Brett Halliday

Call for Michael Shayne

Chapter one

Black void

It was a strange awakening for Arthur Devlin. He was accustomed to waking up all over at once, and bounding out of bed. This morning only a small part of his mind was active and he felt paralyzed except for the sharp, tearing pulsations of agony in his head and a gagging nausea in his throat. The bed began swaying when he moved. He reached out and grasped the side iron rails and clung to them until the motion gradually subsided, like the “cat dying” in a child’s swing.

God! What a sea! He tried to speak, but his tongue filled his mouth, rough and parched. He tried to open his eyes. The lids stuck fast. He made another cautious move to raise himself to a sitting position, but the exertion brought the reeling and the nausea and the unendurable throbbing to his head again. He fell back on the pillow and lay very still, swallowing hard to keep the knot in his throat down.

Gradually, through the torturous pain in his head, he tried desperately to rouse his numbed brain cells. It was odd that he should be seasick. He had always been a good sailor. Then a blurred and foggy thought came through. The storm — the tossing of the boat — he recalled vaguely the weather reports before he sailed, promising fair weather.

He held fast to returning consciousness, obsessed with the fear that if he let go the beginning train of thought for an instant he would drift again into the blackness. There had been a party — much earlier in the evening. Cocktails and dinner and champagne. A stag affair. Celebrating something. Doc Thompson and Bert Masters and Joe Engals. Some others. Wraiths of memories, blurred and indefinite.

He moved slightly and uneasily. The dizziness swept over him again, reeling in his brain, but he clung to sanity with grim determination. The memories whirled in his mind as though projected from a machine suddenly gone out of control, flickering, darting crazily back and forth, over and over again.

Then the bed was still and the room was still and the knot was gone from his throat. Only the throbbing pain in his head remained.

He breathed deeply and slowly. Sure. A going-away party. Bon voyage for someone. Banter and boisterous laughter and a great many drinks. Oh, a great many drinks in rapid succession. Because it didn’t matter how drunk he got. Because it was his vacation and he didn’t have to go to the office for two weeks — because the party was for him. For Arthur Devlin.

God! What a hang-over! And he had thought the sea had gone wild! He tried to laugh. His lips were stiff and dry, parched, as was his tongue and the walls of his mouth. If only he had a drink of water! He forced his eyes open but could see nothing in the darkness. He cautiously reached out his right hand to feel for a table. There might be a glass of water. But he could feel nothing.

There must be water somewhere in his cabin. His thirst was more than he could endure. He rolled over slowly and carefully, easing his legs toward the edge of the bed, squirming until they touched the floor, then edged slowly downward until his hands gripped the iron rail at the foot of the bed.

The shrill blast of an automobile horn split the air. The pain in his head gave a violent throb and a tremor of fright panicked through his body. He fell back and lay inert.

His senses were alert now. He held his breath as a chorus of horns joined the first sound. That could mean only one thing! Someone had not moved the instant a green light came on.

There could not be a traffic jam aboard the Belle of the Caribbean.

Pulling himself up by the iron foot of the bed, he steadied himself, then let go and staggered toward the wall. Leaning against it, he moved slowly, feeling for a light switch. He bumped into a lavatory, ran his hand upward and felt a chain. He pulled it, and the room was diffused with dim light that stabbed pain through his eyes like a burning torch.

Shielding his eyes with his left forearm, he squinted around the small, dingy room. There was one window with a faded shade drawn, a wicker chair, and a dirty rag rug in the center of the room.

After one quick glance around he closed his burning eyes, turned on the cold-water faucet, and bracing himself with his left hand splashed his face and head with the tepid water. He cupped his right palm and poured water into his parched mouth until he could drink no more.

With his face and head dripping he glanced into the mottled mirror above the lavatory and gazed in horror at his reflection. There was a huge knot the size of an egg just above his right ear and the part that showed in front of the hairline was an angry purple and dotted with blood. His eyes were swollen and red-rimmed and he had a growth of dark beard.

“My God!” he muttered. What time was it? How long had it been since he shaved? He reached up and pulled his left coat cuff back and stared stupidly at his wrist. His watch was gone.

His aching eyes saw the coat sleeve. A grayish checkered material, dingy and frayed at the cuff. Squinting in the mirror again, he saw an atrocious blue-striped shirt with the collar frayed and a tie that looked pinkish in the dim light.

Devlin groaned aloud. He closed his eyes tightly. He had to quit having these hallucinations. That Arthur Devlin, who had the reputation of the best dressed man in his set, could be wearing these clothes was impossible. He had to get out of this room — get aboard the Belle of the Caribbean before it sailed at midnight. He struggled fiercely with another wave of dizziness, tightening and relaxing his muscles until a semblance of normalcy came. Then he opened his eyes and looked in the mirror again.

The checks and stripes and pinkish tie were still there. God! What a fool he’d been! He must have drunk himself into insensibility — had a fight with someone. The last thing he could remember was Doc Thompson urging another drink on him — or was it Bert Masters?

He looked down at the suit, saw that his right sleeve was spattered with blood. He took his left hand from the wall, determined to stand alone. He had to get hold of himself — get out of this room.

He was Arthur Devlin. Of that he was certain. Arthur Devlin, bachelor, insurance executive of Miami, Florida, and he had passed out cold at his own farewell party just before his scheduled departure on a two weeks’ vacation.

That much he knew — and no more. He turned slowly away from the lavatory. His vision was growing normal now, and he stopped rigidly when he saw two hats lying on the floor. A stiff straw hat with a red and yellow band — and a soft snap-brim gray felt lying side by side. Arthur Devlin had not owned or worn a hat for ten years.

He was inured to shock now, he thought, and possessed only of a compelling urgency to get out of that accursed room — to escape from this impossible nightmare.

It was then that he saw the shoe. The sole of a man’s shoe protruding from under the foot of the bed.

His heart pounded furiously and the knot on his head pulsed with stabbing pain. His body muscles tightened. Arthur Devlin stood rigid, fighting down the wave of nausea convulsing his stomach and throat.

He couldn’t run away now. Somehow, he knew the man was dead. Before seeing the body, he knew. He moved slowly and stiffly around the bed and dragged the body out into the light.

He had never seen the man before — a youngish-old man, slight of body and sharp-featured. His upper lip was drawn back in horrible grimace of fear or of hatred. He had on a tan sports suit, a pongee shirt open at the neck, yellow striped socks, and two-toned sports shoes. His face was crusty with blood and his left temple was crushed inward like an eggshell that had been struck a sharp blow with the back of a spoon. A blood-smeared blackjack lay on the bare floor.

As he bent over the body the throbbing pain in his head was intensified, dulling his senses. He felt numbed by a terrible sense of inevitability. It even seemed to him that he had subconscious knowledge of the presence of the corpse all along.

All this had happened within the space of a few hours and Arthur Devlin was no longer an ordinary man. He was a murderer, and he didn’t know the name of the man whom he had murdered. Nor why. The hand that wielded the blackjack must have been his, but in a larger sense it had not been his, for his brain had not willed his hand to strike. Arthur Devlin was a gentle man, incapable of murder. He knew himself for a gentle man even as he painfully lowered his body to sit flat on the floor to go through the dead man’s pockets. Bending over was becoming intolerable.

There were some folded bills in a silver clip in a side pocket of the sharply creased trousers, some change and three keys on a ring in one of the patch pockets of his coat. Nothing else. No wallet or papers, no other clue to his identity. He belonged to the blackness of those vanished hours, and there was nothing to indicate what he was doing in this room nor what possible connection there had been between himself and the dead man.

A wrist-watch was strapped to the bony wrist of the dead man. Devlin lifted the inert arm and looked at the dial. The hands pointed to 1:30, and he could hear the watch ticking.

One-thirty! And his ship sailed at midnight! For the first time since regaining consciousness the full impact of the situation smashed through the fog of unreality. He sat there, cross-legged, beside the corpse, gripped by the sheer horror of it and by the full realization of his position.

What had happened? How could all this have happened within the short time since he passed out at Bert Masters’s party? It was fantastic and incredible and impossible, yet he knew it was true. There was no use hoping that he was still in a drunken stupor or stricken with delirium tremens. The shabby room and the disreputable clothing and the hats and the dead man were hideously real.

His eyes focused on a folded newspaper lying on the floor and under the bed. He reached across the dead man and picked it up. It was the evening edition of the Miami News. He vaguely recalled glancing at the headlines in his apartment just before leaving for the stag party.

But this was not yesterday’s paper. The headlines were different. He stared stupidly at the heavy black print. It had been folded narrowly, the way a man carries a newspaper in his pocket. Devlin never carried a paper in his pocket.

Every muscle in his body stiffened when he looked at the date. He held his breath in consternation while the small black figures danced a rigadoon before his frantically staring eyes.

The date was June 20th.

This was June 8th — the 9th, rather. The early morning of the 9th. The day his vacation began.

He had heard of fake copies of newspapers being printed to trap criminals — usually just the front page. Devlin’s fingers trembled violently as he turned the page to look at the date. His mouth and tongue were dry again, and his breath wheezed audibly as he scrambled through page after page. Each bore the date of June 20th — just two days before the Belle of the Caribbean was scheduled to return to Miami.

The newspaper dropped from his hands. He knew the truth now. There was no room for any doubt in his mind. It was June 20th. Almost two weeks since he should have boarded the Belle of the Caribbean as she lay off Miami beyond the breakwater. Twelve days instead of a few hours. Twelve days of blackness. A blank void. It explained his shabby clothing, the growth of beard.

But how could a man stay passed out for twelve days from drinking even as much as he had drunk at Bert Masters’s party? In the name of God, what had happened! Devlin caught his aching head between his palms and moaned.

A shrill ringing tore at his eardrums and seemed to lift the top of his skull from his head. He jerked his head erect and stared at the old-fashioned wall telephone. It stopped ringing and the world righted itself for an instant, and then it resumed its rasping, nerve-wracking jangling. To Devlin it became a sentient thing with a mind and will of its own. It wouldn’t let him alone. He had to answer it. It would keep on and on until he did answer, and the high-pitched shrilling was certain to arouse every person in the rooms around him, bring them on the run to discover him — to discover Arthur Devlin sitting beside the man he had murdered.

He reached out and got a firm grip on the iron bed rail and dragged himself up. He staggered to the phone and snatched the receiver off, leaning against the wall while the receiver dangled in his right hand near his knee. The abrupt cessation of persistent ringing was soothing and somehow comforting.

He could faintly hear a voice jabbering around his knee. Slowly he lifted the receiver to his ear. It was a woman’s voice, husky-soft, yet harshly compelling, with a timbre of fright and of worry and of gritted-teeth determination. She was saying, “Joey! Is that you, Joey? Who is this? Why don’t you answer me?”

Devlin heard his own voice, strange and hollow, as though echoed from a great distance. “Hello. I don’t know—”

“Joey! Joey, darling!”

“He’s — there’s no one—” Devlin sputtered.

“I was so frightened and worried when you didn’t come, Joey, darling. Is everything all right?” The last words were accompanied by a little gasping intake of breath.

That voice — remote and disembodied — at the other end of the wire was his only contact with the black void of the past twelve days, a tiny hole pierced through the black curtain that separated him from he knew not what. He had to keep her talking. He had to put up a pretense. He couldn’t let her hang up without learning some of the things he had to know.

Thickening his voice to a mumble, he said, “Who is this?”

There was a slight hesitation, then a high, flute-like laugh. “Why, Joey! It’s Marge. Who’d you think it was? Is anything wrong? Is — somebody — there?” she ended softly.

Keeping his voice thick he said, “Things are all wrong. Terribly wrong. Where are you calling from — Marge?”

“Why — Joey. From home, of course. Joey — tell me — what’s wrong?” The anxiety in her voice reached through to an emotion he had forgotten he had.

“I — can’t tell you,” he muttered.

“Didn’t Skid get there?”

It was as though she held her breath to hear his answer. He hesitated, striving desperately for a clue that would tell him what his answer should be. Was the dead man Skid? Or was that Joey lying on the floor and she had mistaken his voice for the dead man’s.

He said, “Skid came all right. But—” He paused, straining his ears to hear some revealing word, every sense alert for an inflection or a sigh or a swiftly caught breath that would tell him how to proceed.

“Listen, Joey.” Her voice dropped to a hoarse and intimate whisper, anxious and caressing and warm.

“Yes — Marge,” he answered.

“Did you kill him?”

Devlin’s hand tightened on the receiver. He turned his head slightly to look at the slender crumpled body lying at the foot of the bed. In a flat monotone he said, “I killed him all right.”

Chapter two

Fugitive from what?

“Oh.” Satisfaction purred in the short word. “You were so long coming home — I was afraid. Did you get the money, Joey?”

“The money?” he asked stupidly. His head was throbbing again, and every nerve in his body quivered as he tried desperately to figure out what to say. He remembered the sheaf of bills in the silver clip in the dead man’s pocket. With a shudder of revulsion he knew they would have to remain there.

“Joey — are you listening? Tell me — did you get the money?” Her voice was irritated.

“No,” he told her, keeping his voice thick, “he didn’t have any money.”

“Oh, Jo — ey!” Marge wailed. “What did that louse mean—?”

“See here, Marge,” Devlin broke in brusquely. “I can’t stay here all night talking to you. I’m not — I’m not in very good shape, Marge,” he added. In his anxiety and frantic hope for a word, a clue that might give him even a vague idea of what had happened to him, Devlin had forgotten his throbbing temple. Now, the pain came sharply, and he groaned aloud.

“Joey — what happened? Are you hurt?”

“I got — hit on the head,” he told her, his words slurring. He turned his head slowly to the side, hoping to give her the impression of fading strength. “Things are going round and round. I’m dizzy and all mixed up. I can’t — remember — things. I’ve got to get out of here before I pass out again.”

“Joey — don’t. Listen to me, Joey. Come on home — now.”

“Home? Where is — home?” he mumbled. “Forgot — can’t remember — anything. Tell me — tell—” He made a croaking sound in his throat, holding his lips close against the mouthpiece now.

“Damn you!” she said angrily, and then there was silence.

Devlin pressed the receiver against his ear so hard that it hurt. “Marge — Marge—” He was sure she hadn’t hung up. He hadn’t heard a click.

“Who are you?” The words were cold, hard, suspicious. “How do I know you’re Joey? You don’t sound like—”

“I am Joey,” Devlin said, alarmed. “It’s just that I’m sick — I’m hurt—”

“And having this call traced while you keep talking,” she snapped, and there was a harsh click of her receiver.

Devlin slowly lowered the receiver, stared at it for a moment, then placed it on the hook with a shaking hand. Dead — silent — like the body on the floor. Mysterious as his twelve lost days. Sweat was streaming down his face and he was breathing heavily. He had messed that up, too. Now he would never know who Marge was. He didn’t know whether he was Joey or Skid, or, as she had suspicioned, someone else entirely.

Of course she had become suspicious when he didn’t know where home was — Joey’s home. If he had played it smarter he might have found out, but it was too late now. The thread that might have led back into the lost dozen days was severed.

Devlin went over and sat down on the thin mattress. Remembering the agony of getting up from it, he dared not lie down. For the first time in his life he became cagey, wary, cautious and evasive, like an animal seeking to avoid a trap. He, Arthur Devlin, whose life had, heretofore, been an open book.

What had he become in twelve days?

Had he become Joey to a woman named Marge? And what sort of a person was Joey? What horrible identity had he assumed during those twelve days to be called endearing names by a woman who was glad he had murdered a man and angry because he had no money on him?

None of these questions could be answered so long as he cringed in this bleak bare room with the two hats and a corpse. He had to get out, back to the security of his own apartment and his own identity, where he could think things out and decide what to do. Every moment he stayed here was dangerous.

He got up from the bed and tiptoed to the door and pressed his ear against the thin panel. There was deathly silence. Except for the wicker chair, the iron bedstead, and the memory of the automobile horns, he might have been on a desert island somewhere in the Caribbean Sea.

He went back to the lavatory and washed his hands, splashed more water on his face and hair, drank several handfuls of water, then combed his hair with his fingers. The bump on his head was conspicuous, but the pain was easing.

Then he remembered the hats. He turned to look at them. The straw one seemed to fit the ensemble worn by the dead man. As Joey, the gray felt must have been the one he had worn. He abhorred hats, but he needed a hat for concealment, and the soft felt would be kind to his aching lump. He went over and stooped carefully, holding his head up to ward off a throb, and picked it up. He eased it on his head, thankful that the size was too large, pulled the brim low, and turned to the mirror. It hid his face quite well.

He went over and pulled the chain above the lavatory. The room was in utter darkness except for the faint glow around the drawn shade at the lone window. He took a deep breath and went shakily to the door, opened and closed it, and found himself in a narrow corridor lit by a tiny bulb that led past two closed doors on either side to a wooden stairway leading down.

He clung to the railing, stepping cautiously and quietly. He wanted to run, but he remembered that criminals, murderers, were suspected when they ran. From now on he must be wary, slow, keep himself above suspicion.

He still had another flight that led to a tiny foyer and double doors that led outside — and escape. In his agony and suspense he had forgotten the healing balm of fresh air. Slow and easy was his best bet from now on. If he could get outside without attracting attention and back to his apartment he was sure he could throw this horrible nightmare into the rubbish heap. He could probably go to bed and wake up again and remember it only as a dream.

The second step from the bottom creaked loudly, dispelling his hope. He was startled when a door on his left was jerked open. A little man stood in the doorway, bald and wizened and with an ingratiating smile on his face.

“Oh, it’s you,” he said. “I’m sorta jumpy tonight. Just couldn’t get sleepin’ sound.”

“It’s me,” said Arthur Devlin, and started on.

“Found your friend all right, I reckon. In three-oh-four?”

Devlin turned his head and tried to hide his chin against the pinkish tie. “Sure. Thanks.”

The old man said something else, but Devlin reached the front door, opened it, swung it shut behind him, and stepped outside into the cool balmy night. For a moment he leaned against the building and drew fresh air into his lungs, noting that the street was now deserted. His heart stopped its pounding, and he looked at the number above the door. The house was a duplicate of two others pressed close against it on either side, all of them, he guessed, cheap boarding-houses. The number was 819.

He started walking toward a corner where there was a bright street light, hoping against hope that a taxi would come along. He was close enough to see the street sign — Palmleaf Avenue — when he heard a car stop. He turned and saw that it was a taxi. A very drunk man was getting out, and as Devlin tried to make his legs move rapidly, he saw the man swaying and trying to take money from his wallet. He raised his hand and called out, but his voice was no more than a hoarse whisper.

He went on toward the taxi, trying to impress the number he had seen above the door of the rooming-house and the name of the street upon his foggy memory. 819 Palmleaf Avenue. He could not recall ever having heard of it before, and it was not likely he would ever be allowed to forget it.

The drunk was staggering across the sidewalk toward the door of a rooming-house, leaving the rear door of the taxi open. Devlin got in and closed it.

The driver turned and looked suspiciously at Devlin. “What you want, bud?” he asked scathingly.

“What do you think I want?” said Devlin angrily.

“In a district like this—”

“Get going,” Devlin commanded. The luxury of the wide rear seat and the prospect of getting back to his comfortable apartment brought the first sense of well-being he had felt since returning to consciousness.

“Listen, bud, where you wanta go?” the driver asked insolently.

“To the Clairmount Apartments,” Devlin snapped.

The taxi moved forward. “Only Clairmount I know is on the Beach.” His tone sharply questioned Devlin’s right to be taken to the swanky neighborhood.

“That’s right,” Devlin told him. “Near the Roney Plaza. And get going,” he said again.

Devlin tightened his lips and sank back against the cushion. He had forgotten to be wary. He should never have given his right address. The driver would remember this trip tomorrow when he read about the murdered man lying in the rooming-house only a few doors away from the spot where he picked up his fare. He was aghast at his stupidity, and his joy in the thought of resuming his real identity was short-lived. How long did it take a man to gain the full realization that he was a criminal, a murderer, and learn instinctively to guard his every word and action?

He started to change the address, have the driver let him out somewhere within walking distance of the Clairmount. But that would be an even worse blunder, serving only to further impress the incident on his mind. He closed his aching eyes in an effort to shut out the stark, naked truth: Arthur Devlin was a hunted man.

The driver swung onto the winding County Causeway across dark waters of Biscayne Bay where a myriad of electric bulbs shimmered on the gently lapping waves. Devlin’s body relaxed against the cushions from sheer exhaustion, but his brain cells, so recently benumbed and foggy, were alerted, each with a memory, a dilemma of its own to torture him.

It seemed incredible that only twelve days ago the Belle of the Caribbean sailed without him. It was more like an eternity. How much could happen to a man in so short a time? How could a quiet, unassuming young man, a bachelor with an assured niche in the business world, a host of friends and the best of social connections be transformed into this man who now rode across the familiar causeway toward the familiar apartment hotel on Collins Avenue, and wearing the frayed clothes of a tramp?

Amnesia, of course. That was the only possible answer. But did amnesia do that to a man? What did amnesia do to a man? Was it something like an alcoholic blackout? It had to be much the same thing. He must have slipped directly from an alcoholic stupor the night of the farewell party into a state of amnesia which had lasted until a blow on the head brought him back to his senses.

Say they were practically the same thing, Devlin’s harassed mind decided, except that amnesia was prolonged. He could have fallen and struck his head twelve days ago. That, along with the heavy drinking, could have caused it. Then, last night, another blow, perhaps on the selfsame spot, had, somehow, counteracted the first blow. He had never known anyone who suffered from the strange malady, nor did he know anyone who had actually been personally acquainted with an amnesia victim, but in stories he had read, both newspaper and fiction, both the cause and the cure were blows on the head. No court of justice would prosecute a man for an act, even murder, for which he was neither mentally nor morally responsible.

He was, of course, entirely responsible for allowing himself to get completely drunk at Bert Masters’s party, and he was willing to face that. He had seen other men drink themselves into oblivion, and had been mildly amazed to see meek, good-natured men become unruly and aggressive. He had seen men who were models of respectability become bestial, and weak-muscled men turn into hard-hitting fighters. Under the influence of too much liquor the introvert became an extrovert; the repressed grew hostile.

Devlin didn’t know about himself, he realized miserably. He had always gauged his drinking carefully, keeping it down to the decent limits of sociability, and he had never blacked out before. He did know, however, that in his own set such occasions were subjects of humorous discussions and laughter for a short time, and were forgotten.

These thoughts lulled him into a sense of security, and for a moment he relaxed, breathing deeply of the cool salt-tanged air. Then, as though a demon lurked in his mind, awaiting this chance to torture him anew, he remembered Marge. Marge — who had called him Joey, darling.

The driver was turning into Collins Avenue, racing toward the Clairmount. Devlin pulled himself erect and mechanically reached inside the breast pocket of the shabby checkered suit for his wallet.

The pocket was empty. He leaned forward to look at the meter. It showed $1.30. He began searching frantically through his pockets, cursing himself for his squeamishness in not taking at least one of the bills from the dead man’s pocket. It would be catastrophic if he couldn’t pay the taxi fare when they reached the apartment. That would indelibly imprint him and the details of this trip on the surly driver’s memory.

Devlin’s heart skipped a beat and his throat contracted when he felt a thick roll that felt like bills in the left-hand side pocket of his trousers. His fingers were sticky as he nervously pulled the roll out. Light flickering through as they passed a bright street lamp showed them to be bills, and the top one had 100 in one corner, and it was smeared with blood.

His hands trembled violently as he took the rubber band off, unrolled the bills, hoping to find one of a smaller denomination. Straining his eyes as they passed the light at each intersection, he saw that they were all hundred-dollar denomination, and acute despair wavered through him. To attempt to pay the driver with one of them would further arouse his suspicion. Besides, they were probably all marked, and the burly man would go straight to the police.

Devlin carefully extracted the bill that was in the center of the roll. His right hand was clean and he felt the bill carefully. It was dry, free from any spots of sticky blood. Placing it in his right-hand coat pocket, he fingered through the sheaf and counted ninety-nine remaining.

Replacing the rubber band, he rammed the roll deep in his pocket just as the taxi drew up in front of the canopied entrance of the Clairmount Apartments.

Chapter three

No memory of murder

The driver threw his right arm over the back of the front seat, turned his head slightly, and said, “Here y’are, bud.”

Devlin made no move to get out. He had the hundred-dollar bill in his hand, trying to decide whether it would be less suspicious to offer the bill in payment or have the driver wait while he went inside for money. The man’s contemptuous appellation “bud” convinced him that the second course would be safer. There was no doubt that the driver was suspicious, and the large bill would surely send him straight to the police — that, and the other circumstances combined.

“Dollar sixty on the meter,” said the driver sharply. “This here’s the Clairmount — like you said.”

“I know,” said Devlin weakly. He was surreptitiously trying to rub the blood from the finger tips of his left hand on the inner lining of the coat. “I — ah — haven’t any change with me.”

“Nothin’ but big bills, huh?” sneered the driver. “Reckon I can break anything you’re carryin’, Mister.” Devlin achieved an outward nonchalance he was far from feeling as he stepped from the car. He said, “Wait here a moment. I’ll have to go inside for some money.”

“Wait a minute, bud.” The driver swung into step beside him. “Next thing you’ll be tellin’ me you live in this swanky place. I’ll just come along with you.”

“I’ll get your fare from the night clerk if you’ll just wait,” Devlin said irritably.

The man chuckled insolently. “Yeah?” His cold gaze raked over the shabby clothes. “Maybe you was just slummin’ down on Palmleaf Avenue. Maybe. But I don’t fall for that stuff easy.”

“Just as you please,” Devlin said wearily. It was too late to try to throw the man off by claiming to be the garbage collector or some menial worker around the apartment. He went up the steps and into the foyer where he pushed a button above Night bell. A buzzer sounded and he opened the door into the office.

A young man sat at the switchboard reading a magazine. He looked up, dropped the magazine, and his jaw fell lax. “Mr. Devlin! Is it really you?”

“Believe it or not,” said Devlin. “Do me a favor, Jack. I need a couple of dollars for taxi fare.”

“Sure, Mr. Devlin. Sure.” The clerk got up and went to the cash drawer, speaking rapidly over his shoulder. “But I thought — we all thought you weren’t due back yet. June twenty-second was the date we had down. Are you sure two dollars is enough, sir?” He held out the two bills.

Devlin took them and handed them to the driver. “Keep the change,” he said.

The driver pocketed the bills, gave Devlin a last, long, suspicious look, shrugged and grunted something that sounded like “thanks,” and went out.

“The ship isn’t due until day after tomorrow — or tomorrow, now, I guess. This is the twenty-first, isn’t it?” Devlin strove for a light tone but it was lost on the clerk, who was staring queerly at the checkered suit and the hat that covered the lump on his head. “That’s right, Mr. Devlin. This is the twenty-first. Were you in some kind of accident? You look sorta sick.”

Devlin did his best with a smile. “It’s a long story, Jack. I had to hurry back on business, so I caught a plane and flew in tonight. There was a crack-up.” He pushed the felt hat back and touched the lump on his head tenderly.

“That looks bad.” There was instant concern in Jack’s voice. “Flew up from Key West, huh? I’ve been kind of keeping track on a map where you were on the cruise so I could send you wires or anything important, like you said.”

“Thanks,” said Devlin. “Do I have any mail?”

The clerk turned to the cubbyhole behind him, took out a small packet of letters, and handed them to Devlin. “This is all that’s come. Do you have any luggage?”

Devlin took the letters and said, “My luggage will be in tomorrow. And that reminds me — I don’t have a key to my apartment with me. Do you have an extra one?”

“Sure.” He opened a drawer and took out a key, pushed it toward Devlin.

“Thanks, Jack. And good night. I’m really all in.” He turned away with a wan smile and went toward the self-service elevator. He did not look back to see the anxious, puzzled eyes of the clerk following him.

As though he had drawn upon the last of his strength to stay on his feet, to maintain some semblance of his normal self, and to exert every mental effort to think things through, Arthur Devlin’s teeth were chattering and he shivered in the grip of near-hysteria when he finally reached the door of his apartment. He stabbed at the keyhole until the key fitted in, turned it, opened the door, and went inside. He closed it by pushing slowly backward and when the lock clicked he stood leaning against it. He gritted his teeth to stop their chattering, doubled and undoubled his fists until he was steady again.

Two steps took him to the archway leading into the living-room. He reached inside and snapped on a switch that lighted the huge white frosted globe of a table lamp and the reading bulb above it. An enormous parchment shade diffused the light softly over the room. He stood there for a full minute, hungrily drinking in the sight of his spacious, comfortable surroundings. The air was hot and musty, but he was home. Safe at home again, and he gloated over every chair and table and small knickknack within his vision.

He dropped the packet of letters on the low coffee table and went on to open the windows. He took the felt hat off and let cool wind blow through his hair. The pain in his temple was reduced to a slow, irritating throbbing, and the nausea was only a threat in his throat. The odd, nervous chill in his body persisted. He went into the bedroom and poured a small glass of bourbon from a cut-glass decanter, sank down on the clean, comfortable bed, and sipped it. Warmth filtered slowly through his veins and he stopped shivering.

But the nervousness, the urgency to do something, to begin finding out what he could brought him to his feet. After one glimpse of himself in his own clear mirror he peeled off the filthy coat, took the roll of bills from the trousers pocket before taking them off. He was appalled at the flimsy underwear, but before removing it, he sat down on the bed again and took the rubber band from the bills.

There were fresh bloodstains on the outer ones, and he stared at them somberly. Death-money! This was the money Marge had wanted to know about — the money he had killed a man for — ten thousand dollars. Ten grand, he presumed a guy like Joey would call it.

After counting it again, carefully, he rolled the bills in a tight ball and thrust it under one of the pillows, then went into the bathroom, unbuttoning the ludicrous shirt as he went.

After testing the water, he left it running in the tub and returned to the living-room, where he picked up the phone, gave Jack a number, and waited impatiently while the instrument at the other end of the wire rang repeatedly. He counted the rings, heard the receiver lifted on the tenth one. A sleepy voice drawled a negligent hello and Arthur Devlin’s depressed spirits responded with an upsurge of hope.

“Tommy!” he exclaimed. “Is that you?”

“This is Doctor Thompson speaking. Who is—?”

“Devlin — Art Devlin, Tommy.”

“Art? I thought you were sailing the seven seas.”

“I’m not. I’ve got to see you, Tommy.”

“Sure — sure. I want to hear all about your trip, but not at this unearthly hour. What the devil—?”

“I’ve got to see you now. At once. How fast can you get here?”

“But Art — it’s two o’clock in the morning. Are you—?”

“Listen to me, Tommy. This is a matter of life and death. Get here as fast as you can.”

Some of the urgency in Devlin’s tone carried over the wire to his friend. “Sure, Art — right away. But if this is some kind of a drunken joke—”

“I’m not drunk and it’s not a joke. Hurry.”

Devlin wiped sweat from his face as he cradled the telephone. He went to the bathroom, stripped off the rest of the soiled clothing, and crawled into a tub of steaming water. Five minutes later, clad in clean pajamas and a light cotton robe, he sank into his favorite chair with a deep sigh of relief. He was trying to frame in his mind a credible story of the incredible thing that had happened to him — some way to begin it that would drive the truth home to his old friend.

He jumped when his door buzzer sounded and the lump on his head throbbed. He got up slowly and went to the door, opened it, and held out both his hands to Doctor Thompson. “Thank God, Tommy,” he said. “Thank God you’re here.”

Doctor Ronald Thompson dropped his small emergency bag and caught Devlin’s hands in a solid grip. He was slightly shorter than average height, a well-fleshed man in his mid-thirties with a look of competent intelligence in the quizzical brown eyes behind horn-rimmed glasses.

“You don’t look like a dying man,” he said, a mixture of mystification and concern in his tone.

Devlin drew him inside and closed the door. Thompson picked up his bag and carried it into the living-room, set it on the center table, and turned to face Devlin. “What’s this all about, Art? I thought you weren’t due until tomorrow.”

“I wasn’t. That is — I guess the Belle of the Caribbean won’t touch here until then.” Devlin moved a step closer and said, “Look at me, Tommy. Look at me close. Am — I different?”

Thompson said, “Damn it, Art, you’ve been drinking.”

“No — I only had one small drink to steady me. Do you mean — I look just the same as ever?”

“Except for that nasty bump on your head — and — well, you look pale and all in.” A deep frown came between his eyes. “I’m afraid the sea voyage didn’t do you much good,” he continued. “Were you seasick? And how the devil did you get in ahead of the ship?”

“Sit down,” said Devlin, indicating a chair beside the coffee table, and dropping into one close by.

“I’ll take a good look at that bump first,” said the doctor. His finger tips moved over the area around the bruised center and behind the ear. “Not so good,” he mumbled.

“It’s nothing,” said Devlin quickly. “That is — it’s nothing but a bump.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. A blow like this with a little more weight behind it could bash a man’s brains out.”

“Or — bash them back in again?” Devlin looked up and met Thompson’s eyes. “Couldn’t it?” he asked gravely.

Thompson stepped back, shaking his head soberly. “What is all this, Art? You’re acting queerly. A blow like that — you never can tell about a concussion.” He sat down, folded his arms, and waited.

Devlin said, “Before I begin, I’ve got to know one thing. Do you believe in amnesia?”

“Do I believe in amnesia?” Doctor Thompson exclaimed. “You might as well ask if I believe in measles or taxes. If you mean of—”

“I actually want a medical opinion, Tommy. That’s what I mean. You read so much stuff in the papers about faked amnesia cases that I wondered if there really is such a thing.”

“There is,” Thompson assured him.

“That’s all I wanted to know.” Devlin paused, drew in a deep breath, and exhaled slowly. The glitter of hysteria had gone from his eyes, leaving them veiled and brooding. “I want you to think back to the night of the party at Masters’s house. Tell me what happened.”

“You got gloriously drunk. Passed out cold about eleven o’clock.”

“I inferred as much,” said Devlin. “But what happened after I passed out?”

“I don’t recall anything in particular.” Thompson spoke slowly, rumpling his forehead in thought. “The party broke up when the guest of honor passed out. We poured you into a taxi and shipped you off on your vacation cruise.”

“Who shipped me off? Who went to the dock with me?”

“I don’t remember. I’m not sure any of us did. We were all pretty high by that time,” Thompson admitted.

Devlin took a cigarette from a fresh pack lying on the coffee table, offered one to Thompson, struck a match to light them both. He remembered suddenly that he had not wanted a cigarette since returning to consciousness. He took a long puff on the one he lit, gagged and made a wry face, crushed it out in a brass tray.

