Shayne's first impression of the girl who cowered away from him at the other end of his sitting room was that she was quite young and pretty, a honey-blonde, and practically frightened to death by his abrupt entrance.
Her face was dead white, her eyes as round as two marbles, her mouth slack and quivering as she shrank back against the wall staring at him.
She straightened herself, still tremulous as he closed the door firmly behind him, and asked quaveringly, "Are you Mr. Shayne?"
"Of course I'm Shayne," he said irritably. "You came here asking for me, didn't you? This is my room. Who did you think would be coming in?"
"I didn't know. I've been so horribly frightened waiting. I thought he might have followed me here somehow."
Shayne said, "He?" She still stood flat against the wall as though she were afraid she couldn't stand up without some support, and her whole body trembled as though gripped by an uncontrollable ague. He moved toward her slowly, with a feeling that any sudden movement on his part might frighten her into complete hysteria.
"The man who-killed my brother," she gasped out. "That is, I guess he did. I know he must have. If-if my brother is really dead. But he is. He must be. I saw him, I tell you. You'll believe me, won't you, Mr. Shayne? You won't think I'm crazy when I tell you?"
Shayne was close to her now. Close" enough to stretch out a long arm and take hold of one of her wrists and pull her gently away from the wall. He held her wrist very tightly as he guided her to a deep chair and pressed her down into it. He made his voice calm and soothing as he said, "Of course I'll listen to you. Just take it easy now. What you need is a drink first. Close your eyes and relax. Stop worrying about anyone getting to you in here."
He let go her wrist and turned to the wall liquor cabinet near the kitchen. "Brandy or sherry?"
"A little sherry, please." Her voice had lost its hysterical shrillness, was low and faltering. "You've just got to believe me."
Shayne didn't reply. He got down a bottle of cocktail sherry and one of cognac, went into the small kitchen and reappeared a few minutes later with a tray holding wine glasses and a tumbler of ice water. He moved a small table close to the girl's chair, put the tray on it and poured her a glass of sherry.
"Drink that first-all of it-before you say anything else." He filled his own glass with cognac and took a pleased sip of it, regretfully remembering the untouched glass he'd left in Lucy's apartment just to come over here and listen to some sort of loony story about a hysterical girl's brother who must be dead but maybe wasn't after all. He pulled another chair around so that it faced her, sat in it and waited patiently until she had completely emptied her sherry glass.
"Now," he said. "Tell me about your brother. You say he's been murdered?"
"Yes. I tell you I saw him. Lying there dead, right in front of my eyes. But he wasn't there when I came back. He was gone. Just vanished," She shuddered violently and flung out both hands. "But he couldn't be. Dead men can't just get up and walk away, can they?"
"None of them I've met," Shayne agreed absently. "You'd better start at the beginning and give me all of it."
"Yes. Of course." She nodded vehemently and brightly, as though she thought Shayne was just wonderful to have thought of that.
"It began tonight, really. Well, 'way back before tonight, I guess you could say. With my brother being weak and foolish about girls, I mean. And I've always sort of looked after him. Ever since father died four years ago. He's two years older than I am, actually, but, well-he always needed looking after, sort of."
She paused, biting her underlip fiercely, her light brown eyes looking past Shayne as though they gazed at something far-away or long-ago.
"Let's get back to tonight," suggested Shayne.
"Of course." She gave her head a little jerk and smiled timidly. "Well, we're at the Roney Plaza. For the past two weeks. And I've been seeing the signs. I knew he had some girl on the string and I'd have to be taking a hand soon, but- Well, tonight, about nine o'clock he called me and he was terribly worried and frightened. He said I had to come over right away. To the Hibiscus Hotel here in Miami. To room three-sixteen. I made him repeat it and I wrote it down so there wouldn't be any mistake. So I got a taxi to the Hibiscus at once." She paused to swallow hard, and Shayne leaned forward to pour more sherry inj her glass. She appeared not to notice him.
"So I went right up to the third floor," she continued in a strained voice, "and to room three-sixteen. Light came through the transom, but no one answered when I knocked on the door. I–I knocked three times and called out his name, and then I tried the knob. It wasn't locked. It opened right up. And the first thing I saw was my brother lying on the bed right across the room. He was in his shirt sleeves and his coat was rolled up under his head and there was b-blood. There was a big jagged hole in his throat. I–I knew he was dead. He had to be, Mr. Shayne. His eyes were open and glazed." She put her face down suddenly into her hands and began sobbing.
Shayne let her cry it out. He lighted a cigarette and drank half his cognac and took a sip of ice water, and her shoulders began to stop shaking.
