Shayne repressed a chuckle of genuine amusement, thanked the woman, and drove around to Biscayne Boulevard to the magnificent hostelry overlooking the bay.
Inside the ornate lobby he went directly to a little cubbyhole office and opened a plain wooden door. He said, “Hi, sweetheart,” to the fat, vacuous-faced, bald man who sat at a desk puffing on a cigar.
Carl Bolton made a half-hearted movement toward getting up, and extended a pudgy hand.
“Hello, Mike. You do get yourself in the goddamnedest messes.”
Shayne said, “Yeh,” morosely, and lowered one hip on a corner of the house detective’s desk. “Do you know a mug named Chuck Evans?”
“Should I?”
“He’s a cheap tout that’s been hanging around the race tracks all winter. It seems he knocked off a winner a few days ago, and I heard he’d moved in here to get rid of the dough fast. See if you’ve got him, Carl.”
Carl Bolton said, “Half a mo’,” and went out.
Shayne sat on the desk swinging one long leg back and forth until the house dick came back with a slip of paper in his hands.
“We’ve got an Evans, J. C. and wife. They checked in day before yesterday. Number three-sixty-two.”
Shayne said, “Let’s go up? Got a pass-key?”
Bolton nodded and they went out into the lobby together, across a thick rug to the elevators and up to the third floor.
Bolton knocked on the door of 362. He waited for a response and when none came he knocked again, loudly.
Shayne stood by with knobby hands in his pockets while Bolton fitted the pass-key into the lock and opened the door.
The fat man took a step inside and yelled, “Holy hell! Would you look at that?”
Shayne stepped past him into a hotel bedroom that looked as if a miniature hurricane had romped in from the Gulf Stream and had its way, then romped out again.
Bureau drawers were open and clothes strewn over the floor. Bedclothes were draped on chairs and the thick innerspring mattress had been pulled half off the double bed, the ticking slashed and the padding pulled out in gobs.
Shayne walked over to a low vanity dresser where new and obviously expensive lingerie had been dumped on the floor in piles, and began pawing through the stuff. Behind him, Bolton demanded peevishly, “What the hell’s the meaning of this, Mike? You don’t seem none surprised.”
“I’m not.”
He went on poking into half-emptied drawers, a deep frown creasing his forehead.
“Who done it?” Bolton demanded belligerently. “And who’s goin’ to pay for the damage?”
“Maybe you can collect from your guests,” Shayne suggested, “if they ever show up again.”
“What are you lookin’ for?”
“I wish to God I knew. A handkerchief, maybe.” Shayne turned away in disgust. “To hell with it. Let’s go down to the office and try to check and see when this was pulled.”
They locked the door and went down to the office where Carl Bolton went into a huddle with the management and Shayne withdrew into a deep chair where he was on the verge of dropping off to sleep when Bolton came to report.
“It looks like maybe the Evanses haven’t been back since going out early last night. The night clerk and none of the elevator operators noticed them come in or out. They must’ve carried their room key off with them. Nobody saw or heard anything,” he ended defeatedly. Shayne shook himself awake and sighed.
“Somebody probably borrowed Chuck’s key. Here’s a lead that might get you somewhere.”
He described Passo and Marv, mentioning particularly Marv’s silky-smooth voice.
“The clerk or some of the bellhops might have seen those two come in. It would have been somewhere around midnight—not later than two.” He got up and stretched, rubbed his eyes. “If Chuck Evans does show up, I’d hold him, Carl. And give me a ring, will you?”
Bolton said, “Sure, Mike,” and trotted after Shayne when he started for the outer door. “Don’t be so damned tight with your info, Mike. You know more about this than you’re giving out.”
“That’s the hell of it,” said Shayne irritably. “I don’t. You know I’ve never held out on you, Carl. If I turn anything up that’ll help you on this mess, I’ll let you know.” He went out into Miami’s bright mid-morning sunlight and got in his car. He thought suddenly of the money he had collected from Marco last night. He took out his wallet and examined the bills. They were still damp. He wiped each bill carefully with a linen handkerchief, laying them separately on the seat to dry. Then he drove slowly to the First National Bank where he deposited them.
