Heading back on Main street, Shayne’s attention was caught by a flicker of light from a rear window of the Voice office. He came to an abrupt stop and stared upward, but the beam of light had vanished. All the windows were dark.
He continued to sit immobile behind the wheel with his gaze slanted upward, fixed on that rear window. It had not been imagination. There had been a faint beam of light up there.
It came again. A sliver of light glancing momentarily against the dark windowpane.
He turned off his car lights and slithered to the curb, slid out of the car and walked up the sidewalk to the southeast corner of the two-story building, hesitated only a moment looking upward, then walked silently back along the side of the building. A gaunt shadow in the illusive starlight and reflected lights from the illumined district around him, Shayne circled the rear and the north side to assure himself there was no exit from the upstairs office except the front steps. No rear stairs or fire escape led downward. He stationed himself in the deep shadow of a doorway which was across the street from the Tropical Hotel, and waited.
Only a few cars were parked in front of the hotel at this hour in the evening before the races were over. He could see into the hotel lobby between looped-back silken draperies.
Chief Gentry and Chief Boyle were standing near the doorway. Boyle was talking excitedly, waving his arms. Will Gentry was listening with a dour expression, nodding now and then and rubbing his blunt chin.
Max Samuelson’s blue sedan, Shayne noticed, was nowhere in sight. He would have given a lot to know where it was-where Max and his two bodyguards were. The model camera and the plans were upstairs in the Voice safe. If Maxie was trying to play smart-
Shayne tensed as his quickened perceptions caught the sound of light footsteps stealing down from the newspaper office. He pressed his body back against the closed doors so that his rangy body blended completely with the shadow. He pulled the brim of his hat low over his face and turned his head slowly.
The door at the foot of the stairway squeaked as a hand pressed on it gently from the other side. It came open cautiously, inch by inch, not more than five feet from where Shayne stood, and his fingernails dug into calloused palms while he waited.
He almost jerked into betraying motion when the door came wide open suddenly. He held himself quiet when he saw Gil Matrix step out jauntily onto the sidewalk, letting the door go shut behind him with a little slam.
Matrix stood perfectly still for a moment, then he began whistling as he went down the street without a backward glance, his bare head giving the grotesque effect of an inflated balloon floating along above stout round shoulders which bent slightly forward as if he were pulling himself up a hill. A briefcase swung from his right hand and the sound of his heels on the sidewalk died away into the night stillness.
Shayne took off his hat and wiped his face all over with a soiled handkerchief, then stepped out of his hideaway and walked boldly across the street. His eyes darted up and down the street, then examined the cars parked in front of the hotel carefully.
It looked as though Maxie Samuelson, his burly getaway driver, and the sniveling Melvin with itching trigger fingers on both hands had got out of town.
Will Gentry met Shayne with a surly growl when he stepped into the hotel lobby. “Where the devil have you been?”
“Out,” Shayne returned almost happily.
“Every time you get out of my sight, by God, something bad happens,” Chief Boyle proclaimed loudly.
“What has happened this time?” Shayne asked.
“A ruckus down at the Ace-High picture studio. Jake Liverdink was in the dark room doing some developing work when a thug broke in and knocked him out cold. Smashed up some things and got out before Jake could get a look at him.”
“He couldn’t have seen much out cold,” Shayne parried.
“Damn you!” Chief Boyle snarled, but Will Gentry interrupted:
“We have it on good authority that you saw Jake Liverdink earlier in the evening, in a professional way. The way Chief Boyle looks at it-”
Shayne grunted. “If I hadn’t been busy doing something else I might have visited Jake later in the evening-in a professional way. I happened to be busy breaking and entering the bank, however, so you can’t hang Jake’s troubles around my neck.”
Boyle’s eyes started to pop out. “Breaking in the bank? Well, by God-”
“Aided by the president of the institution,” Shayne cut him off. He turned to Gentry and asked: “Any telegram from Illinois, Will?”
“Not yet.” Gentry chewed fiercely on the frayed butt of a cigar. He jerked it out of his mouth and sniffed it, then hurled it out the door. “I can’t stand around here all night,” he shot at Shayne. “I’m still working on the Martin murder and you haven’t given me a goddamn thing. You’re still the last man who saw her alive as far as I know.”
Shayne nodded absently. “I still think you’ll clear it up by staying here in Cocopalm faster than it can be done in Miami. If Maxie was telling me the truth-”
“Maxie? Samuelson? How does he fit in?” Gentry demanded irritably.
“I’ll tell you, Will. That’s what I held out on you up in my room,” Shayne said with unmistakable seriousness. “I didn’t know how much pressure I’d need to use on Maxie and I wanted to keep that for myself if I needed it. But Maxie seems to have faded out of the picture up here. This is straight. Max Samuelson was on his way up to see the Martin woman when I walked out of her apartment.”
