Wilson licked his thick lips, then twisted them into a sly smile. “Maybe not, but you ain’t told the police about you givin’ that dame a taxi ride las’ night. Am I right?”
Shayne said, “I can’t see that has anything to do with her being murdered.”
“Don’t you now? It’s because you got better sense than to get mixed up in it. That’s what. An’ you’re plenty smart to not say anything. They’d ask you plenty questions if they got started. You take it now, I know how the cops work. They pull a man in on a little bit of somethin’ like that they end up, by God, findin’ out ever’thing he ever done in his whole life. Get your pitcher in the paper handcuffed, like as not, an’ if they do turn you loose folks’ll allus remember you was mixed up in a murder case.”
Shayne said, “All right. How much will your loss of memory cost me?”
“Well, now, I don’t reckon it’s me that ought to set a price.” Wilson looked around the apartment. “It’s a right nice place you got here in this swanky apartment hotel. Must cost you plenty.”
“How much?”
Wilson looked into Shayne’s cold gray eyes for a long moment. “A man don’t make much in the taxi business these days,” he whined. “I got my old lady an’ a couple of kids to think about. Do you reckon it’d be worth five hunnerd to stay in the clear?”
Shayne said gravely, “Five hundred dollars is a lot of money.”
“It sure is a heap,” Wilson agreed. “But there’s a heap of trouble waitin’ for you if the cops get on your trail.”
Shayne said, “I’ve heard about such things. But you and I are going to work this out. There’s another drink left in the kitchen. We’ll split it and talk things over.” Wilson stood up, swaying slightly and asked, “You got a can in here ain’t you?” He grinned foolishly.
“Sure,” said Shayne. “Right through that door.” He pointed a knobby finger toward the bathroom door.
With the glasses in his hand Shayne trotted over and cracked the bedroom door open after Wilson disappeared. Estelle was sleeping soundly and quietly. He hurried to the kitchen, found a larger glass in the cupboard, filled it with cognac to within two inches of the top, and poured in enough of the mixture in the milk bottle to fill it to the brim.
He then took another glass of the same size and filled it with the diluted mixture in the bottle. Wilson was returning from the bathroom when he came in with the drinks, wavering as he walked, his black eyes slightly crossed.
Shayne pressed the water glass in his hands and asked, “Is your taxi parked around here anywhere?”
Wilson took a long gulp from his drink and said, “Sure. Right out in front. Watcha say this is got in it?”
“Same thing. Lots of lemon juice and a little cognac and Cointreau,” Shayne assured him.
Wilson hiccoughed and said, “How about the cash, Mister?” and took another drink.
Shayne sat down. “It looks as though you’ve got me over a barrelhead, Wilson. The banks are closed for the day and I haven’t got five hundred on me right now.”
“How much you got?” he demanded greedily.
Shayne took his wallet out, leaving the zippered side closed. He withdrew some bills from the open side and held them out, counting them carefully. “There’s a hundred and twenty-five here. I can get the balance in the morning,” he said.
Wilson reached for the money. “I reckon you won’t run out on me. I’ll see you tomorrow for the rest.” He took the bills, thrust them in his pocket, then drained his glass.
The telephone rang. Shayne went swiftly to answer it and said, “Yes?”
The desk clerk said excitedly, but in an almost inaudible whisper, “Couple of cops going to the elevator on their way to your room. I thought I’d better-”
“Thanks,” he said and hung up. He had heard a sound behind him. He turned and saw Ira Wilson stretched out flat on the floor. He ran to the entrance door of the apartment, shut it and latched it from the inside, then picked up the unconscious taxi driver and dragged him into the bedroom.
A loud knock sounded on his door. He pulled back the sheet and shoved Ira Wilson on the bed beside Estelle Morrison, and hurried out, closing the door quietly and firmly behind him.
He paused to scoop up the empty water glasses and carried them to the kitchen. From the kitchen he walked with a firm and heavy tread to the door, unlatched it, and jerked it open.
Chief of Police Will Gentry and a sergeant of the Miami police force stood in the doorway. Gentry was a big man with a placid, ruddy face and intelligent eyes. He and Shayne had been friends for a long time, but Chief Gentry had never let their friendship interfere with his sense of duty. He walked in and said:
“Hello, Mike. You know Sergeant Benham.”
Shayne said, “Sure. How are you, Sergeant,” and invited them to sit down. “I was just polishing off some sidecars. I can shake up some more in a hurry.”
“Don’t bother.” Gentry sank into a chair and sat solidly erect with a worried frown on his face. “I thought you were leaving town by plane last night,” he complained to Shayne.
The sergeant moved over to the couch and sat down. Shayne took the chair opposite Gentry, and said, “I put it off twenty-four hours.”
“Just for the fun of getting in Painter’s hair again?” Gentry rumbled.
“What’s Painter’s gripe this time?” Shayne asked.
“He called me from the Beach a little while ago. Wants me to locate a taxi driver who picked you up at the Play-Mor last night. You and the girl that got murdered right after she got in the taxi with you.”
“Have you located the driver?” Shayne asked.
“Not yet. But we’ve got a pickup out on him. How do you do it, Mike? Painter was frothing over the phone. Claimed you were sitting on top of the case like a damned ghoul when he got in on it this morning. He thinks you bumped the girl last night just to work up some business, and then hurried around to get yourself retained to solve it.”
Shayne grinned. “Business has been bad lately, Will. Does he figure I’ll put a noose around my neck to earn a fee?”
“Painter says you’ve got some sort of slick frame planned,” said Gentry, ignoring Shayne’s attempt to be funny. He sighed and folded his hands over his belly. “It’s just a matter of time before we locate the driver, Mike,” he went on seriously. “I don’t know what his story will be, but you do. If it puts you within a mile of the girl at the time she was killed Painter’s going to force me to pull you in.”
“What time was she killed?”
“They make it before eleven o’clock. The doorman at the Play-Mor says you and she rode off in a taxi together about ten-thirty. We’ve got a good description of the driver,” he ended.
Shayne was tugging at his left ear lobe. He asked, “Do they know where she was bumped?”
“They’ve pretty well fixed it right at the rear of the Hudson house where she worked. If you took her there from the club, Mike, it puts you on the spot at exactly the right time.”
“Not,” said Shayne, “if the driver testifies that I merely let her out of the cab at the front gate and had him drive me straight home.”
“No,” Gentry agreed. He had the cigar in his mouth but made no attempt to light it “Not if that’s what happened. But there’s a catch in that Painter claims he can place you at the front door of the house about fifteen or twenty minutes before eleven.”
“At the front door,” Shayne said. “Not the back door. Mrs. Morgan answered when I rang. And by the way, Mrs. Morgan told Painter she was a very sound sleeper, that she was asleep when Natalie Briggs was murdered and that she didn’t hear a sound. Tie that in,” he ended with a broad grin.
Gentry rumbled, “It’s not anything to kid about, Mike.”
“You’ve got to admit that Painter always picks on me,” said Shayne, “when he has a dozen other suspects to go after. But thanks for tipping me off, Will,” he added gravely.
“I just wanted you to know what you were up against.”
He pushed himself up from the chair with both hands on the arms.
The young sergeant arose from the couch and Shayne walked to the door with them.
He said, “Good luck on picking up that taxi driver, Will,” and stood in the doorway watching them until they stepped into the elevator.
Closing the door, he went leisurely to the bedroom door, opened it, and was thankful that neither of his