He said quietly, "The sooner you get on with it, the sooner I may be able to do something."
"I know. Of course." She lifted a tear-wet face and swallowed hard. "I didn't even go into the room. I didn't have to. I knew he was dead. I thought of using the phone in the room, but then thought of spoiling fingerprints on it- if they might be clues, you know, and I remembered that when I got off the elevator I'd noticed a door to a lighted room standing open. So I flew down there to ask them to report it, and the door was still open but no one was inside. So I grabbed up that phone and called down to the switchboard and told them. Then I went back. I couldn't have been gone more than two minutes. I know I couldn't. But the door to three-sixteen was shut when I got there- and I know I'd left it open. But the light was still on, and when I tried the knob it opened just as it had before. But he wasn't there any more. He just wasn't. And there was no sign of anything wrong. No coat. No blood. Nothing."
"Sure it was the right room?"
"Of course I'm sure. I'd checked the number as soon as I found the door closed. So I ran inside and looked in the bathroom and the only closet and I even peeked under the bed. I felt as though I'd gone through the looking glass. Like Alice, you know. And I ran out into the hall and he jumped at me." She stopped, her mouth open and breathing hard as she relived the horror of the moment.
"Some man I didn't recognize," she went on more slowly. "I'm sure I never saw him before. The light in the hallway was dim, but I got one look at his face as he jumped at me. A horrible, scarred face. I whirled around and ran in the opposite direction toward a red signal light showing the stairway and he shouted something I couldn't understand and ran after me.
"I never looked back once. I knew he must have murdered my brother and I'd be next. I tore through the door and down three flights of stairs and there was an open door at the back leading out to a narrow pitch-dark alley. I ran as fast as I could toward the lighted street with him behind me shouting for me to stop. And just as I got to the street a taxicab came along and I jumped in front of it and made the driver stop. Then I tumbled in and shouted for him to drive away fast and he did. And then- and then I didn't know what to do and the driver was awfully nice and when I told him sort of-a little bit of what had happened-he mentioned you and said you could help me if anyone in Miami could and he brought me here."
"Nice of him to recommend me," grunted Shayne. "But why not the police? They're the ones you're supposed to report dead bodies to."
"I was afraid to go to them." She shuddered violently and reached for her sherry glass. "I've always heard they're inefficient and corrupt, and I knew they'd laugh at me and say I was crazy. Besides, I knew the hotel would have reported my call to them, and after they'd gone up and then not found any body there after all, they certainly wouldn't listen to me."
Shayne shrugged. He got up, saying, "Take another sip of that sherry while I check."
He crossed to the center table, gave a number, and a moment later, said, "Sergeant Jenkins, please. Hi, Sarge. Mike Shayne. You had any report of trouble at the Hibiscus Hotel? Any sort of trouble. Murders or any little thing like that?" He listened a moment, then said slowly, "I see. No, I guess not. Not just yet. If anything does pop, I'll let you know."
He hung up, looking across at the back of the girl's blonde head gleaming in the overhead light, massaging his ear-lobe gently. She turned to look at him with a hopeful expression which died away when he shook his head. He thumbed through the directory for the Hibiscus, called it and asked to be connected with Mr. Patton.
Then he said, "Ollie? Mike Shayne. Any excitement at your place around nine-thirty?"
He listened for quite a time while the girl continued to sit twisted in her chair so she could watch his face. Finally he said, "Thanks, Ollie. Any time I can give you a hand-" He hung up and returned to his chair with a scowl.
"The house detective at the Hibiscus gives it about the way you tell it. The first part, that is. They don't know anything about you being chased out of the hotel. They had the call you say you made from three-sixty about a murdered man and went there first because the switchboard girl thought you must mean that room instead of three-sixteen which she first thought you said. But they checked both rooms carefully and found no body nor any trace of murder. So they didn't report it to the police, naturally. Thinking it was a hoax-or the work of some nutty female." He studied the girl's face carefully as he spoke, and she noted his expression and cried out despairingly:
"You think so too, don't you? That I'm crazy? That I'm just making it all up?"
He shrugged noncommittally. "Not necessarily. The man chasing you through the alley sounds real enough. Did the taxi driver happen to see him too?" he added casually.
"Yes, he did. And also the lady who was in the cab when I hailed it. You can ask them both."
"Get the number of the cab or the driver's name?"
"N-no."
"Or the name of the other passenger?"
"No. Oh, you're just as bad as I knew the police would be," she flared out, getting to her feet abruptly and swaying a little. "How can I prove it? But I know my brother's been murdered. I saw him. It wasn't any hallucination."