“Tastes foul,” he muttered.

“Look, Art. Why did you call me over here? What’s on your mind?” Thompson spoke impatiently.

“I didn’t go on that cruise, Tommy.”

“You didn’t — what?”

“I didn’t go on the cruise. That is — well, I couldn’t have gone. The boat isn’t due back here until tomorrow. Yet ipso facto — here I am. It would appear that I didn’t go aboard the Belle of the Caribbean that night.” Devlin tried to achieve a note of flippancy, but his effort failed.

Thompson leaned forward, his eyes incredulous behind his glasses. “What are you getting at, Art? That blow on the head must be worse than it appears from a superficial examination. And this talk about amnesia? You talk as though you don’t know whether you sailed or not.”

“That’s just it. I don’t. You’ve got to believe me, Tommy,” he went on, his voice rising in shrill panic. “I don’t know. I don’t know anything that happened after I passed out that night. It’s a complete blackout. Nearly two weeks — a total blank.” He was tensely erect and trembling, and the glitter was in his eyes again. “I don’t know where I’ve been — who I’ve been — what I’ve been — until tonight.” His voice broke and he caught his throbbing head between his palms.

“Good God, Art. This is serious. Think, man. You must remember something. Tell me—”

“I’m telling you the facts,” said Devlin. “I expect you to tell me what they mean. I came to something over an hour ago and thought I’d missed my boat because I passed out from too many drinks at Masters’s party. Then I found out — I’d lost twelve days — nearly two weeks — instead of just a few hours. Could that be amnesia?”

“That blow on the head,” Thompson muttered, “you mean it brought you back?”

“That’s what I’m asking you,” moaned Devlin. “Good Lord, man, you know about these things. Could it have?”

Thompson nodded slowly and soberly. “Yes. If a similar blow had been the original cause of amnesia. Do you have any recollection of being struck that night?”

“No. I don’t remember anything, I tell you. But if there had been an accident — if I was hit on the head while I was passed out from too much liquor — wouldn’t that cause an immediate condition of amnesia — a complete blackout of memory?”

“I presume it would. I don’t recall any similar authenticated case.”

Devlin slumped wearily back in the deep chair. He said, quietly, “You may have to swear to that on the witness stand, Tommy.”

“Why?”

“Because I killed a man tonight. I came to lying on a bed in a furnished room and he was lying on the floor. I never saw the man before. I don’t know whether it was self-defense or not. I don’t know how either of us got into that room. I don’t know whether I’m a murderer or not,” he droned on in slow and measured tones, as though fascinated by the mystery of it all. “We’ve got to go back somehow. Tear away the black curtain from those missing days. Is there any way you can help me? Any drug you can give me?”

“Snap out of it, Art,” said Thompson gruffly, but his eyes were bright with compassion behind the heavy lenses. “What we both need is a drink. No — you sit there — I’ll get it,” he said when Devlin started to get up.

“In the bedroom. There’s a decanter with some bourbon. And glasses.”

Thompson went briskly into the room, came back with the decanter and glasses, poured the drinks, and sat down again. Devlin took a couple of sips, expelled a long shuddering sigh. “I guess I did need a drink,” he said.

“Take it easy now and tell me everything — every single thing that happened tonight after you came out of this mental blackout.”

Devlin began his recital in a rapid monotone. Ten minutes later he ended wearily, “… and I telephoned you as soon as I got here. I couldn’t think of another person in the world I could trust. You can look in the bathroom if you doubt what I’ve been telling you. The clothes are there — with blood on them.”

Doctor Thompson nodded and got up. He went into the bathroom while Devlin sat slumped in his chair. He had told his friend everything except about the call from a girl named Marge — and the roll of bloody hundred-dollar bills. Somehow, he couldn’t bring himself to mention those, even to Tommy.

There was grave concern on the doctor’s face when he returned. He tossed off the rest of his drink before sitting down again. He said, “You don’t remember anything at all about the fight?”

“Nothing at all,” said Devlin tonelessly.

“You say there was a bloody blackjack on the floor. Yours or his?”

“My God, man, you know I never carried a thing like that,” Devlin flared angrily. “It had to be his. You’ve got to believe me.”

“Don’t excite yourself, Art,” Thompson said quietly. “Of course I believe everything you’ve told me. I know perfectly well you’ve never gone around beating people’s brains out with a blackjack.”

“So it stands to reason that he attacked me,” Devlin said eagerly, “and somehow — maybe I got the blackjack away from him and struck him in self-defense.”

“I also know that you never went around wearing the sort of clothes I saw in the bathroom, or frequented the kind of rooming-house you’ve described,” Thompson said slowly and thoughtfully.

“Of course not. But while suffering from amnesia—”

“That’s the point I’m trying to bring out, Art. The sort of man who selected clothes like those is also the sort who might consider a blackjack exactly the thing a well-dressed man should carry in his pocket.”

There was a long silence between them. “I — see what you mean,” Devlin said. “I have no way of knowing what kind of man I became during that period. That proves I was a victim of amnesia. You can swear to it in court, can’t you?”

“I can, and I will if it’s necessary,” Thompson agreed after sober meditation. “But — I’m not sure that will help you any.”

“What do you mean by that?” faltered Devlin. “A man can’t be held accountable for something he does without conscious knowledge he is doing it.”

“I don’t know, but I’m afraid that won’t stand up as a legal defense for murder. You see, Art,” the doctor attempted to explain as kindly as he could, “amnesia isn’t even remotely any form of insanity. We might call it suspension of the function of the nerve center that gives us memory.” He paused a moment to grope for the proper words. “To say it another way: You were still you, though you may not have been conscious of your own identity. Nevertheless, you were still Arthur Devlin, moving in another world — living in another consciousness, and I’m afraid the law will consider such a person legally responsible for his actions.”

Devlin shuddered. “It’s a horrible thought. And it’s not fair. I, Arthur Devlin, can’t help what my body did while my mind had no control over it. You have to grant that.”

“I grant it, certainly, in your case, Art. But if the law granted it we’d have a great deal more pleas of not guilty by reason of amnesia. It’s such an easy thing to fake.”

“But in my case there’s bound to be plenty of proof,” Devlin said passionately. “There must have been an accident that night — on my way to the dock. We can look up the records, find the taxi driver. When the Belle of the Caribbean docks tomorrow we can get definite proof I didn’t board her. All my friends know how I looked forward to the trip — that I wouldn’t have missed it for anything. As it is, I’ve probably been going around in a daze right here in Miami all this time,” he finished slowly, silenced by the strange expression on the doctor’s face. Doctor Thompson cleared his throat slightly and looked away.

“Isn’t that true?” Devlin asked uncertainly. “You know how much I anticipated that trip.”

“Yes, I know.” He spoke in a dry tone that warned Devlin something else was coming.

“Well — why are you looking at me like that?”

“I’m sorry, Art. You see, I know you did sail at midnight on the Belle of the Caribbean.”

“I did — sail?” gasped Devlin.

“Yes.” Thompson averted his eyes from his friend’s imploring gaze. “You see — you sent me a radiogram the next day — from aboard the Belle.”

Chapter four

Calling Michael Shayne

“I — sent you a radiogram from the ship?” Devlin faltered.

“Your name was signed to it.”

“What — did it say?”

Doctor Thompson gestured vaguely. “Some feeble witticism about hoping the rest of us didn’t feel as badly as you felt. The sort of thing you might have said after a party like that.”

“Could I have sent such a message without knowing it?” asked Devlin thinly.

“While suffering from amnesia?” Thompson sighed deeply. “The human mind plays all sorts of tricks, Art. I wouldn’t say such a thing couldn’t happen. Medical opinion in all probability would be that amnesia was very unlikely to persist once you remembered me and my address well enough to send me a radio message.”

“But it must have happened. I swear I don’t remember anything about the ship or sending you a message.”

“Perhaps not, but I’m pointing out the difficulty in making others believe it. Most amnesia victims awake suddenly after an accident or shock in unfamiliar surroundings with no knowledge of their identity or past life. They find themselves among strangers who can’t help them back to reality. Memory comes back through association of ideas, or by a second shock to the nerve center that caused the original loss.

“I’m giving you an objective opinion,” the doctor went on swiftly. “Let’s suppose there was an accident that night after you left the party, but that you got in the motor launch and were carried out to your cabin on the cruise ship. You had your ticket and all sorts of identification on you. Upon waking the next morning the steward would address you as Mr. Devlin. You see, Art, you’d know who you were even though the memory function was knocked out. There’d be your luggage and clothing and familiar things around you.”

“I can’t help any of that,” said Devlin doggedly. “I don’t remember.”

“Yet you did send me the radiogram.”

“Perhaps the loss of memory occurred later,” suggested Devlin hopefully. “Could the loss of memory be retroactive — go back, somehow, to the night of the farewell party?”

Thompson shook his head decisively. “I think not. You’d have the devil’s own time getting any judge or jury to accept that. There’d be overwhelming medical testimony to refute that possibility.”

“Then what in hell did happen?” Devlin groaned.

“That’s what we have to decide before the matter comes up in court. That’s why I’m trying to make you realize just where you stand.” Thompson settled back and his voice changed to one of whimsical inquiry. “Suppose you tell me the truth, Art. Then we’ll decide how much of it to tell to the police if you get dragged into tonight’s affair.”

Arthur Devlin stared at Thompson aghast. “You don’t believe me?”

“I think you’re making a mistake to cling to that story,” the doctor told him patiently. “It may have seemed like a good idea when you dreamed it up, but you see how many holes there are in it. Tell me the truth, and as a doctor I’ll help you fix up a story that will have some chance.”

Devlin buried his face in his hands. “God in heaven, Tommy, if you don’t believe me, what can I hope for?”

“Exactly what I’m pointing out to you.”

Arthur Devlin’s hands fell away from his face. He lifted his head and said coldly, “I’ve told you the absolute truth from beginning to end.”

Thompson sighed and removed his horn-rimmed glasses, polished them absently, and replaced them over his quizzically friendly eyes. “Look, Art,” he said with kindly finality, “we may be beating our brains out for no reason at all. What is there to connect you with the murdered man? That is, what is there to connect Arthur Devlin with him?”

“I’ve told you I don’t know.”

“I’ve thought of a possible explanation,” the doctor resumed. “It’s fantastic, but I suppose it could be this way. Suppose there was an accident — or you were deliberately slugged on your way to the dock that night — stripped of all your clothes and your identification and left for dead. You had your ticket in your pocket. Whoever took them might have gone aboard and posed as Arthur Devlin. He may still be on the ship, thinking you’re dead and that he’s perfectly safe.”

“What about the radiogram? How would he know to send that?”

“Perhaps he knows we’re friends and thought the radiogram would be a good idea to allay suspicion. Or there may have been some notation about me among your papers.”

“That must be the answer,” Devlin said excitedly. He got up and took a few slow steps around the room, returned to slump in his chair again. “Of course that’s it. That would explain everything. We can send a radiogram to the ship and find out — have him arrested and brought back here.”

“Hold on, Art. All this is a plausible theory to explain your amnesia and the fake radiogram for the moment. But let’s go back to my previous question. Is there any way Arthur Devlin can be connected with the murder tonight?”

“I don’t know,” Devlin answered, as he had before. “I presume I can’t have been using my right name during that blackout.”

A heavy silence fell between them, and after rumpling his forehead for a long moment Doctor Thompson said firmly, “I’m suggesting that you do your best to forget what happened to you altogether. Lie low here in your apartment until after the Belle of the Caribbean docks tomorrow. Then you can go about your business as usual and no one will think anything about it.” He paused for an instant, saw that Devlin was staring at him in consternation and was about to protest, then hurried on. “Better yet, come home with me tonight and I’ll put you up. I ought to examine that knot on your head more thoroughly. Good Lord, Art, you’ve got to get yourself in better shape before your friends see you.”

“And let the man who slugged me and stole my identity get away with it?” said Devlin fiercely.

“I think if you use your head, Art, you’ll see that it’s better to let the police solve the murder. You go barging in trying to help them, and you’ll get plenty of trouble.”

Devlin got up again and moved slowly around the room, stretching his sore arm muscles and shrugging his shoulders to limber them. “I don’t know what to do, Tommy. It’s a terrible thing when trouble strikes you down — so — all a sudden like this.” He turned suddenly and faced Thompson. “What if the police arrested and convicted an innocent man? What—?”

“That would be plenty of time for you to tell them your story. Look, Art, if you go to the police there’d be an investigation — your picture in the paper — and people would come forward who’d known you under a different name these past several days. That might lead you directly to that rooming-house, which is the one place you don’t want to be placed. Use your head. Forget about the dead man. From your description of him he won’t be missed by society. Let’s go over to my place right now. We can slip a twenty to the clerk downstairs and tell him to forget he has seen you tonight. You’re still in a state of shock, you know, and it’s my duty as your physician and friend to try to take care of you,” Thompson ended persuasively.

Devlin swayed on his feet then sank into his chair. He was moved by the generous offer, but as he sat there staring blankly into space he wet his dry lips and shook his head regretfully. “It won’t do, Tommy. There’s the taxi driver who picked me up at that place and brought me here.”

“Do you flatter yourself he’ll remember you out of all the fares he’s had tonight?” Thompson argued.

“I’m sure of it. I’m positive he was suspicious from the moment he picked me up until he left with the two dollars Jack loaned me for taxi fare.

“Besides,” he went on morosely, “the landlord at that rooming-house got a good look at me. My fingerprints are bound to be all around the room. It’s — just — no — use,” he ended despondently. “I’m going to the police at once and tell them the whole story. They have the facilities to check back and find out who I’ve been while suffering from amnesia. They have those lie detectors — everything to get at the facts. And if I killed the man, they can prove I did it in self-defense.”

“Do you think the police will bother doing any of those things,” snorted Thompson, “with a cut-to-order victim giving himself up? Nuts. They’ll throw you in a cell and try you for murder. Don’t do it, Art,” he continued, softening his voice in a plea. “We can slip down the back stairs and over to my place before they ever trace you here. Then — there’s my fishing lodge down on the Keys. It’s isolated, and I can run you down early in the morning — this morning, rather — and you can stay under cover while I investigate this thing.”

Devlin gave no indication that he was listening. He made no comment for a short time, then said quietly, “I can’t let you run that risk for me, Tommy.”

“What risk will I be running?” Thompson was irritated.

“The clerk knows I called you tonight. He knows you’re here to see me. They’d be at your place half an hour after they came here looking for me.”

“Let ’em come.” Doctor Thompson thrust out his blunt jaw. “By that time you’ll be down at my lodge on the Keys.”

A faint smile flitted over Devlin’s pallid face. “A reputable doctor hiding a murderer? No, Tommy,” he said emphatically, “you’d be ruined. I’ll go it alone. First, I’ll check — or rather have the police check with the captain of the Belle to find out if a man passing as Arthur Devlin is aboard.”

“Okay, Art. It’s your funeral,” Thompson said resignedly. “If you’re determined to stick your head in a noose I guess there’s not much I can do about it.”

Devlin got up, went to a desk against the living-room wall, and riffled through the letters he had picked up downstairs.

A frown of deep concentration pulled his brows close together. He studied a square white envelope for a moment, turned and said excitedly, “This may be important, Tommy. A letter mailed in Port Au Prince June twelfth. If I recall the itinerary, that’s the date the ship should have reached Haiti. Maybe it’s from someone aboard the Belle who got acquainted with — with whoever was impersonating me.” He paused, turning the envelope over to rip the flap open. “But there’s no return address.”

Doctor Thompson came to his feet slowly and said, “Wait a minute, Art. Are you sure you want to open that letter? It might involve you further. In the short time I’ve had, I have been trying desperately to figure out — come to some conclusion as to what’s best for you. The less you know about anything that happened during your blackout, the better. You mentioned, yourself, the lie detectors the police will use on you. Can’t you see—?”

“But good Lord, Tommy, this may explain a lot of things.”

“Are you certain you want things explained?” There was an odd urgency in Thompson’s voice.

Arthur Devlin stared at his friend, his dark eyes still red-rimmed and swollen. He said, sadly, “You believe I’m a murderer, don’t you, Tommy? You want to hide me out, protect me from the consequences.” He lifted his right arm and put a trembling hand on the doctor’s shoulder, shook it gently. “I’m sorry I’ve put you on a spot, Tommy. You’ve been a big help. Nothing like an old friend to tell your troubles to and then do as you damned please, eh?” Again he strove for a light touch, but a mist came over his eyes.

Doctor Thompson turned jerkily. He said quietly, “It’s your funeral, Art.” He backed up to his chair and sat down.

Arthur Devlin tore the square envelope open and drew the letter out. His hand shook violently, and he sat down, smoothed it over a crossed knee, read a few lines, then turned eagerly to the signature. “Why — it’s from Janet.”

His voice sounded thin and disembodied. “She — writes as though — as though I were on that cruise, Tommy,” he ended in a guttural, incredulous tone.

“Janet? Who the hell is Janet?” asked the doctor.

“Don’t you remember, Tommy?” Devlin was leaning forward and the words tumbled out. “Lily Masters’s sister. I told all of you that night at the party. She was to meet me on the cruise. She was coming down from New York to meet me because I handled the insurance on Mrs. Masters, and—”

“And she was suspicious about her sister’s death,” Doctor Thompson said slowly. “I remember something about it. You had a couple of letters from her suggesting that Lily Masters was murdered. Some crazy notion she had—”

“Her letters weren’t crazy,” Devlin broke in, the glitter coming into his eyes, his voice strong with excitement. “She wrote me about a crazy, mixed-up letter she had received from her sister before she died. It seems that Mrs. Masters had written her about being blackmailed by someone.”

“And she wanted to talk it over with someone who had known her sister here,” Thompson recalled. “By the merest coincidence you both planned a vacation cruise on the Belle of the Caribbean.”

“Coincidence?” Devlin said, and was silently thoughtful for a time. “Why, no — I seem to recall writing her that I was going on a vacation trip and she wrote back that it would be a pleasant way for us to get together and talk things over.”

Doctor Thompson sat puffing on a cigarette and bobbing his head as Devlin spoke. “It’s kind of vague in my mind,” he said. “Maybe we all had had a few drinks when you told us about this — Janet.”

“Listen to this, Tommy, and see what you make of it.” He began to read slowly:

“Dear Arthur Devlin:

“I don’t understand at all. I am going to mail this to your Miami address, presuming you will eventually return there. You made me so very happy those first days after we met and you set my mind free about dear Lily.

“And I — shall I say it? I shall. I’m not a child to shrink from admitting the truth. I felt that we had come to know each other very well by the time we reached Cuba. I looked forward to seeing you a great deal during the remainder of the voyage. I — well, I won’t say what I have in mind because I’m mystified, but are you good at reading between the lines, Arthur Devlin?

“Anyway, when you disappeared without warning and with no explanation to anyone, without even taking your luggage, I didn’t know what to think.

“I was horribly upset, Arthur, when you did not return. The captain held up the boat for two hours, you know, while the Havana police searched for you — in every hospital and every hotel — and believe it or not, Arthur, in all the dives. But no trace of you.

“And your radiogram the next day. Just the two words. Don’t worry. As though I could help worrying! I am consumed with worry and with curiosity. If you receive this before I reach New York, please radio me that everything is all right.

“Most sincerely, Janet.”

Doctor Thompson had slid to a comfortable position in his chair as Devlin read the letter. He sprang to an erect position and asked, “What was she like, Art?”

“Like?” asked Devlin, puzzled. “Why, I never saw her in my life. I–I only know her by correspondence.” He grinned slowly and said, “I get it, Tommy. You’re still trying to catch me up. But what do you make of this letter? Looks as though the impostor took her in thoroughly. Sounds like she was beginning to fall for him. Then he jumped ship in Havana without explaining to anyone.”

“And leaving your things aboard,” Thompson commented dryly. “It would have drawn much less attention if he had explained that he was leaving the ship and had taken your things with him. Particularly since it appears the young lady was falling for him.”

Devlin was watching his friend narrowly, hopefully, certain now that he would respond with a solution after hearing the letter.

“Come off it, Art,” Thompson said. His whole expression was grim, but there was a pleading tone in his voice. “How long are you going to keep up this pretense?”

“I’ve told you—”

“A pack of lies,” Thompson interrupted. “A pack of silly lies that no schoolboy would expect to be believed. How can you keep it up after reading that letter to me? It’s perfectly clear that you were on board the ship as far as Havana where you disappeared under peculiar circumstances.”

The shock of Thompson’s accusations brought the sharp pain to Devlin’s temple again. Nausea roiled up from his stomach and gagged in his throat. His stomach flattened against his backbone, and his hands shook. He clasped his fingers convulsively, straining to get hold of himself. “What makes you so certain it was me?” he said hoarsely. “I told you — I’ve never laid eyes on Janet. We just wrote a couple of letters back and forth. All an impostor had to do was play it cagey and let her do the talking while he pretended to be Arthur Devlin.”

“That might have worked except for one small detail,” said Thompson wearily.

“What — what’s that?” Devlin gasped.

“The information she wanted about Mrs. Masters’s death from you. She said in the letter you’d made her happy by clearing everything up. How could anybody else accomplish a miracle like that by just being cagey and keeping his mouth shut?”

Devlin’s mouth and his tongue and his lips felt dry. “You mean — despite everything I’ve told you — you still believe I was aboard the Belle and jumped the ship at Havana?” He was leaning tensely forward, his short fingers interlaced, shifting back and forth, thumbs alternately squeezing each other.

Doctor Thompson sprang up and took a turn around the coffee table, running his fingers through his thick, black hair. He picked up the decanter of bourbon and poured himself half a drink, resumed his seat, and poured the drink down his throat. He flipped a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his mouth and said:

“Look, Art. I’m not a psychiatrist, I’m not a specialist of any kind. I’m just a medical doctor. But, I’m your friend. You called me over here because I’m your friend. Oh, I know I’m your doctor, too, if you ever need one.

“But everything in this thing adds up. Can’t you see it? Your radiogram to me, that letter from Janet. If you take my advice you’ll give up this story about not remembering the trip to Havana. If you still like amnesia as a defense, play it smart and give out a story that has some chance of being believed. Admit reaching Havana and think up some sort of trouble that caused you to miss the boat. Then, in the next day or so you could remember getting into a fight and blanking out. Nobody could prove that didn’t happen.”

Devlin’s head was lolling against the back of his chair. A great weariness surged through him, and he heard his friend’s voice as though it came through a fog. But his mind was alert, discarding everything except that which he actually remembered. A radiogram to Janet would reveal a lot. He had to contact her, see her, and learn the truth.

Devlin got up, went over to the desk, saying, “No matter how it strikes you, Tommy, I’m telling the truth. I’m not a very good liar. If I started lying to the police they’d have me backed into a corner and squirming in twenty minutes.” He pulled a drawer open and took out a sheet of paper and a pencil.

“Wait, Art,” Thompson pleaded. “Don’t forget you’ve got a good reputation and plenty of reputable friends. If you’d just lie low — wait and let things develop—”

“It’s no use,” Devlin said flatly. “I’m going to send Janet a long radiogram to Key West. I’m going to do everything I can to get at the bottom of this thing. If I was on that boat — well, I want to know the truth, no matter what it is.”

He sat with the pencil poised above the paper, thinking. Then, suddenly, he covered his face with both his hands and moaned.

“Art! What the devil’s the matter with you?” Thompson exclaimed.

“I can’t remember Janet’s last name!” he said in an anguished voice. The pencil fell to the table, and he lifted his head from his hands. “I guess you’d better send for the boys in white, Tommy. I’m going nuts. I guess I am nuts not to be able to remember a simple thing like Janet’s last name.” He sat staring stupidly into space.

“Nonsense. You’ve got to snap out of it. You didn’t know the girl very well. Just a casual correspondence. Names slip everybody’s mind occasionally. You must have her letters around somewhere.”

“They’re at the office,” he said tonelessly. He sprang up from the chair. The sudden move sent a throbbing pain to his temple and his body swayed.

Thompson leaped up and caught him. “This settles it,” he said firmly. “You’re going home with me. You need a strong sedative and some sleep. We’ll get together on a story tomorrow.”

Devlin struggled out of Thompson’s grasp, glared at him, and said, “You don’t believe a single word I’ve told you. Go on home, Tommy. I don’t blame you one bit and you’ve been a brick, but this is no good. You can help me most by staying out of jail yourself.”

“Now — wait—”

“No!” Devlin’s voice was shrill. “Get out. I had no right to drag you into this. Get out of here as fast as you can and forget you’ve seen me tonight.” He turned away from the hurt look on Thompson’s face and kept his back turned until he heard the outer door of the apartment close behind Thompson.

Devlin went back to the desk and picked up the telephone directory, thumbed down a column until he found Michael Shayne’s name, lifted the receiver, and gave the number to the man at the switchboard. When a voice answered at the other end, he said, “I want to speak to Mr. Shayne, please.”

“Is it important? Mr. Shayne doesn’t like to be disturbed at night when he’s—”

“I wouldn’t be calling him if it weren’t important,” Devlin cut in curtly.

“Yeh, I know,” said the voice. “That’s what everybody says when they call for Mr. Shayne. But he sort of leaves it up to me to find out what a man wants and whether it’s important enough to bother him with.”

“It isn’t only important,” Devlin told him, “it’s extremely urgent.”

“If you’ll tell me what it’s about maybe—”

“I’m telling you to ring Shayne’s apartment,” Devlin grated.

There was a little silence, then Devlin listened while a phone rang three times and stopped. The voice broke in and said, “Sorry. He doesn’t answer,” and the connection was broken.

Devlin stared at the instrument as he slowly cradled it, his eyes holding the expression of a doomed man. That Shayne was out at this time of night meant he was working on a case and would probably not be available. Devlin knew the redheaded detective’s reputation. He had, in fact, met him once during an insurance investigation involving one of the companies he represented. He needed a man like Shayne, and felt certain that if he could talk to him personally he could persuade him to listen. The truth would not shock a man like Michael Shayne whose business was murder. In fact, Devlin thought, the circumstances surrounding his own predicament would probably appear mild to him.

Right now, he could only wait. He got up and went into the bathroom and gathered up every article of clothing he had taken off in there and carried them into the bedroom. He picked up the coat and pants from the floor where he had let them fall, spread the lot of them out on his clean bed, and began methodically going over each garment. There was no sign of a laundry or dry-cleaner’s mark.

His patience was rewarded when he discovered a small slip of paper folded into a precise small square in the inside change pocket of the checkered coat.

Hope trembled through him as he carefully unfolded it. Across the top was printed Argonne House with a Northwest Second Avenue address in Miami beneath it. There was an inked notation below: $18.00 #209 6/18 to 6/24 Pd. M.N.

That was all. Devlin studied it with narrowed eyes. It would appear that he had paid the rent on Room 209, since the receipt was in his pocket, and that, therefore, he had spent the days of his blackout at the Argonne House.

He sat brooding over the slip of paper. He had four facts to go on: The address on Palmleaf Avenue, the receipt from The Argonne, that he had been known as Joey, and that Janet was aboard the Belle of the Caribbean and had become well acquainted with someone known as Arthur Devlin. He dared not return to the rooming-house on Palmleaf Avenue; it would be hours before he could call his office and find out what Janet’s last name was and it would then be too late to send the radiogram. He couldn’t begin inquiring about Joey when he had no idea what his last name was.

So, The Argonne seemed the logical place to start. A shudder swept over him. He had never had occasion to question his bravery, but he knew now that he was afraid. Did he dare go there and try to find a clue that would shed some light on this horrible nightmare? Mightn’t it be better, as Tommy suggested, to leave the black veil drawn? Did he want to know the sort of person he had become during those black, blank days?

His mind whirled as he dressed in his own immaculate clothes, formulating ideas and rejecting them. By the time he was fully attired in a tan sports suit with a delicate pin stripe the thought came to him that it was his duty to find out everything he possibly could before calling Michael Shayne later on in the day. It was urgent that he discover the reason for the rent receipt in the pocket of the dirty coat. At the Argonne he might even learn something about the woman named Marge. With even a few scraps of tangible information he might persuade Shayne to tackle his case.

Devlin went to the full-length mirror of his bedroom door. The reflection showed a nattily dressed young man, but his face was still pallid, his lips and eyes slightly swollen, and the knot on his head stood out like an elaborately swathed sore thumb. He looked around for the felt hat he had worn from the rooming-house. He frowned deeply, then remembered he had taken it off when he opened the living-room windows. He found it on the floor behind a chair near the first one he had opened, picked it up, and went back to the bedroom mirror. Easing it over the knot, he tugged the brim down over his forehead and thought, fleetingly, that perhaps he should start wearing hats again.

As was his custom, he felt his pockets with his palms to be sure he had everything before leaving home. The pocket where he carried his wallet was flat. Unhesitatingly, and with a determined look in his eyes, he went to the bed, got out the roll of bills from underneath the pillow, selected a clean one, and stuck it in his outer coat pocket. He rerolled them and secured them with the rubber band and went out to the telephone.

When the night clerk answered he said, “Jack, I need a taxi. Could you arrange it?”

“Sure, Mr. Devlin,” he answered eagerly. “In about five minutes. Okay?”

“Fine. And Jack, do you have change for a hundred-dollar bill?”

“Sure.”

“Count out ninety-eight for me. The other two will take care of the taxi fare. I’ll leave you a hundred for it when I pick it up.”

He hung up and stared around the familiar and carefully planned masculine appointments and wondered if he would ever see it again. His temple still throbbed against the band of the loose-fitting hat, and he felt like a man walking in a daze. A man embarking on a long and perilous voyage from which it was very likely he would never return. Nothing was real. Nothing would ever be the same again. Nothing could ever be the same after a man had committed a murder.

He closed the door softly when he went out, as though not to disturb the Arthur Devlin he had left behind — an Arthur Devlin who would waken at his usual hour of seven in the morning and leisurely prepare breakfast in the shining kitchenette and leisurely dress in ample time to reach his insurance office at nine in the morning.

Jack had the ninety-eight dollars ready for him when he walked slowly toward the desk. The young clerk’s eyes were alert, curious, sympathetic. He said, “You needn’t have bothered about the money, Mr. Devlin. You know your credit’s good here any time.”

“That’s quite all right. You know how it is — when you go on a trip you take along big bills. They’re not so bulky.”

“Of course. But—”

“Did you manage the taxi?” Devlin interrupted.

“It’s waiting. The driver just reported and went out.”

“Thanks, Jack,” said Devlin. He went out, leaving the gaping clerk staring at his back.

When the foyer door clicked behind him something clicked in his mind. Henceforth he had to force himself to believe he was a murderer. He had to remember to be careful, wary, watch his every word and action. He was a hunted man. As a disreputably dressed bum he had given one taxi driver the address of the Clairmount Apartments. Now, dressed as a moderately successful business man, he could not give the address of the Argonne. He walked as briskly as his throbbing head permitted, got into the rear seat of the taxi and said, “Corner of Flagler and Northwest Second.”

The driver was a Negro. “Yessuh,” he said, and the cab slid forward smoothly.

Flagler Street was deserted and quiet in the darkness of the hour before dawn. The trip had been made in utter silence, and Devlin leaned forward now to look at the meter. It registered a dollar and a half. When the cab slid to a stop he handed the driver two one-dollar bills, said, “Keep the change.”

“Yessuh. Thank you suh.” He reached back and opened the rear door, his wide mouth spread in a grin.

Devlin got out and the taxi moved away. He stood on the sidewalk for a while. A fierce resentment welled up within him against a circumstance over which he had no control that left him utterly alone at an ungodly hour on a street where he had known only friendliness and companionship. He was sorely tempted to wait, hail another taxi, and go straight back to his apartment.

The throbbing in his temple brought him back to the realization of the thing he had to do, and he began walking up Second Avenue, looking at the numbers on shops and small hotels until he reached a wooden stairway leading up from the sidewalk. The sign over it read: Argonne House.

He climbed the stairs as quietly as he could to a dingy second-floor lobby where a dim light above a desk outlined a crudely lettered sign that read: Ring bell for Manager.

Devlin did not want to see the manager. He wanted, only, to see the occupant or occupants of 209. He wandered down the narrow corridor until he found it. A dusty transom was open above the door to catch the musty, foul air of the hallway.

An overwhelming desire to turn and run away possessed him. He could still go back and tell Tommy he had reconsidered, go back to his apartment at the Clairmount and lie low — and wait.

But his right hand came up and tapped lightly on the door. There was an immediate rustle of sound inside. The lock clicked and the door swung open. The smell of cigarette smoke and perfume and the feel of bare arms around his neck attacked him simultaneously.

“Joey! Oh, Joey, darling!” Her arms were flung about his neck and she put her mouth against his, clinging to his lips. All the strength went out of him. Like a drowning man grasping for a straw, his arms reached out and closed around her supple young body and held tight to keep from falling. His head dropped down and rested against her hair when she stopped kissing him.

After a long time he felt a surge of normalcy spreading through his body, and he lifted his head slowly, wondering how many more shocks he could endure.

Chapter five

How many more shocks?

Devlin knew now that he was “Joey.” Hence, the dead man must be Skid. And the girl whose arms were around his neck was Marge.

The door was partly open. His right arm tightened around her waist as he half turned and swung the door closed with his left hand.

Marge mistook the movement for passion. She gripped him tighter and said softly, “Oh, Joey — you do love me.”

He patted her and said, “Don’t say anything. I’ve got to think,” and stroked her hair while his eyes roamed around the shabbily furnished sitting-room. The cushions of the wicker couch and chairs were faded and soiled. The edges of a square greenish rug in the center of the floor were frayed, and the lavender striped wall paper was offensive. Through an open door a ceiling light revealed a cramped and disordered bedroom. The bed was unmade, and feminine apparel hung limply over the back of a chair. There was an inner door which he judged led into the bathroom. It was one of those small, three-room affairs dignified by the name of “efficiency apartments” that rented for an outrageous price during the tourist season, but $18 a week was about all it would bring in the summer.

Devlin reached up and pushed the felt hat from his head and let it drop to the floor. His head was beginning to ache again. The room was hot, and the heat of the girl’s body pressed against him sent big drops of perspiration pouring down his face. His arms fell to his sides and he took a step backward.

Marge looked up quickly, then cried, “Joey! You’re hurt. What happened? Where have you been?”

Devlin mumbled something about one question at a time, took the handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped his face. His eyes went over her from head to foot as he stood there trying not to stare.

Marge was barefooted. She wore a sheer robe tightly belted around a slim waist. He could see the shoulder strap of a nightgown where the neckline of the robe was pushed aside. Her brown hair tumbled around her shoulders in disarray. He judged her to be in her mid-twenties, yet there was a looseness about her flesh that conveyed an impression of inner laxity.

It was her eyes that caught and held his gaze for a long time. They were black and enormous and strange. Her pupils were so small they appeared to be swallowed up by the iris. Contracted, he thought swiftly, by fear or by some violent emotion which he could only guess at.

She stood uncertainly before him, her mouth lax and pouting. Then her lips quivered and she said, “What’s the matter, Joey? What do you keep looking at me like that for?”

Devlin touched the bruised lump on his head and said, “I keep feeling dizzy and faint. I don’t know how bad it is. I was knocked out at first — and things get all blurred and then they’re clear again.” His body tensed and he took another step backward as though readying himself to open the door and fly from the room. He knew the next few minutes would decide whether he was going to get away with this imposture or whether she would see through it at once.

Marge’s features hardened suddenly and she seemed older than he had guessed. She kept staring at him with her enormous, pupil-less eyes, and he had no idea whether she was bracing herself to submit to some physical or mental cruelty from the man she knew as Joey — or whether she was suppressing some violent emotional upheaval of her own.

She said, “Where have you been since you phoned? You’re wearing different clothes, Joey. You’re acting — cold and strange.” She backed away from him, catching her full lower lip between her teeth, her eyes like round balls of sooty clay.

“I had to get a change of clothes,” he told her harshly. “My others had blood on them,” he went on evenly, watching her, hoping for some clue that would give him an idea of the tone Joey would use. “They had Skid’s blood on them.”

Her unrouged mouth twisted and a mist came over her eyes. “Where — did you get — clothes like that, Joey?” she asked meekly.

“I found an empty room down the hall there — you know — where I met Skid,” he told her, softening his tone. “The door was unlocked and I — took them. They fit pretty well. That’s what took me so long.”

“Oh, Joey!” The tears swam over her dark lashes and she ran to him, flinging herself in his arms again, weeping.

Devlin held her close. He had a curiously guilty feeling of compassion and tenderness as he comforted her, and he wondered desperately what they had been to each other these past twelve days. He had the fleeting impression that she had been kicked around by life and expected to be kicked again — by Joey.

“I’ve been so frightened,” she was saying through her sobs, her head pressed against his shoulder. “I didn’t know what to do when you didn’t come and didn’t phone. Then after I talked to you—” She drew away from him and looked up at him pleadingly, “Everything is all right, isn’t it? You didn’t — they’re not after you? Tell me everything’s all right.”

“I’ll tell you all about it,” he said heavily. “Everything is as right as it can be — under the circumstances — I guess. I’m beginning — to feel dizzy again.”

“You poor thing. Sit down over here on the sofa.” She caught his arm and led him to the soiled couch, fluffed a lumpy cretonne-covered pillow, said, “You just sit there and rest. I’ll get you a drink. I brought home some gin.”

Devlin moaned. “No — I don’t want a drink,” he protested harshly.

“But I got some Tom Collins mixture, Joey. That’s what—”

“It’s my stomach,” he said hastily. “That blow on the head made me nauseated and dizzy. Just get me a glass of ice water.”

He watched her as she turned toward the kitchen. God in Heaven! He put his hands against his head and moaned again as he had his first peek behind the black curtain covering those twelve days. He had become a gin drinker! And from the way Marge had backed away from him, he had, no doubt, also become a woman beater.

Marge came back with the ice water. He drank it eagerly, swallowing the last of the lump that had constricted his throat earlier in the morning.

She sat down beside him and crooned, “Now tell me all about it, Joey. Every single thing. So, he didn’t bring the money — the no-good bastard.” She spoke without rancor; more in sorrow, it seemed to Devlin, than in anger.

“I told you over the phone I didn’t get the money.” He watched her closely. Her expression, her tone of voice were his only cues.

“Too bad he didn’t tell you before you conked him,” she said unfeelingly. “Skid was always an undependable louse. Did you have a fight, Joey? What’d he hit you with?” She moved closer to him, put her arm around his neck, and her finger tips felt gentle and competent as she massaged the swollen area.

He winced when she touched the bruised spot, and she asked with sudden concern, “You sure it’s all right, Joey? It might be a concussion. You never can tell about a lick like that.”

Devlin remembered that Doctor Thompson had said the very same thing and was on the verge of telling her he had seen a doctor. He was saved from making another thoughtless mistake when Marge said abruptly and with startling venom, “What in hell did he hit you with?”

Devlin caught his breath in sharply. “A blackjack,” he told her. “You see, I—”

“But you had the blackjack.” She jerked her arm from around his neck and moved to face him squarely. “If you had just listened to me, Joe Jerome! Just hid behind the door like I told you and let ’im have it as soon as he came in. Instead of that I suppose you shook hands with him politely and said, ‘Good evening, Mr. Munroe. I’m Joe Jerome — Marge’s husband, you know. If you’ll just hand over that money you’ve got in your pocket — Damn it.” Rage thickened her voice and she pounded her fist against his arm. “Sometimes I think you’ve got no guts at all.”

Devlin didn’t answer her for a moment. The little peepholes she was opening up in the black curtain were there before him. Joe Jerome. Skid Munroe. He was Marge’s husband.

“Well — what did happen?” Her sharp voice shocked him out of his reverie.

Devlin looked at her. A bright pinpoint of light gleamed in the center of her sooty irises and her features were hard. “I didn’t get there first,” he said quietly. “He was already in the room when I got there. When I came in he — well — we had a fight and he got the blackjack away from me.” He shook his head ruefully and added, “There was quite a mix-up for a moment, and I thought I was done for.” Marge relaxed as suddenly as she had tensed. She leaned back against the couch. The tonelessness was in her voice again when she said, “But you got him anyhow. He won’t do any talking. We can just forget about the whole thing.” She moved close to him and caught his arm in a gentle caress.

Devlin was astounded, and he was worried. He couldn’t let her stop talking just when he was beginning to find out some of the things he had to know. But he had to be careful. Thus far he hadn’t blundered. She hadn’t suspected him. But henceforth he had to force himself to acquire the cunning of a criminal. He laid one of his hands over hers and said, “They’ll find Skid’s body in the room — as soon as the maid starts cleaning.”

“That’s no concern of ours, Joey,” she purred, and pressed her head against his shoulder. “No one knows you were there.”

“The manager saw me come out,” he told her. “I’m afraid he recognized me because he remembered I’d asked the room number when I went there to meet Skid.” The moment the words were spoken he realized he’d made his first blunder.

Marge’s caressing fingers became claws that dug into the muscles of his arms. Her upper lip drew back from her teeth and she grated, “You knew the room number when you went there. I wrote it down for you so you wouldn’t forget.” She stared at him for an instant and her rage changed to fear that was low and awesome in her voice, “Joey! Did you have another one of those spells?”

Devlin jerked his arm from her grasp. “Suppose I did?” he said harshly. “Could I help it? I tried to remember — and I guess I forgot to take the slip with me. And so I asked,” he ended defiantly. His mind was whirling with hope. If he had spells during his mental blackout it might mean that he was trying to struggle back to consciousness. Could a person afflicted with amnesia unconsciously try to grope his way back to his real identity?

Marge was saying rapidly, “But he didn’t know you. You were just a guy to him. They can’t trace you here. You just stay in close like you’ve been doing. It’ll be all right.” She slowed her words and softened her voice gradually, as though in her mind her fear was going away. “It’ll be all right, Joey. I know it’ll be all right. Marge won’t let them find you. Don’t you worry.”

She kissed his neck and his chin, and moved her face upward to his lips.

Devlin held her close, feeling a tenuous and almost subconscious sense of recognition, as though all of this had happened exactly the same way before — one of those inexplicable moments when one wonders if time has two dimensions whereby it is possible to live through the same experience on different planes at exactly the same moment. He strained to grasp the half-memory. Drops of perspiration broke out on his face. Marge slid her arm around his neck to pull his head down closer, and the feeling was gone.

“Now you stop worrying, Joey. Just don’t think about it any more,” she crooned. “Pretend it’s just another one of those bad dreams you’ve been having. It’s like I promised you in the beginning — when you started forgetting. And Joey — you know what?” Her lips were nuzzling his ear and her voice was a persuasive whisper, wooing and caressing.

A wave of passion spread through him. His lips were dry and he forced them to say, “What, Marge?” giving himself over to the excitation she aroused in him.

“Let’s don’t make the couch up out here for you tonight, Joey. You’re okay now. We don’t have to keep that up any more. Do we, Joey?”

He lay quiescent, her kisses weakening his will and strengthening his body as he fought to break the situation down into its component parts, to probe beyond her words and find some understanding of the situation, some knowledge of how it had been brought about in a space of less than two weeks.

Marge made a sudden move and her forehead struck the tender, bruised spot above his ear. Pain stabbed sharply through him like a flame, jerking him back to frightening reality and dispelling the passion that threatened to consume him.

He sat very still until the throbbing in his temple subsided. Wary and alert now, he resumed his probing thoughts, easing his head downward again to rest against her hair. She was quiet, the tension gone from her body.

Devlin’s thoughts raced on. Marge had said that Joey Jerome was her husband — or pretending to be. Or was she pretending — and why? She had said that he had been sleeping on the couch.

Yet he had radioed Tommy from aboard the Belle of the Caribbean. And the letter from Janet said he had met her aboard the ship as Arthur Devlin and reassured her about her sister’s death. If he had done all that—

But no! Tommy had explained that he could not have continued long in a state of amnesia on board the boat using his own name. Or, if that could have happened, why hadn’t he gone right on being Arthur Devlin if he had jumped ship in Havana and returned to Miami and gotten mixed up with Marge in a murder plot?

No. The man who sailed on the Belle had been someone else — an impostor and a shrewd one. Shrewd enough to pass himself off as Arthur Devlin to Janet who had never met him, and by cleverly drawing her out had kept up the pretense. Just as he was now trying to draw Marge out.

He started all over again, trying to straighten out the possibilities and look at them objectively. Suppose there had been an accident that night after he left Bert Masters’s party and before he went aboard the Belle. Suppose all his clothing and identification had been stolen. Suppose he had awakened in a stupor — in a dead blank — with no memory whatever of the past.

Suppose, then, he had chosen the name of Joe Jerome for some silly reason and met Marge and married her. That would add up. Though he didn’t suppose they were legally married. He tried to recall exactly what she had said a few minutes ago. “Let’s don’t make up the couch out here for you tonight, Joey. You’re okay now. We don’t have to keep that up any more. Do we, Joey?”

That was the only logical explanation. Amnesia was a form of sickness. He had been sick when they were married. So Marge had been making up the couch for him to sleep on and she had occupied the bedroom. But tonight he had murdered a man at her behest, so she thought him strong enough to sleep in the room with her.

He caught her by the shoulders and held her away from him. The pinpoints of light glittered in her smoky eyes. He couldn’t stay here. They were not legally married. Of that he was certain. He was a murderer and she was his accessory before the fact. It was all a horrible farce and he would be eternally damned forever and ever if he stayed a moment longer.

He heaved himself up, her arms clinging around him. He pulled them loose and flung her back on the couch. She lay with heaving breasts and ludicrously frightened eyes.

“I’ve got to get out,” Devlin told her thickly. “I meant to tell you when I came in, but I forgot about it. I think I was followed here. I’m not sure, but I’m afraid I was.”

“Followed here? You mean—?”

“I mean if I stay here they may search the place and then they’ll arrest you, too. You see,” he went on swiftly, striking out in the dark, but shrewdly taking his cue from her own words, “even though there’s no connection between Skid Munroe and me, they’ll soon find out that you knew him. Then — if they did trail me here—” He flung out his hand nervously. “So I’ll be going along,” he ended flatly and turned to pick up his hat from the floor near the door.

Marge lay on the couch staring at him from between fiercely drawn brows. She looked like a discarded doll, and she did not speak until Devlin had his hand on the knob. Then she didn’t move. She asked wearily, “What are you going to do, Joey? When’ll you be back?”

“I don’t know,” he told her truthfully. “Not until I’m sure it’s safe.”

He opened the door and stepped out into the hallway, and there was a stifled moan in the room as he pulled the door shut.

Chapter six

“Murder is my business.”

Michael Shayne was sound asleep. He roused when his phone rang in the outer room. He grunted and turned over on the second ring. On the fourth ring he swore under his breath and sat up. He had had an arrangement for several years with the night man on the switchboard in the apartment hotel. Three rings if the matter appeared to be trivial — a continuous assault on his eardrums if the night clerk deemed it important enough to waken him no matter how soundly he slept.

On the tenth ring Shayne yawned widely, switched on the light on his bedside table, and looked at his watch — 4:20 a.m. Not yet daylight, though there was a faint hint of dawn outside the bedroom window.

He lit a cigarette, and on the twelfth ring swung his long legs over the side of the bed and stood up, a bigboned, gaunt-faced man in tan cotton pajamas. He ran knobby fingers through his bristly red hair as he strode into the room which he maintained as an office and picked up the receiver.

The night clerk’s voice came immediately over the wire. “Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Shayne, but there’s a man here says he’s a friend of yours — in trouble.”

“What’s his name?”

“He doesn’t want to give me his name. You’d better talk to him, I reckon, Mr. Shayne. He’s got the look of a man in real trouble, I’d say.”

Shayne said, “All right, Ellis,” resignedly. “Put him on.” He puffed drowsily on his cigarette and waited.

“Michael Shayne? This is Arthur Devlin. I don’t know whether you remember me—”

“Devlin?” Shayne interrupted. “Insurance. Yeh. That Moody thing a couple of years ago. What’s the trouble this time?”

“It’s a personal matter. May I see you now?”

“Come on up.” He gave Devlin his apartment number and hung up, turned away tugging thoughtfully at his left earlobe. He remembered Arthur Devlin. During the Moody case he had judged him to be a clean-cut young fellow and a competent insurance adjuster. He had been very helpful on the case.

Shayne padded in bare feet to the front door and opened it wide, turned on the ceiling light on his way back to the bedroom to get a robe.

Devlin was standing in the doorway when he returned, the too-big felt hat pulled well down over his eyes. He stepped forward quickly, forcing a smile that quirked one side of his mouth upward. “I didn’t know where else to go, Shayne,” he said. “I didn’t know anyone else who might listen to me. I’m — afraid I killed a man last night.” Shayne’s gray eyes showed nothing of the shock he felt. He took Devlin’s outstretched hand in a firm clasp, keenly searching his face and noting the signs of near-hysteria in his whole expression. He said, “Murder is my business, Devlin. Have a seat.” He indicated a chair and pulled one up for himself.

“I didn’t want to disturb you at this hour of the morning,” Devlin began apologetically, “but—”

“Let’s have it,” Shayne interrupted. “What do you mean by saying you’re afraid you killed a man last night?”

“That’s it exactly.” Devlin’s voice was husky. He took off the felt hat and leaned forward to show Shayne the lump on his head. “I came to a little after midnight with this.” He touched the swelling gently. “I was alone in a furnished room with a dead man…”

His voice grew stronger and more assured as he recounted the story to Shayne. In the telling, part of the burden was shifted to Shayne’s wide shoulders, and the horror of it lessened. Shayne’s receptive expression and calm manner helped him, and he told the story in detail, with correct continuity, and ended by saying: “I really intended to give myself up to the police in spite of Doctor Thompson’s advice, Shayne. Or, if they came for me, I was determined to tell them the truth. Then I remembered you. I tried to phone you earlier, but the clerk said you were out. What — what do you make of it, Shayne?”

Shayne frowned heavily, crushed out a cigarette, and said, “One thing I don’t like at all is your medical friend’s diagnosis.”

“We’ve been friends for years. As I told you, I felt he was the only person I could go to. I’ve known Tommy ever since he hung out his shingle in Miami.”

“That’s what makes it look bad,” Shayne pointed out. “I know very little about the medical aspects of a case such as this. If he were just a doctor — some stranger passing an objective judgment — I’d be much less inclined to listen to him. Doctors are a queer breed. I’ve seen them make some bad mistakes while stubbornly insisting they know all about something they don’t understand at all. But if this man wanted to believe you — if he knows you and likes you, and yet—” Shayne flung out one big hand in a gesture that said, There you are. What can you expect me to believe?

“All I can do is tell you the truth,” said Devlin wretchedly. “It may upset all the dogmas of medical science,” he went on, rising to his feet and walking nervously around the room. “I don’t claim I’m insane. How would any man know when his mind has been blacked out for days?” he went on, his voice rising hysterically. “I simply say I’m telling you the truth as I know it. It’s up to you as a detective to discover what actually happened — and to a board of medical experts to decide on the effects of amnesia on a man’s mind. If there’s actually anything to this lie detector the police use, I’m not afraid to take the test.” He turned to face Shayne with agonized eyes, then slumped into his chair again.

Shayne was thoughtfully silent, a crease drawing his heavy red brows together. He said, abruptly, “Let me see that letter from the girl named Janet.”

Devlin took the envelope from his pocket and handed it over without a word. Shayne read it carefully, then asked, “Where is this cruise ship now?”

“At Key West. She’s due to anchor off Miami tomorrow to discharge passengers who joined the cruise here.”

“This girl — this Janet — what’s her last name?” He dropped the question casually.

Devlin looked at him quickly, surprised. “I’ve told you — I don’t know,” he said flatly. “I know it sounds crazy,” he went on, irritation creeping into his voice, “but it’s not really so queer that I’ve forgotten. There are a couple of letters from her in my office files — in the Masters file,” he amended.

“Bert Masters,” Shayne muttered. “I don’t believe I’ve ever met his wife. Was there anything queer about her death?”

“Nothing except that it seemed queer she’d commit suicide,” Devlin answered. “There seemed to be no motive, and she didn’t leave a note. People who knew her well can’t imagine why on earth she would take her own life. Lily was much younger than Bert,” he added.

“Did you know her well?”

“Fairly well. I’ve visited in their home a few times. I’ve known Bert Masters a long time — handled his insurance. It was quite natural that his wife came to me a couple of years ago when she wanted insurance.”

“How much?”

“Ten thousand. She made her sister the beneficiary.”

“Janet?”

“Why, yes. I thought I explained that was how I originally got in touch with her.”

“Then you must know her name,” Shayne insisted. “It was on the policy. Your company paid the money over to her.”

Devlin’s face lighted up as though a memory was breaking through. “Of course I remember her maiden name. It was Elwell — Janet Elwell—” He repeated the name over and over, sighed heavily, and said, “She married after the policy was issued and neglected to inform me or have the policy changed. After her sister’s death our New York office tried to get in touch with Janet Elwell at the address we had. It took them a couple of days to trace down her married name and find her.” He sighed again. “Her married name almost comes back to my mind — but I can’t grasp it.”

“Couldn’t Bert Masters tell you what it is?”

“I’m certain he could.”

“Do you know him well enough to wake him at this time of the morning to ask a favor?”

Devlin hesitated only momentarily, nodded, and said, “Of course, but I don’t like to call anybody at this—”

“Go to it.” Shayne motioned toward the telephone. “Tell him it’s extremely important that you have his wife’s sister’s married name at once. If we can get a message to her at Key West we might solve a lot of things fast.” He settled back and lit a cigarette while Devlin called.

Devlin asked, “Is this Bert Masters’s residence? I’d like to speak to Mr. Masters, please. It’s very important.”

He waited a moment, then said, “Is this Morgan? This is Arthur Devlin, Morgan. That’s right. Yes — I’m back, and I must talk to Mr. Masters.”

He listened again and his shoulders began to sag. “Maybe you could help me, Morgan,” he said. “I need to know the name of Mrs. Masters’s sister, Janet. Her married name.”

He waited, and after a moment said dejectedly, “I see. Of course, if you refuse to wake him.” His voice trailed off and he cradled the receiver.

“Who’s Morgan?” Shayne asked.

“Bert Masters’s secretary,” Devlin told him. “A rude, officious and overbearing person. He refused to bother Masters. I’ve never understood why on earth Masters keeps the man.”

“Her name is in your office file,” he reminded Devlin. “We could go there now and find it.” He started to his feet but Devlin shook his head.

“The office is closed and locked. I haven’t even a key to get in with,” he reminded the detective. “Can’t it wait until they open in the morning?”

“I suppose it will have to wait,” Shayne conceded. “Now, when Janet wrote you about her sister’s letter, exactly what did she say?”

“Not much. She didn’t know me personally, you see, and she was cautious about putting anything down on paper. She did say that Lily had mentioned my name once or twice — in friendly terms, I gathered — and she knew no one else with whom she might discuss her sister’s blackmailer. I replied somewhat guardedly, also, suggesting to Janet that she let me know more fully exactly what she suspected. In her second letter she mentioned the cruise she was going on, wondering if it would be possible for me to spend the evening with her aboard the ship while it was anchored off Miami.”

Devlin paused and Shayne asked sharply, “Are you going to tell me it was sheer coincidence that you were going to be on the cruise ship together?”

“No. I’m not going to tell you that.” Devlin flushed and he went on doggedly: “I didn’t decide to take the cruise until after receiving Janet’s letter. My vacation was coming up and I had no particular plans. The idea of a Caribbean cruise appealed to me, and — the tone of Janet’s letters — some indefinable part of herself that she managed to convey — gave me the impression that it would be pleasant sailing on a vacation cruise with her.”

“Without her husband?” Shayne asked idly.

The flush deepened on Devlin’s cheeks. “Haven’t I mentioned that she lost her husband? Less than a year after she married.”

“No,” said Shayne affably, “you didn’t mention that.” Devlin started to say something, but Shayne hurried on: “About Lily Masters’s death — you say you’re sure it was suicide, but without apparent motive? How did you feel about the question Janet raised — of reopening the case?”

“I was curious,” said Devlin slowly. “I wanted to see the letter Lily had written Janet before I passed judgment. From what Janet said I gathered her letter was vague and rambling. That wasn’t like Lily Masters at all,” he ended, his eyes puzzled and thoughtful.

“What I’m getting at is this,” said Shayne impatiently. He tapped the letter on his desk. “It’s quite evident that you — or someone posing as you — reassured her completely about her sister’s suicide. Could that man have been you — without your remembering it now?”

“Before God, Shayne, I don’t know. How can I know? And if it was not I — who was it?”

“Someone who knew enough about you and Lily Masters to convince the girl he was Arthur Devlin,” said Shayne promptly.

Devlin was aghast. “You mean it was done purposely? That someone slugged me the night of the party and went aboard to pose as me — just to reassure Janet and prevent a new investigation into her sister’s death?”

“That’s a possibility,” Shayne agreed. “Though not necessarily the motive. I do mean that the imposture could have been carried off successfully only by someone who knew you intimately — well enough to send Doctor Thompson the reassuring radiogram the next day. And probably by someone who knew Janet was aboard and had enough facts about Lily Masters to satisfy her.”

“Then you believe it was an impostor, Shayne. You don’t believe I was aboard the Belle — and left the cruise in Cuba without an explanation?”

“I don’t believe anything yet,” Shayne told him. “For a starting point, I’m willing to accept Doctor Thompson’s opinion that loss of memory could not be retroactive. So, if you’re telling the truth about all this, there must have been an impostor on board who convinced this Janet that he was Arthur Devlin.”

“Then prove it,” cried Devlin wildly.

“I’m willing to try. It’ll take some digging to find out exactly what happened after you passed out at the party.” Shayne opened a drawer, took out a pencil and a pad of paper. “Where was the party?”

“At Masters’s house on the Beach. It’s a big estate.”

“I know the place,” Shayne interrupted. “Who else was at the party?”

“Tommy. And Joe Engals. He’s a bookie, I guess. A great one for practical jokes. And Ryerson Thomas. Runs a night club on the Beach. Then there was Bill Pierson, a fellow insurance man, and Masters’s private secretary — Morgan is the only name I know for him.”

“All right. Now let’s go back to the girl who called you Joey on the telephone and asked if you had killed Skid. She told you her name was Marge?”

“That’s right. I didn’t tell Thompson about the phone call — about Marge — or the money,” he admitted. “Somehow they both seemed so horribly damning.”

“They are damning,” Shayne said flatly. “If you’re sure she recognized your voice correctly over the phone and that she has known you during the past several days as Joey.”

“Insofar as I know,” said Devlin, “that’s the way it is. You see, I went through that gray suit again after Tommy left and found a rent receipt wadded up in the change pocket.” He took the slip of paper from his pocket and handed it to Shayne with trembling hands.

Shayne spread it out and studied it. “And?”

“So I went there,” Devlin burst out. “To room two-oh-nine. She was there — waiting for me. Marge. She — it appears that I am married to her,” he ended weakly.

Shayne settled back with a grim smile twitching his wide mouth. “You must have worked fast while suffering from amnesia.”

“I don’t understand it at all,” Devlin confessed. “A girl like that.” He shuddered, clasping and unclasping his hands.

“Tell me all about her.”

Devlin tried, striving to recall every incident. He repeated the conversations as exactly as he could recall the words, including the fact that as Joey Jerome he had become a gin drinker. He described Marge and her emotions, her moods — told how he had felt drawn to her and yet repelled by her at the same time.

“I had to get away from there,” he ended wildly. “It’s perfectly clear that she exerted some uncanny power over me while I was blacked out, and that I went to meet that man with the intention of killing him. She’s no better than a murderess, and yet — yet—” He paused, covering his face with his hands.

“And yet you knew if you stayed there a few minutes more you’d bed down with her,” said Shayne harshly. “What of it? Sexual attraction hasn’t anything to do with moral character. In your normal state, even, you’re attracted by a woman like that, and disgusted with yourself for it, so it seems perfectly natural to me that she’s just the sort you might turn to in amnesia. She’ll be able to clear up one point,” he went on briskly. “When we learn exactly when you first met her we’ll probably know for sure whether you ever went aboard the boat.”

Devlin grew calmer under Shayne’s matter-of-fact acceptance of the situation. “I thought about that, but I didn’t know how to ask her. How do you go about asking your wife when you met her?” he ended with the semblance of a smile.

“You’re going on the theory that she doesn’t know you were in a state of amnesia when you met,” Shayne pointed out. “That may not be true at all. She may have been perfectly aware of it all the time and simply didn’t care. Several things she said indicate that: your lapses of memory and what she called ‘spells’ — the sickness that had caused you to sleep in different beds.”

“I hadn’t thought about it that way. Perhaps if I had had the courage to tell her the truth tonight — put her on the spot and make her tell me—”

Shayne shook his head emphatically. “It’s probably much better that you didn’t. I can see her today and find out more things without frightening her. Now: You mentioned a roll of money.”

“Ninety-nine one-hundred dollar bills.” Devlin took the roll from his pocket and handed it to the detective. “You can see the blood on the outside and realize how I felt when I found that in my pocket in the taxi — and not another dime. I took one of the bills and got the clerk at my apartment to change it.”

Shayne nodded, unrolling the bills and laying them out on the table. “And the shabby clothes you had on? You say you went through them carefully?”

“I went over every piece. There was absolutely nothing — no mark to identify a laundry or dry cleaner.”

“They’re still in your apartment?”

“Lying in a heap on the floor. All except this hat. I wore it to hide the lump on my head. I haven’t owned a hat for years.”

“I’ll have to get hold of those clothes,” said Shayne decisively. “They’ll have to be gone over by a police chemist.”

“The police?” asked Devlin anxiously.

Shayne nodded again. “Gentry has a lad who’s a modern miracle man. Let me have the key to your apartment.”

Devlin took it from his pocket and passed it to Shayne. “The clerk let me have the extra key. Mine was in the suit I was wearing that night.”

“Are there back stairs?” Shayne asked. “Any way that I can get up to your place without being seen by the clerk?”

“There’s a service entrance and stairs in the rear. And a fire escape at the rear door of each apartment.”

“Now let me have that rooming-house address again — the one where the dead man is.”

“Eight-nineteen Palmleaf Avenue,” Devlin told him. “The baldheaded man downstairs mentioned room three-oh-four, so I presume that’s the number.”

Shayne made a note of the address. His gaunt face was expressionless as he picked up the receiver and called a number, waited a moment, then said, “That you, Harry? Mike Shayne. Yeh, I’m really out after the worm this morning. Any homicides last night?”

He tugged at his left earlobe as he waited. Devlin watched him, fists clenched hard and his face white.

“Too bad,” Shayne said into the mouthpiece, “some ginzo didn’t get himself bumped just to keep you from being bored, Harry. And one more thing — any disturbance reported at eight nineteen Palmleaf?”

He listened again, nodding his head. “No particular reason for asking. Been playing with my ouiji board and must have got the wrong address.” He chuckled and added, “Being a quiet night, I suppose Chief Gentry is home sleeping off an overload of beer. Thanks, Harry.”

He hung up and immediately called for another number, looked reassuringly at his client and said, “Nothing at headquarters on the Skid Munroe murder. If I’m lucky—” He said into the mouthpiece, “Will? Mike Shayne. Can you meet me on Palmleaf Avenue in about half an hour?”

Arthur Devlin sprang up angrily, his face white and his lips drawn tight. “Damn you,” he sobbed, “I thought I could trust you. I should have known—”

Shayne’s gray eyes were blazing. “Hold it just a minute, Will. There’s a little misunderstanding here.” He put a big hand over the mouthpiece and said, “What kind of an act is this, Devlin?” His voice was hard and cold.

“I thought you believed me,” Devlin cried angrily. “I thought you were taking my case as a private detective, but you called the police. That was Chief Will Gentry you were talking to.”

“So what?” Shayne’s tone was harsh and uncompromising.

“Is that any way to help me?” Devlin asked shrilly. “Sick the police on me? I told you they’d be after me as soon as the body was discovered and the taxi driver heard the story.”

“So what?” Shayne demanded again.

“I thought you’d cover up for me — go there and move the body. Anything except tell the police about it.” Devlin slumped down and covered his face with his hands.

Shayne’s eyes were bleak as he gazed at the slumped, quivering body. He said, quietly, “I’ll handle things my way or not at all, Devlin. Either you pull yourself together and keep your mouth shut while I make this call, or get out of my apartment.”

“Where will I go if I leave here?” he moaned. “What can I do?”

“That,” said Shayne, “is for you to decide. Make up your mind fast. Do I tell Gentry it was all a mistake and apologize for waking him up?”

“I–I—” Devlin sputtered through chattering teeth, dragging himself up straight. “Handle — it your way, Shayne,” he said, calming his voice with an effort. “I’m in your hands.”

“All right.” Shayne took his hand from the mouthpiece and said, “Sorry to keep you waiting, Will. Eight-nineteen Palmleaf Avenue. I’ll meet you there in thirty minutes.” He paused to listen, then growled, “You know I wouldn’t do this if it weren’t important. And Will — as soon as you hang up call headquarters and put a call on the short wave for the cabby who picked up a fare close to the Palmleaf address a little after midnight. Ask him to report in. A lot of those all-night hacks tune in police calls.” He cradled the receiver and got up and strode into the bedroom without a glance at his client.

Devlin sat stiffly erect, his red-rimmed eyes staring vacantly into space. Presently he got up and went to the bedroom door. Shayne had his trousers on and was buckling his belt.

“You really are cutting the ground from under me, aren’t you, Shayne?” he said. “If you had let things take their normal course the cab driver wouldn’t have read about the murder until this afternoon at the earliest.”

Shayne flung a tie around his neck and started tying it. “Do you want me to handle this or don’t you?” he growled.

“I do want you to,” Devlin told him. “You must have some reason—”

“Keep on thinking that,” said Shayne cheerfully. “It’ll save wear and tear on your nervous system.” He sat down on the bed and put his shoes on. “I’m not in the habit of explaining, Devlin, but I’ll do it this once because you’re so upset. If you’ve lied to me about this, God help you. But if you’ve told the truth, the best thing is for me to get in on it fast. I’ll get a lot more working with the police. Sure I want you traced to your apartment. I want Doctor Thompson traced so we can hear his story. This way, I can get the cops to do it for me without letting them know I represent you or where you are.”

“Everyone,” said Devlin, “will know where I am in a few hours. When a man is charged with murder it doesn’t remain a secret very long.”

Shayne got up to get his coat. “You won’t be arrested if you listen to me,” he told Devlin. “Stay here. There’s food in the kitchen, cigarettes and liquor. Don’t get drunk. Don’t open the door and don’t answer the phone. If you hear anyone at the door, come in the bedroom and close the door and be quiet.” He was moving about, talking swiftly, putting cigarettes and change in his pockets. He brushed past Devlin into the living-room, stopped to pick up the felt hat Devlin had worn, grabbed his own slouch hat from a hook near the door and went out hastily, leaving Arthur Devlin standing dazedly in the middle of the room trying to stammer his apologies and his thanks.

A crimson glow rimmed the eastern horizon when Shayne backed his car out of the hotel garage and drove rapidly across the causeway to the Clairmount Apartments. With only thirty minutes’ leeway before he was to meet Gentry on Palmleaf Avenue he was cutting it pretty fine, but he had his own reasons for wanting to pick up the clothing at Devlin’s place before the official investigation led the police there.

By taking the curves on the Venetian Causeway at fifty miles an hour he reached the Clairmount twelve minutes after leaving Devlin, parked down the street past the alley where an arrow pointed in and read Service Entrance.

He found the stairway at the extreme rear and climbed the two flights without being seen, went down the corridor to 3-B, and unlocked the door. After turning on the living-room lights he looked over the room reflectively.

The furniture and appointments were moderately expensive and masculine, the sort of neutral, unobtrusive background a man such as the Arthur Devlin he had met two years ago would select. He had come to realize that a lot could be learned about a man’s real personality by viewing his living-quarters.

He crossed the room and went into the bedroom. The discarded clothing lay in a pile on the floor beside the bed. He found a folded piece of brown paper in a partially denuded closet, opened it up and dumped the clothes onto it, and looked around for a piece of string. In one of the desk drawers in the living-room there was half a ball of twine. He went back to the bedroom and folded the clothing into a neat package and was tying the last knot when he heard a peculiar sound that caused him to stop and jerk his head around.

It came again. A faint and almost ghostly tapping in the early morning silence. Shayne straightened up and strode into the living-room, every sense alert as he went toward the front door and listened.

The sound came again, faint, cautious, and definitely from the rear door. He remembered then what Devlin had said about the fire escape. Shayne went on tiptoe toward the tapping, stopped to switch on the kitchen light, then moved across the linoleum to the door. There was a key in the lock. He put his hand on the key, leaned close to the crack, and said loudly, “What is it?”

“Devlin!” A harsh whisper came back. “Let me in. Quickly.”

