The cage stopped on the 8th floor and the doors automatically opened. Shayne pushed the HOLD button, looked out cautiously to see that the corridor was empty.
He had the key to Room 810 in his hand as he stepped out and went toward the door. He inserted it soundlessly and turned it with a tiny click, then opened the door.
There was no light on in the sitting room of the suite. From the light in the hallway behind him. Shayne could see that the bedroom door directly opposite him was tightly closed, and the sitting room looked exactly as it had before.
He turned back swiftly without turning on a light inside, retrieved the dead man from the elevator and carried him back to the sitting room.
Inside, he laid the body down on the carpeted floor, and rolled it over and over to disengage the hotel blanket. He straightened up, leaving the stiff body lying in the middle of the floor, lying on its side, then gathered up the blanket, and folded it carefully, tossed it carelessly over the foot of the sofa as though someone had laid it there in case his feet got cold.
There had been no sound from the room beyond the closed door.
Shayne went out and closed the door quietly behind him. He long-legged it down the hall to the open elevator, reached inside and released the HOLD button and stepped back to let the doors slide shut. Then he strolled past 810 and around the corner to the passenger elevators and pressed the DOWN button.
When an empty car stopped, he got in and told the sleepy-eyed operator, “Three, please.”
On the third floor he got out and went around the corner again, back to the service elevator shaft. He pushed the button there and waited for the car to come down, felt a vast and flooding sense of relief when the doors opened to disclose the empty car.
He had now covered his tracks as well as he possibly could, and he turned back as the doors automatically closed behind him.
He was lucky enough to get another operator this time, and the man didn’t even glance at him as he stepped in and said briskly, “Lobby, please.”
The big lobby was almost empty when he stepped out. Two men stood near the front door talking together, and Shayne felt a little knot of unease form in his stomach when he recognized the hotel detective, John Russco, talking to Timothy Rourke.
Both of them looked over and saw him get out of the elevator, and both watched him curiously and in silence as he approached them.
Russco said heartily, “Mike Shayne, by all that’s holy!” and held out a big hand to him exactly as though they hadn’t seen each other for weeks or months.
Shayne shook hands with him and said, “Hi, John,” while Rourke observed the passage between them with a faintly ironic smile.
“Funny to see you here, Mike,” Russco said effusively. “Tim was just asking if I’d seen you around tonight. You two aren’t cooking something up behind my back, are you?”
“Why, no,” Shayne told him blandly. “Nothing like that. You got nothing to hide from the Press, have you?”
“Of course not,” Russco replied too quickly. “Not a damned thing happening around here tonight. Not even a good girlie party I can send you two lechers up to.”
“Tim and I do have a little business to discuss,” Shayne told him pointedly, taking the reporter’s arm and drawing him away.
The hotel detective grinned weakly and said, “Yeh… well… don’t take any wooden nickles,” turned his back and sauntered away.
“Two things,” Shayne said rapidly when Russco was safely out of earshot. “You stick here, Tim. Use the phone booth and call an anonymous tip into headquarters. Have a radio car investigate a parked Ford on 64th Street between the boulevard and the bay. Registration in the name of George Duclos. And, Tim, tell them to be sure and check into the trunk of the car even if they have to break the lock and force it to get in.”
“Good God, Mike,” breathed Rourke uneasily. “I thought the last thing in the world you wanted was to have the cops look in that trunk.”
“Things are different,” Shayne told him. “Make that call right away… and you might even tell them it has some connection with the Alabama bank robbery, just to put them on the right track. Then make another call to headquarters using your own name. Get Homicide and tell them you’ve got an anonymous tip that something important is due to break at the Encanto Hotel. Get a couple of plainclothes dicks over here and have them wait inconspicuously here in the lobby while you hang around out in the entrance foyer. If I do come back here I don’t want to show in the deal at all.”
“What the hell kind of brew are you cooking up, Mike?”
