Brett Halliday

The Private Practice of Michael Shayne

Chapter One: A MATTER OF SCRUPLES

THE RECEPTIONIST in the shabby outer office was a drab, flat-chested girl whose cotton print frock looked homemade, clinging damply to under-fleshed shoulders. She looked up with lusterless eyes at Shayne’s entrance and said:

“Good afternoon, Mr. Shayne. You’re to go right in. Mr. Kincaid is waiting.”

Shayne nodded and went past her untidy desk to the frosted glass door marked private. He tapped on the glass, then turned the knob and walked in.

Two men were sweating in the poorly ventilated inner office. The larger of the two, a stranger to Shayne, wore wilted white flannels, a sleeveless polo shirt, with a yachting cap tilted jauntily back on graying hair. He looked about thirty and was probably forty; bronzed by the Miami sun, solidly fleshed by good food, his mid-section kept trim and firm by rigorous gymnastics and the ministrations of an expert masseur.

In contrast to the other’s powerful physique and outward appearance of exuberant good health, Larry Kincaid looked anemic and underfed. His thin cheeks held an unhealthy pallor, and a heavy lock of black hair fell dankly aslant his forehead, as if twisted by nervous fingers and left lying there. His eyes were dark, and Shayne had seen the time when they snapped with fire and enthusiasm, but now they were furtive, irritable. Hunched behind a flat desk with both elbows supporting his weight, shoulder blades showed sharply beneath the thin white coat of tropical worsted.

Both men looked up quickly and with some unease at Shayne’s entrance, managing to convey an impression of conspiracy.

Recognizing the detective, Larry Kincaid’s pale lips twitched into a smile, and he said, over-effusively, “Hi, there, Michael. We’ve been waiting for you.”

Shayne nodded. He said, “Hello, Larry,” and there was a faint note of solicitude in his voice. He dropped his Panama on the desk and dragged a straight chair closer to the attorney, adding, “I came as soon as I got your message.”

“That’s all right, now that you’re here. This is Mr. Thomas—Elliot Thomas,” Kincaid went on, jerking his head toward the ruddy-faced man. He gushed the name of his client.

Shayne lowered his rangy body into the chair and said, “Is that so?” He didn’t add, “So what?” but his tone clearly supplied the omission.

The attorney’s upper lip twitched. “You must have heard of Elliot Thomas, Michael.”

Shayne said, “It isn’t an unusual name.”

He clasped big bony hands about one knee and let his placid gaze drift to his friend’s client.

Elliot Thomas moved a blunt-fingered hand impatiently.

“My identity is of little actual moment. As a matter of fact, I prefer to remain in the background as much as possible.”

“Of course,” Kincaid assented. “That’s perfectly natural, Mr. Thomas.” He faced toward Shayne hesitantly.

“I need some help in handling a rather delicate affair, Michael. I thought of you, of course.”

Shayne lit a cigarette and spun the match across the room and out an open west window through which the late afternoon sun streamed, making a veritable oven of the small office.

“What’s on your mind, Larry?”

“Without going into details, Mr. Thomas has commissioned me to deal with an extortionist who is making demands upon him. I’ve advised him not to pay the scoundrel a penny. I want to work out a plan with you to pretend we’re going to pay, and then take the evidence from the miscreant by force when he brings it to exchange for the money he has demanded.”

Shayne frowned and rubbed a calloused hand over his bristly red hair.

“Isn’t that compounding a felony?”

“Don’t be absurd,” Kincaid scoffed. “You’ve never worried much about legalities in handling your cases.”

Shayne shrugged wide shoulders.

“I don’t like to fool with blackmail, Larry. I don’t like to see you mixed up in a case like that. Why doesn’t your client go to one of the shysters who make a living off blackmailing? Miami is full of them.”

Again, there was that faint note of solicitude in his voice, as though he was subtly reminding Larry Kincaid of something previously discussed and understood between them.

“Why should I turn down a case?” Kincaid demanded irritably. “I’m counting on you to help me, Michael.”

Shayne said, “No.” He stood up, carefully avoiding the lawyer’s gaze.

Elliot Thomas cleared his throat and flashed a white-toothed smile at Shayne.

“Why don’t you wait to get the facts, Mr. Shayne? This isn’t the sort of blackmail I imagine you think. I haven’t done anything of which I am ashamed, nor do I have anything to conceal. The evidence the party wishes to sell me is negative rather than positive. He threatens to withhold proof of my integrity and thus cause me considerable embarrassment unless I pay him an absurdly large sum of money.”

Shayne turned slowly, sending a hard glance toward Thomas.

He shook his head emphatically. “That’s immaterial. If you hadn’t come to Larry I might have helped you. God knows, my reputation will stand anything without being hurt. But if a lawyer starts taking questionable cases like this, he’s sunk. I’ve seen it happen to better men than Larry. One smirch on his reputation means he’s done for. And that brings up a point.”

A long forefinger shot out at Thomas.

“Why the hell did you come to Kincaid with an extortion deal? Who told you he would touch something that stunk?”

“Just a minute,” the young lawyer pleaded. “Don’t go off half-cocked like that, Michael. Mr. Thomas didn’t come to me. It was Grange who first approached me.”

“Harry Grange?”

“Yes. You know him, don’t you? He asked me to contact Mr. Thomas for him.”

“Which makes the whole thing stink worse,” Shayne grunted. “You’re turning on your own client just like any cheap fee-splitter. I’m surprised at you, Larry.”

Kincaid’s miserable eyes lowered before the somber gaze Shayne bent on him. His upper lip twitched and he started an explanation which was interrupted by Elliot Thomas’s voice, calm and even-tempered:

“I didn’t realize you were to be called in to pass judgment on the moral aspects of the situation, Shayne. Kincaid recommended you as an efficient—”

Shayne said, “Shut up,” without taking his gaze from Larry Kincaid’s bloodless face.

“I certainly shan’t stay here to be insulted further.” Thomas got up and started for the door, but the young lawyer pushed his chair back and got in front of him.

“Don’t pay any attention to Michael, Mr. Thomas. He’ll come around all right. I’ll handle everything just as I agreed. I’ll see Grange and fix everything.”

“See that you do,” Thomas snapped, and went out the door.

Kincaid circled the detective and sank into his chair with a groan.

“Good God, do you know who that was?”

Shayne shook his head, a brooding look of melancholy on his angular face.

“I don’t give a goddamn who he is, Larry. This is the wrong angle. You’re just getting established here in Miami. You can’t touch stuff like that without getting talk started. Hang on a little longer. The right clients will start coming.”

Kincaid’s thin lips were sulky, defiant.

“You’re a hell of a one to preach,” he whipped out.

Shayne pulled his chair around and let his big frame into it. His lean, hard-featured face was impassive, but there was a glint in his gray eyes.

“All right, Larry. I’m a mug. I’ve got a reputation for taking the cash where I can get my hands on it. I know how it works. I take off-color stuff because that’s the only sort of cases I get a chance at. I’m not married, and if I get bumped or railroaded to Raiford—that’s my tough luck and nobody else’s. You’ve got Helen and the boy to think about.”

Larry Kincaid lifted a haggard face to Shayne.

“Maybe it’s them I’m thinking about. I hung up my shingle six months ago, and do you know how many clients I’ve had? Just two. One was a title on a truck farm, the other was a will. Elliot Thomas is a millionaire. I can make a thousand bucks at one crack on this case—and you, of all people, want me to turn it down. It doesn’t make sense.”

Shayne’s hand slid into his breast pocket and came out with a wallet.

“Why didn’t you say you were hard up? I promised to see you and Helen through here until you had a paying clientele established. All you have to do is yell when you run short.”

Larry waved the offer away.

“I don’t want any more money from you. I’ve had too much already. I’m going to stand on my own feet. If I handle this case for Thomas just right, I’ll be in the big money. A word from a man like him is worth something.”

Shayne put his wallet away. His head waggled from side to side.

“You’re all mixed up, Larry.” He paused to light a second cigarette from the first, then shot a sudden question at the younger man. “Where did you meet Harry Grange?”

“Grange? Why—just here and there.” He avoided Shayne’s piercing, gray gaze.

Michael’s ragged red brows came down in a frown.

“That won’t wash, Larry. Rising young barristers don’t just run into men like Harry Grange here and there.”

“What are you getting at?” Kincaid flared. “Do I have to answer to you for where I spend my time when I’m not sitting in this furnace waiting for clients who don’t know I’m alive?”

Shayne looked baffled. “I’m just trying to point out what it leads to. When you associate with cheap grafters like Grange, you give the impression that that’s your true level. Then, when they have a crooked deal to put over, they naturally turn to you with it.”

“I don’t know that Harry Grange is such a cheap grafter,” Kincaid protested heatedly. “He’s pretty much of a sport, if you ask me.”

“I’m not asking you,” Shayne rumbled. “I know Grange’s kind. He and hundreds like him flock to Miami and Miami Beach in the winter and put up a swell front, dragging down a percentage from the gambling houses by bringing suckers in to lose their money.”

“Well, all I’ve got to say is that Grange certainly puts it over with a bang.” Kincaid’s tone was growing nasty. “He’s got that Brighton girl on the string right now.”

“Who?”

“Phyllis Brighton. The pretty heiress you took to your paternal bosom when she was accused of murdering her mother last month. Lots of people think…”

“Damn what people think!”

Shayne’s eyes were dangerously bright. He reached out to crush his cigarette butt in a tray on the desk, muttering: “So, Grange has got his hooks into her?”

“Sure. You can see them together almost any night at Marco’s Seaside Casino on the beach,” Kincaid told him triumphantly, “and she’s getting rid of her money plenty fast at the roulette tables.”

Shayne waved a big hand impatiently.

“She’s too young to know any better. You’re not, Larry. Drop this idea of making a lot of money fast. Playing with extortion is like kicking dynamite around.”

“It’d be perfectly safe if you’d come in with me. Perfectly legitimate, too. Thomas is unjustly accused in a certain matter, and Grange, by chance, got his hands on the evidence that will clear Thomas’s reputation. Grange is holding out for a big price, threatening to sell the information to another party who will suppress it entirely.”

“All that is beside the point.”

Shayne got up and sat on a corner of the young attorney’s desk. He laid a hard hand on Kincaid’s thin shoulder and went on persuasively:

“Keep clear of it, Larry. God knows, I know what I’m saying. I was once just where you are. I didn’t have the guts to wait for success. Like you, I thought it was a hell of a lot more important to make a gob of money at once. Well—look at me now.”

“I’m looking. You’re sitting on top of the heap—with a reputation that lets you pick your cases.” He stared up into Shayne’s somber, rocklike visage.

“Yeah. A lousy private dick,” Shayne persisted. “You can—hell! you can be governor or senator or any damn thing you want if you’ll sit tight and not take the wrong turn.”

Kincaid’s chuckle was bitter.

“To get to be either one requires a course in crooked procedures,” he snapped.

Shayne was stumped. There was a long heavy silence between them. The small office grew unbearably hot as the streaming sun reached across almost to the desk.

Shayne picked up a small framed picture from the desk and gazed at the likeness of Helen Kincaid holding a very small boy by the hand. He nodded toward it and said: “You’ve got them to think about.”

Kincaid’s shoulder twisted out from under Shayne’s hand. He got up and strode to the open west window and stood with his back turned, staring out, then swung around and faced Shayne with set lip and projected jaw.

“I’m thinking about them,” he burst out. “You don’t know Helen very well. She nags about money all the time. She hates it out in that neighborhood where the cheap rent is the best I can afford. She’s always after me for God’s sake to do something to make some money. Well—I’ve got that chance, and I’d be a damned fool to turn it down. You can help me if you will—and if you’re so interested in Helen and the boy.”

The last words were almost a snarl, as though he challenged Shayne to deny something.

Shayne refused the challenge. He shook his head slowly. “I won’t touch it, Larry.”

“All right then. I’ll handle it myself.”

“If you insist on being a goddamned fool, go ahead.”

Kincaid thrust thin hands deep into his pants pockets, sauntered forward with an unpleasant smile.

“So, this is what your friendship actually means. I might have known. The first time I ask a real favor you turn me down flat.”

Shayne said, “Don’t say anything you’ll be sorry for.”

But the younger man went on hoarsely, “All right. Then that’s the way it is. It’s time I found out I can’t bank on you in a pinch. Don’t think I can’t guess why you come sucking around my house.”

Shayne slid off the desk and lunged forward, his face bleak and hard. He caught Kincaid’s wrist and exclaimed urgently, “Don’t say it, Larry. You’re—”

Kincaid jerked his arm away. A spot of color burned high in each pallid cheek.

“I’ll say any damned thing I please. You were in love with Helen before I married her. That’s why you urged me to come to Miami.”

Shayne laughed shortly and turned his back on the distraught young man. His fingers trembled a trifle as he lit a cigarette. He picked up his Panama and jammed it down on his head, turned toward the door.

With his hand on the knob, he swung about and asked: “Is this the way it has to be? You’re sure?”

“Goddamn sure,” the young man asseverated sullenly. “I’ve just waked up to the sort of friend you really are. I was a fool to ask you to help me. You want me to stay broke—just to show me up to Helen.” His upper lip trembled as it curled in a snarl. “Well, I won’t, damn you. I don’t need your help. I’ll handle this myself.”

“Okay,” Shayne answered in a curiously gentle voice. “If that’s the way you want it.”

He went out through the reception room where the girl stared wonderingly at the bleak grimness of his face and down to his white-knuckled fists. He grinned at her, and his hands relaxed. For a moment he stood, undecided, then went on through the outer door and down a dingy hallway to the rickety elevator serving one of Miami’s oldest office buildings.

Here again he waited in an attitude of hopeful expectancy, half-turned back toward the office.

The door of Larry Kincaid’s office remained closed, and the elevator rattled to a stop in front of him. Shayne shrugged his big shoulders in resignation, and got in to be lowered to the ground floor.

Chapter Two: A GIRL CALLED “ANGEL”

SHAYNE CLICKED the dice gently in his big fist and rolled them out on the green table. Under the soft diffused light they came to a stop showing a five and a four up.

The houseman shoved them back to him with his ivory stick and Shayne clicked them again, then sevened out. He lifted his shoulders with negligent disapproval and relinquished the black-dotted cubes to the gambler on his left.

The gambling hall was long, low-ceilinged, richly carpeted. Brilliant lights reflected on the tables from dark-shaded bulbs. Two crap layouts were deserted, and of the three roulette tables, only one was in operation this early in the evening.

Against a background of ornate furnishings, men in evening clothes and women in backless gowns made no effort to dissemble feverish intentness as the ivory ball jumped erratically around the spinning wheel. Sharply indrawn breaths exhaled in an almost inaudible “ah-h-h” when the ball stopped in its niche.

Shayne, completely at ease in a double-breasted suit of white poplin which gave a deceptive trimness to his tall, rangy figure, bet his last twenty-dollar marker that the shooter was wrong, and gravely watched a couple enter the room and go to the roulette table.

Phyllis Brighton was very young, with intensely black hair upon which the soft light fell in a lustrous sheen. Her dark eyes were bright with inner excitement.

Her escort was blond and full-faced, with a ruddy glow of health on tanned cheeks and a big mouthful of white teeth. His hair was a smooth pompadour. He held the girl’s arm as though it was something delicately fragile.

The man on Shayne’s left rolled a natural, and the redheaded detective stepped back as the houseman took in his last chip. Ragged red brows came down sharply when he intercepted a fleeting look of understanding between the roulette croupier and Phyllis Brighton’s escort.

His brows stayed down, giving a somber touch of anger to his square-jawed face, when Phyllis dumped a pile of hundred-dollar chips in front of her and began betting them on number twenty-seven. Her outdoorsy-looking escort matched her play with ten-dollar markers.

Shayne stood back from the crap table, dragging on a cigarette and watching the girl lose her money. She had not seen him, at least gave no sign that she saw him.

The after-theater crowd drifted in, and another table went into action.

In Shayne’s deep-set eyes brooding anger flamed. The wheel went around twelve times while he stood there, undecided. Phyllis Brighton had dropped twelve hundred dollars, slightly more than half the stack of chips in front of her.

Shayne thrust knobby hands into his coat pockets and strolled noiselessly toward the door, big feet sinking into the rich red carpet.

He met Chuck Evans and a female companion in the doorway. Chuck looked vaguely uneasy and uncomfortable in a well-fitted tuxedo and black tie. His blue eyes lit up when he recognized Shayne.

“Leaving so early?” Chuck asked.

“They took me.”

Shayne glanced at the round face of Chuck’s companion. He did not smile. Every inch of her was dowdy, the direct antithesis of the elegant women who frequented Marco’s Seaside Casino, from her over-rouged cheeks to the lacy gown which revealed every lumpy contour of her short figure. Heavy breasts were inadequately hidden, but there was a flame of defiant bravado in her elongated eyes.

Shayne said, “Hi, Toots,” through tight unsmiling lips.

She said, “Hello, Red,” but her eyes slid evasively away from his and she brushed past him into the discreet magnificence of the inner room.

“Well,” Chuck said nervously, “we’ll be seein’ you, I reckon,” and followed the woman.

Shayne said, “Sure,” over his shoulder, and went on down a long hall. He kept his hands hunched in his coat pockets, and his lean, hard-jawed face immobile.

At the end of the deeply carpeted hall a wide stairway curved upward. A youth with shifty eyes lounged against the balustrade. A cigarette dangled from his colorless lips.

Shayne stopped in front of him and asked, “Marco upstairs?”

“Yeh. Whaddo you want, an’ I’ll tell him?”

“I’ll tell him myself,” Shayne said with good-natured contempt, and started up the stairway.

“Hey,” exclaimed the youth, “you can’t do that.”

Shayne went on up the steps without a backward glance. At the top he turned to the right down a narrower, paneled hallway, past the closed doors of private dining rooms, to the end where silver letters on a door read:

NO ADMITTANCE.

He turned the knob and pushed the door open soundlessly.

A big man sat at a clean flat-topped desk, his back toward Shayne. Overhead lights shimmered on his oily bald head. He was pointing ah unlighted cigar at a girl wearing a red dress who sat across the office in a leather and chromium chair against the wall. Her thin legs were crossed and the red skirt fell away from her knees. Her short hair looked too alively new-copperish to be natural, and the tint was reflected in green-gray eyes. Her features were sharp and discontented, thin lips were twisted in moody disdain.

The bald man with the cigar was saying,

“—come out of it and act your age. God knows there are other men in the world. There’s Elliot Thomas—what’s the matter with him?”

“Sure.”

The girl’s eyes rested mockingly on Shayne’s angular face and bristly red hair. They slanted upward a trifle at the outer corners, or, perhaps, curiously formed brows made them appear to slant.

“Mugs!” she spat out angrily.

“Now, by God, Thomas isn’t any mug. You—”

“I think the lady is referring to me,” Shayne interrupted.

John Marco swung his heavy body about in the revolving desk chair at the sound of Michael Shayne’s voice. His cheeks were puffy without being soft and he had an incongruously tiny rosebud mouth. He stared at the tall detective for a moment with opaque china-blue eyes, then moistened his ridiculous little mouth with the tip of his tongue.

“What are you sneaking around here for, Shayne?”

“I walked in through the door, Marco.”

“Well, walk out again. Can’t you see—?”

Shayne said, “Go to hell,” very softly. He walked past John Marco, deliberately putting his back to the bald-headed man.

The girl in the red dress clapped her hands merrily.

A lot of the discontent had gone out of her face, and the reddish tint of her eyes was intensified.

“Goody!” she cried, “you’re one of those hard-boiled he-men, aren’t you?”

Shayne stopped in front of her, hands still deep in his pockets. He looked briefly down into her face, then lifted his left eyebrow in quizzical amusement, shaking his head.

“I’m not really hard-boiled. Calling Marco’s bluff is no criterion. Any punk can do that and get away with it.”

“By God, Shayne, do you want to go out on your own feet or be thrown out?”

Shayne paid no heed to the booming voice behind him. He was looking into the girl’s eyes and she was looking back into his. She was about twenty-five, but her face was immature, almost childish.

Shayne shrugged and turned slowly to face the big man whose fat hand was hovering over an electric button on his desk.

“Don’t do anything you’re likely to regret, Marco,” he advised in a remotely gentle voice.

He held Marco’s angry gaze serenely, hooked a toe around the chromium runner of one of the chairs and dragged it forward.

Marco’s breathing was heavy through pursed lips. His fingers still hung over the electric button as though restrained from touching it by some mysterious flux.

Smothered laughter sounded behind Shayne’s left shoulder.

“This is all so frightfully melodramatic,” giggled the girl.

“You’d better go, Marsha,” John Marco said thickly.

“Not me. I’m going to stay right here. I’m waiting to see you throw this man out.”

Marco’s hand reluctantly withdrew from the button. He said, complaining:

“What’s eating on you, Shayne?”

“Nothing.”

Shayne frowned at the cigarette in his hand. He turned to look at the girl.

“You must be Marsha Marco. Since your father won’t introduce us, I’m Michael Shayne.”

Her green eyes widened, quirked up at the corners. “I’ve read about you. Have you come to pinch dad’s gambling joint?”

Shayne smiled gravely. “No. He keeps his protection money paid up.”

Merriment glinted in the eyes which had lost much of their strange red glow when her father said harshly, “Quit horsing around, Shayne. What do you want?”

Shayne swung around to face the casino proprietor.

“Just this. How long has Grange been capping for you?”

“What business is it of yours?”

“Don’t talk to me like that.”

Shayne’s eyes were bleak. He started to get up.

Marco paled a trifle. He held up a dimpled hand in protest.

“What’s eating on you?” he asked again.

Before Shayne could reply, Marsha asked breathlessly, “Who did you say, Mr. Shayne?”

“Grange.” The detective didn’t look at her. “He’s got a girl downstairs right now, sucking her at the roulette table for more than she can afford to lose. A very young girl,” he added with emphasis.

“Harry Grange?” There was dismay, almost disbelief, in the girl’s voice.

Marco rumbled, “Yes, Harry Grange,” at his daughter.

“This is as good a time as any to find out for yourself that he’s just a cheap front man.”

“I don’t believe it.” Her chin was set, stubborn, her voice shrill. She came to her feet and took a long-limbed stride forward. “This whole thing is just a put-up job.” Her eyes flashed from John Marco to Shayne, low-lidded and suspicious. “It sounded rehearsed from the beginning,” she ended angrily.

Marco said, “Shut up.”

“I won’t shut up.” She moved past Shayne, her face working convulsively.

Shayne lit a cigarette, watching her through squinted eyes all the while. The girl stopped in front of the desk, bending forward with slender fingers clawed close to her father’s face.

“You’ve been running Harry down because you want me to hook Elliot Thomas. You don’t care the snap of your finger about me—about my feelings. All you care about is—”

Without moving from his chair, John Marco slapped his daughter’s face. She shrank back, her face white, her mouth a tight rouged slit, her eyes all a dangerous red again. Her hand went up slowly to touch her cheek.

John Marco said, “I told you to shut up.”

A plump finger pressed the button now. A side door came open and a tall white-haired man entered. He had a pleasant benign face and crafty eyes. His glance slid over Shayne and past him to Marsha who was standing with both palms flat down on the desk as if to support her thin body.

The man asked, “What is it, Chief?”

“Take Miss Marco home.”

He nodded, darting another glance at Shayne, then took the girl’s arm and said soothingly, “Come along, Miss Marsha.”

She jerked her arm free from his grasp. Her left cheek was a mottled, angry red now. She glared at her father, hatred blazing. Her lips moved, but no sound came out. A vein throbbed fiercely in her thin neck. She turned and walked through the side door and the white-haired man followed her out.

Marco expelled a long breath that came out a thin whistle, as if he had been holding it for some time. His small blue eyes were hard, like glass marbles.

“What gets into girls?” he hurled at Shayne, distressed, as though he really sought an answer. “I give her every damn thing she wants and she hates my guts.”

Shayne lifted his hand in a gesture of dismissal. “I was talking about Harry Grange.”

“Well, what about him?” Marco pinched a dewlap beneath his chin with pudgy fingers.

“That girl he’s dragged in is too young to know any better than to waste C-notes on your crooked wheel.”

Marco slammed his palm down hard on the desk. “What the hell? Am I supposed to make them bring birth certificates with them?”

Twin lines of smoke curled from Shayne’s nostrils. He said placidly, “You do enough business without paying men a percentage to drag youngsters into your joint.”

“So you’re getting an attack of morals, huh?”

Shayne crossed his long legs and retained his unruffled calm.

“This girl happens to be a friend of mine.”

“Then she ought to know the ropes.”

“But she doesn’t, Marco. She’s foolish enough to believe Grange is losing his own money right along with her.”

“Isn’t that just too bad? What the hell do you expect me to do about it?”

“Exactly what I tell you to do. Call her up here and return what she’s lost.”

“Holy hell! You don’t want much.”

“No.” Shayne’s voice was dangerously gentle. “Just that, Marco.”

“I’ll be damned if I will. I’m not running any charity games.”

Shayne nodded. He dropped his cigarette butt onto the deep rug and ground it out with the toe of his shoe. He lunged to his feet with that peculiar animal litheness so at variance with his ungainly appearance of bony height. His face was bleak. He went past Marco without looking at him.

Marco’s voice stopped him when his hand was turning the knob. There was a conciliatory tremor in it.

“Where you going?”

Shayne said, “Downstairs,” and jerked the door open.

Marco jumped up and caught his arm as he stepped into the hallway.

“Listen, you don’t need to—

Shayne stopped. He didn’t turn. He said, “Take your hand off my arm.”

Marco’s fat fingers slid away. He was breathing hard through his rounded, too small mouth.

“Come on back and we’ll have a drink and talk this over. I don’t want any trouble.”

“You’re going to get it—and plenty.” Shayne’s gray eyes were hot. “You had your chance to level.”

“Now see here, Mike, I—”

“Don’t call me Mike.” Shayne’s voice was rough, edgy with impatience.

“Hell! No use getting sore about it. You wouldn’t start anything downstairs where my patrons are enjoying themselves, would you?”

A wolfish grin twisted the corners of Shayne’s wide mouth into a down-drawn snarl.

“I’m going down there and take your joint apart, Marco.”

“By God, can’t you take a joke, Shayne?” Marco whined. He pulled tentatively at Shayne’s coat sleeve.

“Sure. I’m just laughing my head off.”

Shayne went back into Marco’s office and sat in the chair he had just gotten up from. He leaned back and crossed bony knees, fixed a blank stare on the ceiling while Marco lifted a rubber mouthpiece from its hook and spoke into it briefly. He hung up and said with excessive good humor, “Everything’s fixed up. They were just leaving.”

Shayne didn’t say anything. He didn’t look at the big man.

Marco fidgeted and pulled an onyx desk lighter close to put flame to his cigar. In response to a light tap on the hall door, he said, “Come in.”

The door opened to admit Phyllis Brighton and her ruddy, blond escort, Harry Grange, followed by the pallid-faced youth whom Shayne had encountered at the foot of the stairs. A cigarette dangled from his lips. Squinting through smoke, he asked, “You want me, Boss?”

“No. Shut the door.”

Shayne shifted his position to look at Phyllis Brighton. He grinned and said, “Hi, Angel.”

Phyllis wore a silver-fox scarf flung loosely about her smooth shoulders. Her lips were very full, only slightly rouged. Her figure swelled the shimmering silver of her evening gown. It was impossible to tell from her expression whether she was surprised to see Shayne or not. She said, “Good evening,” in a low and beautifully modulated voice.

Grange’s sun tanned face took on an anxious smile. He said, “Well, if it isn’t Michael Shayne,” striving for a heartiness that didn’t quite get over.

Shayne ignored him. His eyes were probing at Phyllis, and she met his steady gaze with an odd admixture of helplessness and angry defiance.

“This young lady,” Marco said heavily to Grange, “happens to be a friend of Shayne’s.”

“Well, well. Is that so? I didn’t know that.”

“Neither did I,” Phyllis said. Her small straight nose went up in disdain.

Shayne sighed and looked away from her. She demanded haughtily, “Why have we been dragged up here? We’ve got other places to go.”

“Not with that heel,” Shayne said sharply.

The smile faded from Grange’s face. “See here. You can’t insult me like that.”

“Can’t I?” Shayne leaned back and smiled insolently, meeting Grange’s eyes for the first time. “You’ve been insulted by lesser men—and taken it.”

Grange’s eyes wavered, shifted away from Shayne’s steely stare. Standing close to him, Phyllis said furiously, “Come on, Harry. We don’t have to stay here.”

She put her hand on his arm.

Shayne said, “No,” and Grange transferred his nervous, questioning gaze to John Marco.

The big man shrugged his massive shoulders.

“Shayne has some sort of dopey idea that I’m paying you a percentage to bring in customers, Harry. Rather than have any argument, I am returning the lady’s money—whatever she lost downstairs.”

“I won’t accept it,” Phyllis said evenly. Red spots of anger burned high on her cheeks. “You’d think I was a baby,” she threw at Shayne. “I don’t need you to look after me.”

Shayne’s chuckle was genuine. His eyes were very bright.

“You’re going to be looked after whether you like it or not, Angel. This guy is just a come-on for half the cheap gambling joints in town. He comes back later and collects his percentage of the money that beautiful and dumb gals lose to the house. Be a sap if you want to, but for God’s sake don’t be a sucker.”

“I don’t believe it. Why, Harry lost—right along with me.”

