"Some man I didn't recognize," she went on more slowly. "I'm sure I never saw him before. The light in the hallway was dim, but I got one look at his face as he jumped at me. A horrible, scarred face. I whirled around and ran in the opposite direction toward a red signal light showing the stairway and he shouted something I couldn't understand and ran after me.
"I never looked back once. I knew he must have murdered my brother and I'd be next. I tore through the door and down three flights of stairs and there was an open door at the back leading out to a narrow pitch-dark alley. I ran as fast as I could toward the lighted street with him behind me shouting for me to stop. And just as I got to the street a taxicab came along and I jumped in front of it and made the driver stop. Then I tumbled in and shouted for him to drive away fast and he did. And then- and then I didn't know what to do and the driver was awfully nice and when I told him sort of-a little bit of what had happened-he mentioned you and said you could help me if anyone in Miami could and he brought me here."
"Nice of him to recommend me," grunted Shayne. "But why not the police? They're the ones you're supposed to report dead bodies to."
"I was afraid to go to them." She shuddered violently and reached for her sherry glass. "I've always heard they're inefficient and corrupt, and I knew they'd laugh at me and say I was crazy. Besides, I knew the hotel would have reported my call to them, and after they'd gone up and then not found any body there after all, they certainly wouldn't listen to me."
Shayne shrugged. He got up, saying, "Take another sip of that sherry while I check."
He crossed to the center table, gave a number, and a moment later, said, "Sergeant Jenkins, please. Hi, Sarge. Mike Shayne. You had any report of trouble at the Hibiscus Hotel? Any sort of trouble. Murders or any little thing like that?" He listened a moment, then said slowly, "I see. No, I guess not. Not just yet. If anything does pop, I'll let you know."
He hung up, looking across at the back of the girl's blonde head gleaming in the overhead light, massaging his ear-lobe gently. She turned to look at him with a hopeful expression which died away when he shook his head. He thumbed through the directory for the Hibiscus, called it and asked to be connected with Mr. Patton.
Then he said, "Ollie? Mike Shayne. Any excitement at your place around nine-thirty?"
He listened for quite a time while the girl continued to sit twisted in her chair so she could watch his face. Finally he said, "Thanks, Ollie. Any time I can give you a hand-" He hung up and returned to his chair with a scowl.
"The house detective at the Hibiscus gives it about the way you tell it. The first part, that is. They don't know anything about you being chased out of the hotel. They had the call you say you made from three-sixty about a murdered man and went there first because the switchboard girl thought you must mean that room instead of three-sixteen which she first thought you said. But they checked both rooms carefully and found no body nor any trace of murder. So they didn't report it to the police, naturally. Thinking it was a hoax-or the work of some nutty female." He studied the girl's face carefully as he spoke, and she noted his expression and cried out despairingly:
"You think so too, don't you? That I'm crazy? That I'm just making it all up?"
He shrugged noncommittally. "Not necessarily. The man chasing you through the alley sounds real enough. Did the taxi driver happen to see him too?" he added casually.
"Yes, he did. And also the lady who was in the cab when I hailed it. You can ask them both."
"Get the number of the cab or the driver's name?"
"N-no."
"Or the name of the other passenger?"
"No. Oh, you're just as bad as I knew the police would be," she flared out, getting to her feet abruptly and swaying a little. "How can I prove it? But I know my brother's been murdered. I saw him. It wasn't any hallucination."
"Sit back down," Shayne said soothingly. "I'm sure you saw something to make you believe that. I'm not denying anything. Let's see if we can figure it out. Is your brother any sort of practical joker?"
"No." She reseated herself stiffly.
"Because," Shayne said, "there is an old gag that's been pulled off with a bottle of ketchup."
"After the victim's throat has been cut?" she demanded angrily. "Mr. Shayne, I saw the gaping hole. And his eyes. Staring and-dead."
Shayne got up and began to stride back and forth across the room. "You didn't go in the first time. Didn't make even a cursory search?"
"No. My only thought was to get to a telephone."
"So the murderer could have been in there-in the bathroom or closet?"
"I suppose so. I didn't look."
"And how long would you say you were gone to find another phone?"
"Not more than two minutes, I think. Three or four at the very most. I didn't waste any time going or coming."
Shayne shrugged and said doubtfully, "If it weren't for the man chasing you, I'd have to think you had some sort of hallucination about seeing your brother. As it is- I still don't see what I can do, but I will go over to the Hibiscus with you and get hold of the house detective and check the whole thing a little more thoroughly than they probably did the first time."
The idea of returning to the Hibiscus appeared to frighten her all over again, and she asked despairingly, "Do I have to? Go there with you? Can't I just be your client, and you do the checking?" Her hands eagerly opened the black suede bag in her lap. "I've got money here. Plenty of cash. I can pay you a retainer."
Shayne shook his head, studying her harassed features very carefully. "Right now I'm not at all sure there's any case for me to take a retainer on." He didn't tell her the truth-that he didn't like crazy clients and that he was beginning to suspect she was as nutty as a fruit-cake.
But the look of utter desperation that settled over her at his words moved him to go on hastily, "Suppose I nose around and see what I can find out. If anything has happened to your brother, it'll be time enough to talk about a retainer." He stood up briskly. "I suppose I can reach you at the Roney? What's your name and room number?"
"Do I have to go back there?" She shuddered and her eyes were liquidly appealing. "Whoever did that to my brother must know where we're staying. I keep seeing that awful, scarred face in my mind. I–I-couldn't I just stay here while you go and see?"
Shayne hesitated, his angular face tightening. God only knew what sort of tensions were working on her. Without pretending to be any sort of psychologist, here was a persecution complex, if he'd ever encountered one. First, she had been afraid to go to the police with her story. Now, she was afraid to go back to the safety of her own hotel room. Definitely, he didn't want her hanging around his place alone, prey to all sorts of unreasoning fears.
Not unkindly, he said, "I don't think that would be such a good idea, but I've got a much better one." He crossed to the center table and opened a drawer to take out a sheet of his office paper. With a pen he wrote Lucy Hamilton's name and address on it, and added a brief note:
Angeclass="underline"
Be just that and take care of the bearer. Put your chain on the door and don't let anyone in to her until you hear from me. She may be in great danger.
He signed the note "Mike," and handed it to her to read. "My secretary," he explained. "We'll go down and
I'll put you in a taxi for her place. No one can possibly find you there, and I'll know exactly where you are when I need you."
Her eyes shone mistily with gratitude as she read it. Her voice quavered. "You're-just wonderful. I could kiss that taxi driver for bringing me to you."
Shayne turned away from her before her gratitude spilled over into kissing him instead, because that was what her look portended. And he liked to be fairly certain the women he kissed were sane.