“You haven’t notified Painter yet?”
“Hell, no,” said Shayne savagely. “He practically called me a liar after I levelled with him last night, and warned me not to come around later with information pretending I hadn’t known it all the time. Then the scummy little louse had the guts to get a search warrant and go through my office files looking for evidence that I knew who the guy was and had held out on him. Would you give him anything under those circumstances?”
“Probably not,” said Frazel soothingly. “How do you want me to play it?”
“It’s up to you and your civic conscience,” said Shayne. “I’ve got a retainer from Carson in my pocket and I’d like to find out who murdered him before he could get to my office this morning, and before Painter gets in my way and messes things up. For that, I’d like a little time. A few hours is all.”
“Then you’re asking me to hold out on Painter?” asked Frazel uncomfortably.
“I’m not asking you, Steve. Call him now if you think you have to.” Shayne gestured toward the telephone. “I am asking you to keep me out of it. Can’t you work it this way?” the redhead went on swiftly:
“Say one of your guests hasn’t shown up and hasn’t slept in his bed last night? Mention the fact that his description coincides with that of the dead man, and offer to send over a bellboy or maid to look at the body and identify it?”
“Sure,” Frazel said. “I can do it that way.” He led the way out of the room. “Two-three hours, huh? No reason I should get such a report on a guest before noon … and no damned reason why I should do Chief of Detectives Painter’s work for him.”
Shayne said feelingly, “Thanks, Steve. I’ll be moving fast.” They went down in the elevator together, and Shayne long-legged it across the lobby with a farewell wave of his big hand, got in his car and drove around the few blocks to the Park Plaza Apartments.
It was a large, severe and very modern building, and Shayne had little hope of learning anything there, but it was the one stone he had and it could not be left unturned.
Inside was a small modern lobby with an information desk and switchboard behind it. A benign-faced, gray-haired woman sat behind the desk and a younger woman operated the switchboard behind her.
Shayne leaned an elbow on the desk and used his most ingratiating, small-boyish smile as he said, “I know I’m going to ask the impossible of you, Ma’am, but that’s my job. I’m trying to trace a call that was made to this number at exactly six-fifteen last evening. Is there any chance in the world that anybody might recall it? Who received it?”
She looked interested and cooperative, but completely unhelpful. “I don’t see how there would be a chance in the world,” she declared. “Mercy, we have more than sixty-tenants … and with the phone ringing all the time … well, you can see for yourself.” She turned to look over her shoulder at the switchboard where the operator was busy putting plugs in holes and taking plugs out of holes.
Shayne said, “I know. And I don’t suppose this girl was even on duty last evening?”
“No, that would be Elise. From four to midnight.”
Shayne nodded and said, “Tell me this. What sort of clientele do you have here?”
“The very finest people. I can assure you.…”
“I’m sorry,” Shayne said quickly at the note of umbrage in her voice. “I’m sure you do. What I meant was … are your apartments mostly large or small efficiency ones? Do you have mostly, well, professional people? Employed couples? Tourists or year-round residents?”
“Very few tourists. We have a few larger units, four, five and six room. But mostly singles and doubles.” She turned away with a bright smile for an elderly couple coming in from the street, and Shayne said, “Thank you very much,” and hurried out.
His next stop was at the News Tower in Miami, where he went up to the City Room and was lucky enough to find Timothy Rourke at his typewriter in one corner of the busy room.
The reporter leaned back and folded his arms and regarded Shayne with a saturnine twinkle in his eyes as the redhead dropped into a straight chair in front of him. “What the hell’s with you and Painter?” he demanded. “I been calling your office, but Lucy refuses to give out.”
Shayne said, “You tell me.”
“All I know, it’s got something to do with Petey’s murder last night. I wasn’t in on it, but the grapevine says he’s got evidence you and the body were palsywalsy and you refuse to admit it for reasons best known to yourself. I do have it straight that Painter got himself a search warrant this morning and hied himself to your office to search for enough evidence to hang you.”