“Sure. That’s the come-on. He gets his money back. Pick up your money from Marco and I’ll take you home.”

“Your pardon, Shayne, but the young lady is with me,” Grange blustered. He flung his head and shoulders back and took Phyllis’s arm. “Miss Brighton hasn’t asked for your protection.”

Shayne got up. He moved forward with big clenched fists swinging low and free.

“You can get your neck broken by that sort of talk,” he said casually, “and you will get it broken if you don’t stay away from this girl.”

Grange’s heroic attitude crumpled. He backed away from Shayne, holding up a protesting hand. With the other hand he fumbled for the doorknob and jerked the door open. Before backing through it, he stopped and spoke past Shayne to Marco, “How about that other matter we spoke about this afternoon? After eleven will be too late.”

Shayne’s eyes traveled swiftly from Grange to Marco, but Marco shook his head and grunted, “No,” and the younger man went out, closing the door.

Shayne spoke irritably to Phyllis.

“Tell Marco how much they took you for downstairs and let’s go. Next time—” He moved slowly back toward the desk.

Phyllis didn’t move. She contemplated the distance to the door with wary, half-closed eyes. Abruptly, she said, “You’ve no right whatever to try to boss me, Michael Shayne,” and slid past him like a flash and ran out the door after Grange.

John Marco made the mistake of chuckling aloud. Shayne turned on him with an expression so terrible that Marco seemed to dwindle in size. He slumped low in his swivel chair.

“I’ll take that money.” Shayne stood over him with fists doubled. “An even two grand will make it right.”

“Sure, sure.”

Marco pried himself up from the chair and went to a huge safe in one corner, opened it, and came back with two thousand dollars in fifties held in an outstretched hand.

“That makes everything all right, don’t it, Mike?” he said placatingly.

Shayne was counting the money. He growled, “I told you not to call me Mike,” without raising his eyes.

Marco mopped his face with a silk handkerchief and sank into his chair. He said, affably, “You should try being a father, Mr. Shayne, and then you’d know you can’t talk reason to a girl so young. There’s something about Harry Grange that gets them all that same way. Look at Marsha—much as I’ve told her about him. Sit down and have a drink. I’ve got some nice Napoleon cognac that came over on the ‘Mayflower.’” He chuckled hollowly.

Shayne folded the bills, slipped them in his wallet and said, “Thanks,” shortly; then strode out without glancing back to see Marco’s lips curled out and his eyes stony with hatred.

Chapter Three: RENDEZVOUS WITH DEATH

SHAYNE STOPPED at the checkroom for his hat. The girl looked at his ticket and spoke a number into a microphone which was connected with a loudspeaker at the casino parking lot, then handed his Panama to him. He thanked her, tossed a quarter on the counter, and went out to the door where a tall man wearing a gold-braided uniform touched two fingers to his plumed hat and said, “Good evening, Mr. Shayne.”

Shayne nodded, standing beneath a striped canopy leading out to the curb. He cupped his hands to light a cigarette against the balmy night breeze blowing in from the Atlantic.

He asked, “Did Harry Grange just drive away?”

“I believe he did. Yes, sir.”

“Did he have a girl with him?”

Shayne spun the match away, watching the doorman’s expression keenly.

The man wrinkled his forehead doubtfully.

“Well, sir, now that you mention it, it was sort of funny. I remember a girl came hurrying out after Grange,” he went on candidly, “just as he was starting to drive away like he was in a big hurry, and she called out to him and he pulled up a little way and stopped. Right then a car came up and I went out to attend the patrons, and I sort of thought I noticed another girl too—and when I looked around again they were all gone.”

A long-nosed limousine purred to a stop at the entrance. The doorman muttered an excuse and hurried forward to open the rear door for an ermine-coated dowager and a man in tails and a silk hat. The dowager was very drunk, and her hauteur in attempting to appear sober amused Shayne who lounged against a pole watching. The woman staggered and would have fallen if the doorman had not caught her elbow, but she shrilly announced to the world that she needed no assistance.

Shayne sucked on his cigarette and watched while the short, silk-hatted man got on one side and the doorman on the other, and they half-carried the dowager inside.

Then Shayne thought of Phyllis Brighton, and the incident was, somehow, not amusing at all. He welcomed the sight of his aged roadster when an attendant wheeled up to the curb after the limousine pulled out. The attendant got out and Shayne got in, pulled around the palm-bordered circle into the broad ocean drive leading south toward the business section of Miami Beach.

Walled estates of the wealthy lined the drive on both sides, covered with bougainvillaea and flame vines. Palm fronds shivered in the night breeze, dripping silvery moonlight, moving Shayne to restless thoughts of other nights like this, when there must have been this same beauty and he hadn’t bothered to notice it.

Some of the grimness went out of his face as he breathed deeply of the warm night air permeated with the cloying scent of night-blooming jasmine, yet carrying also the tang of sea salt from waves breaking on sandy beaches.

It was March, with the threat of summer heat already driving the winter tourists northward in droves, but the season that Shayne liked best of all the year in Miami.

He drove in a relaxed posture with big hands gripping the wheel loosely, faintly annoyed by feeling within himself something he had often derided in others, a positive reaction to the moonlight witchery of a Miami night.

He had sometimes recognized the same inward stirrings in the past, he reflected, and it had always been a simple matter to rid himself of them with the assistance of the nearest complaisant woman. Curiously, he felt only a vague distaste when he considered seeking the same remedy tonight.

Damn Phyllis! She was too innately decent to waste herself on a louse like Grange. If she was determined to go in for that sort of thing, he might as well—

When he turned onto the causeway he saw that there was a yellowish phosphorescence on the water. The breeze was stronger, more full-flavored. He allowed his thoughts to return to Phyllis Brighton as she had been that night when he sent her away from his apartment, let speculative memories have their way with him as he drove into Miami.

The scowl remained fixed on his face, but there was no real inward causation for it as he swung around the traffic circle in front of a great department store into the west lane of brilliantly lighted Biscayne Boulevard, and drove on past cool, shadowy Biscayne Park.

Passing the end of Flagler Street, he turned to the right at the next corner, then to the left, and a block farther south he pulled in at the curb, parked at the side entrance to an apartment hotel backed up to the Miami River. He went into a small hallway leading on to a lighted lobby, passed the elevators and climbed a stairway to the second floor to his apartment.

He heard the muffled ring of his telephone as he fitted a key into the lock. He entered unhurriedly and switched lights on a large, comfortably furnished living-room.

The wall telephone continued to b-r-r-r loudly.

He closed the door and tipped his hat back, went directly to a liquor cabinet where he took down a half-full bottle of modestly priced cognac. He pulled the cork on the way to the phone, took down the receiver and said, “Hello,” then tipped the bottle and drank deeply.

A metallic masculine voice said, “Shayne?”

“Talking.”

He didn’t recognize the voice over the wire. A deep crease formed between his eyes. It was evident that the man at the other end was trying to disguise his voice. He tilted the bottle again as he listened to the man saying rapidly, “I’ve got a case for you, Shayne. Something big. Can you come right away?”

Shayne lowered the bottle and held it loosely by the neck.

“How big? Where?”

The tone of his response was one of complete disinterest.

“Plenty big. It’s something I can’t discuss over the phone. Can you come to the beach right away?”

The voice was muffled, as if it came through a cloth over the mouthpiece.

“I suppose I can,” Shayne said dubiously. The crease between his eyes deepened. “Who’s speaking?”

“Never mind. You mightn’t come if I told you.”

Shayne bellowed, “To hell with that,” and slammed the receiver on the hook.

He stood on wide-spaced feet, scowling at the wall, then shrugged his shoulders in dismissal of the affair. He went to the littered table and set the bottle down. Going to the cabinet again, he took a tall wine glass from a shelf and was on his way back to the table when the phone rang again.

He blandly ignored it. He filled the slender glass to the rim with amber fluid, drank it slowly and with whole-souled enjoyment. Not until the glass was empty did he lift the receiver and stop the persistent ringing.

The same voice said guardedly, “Hello. Mr. Shayne? I guess we were cut off.”

“I hung up,” Shayne tossed into the mouthpiece. There was a brief silence.

Then the man said, “I must have misunderstood you. It sounded as though you said you hung up.”

“I did.”

“Oh.” Then the voice continued, “If you have to know my name, it’s Grange—Harry Grange,” in a strange, guttural tone, as if the man’s mouth was pressed tightly against the instrument.

“You don’t sound like Grange to me,” Shayne said flatly.

“You don’t ever know who’s listening in on a damned telephone,” the man snapped. “I’ve got to be cautious.”

“Have it your way,” Shayne said impatiently. “If you’ve got anything worth listening to, spill it.”

There was a hesitant silence.

Then with sudden decision the man said, “It’s about your friend, Larry Kincaid.”

Shayne tensed. “What about him?”

“He’s in a jam. I’m calling for him. Can you come to the beach right away?”

“Yes.”

Shayne’s eyes were very bright. The thumb and first finger of his left hand massaged the lobe of his left ear.

“I’m calling from a place near the Seventy-ninth Street causeway. I’ll meet you down the beach a few blocks—at the end of the first street dead-ending against the ocean. I’ll park my car with my lights shining west so you can’t miss me. How long will it take you?”

“Twenty minutes.”

“Good.”

The sound of the receiver being jammed on the hook clicked against Shayne’s ear drum.

He hung up slowly, went back to the table and poured another long drink, put it down in evenly spaced swallows, then opened the front table drawer to get a .32 automatic.

The gun was not there.

His clock pointed to 11:02. He started to the bedroom, thinking that he might have slipped it under his pillow, turned back and pulled the drawer of the desk all the way out, frowning and poking around in the litter of papers. Dazed and confounded, he set the drawer in the grooves and closed it slowly.

“Now what the hell,” he muttered, casting back to the last time he had seen the pistol. Just a couple of days ago. Steel rusts fast in Miami’s damp climate, and he distinctly remembered cleaning the weapon and leaving a film of oil on the metal two days previously.

Also, he was positive he had returned it to the drawer where he invariably kept it.

He crossed to the phone and asked for the night clerk.

“Shayne speaking. Has anyone been in my room lately without my knowledge?”

“Not that I know of, Mr. Shayne. Except—your friend, Mr. Kincaid. He waited up there for you earlier this evening. You were out when he called—and he asked to wait for you in the apartment.”

Shayne said, “I see.” He hung up.

He stood uncertainly for a moment, gray eyes narrowed to slits. Larry had visited his room this evening—his pistol was gone. Now, Larry was in trouble—

He went out of the room in long swift strides, down the stairway to his car, made a U-turn in front of the drawbridge and turned into Biscayne Boulevard. He headed straight north, passing both the County and Venetian causeways, getting his battered roadster up to a smooth sixty where the residential section began to thin out and there was little traffic.

Grim-jawed and tense, trying not to think at all, he held the speedometer needle at sixty until he slowed for the traffic light at Seventy-ninth Street and swung to the right. Leaving the lighted boulevard behind, he had the indicator shivering just below eighty when he rolled up on the first bridge of the almost deserted Seventy-ninth Street causeway, holding it at that speed until approaching the sweeping curve near the east end which he made with screaming tires.

He eased onto the peninsula, over a high-arched bridge spanning a canal, and the clock on his dashboard said he had been driving sixteen minutes when he turned south on the ocean drive, past hamburger stands and beach cabins, driving slowly and watching for a dead-end street with a car parked near the ocean with headlights facing out.

He found it after a few minutes, a palmetto-lined pair of sandy ruts. The headlights of a parked car burned brightly at the end where a sloping cliff broke down to the shore.

There were no houses near in either direction, and the only sound in the night stillness was the crash of waves below. He cut off his motor just in front of the parked car.

He got out, blinking into the blinding lights, waded through loose sand over his shoetops, and made his way to the shiny coupe with a single figure in the driver’s seat. The man was slumped down over the wheel as though he had passed out.

Shayne said, “Hello,” and put his hand on the man’s shoulder to shake him.

He didn’t shake him. He knew there wasn’t any use.

Harry Grange was dead.

By the faint light on the instrument board Shayne saw that blood oozed slowly from a small bullet hole in the side of Grange’s head.

Shayne removed his hand from the dead man’s shoulder and lit a cigarette.

He heard a faint whine above the rustle of palmetto fronds and the crash of ocean waves. It died away, then came more clearly. The shrill moan of a siren on a speeding car. Momently the siren grew louder—sped nearer.

Hastily, Shayne peered into the front seat of the coupe. One of Harry Grange’s limp tanned hands lay on the seat close to his thigh. A blur of white showed under the lax fingers.

Shayne pulled a lacy, feminine handkerchief from under the dead man’s hand as the noise of the siren died from a crescendo to a low moan.

He slid the handkerchief into his coat pocket and stepped back to make a quick search around the car. His eye caught the gleam of moonlight on blued steel lying on the ground just under the running board.

He picked up a .32 automatic. The retracting carriage stood partially back, showing that it had been jammed after being fired.

The wail of the approaching police siren came nearer as he held the muzzle of the gun to his nose and caught the acrid odor of burned powder.

Hurriedly he examined the weapon, looking for—and finding—a small nick in the wooden butt.

The pistol which was missing from his drawer had an identical nick in the butt.

He didn’t have time to think. The police car was fast approaching the rutted turnoff from the pavement.

He whirled to face directly south, drew back his arm and threw the pistol overhand with all his strength into the thick palmettos.

He turned at the screech of brakes and watched a red-spotlighted police car lurch into the ruts directly toward him.

Shayne stepped into the headlights as uniformed officers swarmed out of the riot car before it reached a full stop.

Chapter Four: THE CHIEF OF DETECTIVES

PETER PAINTER, dynamic chief of the Miami Beach detective bureau, led the squad of uniformed men.

Painter was a head shorter than Shayne. His wiry, compact body was garbed in a double-breasted Palm Beach suit, and, with a turned-down creamy Panama covering his sleek black hair, he looked, as always, as though he had just been turned out by a competent valet.

His black eyes flashed in the headlights when he recognized Shayne. He peered past the redheaded detective at the other car and asked brusquely, “What’s going on here?”

“Murder.”

Shayne shrugged and jerked his thumb back over his shoulder, then took a deep drag on his cigarette.

Two motorcycle cops and a Miami Herald press car roared up, swayed into the dead-end street.

Painter contrived to give the appearance of strutting even while his gray sports shoes bogged through the deep sand on his way to the car. He peered in at the body of Harry Grange.

Shayne stood full in the headlights while Painter issued crisp orders behind him, and an ambulance sped up with the Miami Beach medical examiner.

Painter bogged back to stand in front of Shayne. Painter’s breathing was audible. He twitched a tan-bordered handkerchief from his breast pocket and touched it to his lips. He had small hands and feet, thin, mobile lips with a black, threadlike mustache running straight across the upper one.

He replaced his handkerchief so that the edges peeked out of his pocket before saying, “All right, Shayne. Why did you kill Grange?” His voice was metallic, biting.

“Sorry to disappoint you. I didn’t.”

Painter nodded to uniformed men on each side of Shayne.

“Shake him down.”

Shayne obligingly lifted his elbows out while they went over him thoroughly for a weapon.

After a time they stepped back and announced, “He’s clean, Chief.”

“Let’s have your story, Shayne,” Painter grated. “And it had better be good.”

A Herald reporter with flaring nostrils and popping eyes was standing close by, scribbling down notes as Shayne told the precise truth. Painter waited until he ended, then asked in a tone which would have been ominous from a bigger man, “Do you expect me to believe that?”

“I don’t give a goddamn what you believe,” Shayne whipped out.

Painter’s black eyes snapped past Shayne to the medical examiner who had completed his examination.

“What do you find, Doc?”

“Not much. The bullet ranged upward through the brain. Small caliber—probably a thirty-two. Within the last half hour is the best I can do on the time.”

“It took me exactly nineteen minutes to get here,” Shayne said quietly.

“Look, Chief, can’t you give me a statement,” the pop-eyed reporter exclaimed. “I’ve got to phone my story in to catch the early edition.”

Painter rubbed the tip of his right forefinger slowly back and forth along his beautifully trimmed mustache. With chin lowered and eyes raised to Shayne, he asked curtly, “You’re positive it was Grange who called you?”

“That’s the name he gave me when I insisted—but he didn’t sound like Grange.”

Painter said gravely to his men, “Put the cuffs on him. I’m holding him on suspicion of murder.”

The reporter’s nostrils quivered. “Can I quote you on that, Painter?”

“Yes,” the chief snapped.

“Hey, hold it a minute, willya!” the reporter appealed to the burly cop who reached for Shayne’s wrist with handcuffs ready. He yelled at his photographer who was snapping shots of the death car and body. “C’mere, Joe, and get a shot of the cops snapping bracelets on Mike Shayne.”

Shayne lit another cigarette and asked grimly, “Wouldn’t you rather have one of me groveling on my knees to Painter?”

“Naw. This’ll be swell, just reach the cuffs out toward his arm—and you on the other side there! Grab him like you’re afraid he’s gonna make a break for it.”

Shayne submitted mildly while the cops demonstrated their lack of histrionic ability and the reporter got a pose which satisfied his sense of dramatic values. Photographer and reporter then fled to the press car, to find it stuck in the deep sand when the motor roared. Wheels spun and sand flew until two burly policemen and the two newsmen lifted it easily onto the pavement.

Shayne laughed.

Painter whirled around to order him into the back seat of the squad car, handcuffed to one of the cops, and they waited until the body was loaded into the ambulance. While they waited, Shayne said quietly:

“I suppose you know you’re making a damned ass out of yourself, Painter.”

Painter, in the front seat of the squad car, deigned to turn his head. He snapped back, “I’ll worry about that. You’ve had plenty of warning not to pull any rough stuff on my side of the bay.”

“What brought you to the scene Johnny-on-the-spot?”

“An anonymous phone call. Said a man was being murdered.”

“And by God you can’t see it was a frame?” Shayne asked incredulously. “Hell, Painter, while you’re satisfying a personal grudge against me, the murderer is getting away.”

“I’ll hold you until a better suspect pops up,” Painter told him complacently. “You’ll have a chance to prove your story about the telephone call, of course.”

The ambulance was backing out, and the driver put the police car in reverse, rocked it to get traction in the deep sand.

Shayne didn’t say anything more. He was quiet all the way to police headquarters where they took him out and created a mild sensation among a couple of lounging reporters in the outer office by leading him through, handcuffed, to Painter’s private office in the rear.

Both reporters knew Shayne, and they trotted back in loose-jawed amazement, but Painter turned them away at the door of his office, ordered the cuffs removed from Shayne, and went in with him alone, closing the door.

“Why didn’t you let the boys come in?” Shayne grinned at his captor.

Painter stiffened and didn’t answer. He sat officiously erect in a swivel chair behind his desk.

Shayne dropped into a chair opposite the tidy, polished oak desk and said cheerfully, “You’re laying yourself wide open, Painter. I’m warning you.”

“I’m not at all convinced of that.”

Painter looked pleased. He brushed his mustache with the tip of his forefinger.

“Your reputation for pulling fast ones isn’t going to help you any.”

“If I was going to kill a man,” said Shayne with deep disgust, “I wouldn’t stand there and wait for you flat-feet to come and pick me up.”

Peter Painter lit a cigarette. His black eyes were cold and unblinking. He said, “Maybe you want to play ball with me, then. Tell me who killed Grange, and I’ll see what I can do.”

Shayne grinned, lolled back in his chair.

“I’ve told you all I know.”

Painter shook his head.

“I’ve had you dumb up on me before, Shayne. I won’t stand for any goddamn nonsense!”

His small fist pounded the desk top and a gust of passion shook his voice.

“I know your record. You’re out after the cash and to hell with the regular law enforcement agencies. You don’t care how many murders are committed if you see a way to cash in on them.”

“Like—the Brighton case?” Shayne asked softly.

“Yes, damn it! I’m thinking of the Brighton case—for one. I stood the gaff of newspaper persecution while you pulled strings and angled for a payoff. This isn’t going to be played that way.”

Shayne went pale with anger. A pulse throbbed in his neck. Big fists clenched involuntarily.

“You little bastard!” he spat out. “You cheap little bastard!” The words dripped out sibilantly from set teeth. “After I handed you that case on a silver platter.” He stood up, eyes suddenly gone mad, big hands bunched into clublike fists.

Peter Painter pushed his chair back two inches. The muzzle of a blued .38 special appeared over the edge of his desk. It was pointed unwaveringly at Shayne’s belly.

“Just take one step,” he said hopefully. “You’ve been in my hair long enough, Shayne. I’d rather gut-shoot you than any man I’ve ever met.”

Shayne stood balanced on the balls of his feet, leaning slightly forward from the waist. His eyes cleared and he laughed, a short morose laugh.

“You hold all the aces this time,” he admitted. He sank back into his chair and crossed his legs. “Why don’t you break out the rubber hose?”

Painter shook his head. His lips were drawn back from sharp white teeth.

“I’ve got enough to keep you locked up until you rot—or the case is solved.”

“Which would mean the same thing. I’d be stinking like hell in your jail before you solved it,” Shayne pointed out sardonically.

“All right.”

Painter slid his .38 back in an open drawer. He sighed and pressed a button on his desk.

Neither of them said anything until the door opened and a cop stuck his head in.

“Bring the newspaper boys in,” Painter ordered.

There was another silence until the reporters trooped in. Five of them now. They all knew Shayne and nodded to him casually. He nodded back, unsmiling.

“Sit down, boys.”

Peter Painter leaned back in his swivel chair and addressed them gravely.

“I called you in as unbiased witnesses to the fact that Michael Shayne refuses to give any information whatsoever concerning his presence at the scene of murder. We all know he’s tricky, and that he has wriggled out of tight places before. I’m perfectly willing to check any portion of a story he gives, but he persists in his absurd statement that someone who said his name was Harry Grange called him in the middle of the night and lured him over to the scene of murder just in time to get caught red-handed. I’ll leave you to handle that in your stories as you see fit. You’re all at perfect liberty to ask the prisoner any questions you wish.”

“Is that right, Mike?” Timothy Rourke asked. “It puts you pretty much on the spot.”

Rourke was a seasoned veteran of the Miami News, lean as a hound, shoulders bent slightly forward, and with eyes that invited confidence.

“That’s right,” Shayne told him. He hesitated, then added in a tone that was somewhat apologetic to his old friend, “I’ve got an idea who called me for the frame. But it’s just an idea, Tim. You know how hard it is to identify a telephone voice. Especially if it is being disguised. And—suppose I am right? Hell, the guy will just deny it. Then where’ll I be?”

“That’s just a stall,” Painter crackled. “If he’s got any clue to the caller—if there was a caller—let him tell us. I want you boys to witness that I’m giving him every chance to come clean and clear himself.”

“Yeh, it can’t hurt to tell what you’re thinking, Mike,” Rourke urged. “I’ll see that it’s damn sure given a thorough investigation,” he ended with a belligerent glance toward Peter Painter.

“But—if it’s who I think it was,” Shayne explained hesitantly, avoiding Rourke’s stalking eyes, “I’ll only be worse in Dutch when he denies it. I’d be better off to pretend I don’t recognize the voice than to tell what I think and be called a liar.”

The telephone on Painter’s desk b-r-r’d discreetly. He unpronged the receiver and said, “Yes… Painter speaking.”

He listened a moment and his black eyes glistened.

“Yes,” he purred. “I understand, Mr. Marco. Yes, indeed, I think it’s extremely important. No, I don’t think it will he necessary for you to come down tonight. Drop in tomorrow morning and sign an affidavit. Thank you, Mr. Marco.”

Triumph snapped in his eyes. He made an expansive gesture toward the reporters.

“I’m going to lay all my cards on the table, boys. That was John Marco. City councilman here on the beach. He just heard a newscast on his radio saying that Shayne had been taken into custody for the murder of Harry Grange. He thought I might be interested to know that Shayne had a run-in with Grange in Marco’s private office tonight. It seems that Mr. Shayne threatened to break Grange’s neck if he didn’t stay away from a certain girl in whom Shayne has taken an—er—paternal interest. Phyllis Brighton by name. There were witnesses to the threat.”

Painter held his manicured hand out and closed the fingers slowly.

“There’s your motive, boys.”

An electric silence followed. The five newspaper men stared at Shayne.

Shayne’s wide mouth twitched into an ironic smile.

“And I say that makes a swell motive for a frame-up. Hell, I’m not going to deny I threatened to break Grange’s neck.” He opened his big hands and closed them in front of their eyes. “I might have done it, too—if somebody else hadn’t beaten me to the pleasure.”

“Mike’s right,” Tim Rourke declared. “His run-in with Grange earlier in the evening gives meaning to his story about the frame over the phone. For God’s sake, tell us who you think it was, Mike. I’ll run it down into its rathole if you’ll give me an inkle.”

Shayne shook his head slowly, carefully avoiding Rourke’s eyes.

“I might be wrong,” he protested. He turned to Painter with a frown creasing his forehead. “You can see how tough it is. Take you and the anonymous tip that you say sent you racing out to the beach almost before Grange’s heart had stopped beating—and just in time to conveniently catch me. You didn’t recognize that voice either.” A sardonic smile spread his wide mouth.

“No,” Peter Painter admitted stiffly. “But it was likely someone I didn’t know.”

“So you say,” Shayne snapped. “What proof have you? Who overheard the conversation and can swear there even was such a call?”

Shayne’s hands rested on the chair arms, his body tensed forward from the waist, his eyes inscrutable between lowered lids.

“By God! I don’t need any proof. I’m not charged with murder.” Painter’s face was red with wrath. “If you’ve got anything to say before I lock you up—start talking.” Shayne spread out his bony hands, palms upward, and settled back in the chair.

“There you are. He doesn’t need proof. I do. What chance have I got against that sort of a set-up?”

Timothy Rourke was studying Shayne’s face closely. A muscle wriggled in his lean jaw. In an oddly choked voice he said, “Spring it, Mike,” and bent a compelling gaze on the detective.

Shayne looked up at him with a gleam in his eyes. Slowly he looked around at the others.

“All right. I admit I didn’t recognize the voice at first. That was because I didn’t have any idea. Then, when I realized it was a fixed-up job, I began checking over the people who might want to pull a rotten, dirty stunt like that, and I started wondering.”

He paused, got up with his hands thrust deep in his pockets.

“It’s been coming clearer and clearer while I sat there. I’m pretty sure now—sure enough to take oath on it. Do you know why, Tim?” He whirled suddenly and faced Rourke with a wide grin. “I’ll bet you can’t guess. It’s because I’ve been listening to that same voice—recognizing it more certainly all the time.”

Silence hung over the room. Pencils waited above notebooks. Peter Painter stared at Shayne in silence.

Shayne lit a cigarette, then turned about to point a long, bony finger at the chief of the Miami Beach detectives.

“Peter Painter is the man who called me to the scene of murder. He’ll deny it, but what the hell can you expect? You’ve all heard him threaten to get me a dozen times. He saw his chance to hang one on me—and that’s what he did.”

The reporters stared, breathed again, and pencils flew over white paper.

Rourke, alone, kept his pencil and pad in his pocket. After a long look at Shayne, he turned his face away, no longer able to control his delighted laughter.

Chapter Five: INVITATION TO GO FOR A RIDE

FOR A MOMENT, Peter Painter was too stricken to move. Then he sprang to his feet like a jack-in-the-box.

“Me?” he exclaimed in a smothered tone. “Why… you… you…” His throat moved convulsively.

“Yes, you,” Shayne said wolfishly. “You’ve forced my hand—so take it.”

“You’re crazy,” Painter sputtered. “You—you’ve lost your mind.”

Behind Shayne, Timothy Rourke laughed aloud. “Crazy like a fox,” he exulted. “Oh, my sweet grandmother! This is one for the book.”

Shayne disregarded his friend’s whooping merriment. He kept his face set in solemn lines.

“I’m sorry, Painter.” He sounded very convincing. “That’s the hand I’m playing. You would have witnesses.”

“But I—” Painter sank back into his chair. “You’ll never make it stick, Shayne. God knows, I didn’t phone you.”

“That’s what you say.” Shayne shrugged and sat down. “You’ve shot off your mouth too often about hanging something on me to hope anyone will believe you didn’t grab off this chance to do it.”

Slowly, the bewildered expression cleared from the chief’s face.

“I get it,” he snarled. “You know goddamn well it wasn’t me. You’re bluffing—hoping I’ll back down.”

“I don’t give a damn whether you back down or not,” Shayne clipped out. He leaned back easily and crossed his legs. “Without a shred of real evidence against me, you were all set to try me in the newspapers. All right, I’ll play that way. These boys are just itching to get out of here and make some headlines.”

“And how!” Rourke burst out. “Is that the way it’s going to lie, Painter?”

“Lie!” he roared. “That’s the word, all right. Now wait.”

The tip of Painter’s finger trembled as he caressed his mustache.

Rourke stood with a hand on Shayne’s shoulder, pressing down. Shayne’s hands were on the chair arms, pressing up.

“No use going off half-cocked,” Painter went on. “You boys certainly don’t believe Shayne’s absurd accusation.”

“We’re not writing our opinions,” Rourke told him sharply. “We’re reporting facts.”

“That,” said Shayne, settling back again, “is all you’ve got to worry about, Painter. The mere facts. Just because I tried to save you embarrassment by not naming you as my anonymous telephone caller at once—”

“You know damn well it wasn’t me—”

“I’m taking an oath that it was. If you want anyone to believe you’re clean—dig up the man who called and prove he wasn’t you.”

