2. Did Larry Kincaid do the job and leave my pistol to frame me?
3. Whose handkerchief? Left intentionally or by oversight or planted?
4. Did the mugs want the handkerchief-or something else that was taken from Grange by the murderer before I got there?
5. Who called Painter to the murder scene?
6. Why were the mugs waiting for me here when I was supposed to be locked up? (Phyllis, too.)
7. When and how did Chuck Evans suddenly get in the money?
8. Did Grange know Chuck?
9. Did Chuck know Thomas?
10. Was Marsha the girl Phyllis saw in Grange’s car? (Marsha’s handkerchief?)
He stopped and stared down at the list of questions, frowning and tugging at the lobe of his left ear. Then he wrote:
11. What the hell’s in it for me?
He poured a short drink of cognac and sat there alternately sipping it and puffing on a cigarette. Then he checked questions six and eleven, folded the sheet of paper and put it in his shirt pocket. He went to the telephone and called a number.
When a man replied, he said, “Hello, Tony. This is Mike Shayne.”
“Hi, boss. Your neck, she ain’t stretched yet, huh?”
“Not yet. Do you know where Chuck Evans hangs out?”
“Lemme see, Mike. I think mebbe so. Him and Belle have been holed up at Mamma Julie’s all winter. But wait, boss. Somebody said last week Chuck made a killin’ out at Hialeah. I dunno whether he’s still there or not.”
“Mamma Julie’s? That’s down on Fifth, isn’t it? Okay. And listen, Tony.”
“Yeh, boss.”
“Stick around close. I may have a job for you.”
“You betcha. I’ll be on tap.”
Shayne hung up and waited a minute, then called another number.
When a woman’s voice answered, he said, “Helen? Mike Shayne speaking. Let me speak to Larry.”
“Larry hasn’t come back.” Helen Kincaid sounded worried. “He’s in Jacksonville on business.”
“Jacksonville?”
“Yes. I didn’t know anything about it. I thought maybe you did. He left home last night saying he was going to see you at your apartment.”
Shayne asked sharply, “How do you know he’s in Jacksonville?”
“I had a telegram from him early this morning. Said he’d been called away unexpectedly and didn’t know how long he’d be gone.”
She hesitated, then asked in a taut tone of repressed fear, “What-did you and Larry quarrel about, Mike?”
“He told you about that, did he?”
“Y-Yes. Not very much though.”
“I’ll be out to see you later,” Shayne said abruptly. “If the police or anyone question you, don’t tell them about the telegram from Larry. Don’t tell them a damned thing.”
“Is Larry-in trouble?”
“It’s your fault if he is,” Shayne told her brutally.
He hung up and went to the bedroom where he put on a tie and slid his wide shoulders into a light sport jacket. Stopping at the table on the way out, he pocketed the handkerchief and strode out to the elevator where he pressed the DOWN button.
In a pleasant, sun-filled lobby downstairs, he sauntered to the desk and glanced at his empty mailbox. The clerk on duty greeted him respectfully.
“Good morning, Mr. Shayne! That was a pretty close call last night.”
“What?”
Shayne’s ragged red brows came down in a straight line.
“Over at the beach,” the clerk amplified hastily. “Walking into that dead man like you did.”
Shayne said, “Oh-that? Yeh.”
He turned and went out into the hallway leading to the side entrance, got into his car parked at the curb and made a U-turn, drove to S. E. First Street where he turned west into one-way traffic and followed it to the F. E. C. railroad tracks, where he made a right turn and parked at the curb that said: NO PARKING, POLICE.
He nodded pleasantly to a couple of loitering patrolmen and went into the Miami police station, down a hall to the private office of the chief of detectives. Pushing the door open, he found Will Gentry sitting back at ease with his feet on a scarred oak desk reading the latest edition of the Miami Herald.
Gentry lowered the paper and glanced placidly at his visitor with a twinkle in his blue eyes.
“’Lo, Michael. Why can’t you learn to stay out of Painter’s pretty hair?”
Shayne grinned and slid into a chair in front of the desk.
“To hell with Painter. Let him stay out of my hair. I heard you had a mysterious telephone conversation early this morning. Anything in it?”
Will Gentry was a big man, stolid and lacking in imagination. He said:
“Some bastard ruined my beauty sleep to report an automobile accident out on the Trail.”
“So-?”
“It was the goods, all right. The bodies have been brought in, and a wrecker is getting the car up now. One funny thing about the accident, Mike. The driver was alone in the front seat, and there was one man in the back. He drowned cuddling a typewriter.”
Shayne lit a cigarette and spun the match across the room toward a cuspidor.
“That is funny,” he conceded. “Mostly when two men are riding in a car, they’re both in the front seat.”
“Yeh. I’ve got a hunch about it. Looks to me like-”
“Skip it. I don’t suppose you’ve got any dope on the men or guns yet?”
“Not yet. I think they must be new in Miami. The car had New York plates.”
Shayne nodded casually. “Let me know if you get anything.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out the frilly square of linen, tossed it across to Gentry. “Can you see any good reason why that might be worth murder?”
The detective chief picked it up and turned it over and over.
“Looks like some dame’s handkerchief.”
Shayne leaned forward tensely.
“I wish you’d have your bright boys put it through every known test for secret writing or stuff like that, Will. It’s probably a crazy idea-” He leaned back and tugged at the lobe of his ear. “-But I’ve got to know.”
“Sure. Anything else on your mind, Mike?”
Shayne got up, but Gentry detained him by asking, “What’s it all about?”
“I wish to God I knew, Will. I don’t. I’m trying to play sixteen different hunches.”
Gentry cleared his throat and rustled the newspaper in his hands.
“It says here that you positively identified the voice that called you over the phone to come to the beach.”
Shayne nodded absently.
“That’s bait. We’ll see what comes after it. I wish you’d leave any messages at my hotel, Will.”
Gentry said he would do that, and Shayne went out.
In his car, he drove to Fifth Street where he turned to the right for a few blocks, into the oldest residential section of the Magic City and parked in front of a two-story, gabled frame house set back in the center of a large lawn shaded with magnificent old trees. A neat sign on the lawn said: HOUSEKEEPING APARTMENTS TO LET.
Shayne went up the walk to a sagging front porch that needed paint, and pressed the button. A dumpy woman with stringy black hair and a fat, dark face came to the door.
Shayne tipped his hat back and said, “Hello, mamma. Is Chuck Evans in?”
“It’s you, Mr. Shayne.” Mamma Julie shook her head. “Chuck hit it lucky at the track a few days ago. You know how those heels are. My place wasn’t good enough as soon as he got in the money. He pulled out to one of