“And?” Shayne asked as he stopped.
Timothy Rourke shrugged his thin shoulders and his deep-set eyes gleamed beneath overhanging brows.
“So far as I know he retired in confusion. So, give.”
Shayne shook his red head, taking out a cigarette and lighting it. “That’s why I’m here. For information. What is the latest dope on the Beach killing?”
“Hell, there isn’t much. Shot on the street about eleven last night. Through the forehead with a Thirty-Two S. and W. Sometimes known as a Bulldog.”
“Sometimes known as a Banker’s Special,” interrupted Shayne sardonically. “Any chance of suicide, Tim?”
Rourke looked mildly surprised and consulted some notes in front of him. “It hasn’t been suggested. Nothing about powder burns. You got anything?” he asked eagerly.
Shayne shook his head. “Nobody tells me anything. I was just struck by the coincidence of his being shot by that gun.”
“Coincidence? Like what?”
Shayne continued to shake his head. “I’m doing a lot of guessing at this point. Body still unidentified?”
“At latest reports. No wallet. No nothing. Ready-to-wear clothing with some laundry marks they’re trying to trace. Fingerprints to Washington and the usual crap. Except rumor says there was something on him that pointed the finger to you.”
“I’ve got an alibi,” Shayne told him gravely. “Besides I hardly ever gun prospective clients.”
“That what he was, Mike? For the paper?”
Shayne shook his head. “Not until Painter decides to give it out. Nothing else, huh?”
“Not a damned thing.” Timothy Rourke cupped his chin in one emaciated hand and studied Shayne’s face with hotly glowing eyes. “What angle are you working on?”
“Anything to get the jump on Painter,” Shayne told him cheerfully. “And, as usual, I have.”
“Have what?”
“Got the jump on him.”
Shayne stood up. “Here’s a tip, Tim. Stay close to Painter the next few hours. A break is due, and you better follow it up.”
“What about you?” Rourke was following him eagerly across the City Room to the door.
“Don’t mention it, Tim, but I’m going to be out ahead of it. And I do mean … don’t mention it. I’ll be in touch later.”
Shayne swung out and to the elevator, went down and drove directly to his office.
Lucy Hamilton was alone when he walked in. She demanded, “What is all of this about, Michael? That letter from the banker this morning with the check enclosed! As soon as I saw that about the nine o’clock appointment, I knew it must be what Chief Painter wanted to know. What sort of accessory of what am I for giving you the letter without telling him?”
“God knows, angel. At the moment, it’s nothing more than a murder rap … but it may get worse. I’m headed for Denham, but you don’t know it.”
“Michael Shayne, you’d better tell me something.” Lucy Hamilton was close to tears. “What’s the hussy who called you at midnight last night got to do with it?”
“Hussy?” Shayne shook his head gravely with a look of incomprehension on his angular face. “You know me better than that.”
“The Marilyn type,” she broke in stormily. “The one who was doing a strip tease in your hotel room while you dashed over there away from me.”
“Why are you doing this, Michael? Why don’t you tell Chief Painter the truth and let him solve his own cases?”
“Because it’s my case now,” Shayne told her angrily. “I’ve got a retainer in my pocket, and, by God, I don’t like it when people murder prospective clients before they can get to me.”
Lucy put her hand over her mouth. “Is Mr. Carson the man who was shot on the Beach last night?”
“From all outward appearances. And to prevent his keeping an appointment with me. So, I’m headed for Denham.”
Lucy came out of her chair swiftly and through the gate in the railing to detain him with both hands on his shoulders.
“Is she there, Michael?”
“What she?”
“The one … you left me for last night?”
For a long moment Shayne looked down into her agonized brown eyes and restrained an impulse to laugh as he recalled Mrs. Harvey Barstow. Then he said gently, “Some day I’m going to learn to keep my big mouth shut and stop kidding you, angel. As soon as I leave, do this for me and for your own peace of mind. Call up Pete at the hotel and get him to give you a blow-by-blow description of my visitor last night. In the meantime, I’m on my way.”