“And in the meantime Shayne will be languishing in your bastile working up a swell case for false arrest,” Rourke reminded Painter.

Painter’s dark face was livid with wrath. In a choked voice he warned, “I’m going to get you, Shayne. If it’s the last thing I do on this earth, I’m going to hang one around your long neck that you won’t wriggle out from under.” Shayne’s bland gaze was fixed on the toes of his number twelve shoes stretched out in front of him.

“In the meantime I’ll be chasing down murderers and turning them over to you so you can stay on the public payroll.”

The reporters were becoming bleary-eyed from switching astounded gazes from Shayne to Painter.

“How about it?” one of them demanded irritably. “Does the suspicion of murder charge stick against Mike?” Painter ground his white teeth. His black mustache trembled upward when he snarled, “Not officially. If I release him, you won’t need to print—”

“What’s just occurred here,” Shayne put in swiftly for Painter. “Nope.” He shook his head and shot a warning glance at the newsmen. “Play the whole thing down, boys. Just say that I explained my presence at the murder scene to Mr. Painter’s complete satisfaction by identifying the voice that called me over the telephone.”

“Wait,” Painter protested. “That won’t do. You haven’t identified the voice. If you print that and it later gets out that you accuse me—” There was a tremor of panic in his voice.

“It might smoke someone out,” Shayne explained patiently, “if you didn’t do the telephoning. If the culprit reads the story, then he’ll figure he’s got to get rid of me in a hurry. That ought to bring him out into the open, and maybe I’ll get knocked off in the process—which should be a happy prospect for you, Painter.”

Peter Painter shook his head dubiously.

“I still don’t like—”

“To hell with what you like. You’ve stuck your neck out.”

Shayne stood up abruptly and turned to the row of reporters.

“I’ve never given you a wrong steer, boys. I’ve got a hunch this is something big, though I haven’t a goddamned idea what it’s all about. If you play this down tonight, you’ll be cutting yourselves in for a whale of a story later. Crack down, and I’ll leave you all in the lurch on the blow-off.”

He turned back to Painter and demanded, “Where’s my car?”

“I had one of the men bring it in,” Painter told him stiffly.

He pressed the buzzer on his desk and when a cop stuck his head in, said tersely, “Take Mr. Shayne out and give him the keys to his car. We’re not holding him.”

Disappointment spread over the cop’s heavy face. He snorted, then clumped down the hall ahead of Shayne. At the desk, Shayne recovered his keys and went on to his car which was parked outside.

The moon was overhead, dipping to the west, and the breeze of earlier night had died away. A smug grin replaced the scowl Shayne had worn on that last trip across the causeway.

As he drove with his left hand on the wheel, he fumbled in his pocket and pulled out the lacy handkerchief which he had picked from the dead man’s hand. He shook it out under the dashlight and saw there were no initials on it. Lifting it close to his nose, he drew in a deep breath and his nostrils caught an elusive, delicate fragrance. He thrust it back in his pocket and pursed his lips in a tuneless whistle.

He was in the middle of something—and didn’t know what it was.

He wondered, irrationally, whether the white-haired man in Marco’s office had escorted Marsha Marco straight home from the casino—and whether she had stayed at home.

Making the turn at Thirteenth Street into Biscayne Boulevard, on the mainland, he heard a newsboy shouting on the street.

“Detective held for playboy murder! Read all about the beach murder! Miami detective charged with shooting Harry Grange!”

Shayne stopped and bought an early morning edition of the Miami Herald. He spread it out on the steering wheel and stared morosely at a picture of himself in the middle of the front page. The cops and the handcuffs were plainly in evidence, but the picture of their prisoner was not flattering.

He grunted and folded the paper on the seat beside him, drove on down past Flagler Street and pulled up at the curb by the side entrance of his apartment-hotel.

A sedan with New York license plates was parked at the curb just in front of him.

A man got out of the front seat as Shayne locked the ignition and got out. He was short-legged and squatty, with a black felt hat pulled low over his face. He loitered forward on the sidewalk until Shayne stepped up on the curb, then moved to intercept him, saying hoarsely, “It’s him, Marv.”

A blunt automatic showed in his right hand. Shayne stopped and glanced over his left shoulder at the car. The muzzle of a sub-machine gun was pointed out through the rear window at him. He stood still and said, “Okay, boys. I wasn’t expecting you so soon.”

The squatty man motioned toward the sedan with his automatic. “Crawl in the front seat.”

“You can take everything I’m carrying right here,” Shayne argued mildly.

“You’re goin’ for a ride with us.” The voice was raspy.

Shayne said, “Okay,” and walked over to climb into the front seat of the sedan.

The squatty man followed him to the other side and got behind the wheel.

As the starter whirred, a silky voice spoke quietly from the rear seat. “Keep looking straight ahead and don’t try to pull any funny stuff.”

“I’m not in a humorous mood,” Shayne assured the unseen speaker.

The motor roared and they slid away from the curb, straight across the bridge over the Miami River and south on Brickell Avenue to Eighth Street, where the driver swung west and drove at a moderate speed out on the Tamiami Trail.

Chapter Six: AN ACCIDENT ON THE TAMIAMI TRAIL

THE TRAIL WAS thickly settled with both business houses and residences until they passed the huge stone entrance to Coral Gables on the left. Beyond this point the land was sparsely settled, and after passing the Wildcat and the cluster of small buildings near it, the Trail was open country.

None of the three men spoke until the Wildcat lay behind them and they were purring on into the swampy Everglades.

Then Shayne broke the silence by saying, “If this is a snatch you’ve got the wrong guy. There’s nobody this side of hell that would pay ten bucks for me, dead or alive.”

“You know what this is, all right,” the driver grated. Below the low brim of his hat, Shayne glimpsed a brutal, undershot jaw covered with a stubble of black whiskers. “It’s curtains, bo. Because you ain’t got sense enough to keep your long nose clean.”

“Take it easy,” Marv’s smooth voice warned from the rear as the driver accelerated up past fifty. “State cops patrol this road sometimes. No use taking any chances.”

“Curtains, eh?” Shayne had been sitting stiffly erect. Now, he relaxed against the seat and fumbled in his pocket for a cigarette. “In that case, I might as well get comfortable.”

“Yeh,” the driver jeered. “You ain’t got long to be comfortable in.”

Shayne struck a match to his cigarette. In front of them, smooth blackness of macadam glistened like molten rubber in the soft sheen of moonlight. Palmetto and gnarled cypress pressed close to the edge of the pavement on both sides, the gray-white bark of many dead cypress trees looming like ghosts against native pines.

An eerie silence encompassed them.

“Where do we bump him?” the driver jerked back over his shoulder.

“Just keep on taking it easy. There’s a deep canal along the side of the road pretty soon. With enough lead in him, a guy will stay down on the bottom a long time. Lots of people have accidents on this road,” he added in a conversational tone.

“Yeh. Jest las’ week a man—” the driver ventured.

“Shut up,” snapped the oily voice from the rear.

The swishing sound of air against encroaching tropical verdure was monotonous.

Shayne dragged in a lungful of smoke and exhaled it slowly.

“Mind telling me why I’m slated for the flowers?”

The brutal-jawed driver snickered. “He’s a card, ain’t he, Marv? Nervy sonofabitch, too. You’d think we was all joyridin’.”

“All we want,” Marv explained, “is what you took off Harry Grange tonight. Had to kill him to get it, huh?”

“I didn’t take anything off Harry Grange. And I didn’t kill him.”

“Naw?” Without warning, the driver jerked his right hand from the wheel and slapped Shayne, backhanded, in the mouth. “Think we can’t read, huh? How’d you talk yourself outta the pinch?”

Shayne placed both hands on his knees. His tongue licked out on his swollen lips. He didn’t say anything. In the faintly reflected moonlight his eyes were murkily red.

From the rear seat, Marv sounded bored.

“No use knocking him around, Passo. We’ll roll him for it after I’ve leaded him down.”

“I like to hit tough babies like him,” Passo said. “You’re a tough baby, ain’t you?” He leered sidewise at Shayne.

Shayne kept looking straight ahead as though he had not heard.

“Answer me, you bastard.” Passo swung the back of his hand again.

Shayne turned his face to take the blow on his cheek. Bleakly, he said, “Tough enough to take anything you can hand out.”

“Wait’ll I get both hands loose where I can go to work on you,” Passo promised jovially. “I’ll soft you up. Pulpy-like.”

“Take it easy and shut up,” Marv cautioned as their speed increased. “I think we’re coming to the canal.”

“What makes you think I took anything from Harry Grange?” Shayne asked stiffly over his shoulder.

“Because we know you’re wise, see? Else why would you kill a dumb cluck like Grange?”

“I didn’t kill him,” Shayne said patiently. “I—”

“Shut your trap.” Passo sloughed him again. “Think we don’t know you bumped into Chuck tonight and he give you the lay? And you was workin’ with your lawyer friend. Hell’s bells—”

“You talk too goddamned much with your mouth, Passo,” Marv interrupted silkily.

“What the hell does it matter? This tough baby ain’t gonna repeat nothin’ I say. Are you, toughie?”

Shayne didn’t say anything.

Moonlight glistened on still water by the side of the road ahead where a canal had been dredged in the swamp to build up a solid base for the Tamiami Trail across the Everglades, and for the further purpose of draining the marshy land.

Marv said, “Talking’s no good. I know this guy’s rep. He’s got too much guts for his own good. That’s why we’re going to leave him under water where he won’t pop up and make trouble. Anywhere along here’s all right.”

They were traveling along the smooth narrow strip of macadam at slightly less than fifty miles an hour.

Shayne’s right hand crept up to rest on the door latch. He braced his long legs against the floorboards.

As Passo’s foot lifted from the gas feed to the brake in response to Marv’s suggestion, Shayne’s left hand swept out and gripped the steering wheel, spinning it out of the driver’s lax hands.

Tires screamed in the still night and the speeding sedan lurched out of control. Shayne held a fierce grip on the wheel, sending it straight for the canal. As the car careened over the edge and plunged downward, his shoulder hit the unlatched door, and a tremendous drive of braced legs drove his body headfirst into the water and free of the sedan as it splashed, then heeled over to sink to the muddy bottom.

Shayne came up to the surface a few feet from the bank, caught a bunch of tough reeds, turned to watch the boiling eruption of placid water.

There was the frightened croaking of frogs down the bank, loud gurgling as the waters swirled over the sedan, covering it completely.

He dragged himself to the bank and squatted there. Night silence closed down again. A string of bubbles rose to break the surface of the water as the car squashed deeper and deeper into the yielding mud.

Then the water was placid, shimmering smooth again. He waited a long time, but no more bubbles came up. Water-soaked clothes were clammy and cold when he stood up and started walking east. Water squinched in his shoes at first, but it oozed out after a little time.

He walked swiftly, swinging his arms and gritting his teeth to keep them from chattering.

Headlights of a car going toward Miami showed in the distance. There was no place of concealment along the bare highway. When the lights were close, he slid over the edge of the pavement into the water until the car passed. Three times he hid himself by immersion, growing colder with each dip.

The chill gray of dawn was breaking when he neared the end of the waterway.

On either side of the canal in the marshes thousands of birds twittered of dawn. White herons flapped snowy wings and dipped into the shallow water of the marshland. Cranes, standing like statues on one foot against coral rocks, put the other foot down and lifted themselves in flight to the grain thickets. Blackbirds soared with raucous chatter. Quail scuttled away, fluttering in a loud whir as they rose in coveys. Silver-plumed gulls floated gracefully, circled, settled in the feeding ground.

Diverted by the beauty of winged creatures, Shayne was almost cheerful. He kept on walking swiftly, but when the headlights of another car showed behind him, he did not duck for cover. Instead, he stood in the center of the road and waved both arms frantically.

The car slowed cautiously, stopped about twenty feet from him. A straw-hatted head came out through the left window of the coupe and a voice called, “Hello, there. What’s up?”

“I am,” Shayne grinned. “Been up all night.” He walked slowly to the car, full in the glare of the headlights, arms swinging loosely at his side. “Can you give me a lift to town?”

The driver hesitated.

“I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t,” Shayne said quickly, and smiled disarmingly. “I’ve been lost out in that goddamned swamp since yesterday. I’m wet and half-starved.”

The driver said, “Get in,” after looking Shayne over carefully. “There’s a raincoat here you can sit on.” He spread the raincoat out and Shayne got in.

As they drove toward Miami, Shayne recited a fabulous story about setting out on an alligator hunt in the Everglades with a Seminole guide—the Indian had deserted him, and he had been lost for eighteen hours, fighting his way through snake-infested swamps until he stumbled out on the highway.

Luckily, the man was a traveling salesman from another part of the state, and he knew as little about the Everglades as most people. He swallowed Shayne’s story with bug-eyed enjoyment, and let him out of the car on Flagler Street just as sunlight streaked the sky over the Atlantic.

Shayne walked to his hotel and found his car parked by the curb where he had left it a few hours previously. He went in the side door and up to his apartment without being observed.

Stepping over the threshold, he hesitated with his finger on the light switch. Daylight streamed through an east window, lay wraithlike upon the figure of a girl curled up in a deep, overstuffed chair.

He didn’t turn on the light. Instead, he catfooted into the room and looked down at Phyllis Brighton. She was sound asleep, right cheek cuddled on her crooked right arm, her breath coming rhythmically through half-parted lips.

Shayne shook his head and moved around the sleeping girl. He took up the bottle of cognac he had left on the table last night. There was a good two fingers of liquor in it. He tipped it up and emptied the bottle without taking it from his stiff, sore lips.

An ague seized him. He fought against it and went to the telephone and quietly gave the operator a Miami telephone number, waited for an answer.

He could hear the bell ringing monotonously in the home of Will Gentry, chief of Miami detectives. After a long time, Gentry’s sleepy voice said, “Hello.”

Shayne put his lips close to the mouthpiece and said, “Hello, Will. This is an anonymous informant.”

“What?” Gentry sounded puzzled. “Who is this?”

“An anonymous informant,” Shayne repeated in a low voice.

“It sounds like Mike Shayne. What is it, a gag?”

Once more Shayne said evenly, “This is an anonymous informant, Will.”

“Oh, all right, have it your way, Mike. What’s up your long sleeve? I thought Peter had you under his jail.”

“There’s been an accident out on the Tamiami Trail. A sedan went into the ditch with two men in it. A mile or so beyond where the roadside canal starts. The skid marks on the pavement and tracks cutting the shoulder will spot it for you, but the car’s all under water. It’ll take a derrick to hoist it.”

“Yeh, I’ve got that, Mike. I’ll send a crew out.”

“You’ll find a sub-machine gun and at least one forty-five automatic in the car or in the mud,” Shayne explained. “It’d be nice to do some awful close checking on the men and the car and the guns, Will.”

“You bet.” Gentry was wide awake now. “Thanks for the tip, Mike.”

“From an anonymous informant,” Shayne cautioned him.

“Sure. I get it.”

“Thanks.”

Shayne hung up softly.

When he turned away he saw Phyllis sitting up, staring at him with dazed, half-open eyes. There was a red blotch on her right cheek where it had rested too hard and too long on her arm.

“Wha-a-t—?” she stammered, but Shayne cut her off abruptly:

“Go on back to sleep or something. I’m getting out of these wet clothes and into a tub of hot water pronto.”

He turned his back on her and strode to the bedroom, unbuttoning his soggy coat and stripping it off, dropping it on the floor behind him.

Chapter Seven: THE GIRL WHO WAS GROWING UP

THE TILED BATHROOM was clouded with steam and Shayne was blissfully relaxed in a tub filled to the overflow outlet with water near the scalding point. The door opened a cautious crack and Phyllis’s voice came timidly through the steam.

“Can I do anything? That is—”

“You can stay out and let a man have some privacy,” Shayne shouted severely.

He snatched the shower curtain the length of the tub and slid farther into the water. As the door started to close, he yelled out, “Wait. If you feel domestic, put on some coffee water to boil.”

“Yes, Mr. Shayne,” Phyllis said meekly through the crack. “Is that all?”

“That’s all, Angel.”

He luxuriated in the hot water a little longer, then dragged his long, sinewy body out and turned on a stinging blast of the coldest water Miami affords. He stepped out and rubbed down briskly with a coarse towel. He then wiped the mist from the mirror and scowled at his marked face.

Passo’s backhanded blows hadn’t added materially to his looks. His upper lip was puffed, and there was an ugly, livid bruise on the left side of his jaw. He quit scowling and grinned ruefully when he thought about the damage the hoodlums might have done if their scheme had worked.

He applied witch-hazel to the bruises and wrapped a dry towel around his belly, then opened the door a few inches and peered into the living-room.

It was empty. He hastily negotiated the few steps to his bedroom door, and closed it behind him. Five minutes later he emerged wearing gray flannels and a white shirt open at the throat. His red hair was plastered to his head. He whistled an off-tune version of “Mother Machree” as he stepped out into the living-room.

There was an unopened bottle of cognac in the wall cabinet. He went to the kitchen carrying it by the neck.

Phyllis smiled at him from her position in front of the electric stove where she bent anxiously over an aluminum pot half full of water that was about to boil. She was wearing a yellow linen suit badly rumpled from her slumber, but the dark eyes that looked into Shayne’s were clear and purposeful.

Shayne stopped behind her and said, “Last time, I made the coffee. Remember?”

She nodded. “After harboring me for the night.”

“It’s getting to be a habit,” Shayne complained, “sleeping in my apartment. One would think you didn’t have a bed of your own to sleep in.”

“A habit?” Phyllis scoffed. “I’ll bet it’s a record.”

The water began to boil. She started to pour it into the top of an earthenware dripolator, but Shayne put out his hand to stop her.

“Let me see how much coffee you’ve got in there,” he growled. “Most women treat coffee as though it was more precious than diamonds.”

He lifted the top with its tiny drip holes and nodded with surprised pleasure at sight of the middle container heaped high with drip-ground coffee.

“It’s unbelievable,” he exclaimed in a tone of high praise. “You’re actually making coffee a man can drink. You’ll make some man a swell wife when you grow up.”

She said, “I’m nineteen,” and grimaced charmingly, poured the water with a steady hand, though a deep flush came into her cheeks.

“Uh-huh. One month older than you were last month—”

“When you pushed me out of the door and told me to grow up.”

She put the empty pot down and faced him, her eyes wide and probing.

“Lord, you’re slow growing up,” he told her in a light, complaining voice, but his eyes were deep, serious.

“Maybe,” she said gravely, “you’d be surprised.”

He touched her cheek, then turned away abruptly to reach for a corkscrew.

“Want a drink?”

She said, “Of course,” behind him, and bent zestfully over the dripolator to see if the water had all passed through.

He paused, with the screw just biting into the cork. “Like that, huh? Before breakfast and everything? And when I first met you, you choked over the smell of the vile stuff.”

“It’s your fault,” she told him serenely. “It’s up to you to save me from a drunkard’s death.”

He twisted the corkscrew carefully, slid the bottle down and gripped it between his thighs and pulled steadily and with infinite patience.

“How did you get into my apartment?”

“The night clerk let me in with a pass-key. I told him I was your sister.”

Shayne chuckled. “Did he believe you?”

The cork was reluctantly letting go. Shayne eased it out cautiously.

“I don’t think so.” Her eyes twinkled. “He mumbled something about you having a hell of a lot of sisters—and all with funny visiting habits.”

“Swearing too, eh?” Shayne swung around, pointing the cork, impaled on the screw, at her accusingly.

She wrinkled up her nose and laughed at him.

“That was just quoting. I’m not very good at it yet. Hell and damn are really as far as I’ve gotten with any degree of sophistication. But I know lots more. Like—”

“Skip it,” Shayne snapped. His eyes had a hungry, yearning glint in them. “I’ll take you like you are, Angel. Don’t go getting your face dirty.”

She took a quick step forward, put her hands on his biceps.

“Why don’t you?”

“Why don’t I what?”

“Take me,” she cried, “like I am.”

Shayne’s tongue licked out to taste the witch-hazel on his lips.

He said, “Darling,” and stopped short. Beads of sweat stood on his forehead. He said roughly, “You’re crazy, and you’re damned sweet. Let’s have that drink.”

He turned from her and went into the living-room. Phyllis sighed and followed with a stubborn frown creasing her smooth brow.

Shayne took down a tiny liqueur glass and set it beside the tall wine glass he had drunk from the preceding evening. He filled them both and dropped into the chair she had been sleeping in when he entered the room. Stretching out a long arm for the large glass, he said gruffly, “Suppose you start telling me what it’s all about. Starting a month back, when I lost track of you in the shuffle.”

She sat down in a straight chair and regarded him levelly over the rim of the tiny glass.

“You didn’t have to—lose track of me. I telephoned and left my new address when I moved into an apartment.”

He made an impatient gesture. “We’re talking in circles. A man was murdered last night.”

“I—know.” Her lips paled. “Did you—the papers said—”

“That I killed Harry Grange,” he supplied cheerfully. “Why did you come here if you read the papers and knew I was supposed to be in jail?”

“Because I knew you wouldn’t stay in jail.”

Shayne grinned wryly and took a long drink.

“You were going to tell me about things, Angel.”

“There isn’t much to tell.” Phyllis lifted her glass and drank the small potion swiftly. “I followed your advice—about growing up.”

“By running around with chiselers like Harry Grange?”

She folded her hands meekly in her lap and looked at him wide-eyed.

“Not particularly with Harry. You’d be proud of me if I made out a complete list of the men who have volunteered to teach me about life with a capital L. Elliot Thomas—among others.”

Shayne’s right arm stopped rigidly with his glass halfway to his mouth.

“Elliot Thomas!”

Phyllis nodded complacently.

“He is considered quite a catch—but he’s stupid. He thinks every girl likes to be pawed after she’s had a glass of champagne.”

Shayne’s glass went on to his lips and he inhaled a deep breath of the bouquet, then drank two long swallows. He said, gently, “I’m particularly interested in Elliot Thomas. Have you been seeing him lately?”

Phyllis shook her lustrous, close-cropped head of black hair.

“Not for a couple of weeks.”

“Do you happen to be acquainted with Marsha Marco?”

Phyllis repeated the name, shaking her head again.

“I don’t think so.”

“You girls should meet,” Shayne grunted. “You’ve got a lot in common.” He finished off his drink and set the glass down, got up and went into the kitchen, asking over his shoulder, “Cream and sugar?”

“Cream—if you have it. No sugar.”

He got a half-pint bottle of cream from the refrigerator and took the coffeepot from the hot electric coil and carried them into the living-room. Making a second trip, he brought two cups and saucers and set them out in front of Phyllis.

“You can pour.”

She filled the cups with steaming black coffee and handed one to Shayne.

“Who is Marsha Marco—and what have we in common?”

He stared across the room somberly.

“Tell me exactly what happened after I saw you last night.”

“I was mad as—as hops at you,” she told him. “Mostly because you had showed Harry up when I thought he was just what he pretended to be—”

Shayne nodded impatiently.

“I knew you were mad. Did you catch Grange?”

“Yes—that is—I did and I didn’t.”

When Shayne didn’t say anything, she hurried on to explain, “He had gotten in his car and was just driving away when I came out. I called to him and thought he heard me because he slowed down and stopped. I started walking to his car, but another girl got in ahead of me—and they drove away.”

“Was she wearing a red dress?”

“I—don’t know. There was just the moonlight and I didn’t see her very plainly.”

She paused as if some secret thought perplexed her.

“Well?” Shayne hunched forward, sipping his coffee.

“Well, I stood there for a moment practicing some of my best swear words on Harry, then a car drove up and stopped and it was Elliot Thomas. He was partially sober, and I asked him to drive me home.”

“That all?”

“That’s all. About midnight I heard the radio report that Harry had been murdered and you had been arrested. I remembered that you had threatened to break his neck when we were in the office of that gambling joint. I called the Miami Beach police and they wouldn’t tell me anything. Then I went out and bought a newspaper and—well, I got panicky and came over here and—and waited for you.”

“Then you didn’t see Grange after he left Marco’s office?”

“Marco?”

“John Marco. The gambler.”

“You mentioned a girl—”

“Marsha Marco. His daughter.” Shayne’s gray eyes gathered suspicion as he looked at her. “Say—are you stalling—trying to get away from the main subject?”

“No.” Her eyes were wide and candid. Her head moved almost imperceptibly from side to side. “I didn’t see Harry again. That is, to speak to him.”

Shayne got up abruptly and went into his bedroom where he fished around in his soggy coat pocket and found the handkerchief he had picked up at the murder scene. He carried it back into the living-room and handed it to Phyllis.

“Is that yours?”

She picked it up by one corner and held it up for inspection. “No,” she said with decision. “Why?”

“Maybe nothing. Maybe a hell of a lot.” Shayne sat down and shoved his empty cup over for a refill with the request, “Not too full this time. Leave room for the royal.”

“What’s that?”

“Coffee royal,” he explained. He took the cup from her and, carefully floating brandy on top, went deeper into the subject. “Coffee royal is what used to make kings kingly—before dictators started dictating.”

He leaned back, sipping the pungent mixture thoughtfully, shaking his head while a scowl of irritation spread over his angular face.

“What do you mean about the handkerchief? Is it important? A clue or something?” Phyllis asked.

“I’ll be damned if I know, Angel.” He smiled briefly. “I’m glad it isn’t yours. Preposterous as it sounds, it would appear that three men have died during the last twelve hours because of that little square of cloth.”

“Not—not actually?”

Her eyes were round with awe. She wanted to know why and how and when and where, but he shook his head at her questions, insisted that he didn’t know himself.

When they finished their coffee, he told her she had better go back home.

“And don’t do anything foolish,” he admonished her gently. “I’d just as leave have you keep on living.”

She faced him near the doorway with very bright eyes. “You’re keeping something from me,” she accused. “What makes you think I might be in any danger?”

“Just a hunch,” he insisted. “What I mean is—stay out of dark alleys and don’t go riding with strange men.” He paused, then added irrationally, “You haven’t met a mug named Chuck Evans in your meanderings, I suppose.”

“No—not that I recall.”

He muttered, “I didn’t suppose you would have. It’s too much to ask for something to make sense.” He slid his arm around her shoulders and moved her toward the door. “Strange as it seems,” he said lightly, “I have to work for a living.”

“Are you working on a case?”

“Not yet. Not until I see the glint of a stray dime that may be in it for a guy named Mike Shayne.”

He grinned and squeezed her shoulders, released her and went to the door to look down the hall. He turned back and tilted her face and kissed her lips.

“Run along now. Nice to have seen you again, sister. Do come back some time when you have more news of mom and pop and all the girls.”

He looked into the hall again, saw that it was empty, and gave her a little shove through the door. She turned to make a grimace at him, but the door was already closed.

Chapter Eight: THE EMPTY ROOM

SHAYNE SAT DOWN in a straight chair at the table and pushed coffeepot and cups back to clear a space in front of him. He opened a drawer and got out a sheet of blank paper and a pencil, lit a cigarette and started writing:

1.  Who telephoned last night? Could it have been Grange disguising his voice?

2.  Did Larry Kincaid do the job and leave my pistol to frame me?

3.  Whose handkerchief? Left intentionally or by oversight or planted?

4.  Did the mugs want the handkerchief—or something else that was taken from Grange by the murderer before I got there?

5.  Who called Painter to the murder scene?

6.  Why were the mugs waiting for me here when I was supposed to be locked up? (Phyllis, too.)

7. When and how did Chuck Evans suddenly get in the money?

8.  Did Grange know Chuck?

9.  Did Chuck know Thomas?

10. Was Marsha the girl Phyllis saw in Grange’s car? (Marsha’s handkerchief?)

He stopped and stared down at the list of questions, frowning and tugging at the lobe of his left ear. Then he wrote:

11. What the hell’s in it for me?

He poured a short drink of cognac and sat there alternately sipping it and puffing on a cigarette. Then he checked questions six and eleven, folded the sheet of paper and put it in his shirt pocket. He went to the telephone and called a number.

When a man replied, he said, “Hello, Tony. This is Mike Shayne.”

“Hi, boss. Your neck, she ain’t stretched yet, huh?”

“Not yet. Do you know where Chuck Evans hangs out?”

“Lemme see, Mike. I think mebbe so. Him and Belle have been holed up at Mamma Julie’s all winter. But wait, boss. Somebody said last week Chuck made a killin’ out at Hialeah. I dunno whether he’s still there or not.”

“Mamma Julie’s? That’s down on Fifth, isn’t it? Okay. And listen, Tony.”

“Yeh, boss.”

“Stick around close. I may have a job for you.”

“You betcha. I’ll be on tap.”

Shayne hung up and waited a minute, then called another number.

When a woman’s voice answered, he said, “Helen? Mike Shayne speaking. Let me speak to Larry.”

“Larry hasn’t come back.” Helen Kincaid sounded worried. “He’s in Jacksonville on business.”

“Jacksonville?”

“Yes. I didn’t know anything about it. I thought maybe you did. He left home last night saying he was going to see you at your apartment.”

Shayne asked sharply, “How do you know he’s in Jacksonville?”

“I had a telegram from him early this morning. Said he’d been called away unexpectedly and didn’t know how long he’d be gone.”

She hesitated, then asked in a taut tone of repressed fear, “What—did you and Larry quarrel about, Mike?”

“He told you about that, did he?”

“Y-Yes. Not very much though.”