“I’m not quite sure. I think I’m going to light a fire and start things boiling over. Before I forget it, Tim. You’d better have this. Make use of it if things break that way.”
He thrust his hand in his pocket and pulled out the folded sheets of hotel paper containing the handwritten murder confession signed “Vicky,” and pushed them into Rourke’s hand.
The reporter took them with a puzzled frown. “What is it? You’re leaving me ’way out on a limb…”
“You can catch up on your reading matter after you make those two telephone calls,” Shayne told him. “You know all you need to know… and none of this came from me. You haven’t seen me since you drove me away from headquarters after I got loose on that stolen car rap.”
He squeezed Rourke’s shoulder tightly and hurried out through the front doors and around the hotel to the alley.
His car stood where he had left it. He got in and pulled away fast and drove directly to his hotel where he parked on the side as before and climbed the stairs to the second floor.
His room was still lighted, and again he unlocked the door and walked in with a reassuring grin for the woman he had left sitting there more than an hour before.
She didn’t jump to her feet this time. She sat erect, staring at him with frightened eyes which managed to look hopeful at the same time.
“Is everything all right?” she asked tremulously. “Did you get the money for him? Who was he, Mike? What happened? I’ve been sitting here wondering and frightened and… praying, I guess. Thinking about all the things that could go wrong.”
“Nothing went wrong,” Shayne told her. “He was just a guy on the make. He won’t bother you with any more telephone calls.”
“Oh, God. Is it really over? Can I relax now?”
“Sure. Relax,” he told her comfortingly. “Maybe you’d like to call Vicky and tell her it’s okay. Use the phone, if you want to.”
“Why should I… I’ll just waken her. She isn’t worried, Mike. I told you she went off to sleep thinking everything was absolutely all right. She doesn’t even know I’m gone.”
“That’s right,” he said absently. “Sure. You’re right, of course. No need to bother her with a phone call. Better for you to go on back right away and she need never know any of this has happened.”
“What did happen?” she asked nervously, lacing her fingers together in her lap. “What did he have, Mike? Whatever it was he said belonged to Al and that he thought was worth all that money? I’ve been thinking and racking my brains all the time you were gone. I just can’t imagine.”
“Oh, that,” he said casually. “I don’t understand that part of it yet. But he seemed to think it was important and so I played along and didn’t admit we didn’t have the slightest idea what he was talking about.”
“Did you get it? What was it?”
“Oh, I got it all right. Maybe it’ll mean something to you although I don’t see how it can, if you’ve been out of touch with Al all these years.”
“What is it? I’m consumed with curiosity.” Shayne shrugged and reached in his pocket and withdrew the torn piece of cardboard he had taken from Duclos’s clenched fist. He crossed over to her and held it out, watching her face carefully as she took it and turned it over and over in her hands.
A puzzled frown corrugated her smooth forehead. “It looks like… well, it looks as though it should be familiar. I mean…”
“I think I know what you mean,” Shayne agreed quietly. “Isn’t it half of a torn claim check for baggage?”
“Of course.” She looked up at him with brighteyed expectancy. “But why just half of it, Mike? What good’s half to anyone?”
“Nothing that I can see,” he responded broodingly. “Unless he had the other half to match up with it. Then he’d have to know where it was checked before he could claim whatever it represents.” He held out his hand for the piece of cardboard, and after a moment’s hesitation she dropped it into his palm reluctantly.
He said cheerfully, “I’ll hold onto it, if you like. Maybe something will come up in the future that will explain what it’s all about.”
She laughed nervously. “After all, it does belong to me, Mike. I paid for it. That is… it was my money you used. Don’t you think I ought to have it… just for a souvenir at least?”
“Well, sure. It’s no good to me. I just thought…” Shayne shrugged his broad shoulders and handed it back to her. “As you say, I certainly haven’t any claim on it. I didn’t spend any of my money…
“I know most of the cash actually was yours, Mike,” she said, instantly contrite, although her fingers closed tightly over the cardboard. “But it was just a temporary loan. You’ve got my IOU, you know, if I try to renege on paying it.”
