Michael Shayne did not return to his newly rented hotel room that night. He took a taxi directly from the Beach to his own apartment hotel on the north bank of the Miami River, and strode into the empty lobby, surprising Pete who was dozing behind the desk.
The night clerk sat up with a jerk and said, “Gee, Mr. Shayne, it’s been sort of dull around here the last few days without you.”
Shayne said, “I’ve had it pretty dull myself. Any mail or messages?”
“I’ll bet you’ve had it dull.” Pete winked at him knowingly. “A few letters. And just about an hour ago Mr. Rourke called and wanted you to call him back. I tried that number you gave me but room eight-oh-six didn’t answer.”
Shayne nodded, absently riffling half a dozen unimportant letters. “Just cancel out that number for the future. I’ll call Rourke from upstairs.”
He went up to the familiar suite he had occupied for so many years, shrugged out of his jacket as he entered. He crossed the comfortably shabby living room in long strides, glad to be shucking off Mike Wayne’s identity and becoming himself again.
In the small kitchen he put ice cubes in a tall glass, ran water over them, and carried it and a four-ounce wine-glass to the center table in the living room. He got a bottle of cognac from a wall cupboard, filled the wine-glass to the brim, and settled back comfortably to try Tim at the newspaper office. The City Desk told him Rourke had checked out for the night, and Shayne called his home number.
“Mike! I’ve been wondering how the hell you made out with Jane Smith. I haven’t had a single damned word from you since we talked about her. Pete says you haven’t been home nights. You been shacked up with her?” Rourke’s voice was cheerfully expectant.
“I just made contact tonight. Left her in a hotel on the Beach half an hour ago.”
“And?”
“There’s no story, Tim.”
“Nuts! There must be some story.”
“It’s not for your youthful ears… nor for your rag to publish.” Shayne paused and took a sip of cognac. “But there’s a chance… a slim chance… that she may be calling in Mike Shayne, in person, to help her out of a spot. If she does that, I might have something for you eventually.”
“I’m coming around,” Rourke said eagerly. “You at home?”
“Sitting here with a drink and wondering whether Jane Smith will come to her senses and telephone me.”
Rourke said, “See you,” and hung up.
Shayne replaced the receiver slowly and lit a cigarette. Would Jane take his lecture to heart and telephone a private detective for help? He didn’t think so. Not really. He closed his eyes and her face appeared before him as it had been at the last when she spat, “Get out,” at him.
He hadn’t handled it well, he thought morosely. God in heaven! he had actually sat back and preached at her. What she needed was sympathy and understanding. And he had walked out on her leaving her alone and hysterical and hopeless.
Impulsively he reached for the telephone, half a mind to call her at the Palms Terrace. As Michael Shayne. Would she recognize his voice over the telephone? Probably not. He could tell her that his old friend, Mike Wayne, had asked him to get in touch with her. Then she wouldn’t feel so lost and alone. She’d realize that Wayne had been touched by her story… that he truly wanted to help her, and perhaps she would accept Shayne’s help.
But he paused with his hand on the instrument. No, damn it. The call must come from her. It wouldn’t be any good if it wasn’t her decision. She had to learn to stand on her own two feet and to fight her own way free. Certainly, he thought, after girding herself up to go through with meeting a strange man tonight and pleading with him to murder her stepfather… after the way that meeting ended… certainly she would give up her insane plan and begin considering the alternatives he had suggested.
He relaxed and swallowed an ounce of cognac, chasing it down with ice water. Now, he thought his telephone would ring. He began waiting for the sound hopefully.
His cognac glass was empty and he was still waiting, less hopefully, when Timothy Rourke entered the room.
The reporter grinned at him and crossed to the wall cabinet without an invitation and selected a bottle of bourbon that was already open. He carried it into the kitchen where he slugged a generous amount into a glass, added an ice cube and a moderate amount of water. He came back to sprawl his lean frame into a deep chair opposite Shayne and said, “Tell me about our Jane Smith. How’d it go?”
Shayne shrugged. “Pretty much according to schedule. She cased me as Mike Wayne this evening, and then went through a long rigmarole to make sure I didn’t call in the cops.” He grinned at the memory and added, “Damn well planned, too. Jane is no dumbbell. She fixed it so she could look me over in person before deciding whether to confide in me or not.”
While Rourke listened appreciatively, he outlined the events of the evening leading up to the meeting in the Crystal Room. “Then we went up to her suite for a quiet drink and a talk.”
“What’s she like? A tough old bag?”
Shayne said broodingly, “She’s nineteen and utterly charming, and in one of the toughest spots any nice girl has ever been in.”
“And so Mike Shayne turned down her proposition?” jeered Rourke. “Come off it, Mike. What did happen?”
“Mike Wayne turned down her proposition,” Shayne corrected him. “I told you over the phone that Shayne is standing by to help her out legally if that telephone rings.”
“Exactly what was her proposition?”
“She offered me fifty grand to murder a man for her.”
“Christ! And you say there’s no story in it? What more do you want for a headline?”
