"I just don't understand," faltered Lucy. "Why did Michael send you here? Why did you come when—when—?"
"When the police are looking for me for murder?" The question came equably and with frightening calm. "You are perfectly right, darling. That is blood you saw on my little knife." The words came out purringly with hidden, deadly menace. It rose suddenly on a note of shrill derision:
"Because he's a fool. Like any man I ever met, he falls all over himself for a smile and a sad story any girl wants to dish out. And by God, how I love to make suckers out of them. I'll tell you all about it because, you know, you're never going to repeat a word of it to anyone. I promise you that. Just something for you to think about, dearie, while I'm waiting for that phone call."
Lucy sat straining stififly against her bonds. Get her talking! That was it. Keep her boasting and talking about what she had done. She might finally get hysterical and blow her top completely.
"I want to get it absolutely straight about the telephone call you're expecting," she said as placatingly as she could. "So I won't make any bobbles that'll get you mad at me. Is it someone named Lanny whom you expect to call?"
"That's what I said, isn't it?"
"But when you made your calls I heard you ask for someone named Bert Paulson. And leave word for him to call his sister here. But if it's really someone named Lanny you want, will he ask for his sister if he calls?"
"Never mind about whose sister I am or anything." The girl on the sofa turned sullen. "Johnny, what I said about answering the phone. If it's Lanny and if he asks for his sister or Nellie, or— Well, if he just says it's Lanny, you give it to me quick."
She fumbled in her bag, took out the knife and studied it fondly. Then, unexpectedly, she giggled. "Oh shucks, why don't I tell you who I really am, and Lanny and all? Just show you how dumb your silly Michael Shayne really is. Take this note he wrote to you to begin with—"
SIXTEEN: 11:20 PM.
"By God!" said Will Gentry violently as Shayne reported what Lucy had said on the phone. "By God, Mike. So that's the way you protect your client. Turn her loose to go out on the town and keep a tryst with a killer gunning for her with a forty-five?"
"How was I to know she wouldn't stay put once she was safe with Lucy? As for keeping any trysts with a forty-five— I'm damn sure that isn't why she went out. If you'd seen how frightened she was of meeting him at my place—"
"Playing God again." Chief Gentry's fist thudded down angrily on his desk. "If you'd come clean with me in the beginning, she'd be safe right now. You know that, don't you?"
"Sure, but-"
"But, hell!" raged the police chief. "You never change, do you, Mike? You've got some kind of goddamned God-complex that makes you pull things like this. High-and-mighty Michael Shayne sitting back and pulling the strings. Manipulating people like puppets to make 'em jump the way he thinks they ought to jump. If for once in your life you'd come down to earth and co-operate with the police, things would be one hell of a lot better for everybody concerned."
"All right," said Shayne grimly. "So hind-sight says you're right. But things are no worse ofiE right now than you thought they were ten minutes ago before I told you I had her stashed at Lucy's. You've got a pick-up on both of them. Chances are you'll have them both before he can
get to her."
"But it won't be your doing if that's the way it happens. Goddamn it, Mike—"
"This isn't getting us anywhere," interposed Shayne. "You can sit here on your dead butt and rave all you want to, but we'll still be going around in circles in the dark. Let's take this systematically. From what we know now, do you believe the dead man was seen by Nellie Paulson in the Hibiscus at nine-thirty and then shoved out the window into the bay?"
Gentry had another cigar out and was chewing on it savagely without lighting it. "That's my guess. Even if some dame did try to place him alive in the Silver Glade at ten."
"All right. Taking that for a starter. Are you assuming that my scar-faced friend is actually Charles Barnes from New York, that the dead man is Bert Paulson as his sister insisted—and that Barnes switched identification after killing Paulson in his sister's room?"
"How else do you read it?"
Shayne shrugged. "I'm just looking at all the possibilities. I guess we might assume Barnes was slated to be the next sucker in the Paulsons' brother-and-sister act, and he objected with a sharp knife. That the way you see it?"