Shayne said, “Yeh. I know,” his gaunt features expressionless. He stepped back and said, “Wouldn’t you like to get back to the hotel now? If your daughter should wake up and find you gone…?”
“Oh, yes. I must get back.” She stood up, smoothing down her dress and brushing cigarette ashes from the front of it.
Shayne stooped down to pick up her handbag from the floor beside the chair. With his back half-turned to her, he unsnapped it and dropped her room-key inside. Then he held it out, saying:
“Don’t forget your bag. I’ll drive you back.”
She accepted it carelessly. “You don’t have to do that. I’m sure I can get a taxi.”
“I left my car on the street,” he told her. “Have to put it in the garage for the night anyhow.” He took her elbow and turned her toward the door.
“How about an invitation to Vicky’s wedding this afternoon?”
“Oh, yes, Mike. Do come by all means. I’ll have her call you and give you a formal invitation as soon as she wakes up in the morning.”
He said, “That will be nice,” and held the door open for her to go out. He took her arm and led her down the hall past the elevator, explaining, “We can walk down one flight and go out a side door to my car.”
He opened the car door for her and helped her in, then went around and got under the wheel beside her, made a U-Turn and started in the direction of the Encanto Hotel.
She snuggled against him and sighed. “I’ll never be able to thank you properly. But I hope you’ll let me try… after Vicky’s off on her honeymoon, perhaps?”
Shayne said, “I’ve got a feeling you could make a good try, all right. We’ll keep that date open, huh?”
She murmured, “Oh, yes,” and then sat up straight beside him suddenly. “Mike! I forgot. What about Al? You said his body was still locked in the trunk of his brother-in-law’s car and if it was found there that the police would know you moved it. What about that?”
“I took care of that, too,” Shayne told her. “It’s not locked in the car any more. It’s in a perfectly safe place where the police can’t possibly connect me with it.”
“Oh, I’m glad. Then you won’t get in any trouble for helping me?”
“I’m absolutely in the clear… I hope,” he told her cheerfully.
He turned into the block in front of the Encanto Hotel, and slowed down in front of the canopied entrance. The doorman still wasn’t on duty, but Shayne saw the gangling figure of Timothy Rourke leaning against the wall inside the foyer just beyond the outer doors.
He leaped out to go around and open the door for her, helped her out and opened the hotel door, avoiding looking at Rourke. He said, “You’d better go up alone. No use us being seen here together,” and she smiled gratefully at him and went into the lobby toward the elevators.
Shayne stepped close to the reporter and asked, “Everything all set?”
“Yep. Couple of dicks inside. Was that…?”
Shayne said swiftly, “Go on in and the three of you follow her up to number Eight-Ten. Be right behind her when she walks into the room, and you can take it from there.”
“What about you, Mike. Where’ll you be?”
“In bed,” said Shayne emphatically. “This is your show, Tim. I don’t know one damned thing about anything that’s happened tonight.”
He went out fast and got in his car, drove to the Boulevard and north to the next hotel on the bay front, where he went in and registered as J. D. Brewster from Sarasota. He got a room-key from the clerk and went up and piled into bed.
He fell into dreamless sleep almost at once.
16.
For many years Michael Shayne had had a standing invitation to have Sunday morning breakfast with his brown-eyed secretary in her Miami apartment.
On this Sunday morning when he turned up at ten o’clock, Lucy Hamilton seemed surprised to see him, and greeted him with a frown and an anxious question that was almost wifely:
“Where have you been all night, Michael? I’ve been worried and wondering what on earth had happened.”
He yawned and dropped a light kiss on the top of her head. “I’ve been sleeping. Is that any crime?”
“But where have you been sleeping? Not in your own bed. That’s certain.”
“Hey, now,” he protested good-naturedly. “Have you started checking up on my sleeping habits, Lucy?”