“I’ll be out to see you later,” Shayne said abruptly. “If the police or anyone question you, don’t tell them about the telegram from Larry. Don’t tell them a damned thing.”

“Is Larry—in trouble?”

“It’s your fault if he is,” Shayne told her brutally.

He hung up and went to the bedroom where he put on a tie and slid his wide shoulders into a light sport jacket. Stopping at the table on the way out, he pocketed the handkerchief and strode out to the elevator where he pressed the DOWN button.

In a pleasant, sun-filled lobby downstairs, he sauntered to the desk and glanced at his empty mailbox. The clerk on duty greeted him respectfully.

“Good morning, Mr. Shayne! That was a pretty close call last night.”

“What?”

Shayne’s ragged red brows came down in a straight line.

“Over at the beach,” the clerk amplified hastily. “Walking into that dead man like you did.”

Shayne said, “Oh—that? Yeh.”

He turned and went out into the hallway leading to the side entrance, got into his car parked at the curb and made a U-turn, drove to S. E. First Street where he turned west into one-way traffic and followed it to the F. E. C. railroad tracks, where he made a right turn and parked at the curb that said: NO PARKING, POLICE.

He nodded pleasantly to a couple of loitering patrolmen and went into the Miami police station, down a hall to the private office of the chief of detectives. Pushing the door open, he found Will Gentry sitting back at ease with his feet on a scarred oak desk reading the latest edition of the Miami Herald.

Gentry lowered the paper and glanced placidly at his visitor with a twinkle in his blue eyes.

“’Lo, Michael. Why can’t you learn to stay out of Painter’s pretty hair?”

Shayne grinned and slid into a chair in front of the desk.

“To hell with Painter. Let him stay out of my hair. I heard you had a mysterious telephone conversation early this morning. Anything in it?”

Will Gentry was a big man, stolid and lacking in imagination. He said:

“Some bastard ruined my beauty sleep to report an automobile accident out on the Trail.”

“So—?”

“It was the goods, all right. The bodies have been brought in, and a wrecker is getting the car up now. One funny thing about the accident, Mike. The driver was alone in the front seat, and there was one man in the back. He drowned cuddling a typewriter.”

Shayne lit a cigarette and spun the match across the room toward a cuspidor.

“That is funny,” he conceded. “Mostly when two men are riding in a car, they’re both in the front seat.”

“Yeh. I’ve got a hunch about it. Looks to me like—”

“Skip it. I don’t suppose you’ve got any dope on the men or guns yet?”

“Not yet. I think they must be new in Miami. The car had New York plates.”

Shayne nodded casually. “Let me know if you get anything.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out the frilly square of linen, tossed it across to Gentry. “Can you see any good reason why that might be worth murder?”

The detective chief picked it up and turned it over and over.

“Looks like some dame’s handkerchief.”

Shayne leaned forward tensely.

“I wish you’d have your bright boys put it through every known test for secret writing or stuff like that, Will. It’s probably a crazy idea—” He leaned back and tugged at the lobe of his ear. “—But I’ve got to know.”

“Sure. Anything else on your mind, Mike?”

Shayne got up, but Gentry detained him by asking, “What’s it all about?”

“I wish to God I knew, Will. I don’t. I’m trying to play sixteen different hunches.”

Gentry cleared his throat and rustled the newspaper in his hands.

“It says here that you positively identified the voice that called you over the phone to come to the beach.”

Shayne nodded absently.

“That’s bait. We’ll see what comes after it. I wish you’d leave any messages at my hotel, Will.”

Gentry said he would do that, and Shayne went out.

In his car, he drove to Fifth Street where he turned to the right for a few blocks, into the oldest residential section of the Magic City and parked in front of a two-story, gabled frame house set back in the center of a large lawn shaded with magnificent old trees. A neat sign on the lawn said: HOUSEKEEPING APARTMENTS TO LET.

Shayne went up the walk to a sagging front porch that needed paint, and pressed the button. A dumpy woman with stringy black hair and a fat, dark face came to the door.

Shayne tipped his hat back and said, “Hello, mamma. Is Chuck Evans in?”

“It’s you, Mr. Shayne.” Mamma Julie shook her head. “Chuck hit it lucky at the track a few days ago. You know how those heels are. My place wasn’t good enough as soon as he got in the money. He pulled out to one of the fancy hotels. Him and that cheap little bitch that’s been keeping him all winter.”

“Do you know which hotel?”

“I’m not sure. Seems like I heard him talking about the Everglades. That Belle, she don’t know how quick she’ll get thrown out of a swell joint like that when she starts shaking her butt around the lobby.”

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 have 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.

He stiffened in his chair as words came over the telephone. He asked hoarsely, “But you’re sure she was there when the man left, eh? About twenty minutes ago? I see. No! Don’t do anything. Don’t say a word to anyone.” He slowly replaced the receiver and stared at Shayne thoughtfully.

“You can’t get away with a snatch. That’s one thing even you can’t get away with. Sit right where you are until I can call the police.”

Shayne said, “Gladly, but aren’t you going off half-cocked? This isn’t any snatch. I didn’t carry the girl piggy-back down the sheet. I haven’t seen her since I left her room.”

“But you know where she is. You got in there by claiming to be a doctor and you talked her into beating it. You told her where to go to hide out.”

“Maybe. What of it? She’s twenty-one. Maybe she’s in love with me. You can’t make a kidnaping out of that. You can’t lock a girl up to keep her quiet.”

Panic showed in Marco’s eyes.

“What did she spout off about? You can’t pay any attention to her. She was raving—hysterical—”

“And had some very interesting information,” Shayne interrupted mockingly.

Marco’s tongue came out to wet his lips. “What do you want, Shayne?”

The red-headed detective flicked cigarette ashes on the thick carpet.

“What every man wants—money. I don’t make mine as easy as you do—with wired wheels and loaded dice.”

“And that’s extortion,” Marco pointed out triumphantly. “Whether you snatched her or not, you admit you’re holding her for ransom.”

“Don’t be a damned fool. I’m not holding the girl. I’m offering my services as a private detective to find your daughter and see that she returns safely to your loving arms. You can’t turn that into extortion. Until you retain me—with a nice fat retainer—I’m not obliged to turn my hand to help you get her back.”

“You can’t get away with it,” Marco shrilled. “Maybe the police won’t hold you. I don’t have to call the police to handle you.”

He jabbed vindictively at the button on his desk. Shayne lit another cigarette from the butt of the one he had just finished.

The side door came open to admit Whitey and the pallid-faced youth who had tried to stop him from coming upstairs last night.

Whitey’s right hand was bunched in his coat pocket and the youth’s hand was suggestively near a flat bulge just in front of his left armpit.

“You want us to take this guy, boss?” Whitey asked hopefully.

“Work him over,” Marco snarled. “Take him into the back room and stomp his guts out. Call me when he’s worked over to where he’s ready to talk.”

Shayne stood up.

“You’re making a bad mistake,” he told Marco mildly. “I figured I might be detained here and I told Marsha what to do if I didn’t meet her in half an hour. I’m the only man on God’s earth that can keep her from—”

“Shut up,” Whitey snapped. His fist came out of his pocket holding a blunt .38. “C’mon, kid, let’s—”

“No. Wait.”

Marco’s shuddery voice stopped them. His eyes were wide, tinged yellowish with fear.

Shayne got up and strolled toward the door.

“Be thinking it over,” he adjured pleasantly as he passed Marco’s desk. “I’m easy to get along with—if you treat me right. I’ll be at my hotel for the next few hours.”

He sauntered out and closed the door, went downstairs unhurriedly and out to his car and drove northward on the shore drive.

Chapter Ten: THE MURDER WEAPON

APPROACHING Seventy-ninth Street from the south, Shayne took it slow. There were few shore-line estates behind the Bath Club. The strip of land between the drive and ocean was grown over with scrubby palmetto and creeping thorn vines, pierced at intervals by deep sand ruts where bathers drove off the pavement to park and make it on foot to the beach.

By daylight it was difficult to determine which was the last dead-end street before coming to Seventy-ninth, and Shayne passed the turnoff before he was certain it was the spot where Grange had met his death the night before.

He pulled his right wheels from the pavement when he saw there was no other street turning off ahead, parked and got out to saunter back along the sandy shoulder.

Cars passed him from both directions, but no one paid any attention to him. With his hands in his pockets, he strolled into the ruts deeply cut by the ambulance and police cars last night, back to the spot where the death car had been standing backed up to the cliff overlooking the sea.

He knew that Peter Painter would have made an exhaustive search of the vicinity that morning, so he didn’t waste any time looking for clues he was not likely to find.

Shayne scowled at the matted growth covering the low sand dunes between the street and the shore. It would be a miracle if any object was ever found in it. Searching among the thorn-pronged palmettos was hazardous to shoes and clothes and hands.

He look a position near where Grange’s car had stood, stepped back a few paces, picked up a stone calculated to weigh about the same as a .32 automatic. He pitched the stone with all his strength, watched it sail through the air and clump down to the stubby undergrowth.

Fixing his eyes on the spot until it was definite in his mind, he walked back to the pavement and waited. It was not long before a car slowed to park. A man and a woman got out, wearing bathing suits and carrying blankets.

Shayne approached the man and said, “I wonder if you would give me a little assistance? I’m a detective investigating a murder that occurred here last night.”

“Of course.” The man was plainly flattered. “I hadn’t realized this was the spot. We always stop here to go swimming.”

Shayne nodded and led the way in long strides to the murder spot.

“I’ve got a hunch about the death gun,” he explained. “I’m going to look for it, and I want a reputable witness who will testify to its position and condition if I find it.”

“Of course.”

The man was curious and expectant, entering into the game with the zest of a small boy playing cops and robbers.

Shayne was careful to start out on an aimless course to the point where his rock had fallen. The man searched diligently, unmindful of his scratched legs, pawing into clump after clump of palmettos, tearing away the treacherous vines. Shayne stayed close to him, and when at last he saw the weapon said nothing until the man let out a triumphant whoop.

“Here! Here you are!”

“Swell!” Shayne commended. “Say, you ought to be doing the detecting instead of me, mister.”

He dropped a handkerchief over the pistol and picked it up, examined it closely while the man looked on with keen interest.

“Look—its jammed,” the man pointed out, his eyes popping with enthusiasm. “Say—maybe—”

“I’d like to have a sworn statement to what you’ve witnessed here,” Shayne said. “My name is Shayne, and you may have seen by the papers that they’re trying to hang this killing on me. You can understand why I wanted a witness to prove this pistol was actually found here.”

“Sure—I’ll be glad to, Mr. Shayne.”

“You’re a resident in Miami—or here on the beach?” Shayne inquired.

“Lived here for fifteen years,” the man exuded. “If you want to know about me just ask—”

“That’s fine,” Shayne interrupted. He named a lawyer on the beach and said, “If you’ll drop by his office and tell him I sent you and what I want, he’ll fix up an affidavit for you to sign. Just leave it with him.”

“Sure. I’ll go back to the car and write down the name,” the man promised.

“I think I’ll stick around awhile,” Shayne said. He smiled. “I might find some other interesting clues.”

The man hesitated, his eyes involuntarily going to the palmettos in a searching gaze, came back to Shayne with a pensive, wishful expression.

“Okay. My name’s James Hilliard. I’m in the telephone directory if you need me.”

He held out his hand to Shayne, then picked his way carefully back to his car and his wife.

Shayne waited until they had gone on down to the water, then walked back to the spot where Grange’s car had been parked. He examined the ground between that spot and the edge of the sand dune overlooking the beach.

The loose sand had been badly trampled, and it was poor stuff to hold footprints, anyway.

He went on to the edge of the steep bank and looked over at a spot where someone had slid down hurriedly, nodded without surprise at a row of high-heeled footprints leading across the firm sand and down beach, disappearing at a point where the high tide had come in during the night to wash them away.

Shayne struck a purposeful stride going back to his car. He drove back to the mainland on Seventy-ninth and made his way to a modest stucco bungalow on Forty-sixth Street.

A boy of three was playing on the lawn when Shayne got out and started up the walk. His big blue eyes widened when he saw the detective. He ran to meet him with outstretched hands.

Shayne stopped to toss him in the air, and the child gurgled with glee, circling Shayne’s neck with moist chubby arms and yelling, “What’d you bring me, Uncle Mike? What’d you bring me?”

“Just myself—and a nickel for a soda-pop. How’s that?” He set the lad down and produced a nickel from his pocket and put it in the child’s dirty hand. “Is your daddy home?”

“No. But mommie’s here. Daddy’s gone—gone away.” He caught Shayne’s hand to go with him into the house.

“You run along and play,” Shayne told him. “I want to talk to your mother.”

He gave the child a pat and a gentle shove into the unkempt lawn.

At the door Shayne knocked, then opened the screen and stepped inside, calling, “Helen?”

It was hot and sticky inside the littered living-room. Here was every evidence of not only poverty, but of a woman’s impoverished spirit. Shayne glanced around the room with hard, unsympathetic eyes. He called Helen again, louder.

Helen Kincaid appeared in the stucco archway leading into the dining-room. She wore a gingham dress and a rumpled apron. Her eyes were black and enormous in a pale, perspiring face, and she patted stringy locks of moist dark hair back into place with a hand reddened from recent immersion in hot water.

She said, “It’s you, Michael,” in a tired, flat monotone. Shayne nodded.

“Have you heard from Larry yet?”

“No. Nothing since the telegram I told you about this morning.” She came close to him with fright showing in her eyes. “Is anything wrong, Michael?”

Shayne’s big hands caught her elbows roughly and he looked down into her eyes.

“What makes you ask that?”

“Because—he acted so strangely last night. He—oh, why did you quarrel with him!”

Shayne’s hands dropped to his side. He turned back into the living-room and slumped into a chair upholstered in faded needlepoint.

“Tell me how he acted. I want to know everything he did and said last evening.”

Helen Kincaid sat in a low rocker in front of Shayne, but she didn’t look at him. Her profile was sharp, and her whole expression was one of dissatisfaction, almost of shrewishness. She looked to be a few years older than her husband, and gave the impression that she had long ago given up trying to retain her youthful loveliness.

“He came in raving about you,” she told him listlessly. “Said you had let him down—turned against him. He was furious when I reminded him of all the things you’d done for us. He had some big deal on that he was awfully secretive about. He called somebody and made an appointment for eleven o’clock, then stamped out about nine o’clock saying he was going to give you one last chance to prove your friendship.”

“And you haven’t seen him since?”

“No. The telephone woke me up this morning. A telegram from Larry in Jacksonville.”

She stared past Shayne vacuously for a moment, a picture of dejection and hopelessness. Then she turned listless eyes upon him and asked, “What’s wrong, Michael? Why did you quarrel with Larry?”

“Didn’t he tell you?”

Helen Kincaid’s expression took on a spark of interest at the harsh tone of Shayne’s voice. She studied him with a puzzled frown, said, “No. He didn’t tell me anything. He never does—any more.”

“Didn’t he accuse you of being in love with me?”

She was startled. Panic showed in her big dark eyes. Sharp teeth caught her underlip tightly.

“He—he said something silly like that.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I told him it was too late for that,” she cried with sudden passion. “I told him I might have married you long ago, but I made a mistake and chose him instead.”

“For which,” said Shayne fervently, “I thank God.” Tears welled into her eyes and ran down her pale cheeks. She started to speak, but Shayne said harshly, “Don’t waste your cheap tears on me. I’m not interested. I admit I was taken in by your pretty face five years ago—just as you took Larry in. You’re no damned good, Helen. Any girl who lets circumstances rob her of her pride and ambition at twenty-six was no good to start with. You’ve nagged at Larry about money until he’s reached the state he’s in today. Whatever happened to him, you’ll be to blame. And stop your darned sniveling.”

“Wh-a-at,” she sobbed, “has happened?”

“I don’t know.”

Shayne lit a cigarette, got up and paced around the room, his features twisted into a frown of furious concentration.

Helen’s sobbing gradually subsided and she dabbed at her face with a corner of her apron.

“You—hate me, don’t you?” she faltered.

“No. I don’t waste energy hating people. I just can’t be bothered. You’ve let selfishness make you despicable. A whore walking the streets has more honor than you. At least, they give value received. You demand everything and give nothing. Look at you—look at this room.”

He stopped in midstride and pointed a long finger at her.

“You slop around the house like a gin-soaked hag. Larry was a good clean kid with ideals when you married him. You’ve driven him to—to be something else with your eternal complaining. I’ve watched it happen. And now—it’s too late.”

“What do you mean?” Helen sprang to her feet, stood tense before him. “What has happened to Larry?” Her voice was clear, commanding.

“What do you care? He carries insurance.”

Color flamed in her cheeks. Her breath came in convulsive gasps, then she slapped him hard on the cheek. “That’s a lie,” she raged. “I do care.”

“You’ve got a hell of a way of showing it.”

Shayne observed her with calculating eyes. With her cheeks aflame and her eyes bright with anger she was almost beautiful again. The muscles at the corners of his mouth twitched and he took a deep drag on his cigarette to keep from smiling.

She swayed back into her chair and covered her face with her hands. Shayne went to a window where he stood looking out.

Helen’s sobbing was loud in the little room. It rose almost to the pitch of hysteria, but Shayne kept his back stubbornly turned. Slowly the sound died to rasping, long-drawn sighs. She got up and left the room hurriedly.

Shayne remained at the window until he heard her re-enter ten minutes later. He turned to see that she had changed to a fresh dress, combed her hair, washed, rouged and powdered her face.

She said humbly, “Perhaps I deserved the things you said to me.”

“You did.” Shayne’s tone was uncompromising.

He went back to the needlepoint chair and dropped into it, stretched his long legs out in front of him.

“You’ve managed to mess things up pretty thoroughly for Larry.”

“I’ll make it up to him,” she cried. “I’ll—”

“If you have an opportunity,” Shayne grunted.

“Oh, why do you keep hinting of disaster without telling me what it’s all about.” Her eyes pled with him.

Shayne hesitated, then said deliberately, “From where I sit, it looks as though your husband tried to plant evidence that would frame me for a murder. Which is wholly your fault. You nagged him into trying to make a lot of money fast, and you egged him on with some nasty insinuations to make him sore enough at me to pull the frame-up.”

“But where is he? What—?”

“I don’t know. I wish to God I did. So far, he’s clear with the law. I don’t know how long I’ll be able to keep him clear.”

He paused, studying Helen with low-lidded eyes, then asked abruptly, “Are all your glad rags worn out?”

“My—what?”

Shayne made an impatient gesture. “Your evening gowns and wraps. You used to be a knockout when you got fixed up.”

“Why would they be worn out? I haven’t had a chance to wear an evening gown for four years, and—”

“Cut that,” Shayne growled. He frowned down at the worn, faded rug, tugging at the lobe of his left ear. “If you care a damned thing about Larry and want to help him, maybe I can figure out a way.”

“I’ll do anything,” she cried out.

“Anything?”

She colored and lowered her eyelids, then looked at him levelly and said, “Anything you suggest.”

“All right.”

Shayne stood up, sliding a bill-fold from his pocket and extracting a twenty.

“Spend some of that at the beauty parlor this afternoon—and get your glitteringest evening gown out of the mothballs. Can you arrange for someone to spend the evening with Dicky?”

“Yes. I can get a neighbor girl, but—”

“Don’t ask me any questions. I have only a glimmer of an idea. Maybe we’ll go stepping tonight—maybe not. I’ll call you. And if you hear anything from Larry, call me at my apartment pronto.”

Chapter Eleven: THE RETAINER

SHAYNE STOPPED in front of the Miami News building on Biscayne Boulevard and went up to the city room. Amid the noise of clacking typewriters and through the acrid haze of tobacco smoke, he found Timothy Rourke hunched over a typewriter in one corner, pounding out copy with a rubber-tipped forefinger.

He looked up, and a delighted grin broke over his elongated face as Shayne drew up a chair and sat down.

“Hi there, Shamus,” Timothy said heartily. “Committed any murders since I saw you last?”

“No murders,” Shayne had to admit. He lit a cigarette. “Anything new on the Grange killing?”

“Not a damned thing. Petey Painter is running around hunting clues like a bantam with his neck wrung. I don’t think he’s looking very hard because he’s afraid he might turn up something that would point away from you.” Rourke’s wide grin moved his ears a trifle.

Shayne let out smoke to becloud the atmosphere further.

“He’s always picking a victim and trying to fit the crime on him. What sort of dope do you fellows have on Harry Grange, Tim?”

“Grange? Not much except the playboy angle. Wealthy socialite wintering at the beach.”

Shayne said drily, “Any fourflusher who can pay the tariff at a beach hotel is a playboy to you birds. What do you know about Elliot Thomas?”

“Now it’s Thomas, eh? What are you fishing for, Mike?”

“Damned if I know, Tim,” Shayne responded truthfully. “What am I going to catch?”

“I don’t know much about Grange, but Elliot Thomas isn’t any fourflusher. Not with a hundred-and-twenty-foot yacht riding in the bay, and running a string of bangtails at Hialeah. Those diversions spell ready money, my boy.”

“I didn’t know he raced horses.”

“Well, I’ll be damned! So, there are some things you don’t know?” Timothy Rourke stared at the detective in pretended amazement.

“What’s his stable?” Shayne asked without rancor.

“Um-m. I think he calls it the Masiot Stables. Last three letters of both names in reverse. He’s got old Jake Kilgore training for him. Quite a track character, old Jake is. I ran into him in Hialeah at a beer joint, drinking with Chuck Evans last week. The old boy was half-seas under and shooting off about a winner he had coming up.”

“That so? You don’t remember the name of the horse?”

“No. I bought the hot-bloods my last bale of hay years ago—betting on straight tips from the trainers.”

Shayne got up, letting smoke curl up past narrowed eyes.

“I don’t suppose you’ve seen Chuck lately?”

He spoke with offhand disinterest, but Tim Rourke knew him of old.

“What’s up, Mike?” he demanded. “You promised to let me in on anything when it breaks.”

“I will,” Shayne promised, “when it breaks.”

He sauntered out to his car and drove to police headquarters.

Will Gentry was out to lunch, and he left Marsha Marco’s handkerchief on Gentry’s desk with a note asking to have it compared with the one he had left to be analyzed that morning.

Arriving at his hotel, Shayne got the pistol he had taken from Marsha’s room and slid it into his hip pocket. He went in through the lobby and learned there had been no calls, went up to his apartment where he locked the door and settled in a chair before the center table. He took out both .32’s and laid them side by side: his pistol, and the one he had brought from Marsha Marco’s room.

He poured a drink and studied the two automatics. They were of the same manufacture, identical except for different serial numbers and the nick in the butt of his.

He released the magazine in the Marco gun and found it fully loaded. Picking up his own pistol he worked with the jammed carriage for a moment, exerting his strength to force it open, and turning it in his hands to let the unfired bullet which had caused the jam drop out on the table.

He then released the magazine catch, pulled it out, and saw by the holes through the magazine that it held six cartridges. Adding the one that had been jammed made seven, showing that only one shot had been fired from a full magazine.

He laid both pistols down and took another drink, stared broodingly at them for a long time.

He aroused himself and slid the carriage on his pistol back to the mark where it permits the barrel of a Colt automatic to turn and be released, pulled the fouled barrel free from the other two parts.

Carrying it to a window, he carefully studied the barrel in the sunlight until he had assured himself there was no serial number or identifying mark stamped on the barrel itself.

Back at the table, he laid the folded barrel of his gun aside, and repeated the process with the Marco pistol.

Again he went to the window with the other barrel, to assure himself there was no possibility of proving which barrel belonged in which pistol.

Carefully polishing his fingerprints from the clean Marco barrel, he inserted it in his pistol and locked the carriage on it. Ejecting one cartridge from the full Marco magazine, he put that and the other loose bullet in his magazine and slid it back into his pistol.

Laying that gun aside, he put the dirty barrel of his pistol into the Marco framework after cleaning it of fingerprints, polished the magazine with its one missing cartridge and put it back where it belonged. He then went over the entire Marco pistol with cleaning fluid, polishing it off with an oiled rag, and dropped it into the drawer.

Putting his pistol in beside the other, he looked upon his work with satisfaction. His own weapon was clean and fully loaded. The Marco pistol had a barrel which had been recently fouled by one shot, and one bullet was missing from the magazine.

He was closing the drawer when he remembered a small detail he had overlooked. Every time an automatic is fired, it ejects the empty shell and throws another one into the firing chamber under the hammer. Leaving the Marco pistol this way, with the chamber empty and seven cartridges in the magazine, would be immediate proof to anyone familiar with firearms that it had been tampered with after being fired.

Fervently thanking the gods who control the destinies of private detectives, Shayne got out a handkerchief and lifted the pistol out, pulled the carriage back and threw a loaded shell under the hammer. He pushed the safety on, but left it cocked, as it should properly be.

He closed the drawer on the two weapons and took another short drink, then went into his bedroom and pulled the shades, slid out of his jacket and stretched out full length on the bed.

In five minutes he was asleep.

The telephone wakened him late in the afternoon.

John Marco was on the wire. He sounded worn out, harassed.

“I’ve been thinking it over, Shayne. I’m ready to do business with you. How soon can you have Marsha back home?”

“Wait a minute,” Shayne protested. “You sound as though I had the girl on tap. I’m not holding her for ransom. I’m not even sure I can find her. I simply offered to go to work on the case if you want to retain me.”

There was a long pause.

Then, Marco said harshly, “All right. Put it that way. How much is it going to cost?”

“More than your daughter’s worth,” Shayne assured him cheerfully. “Ten grand should be about right.”

“Ten grand? My God, Shayne—” Marco’s voice trailed off into shocked silence.

Shayne held the receiver to his ear and listened with a sardonic gleam of amusement in his eyes.

“All right.” Marco sounded utterly defeated. “C.O.D., eh?”

“Listen,” Shayne warned sharply. “You’re trying to make this sound too damned much like extortion. Here’s the way it’ll be handled—or not at all. Bring a certified check or the cash over to the First National Bank first thing in the morning and put it in escrow for me. Leave a signed affidavit that the money is payment for services rendered in returning your daughter who left home voluntarily—with definite instructions that it shall be paid over to me when the girl is safely back. That’s the only way I’ll lift my finger to find her.”

“You’re getting awful legal all at once,” Marco complained.

“I trust you just as far as I could throw a bull by the tail,” Shayne told him pleasantly.

There was another long pause, and Shayne wondered who Marco was consulting with. Painter, maybe.

Finally, the gambler asked, “Will you personally guarantee her safety until I can get the money in the bank?”

“How the hell can I do that? I don’t know where she is. I’m not even going to start looking until you put that money in escrow.”

He hung up the receiver and went to the table to pour himself a drink. Sipping it, he spread out the sheet of paper bearing the eleven questions he had written out that morning. His gaze slid down the list morosely until it reached number eleven. His eyes brightened, and he ran a line through it with a pencil. After all, the most important question was answered.

He finished his drink and went out to the kitchen where he made a pot of coffee and a huge stack of whole-wheat toast, scrambled five eggs, and sat down at the kitchenette table to eat with the gusto of a man virtuously hungered by his labors.

He had finished every crumb and was carrying a final cup of coffee into the living-room when his telephone rang again.

It was Will Gentry.

“Nothing on the accident car or victims, Mike. I’ve wired the license number of the car to New York, and sent prints to Washington. No identification numbers on the guns. It’s a cinch they either haven’t been in Miami long, or have been laying low.”

“How about the handkerchief?”

“Nothing stirring on the one you gave me this morning. Our chemist put it through every known test and some that he made up as he went along. It’s nothing but a handkerchief. The one you left on my desk at noon is identical, though.”

“Keep a tight hold on them,” Shayne cautioned. “They’re exhibits A and B in the Grange murder case. The bodies you dug out of the canal are exhibits C and D.”

He hung up and slouched over to the light switch to dispel the gloom of evening, went back to the table and distastefully drank half his cup of cool coffee.

He sat there sprawled out in a chair for a long time, mulling over and over the meager facts in his possession. A lot of little things. Unimportant items. Each one insignificant in itself.

Tied together, they had to mean something. As yet, he hadn’t found anything to tie them with. The most important findings did not lift his spirits any.

His gun—evidently stolen by his best friend, Larry Kincaid. The gun which had almost certainly killed Harry Grange.

He welcomed the ringing of the telephone. It was Tony, very excited.

“Say, Mike, you ast me this mornin’ did I know where Chuck Evans hangs out.”

“Yeh. He’s moved from Mamma Julie’s.”

“I can tell you where his dame is right now if you wanta know.”

“Belle? You bet I want to know, Tony.”

“She’s stewed to the gills out in a little dump on Seventy-ninth Street. The Round-up. It’s a lousy joint—”

“I know where it is,” Shayne interrupted. “How do you know she’s there?”

“I just met a lug that come from there. He says she’s singin’ the blues about Chuck takin’ a runout powder. She gets on a tear ever so often and—”

“I’ll go see if I can locate her.”

“Listen, boss. You better let me go along. Bernie’s gang hangs out there mostly, and you know how Bernie don’t love you none.”

“That hophead?” Shayne laughed scornfully. “Who told you I was slipping?”

He hung up and got his coat and jacket, went down to the lobby and said to the night clerk, “I’m going out for a little while. If my sister should come by—just let her in my room and ask her to wait.”

“Which one of your sisters?”

“Any of them,” Shayne said blithely.

He went out to his car and drove north toward Seventy-ninth Street.