"It's all theorizing at this point," grunted Gentry. "Without any solid facts to go on—"
"But all we can do right now is theorize. I keep going back to what Nellie Paulson told me in my room. Why did she claim she and her brother were staying at the Roney when we know she'd had that room at the Hibiscus for two weeks? And where's her brother been staying these two weeks?"
"You tell me. You're so damned pat with the answers."
Shayne tugged at his ear-lobe and frowned. "If Barnes is the killer, it would explain why he was so anxious to get his hands on Nellie—why he pretended to me he was her
brother so I'd hand her over to him—and why he hurried back to the Hibiscus and tried to contact her there, still playing the brother angle."
"Because she's the only one who's actually seen the body," agreed Gentry gruffly. "The only person alive who can testify there was a body in three-sixteen tonight. Sure. That makes sense. But how do you add in the other girl who tried to finger a dead man as being alive in the Silver Glade half an hour after he'd been dumped in the bay? Who the hell is she and how does she come into this?"
Shayne said, "She's the one piece that doesn't fit into our pat little theory." He shook his head irritably, running his hand through bristly red hair. "Yet she's got to fit. She's the key-piece right now. It wasn't coincidence that put her in my hotel with that picture at ten o'clock."
"Find her then," grunted Gentry. "Find her among the few hundred thousand people in Miami, and let's ask her. For God's sake, Mike, you didn't even take the trouble to ask her name when she was right there in front of you. Hell of a way to play detective."
"I didn't know she fitted into the picture. Hell! At that point, I didn't know there was any picture for her to fit into. Remember, that was before I'd even talked to Nellie. I took her for another jealous wife trying to pin down some divorce evidence."
"Maybe she is at that. Maybe Paulson is married—or was—and she's the wife—or widow, now."
Shayne shook his head stubbornly. "Then what made her think he was in the Silver Glade when we know he was more likely floating in the bay at that moment?"
"None of these questions are any good at this point," snapped Gentry. "Maybe she'd made a date earlier in the night to meet him there and just assumed that's where he was. And maybe she killed him and was trying to give herself an alibi by playing you for a sucker, expecting you to come along later just as you did and swear the guy was
still alive at ten o'clock. To hell with all this," Gentry ended flatly. "Get out and hunt up some answers to the questions you've been asking. You know both of them by sight. That's more than any of my men have got. You messed everything up by playing it smart and letting the girl get away from Lucy, Get out in Miami and find her before she ends up with her throat cut or a forty-five slug in her belly."
"Yeh," said Shayne, "I guess you're right. It is my baby now." He pushed back his chair and stood up, rubbing his angular jaw thoughtfully. "I'll be calling in, huh? You ought to have a fingerprint report on the corpse soon. And New York might have something interesting to tell us about Barnes. How soon will the Jacksonville dick get here with pictures of the Paulsons?"
Will Gentry looked at the big electric clock on the wall behind him. "Any time now. Good hunting, Mike. But goddamn it, if you'd just—"
Shayne said grimly, "I know. Don't rub it in. If anything happens to that girl now, it'll be bad enough without you rubbing my face in it."
His wide shoulders slumped a little, and he turned and slouched out of Gentry's office.
> SEVENTEEN: 11:27 PM,
There was an air of elegance, a feeling of almost oppressive luxury about the huge lobby of the Roney Plaza Hotel on Miami Beach. At this hour of night and before the winter season had officially opened, the lobby was none-the-less quite well filled with gay couples in evening dress, coming and going from the bank of elevators to the cocktail and dining rooms where late supper was being served and dancing was in progress.
Michael Shayne made his way among the milling guests to the wide expanse of desk where two clerks were still on duty. He waited behind a fat man wearing a scarlet cummerbund and white jacket with midnight blue evening trousers, who was complaining bitterly to the clerk about the length of time it had taken room service to deliver two rye highballs to his suite earlier in the evening.