Shayne turned the key and the knob at the same time. As the latch clicked the weight of a man’s body drove the door back hard against Shayne, catching him off balance and sending him back against the kitchen wall.

The intruder stopped in mid-stride with a gasp of astonishment when he saw the redhead’s face. He was squarely built and heavy-set. A Panama hat was pulled low over spectacled eyes and the upturned collar of a swagger raincoat effectually hid the lower portion of his face.

For a fleeting moment they stared into each other’s eyes with not more than a foot of space separating them. Then, as Shayne righted himself and gained his balance, the man whirled and leaped nimbly through the opening and jerked the door shut behind him.

Shayne sprang forward with a curse and opened the door, stepped out onto the steel landing of the fire escape, and looked down as the clatter of retreating footsteps came up through the silence. The man had almost reached the ground, plunging downward two steps at a time and with no regard for the noise he made.

With a grimace of disgust at his clumsiness, Shayne reentered the kitchen and locked the door.

Most of his allotted thirty minutes had been used up and he didn’t want to keep Gentry waiting. There was a nightmarish quality about the whole incident that would have been ridiculous if Shayne hadn’t felt it might be very important to know the identity of Devlin’s early morning visitor. But there was nothing to be done about it now, so he finished tying the bundle of clothing, tucked it under his arm, and went down the back stairs to his car.

Chapter seven

A corpse for the cops

The tropical June day had begun in earnest when Shayne parked in front of the rooming-house on Palmleaf Avenue, but the air was still cool with the lingering breath of the night breeze rustling the palm fronds arched overhead. Number 819 was one of a row of similar three-story frame houses built close to the sidewalk and close together with cupolas in front and dormer windows on the sides. No one was yet moving on the street, but from some of the open windows came the sound of radios as the occupants began to stir themselves for a new day.

Shayne yawned widely and relaxed behind the wheel. He was lighting a cigarette when a gray sedan turned into the block and stopped at the curb behind him. He spun the match away and stepped out onto the pavement, walked back to the open left-hand door of the sedan.

The Miami police chief was grunting sourly and heaving his heavy bulk from the seat. His broad, florid face, ordinarily good-humored, wore a heavy scowl. His eyes were murky and red-rimmed and he was unshaven.

“What’s this all about, Mike? Why the devil did you drag me out of bed?”

Shayne grinned. “I’m not sure, Will. If it’s a false alarm, I’ll take you back home and tuck you in myself.”

“Doesn’t seem to be any excitement around here,” grumbled Gentry as he walked stolidly beside Shayne. “If this is one of your little jokes, Mike—”

“It’s not a joke, Will. Here’s our number. We’ll soon find out.” Shayne went ahead of Gentry, turned the door knob, and they went into a small entry with stairs leading up directly ahead of them.

There was no sign of life, no sound from behind any of the closed doors. A card on the first one on the right held a small printed card that read Manager.

Shayne closed the door quietly and went up the stairs with Gentry following. The air seemed musty with the smell of yesterday’s food and with the stench of long-decayed human hopes.

A dim, dusty bulb lit the narrow hall on the third floor. When they reached 304, Shayne started to knock on the thin door panel, hesitated, then tried the knob.

The door opened. Enough light came through the one window to show the body of the dead man crumpled at the foot of the bed, just as Arthur Devlin had described it. Shayne reached a long arm in and switched the light on, stepped aside, and said politely, “It’s all yours, Will. I won’t have to take you home and tuck you in after all.”

Will Gentry’s rumpled lids rolled up like miniature Venetian blinds. All signs of sleepiness were gone from his eyes and he gave Shayne a sharp, questioning look, then moved slowly and solidly to stand over the dead man. He sighed almost plaintively and said, “All right, Mike. Give it to me.”

“I’ve already given it to you, Will.” Shayne made a thrusting motion with his hands and stepped up beside the chief. “Skid Munroe,” he muttered in a tone of mild surprise.

“Who did you expect to find lying here?”

“Frankly, I didn’t have the slightest idea.”

Gentry grunted. “Another one of your hunches?”

“Look, Will, can I help it if I have sources of information?”

“Who killed him?”

“I don’t know.”

“How’d you know he was here?”

“If I didn’t keep my pipelines confidential I wouldn’t have any. You know how I operate.”

“Yeh. I know.” Gentry pushed his hat to the back of his head and scratched his heavy jowls. “Go down and wake the manager and phone Harry at Homicide. Bring the manager back with you.”

“Maybe you’d better phone Harry,” Shayne suggested. “He might get sore—”

“I’ll stay here while you do the phoning,” said Gentry without rancor. “You’ve probably been over everything already, but I couldn’t help that. Get Harry.”

“Okay. Okay, Will,” Shayne said soothingly. “But don’t forget who tipped you off — and let me in on whatever you find.” He turned and long-legged it out of the room and down the stairs.

When he returned a few minutes later he was accompanied by a wizened little bald-headed man who clutched a faded bathrobe around his shrunken middle and wheezed loudly through a long, sharp nose.

Gentry had been through the dead man’s pockets and had tossed a clip of bills and a key ring on the bed. He gestured toward them and growled, “That’s all he had on him. Eighteen bucks and some keys.”

Shayne said, “The squad boys are on their way. Harry is bringing the taxi driver I mentioned. He phoned in a few minutes ago.” Turning to the frightened, wheezing little man he said, “This is Mr. Erlang. I didn’t tell him anything, but he heard me phoning Homicide.”

“Come on in,” Gentry said brusquely. “Haven’t you ever seen a corpse before?”

“Not just — lying out like that,” he admitted through chattering teeth. He advanced a few cautious steps and peered nearsightedly at the body. “That’s him, all right. Signed the register George Moore. Just this afternoon. Paid me cash in advance. Said he was expecting someone to see him here tonight.”

“Who?” Gentry’s lids were rolled up and his eyes probed the little man’s steadily.

“Didn’t say who. Just some man. So when a man come at about ’leven and asked for my new roomer and sort of described him I told him 304 and he come up alone.”

“Didn’t he know Moore’s name?” Shayne cut in.

“Reckon not. Acted like he didn’t know, sure enough.”

“Describe the visitor,” Gentry ordered.

“Didn’t get a good look at him that time, but when he come down a couple hours later I saw him good. Tall he was, and mean-looking. Had his hat pulled low over his face and a look that scared me. Snarled something and went right past me and out the door like the devil was on his tail.”

“What time was that?”

“Short of two, I reckon. I’d been sitting up and waiting ’cause I didn’t hear him come down earlier and I figured maybe they was sneaking him in for the night. Two for the price of one, you see. They try that stunt on me a lot, but you can bet I watch out for it.” Mr. Erlang had backed away where he couldn’t see the corpse, and he cackled gleefully.

“You said you didn’t get a good look at the man when he came inquiring for his friend at eleven,” Shayne said. “Why not, if you directed him up here?”

“Didn’t open my door but a crack,” wheezed Erlang. “I was getting ready for bed and was naked as a jaybird in sheddin’ time. Talked to him through the crack and didn’t open the door until he started up the stairs. Saw his back. Same feller, all right. Same hat and all.”

The first contingent from Homicide arrived to take over the death room. Shayne and Gentry went out and down the stairs. As though through some telepathic medium, the tenants were aroused and people stood outside doors in night clothes and robes watching and listening, curiosity wiping the sleep from their eyes.

In the small entry on the first floor they met Sergeant Hopkins, who had in tow a heavy short man wearing a visored cap above wary eyes and a jutting jaw.

“This is Pete Bisto, Chief,” the sergeant greeted Gentry, “the cabby you sent out that call for.” He gave Shayne a slow wink to attest the fact that he hadn’t forgotten the detective’s telephoned inquiry about the Palmleaf address a short time earlier.

“Yeah,” said Bisto. “I was cruisin’ on the Boulevard when I heard it. You know how ’tis. Didn’t catch on first time I heard it. A man listens to them calls sorta without hearin’ ’em, you might say, and when somethin’ like that comes along—”

“I know,” said Gentry. “But you did remember the fare you picked up here. What time?”

“Ten minutes to two. I checked my book before I called in. I remember him because he wanted a ride to the Clairmount Apartments on the Beach and then didn’t have no money when we got there.”

Shayne stood unobtrusively aside and listened to the driver’s story. It differed in no major detail from the way Devlin himself had told it.

Will Gentry heard with patience the driver’s dramatic telling of the story, then turned to Shayne and growled, “Another one of your damned miracles, Mike. Some day you’re going to explain just how you pull stunts like this, but right now let’s get over to the Clairmount. Follow along with Bisto in your car,” he directed Sergeant Hopkins, “to identify this man Devlin. Stop at Miami Beach headquarters to pick up a man there to make it official. Mike and I’ll go straight to the Clairmount.”

The sergeant and the cabby went on ahead. When Shayne and Gentry reached Shayne’s car, the chief said, “Better ride along with me, Mike.”

“Thanks, Will, but I may need my hack over there. I’ll tail you.”

Gentry hesitated, started to speak, then went on solidly to his gray sedan and got in.

The sun was riding above the fluff of clouds on the horizon, sailing into a clear blue sky and promising a sweltering day. As the four-car caravan sped across the County Causeway, early fishing boats were putting out for Baker’s Haulover for a long day at sea, and the surface of Biscayne Bay was an unruffled turquoise blue in the fresh morning light.

The taxi and the sergeant’s car turned off when they reached the Beach and went on to police headquarters, but Gentry went straight ahead, with Shayne following him closely, to Collins Avenue and turned north to the Clairmount.

They parked out front, and Shayne waited for Gentry to join him before going up the steps and ringing the bell marked Manager. When the buzzer sounded, Gentry opened the door and they went into the office. Jack Adams was sitting at the desk reading a magazine.

Gentry showed his badge and demanded, “You got a Devlin here? Arthur Devlin?”

The young man’s eyes snapped and he said hastily, “Why, yes. Yes, sir. He just returned early this morning. Is anything — wrong?”

“Is he in his apartment now?” Gentry drawled.

“N-No, sir,” stammered the clerk. “That is, I’m quite sure he isn’t. He went out about two-thirty. I called a taxi for him and gave him change for a hundred-dollar bill.”

Shayne leaned negligently against the desk and let Gentry do the questioning. Again he heard Devlin’s own story confirmed in every particular, embellished a trifle, perhaps, as was the taxi driver’s, by imagination and a feeling of importance to be included in a police investigation.

Hopkins and the taxi driver and a local detective entered the lobby when Jack Adams pressed a button in response to their ring. Gentry stepped aside for a moment and joined them while the clerk looked up the two telephone numbers Devlin had called after going up to his room. Shayne took advantage of the opportunity to ask in a low, casual tone, “Did you smell liquor on Devlin’s breath when he came in earlier this morning?”

“Why — no, sir. That was a funny thing. He sure looked and acted like he’d been on a binge, but I remember thinking at the time it was strange I didn’t smell liquor on him. Mr. Devlin has been with us a good many years and I’m certain he’s not a drinking man — except maybe for a social drink sometimes.”

Gentry came back with the other three men pressing close behind him, took the slip of paper with the telephone numbers on them, and the clerk explained that one of them was the number, he felt certain, of the man who visited Devlin in his apartment shortly after Devlin returned.

“What is his name?” Gentry demanded.

“I’m sure I don’t know,” he answered, and without being interrogated gave a description of Doctor Thompson. “He’s a friend of Mr. Devlin’s and has visited him a few times,” he ended, his eyes flashing from Gentry to Sergeant Hopkins and on to the uniformed Beach police officer, coming to rest on the surly taxi driver who had come in with Devlin to get the money for the fare.

Gentry then asked Pete Bisto and Jack Adams a couple of questions together. Adams answered quietly, verifying Bisto’s former statement, and when Bisto began to dramatically recreate the scene the chief raised a heavy hand and said, “Thanks. Keep in touch with Sergeant Hopkins in case we need you later.”

The Beach detective was named Brooks, a tall, tight-featured man and an ardent admirer of his chief, Peter Painter, and by the same token a fervid hater of Michael Shayne, who had clashed often with the Beach detective force in the past. Now, as they turned from the desk, Brooks thrust his sharp jaw out and demanded of Gentry, “What’s this shamus doing with you, Chief? You know how Painter feels about these private dicks operating in his territory.”

“I know all about Painter,” Gentry agreed. He handed Sergeant Hopkins the telephone numbers the clerk had given him. “Check these numbers and get names and addresses to fit them. And I think we’d better go up and check over Devlin’s apartment,” he added to Brooks. “Right now I have fairly direct evidence linking him to a murder in Miami last night.” He turned back to the clerk and said, “Let’s have a pass key to Devlin’s apartment.”

Jack Adams had it in his hand. “Here you are, sir. I thought you’d be wanting it.”

“I don’t mind co-operating with you,” Brooks told Gentry coldly. “But Shayne is another matter. Every time he sticks his nose into one of our cases he messes everything up.”

“This isn’t a Beach case,” Gentry reminded him stolidly. “Shayne is in on this whether you or Painter like it or not.”

They started toward the elevator. “Wait a minute, Will,” Shayne said and broke into an infuriating grin at Brooks. “Thanks for everything, but as far as I’m concerned this is your baby.” He made motions of washing his big hands of the whole affair and turned toward the entrance door.

“Nuts,” said Gentry sharply, stopping in his tracks and turning to Shayne. “I want you around when we interview Devlin’s early-morning caller. Hopkins will have the address in a minute.”

“I’m sorry,” said Shayne stiffly, “but I don’t care to stick around here and be insulted further by one of Petey Painter’s twirps.” He stalked out of the lobby, leaving Brooks looking after him with a smirk of self-approbation on his pinched face while Will Gentry regarded his exit in suspicious consternation.

In his car Shayne was still grinning to himself. Now that he had established his status in the case as that of merely doing a favor for Will Gentry, he was free to work fast without interference from Painter. He had no doubt that Brooks would hastily report his actions to Painter.

He was speeding up Collins Avenue, swearing under his breath at the closed filling-stations. He figured he had only a very few minutes to spare.

Swinging into the first open station he came to, he flung himself out and trotted into the office before the sleepy attendant could come out. “Telephone book,” he said tersely. “Sorry, but that’s all I need.”

The attendant pointed to the corner and Shayne snatched up the directory, riffled through to the T’s, and ran a long forefinger down until he came to Thompson, Ronald W., Physician. The address was in one of the newer Beach residential sections near 79th Street.

He trotted out, leaving a mutter of thanks floating behind him, got in and gunned his motor and headed northward.

Ten minutes later he pulled up in front of a neat bungalow set in a square of freshly planted lawn shadowed with palm fronds. He leaped out and went up the walk to the small porch. A bronze sign beside the door read Dr. Ronald Thompson, M.D. Office hours 10:00 A.M. — 2:00 P.M. Enter and Ring Bell.

He put his finger on the electric bell and held it there. He could hear it ringing inside and had a queer sensation that it was ringing on emptiness — that its summons would not be answered.

He removed his finger and stopped the ringing after a full minute. He tried the door knob. The door was locked. He glanced at the front windows. Venetian blinds were tightly drawn.

Turning, he hurried down the steps and trotted around the side of the house across fresh sod to the rear door.

The screen door was closed, but the wooden door was wide open. He hesitated only a few seconds, then pulled the screen door open and entered a small rear hall where there was a large, gleaming refrigerator. On his left an open door led into a small modern kitchen, its cleanliness attesting Doctor Thompson’s precise bachelor habits.

A swinging door led out of the kitchen. Shayne pushed it open and saw a small shadowed room which appeared to be a combination office and private study. He stood in the doorway with his right hand holding the door open, appalled by the evidence of destructive violence that met his eyes. Drawers were pulled out from the desk and from two filing-cabinets. Papers and cardboard folders littered the floor in torn and crumpled disorder. Two straight chairs were overturned and the room was filled with the heavy, sweetish odor of some anesthetic which had apparently spilled from one of the broken bottles beside an overturned cabinet in the far corner.

He took a step forward and let the door swing shut behind him. He sensed movement to the right and rear of him and swung around to meet the crushing impact of a blow high on his cheekbone. He went down without knowing what struck him.

Chapter eight

Basic facts for Peter Painter

Michael Shayne heard a faint ringing and a strange sensation of drifting through fragrant, perfumed space. He heard the faint murmur of a voice, far away and soft and soothing. He felt the gentle touch of finger tips on his wrist and he tried to move his own fingers to catch hold of them before he fell from the emptiness through which he was drifting. Without conscious volition one of his eyes opened and he saw the face of a girl bending over him.

She was quite pretty, with smooth cheeks, brown curls clustered at the nape of her neck. Her lips were red and parted slightly in the complete absorption of counting his pulse. He closed his eye and moved his lips to produce an indistinguishable mumble, but nothing happened. He tried again, a little louder this time.

The finger tips tightened on his wrist and an anxious voice spoke close above him. “He’s coming around, I think. What was it you said?”

Shayne mumbled again and a strident voice stabbed through the ringing in his ears: “What’s that, nurse? Did he say something?”

The nurse said, “Shh. Don’t arouse him suddenly, Chief Painter. It might be dangerous.” She leaned close to Shayne’s ear and asked soothingly, “Can you hear me?”

Shayne lay very still and didn’t try again to make a sound. Peter Painter’s voice had jarred him back to consciousness and remembrance rushed through his brain. He could feel the girl’s face very close to his, smelled the illusive scent of her lipstick mingled with the fragrance of her perfume. When he felt her breath on his face he moved his head upward suddenly and his mouth touched hers for an instant. His eyes popped wide open and looked into hers not more than an inch away.

She jerked her head back at the same moment that Shayne let his fall back on the pillow. She was startled, but his wide grin and twinkling eyes reassured her. “I like being your patient,” he told her. “Next time I get slugged on the head—”

“Shayne!” Chief Painter strutted forward, glaring down at him with angry black eyes and the thin line of his mustache twitching. “Have you been pretending? By God, I ought to—”

“Hold it, Painter.” Will Gentry stalked into view. “You heard what the nurse said when she patched Shayne up. He’d been out cold at least fifteen minutes before she found him. Are you okay, Mike?” he asked when he reached the foot of the narrow hospital bed.

Shayne pulled himself up slowly and felt pain for the first time. He put his hand to his face and felt a bandage and adhesive tape. “I guess I’m okay,” he said, his gray eyes looking slowly around the spotless operating-room, coming back to rest on the nurse who had stepped back and was regarding him with demure intentness through wide black eyes.

“Where is Doctor Thompson?” Painter demanded. “Did he catch you in the act of tearing his place to pieces?”

Shayne managed the wide grin that never failed to irritate the Miami Beach chief of detectives, then turned to Gentry and asked, “Where am I?”

“In the room where Doctor Thompson treats his patients,” said Gentry. “The nurse came a few minutes before we did and found you lying in there.” He pointed a stubby finger toward a door that led into another room. “What the devil happened?”

“You’ve got a lot of explaining to do, Shayne,” Painter snapped. “Breaking and entering — destroying evidence—”

“What sort of evidence?” Shayne growled.

“I don’t know yet, but I’m sure it must have been important for you to have slipped over here ahead of us. It wouldn’t have happened if I’d been at the Clairmount.”

Shayne swung his feet over the edge of the narrow bed and turned his back squarely on Painter. The swift movement pained his face. He steadied himself and grinned at the nurse. He asked, “Don’t you keep any stimulants around for your patients — other than yourself, I mean. A spot of brandy, maybe?”

She said doubtfully, “I think there is some brandy in the outer office, but I don’t think you need any.”

“It’s the one thing I do need,” Shayne assured her. “And a place to relax with a cigarette,” he added to Gentry.

“We’ll go in the reception room.” Gentry moved heavily through a side door into the front living-room of the bungalow which the doctor had converted into a reception room replete with comfortable chairs, a long couch, and smoking-stands. Shayne shambled in behind him and dropped into the first chair he came to. Peter Painter filed in behind him.

“The back room was like that when I got here,” Shayne told Gentry. “The front door was locked and the back door was wide open. I came in and pushed the swinging door open and stood there looking at the mess somebody had made of Thompson’s office. When I let go of the door to step inside, zowie! Somebody was standing behind it, waiting. That’s all I know. You haven’t located Thompson yet?”

“No. There wasn’t anybody here when we arrived. Miss Dort arrived a little before seven. She says she always comes around that time to clean up the place and go over the appointments. She found you lying on the floor back there. No sign of Thompson.”

“That’s a preposterous story, Shayne,” said Painter. “Do you expect us to believe the house was ransacked before you got here?”

“I don’t give a damn what you believe,” Shayne said wearily. “Sorry, sweetheart,” he said by way of apology to the nurse as she entered carrying a white enameled tray with a small glass containing a couple of ounces of brandy. “Do you know what anyone could have been looking for in the doctor’s study?”

“I haven’t any idea. Just his files are in there. I really haven’t had a chance to check up on what may be missing.” She handed him the glass and admonished, “Sip that slowly.”

Gentry said, “You’d better give us some background on this, Mike,” persuasively. “Arthur Devlin is missing. Do you think he was the man behind the door?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea,” said Shayne truthfully.

“I want all the information you have on this case,” Painter cut in. “Gentry has been stalling as to just what your interest is, but I’ll slap you in jail if you try to withhold information from me.”

“What sort of information would I have?” drawled Shayne. “If I knew who conked me, I’d certainly tell you. Maybe you’d like to give them a medal,” he added, grinning up at Painter, who stood stiffly before him.

Painter’s black eyes flashed with anger and irritation. “What connection is there between Devlin and the dead man — between Devlin and this Doctor Thompson?” he demanded.

“Didn’t Will tell you we got on Devlin’s trail through a taxi driver? I just followed along and don’t know any more about it than you do,” Shayne told him pleasantly.

“And I suppose you just followed along when you sneaked over here from the Clairmount. How did you know where to come when it took Sergeant Hopkins some time to check the telephone number and get this address?”

“You know I work fast, Petey,” Shayne said, deliberately antagonizing him. “If I gave away all my trade secrets people wouldn’t pay me fat fees for solving your cases for you.”

“Trade secrets, hell! You had inside information that brought you here. It’s perfectly evident that you knew Doctor Thompson had been Devlin’s visitor all along, yet you kept that information to yourself and hurried over here ahead of the authorities.”

Shayne shrugged and said, “Is it?”

“Is it what?” Painter asked in confusion.

“Perfectly evident.” Shayne turned an amused glance on Gentry. “Doesn’t Petey really know how I found this place?”

Gentry’s expression was one of cautious resignation. His rumpled eyelids were at half-mast, his slightly protruding eyes rueful. It was clear that he didn’t know either, but was determined not to give Painter the satisfaction of hearing him admit it. “I don’t believe he does, Mike,” he drawled. “But to hell with that. Where’s Devlin and where’s Thompson?”

As though on cue, the nurse hurried into the reception room and exclaimed, “There’s the doctor now!” She flung the front door open as a shiny black coupe pulled up behind the police cars outside and a man got out and slammed the door shut.

Doctor Thompson walked into tense, questioning silence in the reception room, his small black bag in his hand. He was bareheaded and perspiration streamed down his plumpish cheeks. He looked perturbed and worried and angry.

Dropping his bag onto an empty chair, he folded his arms across his chest and glared at the three men, then said, “What is the meaning of this, Miss Dort? You know no one is to be admitted before ten o’clock.”

“Doctor Thompson?” Will Gentry pulled his heavy body up from the deep chair and moved toward him.

“Yes. And who, may I ask—?”

“Police,” said Gentry quietly. “I’m from Miami and haven’t jurisdiction, but Chief Painter is with me.”

“Police.” Doctor Thompson echoed the word as though he had expected and feared it. “I see. Please take my bag in the office — and wait there.”

When she was gone he went over and closed the door, then asked stiffly, “May I ask why you are here?”

“First, I’d like to ask you a couple of questions.” Gentry motioned toward Shayne. “Ever see him before?”

From behind the horn-rimmed lenses Doctor Thompson’s eyes studied Shayne’s bandaged face. “Not that I recall.”

“Are you positive you didn’t knock him out about an hour ago when you caught him ransacking your study?” Painter demanded, strutting forward.

“My study — ransacked? An hour ago? I don’t understand.”

“Where have you been?” asked Gentry. “And how long?”

“On a wild-goose chase,” Thompson said angrily. “If I had hold of the fool who pulled such a stunt, I’d wring his neck. I’ve been chasing all over this damned peninsula for the last two hours,” he went on indignantly, “trying to find a non-existent Hyacinth Island. Did any of you ever hear of Hyacinth Island?”

All three shook their heads, but Painter said, “That doesn’t mean there isn’t one. Nobody can keep track of all those new dredging developments in the bay. New islands are sprouting up all the time.”

“That’s what I thought,” said Thompson, “when I started out to find it. But there isn’t a Hyacinth Island. But you haven’t explained why you’re here to see me,” he broke off abruptly.

“Right now I’m interested in this call you’ve been on,” Gentry told him. “Tell us all about it.”

“The telephone rang about five. I’d just gotten to sleep soundly after another late call. It was a man, excited and in a hurry. He seemed to know me and I had a feeling the voice was familiar, though I couldn’t place it — and he didn’t give me a chance to ask questions. Just said there’d been a terrible accident on Hyacinth Island and two men were dying. He begged me to come at once, and hung up.” The doctor shrugged his heavy shoulders. “What else could I do? I thought I’d have no trouble finding it. But damn it, there is no such island anywhere around Miami Beach.”

“Are you sure about the time, Doctor?”

“I looked at my watch when I was dressing. It was five after five.”

“It was five-thirty when you left me at the Clairmount,” Gentry said to Shayne. “How long were you getting here?” At the word Clairmount, Shayne, who had not taken his eyes from the doctor for a moment, noted that he started slightly and his eyes took on an owlish glint of understanding.

“Not more than fifteen minutes,” Shayne told Gentry readily. He asked Thompson, “Do you always leave your back door wide open when you go out on calls?”

“Certainly not. I didn’t go out the back door. I left my car parked in front when I came home earlier.”

“From visiting Arthur Devlin at the Clairmount?” Gentry rumbled.

Doctor Thompson pursed his lips and a harried look settled on his face. He moved to one side and seated himself, placed both hands on his knees and told Gentry quietly, “Yes. I saw Art earlier. About two o’clock. Did he send you here?”

“We’ll ask the questions,” Painter snapped, interposing himself between Gentry and the doctor. “Why did Devlin call you to his apartment?”

“Ask him.”

Gentry walked back to his chair and sat down while Painter planted himself in front of the doctor. “None of that,” he said. “We intend to have the truth.”

Doctor Thompson drew in a deep breath and said forcibly, “I have no intention of discussing one of my patients with you.”

“So Devlin was your patient?”

“Also my friend.”

“Did he tell you why he returned from his vacation ahead of time?”

“He did not,” said Thompson icily.

“Did he tell you he killed a man tonight?”

Doctor Thompson winced and closed his eyes for a moment. He opened them wide and said, “If you wish to show me a statement from Arthur Devlin, I am willing to comment on that statement. Otherwise, I must tell you that anything he said to me tonight was in absolute confidence which I shall not betray.”

Shayne slid deeper into his chair and stretched his long legs out. Thompson was playing it cautiously, he thought admiringly. He didn’t know whether Devlin had yet been arrested, or what story he had told the police if he had been arrested. Thompson was no fool.

“There’s such a thing as accessory after the fact,” Painter snapped. “Maybe a few days in jail would pull you off your high horse.”

“There is also such a thing as a doctor’s legal responsibility toward his patient,” said Thompson suavely. “I don’t think you would keep me in jail very long.”

“Even if that patient is a murderer?” Gentry asked.

“Is Devlin a murderer?”

“A lot of evidence points to him,” Gentry rumbled. “His fingerprints are all over a room in which a murder was committed last night.”

“That doesn’t prove his guilt,” said Thompson stoutly.

“What reason would Devlin have for luring you away on a fake call and then breaking in and going through all your files?” Gentry asked without warning.

Fear flickered over Thompson’s pudgy face. He sat up stiffly. “Did Art do that? Why, in the name of God?”

“That’s what we’re asking you.”

“He had no reason to do a thing like that. I can’t imagine—” He paused, ran smooth plump fingers through his hair agitatedly. “Could it have been Art who phoned me?”

“Don’t you realize it was his voice — now that you think back?”

Thompson shook his head slowly. “I don’t — think so. I can’t conceive of him pulling a stunt like that, and there’s absolutely nothing in my files to interest him.”

“Who would be interested?” Shayne asked.

Thompson looked at him in some surprise and said, “I haven’t any idea. My files consist wholly of case records.”

“Someone was.” Shayne hesitated a moment, his eyes speculative. “We don’t know that all this is connected with the murder tonight and with your visit to Devlin’s apartment,” he continued, “but it’s damned coincidental if it isn’t. Assuming they are connected — what could your office records have to do with Devlin murdering a man?”

“Nothing. I have only treated Art for a few minor ailments.” Thompson seemed completely bewildered.

“Did you have a patient by the name of Skid Munroe?”

“No. Is he the one—?”

“See here, Will,” Painter interrupted peevishly, “why do you sit there and let Shayne monopolize this investigation? He has no legal standing in the matter. He said, himself, he had no interest in it.”

Thompson stared at Shayne with a fresh interest when Painter spoke his name.

“Are you Mike Shayne?” he asked.

“That’s right. I got this bump on my head from whoever was going through your records.”

“I’d like to talk to you — later,” Thompson said.

“He’s not going to be talking to anyone for some little time,” said Painter officiously. “He’s holding something back, covering up for someone, and this time I’ve got him dead to rights.”

Shayne gave a sardonic chuckle. “You tell him, Will. Explain one of the basic facts of detection to him.”

“I’d rather hear you tell him,” Gentry told him.

“Are you going to deny that you knew Thompson was mixed up in this case when you left the Clairmount and hurried straight over here? Are you going to claim it was mere coincidence that brought you here?”

“Nuts,” said Shayne. “I heard the clerk give Gentry the telephone number Devlin had called — and a description of the man who came to see Devlin a short time later. What else do you think I needed?”

“Sergeant Hopkins had the number too, but it took him the best part—”

“That’s why Hopkins is still a sergeant,” Shayne broke in.

Painter flushed angrily. “Watch your step, Shayne. Just what did you do that was so brainy?”

“I knew Devlin’s visitor was a doctor,” said Shayne patiently. “The clerk said Devlin was in bad shape when he came in. In describing the visitor he said he carried an emergency bag. See? Sick man — doctor’s bag. So I got hold of a classified telephone directory fast and found the doctor that fitted the number.” He got up and picked up his empty brandy glass. “You’ve got good taste in brandy, Doctor. And in nurses. I’ll be getting acquainted with both while you get rid of these birds.” He started toward the door.

“Not so fast, Shayne,” said Painter. “That flimsy explanation will have to stand because we can’t disprove it. But don’t forget that Arthur Devlin called two numbers from his apartment last night.”

“Did he?” Shayne asked blandly.

“You know he did. The second one — just before he called down for a taxi — was a Miami number.”

“Miami has so many numbers,” Shayne said musingly, “I didn’t have time to look that one up.”

“But only one that gets your apartment hotel.” Shayne started a yawn. He broke it off in the middle and gaped at Painter. “Are you saying that Devlin telephoned me?”

“He called your hotel.”

“In which there are seventy-odd apartments,” Shayne reminded him gently.

“Do you deny that he phoned you for an appointment and then went directly to see you?” Painter challenged.

Shayne thought for a moment, then said, “He may have called me on the phone, but he certainly didn’t get me.” He shrugged and explained, “I have the man on the switchboard trained to ring my number only three times at night unless he’s convinced it’s a real emergency. Why don’t you check with him?” he urged. “I’ll be inside if you want me.”

He turned away toward the office and the nurse.

Chapter nine

A Doctor Wonders

Shayne had much better luck getting acquainted with Thompson’s brandy than with his nurse. Miss Dort got the bottle from a medicine cabinet and handed it to him with stiff disapproval, then reseated herself at the desk and bent her head over her work.

Shayne poured a slug in his glass, lit a cigarette, and strolled over to close the door leading to the reception room where Painter was badgering the doctor with questions which he refused to answer.

Shayne sat down in the only other chair in the office and asked, “Who has a key to that back door?”

“I don’t know.” She didn’t lift her head and her voice was coolly disinterested. “It’s generally bolted on the inside.”

“What about keys to the front door?”

“I have my key. I don’t know about any others.”

“Do you always come to work so early?”

Miss Dort lifted her head and looked directly at him. “Are you really a detective?”

“Why do you ask that?” Shayne had a chance to study her face for the first time. Her skin was too white for a girl who lived in Miami all the time, and he decided she didn’t get enough sunshine. There was a becoming flush of rouge on her cheeks, and her lips were full and highly rouged.

“The policemen in there — particularly the small one — seemed very angry when they reached here and found you knocked out. He was sure you had been ransacking the files.”

“What did you think?” Shayne got up and sauntered over to her desk, eased one hip on a corner of it.

“I didn’t know what to think,” she told him crisply.

“Have you any idea what someone might have been looking for?”

A frown came between her eyes. She lifted one hand and pushed a cluster of hair back from her damp forehead. “I don’t understand any of it,” she told him. “I heard them talking about a murderer the doctor attended last night.”

“You don’t know Arthur Devlin?”

“I don’t remember him. Is he — is Doctor Thompson in trouble of some sort?”

Shayne shrugged and emptied his brandy glass. “No more than any man, I guess, whose best friend has just committed a murder. Do you know if Devlin ever visited here — had an opportunity to get hold of a key?”

“I’ve told you I don’t remember the name at all. I am only here during the day to take care of patients,” she added primly.

Shayne grinned at her. “Does Doctor Thompson do all his own cooking and housework?”

She lowered her head and eyes and began turning pages in an account book on the desk. “He has a woman who comes in every afternoon. I believe she prepares dinner before she leaves. I know very little about his private arrangements.”

The telephone on her desk rang. She lifted the receiver, spoke briskly and professionally into the mouthpiece. She made an eleven o’clock appointment for the patient and was entering it in a book when the door opened and Doctor Thompson came in. Will Gentry stood behind him in the doorway. “Coming along with us, Mike?”

Shayne glanced at the doctor and received a faint negative shake of his head. He said blandly, “I think not, Will. There’s still some brandy, and I haven’t got Miss Dort’s telephone number yet.”

Gentry said flatly, “I’ll be waiting for you in my office. Try to stay out of Painter’s hair until he cools off.” He turned and went toward the front door.

