voice, “I think I can use a drink.”
Shayne didn’t say anything. He lit a fresh cigarette and watched Randolph cross the room to a whisky decanter, pick it up and carry it into the kitchenette. He came back a moment later with a brimming two-ounce jigger in his hand. “You’ve been acting queerly ever since you found me passed out here. I think you’d better tell me what’s gnawing at you.”
“Several things.” Shayne ticked them off on his fingers. “I keep remembering that you appraised the rubies for a whopping big policy-and that the stolen gems never turned up again.”
“Not the Kendrick pendant,” he protested. “I was out of town when it was insured.”
“You and Stanley Ellsworth could have been in cahoots to defraud your companies-”
“How, Shayne? How in the name of God do you figure that?” Sweat was streaming from Randolph’s face.
“I don’t know,” Shayne admitted readily. “That’s the only angle I can’t get straight in my mind. Unless you over-appraised the rubies,” he went on meditatively, “in order to help Voorland hook a sucker-and then split the profit with him.”
Randolph’s ruddy face was flushed an angry red. “That’s the first time in my career I’ve been accused of anything like that.” He kept his voice calm with visible effort. “Suppose I did arrange a deal like that with Voorland-what in hell would be gained by having the rubies stolen later?”
“That’s the point I don’t get. Unless you were conscience stricken and preferred to have your company lose instead of the individual purchaser.”
Randolph tipped the liquor glass up and emptied it. He threw it across the room and said violently, “I never knew you to go haywire like this before, Shayne. Do you honestly believe any of this stuff you’re saying?”
“I’m afraid I honestly believe you murdered Mrs. Mark Dustin.”
Randolph’s pudgy body became flaccid. His mouth dropped open and his eyes became glassy. “What gives you that idea?” he asked in a strangled voice. He put both hands on the day-bed and pushed himself erect.
Shayne took the automatic from his pocket and rested it on his crossed knee. “Don’t get up,” he said dispassionately. “I can take the murder of Mrs. Dustin in my stride, but I’d love to shoot the guts out of the man who tried to kill my secretary last night.”
Chapter Nineteen
Amazement and disbelief shone in Randolph’s eyes as he looked at the gun in Shayne’s hand. He sank back on the day-bed, muttering, “You don’t mean me, Shayne. You can’t mean me. I haven’t tried to kill anybody.”
“I think you have. First my secretary, and Mrs. Dustin later. You didn’t quite succeed with Miss Hamilton, and that’s your tough luck. She can identify the man who came into my apartment and took Mrs. Dustin’s message over the telephone-the man who left her lying on my bed to die.”
“This is all utterly impossible, Shayne. I can’t believe you’re serious. Why would I do any of those things? How can you possibly suspect me?”
“I don’t know why,” Shayne admitted. “Your motive is the only thing I lack. But Lucy described her attacker, Randolph. She saw him clearly, and her description fits you like a glove. And she heard you talking over the phone, and can recognize your voice. Why did you pretend you’d been here in your apartment all evening when I came up here?”
“I had,” panted Randolph. “I swear-”
“Swearing won’t do you any good,” Shayne told him angrily. “Tim Rourke will testify you didn’t answer your phone all evening. Your one mistake,” he went on viciously, “was in not polishing Lucy off while you had the chance.”
“I-don’t know-what to say, Mike,” he stammered.
“A full confession would do very well.”
Earl Randolph shook his head dispiritedly and moaned. He said, “We’ve been friends a long time. How can you possibly-”
“Talking is no good. Get on some clothes and we’ll go over to my apartment. You’ll know the jig’s up when Lucy identifies you.”
Randolph compressed his lips and his eyes roamed around the room as though searching for some means of escape. “I’m not going on any such absurd mission. You have no right-”
The trenches in Shayne’s gaunt cheeks deepened. He got up and moved toward the insurance man, saying implacably, “You’re going to my apartment if I have to carry you on a stretcher. Make up your mind. Fast.” He stood in front of the seated man with the automatic swinging loosely in his hand.
Randolph wet his lips again and said despairingly, “I can’t get over the idea that this is one of your jokes.”
“I don’t joke with a murderer. Get your clothes on.”
Randolph’s murky and slightly distended eyes showed fright. He got up slowly, went hesitantly toward the bedroom, glancing over his shoulder at Shayne, who followed him to the doorway.
The detective kept his cold gaze on him every moment as he dressed hastily and silently. His gray suit was rumpled, but with a clean shirt and colorful tie, Randolph was fairly presentable when they went out into the living- room. Shayne took his hat from the hatrack and put it on, picked up Randolph’s Panama and handed it to him when they were outside the door. “You’d better wear this. I wouldn’t want you to catch cold.”
Randolph accepted the Panama apathetically and put it on. He appeared dazed and speechless. They went down in the self-service elevator and out into the bright sunlight to Shayne’s car. The detective had put the gun in his coat pocket, and neither of them said anything as they got in the car and drove away.
During the short drive to his hotel, Shayne was aware that Randolph kept glancing aside at him, furtively and speculatively, as though trying to nerve himself for further argument, but was evidently repulsed by the grim set of Shayne’s jaw. Not a word passed between them when Shayne parked beside the hotel and they got out, went through the lobby together, and straight to the elevator without stopping.
The night clerk was no longer on duty, and the elevator boy, too, was different from the one who had been on duty the previous night. He had seen Randolph visiting the detective on previous occasions, and now he looked at the two men curiously as they got into the elevator. He appeared to sense that something was wrong, and discreetly refrained from making any casual remarks, as was his custom, as he took them to the third floor.
They went down the hall together and Shayne knocked on the door. Miss Naylor’s crisp voice called, “Who is it?”
“Mike Shayne. It’s all right, Miss Naylor.”
She opened the door and smiled at him, competently holding Blackie’s heavy. 45 by her side. “Dr. Price phoned that he would be down in a few minutes. Miss Hamilton hasn’t stirred since you left.”
Shayne nodded and motioned Randolph inside. He told the nurse quietly, “This is the man who left her to die last night. Don’t let him get close enough to that cannon to grab it.”
Miss Naylor flashed Randolph a keen and scrutinizing look. “Of all things! He doesn’t look like that kind.”
Shayne said, “Murderers seldom do.”
“Stop it, Shayne. For God’s sake, stop it!” Randolph’s self-control suddenly broke and his voice was thinly shrill. “I can’t stand any more of this. I tell you-”
“Shut up and sit down over there.” Shayne pointed to the couch. He asked Miss Naylor, “Do you think it would harm Lucy to waken her long enough to make an identification?”
“Probably not. But I’d have to have Dr. Price’s permission. He should be here any moment.”
Randolph slumped down on the couch and buried his face in his hands for a brief time, then raised his head to cast a wretched glance around the room.
There was a knock on the door and Shayne opened it to admit Dr. Price. He came in briskly, nodded to Shayne, and said, “Miss Naylor tells me our patient is reacting splendidly.” He looked from the gun in the nurse’s hand to Randolph, and raised his brows inquiringly.
