Len Sturgis, one of the ablest as well as the largest detectives on Chief Will Gentry’s Miami Police Force, eyed Shayne distrustfully. “How about you?” he asked. “Why don’t you tell your friends when you take a trip to New York? We miss you around here, fellow.”
Shayne was in no mood to endure heavy-handed humor. He said, “Two reasons, Len. One, I’m a licensed private detective, and my business is strictly between my clients and me. Two, I don’t need to tell you characters what I do — you seem to find it out quick enough anyway. What’s on your mind?”
“Nothing special,” said Sturgis, looking hurt. “How was the big city, Mike?”
Shayne wanted nothing more at the moment than to get rid of the man. Out of the corner of one eye, he could see Carol Hale sailing serenely toward the cab-stand outside, following a porter who was trundling a pile of bags of various shapes and sizes, among them the brown steel foot-locker that contained the mortal remains of Ben Felton.
But Shayne couldn’t break away now. He knew Len Sturgis was at the airport in response to a tip, and he knew the detective knew Shayne knew it. Cursing Harry Tyndale and the leak in his inner staff, Shayne tried to think of a way out.
Sturgis prompted him, “No luggage, Mike?”
Shayne took the cue. “Just a one-day trip. I went up on the one o’clock. Friend of mine needed a little help.”
Sturgis regarded Shayne with an oh-yeah? look, but said, “Well, I guess there’s nothing much doing here. Care for a lift to town?”
“Thanks, Len, but I left my own car in the parking lot outside.” Shayne headed for the exit the girl had used.
But he was too late.
She had vanished...
IV
It was nearly four o’clock the next afternoon when Shayne reached his office. Lucy was in a state. “Mike!” she cried. “I’ve been half out of my mind! You never called me from New York, and I didn’t know what was going on. Homer Wilde has been going crazy, too. He’s been calling up, almost every since you left. He told me to have you call him the moment you got in.”
The redhead grinned as he skimmed his hat toward the rack. “Your idol will have to wait a few minutes longer,” he said. His grin faded as he briefed Lucy on the events of the past twenty-four hours. “So there it is.” He tugged at his left earlobe. “Somewhere in this city is a woman who calls herself Carol Hale. And with her, unless she’s got rid of it already, is a small trunk containing the body of Ben Felton. I’ve been knocking myself out all day trying to find her. Not a trace, not a clue...” He sighed.
There was a glint of wry amusement in Lucy’s brown eyes. “Mike, the damnedest things happen to you!” she said. Then, growing serious, “You say this woman — Carol Hill — was about my height, has a good figure, might be around thirty, with green eyes, and uses an atrocious Southern accent?” Lucy’s own soft Southern voice flowed smooth as com syrup.
“That’s about it. Why? Any ideas?” The redhead was pacing the floor.
“And she’s a blonde?” Lucy sounded disbelieving.
“She was blonde yesterday,” he replied.
“I’d give a dozen pairs of good nylons just to have one good look at her,” Lucy said meditatively.
Shayne stopped pacing. “What’s on your mind?”
She hesitated briefly. “In the early days, when he was building his popularity, Homer Wilde had a girl in his show called Jeanie Williams. She couldn’t sing very well, and she couldn’t dance a lick, and, of course, she didn’t have to act. She wasn’t exactly pretty, but she was nice looking and a marvelous figure.
“I liked her, and so did a lot of people. There used to be gossip about her being Homer’s girlfriend. Oh — I remember, he used to kid her about her green eyes. You know, Mike, jealous monster and all that. Then, about three years ago, he dropped her flat.”
“Not exactly a novelty where Homer’s concerned from what I’ve been hearing,” Shayne told her. “You think my Carol Hale sounds like Homer’s Jeanie Williams?”
“Except for the blonde hair,” said Lucy. “Listen, Mike, suppose she has something on Homer, and suppose Ben Felton went to New York and took her to Harry Tyndale so he could use her evidence, or whatever it is, against Copey Cottrell...”
“I’m way ahead of you, Lucy,” said Shayne, quietly. “Now all we have to do is find Carol-Jeanie and Ben’s body. And after that...”
The phone rang. Lucy’s brisk, “Michael Shayne’s office,” cut him short. “Just a moment, I’ll see.” She looked up at Shayne and whispered, “Homer Wilde, again.”
Shayne took the phone grimly and said, “Hello, Wilde, what’s on your mind?”
“I’ve got to see you, Shayne. You can write your own ticket. Any fee you name. Can you come over to the White Sapphire right away?”
“I’ll be there.” Shayne’s eyes were bleak as he put down the phone.
Driving over the Causeway to the Beach, Shayne wondered if Homer had any idea that Ben Felton was dead. Surely he couldn’t know that Shayne had found the body, brought it to Miami and lost it again...
Wilde was in his hotel bedroom, sitting beside the window looking out at the waters of the bay, silvered by the pre-twilight. The lush Monica Mallon was extended languorously on a chaise longue. She wore dinner pajamas of chartreuse satin, and flaunted a jade cigarette holder. Homer spoke as if she were not there.
“Look, Shayne,” he said wearily without rising. “You’ve got me over a barrel. We’re leaving for New York tonight at three A. M. I’ve got to find Ben before we go, and you’re the only man who can do it. He must be somewhere here in Miami. If you find him before we take off, I’ll give you a blank check. You can fill in the amount yourself.”
“Fair enough.” Shayne looked at his watch. “I’ll call you before midnight.”
“Great!” There was relief in Homer’s voice. “And I have a better idea. Come to our farewell party. It starts around midnight in the ballroom here and we leave for the airport at two-thirty A. M. Why don’t you bring the charming Miss Hamilton? You say she’s a fan of mine, and she certainly has a lovely telephone manner.” This with a wink at Shayne, obviously designed to be seen by Monica. There was frost in her glance as Shayne departed.
This time, the redhead stopped at the other suite on the same floor which had been turned into a temporary publicity office.
There, Pinky Reach, the little man with large ears, wrestled with heavy leather-bound pressbooks until Shayne found what he wanted in an old one — a picture of Jeanie Williams. Her hair was brown and clubbed back with a bow. She looked much younger than the body-snatching blonde who had come back from New York with him, but she was unquestionably the same girl.
“Score one for Lucy,” he told himself. Then, to Pinky Reach, “This girl — Jeanie Williams — looks like a nice kid.”
“The most,” was the prompt reply. “Though poor Jeanie’s not exactly a kid. She was around when I was breaking in four-five years ago. A sweetheart. We all used to get sore when we thought of her in the hay with his nibs. You know all about that, of course.” This with calm assumption that the redhead was up on all such gossip of the show. “Homer used her — and I mean used her — for about seven years on his way up. Then he junked her like an old car.”
“Wonder what’s happened to her since,” mused Shayne.
“Who knows?” This with a shrug. “Jeanie dropped from sight. But the story goes that Ben Felton went to the mat with the boss and made him pay off big. That’s what started the trouble between them. Homer would have junked Ben, too, if he could, I’m told. Boy, did he boil!” A pause, then, “You picked up anything on Ben? It isn’t like him to run out this way.”