Doctor Thompson emitted a long sigh and said, “The police are through in my study, Miss Dort. You might start sorting things out — and try to find out if anything is missing.”

“And try, particularly,” said Shayne, “to make a note of the names of any patients the intruder may have been interested in. What did the police get?” he added to Thompson as the nurse went into the small anteroom and closed the door.

“From me?” snorted the doctor. “They seem to suspect Art of luring me away on a fake call so he could get in and go through my files. It’s absolutely ridiculous.” He stood with his plump hands on his hips studying Shayne shrewdly through his glasses. “Art is my friend. I don’t know whom he is supposed to have murdered last night nor where he is now nor what sort of jam he’s in. Can I talk to you in confidence?”

Shayne said, “Sure.” He followed the doctor out into the reception room and down a hallway leading past two bedrooms connected by a bath, into the kitchen. There Thompson began efficiently brewing a large pot of coffee, talking quietly as he moved about. “I’m going to lay all my cards in front of you, Shayne. I refused to tell the police this because I don’t know what to believe. Art Devlin told me a fantastic story when I went to his apartment early this morning. If it’s the truth, I’m afraid he’s the victim of some sort of plot so fantastic that it staggers the imagination. If he lied to me—”

Thompson paused, shaking his head doubtfully. “I still want to help him in any way I can,” he resumed. “The important thing, it seems to me, is to institute a quiet investigation to determine what the truth is.”

Shayne was seated in a kitchen chair beside a white enameled table. He asked, “What was the fantastic story he told you?”

The doctor set out coffee cups and cream and sugar. “I want your word that this won’t get to the police, Shayne.”

“I can’t promise to protect a murderer.”

“I don’t expect you to do that. I want your promise to make an unofficial investigation and report the results to me before you turn anything over to the police. If you find that Art is a murderer, I’ll go with you to the police and give them any help I can.”

Shayne said, “That’s fair enough. Give it to me.”

Thompson poured two cups of strong coffee, passed one to Shayne, set the pot back on a low flame, and sat down. He started to pass the cream and sugar to Shayne, but Shayne waved a big hand, said, “I take it black.” He then put three heaping teaspoonfuls of sugar in his own cup, poured in heavy cream, stirred it thoroughly, tasted it, and said:

“You can’t imagine how shocked I was when Art called me from his apartment when I was sure he was on the boat…” He related every detail of what had passed between Devlin and him early that morning, just as Devlin himself had told it to Shayne.

“Now I understand from the police that Art left his apartment soon after I talked to him,” he ended with a troubled frown. “Perhaps he did make that telephone call to me, then slipped in here to go through my files after I had gone out. But why? That’s the question that keeps tormenting me, Shayne.”

“How did the intruder enter your house?”

“According to the police, he must have used a key. I know the back door was bolted on the inside, and the front door locked automatically when I went out and closed it.”

“Would Devlin, by any chance, have a key?”

“I didn’t tell Gentry or Painter this, Shayne, but I’m afraid he has. You see, his apartment at the Clairmount was being redone some months ago. He was going to move to a hotel until it was finished, but I persuaded him to stay over here instead. He had a key at that time, but I hadn’t even given it a thought. If it was Art, I don’t understand why he would go out the back door and leave it open.”

“Whoever was in your study might have opened it after I started ringing the front door bell,” Shayne theorized. “As an invitation for me to walk into an ambush.”

“But wouldn’t it have been simpler to leave it bolted? Then you would have gone away without knowing he was inside.”

Shayne shrugged and admitted, “Guessing about things like that won’t do us much good. Let’s get back to Devlin’s amnesia story. Do I understand that as a medical man you are unable to believe that an accident — say in Cuba — could have caused a blank in his memory dating back to the night he left Miami?”

Doctor Thompson was silently thoughtful for a moment. “The weight of medical evidence is against such a possibility. But if it wasn’t Devlin on the ship, who was it? And what’s Art been doing these past two weeks? How did he wind up in that rooming-house with the body of a murdered man?”

“If we knew that, we’d have the case sewed up. And if we knew the last name of this Janet who wrote him the letter, a radiogram to her might clear up a whole lot of things.”

A queer expression settled on Thompson’s florid face. “That’s one point that worries me. I hate to say this, but I had a distinct impression that Art was stalling when he pretended he couldn’t remember Janet’s married name.”

“Indicating that he didn’t want to reach her by radiogram?” suggested Shayne. “Her ship will be here tomorrow.”

“I know.” Thompson fanned out his chubby fingers and flattened them against the white table. “You’ve got to find Art before the police do. His amnesia may have returned. I blame myself for leaving him. I should have insisted—”

“I think you did the best you could,” Shayne said, then asked abruptly, “Has Devlin ever taken dope to your knowledge?”

Thompson was lifting his coffee cup to his lips. He set it down with a clatter. “Dope? Of course not. Why on earth do you ask that?”

“The dead man is a punk named Skid Munroe,” Shayne told him. “Police record as long as your arm. He was one of Bert Masters’s strong-arm boys up to about a year ago,” he ended casually.

“Masters?” Thompson rubbed his short stubby mustache thoughtfully. “It was at Masters’s house that Art passed out the night of his bon voyage party.”

“And it was the death of Masters’s wife that actually sent Devlin on the cruise to meet her sister.”

“Do you think there’s a connection? Do you think Devlin was lying to me out of whole cloth — that Munroe’s death tonight was arranged somehow? Premeditated? Part of a pattern that goes back to Masters and his wife’s death by suicide?”

“It’s a thin link,” Shayne admitted. “According to rumors, Skid Munroe had a falling out with Masters a year ago and hasn’t worked for him since. The same rumors say,” he went on deliberately, “that Skid has been peddling dope since then in a small way. Until we know how he and Devlin came to be together in that room last night we don’t have much to go on.”

“From Art’s story it appears he went there to meet the man. Something the landlord said as he was leaving—”

Shayne nodded absently. “Devlin evidently went there about eleven o’clock and asked for Skid, who had registered that afternoon under the name of George Moore.”

“One of the things that worries me is how the police got on Art’s trail so fast. We both thought there’d be nothing to connect him with the murder until the story appeared in the afternoon paper and the taxi driver came forward with his story. Was there some other connection that led them to Art? They wouldn’t tell me a damned thing,” he ended bitterly.

Shayne grinned. “You didn’t exactly take them into your confidence,” he reminded the doctor. “No, the taxi driver was the tip-off. He heard the radio report on the short wave and called in with his story about taking a suspicious fare from right near that address to the Clairmount.”

“I see.” The doctor nodded slowly. “Then it has been reported on the radio. I’ve wondered. Of course you understand that this burglary of my house may have nothing whatever to do with the other thing. We have no proof at all—” His voice trailed off inconclusively.

“It’s a possibility,” Shayne conceded. “Yet — can you think of anything anyone else could have wanted from your files?”

“No more than I can imagine what Devlin could have wanted,” the doctor said helplessly, a deep frown between his eyes.

“How well do you know Bert Masters?”

“He has been my patient for several years.”

“What have you treated him for?”

“High blood pressure. An arthritic condition. There is nothing very secret about it.”

“Was Mrs. Masters your patient also?”

Doctor Thompson smiled wryly. “At one time. Lily was a confirmed neurotic and a hypochondriac. I told her so quite frankly two years ago and she transferred her imaginary ailments to another physician.”

“Then you weren’t surprised when she committed suicide?”

He hesitated briefly, then said, “Yes — I was surprised. Hypochondriacs seldom do, you know. They get too much enjoyment from their imagined ailments.”

Shayne didn’t pursue the subject further. He said, “I think my starting point will have to be that farewell party when Devlin passed out. Tell me what you recall of it.”

“A sort of stag free-for-all. Just a few of Art’s best friends. Joe Engals was there and stewed as an owl. Do you know Joe?”

“Slightly. Who else?”

“Some other insurance fellow. I don’t recall his name, though I had met him before. Thomas, a night-club operator, dropped in late for a few drinks. And Carter Harrison was there.”

“Who took Devlin to the dock from Masters’s house?” Shayne asked.

“I wish I could remember,” sighed Thompson. “I was hazy by that time myself. I have the impression that someone called a taxi — probably Bert Masters’s secretary — a little before midnight, but I also have a vague impression that Masters sent him down in one of his cars. I know I was pretty well on the ragged edge when I staggered in here about midnight,” he ended frankly.

“You say there was a discussion of Lily Masters’s death and of Devlin meeting her sister, Janet, on the ship?” Shayne prompted. “How many of you were in on that discussion?”

“All of us, I suppose. We were kidding Art about his romantic adventure. He halfway admitted his real reason for going was the feeling her letters had roused in him. A sort of tentative flirtation, I guess. None of us took her questions about Lily Masters’s death very seriously.”

“Did Bert Masters join the conversation about his wife’s death?”

Doctor Thompson got up to pour more coffee. “Bert never bothered to pretend that he regretted his wife’s death. They had been at swords’ points for a couple of years and neither of them bothered to conceal the fact.”

“Then any of the persons present may have learned that Devlin was meeting Lily Masters’s sister on the cruise ship to reopen the matter of her suicide?”

“I presume so.” Doctor Thompson rubbed his short bristly mustache thoughtfully. “Do you seriously think some one of us who was at the party may have prevented Art from going aboard just to keep him from meeting Mrs. Masters’s sister and discussing her suicide?”

“If he was prevented from going aboard it was by someone who knew enough about that old case to convince Janet he was Devlin,” Shayne said. “Hell, I’m not seriously thinking anything yet. I’m just making wild guesses. But while we’re on the subject, do you suppose you could tell me now whether your early morning intruder disturbed your files on the Masterses?”

“I’ve told you Lily wasn’t my patient when she died.”

“I can’t help that. Damn it,” said Shayne with irritation, “there must be some focal point — something back of all this. Do you mind checking?”

“Of course not.” He got up and went out and Shayne lit a cigarette. He was thoughtfully smoking when the doctor returned.

“Really, Shayne,” he said, “my nurse has hardly made a start in restoring the files to order. She tells me it may take several days — with her other duties — to determine whether anything is missing.”

Shayne got up, scowling bleakly. “Let me know as soon as you do find out. Your nurse seems a very efficient young lady.”

“Miss Dort is efficient.”

“Lucky for me she arrived so early this morning. Does she always come to work at the break of day?”

Thompson smiled genially. “It was hardly the break of day. Just her usual time.” He was escorting Shayne toward the front door.

Shayne stopped as though struck with a sudden recollection. “I forgot to get her telephone number after all,” he said. “Suppose you give it to me now.”

Thompson continued to smile, but some of the geniality dropped away. “I’m afraid I couldn’t do that without her permission.”

“Nothing personal about it,” Shayne reassured him. “I might need to consult her about the case.”

“I understand perfectly.” The doctor was holding the front door open. “You can reach her here during office hours for any information you require.”

Shayne grinned. “You win, Doc, but you can’t blame a guy for trying.”

He went out blithely and down the pathway to his car, wondering whether Miss Dort really had come to work that morning hours before any regular office nurse would be expected to arrive, or whether she hadn’t had to come to work to find him lying on the floor knocked out. Whether, in fact, a more intimate relationship existed between the two than that of doctor and nurse. It would be a practical arrangement, he decided thoughtfully.

Thinking of the nurse reminded him of the bandage she had put on his face. He ripped it off and tossed it aside, got in his car, and drove away, glancing in the small mirror to check on the injury. The swelling was negligible, and he decided that his assailant had had the good fortune to strike a vital spot to knock him out like that.

Chapter ten

Goldie Waggles her chins

When shayne walked into the lobby of the Argonne a little man was sweeping the bare floor. His back was turned to Shayne as he pushed the long-handled brush-broom slowly ahead of him.

“Good morning,” Shayne said briskly.

The old man turned and his old eyes squinted upward to look into Shayne’s face. “Want a room?” he asked without enthusiasm. “Got plenty. Two and three-room apartments, too. Cheap and clean, Mister. Y’can’t do better anywhere in the city. ’Lectric fans for rent a dollar a week and no extry charge for ’lectricity.” There were no teeth behind his thin lips, and he sucked at each word as he spoke it.

Shayne shook his red head. “Not even with an electric fan. I’m after information.”

He carefully propped his broom against a chair and came up to Shayne. “What kind and what for and how much?” he asked cagily.

Shayne grinned and took a five-dollar bill from his wallet. “About the people in two-oh-nine for private reasons and about five bucks’ worth.”

The Argonne manager whisked the bill from Shayne’s fingers with the competence of long practice. “Mrs. Jerome minds her own business and makes no trouble. That what you want to know?”

“Not quite. What about Mr. Jerome?”

“He’s just been here two weeks. Didn’t know there was a Mister until then — but there was others I might’ve guessed was him if I went in for guessing — which I don’t. Live and let live is what I always say.”

“How long has Mrs. Jerome been here?”

“Goin’ on three months. Allus thought she was a widow lady ’til her man pops up. Sickly, I reckon. Been stayin’ in mostly.”

“Wait a minute.” Shayne was confused. Up to this time he had been playing along with Arthur Devlin and trying to believe his story. But if he had met Marge after his attack of amnesia and they had just recently married, how could she have been registered previously as Mrs. Jerome?

“Let’s get this straight. She called herself Mrs. Jerome before her husband showed up?”

“Why not? If that’s who she was?”

“No reason — if that’s who she was,” Shayne said. “Can you tell me exactly when Mr. Jerome came to stay with her?”

The little man opened his claw-like fingers and smoothed out the bill Shayne had given him, studying it intently as though asking himself whether its full value had been used up. “Can look at the register,” he said finally. “Law says you got to have every occupant register even if there ain’t no extry charge for two.”

“Let’s look at the register,” said Shayne gently.

The manager folded the bill, placed it in his pocket, thus warning his interrogator that further questions would require an additional fee. He led Shayne over to the desk and took out a mottled ledger, turned the pages back slowly, running a dirty forefinger down the names and making little whinnying noises to himself. He stopped and turned it about for Shayne to read: Joe Jerome, City, in unmistakably feminine handwriting. The date was June 9 — and according to Devlin’s story his last conscious memory was late on the evening of June 8th.

“Did Mrs. Jerome sign for her husband?” Shayne asked casually.

“That’s legal.” The little man bristled. “No law says a man has to sign the register his ownself.”

“Maybe she registered ahead of time for him,” Shayne suggested. “Did she tell you when he was expected?”

The little man was seated in the desk chair. He leaned forward with his elbows resting on the desk and stared up at the detective with bright inquisitive eyes. “Mind saying what your private reasons are?”

Shayne got out two one-dollar bills and folded them together lengthwise. The manager reached out for them and said, “He was right here when she registered him that morning. Recollect she stopped at the desk to tell me, and she asked Polly — that’s the maid — to skip her room that day. Said her husband was sick and didn’t want to be disturbed.”

“Are Mr. and Mrs. Jerome in now?”

“Dunno. Haven’t seen either of ’em go out since I come on at eight-thirty.”

Shayne said, “Thanks,” as he turned away, and the little man said briskly, “The same. Any time, Mister.”

Shayne found 209 and rapped on the door. There was no answer to repeated rappings. He tried the knob and found it locked. He was fumbling in his pocket for a ring of keys when he was aware that a door across the hall had opened.

Turning about, he saw a very fat woman standing in the doorway and regarding him with round blue eyes that looked like the painted eyes of a china doll. Her face was plump and smooth and extended downward to include three chins, and her little rosebud mouth was smiling. She wore a voluminous gay-flowered wrapper and ludicrously high-heeled scarlet shoes.

She said, “They ain’t in, dearie. Neither one of them. I think maybe he took a run-out powder on her again,” she went on breathlessly, as though she feared Shayne would hurry away and deprive her of an audience, “because when I went in a while ago to see if there was anything I could fix for him, like I’ve been doing lately while Margie was at work and on account of we’re good friends and it really wasn’t no trouble just to pop over now and then, well, he wasn’t there. And no sign of the studio couch made up either.” She caught her breath and her amazingly small hands fluttered at her breast. Three fingers on each hand shone with imitation diamonds and rubies and emeralds. “But maybe I put my foot in it again,” she exclaimed without actual contrition. “If you’re one of Margie’s friends and didn’t know about him—” She paused expectantly, panting a little, her lips parted and ready to talk again.

“That’s all right,” Shayne said carelessly. “I’m a friend of Joe’s. I thought he was staying in close.”

“Oh, he has been.” She nodded emphatically, her chins caressing each other, and took a conspiratorial step over the threshold toward him. “Is he on the lam? Is that what it’s all about? I didn’t like to ask Margie right out — you know. And when I just hinted around for information she just the same as outright told me to mind my own business. When I just wanted to be helpful. You can ask around any of the boys and they’ll tell you Goldie’s okay. My name’s Goldie Milterschmitt. What did you say your name was? Don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.”

“Devlin,” Shayne told her. “Arthur Devlin.”

The only reaction this brought was an effusive handshake from Goldie. “Friend of Joey’s huh? I didn’t know that man had any friends. Grumpy he was. And the way he’d stare at a body! And answer yes and no like he was afraid I’d gab his business around if he told it to me. You know what I think, Mr. Devlin? I think he was getting off the junk. Twitchy, he was. I’ve seen ’em before, dearie.”

“Where is Marge working now?” Shayne asked with friendly interest.

“Now that I’ve never been able to find out.” Goldie sighed gustily. “Close-mouthed she was. Some fancy job, the way she told it, and using a different name and dressing fit to kill when she went out and putting on airs. It was like she was ashamed of living at the Argonne. Well, it is a dump, sort of,” she conceded generously, “but it’s a place to squat, and that’s something.”

“Joe was supposed to leave a package for me to pick up,” Shayne lied. “Do you have a key?”

“My key fits her door just like it fits half the other doors here. Come right inside, dearie, while I get it and I’ll let you in, seeing you’re a friend of Joey’s.”

Shayne followed her through the open door into a neat and meticulously clean room, an astonishing contrast to Goldie’s appearance and manner. “You sit right down there on the sofa while I go put on something more in keeping for a lady to entertain a gentleman caller in. Unless,” she added coyly, “you’re of a mind to come in with me and help me get this old thing off.” She giggled with a professional, pathetic attempt to achieve girlish seductiveness, and Shayne shuddered inwardly as he said:

“I’d rather come back some evening if you don’t mind. You know how it is. It always seems to me like the nighttime is best for social engagements.”

Goldie chuckled all over. “I know just what you mean, dearie, and how right you are. That’s the sign of a true gentleman every time, I always say, and I’d be delighted to entertain you any evening you say. And if you’d like a drop of something now while you’re waiting—?”

“It’s a little too early for that,” Shayne told her. “We’ll wait until I pay you that social visit.”

“Well, then, I’ll be right back in a jiffy, dearie. I didn’t have anything to offer you but gin, anyways. What with the price of liquor these days—” She vanished into the bedroom.

Shayne fidgeted impatiently around the room as he waited, but true to her promise, Goldie came out of the bedroom in less than five minutes magnificently arrayed in a sweeping hostess gown of green satin that zipped tightly over the bulges of her remarkable breasts, and green slippers with heels fully as high as the crimson ones. Her face and chins were generously powdered and with the red splotches of rouge on her cheeks, and her rosebud mouth smeared with lipstick, she looked more like a roguish and very fat china doll than before.

She marched over to the sofa and sat down. “Why don’t you sit down and let’s you and me have a little chat?” she said, tilting her head coquettishly.

“I haven’t much time,” Shayne said, “but—”

“I know just how it is. You’ve got things to do, and I promised to let you in Margie’s apartment to pick up the package Joey left for you. How long a stretch did he have?” she asked.

Shayne looked at her in astonishment. “Joe? How did you know?”

“Never you mind, dearie. You sure you won’t have a drink with me? Like I said, I got nothing here but some gin.”

Shayne forced himself to chuckle. He took his billfold out, extracted a ten-dollar bill, and flung it in her lap. “You take that and buy us some good liquor for the night when I come back for that visit.”

Goldie’s chins jiggled with laughter. “I’ll sure do that, dearie. And mind you don’t forget. It’s a promise.”

“It’s a promise,” Shayne repeated. “But look here, you don’t mean Marge talked — told you about Joey?”

“I reckon she didn’t mean to let it slip out — and maybe she has forgot she told me, but when she first moved here she told me one night her husband was a long-time loser. And anybody could tell it on him when he popped up a couple of weeks ago. White-faced and jumpy he was. I’ve seen enough of ’em come out of the Big House to spot ’em every time. But I haven’t let a squeak out of me to him or her about it. I know how a man has his pride and hates for his woman to tell things like that on him.”

She paused for breath and Shayne asked, “What time does Marge get home from work?”

“About four o’clock mostly. Like I said, it’s some pretty swell job. I never had hours like that when I was a girl. Never leaving until nine o’clock in the morning.”

“It isn’t nine yet,” Shayne protested, “but you say she has already gone to work.”

“This morning was special, I guess. I just happened to have my door open a crack at seven o’clock when she came hurrying out all dressed up and pert as you please. How that girl manages it I’ll never know. Night after night I’ve heard her—” She broke off, then continued in a contrite voice, “But I oughtn’t rightly to be talking about Marge to you like this. She’s a nice sweet girl and I’d be the last one in the world to blame her for having a little fun while she’s living all alone and her man up the river.

“But that Skid — ugh!” she hurried on. “I don’t see how she stood him and I’ve told her so right out time after time when he stayed until all hours of the morning. Sneaky, that’s what I called him, and I do think there’s limits to decency and I do draw the line at dope peddlers. Well, you can bet he hasn’t been around since Joey came back, and I’ve wondered what would happen across the hall if he did drop in unexpected some night.”

Shayne was sitting in a chair he had drawn up in front of the sofa. Goldie was leaning toward him, her little blue eyes glittering, as though in her mind she witnessed the awful thing actually happening across the hall. “Always full of his stuff like he was,” she continued, “and crazy about Marge. I dunno how she stalled him so he hasn’t been visiting for two weeks, but that’s the chance a girl takes when she plays around with a man like Skid and then her own man turns up and makes himself at home.”

She slowly settled back, her eyes saying to Shayne, Now what do you think of that!

Shayne said, “Well, I’ll be damned. You’re talking about Skid Munroe, of course.”

“Who else? You a friend of his, too?” She gave him a sharp, suspicious look.

“I’ve just seen him around,” Shayne said carelessly.

This bit of information really tied the case up against Arthur Devlin in a tight knot, Shayne thought grimly. As soon as the newspapers hit the streets with Devlin’s picture in connection with the slaying of Skid Munroe, Goldie was sure to come forward and testify that Marge’s husband had every reason to be jealous of Skid.

And there was your ready-made motive, even discounting a blood-stained ten grand. It explained, too, why the girl had been so callously eager to know whether Devlin had succeeded in the project which she had evidently planned, and Shayne began to wonder disgustedly why he was dirtying his hands with the case at all. Right now, it looked as though Devlin’s entire story was a tissue of lies — that he had known Marge in the past — had, perhaps, been married to her.

Goldie was chattering away, but Shayne wasn’t listening. He got up abruptly and stood towering above her.

“I just remembered something important,” he muttered. “Got to hurry now. I’ll be back later when Marge is home to pick up that package — and you have that bottle of liquor ready for us.”

He reached down and patted her beringed fingers, then hurried out while Goldie was pulling herself up from the couch to follow him to the door.

“I’ll have the you-know-what, all right,” she called after him. “And don’t forget to come back.”

Chapter eleven

Always the hard way

Michael Shayne parked in front of a No Parking Police Only sign, got out with the bundle of clothing he had taken from Devlin’s apartment under his left arm. He opened the rear door and picked up the hat from the floor where he had tossed it, then went in a side door of Miami police headquarters, down a corridor toward the chief’s office at the end of it.

The room was blue with the smoke from one of Will Gentry’s evil-smelling cigars. The chief sat relaxed in his swivel chair behind a scarred oak desk. By wriggling his full lips he maneuvered the soggy butt of the cigar from one corner to the other, grunted, and said, “Been waiting for you, Mike.”

Shayne closed the outer door and walked over to dump the clothing onto a chair. “I had a couple of things to do after you left Doctor Thompson’s.”

“He give you much?”

“A lot.” Shayne yanked a straight-backed chair around and sat in it backward, resting his folded arms on the back. “He has retained me to do what I can for Arthur Devlin.”

Gentry nodded and rumbled, “I had a hunch he’d spill to you if I could get Painter out of his hair and leave you two together.” He hesitated and then added flatly, “Petey checked up on the phone call to you. Man at your hotel says he rang your room but you didn’t answer.”

“That clear me with Painter?”

“He’s still itching to know why I brought you along with me.” Gentry took the soggy butt from his mouth, studied it as though it had suddenly become an important clue, tossed it toward a trash basket, and said, “I didn’t tell him you knew about Skid Munroe being murdered before his body was found.”

“Thanks, Will.”

“Sure. And so do I get Thompson’s story?”

“Every word of it,” Shayne assured him, “and maybe a couple of other things I picked up that Thompson doesn’t know about. He and Devlin are old friends, as you must have gathered, and it appears that Devlin called him to come over as soon as he reached his own apartment at the Clairmount after leaving Skid’s body in the room on Palmleaf Avenue.”

Gentry nodded, lit a fresh cigar, said, “And?” then picked up a pencil and began doodling on a clean sheet of paper.

“According to Thompson, Devlin told him a fantastic and unbelievable yarn about losing his memory for two weeks and coming back to consciousness about one-thirty this morning with Skid’s corpse for company.”

Shayne ran knobby fingers through his coarse red hair, frowning with concentration as he carefully repeated Devlin’s story exactly as the harried man had related it to him in confidence a few hours earlier.

Will Gentry listened without interrupting and without change of expression as he meticulously doodled a chain with alternate weak and strong links across the paper.

Shayne concluded with the incident of the doctor’s departure from the Clairmount and Gentry pointed out dryly, “Even Arthur Devlin’s best friend couldn’t swallow a yarn like that, eh? Why didn’t Thompson report to Painter at once?”

“Because he is Devlin’s best friend. He’d like to believe the story. He’d like to believe there are some extenuating circumstances behind Skid’s death. But I think he feels that Devlin didn’t tell him the whole truth. As a medical man, he simply can’t square up the amnesia story with the facts: Devlin’s radiogram to him from aboard the Belle the next morning after he sailed — the letter from Janet which indicates Devlin was aboard and jumped ship at Havana.”

“Can you square it up?” Gentry asked abruptly.

Shayne hesitated, frowning and tugging at the lobe of his left ear. “At the time I left Thompson’s place I had a pretty theory all worked out,” he admitted uncomfortably. “To accept amnesia, I think we have to assume that it came on before Devlin went aboard the Belle. That means that someone impersonated him — someone close enough to pass himself off as Devlin to Lily Masters’s sister, Janet, and to send the reassuring radiogram to Thompson. Working on that theory, I reasoned that Devlin might have waked up in a complete mental fog the next morning, with nothing in his possession to identify him as Devlin, but with something that led him to assume the name of Joe Jerome. Then I figured he’d met this girl who called herself Marge over the telephone, and gotten her to marry him — and between them they’d worked out this plan to murder Skid for the roll he was carrying — though how a punk like Skid got his hands on ten grand and what he was doing with it in that room on Palmleaf Avenue, registered as George Moore, I can’t even begin to guess.”

“So that’s what you thought when you left Thompson. Something happen to change your mind?”

“A couple of things,” said Shayne angrily. “I traced Marge to the Argonne House on Second Avenue. Don’t ask me how, because I shan’t tell you, but it’s the same woman who phoned Devlin and called him Joey and asked him if he’d bumped Skid off and got the money. She’d been living there a couple of months, alone, but registered as Mrs. Jerome all the time. And none of them had seen Devlin, or Mr. Jerome, until he moved in with her on the night of June eighth — the night he passed out at Bert Masters’s party.”

Gentry’s swivel chair creaked loudly in the silence that fell between them as he turned slightly to rest his arm on his desk. “There could be an answer to that, Mike. For the sake of argument we’ll assume that Devlin did pass out that night,” he drawled. “Let’s even assume that Devlin’s state of amnesia existed for the period of time he claims. So he runs into this Marge Jerome while he’s wandering around wondering who the hell he is. Maybe she fell for him — just like that. Or maybe she wanted a man around. Or maybe she needed a guy just then to pass off as her husband. So she takes him home with her and nurses him and makes love to him and convinces him he is her husband. Wouldn’t a guy in that condition grab on to an identity and a soft spot to lie up and convalesce in?”

“I suppose he would,” Shayne agreed. “We’d have to consult a doctor, but it sounds reasonable. I thought of that, too, Will, when I learned that Marge once told a lady friend across the hall that her husband was doing time — and that she had been going steady with Skid Munroe until her so-called husband appeared on the scene.”

Gentry’s heavy lids rolled up quickly. “Is that straight, Mike?”

“It is. And I’m afraid it’s going to tie a noose right around Arthur Devlin’s neck — amnesia or no amnesia.”

“It’s all we need,” Gentry said gruffly. “Better give him to me, Mike.”

Shayne took out a cigarette and lit it deliberately. He narrowed his eyes at Gentry behind a film of smoke. “Do you really think I should, Will? If I could, I mean.”

Gentry shifted his cigar and regarded Shayne with a long, steady stare. “Why not, Mike? If you can, that is.”

“I don’t know why not,” said Shayne frankly. “But there’s something behind this that stinks worse than that stogie you’re smoking. It’s too damned open and shut to suit me.”

Gentry shrugged his massive shoulders. “Best thing for him, it seems to me, is to give himself up and make a deal with the state’s attorney to cop a plea. Second-degree, maybe.” He clamped strong teeth over the end of his cigar, pulled on it strongly, and sent a cloud of smoke roiling toward the ceiling.

“Second-degree isn’t good enough,” said Shayne explosively. “Either we accept his story or we reject it. If we reject it, he should get the works. But if we accept it—”

“What then?”

“Then I say he’s the innocent victim of some devilish plot that has its roots back in Lily Masters’s suicide and he’s not guilty of anything except being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“What do you intend to do about it?”

“Check back into Mrs. Masters’s death.”

Gentry moved his head slowly back and forth. “You’ll run up against Bert Masters. The way I recall that, Mike, it was hushed up fast by the Beach police. It was an open secret that Masters wasn’t unhappy about her suicide and put the pressure on the boys to let it ride that way.”

“You mean something may have been covered up?”

“I don’t mean that,” Gentry protested. “I don’t believe there was any question of murder — or of anything involving Bert Masters himself. But I have an impression the motive for her act was covered up — or at least wasn’t investigated very thoroughly. I can make a guess that it was because Masters wouldn’t have enjoyed the publicity if it had come out in the open.”

Shayne’s gray eyes were bleak and the muscles in his lean jaw twitched. “Then it seems to me her suicide is a good starting point,” he grated.

“You won’t get very far,” Gentry warned him. “And Bert Masters won’t be happy if you go digging back into that thing.”

“I won’t be doing it to make Masters happy,” said Shayne flatly.

Gentry sighed heavily. “I can’t give you any protection if you go messing around with Masters on the Beach.”

Shayne’s wide mouth spread in a slow grin. “I always did like to solve a case the hard way. How about doing something for me, Will?”

“How about you doing something for me first,” Gentry parried.

“Have I ever refused?”

“Frankly,” said Gentry with a slow smile, “yes. I can think of at least half a dozen times offhand when you refused.”

“Only when I was over a barrel on something,” Shayne disclaimed hastily. “What do you want?”

“How did you know Skid was dead when you phoned me? And the dope on the taxi driver who had picked Devlin up outside?”

Shayne was silent for a moment. “Do you really want me to tell you?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because,” said Shayne wearily, “if I tell you the truth you’ll have to hold me on a charge of withholding vital information in a homicide case.” His hard gaze locked with Gentry’s through a cloud of intermingling cigarette and cigar smoke. “Then I wouldn’t be able to go up against Bert Masters and maybe show Peter Painter up for the part he played in covering up for Masters.”

“On the other hand,” said Gentry mildly, “I might keep you out of one hell of a mess of trouble by locking you up before you get to Masters.”

“Yeh. There’s that, too,” Shayne conceded ruefully.

Gentry hesitated, drumming his square finger tips on the desk. “I wouldn’t want Devlin to get away from me, Mike.”

“I wouldn’t want that either.”

“Painter is needling me pretty badly, as it is.”

Shayne grinned again. “You’ve never let Painter worry you very much.” He got up decisively as though to indicate that phase of the discussion was ended. “Now the thing you can do for me is this,” he said conversationally, picking up the bundle of clothing and placing it on the chief’s desk. “Here is everything Devlin was wearing when he came to in that room on Palmleaf Avenue.”

He unwrapped the bundle and spread the clothing out under Gentry’s gaze. “I wish you’d have your chemist go over it. The works. I don’t know what I expect him to turn up, but I’m hoping for a miracle. Maybe proof that Devlin has worn these same clothes previously — which would make him a liar. Or some dope on whoever has worn them previously — for it’s obvious they’re all a lot more than two weeks old. Get the blood type and so on. Try the hat particularly, Will. You know, by analyzing the sweat secretions. If your boys can come up with a physical description or name of the former owner, so much the better,” he ended optimistically.

“Can do.” Gentry stabbed the smoldering end of his cigar at the pile of clothing. “This wasn’t in Devlin’s apartment when we went through it.”

“Wasn’t it?” asked Shayne innocently. “One other little thing, Will. A matter of ninety-nine hundred bucks.” He dug into the clothing and brought out the roll of bills still held together with the same rubber band Devlin had found around them.

“You might take charge of these for the time being. They’re old bills — all hundreds — and if you can tell me where Skid got hold of them and why he took them to Palmleaf Avenue last night we might be on our way toward a lot of answers.”

“A payoff of some sort,” Gentry growled. “Maybe this Marge was putting the hooks to Skid and sent Devlin to make a collection — with a blackjack.”

“Maybe,” Shayne agreed. “But Skid Munroe isn’t the sort of lad to be carrying that sort of dough. It’s my guess he was in the middle on some deal.”

“Dope,” said Gentry. “We know he’s been peddling the stuff recently.”

“That’s probably the answer,” Shayne said without enthusiasm. “Well, that’s the size of it.”

“Where’ll you be if I need you, Mike?”

“On the Beach.” Shayne touched the lump on his face.

Gentry said solemnly, “Better be ready to turn the other cheek, Mike, if you insist on barging into Painter’s territory.”

“Yeh,” growled Shayne, “I’ll do that, Will,” and went out to his parked car.

