“I’ll take care of that,” Shayne promised. “The suicide evidence will be discovered not later than two o’clock. Get the hell back to your office and get those pictures developed, and make over your front page. And print that extra if you want a real scoop. Have the extras loaded in trucks and waiting at strategic points all over the city for a flash to distribute. And you meet me in Painter’s office at three for that flash. Get going.”
He gave Timothy a good-natured shove into his coupe, stood there with his hands in his pockets and watched the reporter start back toward Miami at high speed.
Alone, Shayne moved down the shore line to a spot where he could see the aft lifeboat in its davits on the Sea Queen’s deck.
He settled on the grass with his back against the shaggy bole of a coco palm and took up his vigil. He lit one cigarette from another, never for long taking his gaze from the prow of the lifeboat where he had deposited the evidence of Marsha’s suicide.
He stayed there an hour without moving, and nothing out of the ordinary happened on board the yacht.
Shayne yawned and got up to stretch wearily, then walked swiftly to a near-by beer and sandwich parlor where he went into the telephone booth and called the Miami Beach police office.
To the first voice that answered, he said in a low, whining tone, “Is this here a policeman?”
“Yeh. What is it?”
“I’m a fisherman, see? I don’ want to git mixed up in no trouble and I been tryin’ all day to git up enough nerve to tell some cop about what I saw happen las’ night.”
“Well, what is it? You won’t get in any trouble if you tell the truth.”
“I saw what looked like a woman get throwed in the bay las’ night, mister. Early this mornin’. Off that there ‘Sea Queen’ yacht tied up at the dock. She yelled once and then splashed.”
“Wait a minute!” yelled the excited desk sergeant at the other end. “Who’s calling? Where are you?”
“Never mind. I’m tellin’ the truth so he’p me.”
Shayne hung up, held the receiver down a moment, then called Marco’s Casino. Using the same tone, he whined, “Lemme speak to Mr. Marco, please. I got somethin’ important and private to tell ’im.”
When Marco’s heavy voice growled, “What is it?” Shayne replied swiftly, “This is a friend that saw a man push your girl off Elliot Thomas’s yacht into the bay last night. The police are on the way to the boat now.”
He calmly hung up on Marco’s bellowed exclamations, sauntered across to the counter and ordered a glass of beer.
Sitting on a stool with the glass in his hand, he looked over at the pier and at the Sea Queen riding idly against the pull of her hawsers.
His beer wasn’t half finished before two police cars screamed up to the pier and a squad of detectives tumbled out, led by the dapper figure of Peter Painter.
Shayne took a deep sip of his beer and watched them mount the gangplank, push the guard out of the way and spread out over the boat, questioning the crew and officers who turned out to see what the alarm was all about.
A few moments later John Marco’s limousine rolled up beside the police cars, and the Miami Beach councilman got out and hurried up the gangplank.
Shayne finished off his beer and flipped a dime to the counter, strolled out unconcernedly, taking off his hornrimmed glasses as he stepped into the sunlight.
Unobserved, he went to his parked roadster and got in, drove away slowly toward the Miami Beach police station where he parked half a block away and contentedly waited for developments to develop.
Chapter Nineteen: MAKING THE NEWS COME TRUE
Shayne didn’t have very long to wait before one of the police cars came back bringing Painter and about half of the detectives who had gone to the yacht.
John Marco was close behind them in his limousine. Shayne pleasurably observed the strained look of horror on the big gambler’s face as he got out of his car and tramped heavily into the police station behind Painter.
Shayne relaxed in the seat of his roadster, bright-eyed and watchful.
Ten minutes later a radio car rolled up in front of the police station and disgorged a burly cop in uniform and a passenger.
It was Elliot Thomas.
The millionaire yachtsman appeared to be more angered than frightened. He was remonstrating hotly with the officer-or it looked so from Shayne’s position. The policeman led him up the steps and they disappeared inside a door.
Shayne lit a cigarette and dragged smoke out of it happily. He felt tense, keyed up to a high, feverish pitch. Anything could happen in the next half-hour. He didn’t know what, but he liked that feeling of sitting atop a powder keg. Moments like this were what made life worth while. One slip would mean utter disaster. One tiny break in the rhythm of events-one fatal flaw in his line of reasoning He delayed as long as he dared, savoring to the utmost the thrill of being poised above a precipice before taking the final leap from which there could be no turning back.
He took a final drag on his cigarette and flung the butt away. Smoke trailed lazily from his wide nostrils as he eased his long body out from under the wheel and sauntered to the entrance.
It was two-twenty when he entered the corridor. The afternoon edition of the Miami News would be on the streets in ten minutes.
A group of detectives were loitering in the hall outside the closed door of Painter’s office. They glared at Shayne as he strolled up, and two of them got between him and the door.
“You can’t go in there,” one of them announced belligerently. “Chief’s got an important conference on.”
Shayne kept moving directly toward the door. His eyes were impersonally cold, steely gray. His voice matched his eyes, “I’m going in.”
Reluctantly, they got out of his way. There was something about Shayne that moved them aside.
He turned the knob without knocking and went in.
Painter, Elliot Thomas, and John Marco were alone in the office. Marco was slumped into a chair mopping his bald head. His big features and tiny mouth were lax, as though the fibers of his flesh had disintegrated under the unnerving shock of learning that his daughter was a suicide victim.
Thomas was leaning over the desk facing Painter, his ruddy face angrily flushed. His fist thudded down and words spurted out into the detective chief’s face.
“-damnable outrage. I have no knowledge of this affair. Absolutely none.”
He gestured with a shaking hand toward Marsha Marco’s jacket, felt hat, and the suicide note lying in front of Painter.
“I have no idea how those got on my yacht. Not the faintest. I haven’t seen Miss Marco for days. She’s never been aboard the ‘Sea Queen’ to my knowledge.”
Marco glanced apathetically at Shayne. Painter darted one keen glance at him with no sign of recognition. To Thomas, he said silkily, “You entertained some woman on your yacht last night. The steward and two of the sailors saw you bring her aboard. If it wasn’t Miss Marco, who was it?”
Thomas was breathing heavily, audibly. He straightened and answered, “It certainly was not Miss Marco. It was another woman entirely. And she left early. Why, it’s absurd.”
“None of the crew saw her leave,” Painter told him. “You can prove your story by giving me her name. I’ll have her brought in for questioning.”
Thomas started to say something, then stopped. He swallowed hard and began in an uncertain voice, “That’s the devil of it. I don’t know her name. That is-Helen-” He paused, licking his lips.
He turned slightly and saw Shayne lounging against the door. His eyes brightened and relief spread over his face.
“Mr. Shayne. Thank God you’re here. Tell them I-that the woman who was aboard my yacht last night wasn’t Miss Marco. Mr. Shayne knows her,” he went on triumphantly to Painter. “He can tell you her name. You see, I happened to meet her in his apartment last night and we left together.”
Shayne’s eyes narrowed.