Chapter Twelve: THE ROUND-UP

WEST ON Seventy-ninth Street, past the Little River business section, stores and residences gave way to small truck farms and long, sheltered stands with artistic arrangements of golden citrus fruits. Here, stretches of native pines and thickets of semitropical shrubs have not been reached by the long arm of the ever-developing city, though bisected by paved crossroads leading to the airport, Opa-Locka, Hialeah, and other outlying developments which sprang into being during the hectic boom days.

The moon had not yet risen, and stars studded the dark velvety blue of the tropical sky, casting an illusively perceptible sheen through the still night. Yet there was that peculiar quality of humid coolness characteristic of a spring night in Miami.

Driving slowly, relaxed behind the wheel of his roadster, Michael Shayne drew long drafts of the heavy-bodied air into his lungs.

It seemed to him that time stood still as he approached the Round-up. He shook his head irritably. It was a silly thought, of course. A poor way of expressing what was in his mind.

Yet, the illusion persisted. It was a night for illusions—as are so many nights in Miami. Shayne caught himself wondering if the night air actually had some toxic effect upon otherwise sane men. Possibly that was what poets meant when they wrote about the lotus flower of the tropics. The poisonous conviction that only the present is important. This hour—this moment—time standing still.

He wrenched his thoughts back to reality when a cluster of lights showed a low building set back from the thoroughfare in a clearing hewed out of the jungle growth. Dim colored lights were strung between tall coco palms, and faint yellow half-moons showed through shuttered windows.

After parking his car near the street, he got out and picked his way across embedded coral rocks toward the low building with its furtively darkened doors and windows.

He knew little about the Round-up except by reputation. Obviously it was one of the many cheap dives that open up on the outskirts of Miami at the beginning of each winter season, favored by the scum of the winter visitors, and inquisitive yokels who can’t afford the cover charge at glamour joints on the beach and in downtown Miami.

A head-high screen of laced bamboo separated the darkened entry from the purplish gloom of the interior. A fat-bottomed boy with rosy cheeks and penciled eyebrows leaned on a pine counter just inside the door. He screwed his face up into a smirk that was intended to suggest unmentionable depravities, and said in a falsetto voice, “Check your hat, mister.”

Shayne brushed past him without replying.

A roped-off square in the center of the large room was surrounded by tables. In the dingy half-light provided by dim ceiling globes, half a dozen of the tables could be seen to have occupants. Along three of the walls, intimate booths were partitioned off by shoulder-high enclosures of unpainted wall board, with curtains suspended on steel wire.

Here was none of the gaiety and mirth of the palaces of vice in the city. Here sin was not a pleasure to be lightly accepted; rather, a thing to be worked at for a livelihood, to be accomplished in the half-light with all the loathsome viciousness dredged up from the secret places in the warped souls of people who gravitate naturally to places like the Round-up.

A girl glided up to Shayne as he stood inside the room. The top of fluffy blonde hair reached almost to his shoulder, and she cocked a pert, childish face up at him. She wore a flimsy blouse of white lace that showed a pink brassiere cupping immature breasts. She laid thin, moist fingers tipped with crimson nails on his arm, and asked, “Looking for a good time, big boy?”

Shayne shook his head with passive disinterest, his gaze going over her head and around the room. “I quit playing nursery games a long time ago.”

She slid her fingers from his arm to her hips and wriggled her undersized buttocks suggestively. “You don’t know but what I might show you somethin’ you ain’t never seen before.”

A high-pitched giggle echoed crazily through the stifling, smoke-laden atmosphere.

Shayne said, “I doubt it, youngster,” and moved away from the girl toward the curtained alcove from which the giggle came.

A man came from nowhere and fell in step with him. He had a long, sallow face, glistening black hair grew down in a low peak in front. He wore tight-waisted, plaited slacks, and a dirty, white mess jacket. Smoke curling up from a cigarette between his bloodless lips had the acrid pungency of marijuana.

He asked, huskily, “Lookin’ for somebody, mister?”

Shayne said, “Yes,” without slackening his pace.

They passed directly under one of the dim globes and the man exclaimed, “Hey! You’re—ain’t you that private dick that had a run-in with Bernie last fall?”

Shayne made no reply.

The man caught his sleeve and tugged at it anxiously. “What d’yuh want here? For God’s sake, mister, le’s talk this over.”

The giggle hadn’t sounded any more.

Shayne stopped in front of half a dozen curtained booths and said, “There’s nothing to talk about. I want to see Belle. Let go of my sleeve.”

The man let go and took a trembling drag on his reefer.

“Belle who?” he inquired.

“You know what Belle I mean. She’s here, and she’s high as a kite. That was her I heard giggling awhile ago. Which booth is she in?”

“Lissen,” the sallow-faced man husked confidentially, “a couple of Bernie’s boys is hittin’ it up with her, see? There’ll be trouble if you bust in on ’em. Go on back to the door and I’ll get Belle.”

“I like trouble,” Shayne grunted irritably. “Where is she?”

“We can’t afford to have no trouble here, but by the lord Harry you’ll get it if you don’t do what I say. I’ll handle it.”

Shayne said, “No. Am I going to have to start jerking all these curtains and seeing things that aren’t supposed to be seen to find her?”

He stepped forward with arm outstretched toward the nearest drawn curtain.

A shrill voice from the third booth down stopped him before he touched the curtain. “Wait’ll I see Chuck again. Will I make that low-lived bastard crawl on his knees before I let him touch me.”

Shayne moved to that booth and pulled the curtain open. The sallow-faced man turned and slunk away.

The booth held a narrow table with plain wooden benches on each side. There was a bottle on the table, and glasses, a conch-shell ash tray piled high with closely smoked cigarette butts. The stench of stale alcohol and marijuana blasted out in Shayne’s face as he pulled the curtain.

Belle was half lying on the table, glassy-eyed, her lolling head supported on her fat arm. She wore the same inadequate lace evening gown Shayne had seen her wear at Marco’s casino. One of her breasts was half out of the gown, lying in a little pool of spilled liquor.

A ferret-laced young man looked at Shayne through dreamy, hall-closed eyes from his position against the wall, with one foot on the bench. His cheeks were flushed and feverish. Long, yellow fingers held a half-smoked cigarette a few inches from his mouth.

On the side of the table next to the curtain, a thicknecked, bushy-headed man was hunched forward with elbows resting on the table, hairy forearms bared, calloused palms supporting a square chin bristling with whiskers. He tilted his chin in his hands to look up at Shayne. A jagged, ugly scar twitched the corner of his right eye.

Shayne said, “Hello, Butch,” and let his gaze slide past to the dreamy-eyed younger man, asking without interest, “How’re tricks, Ned?”

Butch made no reply.

Ned Parradone said, “What’s it to a sonofabitch like you?” and slid the cigarette up to his lips.

A giggle came from Belle’s pouted lips. She didn’t move, and her glazed eyes were not quite focused on Shayne’s face. She asked throatily, “Er you gonna take that from Ned?”

“Sure,” Shayne said. “I’m an easy guy to get along with.”

Butch’s scar twitched and he muttered, “He’s scairt of Ned. Can’t you see he’s scairt?”

He dropped the splayed fingers of one hand toward a glass of whisky in front of him and tipped it over.

Shayne touched Belle’s shoulder and said, “I heard Chuck pulled out on you.”

She closed her right eye tightly and widened the other one to fix it on Shayne’s angular face bent close to hers. She slurred, “The bashtard—crawl on hizh knees—”

“Yeh,” said Ned Parradone. “Chuck got tired of her stuff. Look at her, slopping around like—”

“That’s a lie, Belle.”

Shayne slid his arm over her rounded shoulders and didn’t look at Ned Parradone.

Unexpectedly, she giggled and reached up to get hold of Shayne’s hand and snuggle it against her. “You tell ’em, tall, tough and hot-mouthed. I still got plenty—”

“Say,” Butch bellowed, “d’ju hear what he said, Ned? Same as called you uh liar.”

“I know.”

Ned Parradone waved his cigarette elegantly. He let smoke trail from his pinched nostrils, and started cursing the detective in a low, deadly monotone.

Shayne spoke urgently to Belle, close to her ear. “When did you see Chuck last?”

“Whashit matter?” she giggled. “Le’m go. I got you, ain’t I?”

“Sure.” Shayne pinched the soft flesh beneath his fingers. “Have you seen Chuck since last night? Did you leave the casino with him?”

“—and I’m going to cut your liver out and Belle can fry it for breakfast,” Ned Parradone ended in the same deadly monotone.

He stood up waveringly, reached in his pocket and brought out a long-bladed clasp-knife.

Shayne stood up with his fists bunched, turning his whole attention to Ned Parradone.

He didn’t see the movement in the opening behind him, nor hear the swish of a descending blackjack. Shayne slumped limply on the table.

Butch guffawed, thumping his open palm down.

Ned Parradone looked reproachfully at the slim, dark figure standing just inside the curtains and said:

“You orten’t uv did that, Bernie. I wanted to slit his belly open.”

“You’re hopped,” Bernie snapped. “You and Butch both. Drag him outdoors and leave ’im lay, Butch.”

Butch lumbered drunkenly to his feet, got hold of Shayne with one hand and dragged him out.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he crooned. “You wanta dance this un with Butch?”

Clutching Shayne’s limp body about the middle, he moved toward the door with the shambling rhythm of a dancing bear.

In the alcove, Belle slept, snoring loudly.

Propelling Shayne through the dark entry, Butch stopped in the doorway and gave him a mighty shove which landed him face down on the coral rocks.

The bruising impact stirred the detective to consciousness. He sat up, putting his hand wonderingly to his hard cheek, and felt sticky blood from a rock cut; then got up on unsteady legs and went back to the door.

The sallow-faced man in the mess jacket stepped in front of him to bar his way.

“Go on home for godsake!” the man implored. “They’ll gang up on you.”

Shayne put a big hand in the man’s face and shoved. Stepping past with hunched shoulders, he went around the bamboo screen and started toward the alcove where Belle had passed out.

Bernie and Butch met him halfway. A blackjack dangled from Bernie’s fingers, and his black eyes were murderous.

“Take him, Butch,” he rasped. “The goddam’ fool don’t know when he’s being treated nice.”

Shayne swung a fist at the end of a long arm toward Butch’s scarred face.

The hoodlum slid under the wavering blow, came up with fingers of both hands around Shayne’s neck. He brought the tall detective to his knees with a quick downward jerk, tightened his fingers on Shayne’s throat and looked over his shoulder hopefully.

“Can I squeeze his goozle, Bernie?”

“Enough to give him some sense,” Bernie ordered sharply. “He’ll stay put when you throw him out this time.”

Butch went to the door, holding both hands down low, dragging Shayne behind him. When he relaxed his grip outside the door, Shayne fell prone, hands clawing at his throat while labored breath wheezed in and out through grinding teeth.

Butch watched with simple pleasure as Shayne put the palms of his hands flat on the ground and pushed himself up to his knees, then laughed heartily when he toppled forward on his face. But his amusement changed to concern when Shayne tottered to his feet again and doggedly started to the door.

Butch put out a powerful arm and said good-naturedly, “You can’t go back in there, mug. Want me to bust you in thuh puss?”

Shayne put both hands on the big arm and shoved against it. His bleared eyes showed a crazy glint.

“Stay away from me, Butch,” he muttered thickly. “I’ve got to go in. Got to ask Belle—”

“You ain’t goin’ nowheres.” Butch took a backward step and slammed his fist into Shayne’s face.

Shayne went down and began getting up again.

Butch moved back to the doorway and watched him uneasily. When Shayne lurched forward he yelled, “Hey, you’re nuts!”

“Got to see Belle.” The words welled up from some where deep inside Michael Shayne. “Got to ask her what horse Chuck made his killing on. Got to—”

Butch sighed and jerked him back from the doorway.

“You’re sure a card. Whyn’t yuh tell me that’s all you wanted to know? I coulda saved you trouble. Chuck had Banjo Boy in the fifth.”

“Banjo Boy?” Shayne leaned against the building and drew his breath laboriously. “You’re sure?” he asked suspiciously.

“’Course I’m sure. What the hell good it does you—”

Butch watched with almost human concern as Shayne pushed himself away from the wall and wove through the dim light to his parked car.

Shayne drove at a speed of ten miles an hour to Little River, gripping the wheel with both hands and peering at the road through slitted eyes with fierce concentration. He parked in front of a drugstore and went in a side entrance to buy adhesive tape, iodine and absorbent cotton. He patched himself up the best he could, and rounded out his purchases with a bottle of California grape brandy.

Back in his car he opened the bottle and drank half a pint, and knew he could make it to his apartment all right.

It took him half an hour to reach his hotel. He decided against the stairway when he went in the side entrance. The night clerk called to him as he tried to ease through the lobby to the elevator without being noticed.

The clerk let out an awed, “My God!” when Shayne turned his bandaged face toward the desk.

Shayne tried to grin, but ruefully gave up when the effort proved too painful. Sidling to the clerk, he said out of the side of his mouth:

“Don’t tell me, for God’s sake, that my sister picked this night to pay me a visit?”

“No.” The clerk discreetly repressed his laughter. “But there’s a couple of cops up in your apartment. That little fellow from the beach and Chief Gentry.”

Shayne nodded and went to the elevator.

Chapter Thirteen: THE DOUBTFUL RACE

THE DOOR of Shayne’s apartment was open, and Peter Painter and the Miami detective chief were sitting inside. Will Gentry grinned broadly when he saw Shayne’s face, but Painter regarded him with cold hostility.

Shayne grimaced and said, “I hope I haven’t kept you gentlemen waiting.”

He went past them to the liquor cabinet and got some glasses, set what was left of the bottle of cheap brandy on the table and said,

“Help yourselves. I’ll pretty up a little.”

He went into the bathroom to appraise the damage he had suffered at the Round-up, wondering whether those two little words, “Banjo Boy,” were worth the price he had paid. He was appalled when he looked at the rough-and-ready job of bandaging he and the druggist had done to his face. The bleeding had all stopped, however, and he contented himself with cleaning off the dried blood with a wet rag; then went back into the living-room.

Will Gentry had poured himself a glass of brandy, but Painter sat stiffly erect with palms flat on the table.

Shayne grinned painfully and said, “I take it this is not a social call, Painter.”

He went to the cabinet and got down his bottle of cognac, brought it back and poured out a drink.

“Painter,” said Gentry, “wants to ask you some questions.”

“He’s always asking somebody fool questions.” Shayne slumped down in a chair and indicated the bottle he had just set down. “If he isn’t in a drinking mood, Will, I won’t hold out my private stock on you.”

“When you get through horsing around,” said Painter distantly, “I have some matters to take up with you.”

“Take them up, by all means.”

“When I questioned you about Grange’s death last night, why didn’t you tell me of the connection your friend Kincaid had with the dead man?”

“Because I didn’t consider it any of your damned business,” Shayne responded blandly.

Painter’s neat black mustache trembled slightly. “Suppression of evidence in a homicide is a felony in this state.”

“I don’t admit that Larry Kincaid’s connection with Grange had anything to do with homicide.”

“Are you sure it wasn’t because you had agreed to act as intermediary for Kincaid? Because you met Grange out on that lonely stretch of beach to obtain the evidence he was holding out on Elliot Thomas?”

Shayne’s blunt finger tips drummed irritably on the table.

“Are you still trying to hang that murder on me? I thought we settled that last night.”

“When I released you, I wasn’t in possession of the facts set forth in an affidavit sworn to by Mr. Elliot Thomas who came in voluntarily this afternoon.”

“All right,” Shayne snapped. “Now that you’re in possession of that affidavit—what are you going to do?”

Painter’s eyes glinted happily.

“I think I’m going to place a charge of first-degree murder against you.”

“You’ll wish you hadn’t,” Shayne warned. “Besides, I need another twelve hours free of interference and I’ll dump this whole thing in your lap. Hell! you haven’t even found the murder gun yet. Do you think I swallowed it after I shot Grange?”

Painter was fidgeting with the knob of the table drawer. He purred, “I’m quite sure we have found the death gun, Shayne. An embarrassing discovery for you.”

He pulled the drawer open and pointed to the two .32 automatics lying in plain sight.

“Very careless of you, Shayne. Not to have even cleaned and reloaded the pistol.”

Gentry had been sitting back sipping a drink, making no visible show of his interest. Now, he sat up, studied Shayne intently, a puzzled frown gathering on his broad, genial face.

Shayne laughed and asked, “Have you checked the bullet that killed Grange with that pistol?”

“Not yet. We discovered the guns by accident while we were waiting for you. But Grange was killed with a thirty-two automatic.”

“And ten to one, that’s the gun that did it.”

Shayne leaned forward and pointed to the pistol he had taken from Marsha Marco’s room—now fitted with the barrel taken out of his own pistol.

“While you’ve been getting affidavits on my guilt,” he said drily, “I’ve been collecting evidence for you. I found that gun this afternoon—where the killer threw it after shooting Grange.”

Will Gentry relaxed again and emptied his glass while Painter snorted, “Naturally, you would cover up with some such story.”

“I’ve got an affidavit, too. From a substantial citizen who witnessed my finding of the gun.”

“That only proves you threw it there yourself last night,” Painter snarled.

Shayne shrugged and lifted heavy red brows at Will Gentry. The semblance of a smile formed around his eyes and crinkled his heavy cheek muscles.

“Why don’t you instruct your playmate in the rudiments of sleuthing, Will? This pistol with the nick in the butt belongs to me. It’s registered in my name and I’ve got a permit to carry it. If he wasn’t so damned interested in hanging something on me, he’d take the number off that other gun and find out who it belongs to.”

Peter Painter was quivering with wrath.

“I don’t need you to teach me my job, Shayne. That’s exactly what I’ve done. Gentry phoned the numbers in—and we’re waiting for a call from headquarters.”

“And you thought about that all by yourself?” Shayne looked upon him admiringly. “My, my. Stick around with me, little man, and you’ll learn to recognize a clue when you see one.”

Gentry turned his face away and put a huge hand to his mouth while Shayne blandly leaned forward and filled the two glasses with cognac.

The telephone rang while Painter was choking over a reply. He snapped, “I’ll answer,” and hopped up importantly.

Shayne lifted his glass to Gentry with a grin, said, “Here’s mud in your eye, Will,” while Painter lifted the receiver and carried on a brief conversation.

Gentry waggled his big head sidewise and said in a low tone, “Before God, Mike, I thought Petey had you when he found that gun in your drawer. Is that story of finding it straight?”

“Want to see my affidavit?”

Painter slammed up the receiver as Gentry smilingly said, “Not if you’ve got it, Mike.”

Painter came back to the table and rapped out, “That was your office, Gentry. They have only one thirty-two automatic registered in Shayne’s name. The number corresponds with the one that hasn’t been fired. They have no record of the other number. It’s probably one he stole on one of his jobs.”

Shayne came slowly and ominously to his feet. In a soft, terrible voice, he said, “That’s about the last crack of that sort I’m taking from you, Painter. Get out of here, or so help me God—”

The phone rang again. Painter backed toward it nervously.

Gentry put his hand on Shayne’s arm and said soothingly, “Don’t let him get your goat, Mike. You’ve got to admit that story Thomas told makes it look pretty bad.”

“I don’t admit a goddamned thing,” Shayne growled. “I don’t even know what lies Thomas told. Maybe he killed Grange. He’s so damned interested. Maybe he’s just trying to hang it on me.”

Again Painter replaced the receiver after a brief colloquy. Returning, a look of uncertainty clouded his dark, finely chiseled face. Addressing Gentry, he wet his lips and said, “Of course, we have only Shayne’s word for where he found the other pistol. We haven’t checked it with the death bullet yet.”

“You’re going to,” Shayne told him sharply. “Just because you found out who belongs to that pistol is not going to keep you from checking on it.”

Painter moved around Shayne and sank into a chair. He was perspiring freely, and dabbed at his forehead close to the edge of his smooth black hair. When the handkerchief was fastidiously restored to his outer coat pocket, he said to Gentry:

“That was my office. The pistol is registered under John Marco’s name.”

Shayne snorted like a mad bull, then lifted his glass and drank deeply.

“Councilman John Marco, eh? Another one of the mugs who’s been running around swearing out affidavits against me. Now that gives you something to cogitate on, my fine-feathered friend. It does me. But you can do your cogitating out of my sight.”

Painter touched the tip of a shaking forefinger to his mustache.

“I’m taking the pistol with me,” he warned.

“Hell, yes,” Shayne agreed. “I’m as interested in the ballistics test as you are. If you still don’t know who killed Harry Grange, I’ll see if I can dig up some more evidence. But I’m too damned sleepy right now to do any more detecting for you.”

He waited while Painter got a silk handkerchief from his hip pocket and picked up the Marco pistol.

Will Gentry pulled himself heavily from the chair, and Shayne accompanied them to the door and shut it firmly behind them.

Returning to the center of the room, he stood for a moment in deep thought, then went to the telephone and called one of the daily newspapers. He asked for the sports editor, and after a brief wait, asked, “Do you know anything about a horse named Banjo Boy that came in at Hialeah a few days ago?”

“Banjo Boy? Sure thing. That’s the nag they’re making such a stink about. Who’s speaking?”

“Michael Shayne. Who’s the owner of the horse?”

“From the Masiot stables. Elliot Thomas is the owner. The racing commission is conducting an investigation into the race.”

“What are they investigating?”

“They want to know why Banjo Boy limped in a poor last every start this year until last Friday when he went in at twenty to one and showed his heels to the pack.”

“Is that all they’ve got to go on?”

“No. They wouldn’t have suspected anything if he hadn’t been backed so heavily. By post time, the odds were pounded down to eight to one by money mostly telegraphed in from out-of-town bookies who were protecting themselves. Money is laid at the track in cases like that in a ratio of about three to one. Which means that plenty of grands of wise money knew Banjo Boy was due to click in that particular race.”

Shayne said, “I see.” Then he asked what the commission had found out with their investigation.

“It looks bad for the trainer, Jake Kilgore. He caught a Pan-Am plane for South America the evening after the race was won. Some think Thomas was maybe in on it and laid his sugar on the line with bookies around the country to keep the odds up, but not many people take that seriously. He’s got a good rep with his stable.”

Shayne started to hang up, then paused to ask one more question, “Do you happen to know whether John Marco spends much through the mutuels?”

“He used to practically keep them oiled,” was the chuckled response. “I think he got tired of losing, a couple of years ago, and decided to get on the receiving end of a roulette wheel. I haven’t heard of him plunging any on the races lately.”

Shayne said, “Thanks a lot,” and hung up. He went back and poured himself a drink, then looked up a telephone number and called it.

After a long time a voice answered, and he said, “This is Michael Shayne speaking. I want to speak to Mr. Thomas.”

“I don’t think Mr. Thomas will wish to be disturbed,” the voice said.

“I don’t care what you think,” Shayne said curtly. “Thomas will talk to me. Tell him it’s Shayne.”

“Very well, sir.”

Shayne waited a long time. At last Thomas’s irritable voice came over the wire.

“Mr. Shayne? What the deuce—?”

Shayne cut him off with a growl. “Yesterday evening you were mighty anxious to get hold of something in Harry Grange’s possession. Do you still want it?”

“Why—of course, but—”

“Then get over to my apartment in a hurry. I don’t know how long I can stay out of jail.” Shayne gave his address, and when Thomas seemed disposed to discuss the matter further, cut him off short—“I’ll expect you within the hour,” and pressed the prongs down.

Releasing them after a moment, he called the Kincaid residence, and when Helen answered, said, “I’m sorry to be so late—but we’re ready to go. Can you get here in half an hour—dressed in your snappiest outfit?”

“Yes—but—”

“No buts. Grab a taxi and get here as quick as you can.” He hung up again. A feverish glitter was in his eyes. Going back to the table, he finished his drink and poured another. Sipping it, he checked over his plans with dissatisfaction, realizing that success depended on a dozen maybes—and he didn’t like that way of doing things.

But he had to work fast, because Painter already had Marco’s automatic.

And there was Larry Kincaid to think about. Where the devil was Larry?

He sank into a brown study, wondering where in hell the whole thing would lead.

Chapter Fourteen: THE WOMAN TO BE SCORNED

SHAYNE WAS in the bathroom, gingerly removing some of the unnecessary bandages from his face and cursing in a loud voice, when Helen Kincaid knocked on his door. He hurried out to admit her.

He could not restrain a grunt of admiring astonishment when he saw the transformation she had effected in a few hours. An upsweep hair-do added inches to her height and took years from her age. A light coral evening wrap of sheer velvet fell gracefully from her shoulders and a shirred collar of the material stood up regally, framing her dark hair and face. Her black lace evening gown accentuated curves where he hadn’t expected them after seeing her in the loose gingham house dress. A white gardenia was modestly nestled in the vee between her breasts.

The greatest and truest transformation was in her features. Her normally large eyes were lighted with a luminous glow tonight that made them appear enormous. There was poise and determination in her carriage, and a flush far back on her thin cheeks lent them a soft roundness wholly unexpected by the detective.

Before he could speak, Helen Kincaid stepped close to him and asked, “Will I do?”

A slow grin spread over his face as he took in every detail offered for his inspection.

“In a great big way, if I’m not badly mistaken in my man. You look—Good God, Helen! you look so thoroughly seducible I’m almost tempted—”

Helen looked up into his face gravely, shaking her head.

“That’s not why you had me come.”

“No,” Shayne admitted, “and I’ll have to work hard at keeping that in mind.”

She moved past him into the room, whirled about suddenly to face him.

“I did a lot of thinking after you left, Michael. You said some harsh things but I sat down with myself and came to the conclusion that I deserved them all. You hinted that Larry is in some dreadful danger. I can see, now, how I may be to blame. I—give me a chance to make amends for what I’ve done to our marriage.” Her voice throbbed with a deep note of sincerity.

Shayne’s eyes held hers steadily.

“I think you’ll have your chance tonight. There’s not much time to explain things. I didn’t feel like confiding in you this afternoon, but—I do tonight. The point is this, Helen: It looks as though Larry killed a man last night. Harry Grange. He came here and got my pistol and shot Grange with it, and left it there to frame me for the murder.”

He caught her arm in a hurting grip as she swayed back from him in horror. Leading her toward the table, he went on swiftly, “Grange deserved killing. Keep that in mind. And Larry had the motive for wanting to frame me. But the law won’t take those things into consideration, so you and I have to.”

She moaned softly, and he hastened on.

“At the moment, I’ve messed things up pretty badly by switching evidence. I want to keep Larry, and, incidentally, myself, in the clear. I think I can swing it if Larry doesn’t get an attack of conscience and pop up and ruin things by coming back and confessing. The one man who may know Larry’s whereabouts is due here any minute. I want you to take him like Grant took Richmond.”

He settled her in a chair and poured out a drink of cognac. He held the glass up to the light and observed the clear sparkle of it. “I had thought of having you go after him like a drunken hussy, but after seeing you, I think you can make the conquest better by being girlish and naive. You look the part.”

“I—I don’t think I understand, Michael,” she faltered.

“This afternoon you said you’d do anything I suggested to help Larry. Here’s your chance to prove it, and maybe find out where he is. The man who is coming is Elliot Thomas, a millionaire lecher with an eye for feminine beauty. You’ve got what it takes to catch his eye. I want you to be in my bedroom when he arrives. After he’s been here for a while, you come out and demand to know what’s keeping me so long. Pull the young-and-don’t-know-what-it’s-all-about stuff. I’ve lured you here to my apartment and neglected you. Come out and say so when I give the signal, which will be the slamming of the bathroom door.”

Helen nodded, confused.

“I hope I can do it.”

“What I want is for him to take you out to his yacht without anyone recognizing you. Keep your face down when you go aboard so none of the crew will see your face. And when you leave the yacht, try to slip away so unobtrusively that no one will be able to swear you haven’t spent the night. Have you got all that?”

“Y-e-s,” Helen mumbled, “but I don’t understand why—”

“I don’t either,” Shayne grunted sourly. “I’m playing a couple of long shots. While you’re with Thomas, use everything God gave you to find out anything he knows about Larry. Pretend you hate my guts and hope I’m on the spot for the Grange killing. Thomas’ll be drunk or at least half drunk. Pretend to drink with him. Dash his champagne under a table if you have to, but pretend. Find out things. We’ve got to find Larry to keep him from popping up and confessing while I’m trying to keep him out of it. You know about how long his conscience will bear the torture.”

Helen Kincaid nodded soberly.

“I’m getting the idea, Michael. I’ll make myself do everything you say.”

“That’s swell.”

He saw the glint of uncertainty in her big, dark eyes and laid a rough hand on her shoulder.

“Don’t forget. When you come out of the bedroom you’re peeved at me, make a scene and accuse me of neglecting you. I’ll guarantee Thomas will console you, and you have to make the most of it. Cuddle up to him. He’ll console you all right.” He repressed a chuckle.

Helen smiled wanly.

“Be sure to slam the bathroom door hard so I won’t miss the cue.”

“I will. And I’ll stay in long enough for you to get in your dirty work.”

The elevator clanged to a stop on that floor, and they both tensed, listening to solid footsteps coming down the hall. Shayne pulled her up from the chair and shoved her to the bedroom door.

He smiled and said, “Don’t worry—and don’t fail me.”

He closed the door when she entered the bedroom and hurried to admit Elliot Thomas when he rapped on the front door.

In spite of his size, the millionaire sportsman was dapper in creamy trousers and a double-breasted coat of blue serge. He came in, saying fretfully, “I don’t understand the urgency of this call, Mr. Shayne. This is hardly the hour for a business discussion.”