Gentry’s beefy face grew slowly livid. “Then Samuelson saw her after you did. And he was here where I could get my hands on him and you didn’t tip me off.”
“I couldn’t, Will,” Shayne insisted. “Not then. What good would it have done you anyway?”
“What good?” Gentry was apoplectic with rage. “Hell, I would’ve put the screws on him. He would’ve talked plenty to me, he would.”
“You can pick him up in Miami any time you want him,” Shayne reminded his old friend mildly. “I don’t think you’ll get much except to set the time of her death closely. He swears and be damned that she was dead when he got there.”
“Oh, he does, does he? And you believed him?” Gentry’s heavy upper lip curled.
“I haven’t got any beliefs yet, Will. All I’ve got is a theory.”
“The hell you have.” Gentry’s sarcastic tone did not change. “Maybe you’d like to let us in on this theory. We are sort of interested too, you know. Maybe you don’t realize it, but we’ve both had a murder occur in our territory tonight. Of course, murders aren’t important to you while you’re chasing a fee, but they happen to be our job. Mike, if you don’t come clean-”
“I can’t. Not yet. Not until that wire comes through from Illinois. Let me know as soon as you get it, Will.” He stood thoughtfully tugging at the lobe of his ear, then muttered, “I’ll be in my room,” and hurried toward the elevator.
The door of the hotel suite was locked. Shayne knocked loudly. After a time he heard movement in the room, then the knob turned and the door opened a cautious inch.
Shayne shoved the door wide open.
Phyllis backed away from him. Her eyes were enormous and stared at him with hot rebellion. She wore a hostess gown of blue silk taffeta which swept to the floor in swinging fullness, rustling at her slightest movement. She folded her hands and stood straight and slim and outraged before him.
Shayne grinned. “Are you practicing up for something, angel?” His gray eyes were laughing. He took a step toward her, pushing the door shut with a hand behind him.
Phyllis put out a restraining hand. “Don’t touch me,” she ordered shortly. “Don’t even so much as lay a finger on me.”
The smile went away from Shayne’s eyes, from his deeply lined face. Slowly, as though he willed it to remain but could not make his facial muscles obey.
He said, “What the hell, Phyl?” looking down at himself appraisingly, sniffing to assure himself he hadn’t inadvertently become smeared with a stench.
“Don’t try to be smug about it,” she flung at him. “I’ll never let you touch me again. Never-as long as I live.”
“Hell’s bells,” he remonstrated, “I’m not being smug. I’m only being confounded. I never felt less smug in my life. What’s the matter with you?”
Phyllis sniffled and there was a catch in her throat when she said, “I just happen to have some pride left. That’s all. I suppose you thought you had crushed it when you married me.”
Shayne put his hands on his hips and studied her with narrowed eyes. She mimicked him by planting her hands on her hips and narrowing her eyes right back.
He laughed, but it was a feeble attempt at humor. “Are you sore because I couldn’t get back sooner? I’ve been busy as the devil, and-”
“I certainly am not,” she stormed at him. “If you had never come back it would have suited me better.”
Shayne sighed. “If you’d only be reasonable, angel.”
“Don’t call me angel,” she snapped. She stamped her small blue satin slipper on the rug. “Reasonable? Acquiescent is the word you want.”
Shayne said, “Hell!” in a bitter, wondering tone. He turned away from her and went into the bathroom, where he uncorked his cognac bottle and splashed a water glass half full of the high-proof liquid.
“That’s right,” Phyllis called in a high-pitched, hysterical voice, “soak yourself with brandy.”
Shayne had the glass halfway to his lips. He held it there, scowling at the clear amber liquid. Then he tipped it up and took two big swallows.
He set the glass down and examined himself carefully in the mirror. His hair was every which way and the scratches on his left cheek did not enhance his doubtful good looks. His eyes stared back at him with a weary expression. The stiff bristle on his face had grown unbelievably since morning.
For the thousandth time he wondered how he had been lucky enough to marry a young, beautiful girl like Phyllis; wondered, with a fierce tingle of actual fright, how long she would be satisfied to remain married to him.
Maybe this was the beginning of the end. A situation like this was something he didn’t know how to handle. He had had experience with hysterical women of an entirely different type. But, hell, a man couldn’t slap his wife around.
He cocked his ear toward the partially open bathroom door. He could hear her wild sobbing, hear the choking in her throat.
He closed the door silently, stalked back to the lavatory, and took another long drink, looking away from the unpleasant ugliness of his reflection.
He poured more liquor into his glass and drank it. Then he looked around him, saw a cake of Phyllis’s complexion soap. He hurriedly took off his tie and turned his shirt back at the throat, rolled up his sleeves, and doused himself with soapsuds and hot water. He found his razor, spread shave cream over his face, and shaved hurriedly, carefully edging the ugly scratches. He doused his bristly hair with hot water and combed it down sleek.
