.

“The crowning touch,” he went on angrily, “was that torn half of a bill enclosed in my letter and the other half dramatically clenched in her dead hand. By God, I fell for that. The perfect macabre touch to convince me the letter and the enclosures were genuine. It screamed out: This is it, Michael Shayne. At the moment of death this is my way of saying to you what I left unsaid in my hasty note.

“Sure. I fell for it. I stood over her dead body and thought just that. That was a nice touch, too, when you built up the story about her not being able to face the disgrace of being exposed as a blackmailer, and insisted on having it handled privately.”

“You can’t prove it!” she screamed. Beatrice Lally had her bag in her lap and was digging into it frantically. “No one else suspects a word of it, and you’ll never—”

“Michael! Look out!” Lucy Hamilton was shouting from the open doorway of the darkened bedroom.

Beatrice dropped the bag and soft light gleamed on the silvered barrel of a twin to the automatic she had used to kill Ralph Morton.

Shayne acted the same moment Lucy screamed. He ducked low and came up with the serving-table turned sideways and rammed it forward, knocking Beatrice off balance. The gun dropped to the floor and she was pinned against the couch.

Lucy Hamilton ran in, dropped to her knees in front of the girl, and came up with the gun.

“Good girl,” Shayne said. “I hope you got all this down.”

“Every word of it,” she panted. “If I can read the pothooks I made in the dark. When you told me Miss Lally was coming here replete with toothbrush, I knew you wanted me to come here for some reason. But why did you insist on doing it this way, Michael? Couldn’t you have just told Chief Gentry.”

Shayne was getting the service table back on four legs. When he took the top away from Miss Lally’s body she fell on the couch and lay quiescent and exhausted, with the hot fires of hatred flickering in her naked eyes.

“I could have jumped the gun,” he said cheerfully, picking up the articles that had clattered to the floor from the upturned table. “But I wanted to get hold of this manuscript first.” He had just picked it up from the floor and handed it to Lucy. “Burton Harsh owes me a balance of five grand on it. And I might have been wrong,” he added, “if Beatrice could have talked herself out of it. Who knows but what having the toothbrush on tap might have come in handy after all?”

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen