"Pretty damn well up the creek without a paddle," said Gentry savagely. "Two in one night. Goddamn it, Shayne—"
Shayne was looking at him coldly, a muscle twitching in his tight jaw. "And this one right near my hotel, too?" he asked mockingly. "All right. I'd say it looks as though she tried to come back for some more protection from me.
"Yeh," grunted Gentry. "You took the words right out of my mouth. Getting so it's kind of risky being a client of yours, don't you think?"
Shayne said, "You can't say anything I'm not thinking, Will. So let's go on from there."
"Where?" asked the chief sarcastically.
"Well, now we know who she is anyhow. That gives us something more definite to work on."
"Tough way of getting a positive identification. If we wait long enough, maybe we'll stumble over a few more bodies and get them identified. Then we may be able to figure it out. That your idea of handling it?"
Strain deepened the trenches in Shayne's cheeks at the chief's tone of acid sarcasm. He said quietly, "Right now I'm wondering why an ex-G.I. with a forty-five under his belt uses a knife instead of the gun."
"For one thing it's a little bit quieter. Let's say he just carries the gun along to frighten private detectives with so they let him walk out into the night to kill off their clients."
"Let's say that," Shayne agreed flatly. He hesitated, rubbing his jaw, moving off the path to let stretcher-bearers from the ambulance go past. "I'd like to get the maid over from the Roney to look at both of them and see if either one are the persons who have been living there as Charles and Mary Barnes."
"Oh, we'll pin down an identification all right," said Gentry bitterly. "As fast as they get killed off, we'll find out who they are."
Shayne continued to disregard his tone. "One thing you didn't get around to telling me back in the office, Will. Did the dead man's fingerprints check with the set in three-sixteen?"
"What? Oh, that. Yes. He's definitely been in three-sixteen since the maid cleaned the room in the middle of the afternoon."
Shayne sighed and started down the path toward his car. Will Gentry clumped along silently behind him. At the sidewalk, Shayne stopped and said, "Let's save the hard feelings until this is over, huh?"
Gentry unexpectedly stuck out his hand. He said, "Sure. Then I'm going to pull your license."
"I think maybe I'll turn it in without waiting for you to pull it, Will." Shayne took his hand absently and without much vigor. "They found no weapon, huh?"
Gentry shook his grizzled head. "Almost exactly the same sort of wound as the other. One fast slash with a hell of a sharp knife. You got any ideas, Mike?" The question was almost an entreaty.
"Only one and it's not much good. Something I should have done before. You still got that picture I gave you at the morgue?"
"It's back in my office."
Shayne said, "If you're going back now, I'll pick it up."
TWENTY-ONE: 10:47 PM.
Driving away from the Hibiscus Hotel, Bert Paulson's scsirred face was dark and scowling as he slumped behind the wheel, scarcely noticing where he was going.
Where to now? What the hell had happened to Nellie? Everything was so mixed up, his mind was in a whirl as he considered all the possibilities.
That story the red-headed private detective had told him? How much was fact and how much was lies?
That elevator boy at the Hibiscus I Could he identify him? Place him upstairs on the third floor about the time a disappearing body was being reported as having been seen in 316?
Fear and fierce impatience surged through Paulson's body. The weight of the .45 against his left groin felt good. He wanted to take hold of things with his two hands and tear them apart. Somewhere in this darkened city, Nellie was hiding out from him. Hiding from him in an agony of fear that he might trace her down.
Well, she had every right and reason to be hiding out from him. If he did manage to get his hands on her—
His big hands tightened on the steering wheel and the battle scar from Korea stood out whitely on his cheek as anger raged inside him.
It was his responsibility. The whole sorry affair was his doing. If he'd only realized sooner what Nellie was getting herself into—
The neon lights of a restaurant and bar reminded him that he had not eaten since that afternoon. He pulled
into the curb sharply and got out. With a couple of drinks and some food, he might be able to think things out a little more clearly. Driving aimlessly around the streets like this was no good. That damned redhead had probably already reported to the police that he'd walked out on him flourishing a gun and swearing to find Nellie. They'd have a description of him—
He went into a long, low room with a curved bar directly beyond the entrance, tables and booths on his right. It was fairly well crowded and not too well lighted. A haze of smoke added to the dimness.