The clerk was a tall, lean, middle-aged man with a very thin black mustache and a pained expression of solicitude on his face as he listened patiently to the complaint. He agreed soothingly that it was a shocking state of affairs when a guest at the Roney had to wait more than fifteen minutes for delivery of a drink, and gravely promised to give the matter his personal attention and see that the offending waiter was reprimanded harshly. He then turned his tired eyes on Shayne and lifted his upper lip a quarter of an inch in what was supposed to pass for a smile, and inquired, "And what can I do for you, sir?"
"Do you have a Barnes registered? Charles Barnes from New York."
"If you'd care to inquire at the house telephone, sir?" The clerk flipped a white hand toward a row of phones at Shayne's right.
The detective started to protest but, realizing he'd get faster results by observing protocol, went to one of the phones and asked the same question.
A pleasant female voice repeated the name and said almost immediately, "Twelve-ten. Would you like me to ring them?"
Shayne said, "Please." He let the phone ring six times before replacing it.
He returned to the desk and said, "Barnes in twelve-ten? Can you tell me anything about him?"
The eyebrow-like mustache lifted superciliously. "I'm sure I don't know. If the telephone doesn't answer—"
Again, Shayne hesitated, and again he turned away with a slight shrug. He stepped back from the desk and lit a cigarette, looking around the lobby carefully.
He spotted a youngish man wearing a double-breasted blue serge suit leaning negligently against one of the pillars and apparently completely disinterested in everything that was going on about him.
Shayne threaded his way to him and asked, "Is Jimmie Curtis still in charge of Security?"
The young man looked at him stonily for a moment, then his face relaxed in a pleased smile. "You're Mike Shayne, aren't you?"
"That's right. Jimmie around?"
"He's not here any longer. Hasn't been for months. Mr. Gerdon took his place."
"And where," asked Shayne, "can I find Mr. Gerdon?"
"I'll take you to his office." The young man detached himself from the pillar and to Shayne's faint surprise it remained standing. He led him beyond the desk into a corridor, around a comer and down another with closed office doors on both sides.
He stopped near the end at a door marked "Private," knocked and then opened the door. He stepped inside and said smartly, "Mr. Gerdon. This is Mr. Shayne from Miami."
Shayne followed him in to a large room with a very thick carpet on the floor. A totally bald man with sunken cheeks and slightly protruding eyes sat behind a highly polished mahogany desk.
He said, "Shayne?" and rose slowly as his bulging eyes studied the rangy detective from across the bay. He nodded and said, "All right, Rawson," and held a hand out to Shayne without noticeable cordiality.
"Heard a lot about you, of course. Is this social or business?"
"Business." Shayne sat in the chair he indicated. "A man named Barnes in twelve-ten."
"No trouble, I hope." Gerdon turned in his swivel chair to a card filing cabinet and drew out a long drawer. He flipped through the cards and withdrew one, placed it on the desk in front of him.
Shayne said, "I'll know better when you give me the dope."
"Mr. and Miss Barnes from New York. Brother and sister. Twelve-ten is a two-bedroom suite," Gerdon explained. He read the New York address on East 63rd Street. "Credit rating A-1. They checked in sixteen days ago. Everything regular. Paid the first week's bill with a New York check that cleared." He looked up with a frown.
"What are their first names?"
"Charles and Mary."
Shayne leaned back in his chair and blew smoke at the ceiling. "Nothing else on their card, huh?"
"No notations of any sort. That means run-of-the-mill so far as any observations go."
Shayne said, "Can you get someone in who can describe them both to me?"
Gerdon hesitated. "If you'd tell me what you have in mind-?"
Shayne said, "A man carrying Charles Barnes's wallet was pulled out of the bay tonight. Dead. First time 1 knew he had a sister." His gaze was withdrawn, his voice speculative.
Gerdon sucked in his lips. He pressed a button on his desk, leaned forward to speak in a low tone into a small microphone on a stand in front of him on the polished mahogany. Then he leaned back and said, "We'll have the room-maid in. And the night-boy who serves that floor. Dead, eh? An accident?"