Replacing his tie, he took a last look at his reflection in the mirror and strode into the living-room.
Phyllis was sitting in a deep chair rocking back and forth with her hands covering her face. Her shoulders were shaking uncontrollably and the sounds of suffering from behind her fingers were unendurable.
Shayne dropped on his knees before her and put a long arm around her. “Don’t, Phyl. For God’s sake, I can’t stand this.” He tugged gently at one of her hands to get it away from her face.
Suddenly she lifted her head. There were no tears in her eyes. Convulsed with mirth, her eyes were wickedly bright, her young face radiant.
“Michael Shayne,” she choked out, “how you ever got to be the world’s best detective I don’t know.”
His arm tightened around her. Abruptly he swung her up from the chair and sat down in it, laying her neatly across his knobby knees. He cupped his palm to make a resounding noise as it came down.
“I should have done this long ago,” he said grimly and in a tone which rang with sheer relief. “Say ‘’nuff’ when you’re ready.”
“’Nuff,” she cried through her hysterical laughter.
He swung her upright and caught her close in his arms. “Now, tell me, what’s the occasion for all this burlesque? You scared me out of my wits.”
“Oh, Mike,” she caroled, “you looked so-so woebegone-so damn funny when I started in. I didn’t mean to keep it up, honest.”
He muttered, “Yeh, I guess it was funny.”
Phyllis drew back from him and looked at his hair. She ran soft fingers over his cheek, then she ran both hands through his hair and left it standing on end.
“I’m sorry, Michael. It was a lousy trick. But I–I got started and couldn’t stop. It was-the first time I realized I could handle you.” She gazed at him with round, dark, wondering eyes.
Shayne let his legs down and dumped her on the floor. “Next time you pull a stunt like that I’ll whale hell out of you.”
Phyllis turned her bright smile into a pout. “Well, I really had cause to put on a scene. You certainly looked as if you were playing for keeps in that picture.”
Shayne looked down at her sitting with her knees doubled up and her arms clasping them. “What picture, angel?”
“Why, the one of you and that Taylor girl.” She swung to her feet and ran across the room to a small table. She picked up a photographer’s envelope and came back, opening the flap and drawing out a glossy print.
“There,” she said, handing it to him and dropping again to the floor in front of him. “If that isn’t the most shameless thing I ever saw.”
The photograph was, as Conway had gloatingly predicted, a honey. Three lines of blood showed on Shayne’s cheek and the camera had caught a perfect expression of guilt as he jerked his head toward the flash of the bulb. His arm was tightly around Midge’s waist as though he hung on doggedly while she sought to wrestle away, and the fingers of his other hand were curved suggestively close to the torn bosom of her dress as they might have been had he ripped the fabric.
Midge Taylor was drawn back from him tautly, a look of real terror and of maidenly anger on her face.
Shayne studied the print from several angles, nodding gravely. “Playboy Shayne at his best,” he commented. “That’s an example of the technique I had just perfected when you slipped up on my blind side and married me.”
Phyllis laughed scornfully. “That’s your innate modesty. You know you never had to tear the clothes off women.”
“How did you get hold of this?” He reached for the envelope and read the printed legend: Ace-High Studio, Jake Liverdink, Prop.
“Oh, I forgot you didn’t know,” Phyllis said. She sprang from the floor and sat on the arm of his chair, cuddling against him. “Mr. Matrix sent it up while you were out-along with this note.” She unzipped the front of her gown to get out a folded note.
Shayne took it and read:
Here’s the only print there’ll ever be. Keep it for a souvenir from Midge and me. This puts you in the clear to go after MacFarlane and his racket any way you want to.
GIL MATRIX.
A queer light came into Shayne’s eyes and he sat for a moment staring into space.
Phyllis looked impatient. “What does it mean?” she demanded eagerly. “Is this what you wouldn’t tell me about your trip out to the Rendezvous-when you insisted on talking about kittens in the road?”
Shayne grinned and nodded. “That’s exactly it, angel. Gil spoiled the game by breaking into the studio and smashing the plate-as much for Midge as for us, I imagine.”
The telephone rang in the bedroom before Phyllis could question him further.
Shayne sprang to his feet as though propelled by a coiled spring and rushed to answer it.
Will Gentry said, “I’ve just received a wire signed by the chief of police of Urban, Illinois.”
“Read it to me.”
He said, “Claude Bates and Lucretia Grant only couple married on that date. Now, what the hell, Mike?”
Shayne said, “Thanks, Will,” and hung up quickly. He took a notebook from his pocket and scribbled down the two names, then sat on the edge of the bed rubbing his lean jaw.
He then lifted the phone and asked the hotel switchboard operator to get him the warden of the state penitentiary at Joliet, Illinois.