Half a dozen men were seated on leather stools at the bar, and three-quarters of the tables were occupied by couples and groups of three or four, laughing over drinks or eating late dinners.
Paulson strode down the line of booths and found an empty one near the end. He slid into it so the scar on his face was toward the wall, and he was careful to keep the other side toward the waitress when she arrived almost immediately and asked in a somewhat disapproving tone, "Are you alone, sir?"
"Yes." His voice was surly, demanding to know what of it.
She said brightly, "Then perhaps you wouldn't mind moving to one of the smaller tables. We like to keep the booths free for larger parties."
He wanted to shout at her that he'd be damned if he'd move out to one of the tables where he could be observed by everyone. That he was a paying customer and just as good as anyone else in the joint, and he'd damned well occupy a booth if he wanted to.
But fear and worry about Nellie were slowly teaching him caution, and he restrained himself to say, "As a matter of fact, another couple are meeting me for dinner a little later. I'll have a couple of drinks while I wait."
"Yes, sir. Of course in that case— What would you like
to drink?"
"Canadian rye and water. A double with water on the side." He sat back and lit a cigarette as she went away. By God, he needed a drink. A couple of fast doubles. That was the ticket. Then he'd settle down to some hard thinking. Right now he felt almost giddy. There was a nightmarish quality about the events of the evening that gave him a gnawing sense of sickness in his belly. He was beginning to think he hadn't played it very smart with Michael Shayne. Either should have played along with the guy-gained his confidence and got his co-operation in looking for Nellie—or else he should at least have slugged the redhead before going out as he did.
The waitress came with a double shot-glass full to the brim with whisky, and a glass of ice water. Paulson lifted the smaller glass avidly and drank from it, held his breath while he seized the water and took a big swallow. His throat burned a trifle and warmth crept into his stomach. The whisky was raw and strong. He took another sip and then a larger drink of water, poured the rest of the liquor into the larger glass and sloshed it around with the water. It was too weak to do much good when he tasted it, and he turned to watch through the opening into the booth for his waitress. When he caught her eye he held up two fingers, nodding toward the glass in his hand.
She came with another double shot, and he dribbled all of it into the water glass.
Now the drink was just right. Wonderful. Magnificent. It didn't bum his throat, but it had authority. It was beginning to dissolve the gnawing knot in his belly.
He knew, now, that it had been a bad mistake not to have slugged Shayne. He could have done it easy enough, and goddamn it, he would have enjoyed slugging the big bastard. Tough guy, huh? Well, none of them were so very tough after they got slugged by Bert Paulson.
The way he had sat around and kept Paulson talking about Nellie when all the time he had the girl hidden in his kitcheni Damn his soul. So now Nellie was gone and only
God knew where she was. Or what she was
10-47 P.M.
He drank more of the blended whisky and water, and the knot went away altogether. Suddenly his glass was empty except for two half-melted ice cubes. He frowned and caught the waitress's attention, and told her somewhat thickly, "Another dose of the same. Miss. Guess my friends are held up."
She said something about that was too bad, and went away to bring him another double Canadian rye with more water on the side.
He kept hold of his first glass when she returned, poured the whisky on top of the ice and then carefully measured water in to exactly the proper combination. Not too strong to go down easily, not so weak that you couldn't feel it hit bottom.
Having contrived exactly the right strength, he sipped the mixture happily. Let's see now. He was going to do some straight thinking. That was it. Those two doubles had fixed him up just fine. The thing was, now, to keep up just the right edge. Because now his mmd was fine and clear. He was in just the right mood to out-think Mike Shayne and all the cops in Miami. It was like being back in Korea. Out-thinking the enemy. He'd always been good at that. He was alive, wasn't he? And a lot of the damned yellow Communists were dead. Why? Just because he'd out-thought and out-fought 'em, by God! So he could do it again. Just him against all of them. What the hell did the odds matter? Hadn't he been up against worse odds in Korea?