He leaned forward to brush his lips across her forehead, then put her aside and went out of the office fast. Although he knew Steve Frazel shared his own aversion of Peter Painter, he wasn’t sure how long Frazel would feel he could afford to stall with the information Shayne had given him.
7
Denham was a small town in the citrus belt, inland from Ft. Pierce and normally a good two hour drive from Miami. By pushing hard, Shayne made it just under an hour and a half, and it was twelve o’clock when he took his heavy foot off the accelerator and slowed at the neat, residential outskirts of the town.
The highway led directly through the Main Street shopping center, and there was one traffic light where Shayne paused for yellow to turn green. Directly across the intersection on the corner was a neat, newish, one-story stucco building with a sign over the entrance, FIRST NATIONAL BANK OF DENHAM.
Shayne eased past the light and angle-parked just beyond the bank building, got out and strolled back. The lobby was neat and modern, with a breast-high counter behind which two tellers were busy, another counter right-angled from it that said SAVINGS ACCOUNTS and SAFE DEPOSIT, presided over by a dumpy young woman wearing harlequin glasses, and to the left of the tellers’ counter was a low-railed enclosure with one desk just inside the railing.
A tall, gaunt-faced man sat at the desk busy with some papers in front of him. Shayne crossed to the railing and he glanced up, a look of interest crossing his face when he saw the tall, red-headed stranger. “Something I can do for you?” he asked politely.
Shayne said, “I’d like a few minutes with whoever is in charge.”
“Yes. Won’t you sit down?” He nodded toward a gate in the railing at Shayne’s left, arose and held out his hand with a questioning look as the detective came to his desk.
“I’m Mr. Martin, vice-president. Mr. Carson is not in today.” He ended on a note of inquiry that asked if a vice-president would do.
Shayne took his hand and said, “I know. I’m Michael Shayne from Miami.” He paused momentarily to see if the name struck any chord, but it didn’t appear to do so. He dropped into a chair beside the desk and went on smoothly, “Mr. Carson had an appointment with me this morning and that’s why I’m here.”
Mr. Martin resumed his seat and said, “I see,” in a tone that indicated to Shayne he didn’t see at all.
Shayne said, “I’m a private detective from Miami, Mr. Martin, and Mr. Carson has retained me to make an investigation for him. I thought perhaps you knew all about it.”
“A private detective?” Martin didn’t sound exactly frightened, but he was certainly perturbed. But no more so, Shayne thought, than any vice-president of a small bank would be under such circumstances. He fitted the tips of his fingers together in front of him and regarded them intently. “Mr. Carson has not … ah … confided in me that he was retaining a private detective for any purpose. Do you have some authorization from him?”
Shayne reached in his hip pocket for his wallet and took out Carson’s check. “This retainer should be sufficient authorization until Mr. Carson returns to verify it. I may as well cash it right now.” He reached in front of Martin for a pen, and endorsed the check and dropped it in front of the vice-president.
Martin studied it a moment and nodded slowly and said, “I see.” He turned and called to the teller nearest him who was not engaged with a customer at the moment: “Harvey. Would you please step here a moment?”
The teller was plump and boyish-looking, with blond hair and a thin blond mustache, and washed-out blue eyes that bulged slightly. As he came around from his counter to stand respectfully beside Martin, Shayne thought there wasn’t much of the Don Juan about him, but then he supposed a banker’s wife in a town like Denham didn’t have too much choice.
“This is Mr. Shayne, Mr. Barstow. Mr. Shayne is a private detective from Miami who has been retained by Mr. Carson to make some sort of … ah … investigation. Perhaps he told you about it.”
Watching the young man’s face closely when Martin spoke his name, Shayne saw an unmistakable flash of fear on the pudgy features. Barstow blinked several times and swallowed hard, and Shayne wondered if his accounts were in the perfect order his wife thought, or whether he, like his wife, actually believed Carson had intended to consult Shayne on a more personal matter than anything pertaining to the bank’s affairs.
