“All I’ve had time to do since I got on this one is run down Cathy Whiting, sit in on a meeting at the News and get into that shootout outside the office.”
Quite deliberately, he omitted all mention of his tailing Attorney Jim Lowman, of the latter’s strange behavior and apparent panic. If Lowman ever found out Shayne had sicced the cops on him — and he almost inevitably would — Messrs. Latimer, Dirkson and Rourke would be out one private detective, and Mike Shayne would be out of one job.
This one, he wanted to see through even more than usual, if only for the sake of clearing his friend, Tim Rourke.
“All right, Shayne.” The growl was back in Chief Gentry’s voice. “Get the hell out of here. And, please — no more corpses after working hours.”
The redhead rose, placed his right hand over his heart, said, “I’ll try, Chief — honest Injun.”
“Out!” This time, it was a roar.
It was well after midnight, and the detective went home and to bed. There were no further alarms during that night...
Shayne woke up early the next morning. After shaving and showering, he felt halfway human, and a hot cup of instant coffee, laced with a generous slug of Martell, took him the rest of the way. The early day was cool and sunlit and traffic was still light as he tooled the Buick southward toward Coconut Grove. When he turned off South Bayshore Drive, the hands of his wristwatch indicated exactly seven twenty-eight.
He wanted another look at the scene of Cathy Whiting’s slaying the evening before.
A single uniformed policeman sat behind the wheel of a black-and-white on the street outside, where the detective had parked the evening before Shayne pulled in behind him, got out and approached him from the driver’s side.
“Hello, Shayne. You’re up early.” The driver, who had evidently been watching him via the rearview mirror, was a man the redhead knew.
“Hello, Ryan,” said the detective, pushing his snapbrim grey fedora back on his head. “Anyone mind if I take a look around inside?”
“I’ll have to call it in,” said Ryan, activating his communicator. He asked the question and, after a few brief seconds, the box squawked, “Captain Sturgis says he can look his fool red head off — but just took, not touch.”
“You heard?” the patrolman asked with a sardonic smile.
Shayne nodded.
“Just to remind you,” Ryan went on, “the whole house in back has been photographed and dusted. You put a finger on anything, and the boys’ll know it.”
“Capiche.” The detective flipped a hand and turned in at the brief driveway. He heard the squawkbox sputter behind him and Ryan called, “Hey, Shayne — the captain says to keep an eye out for a contact lens he dropped in there somewhere last night.”
“Tell him where he can put it,” the redhead called back.
Shayne paused on the porch of the converted out-building behind the larger dwelling to study the broken front window through which the shots had been fired at him during his previous visit. At the time, he had known it was a close call, but his adrenals had been up and he had kept moving. Now, considering the narrowness of his escape, he felt a shudder the length of his spine.
It had been a very near thing.
Carefully using a handkerchief to avoid fouling up any fingerprints, even though Ryan said the whole place had been dusted, the detective went on inside.
The chalked outline of the late Cathy Whiting’s body was marked on the floor, some of it drawn over the ugly stain of the girl’s blood, now turned almost black. Traces of print dust were visible on tabletops, window sills, artifacts, light fixtures. Thanks to the angle of the early morning sunlight, the interior of the little house was unexpectedly bright.
What in hell was he looking for? He honestly did not know.
VI
There was but a single story with room for two bedrooms, a bath, a living room with dining area and a kitchen. All were in considerable disarray after being rifled by Captain Len Sturgis’ Homicide crew. He paid more attention to Myra Rainey’s bedroom than to Cathy’s — it was easy to identify it via the monograms, stationery, initialed objects.
Shayne took his time but found nothing.
Back in the living room, he glanced around again, did a double take as the slant of the sunlight caused something to glitter on the front wall just beside the door, just above the telephone table. The detective walked over, stooped, squinted at it. It was a telephone number — seven digits — scrawled on the wall itself with an old-fashioned graphite pencil, whose trace had picked up the sunlight.
All around it were other phone numbers — the calendar page was literally covered with them. Since they were in different handwritings, Shayne judged both girls had the habit of writing numbers on the nearest available surface. An untidy habit, perhaps, but one that indicated a life lived without fear or concealment.
Most were in ballpoint, a few in eyebrow pencil, fewer still in graphite. These, especially that which reflected the sun, seemed to be the most recent. At any event, they were scrawled over other numbers. Pulling out ballpoint and notebook, Shayne wrote them all down. There were eleven of them.
Since the Homicide Bureau undoubtedly had them, too, he did not know exactly what use he could make of them. Still... the police would be following other routines before tackling such drudgery — which reminded Shayne that he had yet to put out feelers through his private information channels, something he had meant to do the night before.
On the way back to Flagler Street, he stopped for breakfast at a diner made from an actual Pullman Dining Car on the old Eastern Shore Railroad. It featured white linen tablecloths, blossoms in bud vases, quality china and flatwear, excellent cuisine and service right around the clock, with prices to match.
There, Shayne ordered a thick grilled ham steak, a trio of shirred eggs in sherry, toasted French rolls with sweet butter and a beautifully browned hillock of hashed brown potatoes. The coffee was rich and black and bitter.
Refreshed, he drove to his office, which Lucy Hamilton was in the act of opening for the day. She held the outer office phone in her hand, said, “Hello, Michael. She hung up.”
“Who, Angel?” He removed his hat and scaled it accurately onto its usual hook on the hat-tree in the far corner.
“She didn’t say. She asked for you. I said you hadn’t come in yet. She hung up. You came in.”
“Damn!” said the detective. Then, at the quick concern on his secretary’s pretty face, “Don’t worry, Lucy — it wasn’t your fault.”
He tugged at his left earlobe, frowned at nothing a long moment, then said, “Angel, I want to talk to Homicide. Len Sturgis, if he’s in.”
The redhead went into his own inner office, sat behind his desk, lit a cigaret and waited for Lucy’s phoned summons. It came within a minute, in Captain Sturgis’ voice, saying, “Sturgis here, Mike. Something on the fire?”
“Maybe,” Shayne replied. “Len, when you ran through the Cathy Whiting place, did you check for a phone tap?”
“Hold on — I’ll find out.” The detective could hear the big captain’s deep voice talking into a desk communicator. Then, “Sorry, the boys didn’t get around to it last night. I’m sending a wire-tap crew out there right away. You think there was a patch?”
“I’d like to find out,” the redhead replied. “Thanks, Len.”
“Do me a favor,” said the Chief of Detectives. “Next time you find a body, stick around till we get there.”