As the level of liquid receded in the glass, it was like he had been a one-man army in Korea. Like he had defeated the enemy single-handed. There had been other American soldiers around, of course, but he had really done the worst of the job. He was Bert Paulson, wasn't he?
Well, wasn't he? he demanded fiercely of himself. Things were beginning to get a little mixed up in his mind again. He wasn't in the Hibiscus Hotel with his throat cut, was he? Then who in hell said he was? Somebody had.
Nellie 1 That was it. Or else the redhead was lying. That was a lot more likely. Helll Why hadn't he caught on that was it right away? Damned foolishness to think Nellie had seen him there with his throat cut. Nellie knew better than that. She knew her own brother, didn't she?
Well, didn't she?
He finished his third drink and gravely debated having another. Reluctantly, he decided against it. He was feeling fine, now. Wonderful. Just had a little edge on. Just right for the things he had to do.
And he didn't want any food. That was always a mistake—eating after drinking. Food just absorbed the liquor in your belly and sobered you up.
No more drinks. No food. This was just right.
He got out his wallet and fumbled in it. The waitress saw him and came to his booth with a slip of paper on a small, round tray. She asked brightly, "Stood you up, I guess?"
He blinked at her, wondering what she meant. Then he remembered about the couple he'd invented who had been supposed to meet him for dinner. He said thickly, "Guess so. Haven't time to wait any longer."
He peered near-sightedly at the bill. Damn that accident that broke his glasses. He'd have to get another pair. First thing in the morning. Too late to do it tonight, he guessed. Goddamned lazy opticians probably all closed up shop when it got dark.
The figures on the slip swam before his gaze and he asked the waitress, "How much?"
She told him and he blinked down at his wallet and carefully selected a five. He put it on her tray and said, "Keep change."
When she had gone away, he got up stiffly and slid out, walked a little unsteadily to the front door, remembering to keep the left side of his face averted as he passed the bar and went out into the cool night.
Things blurred as he dragged in a lungful of the clean air. He staggered a little more obviously as he went to his car and got under the wheel.
Looking for Nellie. That's what. Had to find her.
He put the car in gear and it lurched away. Lessee, now. Where was he exactly? He didn't know Miami too well, but it is an easy town for a stranger to orient himself in if he can read street signs, and he paused at the next intersection to peer out the windshield and read them aloud.
Sure. He knew now. Turn to the left and drive about six blocks. Then to the right three blocks. That was it.
Everything was all right now. He knew exactly where he was and where he was going. He needed another little night-cap maybe. Then he'd sleep soundly. And first thing tomorrow he'd get some new glasses and then he'd find Nellie.
TWENTY-TWO: 11:43 PM.
The Silver Glade was a modest night-spot in the Southwest section not more than ten blocks from Michael Shayne's hotel. It had a floor show and a small dance floor, and it served honest drinks of liquor to natives or to tourists sober enough to notice what they were drinking.
Because it was close and because the bartender knew Shayne's preference in cognac, the detective was in the habit of dropping into the Silver Glade occasionally for a late drink. When he entered the door tonight the hat-check girl smiled at him brightly and said, "Long time no see, Mr. Shayne," as she took his Panama without bothering to give him a check for it.
She was a big-breasted girl wearing an evening gown that had been carefully cut to accentuate her bigness. Shayne leaned on the low counter in front of her and pleased her by leering at the deep valley beneath her chin and told her, "I can only stand the rot-gut you serve here every so often."
He took the four-by-six photograph from his pocket and pushed it in front of her. "For a well-stacked doll, I always figured you were pretty smart. Ever see this guy around?"
She giggled appreciatively and gave her body a little shake to pull the low-cut gown a little lower. "Always kiddin', aren't you?" She leaned forward so he could get a better look, and studied the picture doubtfully.