Shayne closed the door and gestured toward the chairs and table.

“Have a seat—and a drink. You ought to know why it’s urgent. That affidavit you made to the police today is likely to put me behind the bars any minute.”

Elliot Thomas sat down in a soft chair and met Shayne’s lowering gaze with cool indifference.

“I did my duty as a citizen by throwing what light I could on the murder of Harry Grange.”

Shayne sighed. “I don’t blame any man for doing his duty as he sees it. Drink?”

“Scotch—if you have it.”

“I’ve got some stuff here that’s labeled Scotch.” Shayne went to the liquor cabinet, adding over his shoulder, “No soda, though, I’m afraid.”

“It will do very nicely straight,” the yachtsman assured him.

Shayne came back with a squatty bottle and a six-ounce glass. Uncorking the bottle, he let amber liquid gurgle into the glass, handed Thomas the heavy potion, and sat down in a chair conveniently near the cognac.

“Did Larry Kincaid tell you I had agreed to handle Grange for him?” Shayne asked.

Thomas was sniffing the uncertain bouquet of Shayne’s cheap Scotch with no show of pleasure. He took a sip and looked up with some surprise, but Shayne couldn’t tell whether it was directed at his question or at the Scotch, which was, undoubtedly, a new brand to the millionaire.

“Why, no,” he said. “I made no such statement in my affidavit to the police. I merely gave a resume of the scene in Kincaid’s office, with his final statement as I left, to the effect that he would bring you around all right.”

Shayne waved his hand.

“I’m not worrying about what you told the police. I want to know what Larry told you—after that scene in the office?”

He struck a match and lit a cigarette, pretending that the question wasn’t of vital importance.

“I didn’t see him later. When the news story concerning your presence at the scene of Grange’s death came out, I realized that Kincaid must have persuaded you to take over—and that you had handled the affair very injudiciously. You were lucky, of course, to get rid of the incriminating gun before the police arrived.”

He frowned distastefully at his glass, then lifted it and poured half the contents down his throat with a do-or-die look on his face.

“How did you know about the gun?” Shayne bent toward him grimly.

“There must have been a gun. The man was shot through the head.”

Shayne tipped back, lacing his fingers around his knee. Very quietly he said, “You’re a self-righteous bastard, aren’t you, Thomas? Because you’ve got all the money in the world you think you can hire saps to pull your chestnuts out of the fire, and if they get burned, you figure it’s their hard luck. You don’t pull that stuff on me. I’m warning you—”

“Save your breath, Shayne.” Thomas spoke coldly. His usually pleasant ruddy face was set in stony lines of disapproval. “When I hire men to do a job for me, I don’t accept the responsibility if they bungle it. I didn’t order you to murder Grange. I wash my hands of any complicity in the affair.”

He polished off his drink and got up.

Shayne said, “Sit down, Thomas. I’m not through.”

“I am. I didn’t come here to discuss your difficulties with you.”

Shayne stayed in his chair. He didn’t even look up. He said, “You’re still on the spot with the racing commission.”

Elliot Thomas was halfway to the door. He stopped and turned slowly.

“What do you know about that?”

Shayne looked up in surprise.

“Everything, of course. How Jake Kilgore and a tout named Evans planned it. About Grange getting sore because they didn’t cut him in—and how he got the dope from Chuck, and then held out for a price—letting you bid for it.”

Thomas appeared to count his steps coming back.

“I have nothing to conceal. The more light shed on the affair, the better I like it. You can’t blackmail me, Shayne. I advise you not to try it.”

Shayne’s mind plopped back to his conversation with John Marco. He pushed the Scotch toward Thomas and said grumpily, “Take another drink and cool off.”

The millionaire shuddered at the suggestion.

“No, thanks. Your liquor is as bad as your manners.”

“Do you mean to say,” Shayne asked incredulously, “that you’re not willing to make the payoff alter all?”

“My arrangements were made with Mr. Kincaid,” Thomas reminded him. “I will be glad to deal with him when he comes to me.”

He started out of the room again.

Shayne was desperately trying to think of some reason for further detaining him when a light rap sounded on his door.

Elliot Thomas stopped two paces from it and swung about, questioning Shayne with suspicious eyes.

The knob turned in the unlocked door as the detective got up, and Phyllis Brighton stepped inside. She started a lilting, “Hel—lo…” then saw Elliot Thomas and her eyes widened.

“Why, Elliot,” she exclaimed, “fancy meeting you here!”

Chapter Fifteen: BEDROOM AND BATH

THOMAS BOWED stiffly, not bothering to hide his amazement at seeing Phyllis Brighton standing in the doorway of the detective’s apartment and evidently on intimate terms with him.

Even more nonplused than Elliot Thomas by Phyllis’s unexpected appearance, Shayne made the best of the awkward situation by stepping close to her and exclaiming, “If it isn’t Miss Brighton! On a slumming tour, Miss Brighton?”

His voice was lightly mocking but his eyes desperately tried to signal her to watch her step.

She didn’t notice his eyes because she was just getting a good look at his bandaged face.

She gasped, “What—what happened to you?”

Thomas was standing undecidedly in front of the open door. Shayne got in front of him, answering Phyllis, “This is just routine in the sleuthing trade.”

He put his hands on her shoulders, digging his fingers in, closing one eye in a slow wink.

Phyllis got things fast, he told himself with satisfaction. She grew tense, waiting for a further cue, which he tossed her by saying hastily, “Mr. Thomas was insisting on leaving when you came, Phyllis. Perhaps your charms will have more effect than mine. I hate to have my hospitality flouted the way he was about to do.”

Gathering that Shayne had an important reason for wishing to detain the millionaire, the girl went past the detective and held out both her hands to Thomas.

“I’m still all knocked in a heap by the unexpectedness of seeing you again—and here,” she told him gaily. “I had no idea you and Mike were acquainted.”

“A matter of business,” Thomas said. He reached for her hands gingerly. “As Mr. Shayne explained, I was on the point of leaving.”

“Oh, but you mustn’t run away just because I’ve come.” Phyllis linked an arm in his and led him toward the table. “I’m just dying for a drink and Mike has the best drinks.”

Thomas grunted, “Indeed?” permitting himself to be drawn from the door. He made it quite evident that as a connoisseur of liquor Phyllis had dropped several degrees in his estimation.

Shayne followed them, grinning at Phyllis to encourage her to continue her tactics. He explained genially to Thomas, “You would have Scotch, you know. I never drink the stuff myself so I economize by buying the cheapest I can get. But I’ve got some cognac here that’ll take the bad taste out of your mouth.”

Phyllis was still clinging tightly to Thomas’s arm, and he couldn’t graciously refuse the glass of cognac which Shayne pressed on him.

Fully conscious of the restraint between them, but not understanding it, she sipped her drink, eyes speculatively fixed on Shayne’s face, not quite sure whether he wanted her to stay or go away.

Shayne tossed his glassful of cognac off swiftly, contriving a plan to get her out of the room for a moment to speak to her privately. He thumped his glass down and said in an elaborately casual tone, “I suppose you dropped in to pick up that recipe for champagne punch I was telling you about the other night? It’s in the kitchen somewhere. Come on out and help me hunt it—if you’ll excuse us for a moment, Thomas,” he added politely.

Phyllis said, “Oh, yes, I’m dying to try that punch at a party I’m having tomorrow,” unlinked her arm from Thomas’s with a little pat, and followed the detective toward the kitchen.

Inside the door, Shayne grabbed her arm and talked low and emphatically, “Make this an excuse to beat it, Angel. And don’t let him go out with you. I’ve got to keep him here a few minutes. It’s damned important.”

“You’re cooking up something,” she whispered tensely. “Can’t I stay?”

“You cannot. Some other time when—when I don’t have so much company.” He smiled down on her, then raised his voice to add, “Oh, here’s the recipe. Stick it in your purse.”

He took her arm and led her back to the living-room. The bathroom door was just closing behind Elliot Thomas with a little slam.

Shayne’s fingers tightened on Phyllis’s arm as he took in the situation and started rushing her toward the front door.

“Here’s your chance to beat it without having him insist on going with you,” he panted. “I’ll tell him you had to rush off to keep an engagement.”

“Well,” she objected with a grin, “even so, you don’t have to throw me out bodily, do you?”

She stopped suddenly, turned to stare at the bedroom door, which had opened to frame Helen Kincaid on the threshold. Phyllis and Helen looked from Shayne to each other, and back to Shayne, bewildered.

Shayne stepped back, mopping sweat from his brow. He said, “Look, Angel. Don’t get any silly ideas. This isn’t what you think. Be sweet and get the hell out.” Phyllis laughed thinly, an angry flush crawling into her cheeks, disdainful eyes taking in the alluring figure of Helen Kincaid.

“So, that’s why you were giving me the bum’s rush!” she exclaimed. “I might have guessed. Oh, I hate you, Michael Shayne.”

He groaned.

“Not so loud, damn it. This is business.”

“Yes. I know. Monkey business. The sort you’re so good at. I suppose you’re going to tell me that isn’t a bedroom and that woman isn’t—”

Shayne lunged forward and pressed a hard palm over her mouth.

“Don’t be a fool,” he grated. “I’ll explain later.”

Helen had advanced a few steps into the room hesitantly. She was staring with round eyes at the scene in the doorway, too bewildered to say anything.

It was inevitable for Elliot Thomas to choose that precise moment to step out of the bathroom. His expression of complacent self-approval changed into one of consternation when he saw Shayne holding the squirming figure of Phyllis with one hand on her shoulder and the other pressed tightly on her mouth.

Shayne laughed hollowly and released Phyllis with a little push.

“Go on,” he said savagely. “Start screaming. I don’t care.”

He gave a shrug of resignation and walked to the table to pour himself a badly needed drink.

Thomas stepped forward, frowning, stopped short when he caught sight of Helen Kincaid. His jaw dropped laxly and he goggled at her.

“Don’t be surprised at anything that happens here,” Phyllis advised him acidly. “Mr. Shayne has his own peculiar detecting methods. He uses his bedroom for third degrees. I think you and I had better go, Elliot. Mr. Shayne does his best work in privacy.”

Helen Kincaid had not yet uttered a word. She stood quietly looking from one to another of the trio, trying desperately to get the hang of what was going on. She darted a sharp look at Thomas when Phyllis called him by his first name, realizing that he was the man Shayne wanted her to vamp. Without the slightest idea who Phyllis was or what she was doing in Shayne’s apartment, she took almost instant advantage of her presence to rail out at Shayne, “So, that’s why you pushed me off into the bedroom.—Because this—this hussy was coming.”

With her coral wrap over one arm she advanced toward the detective with her lips curling. “I suppose our little party is all off?” She swayed her hips when passing Thomas, holding her chin lifted to give her neck and throat a smooth and alluring line.

A predatory gleam came into Elliot Thomas’s eyes as he observed her covertly. He cleared his throat, smoothed his vest, and took a step forward.

“It seems to me you might introduce your charming guest, Mr. Shayne.”

Helen turned her head to regard him shyly.

“Oh, no,” she faltered. “I—I’d much rather no one knew my name. When I accepted Michael’s invitation,” she went on in pretty confusion, “I didn’t know there were going to be other—people—”

Phyllis was openly staring at Helen with speculative antagonism. Two red spots glowed high on her cheeks. She broke in rudely, “You must not know Michael Shayne very well if you expected him to be satisfied with just you for an entire evening.”

“Well, I—I don’t,” Helen admitted uncertainly. “But I certainly didn’t come here to be insulted.” She tossed her head. “And now if you’ll excuse me—

She started toward the door, but Thomas moved briskly in her path. He took her arm with a fatuous assumption of paternalism.

“See here, now—it isn’t necessary for you to be so upset. We’re all good friends, eh, Shayne? Suppose we all have a drink and convince the young lady the future isn’t nearly so black as she thinks.”

Shayne shrugged. Matters were wholly out of his control, but Helen was certainly playing up superbly. And Thomas was reacting to her histrionics just as he had expected him to. If Phyllis would only let things ride.

But Phyllis had no intention of letting things ride. She pushed past the detective to get in front of Thomas and Helen, telling him coldly, “You’ve taken the wrong cue, Elliot. It’s you and I who should clear out and leave Mr. Shayne and this dewy-eyed damsel to play their game of parlor-bedroom-and-bath.”

She put her hand persuasively on Elliot’s free arm and glared at Shayne.

He glared back at her, then muttered, “It isn’t such good taste, Thomas, to take advantage of my present condition and try to steal my date.”

“I have something to say about it,” Helen put in, “and I’m not at all sure I’m sorry things happened this way,” with an arch and big-eyed smile up at Thomas.

His chest swelled under her flattery. “There you are, Shayne.” He spoke in a man-to-man fashion. “Suppose we let Miss—ah—?”

“Just call me Helen.”

“Suppose we let Helen decide for herself.” His soft fingers pressed her arm warmly.

Shayne managed to get a crestfallen look on his face, then shrugged wide shoulders.

“That’s all right with me,” he stated flatly. “After all, I didn’t know the shape I was going to be in when I dated Helen. I’ll get some glasses and we’ll have that drink.” He went into the kitchen. Elliot Thomas was murmuring in Helen’s ear, and Phyllis jerked her hand from his arm, stalked across the room and dropped into an armchair. The spots of color had gone from her cheeks, leaving her white and drawn and a little frightened. Her lips were clamped tightly, and when Michael Shayne re-entered the room her eyes followed him with an expression of stricken doubt.

Shayne poured four drinks while Thomas officiously drew up a chair and seated Helen in it with a gallant gesture. She accepted the cognac with prim protestation.

“I usually drink champagne. This is stronger, isn’t it? Do you think I should?” She pouted at Thomas who hovered over her.

“It’s a bit strong, but it won’t hurt you,” he urged. “Just take a sip and then a quick drink of water.”

Shayne turned his back on them with a glass in each big hand. He crossed to Phyllis, his bandaged face set in grim lines. He leaned over and pressed a glass into her hand muttering, “Play up for my sake, Angel. It’s damned important.”

She accepted the glass listlessly. At the table, Helen giggled and Elliot Thomas encouraged her to take another sip.

Phyllis lifted the glass to her lips and tipped it up. Three ounces of hundred-proof liquor brought tears to her eyes and washed away the stricken look.

She looked past Shayne at the other couple, then said briskly, “You seem to be losing your sex appeal, mister. You shouldn’t have made that gal stay in your bedroom so long alone. She’s evidently not as patient as I was that night—”

Standing in front of her with his back to the others, Shayne shook his head.

“Shut up, Angel. I tell you this is—”

“You’ve already told me too many lies.” Phyllis’s voice throbbed with hurt. “I know I’m a damn fool to have expected anything different from you. If I’d used my head I would have known why you were so anxious to get rid of me when I first came.”

Shayne’s right fist doubled into a knot and corded muscles stood out on his lean jaw.

“Before God,” he muttered thickly, “I’ve never hit a woman. But—”

“Go on.”

Phyllis kept her voice as low as his in an attempt to keep the others from overhearing. Her eyes were dilated with lids drawn far back. Tears formed in them, rolled down her cheeks, and she didn’t try to blink them away.

“Beat me,” she whispered intensely. “Why don’t you go ahead? You couldn’t hurt me any worse. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters—very much—any more.” Shayne’s big fists unclasped spasmodically. He stood before her on wide-spread feet and watched the tears trickle silently down her cheeks.

He felt like hell.

“Look at my face, Angel.” He formed each word distinctly. “Can’t you see I’m not in any condition to be playing indoor games? Don’t be as dumb as Thomas. You’re spoiling everything.”

Phyllis peered around him. Thomas and Helen were engrossed with each other.

“It’s already—spoiled,” she whispered.

Shayne bent down and put his hands on the arms of her chair. His face was a foot from hers.

“It isn’t spoiled, Phil. You know it isn’t.”

Her eyes were somnambulistic. Her lips moved and the words kept pace with the tears which ran down her cheeks.

“I love you and I despise myself for saying it. Any woman would be a fool to love you.”

“Angel.”

“I won’t listen to you. Not ever again. I won’t torture myself that way. Can’t you see it would be torture, Michael? There’d always be women like her popping out of your bedroom. I couldn’t stand that. I couldn’t stand having you lie to me—telling me you had to make love to them to break a case. I believed that—once.”

“You’re going to believe it again, Angel.” Sweat stood on Shayne’s face between the bandages. “Let them go away from here together. I planned it for them to meet this way.”

He leaned closer and his bruised lips touched her hair. He drew himself back so his face was inches from hers.

A tremor went through her taut body.

“I wish I could believe you. If you’d only stop treating me like a child.”

He said, “I love you,” and there was a long silence between them.

Giggles and softly murmured words came to them from Helen and Thomas across the room. The tears were dry on Phyllis’s face. Her eyes were warmly luminous. Shayne’s lips scarcely moved as he explained:

“Helen is the wife of my best friend. She’s fighting right now for his life—and mine. You should have figured that out. If you’re going to marry a detective you’ll have to learn to keep your mouth shut and your eyes open.”

“Am I—going to marry a detective?”

“God knows.” He shook his head soberly. “It’s a fate worse than death and I’ve tried to save you from it. If you refuse to be saved, Angel—”

Phyllis’s lips were parted and her breath came unevenly.

“This isn’t a joke to me, Michael.”

“Do you think it is with me?”

Her hands came up slowly and locked behind his head. She pulled his face to her and moist parted lips were warmly upon his.

It was a long time before he straightened up, and Phyllis came up with him. They turned together to see Elliot Thomas’s arm around Helen’s waist.

They drew apart in embarrassment when Phyllis and Shayne moved toward them. Thomas started some explanation, but Shayne stopped it with a genial wave.

“Don’t bother, Thomas. You seem to have beaten my time, and I’m no dog-in-the-manger. Lord knows, I don’t feel quite up to Helen’s ideas tonight. When we planned this party I didn’t know I was going to get myself beaten to a pulp this evening. Suppose you pinch-hit for me and show her a big time?”

“Well, I—of course—”

“Why not take her out to your yacht and pour a few bottles of champagne down her? Helen dotes on champagne. Miss Brighton is about my speed tonight the way I feel.”

“Yes—I—well—”

“Did he say a yacht?” Helen beamed upon the millionaire with wonder and eagerness.

Thomas made a deprecatory gesture and laughed.

“Well, yes, I do have a little boat.”

“I bet it’s more than that. I’d be thrilled to death to see it.” She sprang up and caught his pudgy hand.

He came to his feet wavering a trifle and Shayne noted that the cognac bottle was practically empty.

They went out together, tossing gay goodnights back over their shoulders, and Shayne morosely watched the door close behind them. Then he dropped into a chair, mopped sweat from his forehead, and said, “Thank God that’s over with. You almost ruined everything, Angel.”

“I thought everything was ruined when I saw that woman come out of your bedroom.”

Phyllis’s voice was shaky and she didn’t look at him. Shayne sighed deeply and touched several spots on his bandaged face to test the soreness. Phyllis moved closer to his chair and he caught one of her hands.

“It’s been a tough afternoon and evening. One of these days I’m going to quit this business and buy a log cabin on top of a mountain in Colorado and watch the rest of the world go by.”

Phyllis sat on the arm of his chair. Her fingers ruffled through his coarse hair. “It’s been—a good evening.”

Without looking at her, he growled, “It would have to happen at a time when my never-beautiful mug is so battered up no woman but a trained nurse could look at me without flinching.”

Phyllis’s hand crept from his hair to his chin and lifted it so that he looked up into her face. Her eyes were wide and misty and adoring. She smiled confidently and Shayne knew he would never again make the mistake of thinking her too young to know her own mind. She leaned down and kissed him, then snuggled happily against his shoulder.

“Tell me all about your case and about—tonight,” she ordered, “and you’d better make it a convincing story or I’ll scratch the rest of the skin off your face.”

Chapter Sixteen: THE GUN BARRELS

THE NEXT MORNING Shayne called Helen Kincaid while he waited for coffee water to boil.

She answered breathlessly, “If you hadn’t called, I was going to call you. I couldn’t stand waiting any longer.”

“How’d you make out last night?”

“It was awful,” she groaned. “I’ve been in and out of the tub ever since I got home—trying to get to feeling clean again.”

“I’m not interested in your psychic reaction,” Shayne told her. “What did you find out?”

“Nothing.”

“What?”

“That is—he knows something about Larry. He seems sure he won’t be back.”

“I’m betting Thomas financed his trip. Tell me about it. Did you go on the yacht without any of the crew seeing your face?”

“I think so. We went direct to his private cabin and had champagne. I pretended to have met Larry through you—and that I had been stepping out with him on the sly. I told him Larry had stood me up on a date tonight, and he advised me to forget Larry. Said he had left town and wouldn’t be back—intimating that he would be glad to take Larry’s place in my affections.”

“He didn’t suspect who you really were?”

“I’m sure he didn’t. I told him just to call me Helen and let it go at that. He—He was horrible, Michael, he was—”

“Save your confessions for the priest or write it up for ‘True Story,’” Shayne growled. “I know it was a tough spot to put you in, but it was necessary. Did you get away without being seen?”

“I don’t think the lookout saw me. Elliot drank too much of his own champagne and passed out about three-thirty. I slipped out and down the gangplank and found a cruising taxi to bring me home.”

“Good girl! Keep a stiff upper lip.”

“Did Larry—do you think he—?”

Soberly, Shayne said, “I’m afraid so, Helen. I’m trying to ball the case up so the police won’t know who to arrest.” He paused thoughtfully, then asked, “Did you have Western Union send out a copy of that telegram you received from Larry?”

“No. They phoned it out and I didn’t ask for a copy.”

“Call them right away and demand a copy of it. They’ll probably try to tell you it’s too late and they can’t do it—but make them. Raise a lot of hell. Complain to the manager. If necessary, tell them you asked for a copy yesterday morning and it’s their fault you haven’t received it.”

He hung up and went into the kitchen to pour boiling water into the dripolator. Coming back into the living-room he glanced at the clock and saw it was nine-thirty.

A worried frown creased his forehead. At the phone again, he called the office of the Miami chief of detectives. When Will Gentry answered, he said, “Will, I want you to do me a favor.”

There was some hesitancy in Gentry’s reply. “I don’t know, Mike. What is it?”

“Has Painter arrested John Marco for the Grange killing yet?”

“No. He’s—”

“All I want,” Shayne said hastily, “is to get him to leave Marco alone until after ten o’clock. Marco has some business over here at the bank that I’d like to have him transact first. Couldn’t you get in touch with Painter and talk him into holding off on the pinch for another hour?”

“Why, yes. I can do that all right. As a matter of fact, Painter is right here in my office with me. He wants to have another talk with you before doing anything.”

“Fine. I’m just about to eat breakfast. But I can come down any time.”

“Don’t bother. Go ahead with your breakfast. We’ll drop in on you in about fifteen minutes.”

Shayne said he’d have a welcome sign out, and hung up. He had detected an odd note of puzzlement in Gentry’s voice, a tone of perplexed chiding.

Shayne set the front door ajar and brought coffeepot and a cup into the living-room. He was working on his third cup when Gentry and Peter Painter appeared in the doorway.

Shayne waved to them genially without getting up. “Coffee—or something stronger, gentlemen?”

“Neither.”

In the lead, Will Gentry’s face didn’t wear its usual jovial expression. He scowled and avoided Shayne’s eyes.

Painter was his usual dapper, stern self, with perhaps an added touch of complacency clinging to him this morning.

The welcoming grin went off of Shayne’s face as he looked from one to the other.

“I have an uneasy feeling that you bear ill tidings. Marco hasn’t inconveniently committed suicide, has he?”

Painter shook his head slightly, and Gentry dropped his heavy, solid body into a chair and said resentfully, “I’ve played ball with you lots of times, Mike. I’ve trusted you when God knows I didn’t have any reason to.”

Shayne set his cup down. “You haven’t ever regretted it, have you, Will?”

“No,” Gentry rumbled. “That’s the hell of it, Mike. I didn’t think you’d let me down.”

“Have I?” Shayne’s eyes were alert, questioning.

“That’s what it looks like. And what gets my goat is the damned stupidity of it. Any time you pull a fast one I expect it to be good. This stunt couldn’t get by, Mike. You, of all men, should have known better.”

“I don’t get it. I’m no good at riddles or beating around the mulberry bush. What are you talking about?”

Gentry waved a big hand toward Painter. “You tell him. It’s your party.”

Peter Painter took a folded document from his breast pocket. “Just to be sure that everything’s in order, Shayne, here is a search warrant authorizing me to search your apartment for the gun that killed Harry Grange.”

He extended the paper toward the detective.

Shayne blinked at him in utter consternation, his thoughts swiftly going over his action in exchanging barrels in the two pistols. He was certain the barrels had no identifying marks. How in hell could they have found out about the exchange? He bluffed it out by growling, “You don’t need to get so technical. I gave you that pistol last night of my own volition.”

“You gave me a pistol,” Painter contradicted. “But not the one that killed Harry Grange. Don’t you know, for God’s sake, that we’ve got ballistic tests down to such a science nowadays that you couldn’t get away with a switch like that?”

Shayne still didn’t get it. He thought the beach detective was referring to his switching of barrels. He glanced over at Will Gentry with ragged red brows drawn down low over his eyes.

“What’s this guy talking about, Will?”

Gentry waggled his head sorrowfully.

“It wasn’t even smart, Mike. Painter has found out about you prowling Marco’s house yesterday, and it’s easy to guess how you got hold of the gun registered in his name.”

“Then went out on the beach and had a witness watch you pick up the death gun where you had thrown it last night,” Painter put in swiftly. “Then you fired a shot out of the Marco pistol, cleaned and reloaded your own gun—as if that would fool a ballistics expert,” he ended witheringly.

“Wait a minute.” Shayne looked from one to the other in horrified realization. “Do you mean to say that gun you took away from here didn’t fire the bullet into Grange’s head?”

Painter said, “Absolutely not. There’s a difference between the markings on a bullet shot out of it and the death slug.”

“Well, I’m damned!” Shayne appealed to Gentry. “He’s crazy, Will. He must be crazy—or else he’s pulling one.”

Will Gentry nodded negatively.

“You can’t get away with it, Mike. I had my own expert compare the bullets before I’d believe you had tried a dumb trick like that.”

Shayne got up unsteadily. He moved over to the liquor cabinet like a man in a coma, reached down a bottle and pulled the cork with his teeth, took a long drink out of the bottle.

Gentry frowned, watching him. Shayne’s surprise was almost too perfect to be simulated. For a moment the Miami detective chief wondered if it was possible that Shayne had actually thought he was giving them the death gun.

Shayne came back, stood before the two detectives on wide-spread legs, his nostrils flaring at the base.

“As God is my witness,” he told them steadily, “this is news to me. News that hurts like the devil. I—hell! I can’t believe it yet.”

Painter’s lips curled scornfully. He snapped, “Save the histrionics for a jury.” He flipped the search warrant in front of Shayne and reached for the table drawer. “I’m taking this nice clean pistol along with me this time. We’ll see what ballistics has to say about it.”

Trapped by his own infernal cleverness, hoisted on his own petard! For a moment Shayne couldn’t think of anything to say. His pistol was fitted with the barrel taken from the Marco gun—the one he had found in Marsha’s room.

And Marsha’s handkerchief had been in the car—high-heeled footprints running from the scene—Marsha had, undoubtedly, ridden away from the casino with Grange—Marsha’s inexplicable confinement to her room and her father’s anxiety over what she might have told Shayne.

All these facts flashed kaleidoscopically before his benumbed mind as he stood there speechless. If Marsha Marco had killed Grange, a ballistic test would prove his gun had shot the bullet.

It was too much for Shayne all of a sudden. All along he had been working on the theory that Larry Kincaid had killed the man with his pistol and left it behind to frame him. But if the barrel from his pistol hadn’t fired the shot—

He dropped into a chair and mopped sweat from his brow. Painter had the drawer open and was lifting out his pistol.

“I’ve got another warrant in my pocket,” Painter was saying casually. “One charging you with first-degree murder, Shayne. If you want to come along quietly, I won’t serve it until we’ve had a chance to test this pistol and clinch the case against you dead to rights.”

Shayne’s head moved slowly from side to side as if he hadn’t the strength to stop it. It was beginning to clear up a little, and he realized what a spot he had put himself in. They’d never believe him if he told his story of exchanging pistol barrels—and if they did believe him, he’d be indicted for planting evidence in a homicide.

He turned his back on Painter and addressed Gentry. “Before God, Will, this is all a complete upset for me. You can see what it does to my plans. I thought I had this case all sewed up. Now, everything’s screwy. I’ve got to work it all out from another angle.”

“You can work it out behind bars,” Painter told him silkily. “Let’s be going.”

Shayne kept his position, further appealing to Gentry, “Talk him out of it, Will. Give me a few hours to readjust my case. Tell him I’m not going to take a runout powder. Hell! I’ll hand over the real murderer if he’ll give me a few hours.”

“And I contend I’ve already got the real murderer. You’ve had your last chance to mess up the evidence in this case.”

Shayne thrust his hands deep into his pockets and strode across the room and back, shoulders hunched. Stopping in front of the two men, he said, “There’s one thing neither of you know. The pistol I found on the scene of the crime had jammed after the first shot was fired. I unjammed it when I removed the magazine to count the remaining cartridges. Knowing that just one shot had been fired into Grange’s head, I naturally thought nothing about it. But you can see how that changes things now that we know the one shot fired from it didn’t kill Grange.”