“There’s no headline in this one, Tim. I’ve given you all I’m going to unless she comes to me legitimately.”
“You can’t do that to me,” cried Rourke. “You’ve got my tongue hanging out a mile. You know it’ll be in strictest confidence if you say so,” he urged his old friend. “When have I ever jumped the gun on you?”
Shayne shook his red head adamantly. “No soap this time. She’s too nice a kid, and it’s too explosive to take the slightest chance with it. Look, Tim,” he went on wearily. “I know you and how your mind works. With all the best intentions in the world, you couldn’t lay off this if you tried. You’d start digging for background stuff… just on the chance it might break some time in the future so you’d be in a position to capitalize on it. And I can’t risk anything like that.”
He splashed more cognac in his glass, glaring at the silent telephone sitting close to his right hand.
“But I gave it to you on a silver platter. I stole it from Peter Painter and handed it to you for free. My paper is even paying your bills on the deal. Don’t I get some explanation?”
“No.”
“Do you want to force me to take it to Painter after all? He would really make headlines out of it.”
Shayne said, “You won’t take it to Painter.”
“How do you know I won’t?” Rourke was beginning to seethe with anger. “You set yourself up like a little tin god to decide what is proper for Tim Rourke to know and what isn’t. To hell with that attitude. Even Painter would be more co-operative.”
“But you’re not going to take it to him,” Shayne stated positively.
“And I ask you again… why shouldn’t I?”
“Because I’ve asked you not to.”
“Nuts! I’m telling you… oh, hell, Mike. I’m not going to try and blackmail you. But you might give me some hint…”
“Not even a hint, Tim.” Shayne’s voice was very firm. “This gal is sitting on the edge of a volcano with her feet dangling over the edge. The slightest nudge might destroy her.”
“She certainly seems to have impressed you,” grunted Rourke sourly.
“She did.”
There was a long period of silence between the two old friends who knew each other and each other’s moods so well. Timothy Rourke sucked contemplatively on his highball while Shayne stretched out his long legs and closed his eyes, willing the telephone to ring.
It didn’t.
Rourke’s voice came to his ears from a seemingly great distance.
“I gather you turned her down flatly. If she’s so desperate, won’t she go to someone else with the same proposition? Someone who isn’t quite so conscientious as you. Fifty thousand dollars is a nice round sum for a simple killing. Hundreds have been arranged for a hundredth of that.”
“I’m afraid she will. That’s why I’m waiting for the goddamned telephone to ring.”
“Hoping it will be Jane Smith calling on the great Michael Shayne for help?”
“Hoping she will take Mike Wayne’s advice and give up her silly idea of arranging a murder.”
“Why should she? She barely knows the guy. Only met him tonight.”
“And he let her down,” agreed Shayne tonelessly. “But they did establish a certain rapport. She trusted him utterly for a few minutes.”
“But suppose she doesn’t call you?” argued Rourke. “What then? Are you going to do nothing to prevent her from going ahead with her murderous ideas?”
“I don’t see why I should.” Shayne spoke slowly, evidently arguing with himself. “If her story is true, a simple killing is much too good for the guy. Who am I to sit in judgment?”
“Who, indeed?” agreed Rourke. “But isn’t that just what you did this evening?”
“Hell, no! I simply gave her some good advice.”
“According to your standards. But what about hers?”
Shayne sighed and said, “Stop needling me, Tim.” He morosely lifted his glass and drained it.
“Okay. Let’s change the subject. You got any hot cases on the fire?”
“Nor any cold ones either.”
“That’s what Lucy says. In fact, she told me in confidence just yesterday that if you kept on turning down cases offered to you, she was going to quit you cold.”
“She’s always threatening to quit.”
“One day she’s going to do it. You don’t know how that girl looks up to you, Mike. She feels you’re wasting your talents…”
The telephone shrilled between them.
Shayne’s big hand shot out to grasp it. He saw Rourke grinning at him, and controlled his impatience, lifting it slowly and saying, “Michael Shayne speaking,” in an impersonal tone.
A frown of disappointment furrowed his brow when Lucy Hamilton’s voice lilted over the wire, “I hope you weren’t asleep or busy, Michael.”
“I was neither. Tim Rourke is here sopping up my liquor.”
“Oh. Well, I called because something came up this afternoon after you left the office. A Mr. David Waring of the Southern Mutual Insurance Company came in to talk about putting you on an annual retainer. I told him you aren’t terribly tied up right now, and I ended up going out to dinner with him. He just dropped me off home, and I did a terrific selling job on you.”
“It was a long dinner,” said Shayne crossly.
“Michael!” Her amused voice made three distinct syllables out of his name. “I do believe you’re jealous.”
“Of course I’m not jealous.”
“Well, he’s fat and a lot of fun.”
“Good clean fun, I’ll bet. All right, angel. Put him on the phone and I’ll talk to him.”
“You are jealous,” she said wonderingly. “And you’re trying to trick me. He isn’t here, silly. I told you he dropped me off.”