Chapter twelve

No suicide note

Shayne’s next stop was in front of the Miami News Building on Biscayne Boulevard. He went up to the morgue and checked back through the files to the story of Lily Masters’s death. There were front-page headlines, a picture of the deceased and her husband standing together in an affectionate embrace, a picture of the maid who had summoned help after finding her mistress’s door bolted on the inside that fateful morning, and one of Bert Masters’s confidential secretary who had responded by breaking down the bedroom door and entering the room to find Mrs. Masters lying dead in her bed.

Shayne studied the three pictures carefully before reading the story. Knowing Masters, Shayne was positive the picture of the couple had been taken years before her death. They had evidently been in love with each other at the time. Lily Masters looked delicate, almost ethereal, with enormous eyes, turned-up nose and short upper lip, and a weak chin. Even at that age the fragile beauty of her features held a suggestion of petulance, a hint of childishness which had developed in later years into the hypochondria that Doctor Thompson had mentioned.

He passed over the likeness of the stout, dull-eyed maid, but the picture of Roger Morgan held Shayne’s interest for several moments. His was a broad, arrogant face, and Shayne wondered how a man like that had managed to hold his position as confidential secretary to Masters for so many years. Knowing Masters’s reputation as a domineering bully, it seemed reasonable to expect his secretary to be a weak-kneed yes-man, a sycophant.

Roger Morgan was certainly neither of these, judging from his looks and from Arthur Devlin’s own description of him. He wore rimless nose-glasses which gave a scholarly appearance to his blunt features. Even with the photographic handicap of the glasses his eyes were piercing and shrewd and fearless.

Here were two of the men who had attended Arthur Devlin’s farewell party, Shayne recalled as he studied the two faces, and he had an uneasy feeling of being on the verge of some important discovery. There was something queer about the set-up, he thought. It simply didn’t add up right. Now, if their roles were reversed—

He shrugged his wide shoulders and dismissed the thought, turned to the story of Lily Masters’s death, and skimmed through it swiftly.

She had her own suite in the seventeen-room Beach mansion, and had retired early the preceding night apparently in good spirits and giving no hint to anyone that she intended taking her own life during the night. Yet the evidence pointing to suicide appeared irrefutable.

The two doors entering her suite, one of which led into her husband’s bedroom, were found barred on the inside the next morning. The windows were of steel sash with built-in screens, making it impossible for anyone to enter without leaving incriminating evidence. She had visited Doctor Myron Spencer that afternoon and received from him a prescription for two dozen sleeping-capsules, a prescription which she was in the habit of having filled every thirty or forty days. The bottle was empty when Roger Morgan found her. There had been no autopsy, but Doctor Spencer had been called immediately, and stated that certain tests proved conclusively that she had swallowed the entire two dozen tablets shortly before midnight, an hour after retiring to her room.

The doctor stated further that since the contents of the capsules were extremely bitter it would have been impossible for anyone to have given her an overdose in any liquid without the drug being detected by her. He stated flatly that suicide was the only possible answer, and his professional standing was such that his statement was not seriously questioned by the authorities.

Lack of any known motive and the absence of a farewell note were the only two reasons for suspecting it might not have been suicide. Bert Masters did much to clarify the first point by informing the investigating officers that his wife had often privately threatened to take her own life and had suffered increasingly frequent spells of melancholia during the preceding months. Although there was no one to verify this statement, neither was there reason for doubting his veracity, and thus the case had been closed with a verdict of suicide.

From the newspaper Shayne jotted down the names of the two Miami Beach officers who had been first on the scene and conducted the preliminary investigation. With this information he went back to his car and drove across the bay to the Beach police headquarters.

He inquired of the officer at the information desk, “Is Sergeant Henly around this morning?”

“Stepped out for a cup of coffee few minutes ago. Be right back.”

Shayne said “Thanks” and sauntered across the street to the nearest bar. Sergeant Henly was at the far end of the long bar talking to another officer whom Shayne did not know.

“That beer’ll rust in your guts, Herman,” said Shayne.

Henly grinned when he recognized the redhead and said ruefully, “If I had your kind of dough I’d be drinking something else.”

“Just what I was going to suggest — if you’ve got a minute.” He jerked his head toward an empty booth. “Order your friend something on me and come on back. I’ll get you a double bourbon to wash the beer taste out of your mouth.” He laid a big hand on the officer’s shoulder and pressed it significantly, then wandered back to a booth, where he was presently joined by Henly.

The waiter brought a double bourbon and a cognac. Shayne paid for them and told him to take out for the drink Henly’s friend had ordered at the bar.

They touched glasses, drank, and Shayne asked, “Do you remember the Bert Masters thing a few months ago?”

“Sure. His wife bumped herself. Me and Clarkson were cruising and took the call.”

“Is that so?” Shayne showed surprise, as though he had not learned this from the newspaper. “Anything funny about it?”

“It’s always crazy to me when a good-looking dame can’t find enough fun in life to keep on living,” he said.

“Good-looker, eh?”

“Plenty. Me and Clarkson had to go all over her to see if there were any bruises or wounds. For her to take a load of sleeping-pills and just lie down and die don’t make sense.”

“No reason for it?”

“None we could figure out. No suicide note. No nothing,” Henly told him.

“And the doors were both locked?”

“Bolted tight on the inside. When we got there — that secretary guy had busted down one of ’em.”

Henly’s slight hesitance in making the statement gave Shayne a clue he had been groping for. He didn’t startle Henly by pouncing on it, but said idly, “Other door led into Bert’s room, didn’t it?”

“That’s right.” Henly swallowed the rest of his drink and rubbed the hairy back of his hand across his mouth. “Any reason to be stirring it up now, Mike?”

“I don’t know,” said Shayne truthfully. “It’s a long hunch.”

“Because if there is,” said Henly in a hoarse whisper, “don’t let it get around to Painter.”

“Think he covered up on it?”

“If there was anything to cover — which I’m not saying. But you know how Petey is with a big-shot like Masters,” Henly went on, lowering his voice and glancing around to see whether anyone appeared to be listening. “Clarkson and me got kicked off fast when one of us said maybe, just maybe, that secretary could’ve fixed everything up the way he wanted it before we got there.”

“What made you think that?” Shayne asked casually.

“We didn’t think it.” Henly shrugged. “Looked funny, though. You know how it is — how you get to watching out for little things. There wasn’t any suicide note. Masters didn’t even pretend to give a damn about her dying, and that locked door into his room gave him a nice alibi.”

“The doctor said she must have swallowed the capsules of her own accord,” Shayne reminded him.

“Maybe. But I still can’t figure how a good-looker like her—” Henly’s voice trailed off and he was broodingly silent.

Shayne ordered another double whisky for Henly. “The way you and Clarkson saw it then — Roger Morgan had plenty of time in the death room alone to lock his boss’s door or destroy a suicide note if he had wanted to.”

“Morgan — yeh. That’s the guy’s name. Now he’s the one I’d pick if I was picking.”

“For what?”

“For whatever,” said Henly. “Know what I mean? Living there in the same house with her and Bert. Must of got his goat plenty for a slobby fat-gut like Masters to be in there with her while he slept in a room at the end of the hall. The unfairness of it, see? Just because Bert’s got the jack and is married to her — when Morgan knows he’s got a lot more on the ball than Masters. Know what I mean?”

“I know what you mean,” said Shayne slowly. “You’re guessing Morgan might have finally decided that if he couldn’t have her he’d fix it so Bert couldn’t either.”

The waiter brought Henly’s drink. He swallowed half of it and said, “When you’ve been on as many cases as I have you get a feeling about things like that, Mike. You take a good-looking young man and mix him up with a hot-lipped dame married to a pot-belly old enough to be her father — and you got trouble every time.”

“You think Morgan was in love with her?”

“I dunno much about love. I’m plenty sure he was hot after her. I saw the look in his eye when Clarkson and me was stripping her. Yeh,” he went on, the influence of the liquor moody in his voice, “there was something funny about the way he looked and acted — and like he was trying to hide the way he felt.”

“You’re telling me you don’t think it was suicide,” Shayne said bluntly.

“There wasn’t any note. Never knew a dame to bump herself off without putting something down on paper. It just don’t stand to reason. Not with a dame it don’t.”

“But there were just the two doors into her room,” Shayne said musingly.

“That’s right. The outside door was barred all night. He couldn’t have faked that — not even if the maid was in cahoots with him and lied about it being locked. The way it was smashed you could tell it was smashed against the bolt on the inside.”

“And that leaves the door into Masters’s room.”

“Right you are. Which leaves the Morgan boy in the clear, because Masters went to bed the same time his wife did.” Henly finished off his drink.

“Have another one?” Shayne asked.

“Not now. I got to get back. Mind telling me why you’re interested?”

“It wouldn’t mean a thing if you knew,” Shayne assured him. “If I run into Petey on this, the less you know about what I want, the better.”

“You’ll run into him if you go fooling around with Bert Masters,” said Henly flatly. “Bert won’t like any of that old stuff dug up, and he’ll yell for Petey to get you out of his hair.”

Shayne smiled thinly. “Are you on duty now?”

“Clarkie and I’ll start in about fifteen minutes.”

“If you get down around the docks,” said Shayne slowly, “see what you can pick up for me about the water taxi service that takes passengers out to ships anchored off the breakwater.”

Henly nodded. “I know Cap’n John pretty well. What, in particular, you want me to pick up?”

“Damned if I know, actually,” Shayne confessed. “Anything at all on a midnight trip about two weeks ago to a cruise ship named the Belle of the Caribbean. A man named Arthur Devlin boarded her that night. Anything about him. Whether he was on the ship’s taxi — anything that happened. And buy a few drinks around while you’re asking,” he added, sliding his hand casually across the table with a folded bill in his palm.

“Sure, Mike. It’ll be a real pleasure.” When Shayne lifted his hand Henly’s palm covered the bill and he pushed himself up from the table and went out.

Shayne sat where he was for a time, then got up and went out to his car and drove up the Beach toward Bert Masters’s oceanside estate.

Chapter thirteen

The kettle begins to boil

Shayne knew that Masters had an office somewhere on the Beach, but suspected he would be at home at this midmorning hour. He thought it best not to announce his intended visit by telephone, and drove directly up to the imposing, porticoed entrance, went up the steps, and rang the doorbell.

A bright-eyed maid came to the door. She was definitely not the one whose picture Shayne had seen in the newspaper. He said, “I have to see Mr. Masters at once.”

“I’m sorry, sir. Mr. Masters is having breakfast. Will you come in and wait?”

“I haven’t time. Tell him it’s Devlin. Arthur Devlin.”

“Well — I’ll ask him,” she said uncertainly. “Just wait here.”

She turned away and Shayne lounged forward casually, following her at a distance through a wide hallway paneled in cypress and on toward French doors leading into a glassed-in breakfast room.

Shayne stopped in the doorway, saw her leaning over and speaking rapidly into the ear of the big man who was dining alone at a silver-serviced table. Potted palms and gleaming aquariums filled with tropical fish decorated the room and Venetian blinds were half drawn to shut out the bright morning sun.

Bert Masters’s back was toward him, wide shoulders bulging inside a maroon robe, double folds of fat showing above the collar at the back of his neck, and above them an expanse of sun-reddened baldness was fringed with close-cropped gray hair.

The maid straightened and turned toward Shayne with relief plainly showing on her face. She came toward him, nodding, and paused to whisper, “He said to bring you in.”

Shayne strolled forward, looking with interest at the array of silver-covered dishes spread in front of Masters. He was tilting a syrup pitcher over a stack of pancakes when Shayne came around the table and into view.

Masters glanced up and the syrup cascaded downward, unnoticed, filling the plate almost to overflowing. “Why the devil did you tell the girl you were Devlin?”

“The syrup — better watch it,” Shayne said with a grin. “So that’s why you’re such a big boy.” He pulled a leather-covered chair close to the table and sat down. “She must have misunderstood me. I said I wanted to talk to you about Arthur Devlin.”

The skin of Bert Masters’s face was as smooth as a baby’s, stretched over bulging flesh and ruddy with good health and good living. He glanced approvingly at the sea of syrup around the island of pancakes and said, “You could stand a few pounds on that carcass of yours, Shayne. Pickings poor these days?”

“I’m getting by,” Shayne assured him.

Masters forked out a wedge of the tiered cakes and bent his head low over the plate to put the dripping mass into his mouth. He smacked his lips and said, “You’d be doing a lot better if you’d taken the job I offered you last year.”

Shayne brushed that off with a wave of his hand. “You a pretty good friend of Devlin’s?”

Masters considered this silently while he munched and cut another wedge of cakes. “He’s done some favors for me.

“He’s in trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“So you repaid some of those favors by throwing a party here for him a couple of weeks ago when he was going on his vacation?”

“Why not?”

“No reason. What did you give him to drink that night?”

“If you’re just plain damned curious,” Masters began, but Shayne interrupted him, saying urgently:

“You know me better than that, Masters. How many of you passed out at that party?”

“Devlin did. That’s for sure.” Masters wiped syrup from his thick lips. “What’re you getting at, Shayne?”

“There’s some question as to whether Devlin actually went aboard his boat that night,” Shayne said cautiously. “Were you sober enough to remember what time he left here — who took him to the pier?”

“I wasn’t too sober. What sort of trouble is Devlin in?” he asked again.

Again evading the direct question, Shayne lied promptly and convincingly: “You’ll be doing him a big favor if you can convince me that he actually went aboard the cruise ship that night.”

Masters considered for a moment, filling his mouth with pancakes, munched slowly, swallowed, then bellowed, “Morgan!”

Satisfied that Morgan would hear his master’s voice if he were within a block, Shayne lit a cigarette, turned in his chair, and sat looking out over the magnificent gardens where Australian pines and coco-palms swayed in the morning breeze above the bright flowering hedges.

Out of the corner of his eye Shayne watched with grave interest as a man emerged from the French doors and came to the table. Morgan was bareheaded, squareshouldered, and solidly built. He wore nose-glasses, and the strong, heavy features Shayne had seen in the newspaper photograph were set in an expression of bland deference as he approached his employer with only the briefest glance at the visitor.

“What is it, Mr. Masters?” He folded his arms and stood quietly beside the table, his profile to Shayne, his head slightly inclined and his gaze fixed on a point a few inches in front of Masters’s plate.

It was the perfect pose, Shayne thought irritably, though he didn’t know why he was irritated. The perfect combination of servility and an alert intelligence without the slightest hint of mockery showing through.

“Who took Devlin to the dock the other night — after the party?”

“Devlin, sir?” Roger Morgan spoke as though this was the first time he had ever heard the name.

“Arthur Devlin. He was supposed to catch a boat at midnight.”

“And didn’t he?”

“That’s what I’m asking you. You were sober, Morgan. You’re always sober, damn it.”

“Not always.” Morgan smiled deferentially. He removed his glasses and blinked mildly. “I did try to refrain from drinking too much on that particular occasion. If you will recall—”

“I know,” grumbled Masters. “It gives you a feeling of superiority to stay sober while the rest of us wallow in the stuff.”

“It wasn’t that at all. I was going on a week’s vacation the next day, and—”

“And you wanted to be clear-eyed and fit to impress some little floozy.” Masters sneered. “Do we have to go over all that? I asked you a simple question.”

“I’m afraid I didn’t quite understand the question, Mr. Masters.”

Morgan replaced the glasses firmly on his nose. “Did Devlin get on the boat?”

“I’m sure I don’t know, sir,” said Morgan stiffly.

“Why don’t you know? You’re supposed to know everything around here. What the hell do I pay you for?”

“Not to play nursemaid to your drunken guests,” he answered simply.

Masters groaned aloud and asked Shayne, “How do you like that? I pay him more damn money for a week than I used to earn in a year. What do I get? Insubordination, by God. He can’t answer a simple question without getting insulted.”

Morgan smiled thinly and murmured, “Really, Mr. Masters.” He continued to disregard Shayne after that first brief glance.

“Let’s go at this a little differently,” Shayne suggested, squaring himself around to face the two men. “How did Devlin leave your house if he was passed out cold?”

“Morgan took him in one of the cars. That’s why I’m asking him—”

“I beg your pardon,” said Morgan coldly, “but I am not a chauffeur, Mr. Masters.”

“But damn it all, I remember telling you to see that Devlin was taken care of,” he exploded.

“I’m quite sure he was taken care of. When I looked for him about eleven-thirty, he was gone — as were some of the other guests. I presumed one of them saw him safely off. If that’s all you wanted—”

“Hold it,” said Shayne. “There’s something else, Morgan.”

“Yes?”

“Why haven’t you told your boss that Devlin tried to call him early this morning?”

“What’s that?” demanded Masters. “What the devil’s Devlin doing back here? He’s not — I didn’t think he was due back.”

“He wasn’t,” Shayne cut in. “Why didn’t you tell him, Morgan?”

“Am I to answer this man’s questions?” Morgan asked icily.

“There you are, Shayne.” Masters chortled. “I hope that puts you in your place. You can tell me,” he went on angrily to his secretary. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t realize you were interested.”

“Is that why you refused to wake Mr. Masters when Devlin begged you to?” demanded Shayne.

“I used my own judgment about that.”

“Now, by God, Morgan,” began Masters threateningly, but the man turned full on him and interrupted in a firm voice:

“It was my responsibility and I did as I thought best. I couldn’t conceive of anything Mr. Devlin had to say that was important enough to disturb you for…” His voice trailed off to silence as he looked over the top of Masters’s head full into Shayne’s face for the first time. His mouth sagged open, then snapped shut as Shayne deliberately pushed his hat far back on his head and stood up.

“If you thought it was so unimportant,” said Shayne, “suppose you tell us why you hurried over to Devlin’s apartment immediately afterward and slipped up the fire escape to enter secretly through the rear door?”

“Good heavens!” Morgan exclaimed. “You — you’re the man who was in the kitchen.”

“That’s right, Morgan. You left rather hurriedly,” Shayne said mockingly.

“What is this?” demanded Masters. “You went to Devlin’s place early this morning, Morgan?”

“I was worried about him after he telephoned,” the man said precisely. “I realized he wasn’t due back yet, and decided he must be in some sort of trouble. So I went over to offer any assistance I could. I was confused and frightened when I opened the kitchen door expecting to see Devlin and saw — this man — instead. I was so alarmed I didn’t stop to ask questions.”

“And after you left there,” said Shayne harshly, “did you by any chance lure Doctor Thompson away from his house by a fake telephone call and then tear up his records? And did you waylay me as I came in the back door and slug me over the head and then beat it?”

“I did nothing of the sort,” said Morgan, staring at the bruised swelling on Shayne’s cheek. “I came directly back here and went to bed.”

“Can you prove it?”

“Why does he have to prove anything to you?” Masters jerked out. “I don’t like your damn manners, Shayne.”

“It’s mutual,” Shayne told him. “I don’t like getting bounced on the head, and I think this secretary of yours is playing some sort of game you should know about.”

“Such as what?”

“Such as holding out the name of your dead wife’s sister,” snapped Shayne. “That’s the question Devlin asked him over the phone this morning.”

An extraordinary change came over Bert Masters. He rose from the table slowly and his gross features were suffused with fury. “What’s my wife to do with this?”

“Plenty. What’s the name of her sister in New York? Janet what?”

“What has she to do with it?” Masters asked harshly.

“She’s on board the Belle of the Caribbean at Key West,” said Shayne, “with certain information about your wife’s death which I’m beginning to believe may incriminate your perfect secretary. Give me her name so I can get in touch with her.”

“Incriminate — Morgan? You’re crazy. Lily committed suicide.”

“Maybe,” Shayne grated.

“Of course it was suicide. The police — and the doctor—”

“Jumped through a hoop when you cracked the whip,” Shayne supplied. “Hell, maybe her sister’s story would incriminate you, Masters. Maybe your Man Friday here has been covering up for you all the time. Did you tell him to throw the bolt on the inside of the door leading from her bedroom into yours after he broke in the other door and found your wife dead? Did you send him on the Belle of the Caribbean—?”

Masters deliberately turned his back on Shayne. In a voice cold with rage and menace he demanded of his secretary, “How many men are around the place?”

“Men? There are the chauffeur — and the gardener — and—” Morgan stammered.

“Get them,” snapped Masters, “and throw this bastard out of here. If you break his neck doing it,” he went on venomously, “all three of you will find a bonus in your next pay check.”

Morgan said, “Certainly, sir,” and hurried out. Shayne chortled and leaned forward to mash out his cigarette. “It’s no good, Masters. I’m not Peter Painter. The kettle is beginning to boil and when it builds up strong pressure the lid’ll pop off. Give me Morgan,” he went on swiftly. “Why cover up for him? Hell, with a little co-operation from you I can hang a murder rap around his neck—”

“Get out!” Masters’s voice was thick with rage. “Get out and don’t come back.”

Shayne could hear excited voices and running footsteps inside the big house. He shrugged, strode to an open door leading onto the east terrace, vaulted the low limestone wall enclosing it, long-legged it around to the front of the house, and slid into the front seat of his car just as the front doors were flung open and Morgan rushed out on the porch followed by two men.

He waved to them as he started the motor, swung out of the driveway, and drove southward.

Chapter fourteen

A passenger is missing

Shayne stopped at a public telephone and looked up Arthur Devlin’s Miami Beach office address. It was on Fifth Avenue, only a few minutes’ drive.

He found a tall, angular spinster typing at a desk between two closed doors, both labeled PRIVATE. He took off his hat and tried out his most ingratiating grin as he approached, but she was at least fifteen years too old to respond to his blarney. She stopped typing and folded skinny forearms across her flat bosom, compressed thin unrouged lips, and began to shake her head before he said a word.

Shayne fumbled in his pocket for a business card, laid it before her. She studied it carefully, said, “I’m sorry, but Mr. Devlin is out of town and Mr. Howard is not in his office.”

Shayne said patiently, “I don’t want to see either Mr. Howard or Mr. Devlin. All I want is a name and address out of Devlin’s files.”

“I recall that you assisted us on a case sometime ago, Mr. Shayne,” she said, “but I wasn’t aware we had a controversial case—”

“I’m acting for Mr. Devlin, and I need the name of one of his clients. The sister of Mrs. Bert Masters who committed suicide a couple of months ago.”

“How do I know you’re authorized by Mr. Devlin to have this information.”

“Will you get the name for me?”

“Certainly not. Not without a direct order from Mr. Devlin.”

“Will a telephone call from him be enough?”

“It would be sufficient, but it so happens that Mr. Devlin is not available by telephone.”

Shayne said, “I know he isn’t due back from his vacation until tomorrow, but he happens to be in Miami right now. I’ll call him.” He picked up the telephone on her desk before she could refuse him permission and put in a call to his hotel. He had advised Devlin not to answer the telephone but he shrewdly suspected the frightened man would not be able to withstand the temptation.

His judgment was correct. The phone in his room rang only three times before Devlin’s voice came over the wire, cautiously. “Yes?”

“Mike Shayne, Devlin. I warned you not to answer the phone.”

“I know, but I — Shayne,” quavered Devlin, “what’s happening?”

“Nothing definite yet. Right now I’m in your office on the Beach and your beautiful secretary refuses to get me Janet’s name from the file. Will you tell her to get it for me?”

“Janet’s name?” faltered Devlin. “Why do you need that? What’s going on, Shayne? I’m going crazy sitting here wondering — listening for footsteps in the hall.”

“Take a drink and get hold of yourself,” Shayne snapped. “Take a lot of drinks. But first tell Miss Bright-Eyes to get me that name from Masters’s file. I’m going to give her the phone now,” he went on brusquely, “and don’t expect to hear anything from me for some time. I’ve got places to go and things to do.” He handed the receiver to the hatchet-faced lady and said cheerily, “See if you can recognize your boss’s voice.”

She took it with frigid dignity, asked, “Mr. Devlin? If this is really you, call me by my first name.”

She listened a moment and then said, “Very well. I understand perfectly.”

When she replaced the instrument, Shayne warned her, “If Devlin didn’t mention it, I will. Forget about my being here and this phone conversation. If anyone asks for him—”

“The police have already been here,” she told him coldly. “I informed them that Mr. Devlin was somewhere at sea. I see no reason to change that statement if they question me again.”

With her chin in the air she went into one of the back rooms and returned presently with a slip of paper which she handed to Shayne without a word. On it she had written: Mrs. Janet Brice. Underneath the name was a New York address. Shayne thanked her and went out.

His next stop was two doors down at a travel agency, where he inquired about the itinerary of the Belle of the Caribbean. They had a schedule for the cruise, and he learned she was docked at Key West for the day, would leave at four o’clock in the afternoon for the short run to Miami. He then asked about the plane service to the tip of the Keys and was told that a four-passenger amphibian ran a shuttle service between the two cities on an hourly schedule. The next departure would be at eleven o’clock, and he had exactly fifteen minutes to reach the pier in the yacht basin from which it took off.

He reached the pier in twelve minutes, found there were two vacant seats on the plane that was already revving its twin motors, and bought a ticket for one of them. Minutes later they were in the air.

It was slightly less than an hour later when the plane landed on the placid water behind the long seawall at Key West and taxied up to the landing-dock where a couple of passengers were already waiting to go aboard for the return trip.

Shayne stopped at the airline office at the end of the dock to learn where the Belle of the Caribbean was moored, then took a taxi directly to the pier.

The Belle was one of the medium-sized ocean liners, glistening smartly with white paint and polished brass, its three decks looking strangely deserted as it heaved gently in its slip beneath the burning rays of the sun.

At the top of the gangplank he was greeted with a snappy salute and a quizzical look from a steward who was evidently stationed there to discourage unauthorized comings and goings. When Shayne asked for the purser’s office he was directed across the hot deck to one of the doors in the forward portion of the superstructure.

It was stifling and humid inside the purser’s office in spite of the brave whirring of a huge electric fan, but the dimness of the interior was a welcome change from the sun’s glare outside.

The purser was a small, bald man with a precise manner and a harried expression which Shayne judged to be the hallmark of all cruise-ship pursers. He examined Shayne’s credentials carefully and without comment and nodded when the detective explained that he had flown from Miami to interview one of the passengers, a Mrs. Janet Brice of New York, for information in connection with a homicide case.

“Mrs. Brice. Of course,” said the purser, as though this was precisely the sort of thing he had been anticipating ever since Mrs. Brice had come aboard. “I’m afraid, Mr. Shayne—” He frowned doubtfully and drew a typed list toward him, ran a finger down it, and nodded again. “Yes. Mrs. Brice went ashore at ten-thirty with a conducted party for a sight-seeing tour of Key West. They will return at one o’clock, and I suggest you make yourself comfortable until then. There’s an air-conditioned smoking lounge aft on this deck with a bar—?” He ended the sentence on a note of inquiry.

Shayne shook his head regretfully. “Much as an air-conditioned bar appeals to me right now, there’s another matter I can be clearing up while I wait for Mrs. Brice. You had a passenger who boarded the ship at Miami a couple of weeks ago. Arthur Devlin.” He watched the purser’s face intently and saw the interest in his eyes and the frown of annoyance crease his brow.

“Devlin? Yes. But he is no longer aboard. He—”

“I understand he left the cruise unexpectedly and without explanation at Havana.”

“That is correct. It was most unusual and disturbing. He left without a word to anyone of his intention insofar as we have been able to ascertain. Mrs. Brice was quite — ah — upset until she received a reassuring message the following day while we were at sea.”

“Were they quite friendly?”

“Oh, yes. They were together a great deal. I understand they were acquainted before meeting on board.”

“What about Devlin’s luggage? Is it still in his cabin?”

“Certainly. Under lock and key.”

“Do you remember the man personally? Can you give me a physical description of him?”

The purser continued to frown, his pale blue eyes squinting under shaggy graying brows at the calm water. “I could give you only a vague description. You understand how it is on these cruises. But if you’d care to talk to his cabin steward I’m sure—”

“I would,” said Shayne, “be most interested in talking to anyone on board who was in close contact with Devlin.”

“Then suppose you go down to the lounge and wait. I’ll arrange to have him meet you there. Naturally, if there had been anything — any reason to suspect that one of our passengers had any motive for taking the cruise except for pleasure—”

“I understand,” Shayne interrupted. “Thanks. I’ll expect the steward right away.” He made his way aft along a corridor to the air-conditioned lounge. There was a small bar presided over by a cheerful gentleman who was happy to show his skill at mixing a sidecar when Shayne suggested it.

Not more than half a dozen tables were occupied. Shayne looked around and selected one that was isolated, took his drink from the bar, and sat down. Relaxing in the pleasant coolness of the lounge, he shuddered at the thought of the passengers, Janet Brice in particular, being lured into the broiling sunshine on a conducted tour of Key West.

He saw a man enter the lounge and look around, then he made his way straight to the table where Shayne sat alone. “I’m Grimpson,” he announced soberly. “You’re the gentleman who wishes to inquire about Mr. Devlin?”

“Sit down, Grimpson,” said Shayne heartily. “What’ll you have to drink? I can recommend a sidecar.”

“Oh, no, thank you, sir.” He sat down uneasily on the edge of a chair and folded his thin arms on the table. “Exactly what do you wish to know about Mr. Devlin?”

“Everything. Were you on duty when he came aboard at Miami? And do you recall the circumstances?”

“Oh, yes. He had cabin one-eighteen on C Deck. There were a dozen or more passengers who joined the cruise at Miami, but Mr. Devlin was the only one I had.”

“His luggage had been brought aboard before he came?”

“Yes, sir. His luggage was in his cabin. It was loaded early in the evening.”

Shayne finished the sidecar, pushed the glass aside, folded his long arms, and rested them on the table. “Tell me — how did Devlin impress you when you first saw him? What sort of condition was he in?”

“He had been drinking,” said Grimpson with a knowing smile, “but he wasn’t disagreeable. In fact, he was quiet and friendly and caused no trouble at all.”

“Describe him to me as carefully as you can.”

The steward said promptly, “Medium height, I should say. In his early thirties and a bit bulky — in a well-conditioned way. Clean-shaven. His hair was dark — dark brown, I’d say. He didn’t have any marked characteristics, but he was pleasant throughout the time I served him, and it was a distinct shock to me when we sailed from Havana without him — and without any word from him,” he ended, his eyes puzzled and thoughtful, as though he tried to recall some reason for Devlin’s strange actions.

“What sort of glasses did he wear?” Shayne asked casually.

“Glasses? Why, he didn’t wear glasses.” The puzzled frown between his eyes deepened. “Now that I recall it, he did seem nearsighted. I wondered—”

“Do you know a Mrs. Janet Brice?” Shayne asked sharply.

Grimpson nodded. “She is on C Deck also. The stewardess serves her, but from my observation she is a most agreeable young woman.”

“She was friendly with Devlin?”

“Oh, yes, sir. They were old friends, so the stewardess said, and she had anticipated his joining the cruise at Miami. The night he came aboard he asked for her, but she had already retired for the night and he didn’t wish to disturb her.”

“They spent a lot of time together between Miami and Cuba?”

“A great deal of time together,” said the steward soberly. He paused, puckering his forehead anxiously. “I don’t wish to — that is — if you’ll pardon me, sir, for injecting a personal note—”

“This is a murder investigation,” Shayne cut in. “I’m not interested in anyone’s morals, and anything you can tell me will go no further.”

“Oh, it’s not that, sir. I don’t mean to imply that Mrs. Brice — No, indeed. Everything was most proper, I assure you. But we did feel — the stewardess and I — and others of the ship’s staff, that it was very romantic. They were — well, quite suited to each other.”

“They seemed to be falling in love?”

“He was most assiduous,” murmured Grimpson discreetly. “And it did seem that she responded in a nice, genteel way. She was overwrought when he failed to return from Havana by sailing time. It was she who prevailed upon the captain to delay departure several hours while the authorities were contacted and a search instituted for Mr. Devlin. I fear it was an exceedingly unpleasant experience for her.”

“Comparable to being deserted at the altar?”

“Something like that. You must understand that this is purely conjecture. Backstairs gossip, you might say,” he added with a deferential smile.

“He didn’t take any personal belongings with him when he went ashore at Havana? There was nothing at all to give you a hint that he planned not to return to the ship?”

“Nothing,” said the steward decisively. “He wore the same clothes he had on when he boarded the ship. Nothing else was missing so far as I was able to ascertain.”

“Thanks,” said Shayne. He looked at his watch. It was almost time for the conducted tour to return. He placed a bill on the table and got up, saying casually, “Take care of my drinks, please,” and went out.

The deck was still deserted as he went slowly forward to take up a position opposite the gangplank, staying in the shaded corridor until the party came aboard.

The purser came out of his office and asked, “Did Grimpson find you all right, Mr. Shayne?”

“We had a talk in the lounge and he was quite helpful.” Shayne looked across the deck at a large sight-seeing bus pulled up at the pier. “Would that be your sight-seeing party returning?”

“Yes. I’ll step to the gangplank with you and introduce you to Mrs. Brice as she comes aboard.”

Shayne nodded his thanks and they strolled across to the rail as the first of the cruising passengers began coming up. He amused himself watching the mopping of brows, the flushed and sweaty and determined faces as they straggled up the gangplank, and made a game of trying to pick Janet Brice from among them.

The purser said, “That’s odd, I don’t see Mrs. Brice.” He stepped forward to intercept a thin man in uniform who appeared to be checking the party coming aboard. “Oh, Mr. Manning,” he called. “I don’t see Mrs. Brice anywhere.”

Mr. Manning said sourly, “That’s because she isn’t here.”

The purser bristled. “You realize, of course, that you are held responsible—”

“Hold your horses,” Mr. Manning interrupted. “She signed up for the tour and started out with us, but while we were loading on the bus she got a radiogram. She showed it to me and it was a message telling her to come to Miami at once. She asked me if it was all right if she went right down and got a plane to Miami — and rejoined us there tomorrow. So I told her sure it was a free country and so she did and so what?” He thrust his sharp jaw out belligerently at the purser.

Shayne stepped hastily between them and said, “Wait a minute. What plane did Mrs. Brice catch?”

“I told her there was one leaving at eleven o’clock. Reckon she got it. Nothing wrong in that, was there? I don’t see,” he went on resentfully.

But Shayne wasn’t listening to him. A glance at his watch showed it was exactly one o’clock. He whirled on the purser and demanded, “Where’s the nearest telephone?”

“Right at the end of the block over there.” The purser pointed a trembling finger. “I do wish you’d tell me—” Shayne was going down the gangplank with long strides.

Chapter fifteen

Death on a side street

In the dock office Shayne snatched up a telephone from the desk nearest the door and said to the operator, “Get me the airline that flies to Miami — fast.” His bleak gaze went down to the clerk seated at the desk who started to protest the rude intrusion.