Gentry said, “Mike, I’ll be damned if you aren’t making me believe you thought that was the death gun you gave Painter.”

Shayne swung on him savagely.

“Why wouldn’t I think so? There it was with one shot fired—lying where the murderer might have tossed it. Good God, Will! as you said in the beginning, I would have been a damned fool to think I could put the wrong gun over on ballistics.”

For the first time since the interview had started, a look of indecision appeared on Peter Painter’s face.

“Why would anyone leave a jammed gun lying around there?”

“That,” Shayne told him, “is what I intend to find out.” He swung away, back and forth across the room again.

Gentry stepped close to Painter and said in a low tone, “I’d listen to him if I were you. He’s never run from anything. He’ll be here whenever you want him.”

“I’ll be here,” Shayne promised grimly from behind them. “I’m going to be so damned busy the next few hours I won’t have any time to think of leaving town.” Painter rubbed his mustache undecidedly.

“Will you be personally responsible for him, Gentry? Alter all, he’s a citizen of your city—not mine.”

“Of course,” Gentry said without hesitation. “I might have known I shouldn’t have come up here with you. I knew he’d twist me around with his blarney.”

“Thanks, Will.” Shayne’s hand closed tightly on the detective chief’s shoulder.

“All right,” Painter decided. “I’ll place you in Gentry’s custody until I can get a check made on this gun. If it proves to be the one that killed Grange, I’ll serve that warrant without any further argument.”

He turned away and Gentry made a movement to follow him. Shayne’s hand closed down tighter on his friend’s shoulder.

“Don’t go, Will. You’ve got to help me.”

They stood like that until the door closed after Painter, then Shayne’s hand relaxed and slid away.

“How long will it take him to make that ballistic test?”

“Half an hour.” Gentry looked at him steadily. “Why, Mike? You’re not afraid of what it will show, are you?”

“God help me, I am.” Shayne gritted his teeth angrily, then spread out his hands. “There’s no time to go into the details—but I switched barrels in those two pistols. I thought my gun had killed Grange. If the Marco gun killed him—I’m done for, Will.”

“You damned fool. You goddamned fool.”

“I know.” Shayne jerked his head around. “I deserve anything you say. I didn’t kill Grange. You believe that, don’t you?”

“Yes. I believe that. But why—?”

“Never mind anything else.” Shayne gripped his arm. “I’ve got to have a few hours to clear myself. How many ballistics experts are there on the beach force?”

“Why—only one. Lonnie Judson.”

“You personally acquainted with him?”

“Sure. He used to work with me.”

Shayne was dragging Gentry toward the phone.

“Call your friend Lonnie Judson before Painter has time to get there with the pistol. Get him away from the office somehow. Tell him anything. Have him go home with a case of smallpox. Anything to stay out of Painter’s way. Do this one thing for me, Will, and I swear to God I’ll have Grange’s murderer by five o’clock this afternoon.”

“I can’t do that, Mike. I’m an officer of the law, and Painter’d know.”

“Will, for God’s sake, you know how Painter feels toward me. If that pistol shows—he’ll have me behind bars, and I won’t get out. You know me, Will. You’ve got to do it.”

Gentry sighed and said, “You do have a way of making it tough on your friends, Mike.”

He lifted the receiver and called Miami Beach headquarters while Shayne went back to pour himself a drink and do some concentrated thinking.

Gentry left the telephone and said, “Lonnie thinks I’m nuts, but he owed me a favor. He’ll be home and in bed by the time Painter gets there. That’ll mean Painter will bring the gun over to my office for—”

“Stall him,” Shayne said impatiently. He set down his glass and absently poured Gentry a drink. “Didn’t you ever get anything on those hoodlums you fished out of the Tamiami Trail canal?”

“Them? Oh, yeh, I forgot to tell you. Ex-cons paroled from Raiford last month. The car was stolen.”

“Raiford? Paroled last month?” Hope shone in Michael Shayne’s eyes. “Remember Whitey Larson? Used to work for Marco and got sent up for rolling a drunk for his winnings.”

Gentry rubbed his chin. “I just remember the name.”

“He was paroled from Raiford last month, too. Any way you could find out whether Whitey and those other two were friendly while they were doing time together? Whether they got paroled at the same time?”

“Sure. I could call the warden.”

“Do it.” Shayne shoved him toward the telephone. “Charge it to my phone. I’m either going to earn a fee on this case, or I’ll be in a spot where I won’t have to worry about telephone bills.”

It took Gentry some time to get through to the warden of the state penitentiary at Raiford. After he was connected, it didn’t take long to get the information he wanted.

“You hit it on the head,” he told Shayne when he hung up. “Whitey and the others were close pals—all three of them worked in the laundry for months, and they were paroled at the same time.”

“That,” said Shayne soberly, “must mean something. If I can just figure out what it means I may dodge the chair yet.”

Gentry grabbed him by the arm and pushed him down into a chair.

“You’re holding out too much on me. It’ll do you good to spill some of this—clear it up in your own mind. What’s the straight on those birds that were drowned in the canal?”

Shayne gave him the story succinctly.

“You might as well have the rest of it,” he went on when Gentry asked what they thought he had gotten from Grange that was so valuable.

“Right now, I’m guessing they were after the info Grange was holding out on Thomas. I was balled up at first because the only thing I took from Grange was a lady’s handkerchief, and I thought they were after that.”

“The one you gave me to analyze?”

“Yeh. I had a crazy hunch there might be a message on it, or something. It belonged to Marsha Marco.”

Gentry sighed out loud and shook his head.

“This gets more mixed up all the time. Marsha Marco. How does she figure?”

“She’s the key to the whole damned thing. She either killed Grange—or knows who did it,” Shayne explained.

He sucked in his breath sharply. “I lifted that pistol out of Marsha’s room. I was being, oh, so goddamned cagey.” He groaned and lifted a haggard face to stare at his companion. “I deserve anything I get. I’ve messed around with evidence before, Will, but always in the ultimate interests of justice. This time, I was positive I knew the killer, and I was trying to throw the law off the track, and incidentally save myself from a frame.”

“All right,” Gentry said impatiently. “Forget that part of it. What have you got now?”

“A God-awful headache!”

“Why not pick up the Marco girl?”

“That’s where we’re stymied. Marsha Marco has disappeared. She may not even be alive right now.”

“What makes you think that? She’s probably hiding out.”

“If she killed Grange, she’s just the type to suicide over it. If the killer knows she recognized him—he may have taken care of her. The hell of it is, I’ve only a few hours to fit all the pieces together. As soon as Painter tests that pistol—”

“Maybe it isn’t so bad,” Gentry offered consolingly. “You’re just guessing that the pistol you got from the Marco girl’s room killed him. If it didn’t—”

“But I can’t take that chance,” Shayne pointed out somberly. “If I’d only had brains enough to get you privately to make a test—but how the hell was I to guess? There was my gun lying by Grange’s body, jammed after one bullet had been fired. And I knew it had been taken from here that evening by a man who had worked up a first-class hate against me, and who planned to meet Grange that night. Good God! can you blame me for reading it was a perfect frame-up—and for doing what I could to protect myself?”

“I don’t blame you,” Gentry admitted. “But it’s going to look black as hell to a jury, Mike. You’ve been on the wrong end of a lot of publicity the past few years. You’ve encouraged the newspapers to paint you as black as their headlines. You’ve held out the inside stuff that would have cleared you on a lot of angles.”

“Sure, sure. That’s water under the bridge now. It was smart publicity while it lasted. And it’s been fun.”

Briefly, Shayne let his wide mouth stretch into a grin.

“I’m not finished yet, either. Here we are sitting around weeping crocodile tears over my demise. Hell, I’ve still got a few hours. I’ve broken tougher cases in less time.”

He got up and strode back and forth.

“We’ve got to find that Marco girl,” he muttered. “You can help me on that. Get out a general alarm over the radio. I’ll lose a slice of money if you find her, but this thing has gone beyond monetary considerations. And I wish to God I could locate Larry Kincaid. My gun places him at the scene of the crime at about the time it was committed. He and Marsha Marco must both know something. Either one of them might have killed Grange. And I can’t cover Larry any longer. The only way I can get clear is to square the whole thing up. Put the Jax police on his trail, Will. They might pick up something. I’ve wasted a day playing a goddamned fool when I should have been thinking of my own hide. Larry wired his wife from Jax yesterday morning. Wait a minute and I may be able to get the exact time the message was filed. It’ll be a slim lead, but—”

His long legs took him to the telephone and he called the Kincaid number. A brief talk with Helen brought him back to the table saying, “The time on the telegram is six-thirty-two yesterday morning. Make a note of that and pass it on to the Jax authorities. I’m afraid Larry has kept on going, but—”

He paused, an odd expression of uncertainty creeping over his angular face. He stood there looking past Will Gentry as though a veil had been suddenly lifted.

Gentry started to say something but didn’t, after one look at Shayne’s strained features. He sat silent until Shayne started talking in a queer monotone, as if to himself.

“My gun jammed after the first shot was fired. Where the hell did that bullet go? Larry didn’t know much about guns. If an automatic jammed on him, he’d probably think it was busted beyond repair.”

He paused, then burst out, “Goddamn it, Will, we’ve got to locate Marsha Marco. Give me all you’ve got on it.” He slumped into a chair and sat staring vacantly across the room.

“I will.”

Gentry got to his feet and put his hand on Shayne’s shoulder, then went out quietly, leaving him sitting there staring at the jumbled picture-puzzle of crime which gradually adjusted itself into a distinct pattern before his eyes.

Chapter Seventeen: HEADLINES IN ADVANCE

A FULL HOUR LATER, Shayne stood up to stretch himself wearily. That was the way it had to be. Proving it was something else. His plan was dangerous only if it misfired. And there were a few things he could check first. He got his hat and went downstairs.

The hotel clerks had switched shifts the previous day, and the clerk now on duty had been night man the night Grange was killed.

The clerk glanced in Shayne’s mailbox as the detective approached the desk, turned with a negative movement of his head.

“Nothing this morning, Mr. Shayne. Your business seems to be rather slow.” He smiled pleasantly.

“On the contrary,” Shayne told him, “I’m getting pushed around by the rush of events.” He leaned on the counter, pushed his Panama back on his head. “You were on duty night before last, weren’t you?”

“Yes, sir.” The clerk was a bright young man with an inordinate admiration for the lanky detective which almost amounted to hero-worship.

“I had a caller while I was out.”

“Yes, sir. Your sister?” The young man spoke in a confidential, man-to-man tone.

“No.” Shayne grinned. “I mean the man who was here earlier in the evening.”

“Oh! Mr. Kincaid.”

“Yes. Can you tell me exactly when he was here?”

“It was around nine-thirty. I remember he stopped at the desk to ask if you were in—and said he’d wait for you in your apartment. I sent a boy up to unlock the door, knowing he was a friend of yours. You see, I never know when a visitor to your apartment is going to turn out to be something important—in your business, you know—and I always make a mental note of their coming and going. I hope I didn’t do wrong to let Mr. Kincaid in.”

“Oh, no. That was the natural thing to do. Did you see him leave?”

“Yes. He only stayed ten or fifteen minutes. He stopped on his way out and asked me to tell you he couldn’t wait any longer.”

The clerk paused, then added with sudden animation, “He made a call from your room. I remember that the girl at the switchboard called over to me to ask if she should put it through—knowing it wasn’t your voice.”

“You keep a record of outgoing calls, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir. I’ll look it up.”

Shayne lit a cigarette while the clerk went back into the office, returning presently with a written notation.

“The call went through at nine-thirty-eight exactly. It was a Miami Beach call.”

“You don’t keep a record of the number?”

“No. Just the destination for toll charges. But I remember that he came down right after putting the call through.”

Shayne puffed on a cigarette, squinting out through the entrance doorway.

“Nine-thirty-eight. Then he left at approximately nine-forty.”

“Very close to that,” the clerk agreed.

“Do you have a railroad schedule?”

“Right here.”

“See what night trains the F. E. C. runs north.”

“I can tell you that. There’s only one. At eleven o’clock.”

“And it arrives in Jacksonville…?”

“At six-thirty the next morning.”

“And two minutes is just about enough time to file a telegram,” Shayne muttered. “Thanks.”

He strode out the front door and across to a row of garages maintained for the use of regular tenants. Unlocking the padlock on a door, he got into his roadster and backed it out, swung around to S. E. Second Street and made his way down Biscayne Boulevard to the Miami Daily News building where he parked and went up to the city room.

He collided with Timothy Rourke on his way out on an assignment. Shayne grabbed the reporter’s arm and Rourke said, “What is it, Mike? I was just on my way out.”

“Forget it.” Shayne dragged him back into the room. “Turn your assignment over to one of the other punks. You’re about to be let in on a story so goddamned new it hasn’t even happened yet.”

Rourke studied Shayne’s face quizzically and a little doubtfully. Then he yelled to a tow-headed youth to take over his assignment.

“It’d better be good,” he warned as he led Shayne to his littered desk in the corner.

“Good?” Shayne exulted. “It’s colossal, Tim. When’s the deadline for your first edition?”

“One o’clock. We hit the street at two-thirty.”

“And it’s just eleven now. And I’m going to give you a headline that’ll knock this town cold. But you’ve got to do some checking for me first, Tim.”

“Shoot.”

“What dope have you got from the racing commission on their investigation of the Masiot stables?”

“Nothing new, officially. They’re still investigating.”

“Do you know any of the members of the commission?”

“Yeh. Leroy Johnson. He’s—”

“Call him.” Shayne gripped Timothy Rourke’s arm. “Make it personal. It’s not to be printed. Find out which way the investigation is going. What they’re digging up—unofficially.”

Rourke shook his head, tight-lipped.

“What are you up to, Mike? It’s that Grange killing, isn’t it?”

“It is. And we haven’t any time to waste if we’re going to manufacture those headlines. Get on the phone.” Rourke lifted the receiver on his desk while Shayne sat back and lit a cigarette. Hunching the instrument to his ear, the reporter carried on a lengthy conversation without seeming to notice the haywire din going on about him.

Presently he hung up and said, “This is strictly confidential, Mike. If it leaks out, a beautiful friendship will be spoiled.”

“It won’t leak. What have you got?”

“They’ve found out that all those bets spread over the country on Banjo Boy originated right here in Miami from one source as yet unidentified. On the Q-T, the commission is pretty well convinced that our friend Elliot Thomas sent those bets out, though they haven’t proved it yet and may not be able to.”

Shayne nodded happily.

“Birdies are coming home to roost. John Marco used to donate heavily through the mutuels, but he seems to have quit two years ago when he opened his casino. Ever hear of a confirmed plunger getting off the horses?”

Rourke leaned back with new interest lighting his eyes.

“A man running a gambling place would hate to be known as a sucker at his own game. There’s other ways of placing bets than through the mutuels.”

“That’s it. With no one being the wiser. How can I find out whether Marco has been dealing through the bookies since he discontinued his public betting at the tracks?”

“That’s a tough one,” Rourke conceded.

He gently rubbed an old knife scar on his square, bony chin.

“Samuelson, down in the Flagler Arcade, handles most of the illegal heavy sugar. He and Marco used to be friendly. Ten will get you a hundred Marco places bets through him if he hasn’t been weaned yet.”

“Let’s call Samuelson and find out.”

“Won’t work. Bookies don’t hand out that kind of information. Not Sammy Samuelson.”

“Call Marco,” Shayne suggested. “Tell him you’re Samuelson. You ought to know Sammy’s voice. Maybe Marco’ll give something away.”

Rourke started to protest, then caught the intense gleam in Shayne’s eyes. “Okay. It’s your party. But I’m afraid my Yiddish accent isn’t what it ought to be.”

He scooped up the phone and got a connection with John Marco on the beach.

Shayne leaned close, and the reporter held the receiver so that both could hear while he squelched the faint brogue in his voice and slurred, “Hi-yuh, John. Sammy.”

“All right, all right,” came John Marco’s impatient voice. “You’d think I didn’t pay off like a slot machine, the way you jump me every time I hit a losing streak. I’ll have the dough over by a messenger this afternoon. Twenty-six hundred is the way I figure they ran for me yesterday. I got to get me a new handicapper or you’ll be owning this joint.”

He paused for the bookie to make some reply, and Shayne nodded to Rourke to hang up.

“That’ll give him something to think about,” Shayne chuckled.

“How about you giving me something to think about now,” Rourke complained.

“All right. I’m set.” Shayne leaned back, hugging one knee with laced fingers. “How’d you like to write a headline for your two-thirty edition on something that’ll be breaking when your papers hit the streets?”

“Swell.”

Rourke swung around in front of his typewriter and rolled a fresh sheet of paper in. Poising his forefinger over the keys, he waited.

Shayne said softly, “Here’s your headline: Elliot Thomas Grilled in Drowning of Beach Debutante.” Timothy Rourke had mechanically started pecking as Shayne spoke. He got as far as the second “l” in “grilled” before the detective finished. He stopped and yelled, “Good Lord! Are you nuts?”

“I’m just coming out of a fog,” Shayne explained. “Finish your typing chore, my man, and I’ll dictate the story that runs under it.”

“I can’t do it,” Rourke protested. “Do you expect me to set this up and print it at one o’clock when I’ve only got your word for it that it’s going to happen an hour or so later?”

“Hasn’t my word always been good enough for you, Tim?”

Rourke stared into his eyes for fifteen seconds, then said, “Okay, Mike. Tim Rourke has been kicked off better jobs for less cause.”

He completed the headline, then began pounding out copy as Shayne dictated it.

When it was finished he leaned back with feverish excitement in his Gaelic eyes.

“What a yarn! But they’ll never print it on my say-so, Mike. Not until they’ve got some proof.”

“How’ll some nice pictures to go along with it do?” Shayne asked easily.

A dazed look came into Tim Rourke’s eyes. He rubbed his brow with unsteady fingers.

“Pics? Of something that’s maybe going to happen?”

“No maybe’s about it. Can you give me a good cameraman that’ll keep his mouth buttoned?”

“Hell, I’ll do it myself. I was one of the best in the business until I turned softie and started writing stories instead of shooting them.”

“We’ll get some pictures that’ll be all the proof your editor will ask for,” Shayne promised. “Now, roll in a clean sheet of paper and I’ll give you the dope on an extra you can have ready to rush on the streets after you’ve sold out your regular edition. You can have them loaded in trucks waiting for the word go.”

Rourke turned resignedly to his typewriter again. “All right, miracle man. For centuries the Rourkes have been noted for their lack of brains. I’m a sucker for your fairy tales.”

Despite his attempt at nonchalant composure, the veteran newspaperman was shaking with a nervous ague when his trained forefinger finished tapping out the story Shayne gave him for an extra.

“If this hits, we’ll make newspaper history in a town that’s made it before.”

“It’s in the bag, Tim.” Shayne stood up, grinding a cigarette butt beneath his toe. “Meet me on the dock where Thomas’s yacht is tied up, at twelve-thirty. Bring along a candid camera that won’t attract too much notice. Keep all this under your hat until you get back with the pics to stick under the disbelieving nose of your editor. It’s up to you to make them print the story. It’s going to be worth—maybe some money to me, and for a cinch getting out from under a first-degree murder charge.”

“I’ll be there at twelve-thirty. I hope you realize just how goddam’ hot this is. The paper could get burned to a crisp on a libel suit if—”

“If me no ifs. I know what I’m doing—now.” Shayne went out briskly, and Rourke muttered after him:

“I hope to God you do, Mike. I hope—you—do.”

Chapter Eighteen: TWO KINDS OF FORGERY

SHAYNE STOPPED outside his hotel and rummaged in the side pocket of his car and got out the light silk jacket and felt toque he had gotten from Marsha Marco’s room. He slid them into his coat pocket and went inside.

The clerk motioned to him as he passed through the lobby.

“Mr. Gentry has been calling. He says it’s important.” Shayne said, “Get him on the line. I’ll take it in my apartment.”

He went up the elevator and to his room. The phone rang as he closed the door.

“That you, Mike?” Gentry sounded plenty worried. “Painter called not long ago to ask me to have my expert go over your pistol. It seems that the beach ballistics man was suddenly taken sick this morning and can’t officiate.”

“Did you stall him?”

“The best I could. I told him my man was out to lunch. He’ll be here about one with that damned gun.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Shayne said absently, “Let your man make the test. Win, lose or draw, I’ll be under the wire and the finding on the gun won’t change anything either way.”

“What have you got up your sleeve?”

“Nothing you won’t be better off without knowing. Sit tight for the blow-off.”

Shayne hung up and went to the table where he cleared away the litter of glasses, bottles, coffee cup and pot, then laid Marsha’s hat and jacket out on the table.

From an inner pocket he drew out the folded note Marsha had left behind her, and spread it out in front of him.

It had been dashed off with a soft lead pencil on a sheet of plain white notepaper.

He found a soft pencil and took out several sheets of plain white notepaper. Sitting in a straight chair, he propped Marsha’s farewell note up in front of him and sat there a long time studying the words she had written:

“I can’t stand this. I’d rather be dead. I’m going where you’ll never see me again.

“MARSHA.”

Carefully, he copied the message on one of the sheets of clean paper.

It was an extremely poor forgery. Scowling, he tried again and again. He was dissatisfied with the result when the entire sheet was covered with repetitions of the message, but was encouraged by what seemed a slight improvement on the last one.

He glanced at the clock, got up and poured a drink, sat down with it and a clean sheet of paper. Forgery wasn’t his forte. He was convinced of that by the time he had scrawled the message all over a second sheet of paper. It seemed that he was getting lousier all the time.

He shoved the sheet aside irritably, took another drink to steady his nerves, and began again.

Gradually, he began to get the hang of it. Complete relaxation and absolute concentration on the girl’s handwriting was the answer. As long as he watched what his own fingers were doing, they refused to follow the pattern.

Finally, keeping his eyes on the words in front of him and writing with swift ease, a blotter beneath his hand to avoid leaving fingerprints, he finished a copy that was almost good enough to pass for the original.

He folded it gingerly and laid it inside Marsha’s toque, folded the felt hat down over it, and rolled the whole thing up in her jacket, putting it in his coat pocket.

His clock showed it was a quarter of twelve when he got up and poured a last drink. He stopped long enough to crumple up the practice sheets of incriminating paper and thrust them into the other coat pocket, then hurried out.

On Flagler Street, he parked in front of one of the arcades and went into a small office with a sign over the door promising: BUSINESS CARDS PRINTED WHILE YOU WAIT.

He left his order with a promise to be back for it immediately, then hurried up the street to a ten-cent store and fitted himself with a pair of hornrimmed glasses with plain lenses.

A printed business card was ready for him when he returned to the arcade.

It was a few minutes after twelve when he drove into Biscayne Boulevard and started across the County causeway.

It was twelve-twenty-eight when he parked his car inconspicuously in the background in a parking lot abutting on a Miami Beach yacht basin, put on his new glasses and walked briskly toward the dock where Eliot Thomas’s Sea Queen was moored.

Loitering under a palm near the dock, Timothy Rourke’s face brightened when he saw Shayne approaching. He went to meet him, muttering, “I was getting the heebie-jeebies. What’s the program now?”

“We’re going aboard the ‘Sea Queen.’ Got the camera?”

“Sure.” Rourke patted his hip pocket.

“Follow me and keep your trap shut.” Shayne strode toward the varnished gangplank leading from the Sea Queen’s deck to the pier.

Brass handrails glistened in the bright sunlight, and the clean white side of the yacht looked as though it had been swabbed off that morning.

A brawny sailor lounged on the deck at the top of the gangplank, and he stepped in front of them to bar their way as they walked up the incline.

He said, “No visitors allowed,” but Shayne didn’t slacken his pace, forcing the guard to give way until both he and Timothy Rourke stood on the holy-stoned deck of the trim craft.

“We don’t happen to be visitors,” Shayne told the sailor pleasantly. “We represent the Great Mutual Marine Underwriters.”

He brought out his billfold and extracted a freshly printed card which he passed over.

“Just a routine inspection,” he explained, “to see that everything’s shipshape according to the marine law.”

The sailor fingered the card, read it with puckered brow.

“I guess it’s all right, Mr. Haines. I’ll call a steward to show you around.”

“Nothing doing on that stuff,” Shayne said curtly. “We’ll make our own investigation without being led around to see what you want us to see. I’ve had that dodge worked on me before.”

The sailor shrugged and spat over the side onto the dock.

“Go ahead and try to find something wrong,” he challenged.

“That’s just what we’re going to do.” Shayne turned to Rourke. “Suppose you take the engine room, Tim. Give the boilers a quick once-over and meet me back on deck. I’ll take the cabins and saloon first, checking fire equipment and life preservers.”

Rourke nodded and went to the aft companionway leading below into the engine room.

Shayne moved slowly across the deck toward the fore-cabins and wheelhouse, frowning through his glasses at fire buckets and extinguishers, turning into a passageway between cabins and into the main dining saloon, nodding curtly to whitecoated stewards who were dusting and polishing.

Explaining his supposed business aboard the craft, Shayne ordered them to unlock all the cabin doors, and he made a quick tour of inspection through them, then rejoined Rourke on the open deck a short time later.

“Engine room seems to be okay,” Rourke reported for the benefit of a group of three sailors, an engineer officer and the third mate, who stood at the top of the gangplank watching them with veiled curiosity.

Shayne nodded. “We’ll have a look at the lifeboats.”

They turned from the nattily uniformed group, strolled back to the fantail on the side away from the dock where one of the yacht’s four gleaming white lifeboats was snugly lashed down with a canvas cover close to the side where a section of bulwark and rail had been left out to provide an opening for easy shipping of the boat.

Making a pretense of inspecting the davits and falls, with his back toward the deck, Shayne muttered:

“This is the spot, Tim. Are they watching?”

Rourke glanced back casually and said, “Nope. They seem to be pretty well satisfied we’re not going to find anything wrong.”

“Ease your camera out and get set,” Shayne told him. He walked to the rail and looked down at the placid waters of the bay lapping against the water line not far below, then eased his body forward into the triangular space between the bow of the life boat and the side. Hidden from observation, he pulled Marsha’s jacket and hat from his pocket, unrolled the jacket and let it drop to the deck, then stooped and spread out the forged message on top of it, weighted one end of it down with the toque so sunlight lay brightly upon the penciled words.

Stepping back out of the way, he nodded to Rourke who was squatting down to focus a small candid camera on the little pile of clothing and the farewell message.

“That’s goddamned near perfect,” he exulted. “You can get the name of the lifeboat in it, too. Make it snappy, before someone comes.”

He moved over in front of Rourke to shield him from any vagrant glances, and the reporter quickly shot half a dozen pictures with the powerful little camera.

Then they strolled on to glance at the other lifeboats, and were met at the bow by a burly, grizzled old sea dog wearing master’s stripes.

“I understand you men represent our insurance agents,” he rumbled. “If you’d sent for me at once—”

“Quite all right, Captain,” Shayne interrupted. “Let me congratulate you on as shipshape a craft as it’s ever been my pleasure to inspect. The ‘Sea Queen’ gets an A-one rating in our report.”

The captain looked visibly relieved. “That’s splendid. If you’d care for a drink—”

“Sorry. We’ve a couple more inspections to make and some of the others may not be as easy as this one. Thanks just the same, Captain.”

Shayne shook hands with the captain, then he and Rourke went briskly to the gangplank and back to the dock.

“Suppose they don’t find that stuff,” Rourke muttered nervously as Shayne went with him toward his parked coupe. “It might stay there for days without being seen.”

“I’ll take care of that,” Shayne promised. “The suicide evidence will be discovered not later than two o’clock. Get the hell back to your office and get those pictures developed, and make over your front page. And print that extra if you want a real scoop. Have the extras loaded in trucks and waiting at strategic points all over the city for a flash to distribute. And you meet me in Painter’s office at three for that flash. Get going.”

He gave Timothy a good-natured shove into his coupe, stood there with his hands in his pockets and watched the reporter start back toward Miami at high speed.

Alone, Shayne moved down the shore line to a spot where he could see the aft lifeboat in its davits on the Sea Queen’s deck.

He settled on the grass with his back against the shaggy bole of a coco palm and took up his vigil. He lit one cigarette from another, never for long taking his gaze from the prow of the lifeboat where he had deposited the evidence of Marsha’s suicide.

He stayed there an hour without moving, and nothing out of the ordinary happened on board the yacht.

Shayne yawned and got up to stretch wearily, then walked swiftly to a near-by beer and sandwich parlor where he went into the telephone booth and called the Miami Beach police office.

To the first voice that answered, he said in a low, whining tone, “Is this here a policeman?”

“Yeh. What is it?”

“I’m a fisherman, see? I don’ want to git mixed up in no trouble and I been tryin’ all day to git up enough nerve to tell some cop about what I saw happen las’ night.”

“Well, what is it? You won’t get in any trouble if you tell the truth.”

“I saw what looked like a woman get throwed in the bay las’ night, mister. Early this mornin’. Off that there ‘Sea Queen’ yacht tied up at the dock. She yelled once and then splashed.”

“Wait a minute!” yelled the excited desk sergeant at the other end. “Who’s calling? Where are you?”

“Never mind. I’m tellin’ the truth so he’p me.”

Shayne hung up, held the receiver down a moment, then called Marco’s Casino. Using the same tone, he whined, “Lemme speak to Mr. Marco, please. I got somethin’ important and private to tell ’im.”