"Sit back down," Shayne said soothingly. "I'm sure you saw something to make you believe that. I'm not denying anything. Let's see if we can figure it out. Is your brother any sort of practical joker?"
"No." She reseated herself stiffly.
"Because," Shayne said, "there is an old gag that's been pulled off with a bottle of ketchup."
"After the victim's throat has been cut?" she demanded angrily. "Mr. Shayne, I saw the gaping hole. And his eyes. Staring and-dead."
Shayne got up and began to stride back and forth across the room. "You didn't go in the first time. Didn't make even a cursory search?"
"No. My only thought was to get to a telephone."
"So the murderer could have been in there-in the bathroom or closet?"
"I suppose so. I didn't look."
"And how long would you say you were gone to find another phone?"
"Not more than two minutes, I think. Three or four at the very most. I didn't waste any time going or coming."
Shayne shrugged and said doubtfully, "If it weren't for the man chasing you, I'd have to think you had some sort of hallucination about seeing your brother. As it is- I still don't see what I can do, but I will go over to the Hibiscus with you and get hold of the house detective and check the whole thing a little more thoroughly than they probably did the first time."
The idea of returning to the Hibiscus appeared to frighten her all over again, and she asked despairingly, "Do I have to? Go there with you? Can't I just be your client, and you do the checking?" Her hands eagerly opened the black suede bag in her lap. "I've got money here. Plenty of cash. I can pay you a retainer."
Shayne shook his head, studying her harassed features very carefully. "Right now I'm not at all sure there's any case for me to take a retainer on." He didn't tell her the truth-that he didn't like crazy clients and that he was beginning to suspect she was as nutty as a fruit-cake.
But the look of utter desperation that settled over her at his words moved him to go on hastily, "Suppose I nose around and see what I can find out. If anything has happened to your brother, it'll be time enough to talk about a retainer." He stood up briskly. "I suppose I can reach you at the Roney? What's your name and room number?"
"Do I have to go back there?" She shuddered and her eyes were liquidly appealing. "Whoever did that to my brother must know where we're staying. I keep seeing that awful, scarred face in my mind. I–I-couldn't I just stay here while you go and see?"
Shayne hesitated, his angular face tightening. God only knew what sort of tensions were working on her. Without pretending to be any sort of psychologist, here was a persecution complex, if he'd ever encountered one. First, she had been afraid to go to the police with her story. Now, she was afraid to go back to the safety of her own hotel room. Definitely, he didn't want her hanging around his place alone, prey to all sorts of unreasoning fears.
Not unkindly, he said, "I don't think that would be such a good idea, but I've got a much better one." He crossed to the center table and opened a drawer to take out a sheet of his office paper. With a pen he wrote Lucy Hamilton's name and address on it, and added a brief note:
Angel:
Be just that and take care of the bearer. Put your chain on the door and don't let anyone in to her until you hear from me. She may be in great danger.
He signed the note "Mike," and handed it to her to read. "My secretary," he explained. "We'll go down and
I'll put you in a taxi for her place. No one can possibly find you there, and I'll know exactly where you are when I need you."
Her eyes shone mistily with gratitude as she read it. Her voice quavered. "You're-just wonderful. I could kiss that taxi driver for bringing me to you."
Shayne turned away from her before her gratitude spilled over into kissing him instead, because that was what her look portended. And he liked to be fairly certain the women he kissed were sane.
At that moment there was the sound of loud footsteps in the hall outside. They stopped at his door and there was an authoritative knock.
She shuddered and cringed away from the door, staring at it with round, mesmerized eyes, as though she expected it to come crashing inward momentarily.
"It must be he! I knew he'd follow me here. Don't let him in. Please don't let him in."
Shayne said, "For God's sake," impatiently and started toward the door. She grabbed him and tried to hold him back as there was another knock and a harsh voice demanding, "Open up, Shayne."
"Please," she cried piteously, clinging to him. "I'll die if you let him in. Isn't there any place I can go?"
Shayne looked down at her curiously. Her face had gone all to pieces with terror. She clung to him limply as a rag doll.
He said harshly, "Snap out of it. No one's going to bother you while I'm here."
He could just as well have slapped her. She cringed away from the impact of his voice like a cur that has just been kicked resoundingly. Her mouth worked soundlessly and there were bubbles of spittle on her lips.
Shayne put his hands on her shoulders and turned her about. "Go in the kitchen. There's a latch on the inside. Lock it and stay there until I call for you to come out." He gave her a gentle shove, stood there and watched her scurry back to the kitchen and close the door.
The knocking and demands for entrance continued at the front door, and he turned and stalked to it grimly, jerked it open to confront a tall young man with a scarred face who stood on the threshold.