“Sorry, bud,” said Shayne. “Police business.” Into the telephone he asked curtly, “Has your one o’clock plane taken off yet?”

“It’s just turning now,” a voice said.

“Hold it. Call your pilot back. Fifty bucks if you hold it until I get there.” He cradled the receiver, said “Thanks” to the clerk, and lunged out through the door. A cab was cruising past. He called out, ran to catch it.

In less than five minutes he arrived at the airline dock. The seaplane was still at the pier, the office manager standing beside it and conferring with the pilot through a window in the cockpit. They both looked inquiringly at Shayne as he strode up.

Pulling out his wallet, Shayne extracted a fifty-dollar bill. “Thanks for holding it. I have a return ticket.”

The man took the bill and opened the door for Shayne to step inside. There was only one other passenger aboard, a fat, elderly man who looked slightly apoplectic in the steaming interior of the small plane.

Shayne sank into a bucket seat as the propellers roared and the craft headed out across the water, lifting its stern, then rising smoothly into the air and circling sharply eastward.

For the first time since listening to Arthur Devlin’s story, Shayne settled back and studied the situation from the perspective of accepting him as a liar. He still did not know who had radioed Mrs. Brice from Miami. Nothing made any sense any more. One thought kept pounding at him insistently. If the message was from Devlin, it indicated that he had known Janet’s name all along — that he had deliberately lied about having forgotten it. How much of the rest of his story had been lies? What sort of game was the man playing? What had he hoped to accomplish by telling such a story?

Early that morning Shayne had scoffed at the suggestion that Devlin might have been the man who had lured Doctor Thompson from his house with a fake call in order to get at his office records. Now he realized it might easily have been Devlin.

But why? What had Devlin hoped to gain by it?

Shayne squirmed in the low seat in an effort to make his long legs more comfortable. His eyes were bleak as he realized there was no sane answer to the question. Perhaps Devlin had gone completely crazy. He hadn’t had a great deal of experience with insanity, but he had heard that persons suffering from certain forms of mental derangement were exceedingly crafty about concealing their condition, thus making it almost impossible to detect except by a psychiatrist. If that was the case with Devlin, then Shayne knew that Janet Brice was probably already in the power of a homicidal maniac whom he, Shayne, had illegally protected from arrest after gullibly believing a story that even

Devlin’s best friend had not been able to accept.

As the plane roared above incredibly blue waters sparkling with sunlight, Shayne moodily went over each development in the strange and baffling case, and at the end of an hour not one of them made any more sense than they had before.

He was on his feet when the plane swooped down to the surface of the Miami Yacht Basin, and was ready to step out as it nosed up to the pier and the door was opened. He long-legged it to the airline office at the end of the pier, burst in without ceremony, and demanded of the clerk from whom he had bought his ticket three hours previously, “Have you seen a Mrs. Brice — a passenger from Key West — in the last couple of hours?”

“Mrs. Brice?” The clerk blinked uncertainly and shuffled some papers on the desk. “I believe she came in on the noon flight.”

“That was two hours ago,” Shayne muttered, looking at his watch. “Do you know where she went from the dock? Did she take a taxi, or—?”

“No, sir. I asked her if she wanted a taxi, but she said someone was meeting her.”

“And did someone meet her?”

“I presume so,” said the clerk coldly. “She went out immediately and I had other things to attend to, and—” Shayne went out of the office while the clerk was talking. He hurried to his car, which he had left parked at the curb when he caught the eleven-o’clock plane. He had the left-hand door open before he saw the burly uniformed figure lounging on the right-hand front seat.

“Hi, shamus.” The Miami Beach cop showed two gold teeth in an unfriendly grin. “Hop right in.”

“What in hell are you doing in my crate?” Shayne growled, sliding under the wheel.

“Just waiting for you to drive me to headquarters.”

“Nuts.” Shayne put his key in the ignition. “I’m headed for Miami fast. Hop out if you don’t want to walk back.”

“That’s what you think. I said headquarters.” The officer’s voice was hard.

Shayne had his foot on the starter. He lifted it and said, “Look. I’m in one hell of a hurry. Save the boxing bout for some other time.”

“You’re not in a hurry to go anywhere, Shayne. Except to headquarters. Now step on it and let’s have less of the big jaw.”

Shayne’s big hands tightened on the wheel, the knuckles showing white. “What is this?” he asked.

“Painter wants to see you,” said the big cop promptly.

“Is it a pinch?”

“Any way you want it. I’m taking you in.”

Shayne didn’t remember ever having seen the officer before, but he was definitely a type Peter Painter liked in his department — big and dumb and stubborn, and sadistic enough to enjoy meeting resistance from an unarmed man.

Shayne stepped on the starter, slid into low gear, and lurched away from the curb and went ahead full speed.

The officer tapped him on the knee and said, “Next turn to your right.”

Shayne stepped hard on the brake, slewed around the corner on screaming tires, went another block and a half to park in front of the Beach police station.

He flung the door open before the car stopped rolling, was across the sidewalk and going up the steps before the cop was out of the car. He heard a growled protest behind him as he strode past a couple of cops lounging on wooden benches in the corridor and on into Chief Peter Painter’s private office.

Painter sprang up from behind his big, polished desk as Shayne slammed the door hard behind him. “What do you mean barging—?” Painter began sharply.

“One of your mugs said you wanted to see me,” grated Shayne. “So you see me. Now I’m leaving. And if you’ve got the sense God gave a louse you’ll—”

He heard the door open and turned to see the doorway blocked by the panting, burly officer whom he had left behind at the curb. He had a service revolver in his hand and his eyes were slitted with anger.

Shayne started toward him, growling contemptuously, “Get out of my way and put that thing away before it goes off and hurts somebody.”

“Shall I drill him, Chief?” He didn’t move and he kept the revolver aimed at the detective.

“Certainly,” said Painter.

Shayne stopped within two feet of the revolver. He whirled on Painter and said, “You’ll regret this. I have to get to Miami fast.”

“What’s the hurry?” asked Painter.

“It’s too long a story to tell now. But take my word for it, Painter, it may mean a woman’s life for me to get to Miami in a hurry.”

Painter said, “I see. If it’s too long a story to tell here and you’re in such a hurry, why not tell it to me while we ride over there together?”

“There’s no particular reason why I should tell any of it to you,” Shayne said flatly.

“The only way you’ll reach Miami in a hurry is for me to go along,” said Painter silkily. “You’ve got a lot of explaining to do on this Devlin case, Shayne, and I’m not letting you out of my sight until I get some answers. If you’d rather be locked up for a few days—”

“On what charge?” Shayne grated.

Painter smiled thinly. “Attempted extortion will do. Bert Masters will be happy to swear out a warrant that’ll keep you quiet for some time.”

Shayne knew when he was licked. If Masters wanted him out of circulation badly enough to swear out a false charge against him, it was too tough a set-up for one man to buck. “My car’s out front,” he snapped. “If you insist on going, let’s get started.”

“You come along with us, Martin,” Painter said to the big cop in the doorway, “just to make sure Shayne doesn’t get some foolish idea about slipping away from me again.” They went out with Shayne in the lead, Martin behind him, and Painter’s short legs doing double time to keep up with the angry redhead’s long strides.

Painter got in the front seat with Shayne, and Martin sat in the rear. No one spoke until the car was on the causeway headed toward Miami at sixty miles an hour.

“You had a story to tell me,” Painter reminded him. “Something about a woman whose life is in danger.”

“That’s what I said, and if I’m too late — you’ll be hearing about it, Painter. Her name is Janet Brice. She’s — a sort of witness in the Devlin case, and I just flew back from Key West, where I went to interview her. But someone evidently didn’t want me to hear her story, and wired her to leave Key West for Miami before I got to her.” He paused, concentrating on his driving, wondering how much he dared tell Painter — whether the detective chief would recognize the name and understand the implications of his statements.

Apparently Janet Brice’s name meant nothing to him, for Painter said querulously, “A sort of witness, you say? What sort of witness?”

“She was friendly with Devlin on that cruise he just returned from.” Shayne told him cautiously, wondering whether Will Gentry had spilled any of Devlin’s amnesia story to the Beach chief.

Again it was apparent that Painter knew nothing at all of Devlin’s loss of memory, for he said complacently, “Perhaps, then, you picked up some information in Key West that will strengthen a theory I have formulated on this affair.”

“What is your theory?”

“It seems to me there were two questions that had to be answered to explain why a man like Arthur Devlin murdered Skid Munroe,” Painter said didactically. “First: Why did Devlin break his vacation short and return before his ship did? Second: What connection was there between Devlin and Skid Munroe?”

“And?”

“I came to the conclusion that the two questions were essentially the same,” Painter told him. “I made an intensive investigation into the victim’s background and I have it on good authority that since leaving Masters’s employ he has been peddling heroin — smuggled in from the West Indies,” he ended triumphantly.

“That’s most interesting,” Shayne encouraged him. “How do you figure that ties Skid up with an insurance executive?”

“How do we know Devlin wasn’t leading a double life, with dope-smuggling as a profitable sideline? What better opportunity would a man have for picking up small quantities of drugs at various ports of call than going on a luxury cruise and posing as an innocent vacationer?”

“It would be a damned good dodge,” said Shayne, egging him on. “No one bothers to check the passengers when they return to the ship after a sight-seeing trip in the various ports.”

“Exactly,” said Painter. “But the Customs officers are very thorough when the passengers debark. So I presume Devlin waited until he had collected a good supply and then simply jumped ship and probably chartered a plane to fly him back and land him at some outlying Key where he wouldn’t have to go through the Customs. Presumably he was to turn the stuff over to Skid last night, and there was some sort of quarrel, resulting in Skid’s death.”

Shayne had reached the mainland and slowed to forty miles an hour going south on Biscayne Boulevard.

“It’s a good theory,” Shayne continued to encourage the dapper little man beside him. “Want me to drop you off at Gentry’s office so you can talk it over with him? Last time I saw him he hadn’t thought of that connection between Devlin and Munroe.”

“I’m in no hurry to tell Gentry anything. I’ll just go along with you.”

Shayne passed Flagler Street and turned west at the next corner. “I’m stopping by my apartment before I see Gentry,” he said. “If you and your mug in the back seat don’t mind waiting a moment here in the car—”

“We’ll go up with you,” Painter told him. “I haven’t seen your apartment for several months. Do you still have the same one?”

Shayne parked at the side entrance of his hotel, looked down at Painter with lifted brows, and asked, “Why this sudden yen to see my apartment?”

“Frankly,” said Painter with a venomous smile, “I have a curious hunch we’ll find a murderer hidden there.”

“Suppose,” said Shayne, “I skip my visit upstairs and we go straight to Gentry’s office to get out a radio pick-up for the missing witness?”

“That will be perfectly all right with me,” Painter assured him. “It will turn my hunch into a certainty, and I’ll insist that Gentry return with us to search your apartment.”

Shayne nodded and said, “Let’s go up then.” He swung his long legs out the door and stalked inside with Painter double-timing beside him and the big cop bringing up the rear.

They climbed the stairs and Shayne’s face was impassive as he went down the hall toward his door, getting his key out. He couldn’t stall Painter any longer. He knew the little man would stick to him until he was satisfied that Devlin either was or wasn’t in his apartment.

Frankly, Shayne hoped Devlin would be there. That would prove he had nothing to do with calling Janet Brice to Miami, and even though Devlin were immediately locked up on a murder charge, things were moving fast now and Shayne felt he was getting hold of some of the devious threads that would eventually prove his innocence. But if Devlin weren’t inside his apartment—

He unlocked the door and flung it wide open, stepped back, waved the men inside, and said, “Take a look for yourself. You know your way around.”

“I intend to take a look.” Painter strutted inside followed by Martin, who kept a suspicious eye on Shayne and a fat, hairy hand on his holstered gun.

Shayne went in after them. He had a sick feeling in his belly when he saw the three doors leading into the bedroom, the bathroom, and the kitchen standing open. Upon leaving Devlin there, he had warned the fugitive to go into the bedroom and close the door the moment he heard anyone at the front door.

While Painter began officiously searching every nook in the apartment Shayne went to the liquor cabinet and poured himself a big drink. He needed a big drink. Devlin’s absence could mean only one thing.

He started to the telephone to call Will Gentry to have an alarm put out for Janet Brice. He looked around and saw Painter coming out of the bedroom and going into the bathroom.

The phone began ringing just before he picked up the receiver. He answered it and heard Gentry’s voice saying, “Where have you been, Mike?”

“To Key West.”

“Oh.” There was a brief pause. “Did you contact a woman named Janet Brice on the Belle of the Caribbean?”

“She had flown to Miami before I reached Key West. I was just going to call you, Will, and find out if you had anything,” he said, his mouth suddenly dry as he wondered how Gentry had learned Janet’s last name. Had Devlin gone to him?

“That’s too bad,” Gentry said heavily. “I hoped there might be some mistake, but I guess there isn’t.” He paused again, briefly, then went on: “She’s dead, Mike. Her body was found on one of the side streets off Seventy-Ninth — about half an hour ago. I’ve been trying to call you ever since.”

“Why — did you — call me, Will?” The words stuck in his throat and it took effort to make them come out clearly. “How did you connect her with me?”

“There was a radiogram in her handbag, Mike. Addressed to her in care of the Belle at Key West. Wait a minute and I’ll read it to you.” In a drawling monotone he read: “Imperative you catch first plane to Miami. Will meet you at landing, dock and explain everything.”

“Is that all?”

“All except the signature. It’s signed Arthur Devlin.”

Shayne said, “I’ll be right down, Will.” He replaced the receiver very gently.

Painter entered briskly from the kitchen and admitted, “My hunch seems to have been wrong this time. But I still think you had him here, Shayne, and I’m having Gentry send a man up to go over the place for his fingerprints.”

Chapter sixteen

A kiss or a telephone number

“Okay,” said Shayne angrily. “You do that. Just so you don’t ask Will to put his vice squad on me after you get the fingerprint report.”

“The vice squad?” Painter was surprised and confused.

“What makes you think—?”

“Suppose she wasn’t my sister? What of it? I had to tell the clerk something, didn’t I? You know how these hotels are about that sort of thing.”

A look of comprehension dawned on Painter’s face. “Are you trying to tell me we’ll find a woman’s prints here?”

“Why do you think I tried to keep you and your mug from coming up here with me?” demanded Shayne irritably. “I didn’t know whether she’d got out yet or not. She was still asleep when I left early this morning.”

Painter thumbnailed his small mustache thoughtfully. “You may be telling the truth, Shayne, but I doubt it. I know your reputation for that sort of thing, but I’m still betting Arthur Devlin was hidden in this apartment while we were running around looking for him on the Beach.”

Shayne shrugged wearily and said, “Would you care to lay some even money on that?”

“If I were a betting man,” said Painter stiffly, “I’d be willing to give you heavy odds.”

“But you’re not,” Shayne jeered, “a betting man.” He stalked to the door and opened it. “I’m going down to Gentry’s office.”

“Hold on there, Shayne. I’m coming with you. Martin, you stay here,” Painter hastily directed his subordinate, “just to see that no one touches anything until Gentry sends his men up here.”

Shayne didn’t bother to protest the high-handedness and illegality of this procedure by an officer from another municipality. He had other things on his mind and it didn’t make any particular difference whether Martin stayed behind or accompanied them.

He was halfway to the elevator when he heard Painter close the door and break into a trot to catch up with him. They went down in the elevator and across the lobby to the desk. The clerk on duty was not the same one who had sent Arthur Devlin up to his apartment. He was, however, an old employee who had known Shayne for a long time and who knew Painter by sight.

Shayne leaned on the desk and closed one eyelid in a slow wink. “Do you know what time my sister left my apartment this morning, Bill?”

The wizened little man kept his face expressionless and said in a precise voice, “No, Mr. Shayne. I didn’t notice her go out.”

“Did she make any phone calls after you came on duty — or receive any?” persisted Shayne.

“I’m positive there weren’t any calls from your apartment, but I believe I put a couple through this morning. There was one around ten-thirty, I recall, and another about an hour later. She answered both calls promptly.” There was just the faintest emphasis on the “she” and Shayne knew that the clerk must have heard a man’s voice answer his phone.

Shayne said, “Thanks, Bill,” and turned quickly, apparently surprised to see Painter standing close by and craning his neck to overhear the low-spoken conversation. “I thought you’d gone on to the car,” he exclaimed, and started for the side entrance door.

Painter hurried after him saying, “From what the clerk said,” he conceded, “I guess I was wrong about you having Devlin in your apartment. But whoever the woman was, I’m betting she was mixed up in the Devlin case somehow — and I intend to find out how.”

“You’d bet on that,” Shayne reminded him, “if you were a betting man.” They reached the car and Shayne slid under the wheel, made a U-turn in front of the drawbridge with bland disregard for traffic regulations, and drove rapidly to police headquarters, parked in the space reserved for official cars, and got out.

Painter followed him down the corridor to Gentry’s private office, pushed past him as Shayne opened the door, and announced, “I’m not at all satisfied, Gentry, with the way Shayne is conducting this Devlin affair.”

“I’m not very happy about it myself right at the moment,” Gentry growled. “After this latest murder, Shayne, don’t you think you’d better give us everything you’ve got on Devlin?”

“Latest murder?” shouted Painter. “What’s this? Who’s dead now?”

“When your damned gorilla pulled me into your office,” grated Shayne, “I told you a woman’s life might depend on how fast I could get to Miami. Well — I got here too late. One of these days you’re going to rot in your own stinking jail for pulling a dumb stunt like—”

“Do you mean the woman who was in your apartment?” Painter cut in. “See here, Shayne—”

Shayne turned his back on Painter’s querulous voice. “I swear to God I’ve given you everything I’ve got on Devlin, Will. If I had the faintest idea where he is I’d give him to you like that.” He snapped his thumb and second finger loudly.

“I hope you mean that, Mike.”

“I do. Have you got him definitely pegged for the Janet Brice job?”

“Now see here,” Painter interposed. “I’m completely in the dark on all this.”

Gentry paid no attention to him. “We haven’t anything definite on it, Mike. We traced her back to the seaplane dock where she landed from Key West at noon. She appears to have been met by some man and drove away with him. Nearest we can judge he drove to the Seventy-Ninth Street causeway, bopped her over the head somewhere along the way, and dumped her body out of the car on a deserted street on the Miami side. The message in her purse signed by Arthur Devlin makes it pretty certain he was the man who met her.”

“If she flew in from Key West at noon,” Painter expostulated, “how could she have received a telephone call in Shayne’s apartment at eleven-thirty?”

“What in hell is he talking about?” Gentry asked, scowling heavily. “Who said Mrs. Brice was in your apartment at eleven-thirty?”

“He’s as far off base as usual,” Shayne snapped. “There’s one thing out of line, Will. If Arthur Devlin killed Mrs. Brice, why did he leave that radiogram signed by him in her purse? That was a dead give-away.”

“We never know why guys do things like that.” Gentry sighed heavily. “Sometimes I think they just feel sorry for the poor dumb cops and want to help us out. He may not have known she had it with her. Or he just didn’t think about it in the excitement of committing his second murder within twelve hours. Or he realized there’d be a record of the message on file and we’d pick it up sooner or later. After all, from the background you gave me this morning we know he’s the only man in Miami who had a good reason to get her away from Key West before you got there and had a chance to talk to her.”

“But what could he gain by putting her out of the way?” Shayne demanded irritably. “With her death chalked up against him along with Munroe’s, he hasn’t the chance of a snowball in hell.”

“Murderers never think that way,” said Gentry heavily. “Somehow or other they hope to keep one jump ahead of things by killing everyone who gets in their way.”

“I demand to know what you’re talking about,” said Painter fretfully.

“You and Will can have a nice quiet chat as soon as I get a few items of information from him,” Shayne promised Painter. “Then I’ll be on my way.”

“You’ll be on your way where?” Painter snapped. “To help this murderer escape a second time? You’re a fool if you let Shayne out of your sight,” he appealed to Gentry.

Gentry studied Painter thoughtfully for a moment, then shifted his gaze to Shayne’s deeply lined face. “Painter’s got something there, Mike.”

“You don’t really think that. I’m getting things together, Will. You won’t regret giving me a free hand. But if you tie me up now—”

“I warn you, Gentry,” Painter broke in. “I’ve had experience with him before and—”

“There are a few things I want,” Shayne said.

Gentry took a dead, soggy cigar butt from his mouth and tossed it into a wastebasket. He said to Painter, “I’ve had a lot more experience with Shayne than you have.” Turning to Shayne, he asked, “What do you need, Mike?”

“First, have you dug up anything on Marge Jerome — and her husband?”

“A little.” Gentry opened a folder on his desk and began looking through the papers it contained. Selecting one, he said. “They’ve been married six years and both have records. He’s doing a ten-year stretch at Raiford for armed burglary, and she took the cure six months ago at the State Hospital. Released on parole.”

“Dope?”

“U-m-m. She was a nurse and picked up the habit like some of them do. They have access to the stuff and think they know how to use it — then first thing you know it’s got ’em.”

“Any record of where she used to work?”

“I can get her entire past record without much trouble.”

“Find out if she ever worked for Doctor Thompson — or Doctor Myron Spencer on the Beach. Or any other doctor who ever attended Mrs. Bert Masters.”

Gentry’s rumpled lids rolled up slowly. “Still harping on Mrs. Masters, Mike? What’s the connection?”

“I don’t know,” Shayne admitted broodingly. “But there has to be a connection some place. I’m convinced it all leads back to her death.” His gray eyes were bleak when he met Gentry’s slightly protruding and questioning gaze.

“If you want my advice,” said Painter in a tone of injured dignity, “you’ll leave Bert Masters strictly out of this. He is an important man and was quite upset this morning when you forced yourself into his home with certain insinuations—”

“When I want your advice,” Shayne interrupted bluntly, “I’ll write you a letter. If the Jerome woman is on parole, Will, she must report to a probation officer and he will know about her present job.”

“That’s right. But I haven’t been able to contact him yet. As soon as he returns to his office I’ll get that information.”

“Get to her the minute you find out where she is,” Shayne broke in hastily. “She must know plenty about this whole thing. Anything else for me?”

“That bundle of clothes you gave me — and the money. I’ve got a preliminary laboratory report here.” He took another paper from the folder and glanced at it. “There’s one rather peculiar angle. All the blood in the room, on the blackjack, towel — everything — is type AB. Skid Munroe’s type.”

“Probably Devlin’s, also,” Shayne said, “since he must have bled some, and the towel must be the one he cleaned up with. What’s queer about two men being the same blood type?”

“That’s not the queer part. It seems almost positive that Devlin is AB, too, because analysis of sweat stains on the clothing he was wearing is AB. But the odd thing, Mike, is that tests on his hat bring out an O blood grouping. Different from Skid and Devlin. How do you like that?”

Shayne’s gloomy face spread in a wide grin as he digested the full meaning of Gentry’s statement. “I like it fine. By God, Will, that’s the first thing about this case I’ve liked. Now you’d better start thinking of some one-syllable words so Painter can understand what this is all about. I’ll be checking back with you at intervals.” He started toward the door.

“Where to?” Gentry called after him.

“Doctor Thompson’s office first. I want a list of his patients for the last couple of weeks, and I still haven’t got Miss Dort’s telephone number.” He turned his head and grinned in Gentry’s direction, then continued out the door.

The air was cooler outside now. Clouds hid the sun and the wind had risen, coming in from the bay. Shayne put his hat on the seat of the car, rolled the windows down, and let the cool air blow through his unruly red hair. A glance in the rear-view mirror showed the bruise on his face, but the swelling had gone. He stepped on the accelerator and again sped over the causeway.

It was more than an hour past the 2:00 p.m. office hours posted on Doctor Thompson’s front door, but Shayne rang the bell. When no one answered, he turned the knob and found the door unlocked. He walked into the waiting-room just as Miss Dort opened the door of the side office.

The rouge had worn off of her lips, leaving them colorless, and her dark eyes looked dull, as though she were weary or depressed. Her lips parted when she recognized him and she said, “Oh — it’s you.”

“You’re not beaming with joy,” Shayne complained and grinned widely.

“Should I be?”

“Why not?” Shayne moved toward her as she stood in the doorway facing him, one hand resting on each side of the frame. She looked at him quietly and seemingly without interest until he stopped directly in front of her with his face not more than a foot from hers.

When she didn’t move and didn’t speak, he said speculatively, “I might kiss you again. That sample I snatched this morning tasted all right.”

“I don’t think you’d better,” she murmured.

“Why? Is the doc in?”

“Doctor Thompson is never here after office hours.”

Shayne lowered his face to hers. She didn’t move. Her eyes remained wide open and expressionless.

She shuddered violently when Shayne’s lips touched hers. She took a sudden step backward and cried, “No! You mustn’t!” She was clenching and unclenching her hands, poised like a wild bird ready for flight.

“What the hell’s the matter with me?” Shayne asked curiously.

“I wish you’d go. Please go.”

“Not,” said Shayne cheerfully, “until I have either a kiss or a telephone number.”

“Here.” She backed away until she reached the desk, reached behind her for a pad and pencil. She scribbled a number on it, ripped it from the pad, and pressed it into his hand. “Now will you please go,” she breathed.

“I really came on official business,” Shayne told her. “I want to look at Doctor Thompson’s office records for the past two weeks.”

She moved around the table and dropped into her chair as one exhausted. “They aren’t here,” she told him. She passed a hand over her face and said again, “Please go. I’m — very tired.”

“Where are they?” Shayne demanded.

“Missing from the file.” She gestured vaguely toward the back room. “Why would a burglar want those?”

“Probably for the same reason I do. Let me see his appointment book then.”

“All the pages for the past two weeks are torn out of it, too.” She smiled up at him wanly, then came to her feet slowly. “If you don’t mind, I have some work to finish up in the hospital room.”

“One thing more. Is Roger Morgan one of Doctor Thompson’s patients?”

“Perhaps,” she answered evasively.

“Would you have a record of his blood type if he is?”

“Not here. If he has had an operation it would be in the hospital records. Do you want me to look?”

“Don’t bother.” Shayne turned on his heel and went out, scowling blackly as he sought to analyze the queer emotional reaction he appeared to have aroused in Miss Dort. Something had happened to her since he had seen her this morning. She was like a person who was slowly running down, whose vitality was being drained away and who had no reserve strength to call upon.

He got in his car as he pondered, gunned the engine, and turned south toward Bert Masters’s construction office.

Chapter seventeen

More murder in the making

The office was on a side street south of Fifth, the ground floor of a large warehouse beside a depot for construction and dirt-moving equipment. There was a spacious waiting-room in front with wooden benches around the walls, the bare pine floor decorated with brass ash stands and spittoons. Half a dozen men lounged on the benches and they looked at Shayne with furtive curiosity characteristic of men waiting their turn to see a busy executive, sizing him up speculatively as a competitor after an order, or as a social acquaintance who might breeze into Masters’s presence and waste his time while those before him continued to cool their heels in the waiting-room.

There was a large oak desk in the center of the room with a straight wooden chair behind it. The desk was bare except for a telephone and a commodious ash tray. Shayne walked over and lowered one hip on a corner of it and looked impassively at the waiting ones, noting their expressions of boredom and of sullen resignation.

A young man entered briskly from a door at the right. He had a fawn-colored mustache and a slack mouth and an offensively cheerful manner. He nodded brightly to a perspiring fat man on the end of the bench nearest the door and said, “Just a few more minutes now, Mr. Getlow,” then moved on to the desk and seated himself. He looked up at Shayne with a slight frown of annoyance and inquired, “And what can I do for you, sir?”

He was one of those young men, thought Shayne morosely, who had taken courses in How to Develop a Dynamic Personality by correspondence.

“You can tell Roger Morgan I’m here.”

“I’m so sorry,” chanted the young man. “Mr. Morgan is not in his office.”

“Where is he?”

“If you’ll state your business?” said the young man firmly and with a rising inflection.

“Masters will do,” growled Shayne.

“I’m afraid he’s frightfully busy this afternoon.” He lifted his eyebrows expressively at the waiting loungers. “All these gentlemen have appointments. Perhaps there is something I can do for you.”

Shayne shook his head and said emphatically, “My business is personal and important. Masters will see me next.”

“Oh, no, sir. I’m afraid not. If you wish to state your business—”

A buzzer sounded underneath his desk. The rear door opened at the same moment and a man came out. Shayne, the young man, and the fat man at the end of the bench got to their feet simultaneously.

Shayne’s legs were the longest. He reached the door first, saying, “Sorry, Getlow. I won’t keep Masters long.” The young man caught the door and hung on to its edge, but Shayne’s arms were stronger and he pulled it shut.

The inner office was spacious and cooled with air-conditioning. There was a thick blue rug on the floor and an immense glass-topped desk centered it. Bert Masters was relaxed in an oversized leather chair behind it. A fat cigar protruded from his thick lips at an arrogant angle and his eyes narrowed as Shayne crossed the rug toward him.

The door opened before Shayne reached the desk and the young man rushed in and panted in squeaky terror, “I’m sorry, Mr. Masters. This man pushed in rudely—”

“What do you want, Shayne?” Masters bellowed.

“Not more than five minutes.”

“That’s four more than you’ll get if it’s the same thing you were harping on this morning.”

“It’s the same thing — only more so.” Shayne stopped in front of the desk and leaned forward with his palms flat on the glass top. “You’d better give me five minutes, Masters.”

Bert Masters looked past Shayne and roared at the young man, “Get your tail out of here. And get Chief Painter from police headquarters on the phone. Talk to him personally, and tell him to send some men up to pull this shamus out of here.”

“Yes, sir. This — shamus, sir?”

“Mike Shayne to you. Beat it.”

When the door closed, Shayne said, “I think you’ll send Painter’s boys away when they get here.”

“Why do you think that? I told you this morning—”

“That you didn’t want me digging into your wife’s death. Does the same thing go for the death of her sister?”

“Her sister?”

“Mrs. Janet Brice,” said Shayne patiently. “Nee Elwell. Remember?”

“She’s on a boat somewhere in—”

“Janet Brice,” Shayne interrupted him coldly, “was murdered in Miami a couple of hours ago.” He paused significantly before asking, “Where’s Morgan?”

“What has Morgan to do with any of this?”

“Has he an alibi for twelve o’clock?”

Bert Masters nervously removed the cigar from his mouth and fidgeted under Shayne’s direct gaze. “Why should Morgan need an alibi?”

“Somebody killed your sister-in-law. Someone who doesn’t want her talking about a letter your wife wrote her a short time before she committed suicide. Doesn’t Morgan fit?”

Fear showed briefly on Masters’s grossly fat face. “How do you figure Morgan fits that?”

Shayne reached his foot out and hooked his toe under the rung of a heavy golden oak chair and pulled it close to the desk. “Let’s take our hair down,” he said quietly. “This whole thing is out of Painter’s hands now because both these murders — Skid Munroe’s and Janet Brice’s — were committed in Will Gentry’s territory. You can talk to me — or to the Miami homicide boys.”

The door opened again and the clerk stopped just inside and said, “Pardon, Mr. Masters, but Chief Painter is not available. I talked to Lieutenant Perkins and he said—”

“Get out,” Masters shouted. “Cancel that call. Now then, Shayne. What’s really on your mind?”

“I think,” said Shayne slowly, “that what’s really on my mind is the contents of the suicide note your wife left — which was either destroyed or withheld from the police by your confidential secretary.”

Masters choked and sputtered over a puff of smoke. He laid his cigar in a polished ash tray and glared at the detective. “Did Morgan tell you—?”

“He told me nothing — not yet. Hell, Masters,” Shayne went on persuasively, “any child could deduce that much. The whole thing is going to come out, so let’s have it in time to prevent any more murders.”

Masters picked his cigar up and turned it slowly between blunt fingers. “That damned letter,” he said. “I swear I didn’t know anything about it at first or I would have turned it over to the police no matter what it said. But Morgan thought he was being smart. Protecting me — and Lily. Later, when he admitted what he had done, the case was closed. Why reopen it and cause a stink?”

Shayne leaned back and lit a cigarette. His gray eyes were very bright. “What was in the suicide note?”

“I don’t know — exactly. Morgan didn’t — he just said it was stuff that would cause a scandal if it were made public. I’d known for years that Lily wasn’t faithful to me,” the big man went on drearily, “but what the hell? A man doesn’t enjoy wearing horns in public.”

“Was Arthur Devlin ever your wife’s lover?” Shayne demanded abruptly.

Masters dropped his cigar and his mouth opened in a big O. “Devlin?” He shoved his chair back and came to his feet. “Arthur Devlin? Hell, no. That is — no! Of course not. They scarcely knew each other. The idea’s absurd.”

“Who was the man? You must have had a pretty good idea.”

“I didn’t. I didn’t care much as long they kept it quiet and didn’t throw it in my face.”

“But you suspected someone,” persisted Shayne.

Masters nodded moodily. “A couple of years ago I thought she was pretty thick with Doc Thompson. That’s why I made her change to Spencer. But I didn’t know. I decided afterward it was just one of those tizzies some women get into over their doctors.”

“Thompson?” breathed Shayne, knitting his brow. “Are you sure she didn’t name the man in the letter Morgan found in her room?”

“He swore she didn’t.”

“How did you feel about it that night at Devlin’s farewell party when he got tight and mentioned the fact that he was meeting Janet Brice on the boat to talk to her about a strange letter Mrs. Masters had written her shortly before she died?”

“First I ever heard about such a letter,” Masters snapped. “What was it?”

“I don’t know. With Janet dead I suppose we’ll never know. Devlin says you were there when he mentioned it.”

“Then I didn’t hear him. See here, Shayne, what’s all this stuff about Devlin and Skid Munroe last night? Do you believe he killed Skid?”

“He thinks he did,” countered Shayne warily.

“That’s not what he told me.” Masters sat down again after pacing slowly around the room.

“When did you see Devlin?” Shayne asked.

“Not more than an hour ago. Doc Thompson brought him here and they both swore it was all a mix-up and he’s been framed. That’s why I—” He clamped his thick lips together suddenly.

“Why you what?” Shayne bored in. “Give it to me, for God’s sake, Masters, before you make the same mistake I seem to have made.”

“What mistake is that?”

“Believing in Devlin. I hid him out from arrest in my apartment, and while I was flying to Key West to see Mrs. Brice she was lured to her death by a radiogram signed with Devlin’s name.”

Masters brushed his hands wearily across his face. “I’m all mixed up,” he declared. “Why would Devlin kill Skid Munroe and then Janet?”