When Marco’s heavy voice growled, “What is it?” Shayne replied swiftly, “This is a friend that saw a man push your girl off Elliot Thomas’s yacht into the bay last night. The police are on the way to the boat now.”

He calmly hung up on Marco’s bellowed exclamations, sauntered across to the counter and ordered a glass of beer.

Sitting on a stool with the glass in his hand, he looked over at the pier and at the Sea Queen riding idly against the pull of her hawsers.

His beer wasn’t half finished before two police cars screamed up to the pier and a squad of detectives tumbled out, led by the dapper figure of Peter Painter.

Shayne took a deep sip of his beer and watched them mount the gangplank, push the guard out of the way and spread out over the boat, questioning the crew and officers who turned out to see what the alarm was all about.

A few moments later John Marco’s limousine rolled up beside the police cars, and the Miami Beach councilman got out and hurried up the gangplank.

Shayne finished off his beer and flipped a dime to the counter, strolled out unconcernedly, taking off his hornrimmed glasses as he stepped into the sunlight.

Unobserved, he went to his parked roadster and got in, drove away slowly toward the Miami Beach police station where he parked half a block away and contentedly waited for developments to develop.

Chapter Nineteen: MAKING THE NEWS COME TRUE

SHAYNE DIDN’T have very long to wait before one of the police cars came back bringing Painter and about half of the detectives who had gone to the yacht.

John Marco was close behind them in his limousine. Shayne pleasurably observed the strained look of horror on the big gambler’s face as he got out of his car and tramped heavily into the police station behind Painter.

Shayne relaxed in the seat of his roadster, bright-eyed and watchful.

Ten minutes later a radio car rolled up in front of the police station and disgorged a burly cop in uniform and a passenger.

It was Elliot Thomas.

The millionaire yachtsman appeared to be more angered than frightened. He was remonstrating hotly with the officer—or it looked so from Shayne’s position. The policeman led him up the steps and they disappeared inside a door.

Shayne lit a cigarette and dragged smoke out of it happily. He felt tense, keyed up to a high, feverish pitch. Anything could happen in the next half-hour. He didn’t know what, but he liked that feeling of sitting atop a powder keg. Moments like this were what made life worth while. One slip would mean utter disaster. One tiny break in the rhythm of events—one fatal flaw in his line of reasoning—

He delayed as long as he dared, savoring to the utmost the thrill of being poised above a precipice before taking the final leap from which there could be no turning back.

He took a final drag on his cigarette and flung the butt away. Smoke trailed lazily from his wide nostrils as he eased his long body out from under the wheel and sauntered to the entrance.

It was two-twenty when he entered the corridor. The afternoon edition of the Miami News would be on the streets in ten minutes.

A group of detectives were loitering in the hall outside the closed door of Painter’s office. They glared at Shayne as he strolled up, and two of them got between him and the door.

“You can’t go in there,” one of them announced belligerently. “Chief’s got an important conference on.”

Shayne kept moving directly toward the door. His eyes were impersonally cold, steely gray. His voice matched his eyes, “I’m going in.”

Reluctantly, they got out of his way. There was something about Shayne that moved them aside.

He turned the knob without knocking and went in.

Painter, Elliot Thomas, and John Marco were alone in the office. Marco was slumped into a chair mopping his bald head. His big features and tiny mouth were lax, as though the fibers of his flesh had disintegrated under the unnerving shock of learning that his daughter was a suicide victim.

Thomas was leaning over the desk facing Painter, his ruddy face angrily flushed. His fist thudded down and words spurted out into the detective chief’s face.

“—damnable outrage. I have no knowledge of this affair. Absolutely none.”

He gestured with a shaking hand toward Marsha Marco’s jacket, felt hat, and the suicide note lying in front of Painter.

“I have no idea how those got on my yacht. Not the faintest. I haven’t seen Miss Marco for days. She’s never been aboard the ‘Sea Queen’ to my knowledge.”

Marco glanced apathetically at Shayne. Painter darted one keen glance at him with no sign of recognition. To Thomas, he said silkily, “You entertained some woman on your yacht last night. The steward and two of the sailors saw you bring her aboard. If it wasn’t Miss Marco, who was it?”

Thomas was breathing heavily, audibly. He straightened and answered, “It certainly was not Miss Marco. It was another woman entirely. And she left early. Why, it’s absurd.”

“None of the crew saw her leave,” Painter told him. “You can prove your story by giving me her name. I’ll have her brought in for questioning.”

Thomas started to say something, then stopped. He swallowed hard and began in an uncertain voice, “That’s the devil of it. I don’t know her name. That is—Helen—” He paused, licking his lips.

He turned slightly and saw Shayne lounging against the door. His eyes brightened and relief spread over his face.

“Mr. Shayne. Thank God you’re here. Tell them I—that the woman who was aboard my yacht last night wasn’t Miss Marco. Mr. Shayne knows her,” he went on triumphantly to Painter. “He can tell you her name. You see, I happened to meet her in his apartment last night and we left together.”

Shayne’s eyes narrowed.

He said, “Don’t try to drag me into this to save your own hide, Thomas. I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

Thomas swung about in utter amazement.

“You don’t? Why, last night in your apartment—”

Shayne shook his head, regarding him bleakly. “I didn’t see you last night. Don’t expect me to lie for you. Painter’s just waiting to hang a murder charge on me.”

The yachtsman’s eyes bulged and his lower jaw dropped slackly. Then anger blazed in his eyes and his mouth snapped shut.

Regaining control of himself, Thomas yelled, “You’re lying. Trying to save yourself. You can’t get away with it, Shayne. You’re going to tell the truth or I’ll—”

He took a forward step, fists knotted.

Shayne swayed forward lazily with an easy flow of rippling muscles. His right fist moved in a terrific uppercut that smashed against Thomas’s jaw and sent him reeling back.

“Don’t ever call me a liar,” he growled, then turned on Painter, who was standing up, white-faced and trembling.

Staring down into the smaller man’s eyes, Shayne asked, “Could you see me privately for a moment?”

Painter read the imperative message in his eyes aright. After a momentary hesitation, he nodded and went through a door into an inner office. Thomas sank down into a chair holding a handkerchief to his jaw, his face twitching with sudden hatred and with fear as Shayne went out.

Closing the connecting door behind them, Shayne said swiftly, “Get smart, Painter. You won’t lose anything by taking good advice from a fellow who’s given you good advice before. Rush a man out to the yacht to search Thomas’s stateroom. If I were doing the searching, I’d pay particular attention to the center drawer of an unlocked writing desk.”

Painter studied him a long time with suspicion actively alive in his black eyes.

“You’re pulling another fast one,” he charged. “I ought to—”

“You’d better do as I say,” Shayne interrupted.

Painter hesitated. “About that pistol of yours—”

Shayne put his hand on the smaller man’s shoulder and gave him a good-natured push toward the door.

“I’m right here where you want me. Start a man out to the yacht.”

Shayne went back through the connecting door. Painter went into the hallway and spoke to one of the detectives waiting outside.

Marco was leaning over Thomas when Shayne stepped back into the office without warning. The millionaire was looking up at the gambler with revulsion showing on his face, one hand up as though to ward off what Marco was saying.

The gambler turned away hurriedly when Shayne entered.

Shayne grinned and said, “You’re a hell of a father to be consorting with the man who murdered your daughter.”

“I don’t believe it for a minute,” Marco snarled.

“Don’t believe it—don’t believe she’s dead? You don’t believe Thomas knew she was there?”

Shayne asked the questions in a pleasant voice. He sat on the edge of Painter’s desk and swung one foot. Painter came in and dropped into a chair behind him.

“I don’t believe either one,” Marco rasped. “This is some kind of a plant. With you mixed up in it, I don’t believe anything.”

“Not even your daughter’s farewell note?” Shayne gestured behind him to the articles on the desk. “And those are her clothes, aren’t they?”

“I don’t know whether they are or not. Might be any dame’s clothes that were planted there.”

“It can be proved easily enough.”

Shayne paused to light a cigarette. Staring through the flame, he added casually:

“You seem mighty damned unconcerned about your girl, Marco. Maybe you know she isn’t dead. Maybe you—”

“You know damn well I don’t know where she is,” Marco bellowed. “Do you think I’d have offered to pay you money to find her if I knew?”

Shayne shrugged.

“How can you laugh off this note? It’s her writing, isn’t it?”

“I haven’t examined it closely,” Marco mumbled.

“Look at it again,” Shayne urged. “Study it closely.” He reached behind him for the note and passed it over to Marco who took it with some reluctance.

“If it’s a genuine note, that proves it was suicide,” Elliot Thomas broke out excitedly. “Perhaps she did slip aboard my yacht and plunge over the side. She didn’t like me. In a deranged state, she might have thought to cause me publicity and trouble. But I can’t be blamed if a crazy girl chooses my yacht for a jumping-off place.”

“I don’t think you’ve convinced anyone you didn’t bring her aboard last night and get her so soused up on champagne she maybe didn’t know what she was doing,” Shayne said drily. “You’ve told nothing but lies about the mysterious girl the sailors saw.”

“Lies? Why, you—you—

Thomas started to his feet, but Shayne’s lips pulled away from his teeth and he started to swing off the desk.

Thomas subsided with a frustrated mutter of fury, and John Marco spoke up from where he sat studying the suicide note, “This looks like Marsha’s writing, all right. But I can’t believe—she wouldn’t do a thing like that. Not Marsha.”

“She was in love with Harry Grange, wasn’t she?” Shayne asked sharply. “Maybe after he died she decided life wasn’t worth while.”

“The report we received didn’t sound like suicide,”

Painter said importantly. “The fisherman who telephoned in said explicitly that she was thrown off the yacht. He testified that she screamed before she was thrown overboard.”

“You can probably tell, all right, when you find her body,” Shayne said cheerfully. “If you ever find it. Those channel tides are tricky as the devil.”

In the intense silence following his words the chant of a newsboy drifted through the open window of Peter Painter’s office. Three of the men in the office stiffened and stared at each other in disbelief as they heard what the newsboy was yelling at the top of his voice. Shayne relaxed with a satisfied grunt of approval.

“ELLIOT THOMAS GRILLED IN DROWNING OF BEACH DEBUTANTE! MILLIONAIRE SUSPECTED IN STRANGE DEATH OF LOCAL SOCIETY GIRL. READ ALL ABOUT IT IN THE ‘NEWS.’ EXCLUSIVE STORY WITH PICTURES OF SUICIDE NOTE THAT MAY BE FORGERY. GET YOUR MIAMI ‘DAILY NEWS’ HERE. EXCLUSIVE.”

Elliot Thomas sprang to his feet, wetting his lips and staring out the window.

“How—how could they have the story? It’s libel, by God. I’ll sue that paper for a million dollars.”

Painter looked at Shayne quizzically. “That’s the first real scoop I ever met face to face. I think I begin to understand—”

Shayne interrupted him, talking fast. “Hadn’t you better get a handwriting expert to look at that suicide note? Her father knows her better than we do, and he finds it hard to believe Marsha would commit suicide. I agree with him. It looks more like a plant to me.”

“We’d have to have a specimen of her handwriting to compare it with,” Painter told him. He was watching Shayne closely, calculatingly. “It appears to me that you—”

“You can’t blame me for being interested in it,” Shayne growled. “I tell you there’s some hook-up between the Grange killing and this drowning affair. Ask Marco why he had Marsha doped and locked in her room the next morning after Grange was killed. Ask him.”

John Marco came to his feet with a bound, a crazed glitter in his eyes. “I’ve listened to you long enough, Shamus. We all know you bumped Grange.”

“You’re going to listen to me some more.” Shayne slid from Painter’s desk to his feet. He moved slowly toward the gambler with bony chin out-thrust.

“You’re going to tell us what you know about Banjo Boy winning the fifth at Hialeah—and about those ex-con friends of Whitey’s who went through Chuck’s room thinking he had the dope, then took me for a ride thinking I’d got it from Grange.”

Marco’s features became hard, masklike. He slid a hand in his coat pocket and said, “Don’t come any nearer, Shayne.”

Shayne stopped a pace in front of him. “I’m close enough to smell the stink of your rotten guts. Thought you could put me on the spot? You’d sacrifice your daughter to do it, wouldn’t you? She was with Grange when he was killed. She knew who did it. Maybe you had a hell of a good reason to keep her locked up. Maybe, by God, you had a hell of a good reason to say that suicide note looks genuine to you. I wouldn’t trust a rat like you not to drown his own daughter.”

A sharp rap on the outer door broke through Marco’s labored breathing. Painter barked, “Come in,” and the door opened to admit an excited detective sergeant with Timothy Rourke squeezing in behind him.

The detective rushed exultantly into the room, waving some crumpled sheets of paper.

“Here you are, sir. I found these in a desk in Mr. Thomas’s stateroom. Proof that the suicide note’s a forgery. Plain as the nose on your face.”

He spread the crumpled sheets of paper out in front of Chief Painter, each one covered with the damning scrawls of an amateur forger practicing Marsha Marco’s handwriting.

Marco moved close to the desk while Painter bent forward and scrutinized the sheets. Shayne winked at Rourke and faced Thomas who appeared frozen to his chair, but quite able to comprehend the meaning of this final blow.

“In your stateroom, eh?” Shayne said sympathetically to the millionaire. “How very careless of you. You might have gotten away with it if you’d been more careful.”

“But I didn’t—I don’t know—” Thomas sprang to life, and to his feet, wildly.

“Sit down,” Painter barked. “This pins it on you, Thomas. You forged that note to make it look like suicide when you pushed Miss Marco off the deck.”

“I didn’t,” Thomas cried in a choked voice. “Good God, I tell you I didn’t. Why should I?”

“You sonofabitch. You girl-murdering bastard.” Marco spoke in a low, deliberate tone, moving slowly away from Painter’s desk. “So that was your game. When I was playing ball—”

A bunched hand in his coat pocket swung up sharply. Shayne lunged forward, knocking him to one side, and the bullet went wild. The sergeant jumped in and wrested a revolver from Marco’s hand.

“That’s all right,” Shayne soothed the gambler. “He’ll burn for drowning Marsha, all right. We’ve got everything but the motive, and you can give us that.”

“You’re goddamn right I can. Marsha saw him kill Harry Grange. She ran down the beach, scared to death, and called me as soon as she got home. And I told her—”

“To keep quiet about it,” Shayne interrupted savagely. “You saw a chance to hang one on me and also have something you could blackmail Thomas with for the rest of his life.”

“But I didn’t. It’s all a mistake. I didn’t drown the girl, Marco,” Thomas protested once more.

“No,” Shayne agreed. “You didn’t. But that doesn’t help you a hell of a lot. You can burn for two murders in this state just as well as for three. Where did you ditch Larry Kincaid after killing him?”

“Kincaid? How—?” Thomas sank back into his chair laxly, his face white, an unclean drool oozing out of the corner of his mouth.

“How do I know you killed Kincaid?” Shayne laughed harshly. “I should have known from the beginning. That one bullet that had been fired from my jammed gun had to go some place. You didn’t know enough about guns to unjam it after killing Larry and use it on Grange, too. And you didn’t have brains enough to know a ballistic test would show my gun hadn’t killed Grange. It had to be you, Thomas. Marco knows more about guns. And he wouldn’t have sent his hoodlums after me to get that racetrack evidence if he hadn’t thought that first I’d killed Grange and gotten it. At first, he thought it would be a good stunt to get that evidence to blackmail you with, but later he found something better to hold over your head. You sent Chuck Evans to Jacksonville on the eleven o’clock train to send the message from Larry Kincaid to his wife. Larry had lost his nerve about meeting Grange himself, hadn’t he? He called you from my apartment and met you and told you he couldn’t go through with it. He had my gun and you figured out the whole plan in a flash. A perfect plant for a guy with my reputation.”

“All right, all right.” Thomas covered his face with his hands and rocked back and forth. “I did it. I killed them both. But I didn’t drown Marsha Marco. I swear to God—”

“Of course you didn’t. If I’m not mistaken, Marsha will be popping up out of hiding to refute the newspaper story being howled all over the city. And you might as well break that extra, too,” Shayne added, turning to Timothy Rourke.

“You bet.”

Rourke’s nostrils flared, his eyes stalking a window on the east side of the room. He leaned far out, thrust two fingers into his mouth and whistled two long blasts.

The sound was echoed down the street. The raucous shout of newsboys split the afternoon calm even as he pulled his head back in:

“EXTRA! EXTRA! MILLIONAIRE CONFESSES TWO MURDERS. EXTRA! THOMAS IS KILLER OF TWO. GET YOUR EXTRA HERE. MILLIONAIRE SPORTSMAN CONFESSES. PAINTER GETS FULL CONFESSION.”

“More newspaper history,” Shayne remarked gently to Peter Painter. “And I’ll take that thirty-two of mine back from you now, if you don’t mind. After Thomas takes you to Kincaid’s body and you get the bullet out of him, you’ll be interested to compare it with one shot from Marco’s gun.”

“But I thought—he said—your gun killed Kincaid.”

Painter was pulling a drawer open, taking out Shayne’s pistol.

Shayne reached over and took it from his nerveless fingers. “The Colt company really shouldn’t make their automatics with interchangeable barrels,” he said. “It makes it so confusing to detective chiefs. And you’ll enjoy knowing you had me plenty worried for a few hours about that ballistic test. Until I hit my stride on this thing, I was scared stiff that Marsha Marco had done the shooting and I had planted the evidence in my own gun. Drop around some day and I’ll show you how it’s done.”

While Painter gasped in astonishment, Shayne turned to Rourke and said, “Let’s go buy a paper, Tim. I have a burning desire to see my maiden literary effort in print.”

He linked arms with the newspaperman, and they walked out together.

Chapter Twenty: THE DETECTIVE’S PROFIT

MOONLIGHT LAY enchantingly upon the rippling surface of the Atlantic, made a path of molten gold leading out into the soft blue of early night where the running lights of a coastwise vessel rode the horizon. Tiny waves sluffed gently on the sandy shore, receded with soft, regretful sighs. Overhead, the lacy fronds of royal palms swayed in the faint breeze like giant feathers against the backdrop of night.

Dim globes high above the tables lining the boardwalk shone upon the diners, reflected a dancing glow from Phyllis Brighton’s eyes, lay softly upon her rounded cheeks.

Michael Shayne sat across from her, his angular features presenting a complex pattern of light and shadow. Hard, clean lines were accentuated by the lights.

Four sidecars were ranged in front of the detective. Phyllis’s fingers held the slender stem of a cocktail glass lightly. She lifted it and laughed.

“I know why you brought me here tonight, Michael Shayne.” Her voice was low, intimately challenging.

“You’re beautiful, Angel.” He lifted one of the four glasses and drank it with sincere approval.

“Don’t waste your blarney on me. I’ve been beautiful all this time and you haven’t given me a tumble. I’ve been studying your methods, Mr. Shayne, learning that things aren’t what they seem when your directing genius is behind them.”

“Can’t I take a girl out to dinner without an ulterior motive?” he protested.

“You could, but I seriously doubt whether you ever have.”

“You’ve got me all wrong, Angel. I’m still—practically twice your age.”

Laughter gurgled from her lips. “I don’t mean that way. I wish I could believe I was in danger of being seduced.”

Shayne shook his head sadly and reached for a second cocktail. “Such talk—from a mere infant. I’m—I’m appalled, Angel. Really I am.”

“The price of my silence,” Phyllis told him happily, “is a great deal more than just one dinner. You’re hooked, darling, and you might as well admit it.”

Shayne growled. “I don’t get it.”

He drank, looking broodingly over the rim of his glass at her loveliness and wondering what the devil he was going to do about it.

“I’ve got you in the palm of my hand,” she exulted. “Don’t forget I know all about the mysterious woman who went aboard Elliot’s yacht last night. One word from me, and you’ll be proved a liar and a cheat.”

“Oh, that!” Shayne laughed easily and finished his second drink. “I’ve been proved that often in the past.”

“But this is different,” Phyllis persisted. “You can’t spread lies all over the front page of a newspaper and get away with it.”

Shayne put a cigarette between his lips and the flame of a match lighted the shadows on his face.

“So, you’re going to blackmail me under the threat of telling all?”

“You catch on quick. Which is quite natural, with you being so well up on all phases of blackmail and assorted skullduggery.”

“This is a great relief to me,” Shayne assured her. “As a matter of fact, I did have an ulterior motive in asking you to dine with me tonight. I planned to ply you with wine and flattery, break down your resistance, and—”

“And—?” Phyllis leaned toward him hopefully.

“And induce you to swear to an affidavit that I planned that entire drowning hoax,” Shayne chuckled. “You save me a lot of trouble by threatening to do what I was afraid you wouldn’t do.”

“I don’t believe it,” she cried furiously. “This is just another of your tricks. You think I’ll change my mind on your pretense that you want me to tell. I’m on to all your trickery, Detective Shayne, and it won’t work—not with me.”

“You’re barking up the wrong tree this time, Angel.” Shayne paused to half-empty his third sidecar. “Right now, Peter Painter is trying to take all the credit for my very clever ruse in getting confessions from Thomas and Marco. He called me a short time ago and very generously offered to take full responsibility for planting the fake suicide evidence that drove Marco into telling the truth.”

“I still don’t believe it,” Phyllis protested in a small voice. “It’s—why, it’s illegal to do a thing like that.”

“But very effective,” Shayne pointed out. “Marco was determined to keep his daughter quiet and let me burn for the Grange murder until he was made to believe that Thomas had taken matters in his own hands and disposed of Marsha so she couldn’t tell the truth. The man who gets full credit for that ruse is going to be a hero.”

“Which still doesn’t convince me you want it known you did it. What about your supposed disdain for public credit?”

“This,” Shayne told her, “goes much deeper than a question of mere public credit. Dollars are involved, darling. And when dollars are involved, no one can say Michael Shayne is modest about stepping to the front and getting his.”

“Dollars? I don’t see how—”

“You will,” Shayne promised.

He finished his third cocktail and asked irritably, “Why do you nurse that glass so tenderly in your hand? It’s not going to hatch any young ones. Drink up.”

She lifted the glass obediently and took a sip. “I like your drinks best.”

Shayne gazed at her in awed admiration. “What a girl! I’ve always sworn that if I ever discovered a femme who preferred straight liquor to these messy concoctions, I’d invest in a wedding license without further delay.”

“They only cost a couple of dollars,” Phyllis said sweetly.

“But two dollars is two bucks. A monumental sum to an indigent private detective faced with the loss of a fee because a stubborn twerp threatens to withhold an affidavit from him.”

Shayne thumped down his third empty glass and considered the fourth and fast sitting in front of him.

“If I was sure you’d invest that two dollars the right way, Mr. Shayne,” she said in a serious, businesslike tone, “I might be persuaded to make out this affidavit.”

“Tell you what. I’ll give you the two dollars to use as you wish.” He made an expansive gesture.

The girl’s breath quickened.

She said, solemnly, “I’m not kidding.”

“Reminds me of a joke,” Shayne said brightly. “What the nanny goat is supposed to have said to her pal, Billy: ‘Go as far as you like, big boy, just so you don’t kid me.’”

Phyllis didn’t laugh. An uneasy silence fell over them. Shayne emptied his last cocktail glass lingeringly. Ultimate evaluations were beclouded in perplexity. Back there along the way, far back, he had lost something that Phyllis Brighton was offering to give back to him. She had it in her power to do that. Shayne had known she possessed that power when he first met her two months ago. He had evaded the issue.

He set his empty glass down and looked around for the waiter to order another set of four. Phyllis leaned toward him and the firm coolness of her fingers closed over his big hand. Her eyes were darkly luminous. There was a serene knowingness of youth upon her face. She said, “Please, Michael, don’t drink any more right now.”

“All right. I won’t.”

She patted the back of his hand and withdrew her fingers.

He caught the waiter’s eye, called him over, and ordered dinner.

The pounding went from his temples and the fever of unbearable desire left his blood. Darkness settled more heavily and the stars were brighter overhead.

Shayne attacked his steak with the appetite of a man no longer obsessed with doubts. Phyllis thoughtfully ate her crabmeat salad, finding it surprisingly good.

After a time she said, “I’m slowly learning lots of interesting things about the detective business. But I still don’t understand how you make a living at it. You wouldn’t even take a retainer from me when you got me out of my trouble. And I don’t see how there could possibly be any profit in this case just ended.”

Shayne grinned at her. “I manage to get along. Though I was practically dragged into this case, and had to swim out. And, by the way—”

He took out his wallet and drew two one-thousand dollar bills from it, handed them to her.

She looked at them in amazement. “Where—what are they for?”

“That’s the two grand I rescued for you from John Marco’s coffers. The money you lost on his crooked roulette wheel.”

“But I didn’t know—”

“Stick them in your purse before some crook lamps them and follows you home,” he advised.

She obeyed him, murmured her astonished thanks, then resumed the discussion of his income.

“You tried to convince me that other time that you made out all right without my retainer. I’ve always believed you lied. I believe you’re lying now.”

“I never lie, Angel. Not about money.” He looked around for the waiter and summoned him with a crooked finger. “Is the final edition of the ‘Miami News’ out?”

“I believe so, sir. Shall I get one for you?”

Shayne said, “Please.” He grinned at Phyllis. “Now I know you’re in earnest. One of the first things I learned in getting my bachelor’s degree was to beware of a woman who takes a personal interest in your income.”

“I’ve been in earnest all the time,” she told him candidly.

The waiter came back with a folded paper. Shayne spread it out and read the latest headline aloud: “Marsha Marco refutes rumor of her own death.”

He chuckled and read it.

“Apprised by newspaper stories that she had supposedly drowned in Biscayne Bay last night, Miss Marsha Marco, prominent Miami Beach debutante, came out of voluntary hiding to emphatically brand the rumor as false. Admitting herself to have been an eyewitness to the murder of Harry Grange, Miss Marco asserts she fled from her home and went into hiding under an assumed name at a downtown hotel after her father forced her to withhold her testimony in the investigation of the death of Grange, which—”

Shayne stopped reading and laid the paper aside. “We know all the rest of it,” he said impatiently.

“I feel terribly sorry for Helen Kincaid,” Phyllis said. “Even if you do say she didn’t deserve to keep Larry, I think she should have had a chance to prove she did.”

“Yeh. Maybe so. She’ll probably go back to her folks. She’s learned her lesson. She’ll use some sense if she gets another good man.”

Phyllis nodded, her eyes deep and serious. “It’s—too bad.”

“Getting back to Miss Marco,” Shayne said, “the point I wanted to make is that she was induced to come out of hiding when she heard the story of her death being shouted on the street. A natural and normal reaction, don’t you agree?”

“Yes, but—”

“Therefore,” Shayne went on gravely, “I think no one will deny that the person responsible for the widespread circulation of that rumor is actually responsible for her return.”

“I suppose not. But—”

“There is a sum of money in escrow in the First National Bank of Miami which will pass into my possession if and when Marsha Marco is safely returned to her home as a result of my efforts. Wouldn’t you say those escrow conditions have been more than fulfilled?”

“Oh! Then that’s why you have to prove you planned the hoax?” Phyllis exclaimed.

“Exactly. And now you know how private detectives keep the larder supplied with a fair grade of cognac.”

Phyllis’s eyes were ecstatic. “And that’s why you need my affidavit?”

“If legal proof becomes necessary—yes.”

“Then I have got you in the palm of my hand. How much money is it?”

“Too much to be thrown away by a girl’s whim. Ten thousand dollars to be exact. The buying price of approximately three thousand fifths of my favorite beverage.”

Phyllis clasped her hands, delighted. “Is that with—the two dollars deducted?”

Shayne stared at her in hurt surprise. “So, you’re going to be that way?”

“Emphatically.”

He pulled at the lobe of his left ear, gazing past Phyllis out to sea, where phosphorescence and moonlight mingled on the rippling surface.

“Don’t press me too hard, Angel.”

Phyllis pursed her lips into a disappointed circle. Shayne stood up. He went around to her and put his hand under her arm, lifted her from her chair.

“If I weren’t nuts about you, Angel, I’d defy you to hold out on me. As it is—” He bent over to kiss her.

She patted his cheek when he drew away at last. “Let’s go buy one of those fifths—on account.”

Shayne slid his arm around her and said, “Let’s.”

Table of Contents

Chapter One: A MATTER OF SCRUPLES

Chapter Two: A GIRL CALLED “ANGEL”

Chapter Three: RENDEZVOUS WITH DEATH

Chapter Four: THE CHIEF OF DETECTIVES

Chapter Five: INVITATION TO GO FOR A RIDE

Chapter Six: AN ACCIDENT ON THE TAMIAMI TRAIL

Chapter Seven: THE GIRL WHO WAS GROWING UP

Chapter Eight: THE EMPTY ROOM

Chapter Nine: GAMBLING WITH A GAMBLER

Chapter Ten: THE MURDER WEAPON

Chapter Eleven: THE RETAINER

Chapter Twelve: THE ROUND-UP

Chapter Thirteen: THE DOUBTFUL RACE

Chapter Fourteen: THE WOMAN TO BE SCORNED

Chapter Fifteen: BEDROOM AND BATH

Chapter Sixteen: THE GUN BARRELS

Chapter Seventeen: HEADLINES IN ADVANCE

Chapter Eighteen: TWO KINDS OF FORGERY

Chapter Nineteen: MAKING THE NEWS COME TRUE

Chapter Twenty: THE DETECTIVE’S PROFIT