Back in his car, he headed it toward the beach, using the County causeway.
He stopped at a drugstore on Fifth Street and looked up an address in the telephone directory, then drove straight to an ugly, two-story stucco house on a palm-lined street two blocks from the ocean.
He went up the walk briskly and rang the bell. After a short interval the door was opened by a thin-featured middle-aged woman wearing a white apron over a black silk dress. She looked at Shayne suspiciously and asked, “What do you want?”
Shayne lifted his hat politely and did his very best with a smile.
“Is Mr. Marco in?”
“No.” Her voice was vinegary.
She started to close the door. Shayne got his foot in the way.
“That’s all right. I really came to see Miss Marco.”
“You can’t see her,” the woman told him sharply. “She’s sick abed.”
“Of course,” Shayne said. “That’s why I’m here. I’m Doctor Shayne.”
“But Doctor Holcomb’s already—”
“I know,” Shayne told her with asperity. “As a matter of fact it was Doctor Holcomb who asked me to drop in and see his patient. He’s a little worried about certain phases of her case, and called me in consultation.”
The woman looked at him doubtfully, her eyes lingering on his sport jacket, and Shayne realized he must look completely undoctorish. Still, in Miami a member of the profession was likely to call on patients in plus fours or fishing clothes, so he pushed forward impatiently, saying, “I haven’t a great deal of time. Going for a cruise today, but I promised Doctor Holcomb I’d see his patient first.”
The housekeeper said, “Well—” and gave way before him with reluctance.
He followed her through a wide hallway to the foot of the stairs where she stopped and pointed up.
“There’s one of the maids in the hall upstairs. She’ll show you Miss Marsha’s room.”
Shayne climbed the stairs and found a young woman rocking back and forth in a chair at the end of the upper hall. She had a broad, heavy-boned, Slavic face, and she was chewing gum rhythmically. She didn’t get up when he stopped in front of her. A thick braid of blonde hair was coiled above her forehead, and heavy breasts bulged the front of her starched uniform.
“I’m Doctor Shayne,” the detective told her brusquely. “Which is Miss Marco’s room?”
The maid stopped chewing. Her jaw sagged a trifle as she regarded him with dull bovine eyes.
“This here’s her room.” She indicated a closed door behind her. “But Mr. Marco said—”
“Mr. Marco would fire you like that if you kept the doctor away from his daughter.”
Shayne snapped his fingers to indicate the speed with which she would be discharged. He moved quickly to the door, but the maid got to her feet to intercept him. A key hung from a piece of white tape around her neck, and she held it up in front of Shayne, saying placidly, “Wait, and I’ll unlock the door.”
Shayne stood back to let her unlock the door, then pushed past her into the darkened bedroom, closing the door behind him, saying, “I don’t want to be disturbed while I’m diagnosing the case.”
He looked at the bed, saw the covers were thrown back. It was empty. He swiftly crossed the room to a closed door and rapped on it, then turned the knob and opened it.
It was a bathroom, also empty.
A clothes closet offered the only other place of concealment. He pulled the door open, calling Marsha’s name, then pressed the dresses and coats back on their hangers to assure himself the girl wasn’t hiding against the wall.
Emerging from the closet, he started toward the door. His eyes were wary, anxious. He stopped with his hand inches from the knob, wheeled and went swiftly to the shaded windows near the head of the bed.
The end of a twisted bedsheet was knotted to the caster and led out the center window. He lifted the shade and found the screen swinging loose on hinges. He thrust his head out and looked down at two twisted sheets tied together and almost touching the ground.
He lowered the shade, turned to look around the room uncertainly, then started talking in a low persuasive voice, “Now, Miss Marco, you mustn’t adopt that attitude. I can’t diagnose your case unless you’re entirely frank with me,” all the while crossing to a littered vanity where a note lay beneath a comb. He picked it up and read:
“I can’t stand this. I’d rather be dead. I’m going where you’ll never see me again.