His voice was slightly hoarse and forced as he said, “Mr. Carson did dictate a letter to me a few days ago requesting an appointment with Mr. Shayne. But I did not presume to ask him for what reason.”
“I see,” said Martin. “Then I assume this check is perfectly in order and you may cash it for Mr. Shayne.”
Harvey Barstow took the check between thumb and forefinger and held it away from him as though it were a snake that might strike at any moment. In the same strained voice, he asked, “How would you like the money?”
“Twenties and tens will be fine,” Shayne said easily.
When he walked away with the check, Martin asked uneasily, “What … ah … exactly are you here to investigate, Mr. Shayne? Anything we can do, of course.…”
Shayne said, “I think it’s up to Mr. Carson to tell you whatever he wishes you to know. But to expedite things before his return, I’d like half an hour in his private office. There are certain things that must be looked into at once.”
For a moment he felt certain that his bluff was going to fail, that Martin was going to refuse him access to the banker’s private files before Carson returned and authorized it, but after a period of thoughtful contemplation of his tented fingers, the vice-president nodded and said, “Of course. If that’s Mr. Carson’s wish.”
Barstow returned with a sheaf of bills which Shayne accepted carelessly and stuffed in his wallet without counting. “Mr. Barstow,” said Martin stiffly, “acts more or less as Mr. Carson’s assistant, and I’m sure he’ll help you all he can. Take Mr. Shayne into Mr. Carson’s office,” he directed the teller, “and tell him whatever he wishes to know.”
Shayne got up and followed Barstow along the rear of the counter, conscious of curious glances from the other employees. Barstow took him into a small office enclosed with frosted glass, and stood aside with his full lips working apprehensively. “I don’t understand …” he burst out. “I don’t know exactly … I’m not at all sure that Mr. Martin has the proper authority to authorize this.”
Shayne closed the door tightly and made his gaze coldly bleak as they searched the washed-out blue eyes of the younger man. “Pretty nervous about this, aren�
�t you, Barstow?”
“Not at all. It’s just that I.…” He dropped his gaze and swallowed twice, then valiantly lifted his eyes to Shayne’s hard stare and went on defiantly. “It seems to me rather high-handed for you to walk in here like this. What are you after? How do we know what Mr. Carson authorized you to do here? Why didn’t he return with you?”
“Perhaps,” said Shayne, “because he wanted me to gather my own impressions of the staff first-hand without taking any cue from him.” He opened the door and took Barstow firmly by the arm and steered him out. “If I need your help I’ll call you.”
“But Mr. Martin said I was to … well.…”
“He said you were to tell me whatever I wanted to know,” Shayne reminded him shortly. He pushed the reluctant young man out and closed the door firmly behind him, then turned and surveyed the neat office with a sigh, wondering where to start looking for the reason behind Carson’s letter asking for an appointment—for some clue to the “extremely confidential matter of the utmost importance” which Carson had wished to consult him about.
Half an hour later, after checking through all the papers in the desk drawers and pawing through the contents of two filing cabinets, Shayne was no closer to the answer than before. So far as he could tell, there wasn’t a single personal paper in the bank president’s office. So far as his limited knowledge of banking procedure went, everything seemed in perfect order and devoid of the clue he sought.
When he went out of the office, only one teller was behind the counter, and Harvey Barstow was not in sight. Martin was still at his desk, and he looked up with curiosity as Shayne came around and stopped beside him.
“Everything all right, I trust? That is … ah … surely you can understand our natural consternation when a private detective is called in to investigate a bank.”
“I can understand that thoroughly, Mr. Martin.” Shayne made his voice sound grim, and kept his face unsmiling. “Unfortunately Carson did not authorize me to discuss the matter.” He glanced at his watch. “Some place in town I can get lunch?”
Murder and the Wanton Bride Page 5
