He looked distastefully at the telephone as he considered calling her at six o’clock. People were apt to clam up over the telephone. If she suspected Rose were in some kind of trouble in Miami…
Blanche and Rose must have been close friends. Blanche would probably be inclined to cover up for her if a detective started interrogating her over the phone.
On the other hand, you could learn so much more asking questions face to face. Not so much by what the witness said sometimes, but how she said it. How she evaded direct answers to certain questions.
Shayne looked at his watch and made a quick decision. Jet flights to New York took less than two hours. If there were one leaving soon he could be there before six o’clock.
He called the airport and found there was a nonstop flight scheduled to depart in forty minutes. He made a reservation and hung up, then called Lucy Hamilton’s number and asked her, “Everything under control?”
“Oh, yes, Michael.” She sounded calmer than before. “I called Emily Cahill and she was very nice. She’s coming over in about fifteen minutes to pick up the children. And I peeked in upstairs a few minutes ago. Linda is still dead to the world, but sleeping peacefully as far as I can tell. Her pulse is strong and she’s breathing easily.”
Shayne said, “Fine. Just keep a check on her, Angel. I’m off to New York in about forty minutes. You might let Tim Rourke know. I hope to be back before midnight with something definite to work on.”
“To New York, Michael? Whatever for?”
“I’ve got hold of something,” he told her cautiously. “Right now, I’m not sure what. Stay sort of close to Linda, huh? Personally,” he added slowly, “I wouldn’t be too much upset if she remained incommunicado to Peter Painter. What I mean to imply is… if she should come out of it and feel like another drink, I wouldn’t discourage her too much if I were you.”
“Michael Shayne! You mean you want me to keep her so drunk she can’t talk to Chief Painter?”
Shayne grinned at her indignant voice over the telephone. “I didn’t say I want you to keep her drunk, Angel. Just don’t keep her from staying drunk if she wants to. When Painter does get around to talking to her, she’s going to tell him some things that he’s likely to misconstrue. That’s all I’m saying. So if she feels like another drink when she wakes up, just be sure it’s handy and that you pour with a lavish hand. As long as the children are out of the way and being taken care of,” he added.
Lucy said doubtfully, “All right, Michael. I’ll… do my best.”
“It’s for Linda’s sake,” Shayne said sharply. “Very frankly, I think Painter will put her under arrest when he hears her story. Right now, I don’t want that.”
“Arrest her? Oh, no, Michael! Nothing in the world could make me believe Linda had anything to do with it.”
“I told Painter that,” Shayne said blithely, “and he’s considering putting you on his payroll as psychological consultant.”
“What?”
Shayne laughed. “I don’t think he’d pay as much as I do. I’ve got to get out to the airport. I’ll try to call either you or Tim from New York… around seven or so.”
13
At the New York airport, Shayne went directly to the Information counter to inquire about return flights that night. There was only one scheduled. For eight-thirty. Shayne made a reservation for it on the chance that he’d be able to make it.
It was a quarter to six when he called Blanche Carson’s West side apartment. A pleasant, youthful, feminine voice answered.
He asked, “Is this Blanche Carson?”
“Speaking. Who is this?”
“I’m a detective from Miami, Miss Carson.”
“Oh, yes. Doris told me. Something about Rose. What is it?”
Shayne said, “I wonder if I could possibly have a talk with you. I’m at the airport. Just flew in from Miami particularly to see you.”
“Well… I don’t know. I have a date to go dancing at eight. What did you say your name is?”
“Shayne. Michael Shayne, Miss Carson. I’m a private detective…”
“Oh!” she thrilled. “Mike Shayne? Really? That cute one that was on TV a year or so ago?”
Shayne grimaced wryly and said, “I’m afraid I’m not quite as cute as the actor who portrayed me. But I am Mike Shayne. And I want very much to see you at once. Could we possibly have dinner together? I have to fly back at eight-thirty.”
“I’d be thrilled to death to have dinner with you,” caroled Blanche Carson. “Where?”
“Can you suggest a place close to you? I can be there in thirty or forty minutes.”
“There’s a nice French restaurant about two blocks away.” She gave him the name and address. “I’ll be waiting for you there in half an hour.” Shayne said, “That will be wonderful,” and hung up. Well, that was one thing a television series did for you, he told himself sourly, as he went to look for a taxi. You could make dinner dates with strange women without any difficulty.
When he entered the dim foyer of the restaurant forty minutes later, a girl arose immediately from a bench and came up to him. She was slightly on the plump side and wore glasses, but she had an intelligent face and her eyes sparkled. “You’re Mike Shayne,” she said eagerly, offering him her hand. “I’d recognize you anywhere.”
“From watching TV?”
“Of course not.” She laughed happily. “I know he was just an actor. But I’ve read lots of the books about you and your cases, and you’re just like the author describes you.”
Shayne grinned and took her arm and they went into a small, quiet dining room and were promptly seated at a secluded table in a corner of the uncrowded room.
Shayne asked if she would have a drink, and she said promptly, “I’d love one. I’ll drink a sidecar in your honor. With Martel cognac, if you have it,” she told the hovering waiter gravely, “and just a little easy on the cointreau.”
Shayne grinned and said, “You have been reading the books. I’ll have two or three of the same,” he told the waiter. “Just keep them coming as fast as I finish one.”
“Now,” said Blanche, planting her elbows on the table and becoming suddenly serious. “What is it about Rose? I haven’t heard a single word from her.”
Shayne said, “I’m not just sure how much of it is about Rose. I hope you’ll help me there. Actually, Blanche, a man was murdered in Miami last night, and that’s what I’m working on. His name was Jerome Fitzgilpin.” He watched keenly for the girl’s reaction to the name, and saw a look of puzzled doubt spread slowly over her expressive features.
“Fitz-gilpin?” She repeated the syllables slowly. “Wait a minute. I think I know. Isn’t that the name of the nice, little man who stood up with Rose and Rutherford Rodman when they were married?”
Shayne nodded. “And took you to dinner in the Village afterward.”
“Yes. He was so nice about everything.” She clasped her hands together tightly. “A complete stranger like that. He had just met Rutherford at the hotel the night before. He bought Rose a corsage of tiny yellow rosebuds and insisted on paying for the dinner… with a bottle of champagne and everything. And you say he’s dead? Murdered? Who would murder such a friendly little man?”
“That’s what I hope to find out.” Their sidecars arrived and Shayne sipped his with pleasure. It was astringently cold, with no sugar around the rim of the glass. “Do you remember what he talked about that night? Anything important?”
“I think he was in New York attending some sort of convention. Mostly he talked about young love and marriage. He was married and had a couple of children, I think. He showed us pictures of them. He was so sweet talking about his wife. Still terribly in love with her after being married so long. I remember he said they’d never had a single quarrel in all the years they’d been married. And he was so anxious to get home to her. I didn’t realize he lived in Miami,” she added. “I don’t believe he mentioned that.”