“I don’t know about Skid. But if Devlin was your wife’s lover, it would explain his eagerness to go on the cruise and meet Janet to stifle her suspicions that he had been responsible for Lily’s suicide. Then he claimed he wasn’t on the boat — to bolster up an amnesia story as an alibi for the Munroe killing. He knew that would blow up the moment I got to Janet and questioned her. So, if you can help me get hold of Devlin fast, you’d better do it.”

“I’ll be damned,” said Masters slowly, “and I helped him get away, Shayne. He’s on his way right now to hide out at Thompson’s fishing-lodge on Marlin Key.”

“You helped him? How?”

“They went in my motor cruiser. Morgan offered to take them. He was here when they came in.”

“Morgan!” said Shayne sharply. “You let Morgan take them down to that isolated Key in your boat?”

“Why not? I’ve always liked Devlin. I believed his story.”

“And Morgan very helpfully offered to take them,” said Shayne. “My God, Masters, don’t you realize that’s the last you’ll ever see of Roger Morgan?”

“The — last — I’ll ever see—?” Masters swung his swivel chair forward and sat up very straight. “Look here, Shayne—”

“How long a trip is it by motorboat?” Shayne interrupted.

“About three hours. Morgan said he might stay overnight if it was late.”

“Wait a minute.” Shayne’s hand dived for the telephone while he fingered the slip of paper Thompson’s nurse had given him with her telephone number written on it. He dialed the number, listened to it ring twice, and then a guttural voice said, “Volpone’s Laundry. Yes?”

Shayne slammed the receiver down, muttering, “I might have known.” He lifted the receiver again to dial the Miami police headquarters. In a moment he had Will Gentry on the wire.

“Listen, Will. I’ve got a hunch about Marge Jerome.”

“I’ve got something better than a hunch,” drawled Gentry. “I just sent a couple of men over to Doctor Thompson’s office to bring her in.”

“Miss Dort,” said Shayne bitterly. “It was right there all the time. Hang onto her, Will. She’s into this up to her chin. Does the Miami police department still own that old wreck of a seaplane you used to be so proud of?”

“It’s still around. You thinking about going somewhere, Mike?”

“Yeh. You got somebody who can fly it?”

“Sergeant Pepper. But I don’t know what condition the crate’s in. I’ll check—”

“Pepper around there now?” Shayne cut in.

“I think so. If he isn’t down at the dock tinkering with the plane.”

“If he isn’t at the dock, have him meet me there in twenty minutes with the motor turning. And ask him to bring along an extra gun for me, Will.”

“What are you up to, Mike?”

“If Sergeant Pepper can get that crate in the air and keep it there for about sixty miles, and if we have a lot of luck, we may be in time to prevent another murder. Or — maybe two more murders.” Shayne broke the connection and hurried out, leaving Bert Masters staring stupidly after him.

Chapter eighteen

Showdown at Marlin Key

Shayne was surprised to see that the time was only a few minutes to six when he went out of Masters’s front office. Clouds still covered the sun and darkness was coming on early. He got in his car and drove rapidly to the dock.

Sergeant Pepper was waiting for him, but the propeller of his one-engined plane was not turning. Instead, the sergeant was clad in a pair of greasy coveralls and was tinkering with the engine. It had started life as a Piper Cub, but Pepper had fitted it with pontoons and extra gadgets for scouting above secluded bays and inlets surrounding Miami to ferret out smugglers who crossed from Cuba and the Bahamas in small, fast boats.

To Shayne, the small craft looked frail and unairworthy, squatting awkwardly beside the dock like a queer species of grasshopper or water bug, but Sergeant Pepper was a youthful product of war flying, perfectly at home in anything air-borne, and his enthusiasm was contagious.

When Shayne reached the plane the sergeant looked up with a dirty-faced grin. “I’ll have her ready in a little while, Mr. Shayne.”

“You mean you’re not ready to take off? I phoned Gentry—”

“Yes, sir. He got word to me. I’ve been working her over all afternoon.”

“But didn’t Gentry tell you it was urgent? What seems to be the trouble?”

“The old girl’s digestion ain’t what it used to be.” The sergeant looked up and saw the bleak look in Shayne’s eyes. “Is it something important? The chief didn’t know exactly—”

“Don’t waste time on conversation,” Shayne told him. “Just get busy — get her in the air.”

“Yes, sir,” said Sergeant Pepper soberly. “Be about thirty minutes.”

Shayne groaned and began pacing up and down the dock, his ears tuned to catch the first sound of the whirling propeller. Clouds were gathering overhead, blackening the sky. The wind was fresh and humid, dampening his finger-combed hair.

It was forty-five minutes by his watch when he heard the sound that sent him trotting to the plane. Sergeant Pepper had shed his coveralls and a .38 Police Special showed on his hip. He held out a flat .45 automatic as Shayne came up.

“Chief Gentry said I was to loan you this and to see that you didn’t hurt yourself playing with it,” he said with a grin. Then, seeing Shayne’s somber face he added, “Sorry it took me so long, but I didn’t want to take a chance.”

“It couldn’t be helped,” Shayne told him, then asked, “Do you know Marlin Key?”

He reached into the cockpit. “I’ve got charts in here.”

Shayne detained him. “It might not even be charted. It’s very small and lies about six miles south of Mattewan Key.”

“I can find it without any trouble,” said the sergeant confidently. “I’ve flown over Mattewan lots of times.”

“Let’s go then.” Shayne stepped forward and gingerly eased his long frame into the open cockpit, hunched forward with his knees drawn up almost to his chin.

Sergeant Pepper gave the bobbing craft a shove away from the dock as he stepped lightly inside. He gunned the motor and they darted forward on the surface of the water for a couple of hundred yards, then rose smoothly, climbing in a slow spiral above the Devil’s Punchbowl.

The deafening noise of the motor subsided somewhat when they were high enough so the sound was not reflected back from a solid surface. Pepper checked his compass and made some adjustments of the controls, leveling off at about a thousand feet and then settling back to shout at Shayne, “Chief Gentry said I was to take orders from you. Do you want to tell me what we’re after, or is that a secret?”

Shayne shouted back, “How fast are we flying?”

“We’ll cruise at about ninety. I don’t like to push her too much.”

“Ninety is all right,” yelled Shayne. “I don’t think we could overtake them even if you pushed this thing to the limit. Three men in an express cruiser,” he went on to explain, “headed for a fishing-lodge on Marlin Key owned by one of them. They’re probably there by this time.”

“Will there be trouble?”

“One of them is a murderer,” Shayne told him as unemotionally as a man can speak while shouting to be heard. “I think he plans to kill the other two tonight and try to make a getaway in the boat tomorrow morning.”

Sergeant Pepper nodded gravely. “If there’s going to be shooting when we land, maybe you’d better tell me which one is the murderer.”

“Frankly,” said Shayne, “I don’t know myself. I think I know, but it could be any one of them. You’ll be more help if you don’t know what I suspect. Just keep your eyes open and your mouth shut and your gun ready. I’ll be putting the pressure on and we can’t trust any one of the three not to make a sudden play.”

Pepper nodded again to indicate that he understood, and Shayne continued in explanation: “One of the men is Arthur Devlin, wanted in connection with the Munroe and Brice murders. The others are a couple of friends of his who ostensibly believe him a victim of circumstances and are helping him avoid arrest. It’s my hunch that two of the trio don’t even know about Janet Brice’s murder, or they wouldn’t be trusting themselves on this trip with her murderer.”

As they droned steadily southwestward he went on to name and describe the other two men and to give Pepper a brief outline of the background for two murders, being very careful to keep his own theories about the case to himself so that the sergeant wouldn’t be any more suspicious of one man than of the others. This was imperative because he, himself, didn’t actually know. He thought he knew, but there was a gnawing doubt which wouldn’t let his belief develop into a certainty.

When he finished, he gave himself over to his own grim thoughts, which seemed to pound through his brain like the roar of the engine. Devlin was the obvious suspect if one accepted his entire amnesia story as a tissue of lies. Yet there was the evidence gathered at the Argonne House indicating that his client had been living with Marge Jerome and pretending to be her husband since the very next day after he was supposed to have sailed on the cruise ship.

But someone had been aboard the Belle impersonating him. Someone who had gained Janet Brice’s confidence and sent a radiogram to Doctor Thompson the next day signed with Devlin’s name. Whoever had done that could easily have sent the radiogram to Janet in Key West that lured her to her death.

Roger Morgan? Without his glasses Morgan would fit the description of Devlin obtained from the ship’s steward. Yet, so would Thompson fit the description — except for his mustache.

Morgan was the best bet for having passed as Devlin. Morgan had gone on a week’s vacation the next day, which would have given him an opportunity to jump ship in Havana and return to Miami without having to explain his absence — something a busy doctor could hardly accomplish.

Or had Devlin and Morgan connived in the imposture together? If so, why? So that Devlin could contrive to spend a couple of weeks with Marge Jerome, passing himself off as her husband? That didn’t seem feasible — yet there was the roll of bills. How did that enter into the plot? And the felt hat Devlin claimed he found in the death room which had not been worn there by either Devlin or Munroe!

And now there was the established fact that Thompson’s nurse was in reality Marge Jerome, a dope addict, wife of a jailbird, and ex-girl-friend of Skid Munroe, dope peddler.

Sergeant Pepper interrupted his musings by joggling his arm and pointing downward and ahead. “That’s Mattewan Key,” he yelled. “Over on the left — that tiny spot — that must be Marlin.”

The sun hung just above the horizon, free for a moment of the clouds, casting a red-gold sheen over the earth. Shayne nodded and leaned close to Pepper to shout, “Will you have any trouble setting this doodlebug down?”

Pepper shook his head and grinned. “Any place you say.”

“Stay about this altitude,” Shayne directed, “and fly directly over Marlin Key. If we see a boat there, go right on over as though the place didn’t interest us at all. If it’s possible, I’d like to land without them seeing us.”

Pepper nodded and turned his attention to piloting the small plane directly over the tiny spot of land in the vast immensity of water. Marlin Key swiftly took on form beneath them, a rock formation some two miles long and half a mile wide, curved somewhat to form a small lagoon near the center, close to which they could see the only building on the Key, a sprawling structure on the edge of the beach with what appeared to be a wooden pier extending out into the water.

Sergeant Pepper nodded excitedly when they were nearly overhead. “There’s a launch tied up at the dock. About a thirty-footer. It’s a good thing the sun came out from behind those clouds.”

“Keep right on going,” Shayne told him.

“It shouldn’t be too difficult to turn back and come up on the edge from the other side of the Key unobserved. The breeze is from the southwest, and if I make a wide circle to come back from the other direction and set her down a mile or more offshore, we’ll be down-wind and should be able to taxi ashore with a throttled engine they can’t hear.”

Shayne said, “It’s up to you. Make as wide a swing as you like, just so you get this thing down before it’s really dark.”

Pepper nodded confidently, glanced over his shoulder to be certain the Key was far enough behind them so the maneuver would be unnoticed, then began a slow, sweeping circle to his left.

The sun was gone by the time the arc was completed and the curtain of clouds which had lifted for the brief glow of sunset floated in again, closing out the spectacle. They were headed back toward the Key and about three miles due east of it. Pepper cut his motor and put the nose down in a long smooth descent into the wind, and darkness covered them when the pontoons touched water lightly, skipped into the air as though repelled, touched again and clung.

They were at least a mile off-shore, on the far side of the Key from the lodge. The motor made little more noise than an automobile as Pepper taxied in carefully, guided by the lights of the lodge windows, to the smooth beach, losing speed gradually and expertly until he was able to leap over the side in a foot of water and turn the light craft so Shayne could step ashore on damp sand.

“If you’ll give me a hand,” said Pepper, “we can drag her up above waterline when I can throw a line around the rock and she’ll be safe for the night if a wind doesn’t blow up.”

With each grasping a wing-strut, they worked the light plane easily up onto the sand, moored her firmly, and Shayne led the way across the low coral ridge separating them from the lodge.

“All these men know me by sight,” he told Pepper. “I don’t expect any trouble at the outset — not until one of them realizes the game is up. You follow my lead and try to stay in a position where you can watch all three of them all the time.”

There was no sound from the lodge, and it was evident that their approach had gone unnoticed. Shayne stepped lightly across the porch, followed closely by Pepper, and opened the door without knocking.

The interior was a pleasant and cheery sight. A gasoline lantern was suspended from a low beam in the center of the long main room, shedding light on bright cotton rugs and comfortable chairs grouped around a table where the three men lounged with glasses in their hands and an unmistakable air of good fellowship in their attitudes.

A murmur of conversation ceased as the door opened and three heads turned to look at the intruder on the threshold. Devlin came to his feet first, his face flushed with anger. “Shayne! So you were double-crossing me — and you followed me here!”

Shayne’s coat was unbuttoned and hanging open, revealing the butt of the automatic in his belt. His gaunt face was impassive as he stalked into the room with Sergeant Pepper at his heels. “I followed you here, Devlin, but I don’t know about double-crossing you. You’re all three under arrest. You know what the charge is against you, Devlin.” He turned to Thompson and Morgan. “The penalty for aiding a murder suspect to escape is from one to ten years,” he advised them.

“Nonsense,” sputtered Thompson. “There was no question of escape. Art was simply going to remain here until you dumb cops got things cleared up and it was safe for him to return. Morgan and I didn’t relish the idea of seeing you frame a friend of ours for murder.”

Shayne shrugged and walked over to the limestone fireplace and leaned an elbow on the mantel. Sergeant Pepper remained unobtrusively watchful nearer the front door.

“Such a friendship is a beautiful thing,” Shayne said ironically. “Why did you run out on me, Devlin?”

“Why did I run out on you!” His face twisted spasmodically. “After the way I trusted you and put myself in your hands and you went straight to the police with everything I told you! Can you deny that I’d be in jail right now if I hadn’t got out of Miami when I did?”

“No,” said Shayne, “I don’t deny that. But who told you I was working with the cops against you?”

“Chief Painter admitted it to Tommy. He said you had promised to give me up to them whenever they wanted, and that you were gaining my confidence by pretending to look for evidence to clear me while you were actually building up a case against me.”

Shayne looked at Thompson in astonishment. “Painter told you that?”

“He certainly did. Boasted about it, in fact. Why else do you think I would have insisted on Art getting out of your apartment and coming down here?”

“How did you know he was in my apartment?”

“Chief Painter practically told me. I took a chance and called there, and Art answered the phone.”

Shayne said quietly, “Painter lied, Devlin, if he told Thompson that.” His glance strayed to Roger Morgan. “How did you get in on this?”

Morgan removed his nose-glasses and polished them absently. “How did you know we were here?” he countered.

“Your boss told me.”

“I see.” Morgan replaced his glasses. “Then I’m not giving away any secret when I tell you that Doctor Thompson and Devlin came to Mr. Masters for help against police persecution. They wanted fast transportation down here, so I ran them down.”

“Very kind of you,” said Shayne sardonically. “You risked a ten-year jail sentence just out of the kindness of your heart? Nuts. Why did you come, Morgan? After all this time — have you come to the conclusion that the man who blackmailed Lily Masters into suicide is one of these two?”

“Now see here,” Thompson began, and Morgan exclaimed, “Blackmail? Mrs. Masters? I don’t know what—”

“Isn’t that what she said in her suicide note? You were in love with her, weren’t you, Morgan? That’s why you withheld the note from the police and from Masters. Because it was actually written to you. Were you blackmailing her?”

“I was not in love with her,” said Morgan angrily, “and I certainly wasn’t blackmailing her.”

“I believe you were in love with her, and were afraid she had named you in the letter she wrote her sister. You couldn’t afford to let Devlin go aboard the Belle and get the information from Janet Brice, so you went in his place.”

“So — I wasn’t aboard the Belle?” Devlin asked, his voice little louder than a mutter, as though he spoke to himself. “If you can prove that, Shayne—”

“Shut up,” Shayne growled. “I’m the guy who’s been double-crossing you, remember? Why doesn’t somebody offer me a drink?” he added.

The three men looked down as though surprised to see the glasses in their hands. Doctor Thompson smiled pleasantly and emptied his. “Sorry to be such a poor host. You and Morgan ready for a refill, Art?”

They both drained their glasses and held them out to Thompson. He asked Shayne, “Rye or Scotch? There’s plain water and ice.”

Shayne said, “Rye.” He looked across the room inquiringly at Pepper, but the sergeant shook his head. Shayne followed Thompson casually as he went through a door into a well-equipped kitchen and lit a candle in a wall bracket. “You seem to have all the comforts of home here, Doctor.”

“I keep the place stocked for emergencies — but I haven’t been able to get down at all this summer.” Thompson opened a refrigerator and took out a tray of ice cubes.

Shayne said, “Make mine strong,” and returned to the living-room.

Devlin and Morgan were sitting tensely erect in constrained silence while Pepper watched them from behind. Shayne crossed to the sergeant and whispered in his ear. Pepper nodded and took a flashlight from his pocket, disappeared into one of the bedrooms while Shayne strolled back to take up his position on the hearth.

“Where were you at twelve o’clock today, Devlin?” he asked abruptly.

He looked startled at the question and said, “Why — in your apartment.”

“Thompson telephoned you at eleven-thirty,” Shayne reminded him, “to tell you what Painter had said about me turning you in. Did you stay there after that?”

“I was afraid to go out,” Devlin confessed. “And Tommy thought I would be safe there as long as they didn’t know that I knew I wasn’t safe. Tommy couldn’t get away until after office hours at two o’clock, so I stayed until one-thirty.”

“Which you have no way of proving,” said Shayne harshly. “Where were you at noon, Morgan?”

“What’s that to you?”

Doctor Thompson entered with a tray of drinks, ice cubes tinkling pleasantly in tall glasses.

“Janet Brice was murdered in Miami between twelve and one o’clock — after your radiogram brought her from Key West,” Shayne told Devlin conversationally. “I just wondered if any of you had an alibi.”

“No!” Devlin got to his feet slowly, his face white and frightened, the injury above his ear an angry purple.

Roger Morgan said slowly, “Janet — Brice? I’ve been waiting to hear something like this.” He was on his feet, his teeth bared and a revolver in his hand. “Don’t reach for your gun, Shayne.”

Shayne didn’t move. He glanced casually over his shoulder at Thompson, who stood stockstill with the tray of glasses extended awkwardly in front of him. He said, “Now that we’re all cozy like this, Doctor, suppose you tell us why you employed a dope addict like Marge Jerome as your office nurse?”

“To hell with that stuff, Shayne,” said Morgan thickly. “If Devlin murdered Janet, it’s a cinch he’s also responsible for Lily’s death. I know all about his amnesia story — he and Doc Thompson cooked it up and I don’t intend—” There was a sharp report from Pepper’s service revolver and Morgan’s gun dropped to the floor. Shayne lunged forward and scooped it up while Morgan stood stupidly staring around the room.

None of them had seen Shayne’s quick nod toward the back of the room where Pepper stood. Shayne shoved Morgan into his chair and said over his shoulder:

“Nice timing, Sergeant. Keep on looking if you haven’t found anything yet. That was a dumb play,” he went on to Morgan. “Even if you did sign Devlin’s name to the radiogram and then kill Mrs. Brice, killing Devlin wouldn’t keep us from eventually learning the truth.”

Morgan laughed jarringly. “So he’s taken you in, too. What makes you think he’s so innocent?”

“I know he didn’t kill Janet Brice because he couldn’t have sent the radiogram to her. It was filed in Miami at ten-thirty and I was talking to him in my apartment on the phone at that time — and no calls were made out of my room.”

He paused while Thompson moved forward slowly with the tray of drinks. “Just put them here on the mantel for a moment,” he told the doctor, watching while Thompson set the tray down and took one of the glasses for himself.

“What was it you asked Tommy about Marge Jerome?” Devlin asked in the moment of silence.

“I asked why he employed her as his office nurse under the name of Miss Dort.”

“Is it a crime to give a girl a chance to rehabilitate herself?” asked Thompson. He sipped his cold drink with obvious enjoyment.

“It’s no crime,” Shayne agreed, “but it’s queer about her being Skid Munroe’s girl — and the one whom Devlin chose to take up with while supposedly suffering from amnesia.”

“Marge?” Devlin whispered hoarsely. “Your nurse, Tommy?”

“Didn’t you see her when you went to his office today?”

“I — didn’t go to his office. He met me at Bert Masters’s office.”

“Give me a drink,” Morgan said.

“Just a minute,” said Shayne, “and we’ll all have one.” He looked across the room hopefully and stepped away from the mantel, saying, “Get something, Sergeant?”

“I think it’s what you need.” The three men looked at Pepper, saw him pass a folded newspaper to Shayne.

The silence in the room was tense for a moment. The three men at the table looked at each other, then Morgan got to his feet with a loud oath and picked up one of the three glasses remaining on the tray.

Shayne whirled in time to see him lifting it to his lips. “Drop it, Morgan!” he shouted.

The man’s hand jerked with fright and the glass fell to the hearth and shattered at his feet.

Shayne strode forward grimly, slapping the folded paper

against his thigh. “I’d prefer to see Doctor Thompson drink one of these first,” he said flatly. “How about it, Doctor?”

“I have a drink,” said Thompson, holding his glass high. “I suggest that these are specially good.” Shayne took one from the tray and held it out to him with a half smile on his wide mouth. “I’ll trade with you, Doctor.”

“Very well.” Thompson shrugged and extended his half-full glass to the detective. In accepting the full one in return it slipped from his fingers and crashed on the floor.

Shayne nodded. “I didn’t really need that added proof, but it verifies the suspicion I’ve had ever since I learned about this humanitarian trip to your lodge. You came loaded with enough poison to kill a dozen men, didn’t you, Doctor? I forced your hand by walking in on you, and you took a desperate chance to get rid of the three of us at once, hoping to cope with Sergeant Pepper later.”

“Poison?” The doctor’s laughter was easy and unforced. “If you’ll hand me that other glass—”

“No.” Shayne blocked his way as he moved toward the tray. “I’ll save that one for chemical analysis. You really did an admirable job of covering your tracks all the way,” he went on, unfolding the newspaper Pepper had found in one of the bedrooms, “but I’ve realized all along that this lonely fishing-lodge would have been the perfect place to be landed by a seaplane from Havana and remain in seclusion while you grew back the mustache you shaved off as a disguise while you impersonated Devlin on the Belle of the Caribbean.”

“You must be insane,” said Thompson. “Heavens, man, I have such a heavy practice that I haven’t been able to get away for even a quiet week-end all summer.”

“So you took pains to tell me in the kitchen a moment ago. One of the most curious things about this whole affair has been the ransacking of your office files early this morning — by a burglar who took great pains to destroy all your records for the past two weeks. That made me wonder if perhaps there were no records for the first week after the Belle sailed — and you had pulled the job yourself to conceal that fact if an investigation turned in that direction.”

“That is utterly absurd. I explained how I was called away by a fake call—”

“I know,” said Shayne pleasantly, “you were very adept at explaining a great many things. Let’s see what you can do with this.” He held the unfolded newspaper in his hands. “A copy of La Prensa, Havana, Cuba, June twelfth. The date the Belle of the Caribbean touched at Havana and a passenger who called himself Arthur Devlin disappeared from on board. You might try telling us how it got in your bedroom here.”

“I — it’s some sort of put-up job,” Thompson burst out. “It doesn’t prove a thing. It might have been planted here.”

“Just as your felt hat was planted in the bedroom last night where Skid Munroe was murdered after he had come there by arrangement with Marge Jerome to buy ten thousand dollars’ worth of drugs from you?” Shayne taunted him. “We’ve checked your blood group, Thompson, and it coincides with an analysis of the sweat in that hat. Marge has already told her story — and don’t forget the manager got a good look at you when you asked for Skid Munroe. Your cabin steward on the Belle will recognize you, too, as soon as we shave that mustache off again and take your glasses away from you—”

Shayne was thrown aside as Thompson, without warning, lunged at him, reaching wildly for the glass of liquor remaining on the mantel.

But Sergeant Pepper had quietly moved in as Shayne spoke and had a grip on Thompson before he could get his hands on the glass of poisoned liquor he had destined for one of the others.

When Thompson was prostrate on the floor with handcuffs locking his wrists behind his back, Shayne told Devlin and Morgan, “I don’t know about you two, but I’m going to take a chance on one of those bottles in the kitchen.” Without a word they followed him out of the room.

Chapter nineteen

The two lost weeks

“I wasn’t able to get anything more out of Thompson,” Shayne told Chief Will Gentry the next morning after detailing the events that led up to the doctor’s arrest. “Roger Morgan came clean with everything he knew, but that wasn’t a great deal. I’m hoping you can get enough from Marge Jerome to tie him up tight on Skid’s murder, at least — and to set Devlin’s mind at rest about what happened during those two lost weeks,” he added with a grin at the insurance man who sat beside him.

“What did happen that night of the farewell party?” Devlin asked nervously. “How did I wind up posing as Marge’s husband?”

“We got the whole story late last night,” Gentry told them. “Suppose you give me what background you got from Morgan, Mike. That part of it Marge didn’t know — Thompson’s motive for going aboard the Belle as Arthur Devlin.”

“Morgan admits destroying the suicide note Lily Masters wrote before her death,” Shayne told him. “He denies having been in love with her, though they were close friends and he evidently admired her tremendously. He had known for some time that she was being blackmailed, though he didn’t know what for nor by whom.

“Her suicide note didn’t reveal the man’s name, but it did state she was a hopeless drug addict and had been systematically sucked dry of funds by the man who supplied the drugs.”

“Why did Morgan destroy the note?”

“He acted on impulse for two reasons. To keep the world from knowing why she had taken her own life, and with some idea of involving her husband in suspicion of murdering her. You’ll recall that the door into Masters’s bedroom was bolted on her side, but Morgan admits he intended to unbolt it after destroying the note — but was interrupted by Bert Masters coming into the room before he was able to do so.”

“Why did he want to involve Masters?”

“He’s hated his employer for years.” Shayne paused and shrugged. “It’s my opinion Morgan was in love with Lily Masters, though she may not have been aware of it. He went slightly nuts when he found her dead, and—” Shayne spread out his big hands.

“And it was Doctor Thompson who was giving her drugs?”

“He got her started on the habit while she was his patient. Later, after Masters suspected the truth and made her change doctors, she continued to go to Thompson for drugs and he charged her more and more for what she needed until she had paid out all the cash she could get her hands on, and finally took her life in a mood of desperation.”

“Thompson felt safe enough after her suicide,” Devlin put in, “until that evening at Masters’s party for me when I told about getting letters from her sister in New York and my arrangement to meet her on the cruise ship. Tommy didn’t know how much Lily Masters might have revealed in the letter to her sister — but was evidently afraid there would be enough for me to put two and two together if Janet told it to me.”

“So Doctor Thompson simply had to think of some way to prevent Devlin from going aboard that ship and meeting Janet Brice,” Shayne went on. “Thompson refuses to admit anything, so we don’t know exactly how he managed to have Devlin shanghaied while he went aboard in his place to meet Janet, and how Devlin ended up with Marge Jerome — and the actual details leading up to Skid’s death still have us guessing.”

“Marge gave us all of that.” Will Gentry settled back, complacently puffing on his cigar. “It goes back to Thompson hiring her as his nurse in spite of her past record as a dope addict. She swears he got her back on the stuff by making small quantities of it available to her and advising her medically that it would do no real harm. She probably didn’t need much urging, and he soon had her completely under his thumb by his power to regulate the amount she received.

“She claims he didn’t know about Skid Munroe that night when Devlin was going to sail, but he did know her husband was a convict, and he had a strong hunch she would have some underworld connections. At any rate, he telephoned her at home about ten o’clock and put the flat proposition to her: To get hold of some killer who would come to Masters’s house, pick Devlin up after he had passed out, bump him off and bring all his clothes and papers to Thompson’s house before midnight. He offered to pay five C’s for the job, and threatened to turn Marge over to the authorities the next day on a charge of stealing drugs from him unless she delivered fast.

“With her past record, this was a tough threat, and I guess it didn’t take Marge long to make up her mind. Skid was with her at the time and perfectly willing to earn five hundred. But Skid wasn’t a killer, and he balked at that.

“But they didn’t tell Thompson that. They drove out to Masters’s place and he got Devlin separated from the other drunks and loaded him into their car. Skid slugged you with a blackjack,” Gentry continued, turning to Arthur Devlin, “and they took you to Marge’s apartment and stripped you naked. Then Skid delivered your clothes to Thompson and collected his fee for killing you. And Thompson went aboard the Belle using your identity, and believing you to be dead.”

“And sent himself a radiogram signed Arthur Devlin,” Shayne growled, “just to confuse things later in case there was an investigation.”

“So it was a blow on the head that knocked me for a two weeks’ blackout,” Devlin said slowly, “and caused me to think I was married to Marge.”

Gentry rolled his puffy lids up, chuckled salaciously, and said, “Marge says your sex appeal was too much for her. You came to after a couple of hours without the faintest idea who you were. Marge has enough medical training to recognize amnesia, and it probably appealed to her to calm you down and comfort you by calling you her husband and making love to you. It was a natural thing for a man to do,” he ended lightly.

Arthur Devlin’s face flamed with embarrassment. “I thought — I gathered that we had been sleeping — in different rooms,” he stammered. “Some things she said when I saw her early yesterday morning—”

“That’s the way it was,” Shayne assured him gravely. “I have it on the word of the lady across the hall who used to keep an eye on you during the day while Marge was at work. Go on, Will.”

“That’s the way it got started. Marge stayed at the office that next week and answered the telephone — made arrangements for patients to be cared for by other doctors — until Thompson returned at the end of the week. He told her he had chartered a private plane in Havana to fly him to his fishing-lodge where he stayed in solitude until his mustache grew out again.

“Then Marge began putting the pressure on him. He believed Devlin to be dead, you see, and she threatened to tell all unless he agreed to turn over his entire supply of narcotics to Skid Munroe — for a thousand dollars. As you can see, aside from the money involved, this would put the Federal Narcotics boys on his trail.”

“But there was ten grand in that roll,” Shayne objected.

“Marge is quite a gal,” Gentry told him. “I imagine she was falling more and more for Devlin all the time, and Skid kept getting in her hair. She doesn’t admit she sent Devlin there to kill him, but just to get the money he had collected from his principals to buy the big lot of narcotics which Thompson was going to deliver.

“But something went wrong. I’m afraid we’ll never know exactly what happened in that room until Thompson breaks down and tells us. Marge’s plan was to have Devlin get there first, get the money, and beat it before Thompson arrived.” Gentry paused, and there was a long, thoughtful silence between them.

Shayne said, “I felt all along there must have been a third man in that room because of the manager’s story — and the hat. You remember, Devlin, Marge wanted to know why you didn’t go right up and wait for Skid. So you knew the room to go to. But Thompson had to ask for George Moore, and the manager just saw his back as he went upstairs — but later he saw you coming down wearing the same hat and got a good look at your face.”

“That hat,” said Gentry, scowling. “I never understood why you picked it out as being different from the other clothes Devlin was wearing.”

“Because he told me he’d never worn a hat — didn’t even own one. I don’t know much about amnesia, but I reasoned that a habit like that would still cling to a man. I also wondered,” Shayne went on, “why the third man had left Devlin alive, after killing Skid, with a ten grand roll in his pocket.”

“But from Marge’s story,” Devlin cut in, “Tommy thought it was only a thousand. He probably didn’t count it, but just stuck it in my pocket and left me lying there, thinking that if I did live it would be evidence that I had murdered Skid. In that way, I would be put out of the way without him actually having to murder me. We really were good friends,” he ended thoughtfully, “and I can’t help feeling that he regrets what he was forced, through circumstances, to do.”

“It must have been quite a shock to both of them,” said Shayne, “to have you suddenly reappear in the flesh when they both thought you were dead. Or did Skid know he was still alive?” he asked Gentry.

“Marge says he did. She claims she told Skid the next day that she dressed Devlin in her husband’s old clothes and got him out of her place onto the street before he came to.”

“I don’t understand how just a blow on the head could make a man wake up feeling the way I did in that room,” Devlin said wonderingly. “I was so sure it was a horrible hang-over combined with the ship rolling on a rough sea at first.”

Shayne’s big mouth spread into a grin. “I expect it was the gin Joey Jerome drank before Marge sent him up to Skid. And maybe she spared you a little dope from her private supply.”

“You don’t look any too good yet,” drawled Gentry.

“Then we can assume that Thompson went berserk when he saw you and Skid together in that room,” Shayne mused. “He thought Skid had double-crossed him and was keeping you alive — holding you as a witness against him. In the fight that ensued he got hold of your blackjack and battered Skid’s head in.”

“Thompson will tell us the whole thing,” said Gentry confidently, “after we put the screws on.”

“What about Marge Jerome?” asked Shayne.

Gentry looked at Devlin and chuckled. “I don’t know what the charge will be against her. If you want to swear out a complaint of abduction — or seduction—?”

“Not I,” said Devlin hastily. “I don’t ever want to see her again.”

“One thing,” said Shayne, “still isn’t explained. How she got to work so early yesterday morning — in time to be so nice to me before you and Painter got to Thompson’s office.”

“Thompson telephoned her to get there fast. He recognized you, Shayne, after knocking you out when you caught him in the midst of messing up his own office. By that time he was getting plenty scared. He didn’t want the death of a detective added to the other things against him. He needed her to take care of you while he rushed away to plan the dramatic little scene he pulled later on.”

Arthur Devlin came slowly to his feet. “It seems to me the worst thing in the whole business was his killing Janet.” He stretched his arms, yawned widely, and added, “I’m going home and get some sleep.”

“I think a cruise in the Caribbean would do you a lot of good, Devlin,” Shayne called after him as he went toward the door.

Content

Brett Halliday
Call for Michael Shayne

Chapter one Black void

Chapter two Fugitive from what?

Chapter three No memory of murder

Chapter four Calling Michael Shayne

Chapter five How many more shocks?

Chapter six “Murder is my business.”

Chapter seven A corpse for the cops

Chapter eight Basic facts for Peter Painter

Chapter nine A Doctor Wonders

Chapter ten Goldie Waggles her chins

Chapter eleven Always the hard way

Chapter twelve No suicide note

Chapter thirteen The kettle begins to boil

Chapter fourteen A passenger is missing

Chapter fifteen Death on a side street

Chapter sixteen A kiss or a telephone number

Chapter seventeen More murder in the making

Chapter eighteen Showdown at Marlin Key

Chapter nineteen The two lost weeks