“MARSHA.”
He folded the note, slipped it into the side pocket of his jacket. Then he explored the drawers of the vanity, lifting his voice a trifle so it would carry across the empty room to the hallway outside.
“I understand, Miss Marco. I’m inclined to feel that your case isn’t quite as serious as Doctor Holcomb intimated. I’ll have to ask you a few more questions.”
He continued a rambling, low-toned conversation, interspersed with frequent pauses, while he carefully rummaged through the room, wondering irritably where the devil a girl like Marsha Marco would keep her handkerchiefs hidden.
He passed over a pink satin folder in the long center drawer at first, but making a second round, he lifted the top and found layers of folded handkerchiefs neatly arrayed, with a couple of tiny sachet bags nestled among them.
He studied each one dubiously, and finally picked up a frilly square of sheer linen that looked an exact duplicate of the one he had taken from Grange’s lifeless fingers. Closing his eyes, he sniffed the delicate fragrance, trying to remember the scent of the other handkerchief, realizing with deep disgust that he was probably the poorest connoisseur of perfume in the world.
He had a hunch that it was the same perfume, but it was no more than a hunch.
A hard lump beneath the handkerchief folder attracted his attention. Lifting the holder, he stared down at a .32 automatic. He took it up and smelled the muzzle, getting only an odor of oil which indicated the pistol had been cleaned since last being fired.
He slid the automatic and handkerchief into his jacket pocket, closed the folder and replaced it, moved to the center of the room where he stood in scowling indecision for a moment, then stepped noiselessly to the clothes closet where he looked through the hangers until he found a light silk jacket. On a shelf was a small felt toque to match.
He unbuttoned his shirt and slid those two articles of Marsha’s wearing apparel down in the front, distributing them so they would not bulge, then went toward the door, saying aloud, “I understand perfectly, Miss Marco. I’ll have a consultation with Doctor Holcomb, and I’m sure you’ll begin to respond to treatment at once.”
He opened the door as he finished the sentence, turned to block the entrance with his body and said, “Good day, Miss Marco,” and closed the door firmly behind him.
The maid was standing close to the door, twiddling the key, a curious look of uncertainty on her broad, stupid face.
“Is she—she’s awake, huh?”
“Partially.” Shayne watched her alertly from beneath drooping eyelids. “She’s not quite herself, I’d say. Don’t disturb her until she calls.”
“Yessir.” The maid was obviously relieved.
As Shayne turned away, he heard the click of a key in the lock behind him.
He had to restrain himself to keep from taking the stairs two at a time, holding his body erect and dignified as be imagined a physician would do. He drew a deep sigh of relief when he reached the front door without encountering the housekeeper again.
Chapter Nine: GAMBLING WITH A GAMBLER
SHAYNE DROVE slowly away from the Marco residence. He unbuttoned his shirt and transferred the articles of clothing to the side pocket of his car, tossing the automatic in after them.
At Ocean Drive, he turned to the left and drove directly to Marco’s Seaside Casino, turning in the curving driveway and parking his roadster at the curb directly behind a glittering limousine.
Tall royal palms with trunks like columns of gray concrete shaded the gambling casino. Its appearance was desolate by daylight. There was no uniformed and beplumed doorman on duty, and the grilled front doors stood open.
Shayne heard the voices of cleaning women drifting out from rear rooms as he strode down the long hall to the stairway and went up to the second floor. A door directly in front of him came open as he reached the top, and he was confronted by the tall white-haired man who had taken Marsha Marco out of her father’s office last night.
His crafty eyes glittered as he recognized Michael Shayne, and he asked in a soft voice, “Where the hell do you think you’re going?”
Shayne said, “Right here for the moment, Whitey. When did you get out of Raiford?”
“Last month, if it’s any of your damned business.”
“It isn’t,” Shayne conceded mildly. “Marco got to the parole board, eh? Do they know you’ve got your old job back here at the casino?”
