When the hotel clerk answered Rose asked for Mr. Michael Shayne. “Oh?” she said. “Do you know where he can be reached?... I see. Will you see that he gets a message? Ask him to call Mrs. Rose Heminway when he comes in, at this number.”
She dictated her phone number and gave the phone to Painter, who put it back for her.
“But don’t count on that message getting to him. Keep trying.” He gave his mustache a quick downward flick, as though to make sure that the hairs were still growing in the right direction. “Hell!”
“I’m sorry,” she said helplessly. I honestly didn’t expect this to be such a bombshell. At least we’ve disposed of it now. Won’t you change your mind about that drink?”
“Thank you, Rose. But some other night. I couldn’t relax. If I’m going to beat Shayne to the punch I’d better step things up a bit.”
She got up. “More mystery, Peter. I hope you really know what you’re doing.”
“Listen to the twelve o’clock news tomorrow,” he said smugly.
He started for the door, frowning importantly. Rose had given him a bad moment when she told him about Shayne, but he had hold of himself now. He saw new possibilities, in fact. It would make his triumph that much sweeter. This time, he promised himself, if Shayne tried to stick his nose into something that didn’t concern him, the infuriating private detective who had bested Painter so often would end up flat on his back with a surprised look on his big ugly face.
And Painter was also enjoying the way Rose was looking at him, puzzled but at the same time respectful. Women seldom looked at him like that, particularly women as good looking as Rose. He didn’t know why this should be so. Somebody had once told him that he would be better off if he could only develop a sense of humor, but just because he happened to believe in taking serious things seriously—
And at that point in his reflections, his heel came down on an ice cube that had escaped from the drink he had spilled. His leg shot out at a sickening angle, his arms sawed the air, and he landed with a crash. Rose stooped over him with a little cry. She couldn’t have been more solicitous and helpful, but Painter thought he could see a faint quirk at the corner of her mouth. She would dissolve in mirth the moment he was gone.
He felt his spine. Nothing seemed to be dislocated, luckily, but he needed help to get to his feet. He mumbled something, feeling his face prickle with embarrassment.
“I’m terribly, terribly sorry,” she said. “Are you—”
“Perfectly all right,” he said stiffly.
“Don’t you think you’d better sit down for a minute?”
“Certainly not.”
“Well—”
As Rose opened the front door for him, Heinemann came out from the shadow of a tree and crossed to the Cadillac. Rose watched solicitously until Painter was in the back seat with the door closed.
“Are you all right, Chief?” Heinemann said.
Painter snapped, “What do you mean, am I all right?”
“Nothing, except it looked like you were walking sort of funny.”
Painter suppressed a strong impulse to massage the injured spot. “What’s holding us up, Heinemann? I want to stop at my apartment. Let’s go, damn it! Use the siren.”
Chapter Two
Pulling up in front of his apartment building, one of an impressive row on a cross street in the northern section of Miami Beach, Painter grated, “This would be a good time not to fall asleep, Heinemann. I’m in the phone book, and if anybody wants to find out where I live they can look it up.”
“I’m wide awake, Chief,” Heinemann said.
“Check the foyer.”
Heinemann looked inside the vestibule and up and down the sidewalk. He kept one hand on his gun while Painter left the Cadillac and entered the building. Alone in the automatic elevator, Painter allowed himself to slump forward to ease the tension at the base of his spine. He probed the affected area, wincing. Worse than the pain was the recollection of the faint hint of amusement at the corner of Rose Heminway’s mouth. But he couldn’t really blame her. He hadn’t thought it was funny himself, but to an observer it had probably been one of the funniest pratfalls since Buster Keaton was in his prime.
The elevator took him to the eighth floor. Determined not to let the pain slow him down, he walked briskly down the corridor, feeling in his pockets for his keys. He had a lot to do, if he was going to be ready by the time Mike Shayne appeared on the scene. He sorted out his door-key and half-raised it as he came to his door.
He stopped, surprised. The door was slightly ajar. He reached for the doorknob, but checked himself, a wary expression on his face. He listened. He put his keys away, took out his .38 and snapped off the safety. He listened again, then gave the door a quick push and stepped back against the wall.
Nothing happened. All the lights were on in his living room. Moving with great care, he slid around the edge of the door and stopped, appalled. Several drawers of his desk had been pulled out and dumped on the floor. The pillows had been pulled off the sofa and the chairs. Pictures had been yanked from the walls, the carpet had been thrown back. Looking around at this shambles, he felt a slow rage begin to build up inside him.
He went through the door into the bedroom, moving according to the manual, slowly at first, then fast. This room too, had been visited by the same strong wind. The lock on his three-drawer filing cabinet had been forced, and the drawers had been pulled out. Even now, before he checked to see if the Sam Harris file was missing, his policeman’s instinct told him to look into the bathroom and the closets and to be sure that no one was concealed on the fire escape. Only then did he put away his gun and crouch beside the lowermost drawer. He had been swearing savagely under his breath, but now he had stopped. This was beyond the reach of words.
Suddenly there was a low moan behind him.
Painter dove to one side, very fast, and grabbed at the .38. He was in a bad position and the gun stuck in its holster. For an instant he thought it wouldn’t come out, and he felt the beginnings of panic. He was trapped! He worried at the harness with his left hand and went on yanking at the gun until it broke free. He was lying on his side near the foot of his bed. There was another moan, more nearly a sigh. Painter inched forward, pushing the gun ahead of him, and saw a man’s shoe.
“Don’t move!” he said, his voice rising.
He came to one knee. He was wound up tight. The bedding had been thrown off the bed and a man was lying behind the untidy pile, partly hidden by it. Painter straightened carefully, his trigger-finger tense, ready to fire. He went on moving until he could see the man’s face.
It was pitted with tiny pockmarks. There was an ugly gash on one temple, and that whole side of his face was a mass of blood. His eyes were open, but they seemed glazed. Painter had never seen him before.
He kicked the bedclothes aside. He could see both of the man’s hands now. One of the hands twitched and he said sharply, “I told you not to move, and that’s what I meant.”
When he saw that both hands were empty, he went on taking a policeman’s precautions, patting the man in the various places where a gun can be carried. Then he returned his .38 to its holster.
He went down into a crouch. “Who are you?” he demanded.
The man breathed in and out with great effort. “Painter?” he whispered.
“What about it?”
“I’m — Gray. McNarney Committee.”
His voice was so faint that Painter was barely able to catch the words. He rocked back on his heels. The McNarney Committee! At the moment the McNarney Committee was making headlines with an investigation of labor racketeering, but how in God’s name had they got wind of this? Apparently they could smell a front-page story all the way from Washington, D. C. Now Painter really had to hurry, or it would get away from him. He knew his limitations. He couldn’t compete with a standing committee of the United States Senate, with its access to the newspapers, unlimited funds, its staff of investigators and lawyers.