“I’ll try,” Rourke said doubtfully. “It’s pretty early in the morning to get any real action out of New York.” He yawned and got up. “What will you be doing?”
Shayne said, “I don’t know.”
“Sitting on your dead butt while I dig up information for you?” suggested Rourke good-humoredly.
Shayne said, “It’s your story you’re going after. Hell, I don’t even have a client or a retainer.”
“You meeting the seven-ten plane?” asked Rourke casually as he strolled toward the door.
“Let’s meet at the airport about six-forty-five to see if you’ve got anything. The coffee shop.”
Rourke said, “Fine,” and went out with a farewell wave of his hand.
Shayne paced the floor for a time after the reporter left, considering and discarding various plans for getting background information on Gleason and Henderson in a hurry. As Rourke had pointed out, it was an awkward hour to get anything definite done-and it was even an hour earlier in Illinois than in Miami. However, Shayne didn’t know how busy he would be later in the day, and he decided he might as well get a couple of angles started.
He consulted his old address book from the center drawer of the sitting-room table, and found a Chicago number which he called.
He sat and listened while the phone rang at least a dozen times in the Midwestern city, and he grinned happily when a surly and sleepy voice finally replied.
“That you, Bitsy?”
“Yeh. Who’s that sounding so happy to wake a guy up?”
“Gee, I’m sorry about that,” said Shayne with elaborate concern. “When I knew you, pal, you’d just about be ready for bed at this hour.”
“Then it was a hell of a lot of years ago,” yawned Bitsy Baker in Chicago. “Who is this?”
“Mike Shayne.”
“Mike… Shayne? I’ll be damned. You in town, Mike?”
“Nope. Miami.”
“What’s up?” The voice was suddenly wide-awake and businesslike.
“You free to take on a little job?”
“Soon as it gets daylight out here.”
“Write this down, Bitsy. Algonquin, Illinois. Know where it is?”
“Sure. Out in the country a little way.”
“Get out there by the time the farmers start waking up. There’s a Harry Gleason just been killed here tonight. Lived in Algonquin ten years. Bartender in some bar. Get every damned thing you can on Harry Gleason and his wife, Hilda, a native of the town. What I want mostly is background on Gleason. As far back as you can get. He may have had a different name in the past. Check the cops, newspapers and friends… you know.”
“Sure, I know.”
“Also, these last two months, Bitsy. Any strangers been in town to see him. Any talk he’s done around the bar about a trip to Miami or prospects for picking up some quick dough. Get whatever you can and call me collect at my office.” Shayne gave him the number. “Say, ten o’clock this morning, your time. I’ll know by then whether I want you to do any more.”
“Sure, Mike. How’re things otherwise?”
Shayne said, “Dull.”
“Same here. Ten o’clock. By.”
Shayne said, “Good-by, Bitsy,” and hung up. He took another small drink and paced the floor a short time longer, and then called the Henderson number on Miami Beach.
Mr. Henderson’s voice answered promptly, indicating that the financier hadn’t been any more able to sleep than Shayne had.
The detective slurred his voice into a slangy southern drawclass="underline" “That there Mister Henderson?”
“This is Henderson, yes. Who’s calling?”
“This here’s a frien’ uh Harry’s, pal.”
There was a long pause and Shayne wondered if the man would hang up. He didn’t. He asked uncertainly, “Harry who?”
“Harry Gleason, thass who.” Shayne chuckled evilly. “You didn’ reckon it was all ended nice an’ clean an’ sweet just from you knockin’ Harry off, did yuh?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea what you are talking about.” Henderson was breathing hard and the words sounded as though he almost strangled over them.
“I reckon you kin guess. I’ll be seein’ yuh.” Shayne hung up and wiped beads of sweat from his forehead. He fervently hoped that Henderson was sweating too.
He looked at his watch and went into the kitchenette to put water on the stove to boil, and measured coffee into a dripolator. When it boiled, he poured it into the top and went into the bathroom to shave, then stripped off his clothes and took a fast shower.
Twenty minutes after making his call to Henderson, dressed in fresh clothes and with a mug of hot black coffee at his elbow, Shayne called the Beach number again.
Again Henderson’s voice answered as if he had been sitting waiting for the instrument to ring.
“Mike Shayne, Henderson. I suppose you know your victim has been identified.”
“Yes, I… a reporter called me half an hour ago. Some man from the Midwest, I understand. But under the circumstances, Shayne, I hardly think the word ‘victim’ is the correct designation for him.”
“Let’s let it ride until we have a better one,” Shayne suggested blithely. “A man named Harry Gleason, eh?”
“So they say.” Henderson sounded very unhappy about it.
“What do you think of the story his wife told the police?”
“I was given only the gist of it. I have no comment. I never heard of the man before. But, Shayne…” his voice suddenly became imploring, “… now that you’re on the line… I wonder… I need to talk to you,” he ended desperately. “I just had another very peculiar telephone call and I’ve been wondering what to do. I would like to engage your professional services,” he added formally.
Shayne said wolfishly, “I don’t know whether they’re for hire to you or not. But I’m willing to discuss it with you.”
“Right away? Could you come over?” Henderson sounded pathetically eager.
Shayne said, “I can be there in half an hour,” and hung up. He finished his coffee with satisfaction, and went out to drive over to the Beach.
The sun was up over the Atlantic when he arrived at the Henderson house. There were no cars in the driveway, but an unmarked sedan was parked unobtrusively on the street just beyond the entrance, and the man sitting behind the wheel was smoking a cigarette and had the brim of his hat pulled low on his forehead. Shayne grinned at this evidence of Painter’s thoroughness, and turned in the drive to park in front of the door.
Henderson opened it for him as soon as he pressed the button. He was fully dressed and clean-shaven, but his thin features were strained and his eyes were bloodshot.
“Come right in, Mr. Shayne.” He led the way through the archway and dropped disconsolately into a deep chair beside an ash tray piled high with half-smoked cigarette butts. “This has been a most harrowing experience.” He rubbed the back of his right hand wearily across his eyes. “It was good of you to come. This last occurrence has completely unnerved me.”
“Tell me about it.” Shayne sprawled his rangy body into a chair near him.
There was a bottle of Drambuie and a stemmed liqueur glass on the table beside Henderson’s chair. The glass held a small portion of the thick liqueur, and he picked it up and drained it, asking Shayne, “Would you care for some? Or something else perhaps?”
Shayne shook his head. “I switched to coffee an hour ago. What have you to tell me?”
“There was an anonymous telephone call. Mysterious and definitely threatening.” He settled back and half closed his eyes and repeated what Shayne had said to him over the telephone almost word for word.
“Yet I swear I don’t know anyone named Harry Gleason,” he protested as he finished. “I can’t make head nor tail of it. But it does indicate that… that my life is still in danger. I beg you to take the case, Mr. Shayne. Find out who is threatening me, and why.”
“I’ll consider it if you’ll come clean with me.”
“But I have… ah… come clean with you.”
Shayne said, “You can make a start by telling me what name you used before you started calling yourself Saul Henderson.”