“No. They got crazy rules about such things. You know how it is.”
Shayne said, “Yeh, I know. They’d bounce you right back to Raiford if they knew you were working in a gambling joint, wouldn’t they?”
Panic flickered in Whitey’s eyes. “They don’t know, see? And I don’t think nobody’s going to tell ’em.”
“Maybe not,” Shayne agreed carelessly. “What did you do after taking Marsha Marco home last night?”
“I didn’t—say, what the hell are you trying to find out?”
“ Just that.”
Shayne turned and walked down the hall to Marco’s private office, jerked the door open and found the Miami Beach councilman leaning over a litter of papers and account books on his desk.
Marco said over his shoulder, “Is that you, Whitey? We’ve got to do something about that second roulette table. It got jammed up last night.”
“Paid off to some of the suckers, eh?” Shayne said in a tone of shocked condolence. “You’ll certainly have to do something about that.”
John Marco swung his heavy body sidewise in the swivel chair and stared at the detective through opaque blue eyes.
“So, it’s you again,” his little, pursed mouth snarled. Shayne nodded amiably and moved past the desk to drop his long body into a leather and chromium chair. “It’s me—horning in where I’m not wanted.”
“How’d you beat that Grange rap?”
Shayne grinned.
“Not your fault that I did. You didn’t skip the chance to put in your two-bits’ worth.”
Marco pulled out his cheeks.
“It was my civic duty to give the information in my possession to the authorities.”
Shayne laughed harshly and lit a cigarette.
“You’ve always been a heel, Marco. Getting yourself elected to the City Council hasn’t changed you. You’ve always hated my guts, and I consider it a compliment. But you’re getting too damned big for your pants. You shouldn’t have tried to hang a frame on me last night. I would have let you alone if you hadn’t been so goddam’ dumb.”
“What do I care whether you leave me alone or not? Get out of my office unless you’ve got something to say.”
Shayne leaned back comfortably and puffed on his cigarette.
“I’ve got things to say,” he drawled. “Things you’ll be listening to after I start talking.”
“Start then.” Marco waved a pudgy hand toward the papers in front of him. “I hav
e work to do.”
“I’ll take your mind off that in a hurry,” Shayne promised. “What would it be worth to you to know where your daughter is?”
“Marsha? You’re crazy. She’s at home.”
“Locked in her room,” Shayne amplified. “That’s what you think, Marco. Guess again.”
For a moment, Marco’s cold blue eyes studied the detective. Shayne returned his gaze serenely. With an impatient exclamation Marco lifted the telephone on his desk and called a local number.
“If you’re calling your house,” Shayne suggested, “ask the housekeeper—”
Marco silenced him with a wave of his fat hand. Shayne subsided to silence and waited impassively while Marco carried on a brief conversation over the telephone. He hung up, saying triumphantly, “I knew better than to fall for a stall like. that. Marsha’s right in her room where she should be.”
Shayne nodded happily.
“With the door locked on the outside and a bigchested bohunk on guard. Sure. But you should have asked the housekeeper about Doctor Shayne who just visited the patient.”
Fear leaped into Marco’s cold blue eyes, crawled down his puffy cheeks and brought a drooling slobber to his rosebud mouth.
“You haven’t—goddam you, Shayne, what are you up to?”
“I’m putting the heat on,” Shayne told him in a flat, remote tone. “When you call your house back, tell them not to put too much trust in locked doors. Tell them to look in the bedroom—and out the window where Marsha crawled down a sheet.”
Marco’s face turned the color of an under-ripe orange. He lifted the telephone again and called his home. This time his voice was strident. He spoke harshly, gripping the receiver in a trembling hand while beads of sweat formed on his forehead and made rivulets down his cheeks.
Shayne leaned back and expelled smoke lingeringly toward the ceiling. From an open east window the sluff-sluff of waves upon the beach came in to mingle with John Marco’s labored breathing.
The Private Practice of Michael Shayne Page 7
