and shot him.”
Captain Ott sat down on the edge of the desk and lighted a cigar. He asked, “What do you propose to do?”
“If I tie Bob up to the murder or make Mrs. Wilson think he’s mixed in it, then she’ll spill everything.”
“You’re still solving a murder, and I’ve…”
“You won’t get anything out of her,” Shayne cut in warningly, “as long as she believes Bob is innocent.”
Captain Ott was silently thoughtful for a long moment, then said, “Your treatment is pretty rough for an old lady who’s trying to protect her son.”
“You want him for desertion, don’t you?”
The captain’s expression hardened. “We do. All right, I’ll let you handle it. We haven’t forgot your cooperation on the Nicholson case. Any time you want a commission, Shayne…”
Shayne’s gaunt features contorted in a wry grin. “Thanks. But I’m not cut out for a uniform, and certain of your regulations might cramp my style. I think I’m worth more on the outside.”
“There’s something in what you say.” Captain Ott lifted himself from the table and Shayne put on his trench coat.
They shook hands and Shayne promised, “I’ll notify you the moment I get anything definite.”
Shayne went swiftly and purposefully down the two flights of stairs, through the foyer, and outside. The un- blackened side of a few street lights shone dimly through the before-daylight mist and the streets were tomblike with utter silence. His trench coat felt snug and warm against the damp chill in the air, for in spite of the resort’s slogan of “June in Miami the year around” early spring nights were chilly in the semi-tropics.
His big shoes made a loud tramping sound on the pavement as he made his way to police headquarters. He went directly back to the file room and spoke cheerfully to a gray-haired man in uniform drowsing in a cushioned chair. “Hi, Pop,” he called, and closed the door. “Brought you something to keep you awake.”
The old man’s ruddy, seamed face broke into pleasurable wrinkles when Shayne pulled out his bottle. “’Tis a fine lad you are, Mike, to be thinkin’ of old Pop Gans on a night like this.”
He took the bottle and tilted it to his lips, let a generous portion of the liquor trickle down his throat. His red- rimmed eyes beamed when he handed the depleted bottle back to Shayne. “And what was that bribe for?”
“Just want you to look up an old case for me, Pop. Or maybe you’ll remember. About a year ago… three punks robbing a drugstore on the corner of Miami Avenue and Sixth.”
Pop Gans squinted at him with rheumy eyes. “About a year ago, you say?”
“Yeh.” Shayne frowned. “One of the men was named Willie Garson. And there was…”
“The others were Red Axtell and Peewee Dimoff. Sure, I’ve got it now. What is it you’re wantin’ to know, Mike?”
“What disposition was made of the case. What came out at the trial… whether anyone was back of them… any mob.”
“The three of them took a guilty plea,” Pop told him. “There wasn’t any trial. But here’s something for you to chew on, Mike. Manny Markle appeared for them.”
“Manny Markle? Where’d those three amateurs get the money for Manny’s fee?”
The old man cackled loudly. “That’s the morsel you’re to chew on.”
“I get it,” Shayne said slowly. “If Manny was fronting for them they must have had the right sort of connections. Thanks, Pop. That’s what I needed. Know what they drew?”
“Five to eight years.”
Shayne said, “I don’t see why the hell they keep any files in here,” and went out to his car.
CHAPTER 4
From the police department Shayne drove to the garage of his apartment hotel, got out wearily and went around to the front door and into the lobby.
Tommy was alone, dozing behind the desk. His head jerked up and his eyes popped open when Shayne’s heels thudded across the tiled floor. He jumped up and asked eagerly, “What happened, Mr. Shayne? Did everything turn out all right?”
“Everything turned out lousy, Tommy,” Shayne said. He leaned both elbows on the desk and morosely tugged at the lobe of his left ear. “I’m sort of on the spot. You’ve got to keep your eyes open and help me.”
“You bet I will.” The clerk’s blue eyes sparkled.
“Certain people are going to have a yen to wipe me out,” Shayne explained. “They’re liable to come around here. You’ll have to be on your toes to warn me of anybody or anything that looks a bit off-color.”
“You bet, Mr. Shayne. Say!” Tommy lowered his voice to a confidential pitch. “You reckon they could be after you already?”
“I doubt it. Not quite so soon. Why?”
“Well, couple of fellows came in about twenty minutes ago. Real toughies they looked like. They asked about rooms and apartments, then asked if you stayed here. I told them you did.” Tommy paused to catch his breath.
“And?” Shayne prompted.
“And they wanted to know the number of your apartment. To tell the truth, Mr. Shayne, I guess I was sort of sleepy, and I gave them the number of your upstairs apartment. The one you haven’t used much since…”
“Yeh,” Shayne said roughly. “What else?”
“Well, they said they were friends of yours and asked if I had a vacancy near to it. So I rented them the one right across the hall. Said they wanted to surprise you and gave me a five-spot to not mention them to you.”
Shayne kept on tugging at his earlobe. “What names did they give?”
The young clerk went over and took a card from the file. “Here it is. L. J. Martin and John Anderson. City.”
Shayne said, “Thanks, Tommy. That may be it, though I don’t see…” His voice trailed off. “Anyway, it won’t take long to find out.” He took a bill from his wallet and shoved it across to the clerk. “Maybe you won’t be getting in any naps at night for a while.” He started toward the elevator.
Tommy called out, “You want me to do anything, Mr. Shayne? Should I call the police?”
Shayne grinned reassuringly over his shoulder. “We’ll keep the police out of this.” He stepped into the elevator and went up to his office-apartment on the second floor.
Everything was as it had been when he had left hastily after Clem Wilson’s telephone call. Shayne hung his hat up after looking carefully around, then took the cognac bottle from his pocket and set it on the center table. He shucked off his coat and dropped it on a chair, went into the kitchenette whistling a tuneless air.
He put ice cubes in a tall goblet, filled it with water, and got a wine glass from a shelf above the sink. Back in the living room he filled the wine glass with cognac and stood on widespread legs while he drank half of it slowly. He washed it down with ice water, yawned and rumpled his red hair, then drank the rest of the liquor.
Going to a drawer, he took out a. 38 revolver, spun the cylinder to make certain it was fully loaded, tucked it into the waistband of his trousers and went out.
Shayne climbed one flight of stairs and went down the hallway to the corner apartment, which he had not entered since his wife’s death. There was no light in the apartment across the way, but the transom was open and the door stood ajar a crack. A sardonic grin flitted across his gaunt features as he got out a keyring and jingled it loudly, pushing each key around until he came to the one which fitted the lock. Inserting the key, he turned it, glancing over his shoulder as he stepped inside.
He saw the opposite door edge open a trifle wider.
Closing his door, he turned on the lights and stood looking about the beautifully appointed and restful living room with an expression of acute sorrow tightening his face. Everything reminded him of Phyllis. Never would there be a wife like her again. She had selected the rugs and the furniture, had sewed the bright curtains herself. There was the deep chair she had loved to sit in, facing east, to watch the colors on Biscayne Bay flashed back by the setting sun. There was the hassock she dragged close to his own chair and curled up on like a little girl…
Shayne set his teeth and turned his back on the room. He dropped to his knees and peered through the
