All the color drained from Henderson’s face at the same time that the strength oozed from his body. He wilted in his chair, white-faced and panicky. Then he called on some inner reserves and swung angrily to his feet.
“I don’t know what your game is, Shayne, but whatever it is, I don’t like it. You’ve been throwing out veiled hints and implications ever since yesterday afternoon, and I’ve had enough of it. I’ll see you to the door.” He swung on his heel and walked stiffly toward the archway and Shayne came quickly to his feet to follow him, pausing by his host’s chair to pick up the empty liqueur glass carefully by the fragile stem, and drop it into the side pocket of his jacket.
Henderson was standing holding the front door wide open when Shayne ambled out. He stood in frozen-faced silence while Shayne paused to say, “My secretary will bill you for this visit, Henderson,” and he closed the door loudly behind the detective.
Shayne drove swiftly back to Miami and stopped at police headquarters where he found Sergeant Calhoun on duty in the Identification Department. He took the liqueur glass carefully from his pocket, handling it by the flared bottom, and told the sergeant:
“This should have some pretty good prints that might have a bearing on that Beach killing. Get an authorization from Chief Gentry if you need it, but I wish you’d rush them to Washington fast.”
Sergeant Calhoun said cheerfully, “I’ll get them off first, and ask for the authorization later, Mike,” and Shayne hurried out of the building to his car and drove directly to the airport.
It was two minutes after seven o’clock when he got his car parked and reached the coffee shop. Timothy Rourke occupied a stool near the door, nursing a cup of black coffee. Shayne sat beside him and said, “The same” to a white-jacketed waiter. “Any luck, Tim?”
“About what you’d expect. A few unimportant items going back past his marriage to Mrs. Graham. Reading between the lines, there’s nothing to indicate he was very much of anybody or had too much dough until he latched onto the rich widow. As soon as offices open in New York, there’ll be a squad of legmen going around interviewing everyone who had contact with him before his marriage.” He looked at his watch as the waiter put a cup of coffee in front of Shayne. “Plane’s due in about three minutes. On time, they say.”
Shayne nodded absently, taking a sip of hot coffee and wishing he were home drinking his own brew. “Watch out for Henderson to blow a gasket when I try to grab hold of the girl for a quiet talk. Shove him around a little if you have to in order to give me a crack at her.”
Rourke nodded as the loudspeaker announced the arrival of Muriel Graham’s flight from New York. They got up and joined a small group of waiting people moving toward the gate through which incoming passengers would come. As they worked their way toward the gate, Shayne nudged Rourke and pointed toward Peter Painter flanked by two Miami cops standing squarely in front of the barrier. “Petey isn’t missing a bet.”
“And there’s Henderson, who doesn’t look too happy to see him,” Rourke rejoined, jerking his head toward the harried-looking mayoralty candidate pushing his way through to come up immediately behind the chief of detectives.
The redhead and the reporter watched with interest as deplaning passengers streamed toward the gate. There weren’t too many arrivals on this early flight, and Shayne didn’t see Jane Smith among them. He was beginning to wonder if she had missed the plane or had intentionally stayed away when he saw a very tall and slender, dark-haired girl at the end of the line stop in front of Henderson and say something to him, and then languidly accept his outstretched hand.
With a bleak look of questioning on his face, Shayne shoved forward just as Painter moved in officiously and took the tall girl’s arm.
“Miss Muriel Graham?” he demanded.
She looked sideways and down at his hand on her arm while Saul Henderson thrust his face close to Painter’s and grated, “This is my stepdaughter, yes. But she’s very tired from her trip and I’ll have to ask you to excuse us now. Later… after she’s rested…”
“I want to talk to her now, Henderson.” Painter kept his hand firmly on her arm and drew her away, nodding curtly to one of the uniformed policemen, who interposed his bulk between the girl and Henderson.
Shayne tapped Painter on the shoulder as the little man turned away with the girl, paying no heed to Henderson’s loudly voiced objections.
“You’re making a mistake, Petey. This girl is…”
“An important witness whom I’m taking into custody for questioning,” Painter told him officiously. “I don’t need any advice or interference from you, Shayne.”
The redhead shrugged and stepped back with a quizzical grin on his face while Painter triumphantly led the girl inside the terminal building with Henderson still being forcibly detained from following them by the policeman.
Timothy Rourke studied his friend’s face speculatively, and muttered, “You might have known Painter wouldn’t pass up a bet like this. Hell! You might as well quit covering for Henderson. Let the girl tell her story.”
“I’m not covering for Henderson. I was trying to tip Petey off. That girl isn’t Muriel Graham, Tim.”
“She isn’t? Didn’t you hear Henderson introduce her as his stepdaughter?”
“I heard him,” Shayne agreed grimly. “But she’s a ringer, Tim. That’s not my Jane Smith. Remember that Henderson made the contact in New York personally and arranged to have her fly down. God knows what sort of story this one will tell Painter.”
“Well, you hoped to keep Muriel out of it,” chuckled Rourke. “It’s not your fault that Painter wouldn’t listen when you tried to tell him the truth.”
Shayne muttered, “Yeh. You can be a witness that I tried to warn him, Tim. But he was so damned afraid that I would horn in…”
He grinned suddenly and delightedly, and moved toward the building entrance with long strides. “Maybe I’ve still got time to wrap this up while Painter is listening to whatever story Henderson wants him to hear.”
15
In the airport parking lot, Shayne paused beside the reporter’s car while Rourke got in. He said “I’m headed home for a cup of decent coffee and some heavy thinking. Keep in touch with Painter on the Beach for anything they turn up on Gleason… and push those New York inquiries on Henderson. Tim, I’m getting a stronger hunch all the time that this whole case had its beginnings ’way back in his past.”
“Who do you suppose the girl is that Henderson has brought in to impersonate his stepdaughter?”
The redhead shrugged. “He was really on the spot there. He must have sweated blood early this morning knowing Muriel would almost certainly break down and spill her guts if she were hauled back here to testify. Give the guy credit for thinking fast,” he went on angrily, “and arranging things neatly. She’ll load Painter with a story about what a wonderful father Henderson has been to her, and he’ll swallow it hook, line, and sinker.” He turned and strode off to his own car while Rourke lifted a hand in farewell and drove away.
Two hours and four mugs of coffee later, shaved and freshly dressed, Michael Shayne entered his office on Flagler Street and found Lucy already at her desk in the anteroom. She glanced at her watch meaningfully and said, “Practically the crack of dawn, Mr. Shayne. I don’t suppose you’ve even had time to glance at the morning paper?”
“As a matter of fact, I haven’t, angel. Anything important?”
She shrugged and pursed her lips. “A little matter of a midnight killing at your friend’s, Mr. Henderson, house on the Beach. I don’t suppose it interests you particularly.”
He paused with his back half to her, in the act of hanging his hat near the door, realizing suddenly that she was completely unaware that he had been mid-wifing the case since about two o’clock. He said, “You know how badly I need my beauty sleep in the morning. Got a copy of the paper?”