She stepped back from him, biting her underlip. “Chief Will Gentry woke me up from a sound sleep about four o’clock,” she informed him coldly, “to ask if I knew where you were. He sounded angry and very disturbed when I assured him I had no idea. He made me promise that, if you did contact me, I would let him know at once. Then Tim Rourke called again about seven o’clock to ask the same question. He said your hotel reported you had gone out about midnight and hadn’t returned, and that all hell was popping. What sort of hell, Michael?”
He shrugged and countered lightly, “How should I know? I was sound asleep and know nothing about such Saturday night goings-on. Is the coffee hot?”
“Of course. Even though I didn’t know whether you were in town or not.” She turned toward her kitchenette with pursed lips. “With or without?”
“With… on the first one, Angel.” He yawned mightily again and dropped down on one end of the sofa. He lit a cigarette and sniffed happily when she brought him a mug of strong black coffee heavily laced with cognac.
Her buzzer sounded from the downstairs door of the apartment as she set the coffee royal in front of him, and she murmured, “Who on earth can that be?”
She went to the speaking tube at the door, and in a moment he heard her say, “Of course, Tim. He just showed up and he’s sitting here swilling brandy and coffee.” She pressed the button that released the catch below, opened her own door wide and came back to tell her employer unnecessarily, “That’s Tim. He’s coming up.”
Shayne said, “I wonder what’s bugging him so early this morning,” and took a sip of the hot liquid.
Timothy Rourke came in a moment later, looking dishevelled and sleepy, but with an expression on his face like that of a cat that has swallowed the canary. “Where the devil have you been hiding out, Mike?”
“I haven’t been hiding out. I just thought I’d get a better night’s sleep if I weren’t available for questioning. Sit down, Tim. You look as though you could stand a cup of Lucy’s excellent coffee.”
“My God, can I? With a good slug of bourbon in it, honey?” he appealed to Lucy. “Damn you, Mike. I haven’t been to bed yet. I had to cover up all over the place…”
Shayne shook his head warningly at him as Lucy came back with another mug
of steaming coffee for the reporter.
“Neither Lucy nor I have the faintest idea what all this furor is about, except Will Gentry woke her up at four o’clock trying to locate me. What for, Tim? What am I supposed to have done?”
Rourke shook his head helplessly, took a sip of hot coffee and sputtered over it. “It’s the damnedest story. I guess we’ll never get the whole straight of it.”
“Relax and tell us all about it,” Shayne urged him. “You have my curiosity aroused.”
Rourke said, “Yeh,” and lit a cigarette while he composed his thoughts. “It began about three o’clock this morning when I got a tip there was a dead man in a room at the Encanto Hotel. I called a couple of homicide cops and we went up to room eight-ten. There was a woman having hysterics all over the place and there was a corpse on the floor. Very dead from five small caliber bullets. Stiff as a board. He’d been dead for hours. I recognized his ugly face right away from a newspaper picture. Name of Al Newman. Wanted for bank robbery and murder in Alabama a couple of days ago. You know,” he said to Shayne, raised his eyebrows. “That Eureka bank job. Shot one of the bank officials in cold blood and got away with forty grand… only the woman get-away driver snatched the loot and drove off leaving her two male companions behind.”
Shayne said thoughtfully, “I remember reading something about it. Didn’t she drive off with a hostage who was later released? One of the bank tellers?”
“That’s right. So here was this Al Newman dead in the woman’s hotel room, and her in a tizzy swearing she had no idea how he’d got there and that she’d been out drinking with Mike Shayne all evening, and to get him and ask him about it.”
“I’ll be damned!” said Shayne in great surprise. “Who was she?”
“She was registered at the hotel under the name of Mrs. Rose Hughes. Turned out her name is actually Vergie Powers. An actress. Used to do bit parts in Hollywood movies. In fact, she played in some of your shows, Mike. We figured later that’s how she knew your name and used it in a pinch.”
The Body Came Back Page 12