“I know what you told me. Okay, Lucy. I’m waiting for an important telephone call. Get your beauty sleep and I’ll see you in the morning.”
He hung up and stared bleakly at Rourke, then sighed and dragged the telephone directory closer and looked up the number of the Palms Terrace hotel on Miami Beach.
He gave the number to Pete who also handled the switchboard at night, and when he got the hotel, he said, “Jane Smith, please. Suite four twenty-six.”
There was a moment of waiting, and then the girl said, “I will give you the desk.” A man’s brisk voice came over the wire a few seconds later. “The desk. May I help you?”
“I’m trying to reach Miss Jane Smith in four twenty-six.”
“I’m sorry, sir. Miss Smith checked out about an hour ago.”
“Did she leave a forwarding address?”
“No, sir. She left in quite a rush.”
Shayne said, “Thank you,” and hung up. He looked across at Rourke and said tonelessly, “She checked out of the hotel right after I left her.”
Rourke lifted his glass and said, “So that disposes of Jane Smith. If she keeps trying, she’ll find plenty of guys to do the job for her.” He emptied his glass with a flourish. “Okay, Mike. Send a bill to the News for your expenses. It was a good try.”
“There won’t be any bill,” Shayne told him harshly. “I won more money playing poker the last two nights than I spent on the project.” He chuckled mirthlessly. “Three hot-shots are sitting around a stud table right now, chewing their fingernails and wondering why in hell I haven’t shown up for the kill they had planned.”
Rourke stood up and yawned. “Well, if you don’t mind,” he said politely, “I guess I’ll drift along. Thanks for the drink.”
Very formally, Shayne said, “You’re always welcome.”
He waited until Rourke had his hand on the doorknob and then asked, “Does the name Saul Henderson mean anything to you, Tim?”
“Saul Henderson?” The reporter turned slowly, speculative interest in his eyes. “What about him?”
“That’s what I’m asking you,” said Shayne patiently. “Do you know anything about him?”
“Sure. What connection has a guy like Henderson got with Jane Smith or this thing tonight?”
“I didn’t say he had any connection.”
“I know you didn’t.” Rourke released the doorknob and turned back into the room. “All the same it made me wonder… in view of the fact that Henderson has a stepdaughter about nineteen years old. Utterly charming, I’d say, and what a guy like you might well call a ‘nice girl.’”
Shayne said, “So what? I didn’t ask you about Henderson’s stepdaughter.”
“I know you didn’t.” For a brief moment their glances interlocked. Rourke’s gaze, keen and challenging; Shayne’s, cool and unperturbed. Then Rourke sighed and shrugged his shoulders. “All right, Mike. Saul Henderson. A thumbnail sketch. He’s been a resident of the Beach for a few years, running a small brokerage house, I think. Dabbled in public affairs and been on a few committees. I think his wife died recently, and there’ve been rumors that he inherited a million or so. Whether that’s true or not, he’s being groomed to run for mayor of Miami Beach in the next election as the reform candidate. His candidacy isn’t official, but it’s pretty well in the bag, I guess.”
“What sort of man is he personally?”
“I met him once at some civic dinner. Bland, easygoing type. Pleasing personality.”
Shayne said harshly, “I’d like the opportunity to size him up for myself.”
“Easiest thing in the world. He’s been tossing some parties since his wife’s death. I’ll get you and Lucy an invite.”
“Why Lucy?” Despite himself, Shayne was unable to keep a note of venom out of his voice.
If Rourke detected it he gave no indication. “I’d say Saul Henderson has got a roving eye for a pretty gal. Lucy’s more likely to make time with him than you are.”
Shayne said, “All right. Maybe I can concentrate on the stepdaughter. Don’t forget it-the sooner the better.”
Rourke said, “I’ll ask around in the right places tomorrow.” He half turned back to the door, hesitated, and asked, “You still determined to clam up on Jane Smith?”
“I have to, Tim.”
The telephone rang and Shayne grabbed for it. Rourke paused to listen, halfway out the door.
The desk clerk’s voice said conspiratorially, “There’s a doll here to see you, Mr. Shayne. A real doll.”
He said, “Send her on up, Pete.”
“Sure. I would’ve, but I thought maybe you’d like a chance to get rid of that reporter first… for one like this here.”
Shayne said, “Tim Rourke is on his way out.” He hung up and stood up, moved toward the door telling Rourke pleasantly, “You are, you know. Down the stairs, Tim.”
He took his arm firmly and led him past the elevator. “You don’t need to give me the bum’s rush,” Rourke protested. “Is it Jane Smith?”
“I don’t know, but I’m hoping. Down the stairs with you, pal, and no peeking when I meet the elevator.” He heard it stopping behind him and gave the reporter a little shove down the stairs, then turned and strode back along the corridor as the elevator door opened.
A woman got out and paused uncertainly. She wore a low-necked ruby-red dress with a short-sleeved Angora jacket, and Harlequin glasses that were tinted a light blue.