It took him half an hour to reach his hotel. He decided against the stairway when he went in the side entrance. The night clerk called to him as he tried to ease through the lobby to the elevator without being noticed.
The clerk let out an awed, “My God!” when Shayne turned his bandaged face toward the desk.
Shayne tried to grin, but ruefully gave up when the effort proved too painful. Sidling to the clerk, he said out of the side of his mouth:
“Don’t tell me, for God’s sake, that my sister picked this night to pay me a visit?”
“No.” The clerk discreetly repressed his laughter. “But there’s a couple of cops up in your apartment. That little fellow from the beach and Chief Gentry.”
Shayne nodded and went to the elevator.
Chapter Thirteen: THE DOUBTFUL RACE
The door of Shayne’s apartment was open, and Peter Painter and the Miami detective chief were sitting inside. Will Gentry grinned broadly when he saw Shayne’s face, but Painter regarded him with cold hostility.
Shayne grimaced and said, “I hope I haven’t kept you gentlemen waiting.”
He went past them to the liquor cabinet and got some glasses, set what was left of the bottle of cheap brandy on the table and said,
“Help yourselves. I’ll pretty up a little.”
He went into the bathroom to appraise the damage he had suffered at the Round-up, wondering whether those two little words, “Banjo Boy,” were worth the price he had paid. He was appalled when he looked at the rough-and-ready job of bandaging he and the druggist had done to his face. The bleeding had all stopped, however, and he contented himself with cleaning off the dried blood with a wet rag; then went back into the living-room.
Will Gentry had poured himself a glass of brandy, but Painter sat stiffly erect with palms flat on the table.
Shayne grinned painfully and said, “I take it this is not a social call, Painter.”
He went to the cabinet and got down his bottle of cognac, brought it back and poured out a drink.
“Painter,” said Gentry, “wants to ask you some questions.”
“He’s always asking somebody fool questions.” Shayne slumped down in a chair and indicated the bottle he had just set down. “If he isn’t in a drinking mood, Will, I won’t hold out my private stock on you.”
“When you get through horsing around,” said Painter distantly, “I have some matters to take up with you.”
“Take them up, by all means.”
“When I questioned you about Grange’s death last night, why didn’t you tell me of the connection your friend Kincaid had with the dead man?”
“Because I didn’t consider it any of your damned business,” Shayne responded blandly.
Painter’s neat black mustache trembled slightly. “Suppression of evidence in a homicide is a felony in this state.”
“I don’t admit that Larry Kincaid’s connection with Grange had anything to do with homicide.”
“Are you sure it wasn’t because you had agreed to act as intermediary for Kincaid? Because you met Grange out on that lonely stretch of beach to obtain the evidence he was holding out on Elliot Thomas?”
Shayne’s blunt finger tips drummed irritably on the table.
“Are you still trying to hang that murder on me? I thought we settled that last night.”
“When I released you, I wasn’t in possession of the facts set forth in an affidavit sworn to by Mr. Elliot Thomas who came in voluntarily this afternoon.”
“All right,” Shayne snapped. “Now that you’re in possession of that affidavit-what are you going to do?”
Painter’s eyes glinted happily.
“I think I’m going to place a charge of first-degree murder against you.”
“You’ll wish you hadn’t,” Shayne warned. “Besides, I need another twelve hours free of interference and I’ll dump this whole thing in your lap. Hell! you haven’t even found the murder gun yet. Do you think I swallowed it after I shot Grange?”
Painter was fidgeting with the knob of the table drawer. He purred, “I’m quite sure we have found the death gun, Shayne. An embarrassing discovery for you.”
He pulled the drawer open and pointed to the two. 32 automatics lying in plain sight.
“Very careless of you, Shayne. Not to have even cleaned and reloaded the pistol.”
Gentry had been sitting back sipping a drink, making no visible show of his interest. Now, he sat up, studied Shayne intently, a puzzled frown gathering on his broad, genial face.
Shayne laughed and asked, “Have you checked the bullet that killed Grange with that pistol?”
“Not yet. We discovered the guns by accident while we were waiting for you. But Grange was killed with a thirty-two automatic.”
“And ten to one, that’s the gun that did it.”
Shayne leaned forward and pointed to the pistol he had taken from Marsha Marco’s room-now fitted with the barrel taken out of his own pistol.
“While you’ve been getting affidavits on my guilt,” he said drily, “I’ve been collecting evidence for you. I found that gun this afternoon-where the killer threw it after shooting Grange.”
Will Gentry relaxed again and emptied his glass while Painter snorted, “Naturally, you would cover up with some such story.”
“I’ve got an affidavit, too. From a substantial citizen who witnessed my finding of the gun.”
“That only proves you threw it there yourself last night,” Painter snarled.
Shayne shrugged and lifted heavy red brows at Will Gentry. The semblance of a smile formed around his eyes and crinkled his heavy cheek muscles.
“Why don’t you instruct your playmate in the rudiments of sleuthing, Will? This pistol with the nick in the butt belongs to me. It’s registered in my name and I’ve got a permit to carry it. If he wasn’t so damned interested in hanging something on me, he’d take the number off that other gun and find out who it belongs to.”
Peter Painter was quivering with wrath.
“I don’t need you to teach me my job, Shayne. That’s exactly what I’ve done. Gentry phoned the numbers in-and we’re waiting for a call from headquarters.”
“And you thought about that all by yourself?” Shayne looked upon him admiringly. “My, my. Stick around with me, little man, and you’ll learn to recognize a clue when you see one.”
Gentry turned his face away and put a huge hand to his mouth while Shayne blandly leaned forward and filled the two glasses with cognac.
The telephone rang while Painter was choking over a reply. He snapped, “I’ll answer,” and hopped up importantly.
Shayne lifted his glass to Gentry with a grin, said, “Here’s mud in your eye, Will,” while Painter lifted the receiver and carried on a brief conversation.
Gentry waggled his big head sidewise and said in a low tone, “Before God, Mike, I thought Petey had you when he found that gun in your drawer. Is that story of finding it straight?”
“Want to see my affidavit?”
Painter slammed up the receiver as Gentry smilingly said, “Not if you’ve got it, Mike.”
Painter came back to the table and rapped out, “That was your office, Gentry. They have only one thirty-two automatic registered in Shayne’s name. The number corresponds with the one that hasn’t been fired. They have no record of the other number. It’s probably one he stole on one of his jobs.”
Shayne came slowly and ominously to his feet. In a soft, terrible voice, he said, “That’s about the last crack of that sort I’m taking from you, Painter. Get out of here, or so help me God-”
The phone rang again. Painter backed toward it nervously.
Gentry put his hand on Shayne’s arm and said soothingly, “Don’t let him get your goat, Mike. You’ve got to admit that story Thomas told makes it look pretty bad.”
