“I’ve got a lead of my own,” Shayne said, “but I can’t start on it until tomorrow.”
Rourke came out of the bathroom, and watching him from beneath lowered lids, Shayne said, “Well, guess I’ll turn in.” He started to yawn, but his sore chin stopped it.
“I can take a hint,” said Rourke with a grin. He went out and closed the door.
Shayne stood for a long moment before the bedroom door before going in to get his pajamas. When he finally opened it, he stood with his hand on the knob staring at the bed. Moonlight came through the window and lay softly upon the form of the girl curled up under the sheet.
Lucy Hamilton lay on her side. Her dark hair was fluffed out on the pillow and her right arm was outside the covering, her fingers seemingly clutching the edge of the mattress.
Shayne closed the door and drew the sheet from the other side of the bed back a little to slide his body underneath. Lucy did not stir, and her breathing was so even and faint he could not hear a sound as he lowered his head to the pillow beside hers.
He lay like that for a moment, stiffly embarrassed and suddenly angry with her for going on sleeping.
His left hand touched her brown hair gently. He sat up quickly and looked at his fingers in the bright moonlight. Something thick and sticky clung to them. He dropped his other hand on her shoulder and called to her urgently. Her body was wholly lax under his touch like the body of a jointless rag doll.
Chapter Nine
Shayne sprang from the bed and switched on the light, caught Lucy’s limp wrist to feel for her pulse. He first thought there wasn’t any, and his blunt finger tip moved frenziedly around the spot where it had to be. He cursed himself for sitting outside drinking cognac and talking with Rourke while Lucy lay on the bed possibly with the life ebbing out of her.
Then he felt a faint beat, regular and reassuring, but scarcely discernible under his touch.
Racing to the telephone, he called the switchboard and asked for the house physician’s apartment. It seemed hours before the doctor in 482 answered.
“Mike Shayne-in three-oh-six,” he said rapidly. “I need you fast. Don’t bother to dress. An accident- emergency.”
“I’m already dressed,” said Dr. Price peevishly. “I’ll be right down.”
Shayne was still barefooted, but he had got into his underwear and pants when he heard the elevator stop down the hall and brisk footsteps coming toward his door. He had the door open before the doctor reached it, caught him urgently by the arm and pulled him toward the bedroom, explaining swiftly:
“It’s my secretary. Back of her head is smashed, but I felt a pulse.” He held up his bloody finger that had touched Lucy’s hair. “I don’t know how long ago. I’ve been out all evening. She was here alone.”
Dr. Price was a bald-headed, dried-up little man with gentle blue eyes and a white goatee. He was fully dressed, except for coat and tie. He took in Shayne’s condition of partial undress and his explanation of the emergency with an expression of complete disinterest as he examined the patient.
“Hot water,” Dr. Price said. “A large container. Be sure it boils.”
Shayne whirled and trotted to the kitchen. He ran water from the faucet into a half-gallon boiler, the largest vessel the small kitchenette afforded, set it on the gas flame, then went back to stand in the bedroom doorway again.
Dr. Price had the blood wiped away and the brown hair parted to reveal an ugly wound just at the base of Lucy’s skull when Shayne returned. He was probing carefully, and without lifting his head said, “Concussion. Not dangerous, but quite serious.”
“How long ago, Doc?”
“Half an hour, maybe. Watch that kettle and bring it in as soon as it boils. You can’t help by standing there gawking. And call my nurse in six-seventeen. I’ll need her in a few minutes.”
Shayne stopped at the telephone and called the nurse. She answered sleepily, but promised to come down at once. The kettle was boiling when he went back into the kitchen. He carried it into the bedroom and asked the doctor whether there was anything else he could do.
“A clean towel and washrag,” the doctor ordered.
Shayne sprinted into the bathroom and took a wash-rag, three linen face towels, and a large bath towel from the cabinet and raced to the bedroom with them, then went into the living-room with his shoes and shirt in his hand and put them on.
Pacing the room and tugging at his earlobe, he worried his mind for some clue as to what could have happened to Lucy. She was wearing a nightgown and a robe. Why were her bedroom slippers lying on the living- room floor instead of beside the bed, which would be the normal place for them to be? She had promised to wait in his apartment until he returned. Evidently she had gone to her room, undressed and made herself comfortable in the gown and robe and slippers, then returned to his living-room to wait for him. When he was so late coming home, maybe she had become anxious and decided to rest on his bed instead of going back to her own room so that she would know the minute he returned and find out whether anything had happened to him.
Miss Naylor’s knock on the door interrupted his thoughts. She was tall and austere-appearing without any make-up and with night cream still smeared on her face. Her hair was done up in metal curlers, but she wore a clean starched uniform and seemed completely self-possessed, competent, and unaware of her personal appearance.
Shayne took her to the bedroom. She went in and firmly closed the door. For a moment he glared at the door, then resumed his pacing.
Half an hour ago, Dr. Price had said. He himself had been in the apartment almost that long before going into the bedroom. He didn’t let himself think that things might have been different if he had gone directly to the bedroom when he saw her slippers on the floor. It was a sign he was getting old. Ten years ago he wouldn’t have fooled around with cigarettes and a drink under such conditions.
The door to the apartment had been unlocked, he recalled. Perhaps she had thought of something she wanted to get from her own room while she waited for him, had gone out and left the door on the latch. She didn’t have a key to the door. But why would she have gone into the bedroom, gone to bed, without locking the door?
The agony of trying to think without anything to begin with, with absolutely nothing that could give him any intimation of what had happened, was exhausting. He sank into a chair by the table. He poured half a water-glass of cognac and began sipping it slowly. He looked around the apartment with narrowed and speculative eyes. He knew every inch of it, every article of furniture and the exact position occupied by each one. He couldn’t see anything out of place-nothing whatsoever to indicate where the attack on Lucy had occurred.
Anger rolled over him like a tidal wave as he began to realize the actual import of what had occurred. Someone had come here, brutally slugged an innocent girl, and then walked calmly out again. And he, by God, was sitting around like a fool, straining his ears for a sound, a significant word, from the closed bedroom, and not doing one damned thing about what had happened.
He got up and stalked to the telephone, got police headquarters, and asked for Sergeant Harvey, who was in charge of the homicide squad.
“Speaking,” Sergeant Harvey said.
“Mike Shayne. There’s been an attempted murder in my apartment. Murder-maybe.”
“Which was it? Make up your mind.”
“The doctor will have to tell us that.” Shayne’s voice was edged with anger. “You got anybody around there sober enough to come over and dust for fingerprints-or is that too much trouble?”
“Keep your pants on,” said the sergeant wearily. “We’ll be right over. Who is it?”
“My secretary,” said Shayne shortly. “Miss Lucy Hamilton. I wish you’d bring Robertson if he’s on duty.” He hung up and again let his eyes roam slowly over every inch of the room, then strode out to the kitchen and tried the door leading onto the fire escape. It was locked, and the key hung in its accustomed place.