"Don't remember as I have. You know how it is. Half the time I don't even look at them when I hand out checks—unless they're big, ugly redheads, that is."
Shayne said, "Try hard. This evening is what I want. Last two or three hours."
"I swear I can't say. It sure doesn't ring any bell." Shayne nodded and turned, bringing his elbow up to brush against the distended fullness of her flesh so that she giggled again.
Holding the photograph in his hand, he went to the bar where there was an empty stool at one end. The bartender was middle-aged and bland-faced. When he saw the redhead coming to the bar, he turned and reached up to the top shelf to lift down a bottle of Martell that had an ordinary cork in it instead of the silvered pouring spout in most of the other bottles.
He set it on the bar in front of Shayne and uncorked it with a flourish, provided a four-ounce glass and a tumbler of ice water, and said reprovingly, "Don't see you around much, Mike."
Shayne laid the picture on the counter and poured cognac in the small glass. "You notice this bird in here this evening?"
The bartender looked down at it, then reached into his hip pocket for a pair of glasses in a leather case. He hooked them behind his ears and studied the man's face carefully.
"Can't say that I did, Mike, but that doesn't mean he wasn't in. You know how it is—if a man isn't a steady—"
Shayne said, sure, he knew how it was. He sipped his drink morosely, and a slim, dark man in elegant evening clothes came up behind him and clapped him lightly on the shoulder.
"Glad to see you, Shamus. So long as you're not pinching the joint. On the house, Henry," he told the bartender, nodding toward the bottle.
"Not as long as you put out Martell for free," Shayne told the proprietor pleasantly. He moved the picture back with his forefinger on it. "You had anybody in this
evening that looked like this?"
Salvadore studied it critically, twisting his smooth black head slightly to one side.
"Sure. Dozens of them just about like that. He isn't one you'd pick out of a crowd."
"I know. That's the hell of it. This is really very important, Salvadore. Take it around to the waiters and bus-boys, huh? Make everyone take a long look. If any of them think they saw him in here tonight, let me talk to them."
"Sure, M
ike." Salvadore Rotiselli took the picture daintily between thumb and forefinger and minced away. Henry had moved down the bar to serve another customer, and Shayne glowered down at his drink.
He hadn't much hope of success with the picture. As Salvadore said, the face was too thoroughly ordinary, too completely undistinguished to give anyone reason for remembering it.
But it was all Shayne had left now. If he could prove the dead man had actually been in the Silver Glade after nine-thirty, it would be a cinch he hadn't gone into Bis-cayne Bay from room 316 of the Hibiscus.
But what would that prove? Shayne asked himself angrily. Nothing, really. He still wouldn't know the actual identity of the man with the scarred face—nor of the dead man.
Bert Paulson? Charles Barnes? A dead girl in the park. Until he looked at her face and at the receipted bill from the Hibiscus, he had been so dead certain she wasn't Nellie Paulson.
The other identity fitted her so much better. Mary Barnes from the Roney. Mary Barnes, who had caught a fleeting glimpse of her murdered brother after being summoned by him to the Hibiscus. Mary Barnes who had fled in terror from the man with the scarred face—who had sought refuge in his hotel room and then run out into the night still in terror because she did not trust
him to protect her from the man she feared.
All those facts fitted what little he knew about Mary and Charles Barnes. They didn't fit what he knew about Nellie Paulson.
He drank his cognac morosely, washing it down with tiny sips of water from the glass while the questions ran around and around and around in his mind.
There was something eluding him. Something important. Perhaps a key to the entire puzzle. Some tiny bit of information he had that he didn't know he had.
That wasn't exactly it. He knew it was there. Somewhere in the maze of conflicting stories and reports he had listened to this evening. Something that had seemed wholly irrevelant at the time, yet which might be supremely important.
He doggedly went over and over again in his mind every single thing that had happened since the telephone call had taken him from Lucy's side.
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