Shayne shook his head. "Murder." He moved the side of his hand across his throat expressively. "There's some question about the identity of the body—whether Barnes is dead or may have done the job himself. Would you work on the desk and switchboard? Try to find out about their movements tonight. Phone calls in or out?"
Gerdon's face indicated polite disbelief that any guest of the Roney Plaza could possibly be mixed up in anything as sordid as being a murderer or the victim of one.
However, he spoke into the microphone again at some length, and settled back as there was a light tap on his door. He called, "Come," and a pretty, plump girl dressed in a maid's uniform entered hesitantly. She looked quickly from Shayne to Gerdon, and then moved to stand in front of the desk with downcast eyes.
Gerdon glanced at a notation he had made and said, "It's all right, Irma. This gentleman would like to ask you a few questions about twelve-ten."
"That's Mr. Barnes and Miss Mary," she said ques-tioningly, turning to Shayne. "Real nice, both of them, I'm sure."
"I'm glad to hear that, Irma," Shayne reassured her.
"First, I wish you'd describe them to me the best you can."
"Miss Mary is real pretty. A little thing. Young-like. About twenty, I guess. She's got real blonde hair and— and, well, she's real nice. A lady. You know. She always says thank you. And tips me when she wants something ; extra. I do hope nothing's wrong."
Shayne said gravely, "I hope so too. Now, about her brother. Does he—have a scarred face?"
"Oh, no." Irma looked shocked by the question. "Real nice-looking he is, too. Some older than Miss Mary, I guess, but not really if you know what I mean."
"You're sure about the scar?"
"Of course I'm sure. I've seen him plenty, being in and out like I am."
Shayne sighed. "About how tall? What weight?"
"Just medium, I'd say. Shorter than you by inches. I don't know how much men weigh. But he isn't fat—nor thin either. Just medium-like."
Shayne didn't show his disappointment. He said, "I know you're a smart girl, Irma, and you girls are trained to notice all sorts of things about your guests. Now think hard and see if you can remember anything in particular about the Barnes. Anything you overheard or noticed."
"Well, they— I'd say they had plenty of money and were used to nice things. Their clothes and all. And they acted like they were having a good time. Miss Mary in particular, she loved swimming and went in twice most every day. Mr. Barnes went out more than she did. And he—well, he had a sort of way about him." She drooped her head and a slight color crept into her cheeks.
"What sort of way?" Shayne urged her.
"Well, it was just—it wasn'
t nothing, really." The girl spread out her hands and her blush deepened as she looked up at Shayne. "You get used to it, sort of, working in a
hotel. He'd say things to me sometimes—and—and touch me. But always joking, it was," she added hastily. "I never thought it meant anything. But Miss Mary she got mad once or twice and told him it wasn't nice to say those things and he had ought to be ashamed of himself. But he'd just laugh it off and say I didn't mind, did I? And I'd tell him no, of course. And that's all."
"Did they entertain much? Seem to have many friends in Miami?"
"No, they didn't for a fact. Miss Mary, she'd stay in mostly in the evenings. Have her dinner served up there a lot, and then she'd read."
"While her brother was out?" Shayne supplied.
"Well, yes. He likes a good time, all right. But that's why folks come to Miami on vacation, isn't it?"
Shayne agreed it was, and after a few more questions he dismissed her with thanks. He shook his head wryly at Gerdon when she went out.
"There went a beautiful theory up in thin smoke. I'm beginning to think maybe it is Barnes who was murdered. The rather vague description fits him all right. We may have to ask her to come over to the morgue to look at him."
"Anything you want," Gerdon said. There was another knock at the door and a very thin pimply-faced college boy came in and stood stiffly at attention.
Yes, he took care of twelve-ten until midnight, and knew both the occupants by sight—the girl much better than her brother because she was mostly in and wanting service while he was on duty.
His descriptions of Mary and Charles Barnes coincided in all important details with the maid's. He guessed Charles was twenty-five and his sister maybe twenty-one or two. He put Charles at five-eleven and about a hundred sixty pounds. He was equally positive about the absence of any scar on his face. Sometimes he'd have a late call
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