“But I don’t know who she is. That’s one thing Tim said you could do, find out her name and whether Bert is there tonight.”
“How am I supposed to find out her name?”
“Tim says you’re the best detective in the country,” she answered simply.
“Yeh,” grated Shayne. “But how in hell does a detective find out the name of some woman you think your husband is in love with?”
“I know where she lives,” she told him, eager and hopeful again, “At the Las Felice apartments on Northwest Sixty-Seventh Street. Tim said you’d know how to go there and check up on all the women and find out which one Bert goes to see.”
“Tim says a lot of things,” Shayne growled. He glanced at his watch again, frowned, and hurried on. “Frankly, Mrs. Jackson, after meeting your husband this afternoon I can’t work myself up into a lather about what happens to him. I have an engagement.” He drained his glass and started to rise.
“I wish you’d call me Betty,” she said wistfully, coming to her feet. Her face was tragic and full of despair. “You’re supposed to be Tim’s friend. You care about what happens to him, don’t you?” She took a few steps toward him, swaying a little.
“What’s Tim got to do with it?” he demanded roughly.
“He’s out looking for Bert right now. If he finds him while they’re both in this mood-I don’t know what might happen.”
“Tim can take care of himself.”
“But don’t you see that Bert is using the thing that happened on the News as a lever?” she cried out. “If anything happens to him and it all comes out-”
She was weeping openly now, moving close to him. Shayne had to catch her in his arms to prevent her slipping to the floor as she flung herself upon him. Her arms went around his neck and she clung to him, sobbing convulsively.
“Please, Mike. Don’t you see that Tim is determined to prevent that? I’m so frightened. If they should meet while they’re both angry and upset-”
Shayne had both hands under her armpits to push her away when the door opened.
“Pardon me, Mr. Shayne,” Lucy Hamilton said frigidly. “If I’d known you were entertaining a client I wouldn’t have dreamed of intruding. But the door was on the latch.”
Shayne whirled about angrily, slipping his hands along Betty Jackson’s clinging arms to disengage them from his neck. He growled, “Skip it, Lucy. This isn’t a client. It’s Mrs. Jackson-a friend of Tim Rourke’s.” Lucy was cool and poised in a frosty-green cocktail dress, lace gloves, and a wide-brimmed hat. She looked down her straight nose at Betty’s tear-stained face and murmured, “How nice for Tim. I came up to save you the trouble of stopping by for me, Michael, but if you’re otherwise engaged-”
“I’m not,” Shayne assured her. “Mrs. Jackson is on her way out.” He took her firmly by the arm and led her to the door, thrust her into the corridor without a word, and swung back to try to make his peace with Lucy.
Chapter Three
The insistent ringing of the telephone wakened Shayne. He lay in the darkness and mechanically counted the rings. On the tenth, he threw back the covers and turned on the light. A long-standing arrangement with the switchboard operator in the hotel gave him no hope that the phone would stop ringing until he answered. Not if the call was important. If the operator considered it unimportant he would let it ring three times, inform the caller that Shayne was not in, and break the connection.
Shayne took his time, stretching and yawning widely. He looked at his watch. The time was seven minutes after two. He padded into the living-room, barefooted and gaunt-faced after less than an hour’s sleep. Lifting the receiver he growled, “Mike Shayne.”
“Dead drunk-from the time it took you to answer.” Chief Will Gentry’s gruff voice rumbled over the wire.
“Not yet,” said Shayne amicably. “Hold the line a minute, Will, while I pick up a bottle.”
“Damn it, Mike,” Gentry protested, before Shayne laid the receiver down and went across the room where he took a half-filled cognac bottle from the liquor cabinet. He drew the cork as he returned to the desk, took a long drink, grinning at the unintelligible snorts emanating from the prone instrument.
Plunking the bottle down hard, he picked up the receiver and said, “What’s on your mind, Will?”
“Your office, Shamus,” Gentry snapped. “Get down here as fast as you can.”
“What about my office?” Shayne scowled at the wall. “What in hell are you doing there?”
“I’ll expect you in ten minutes,” Gentry said flatly.
The banging of the receiver rang in Shayne’s ears. He hung up, took another drink from the bottle, and tugged absently at his left ear lobe as he slowly returned to the bedroom.
It took him five minutes to dress and only a few minutes more for his long-legged strides to carry him the few blocks to the downtown office building where he had rented a suite because Lucy Hamilton, his secretary, did not consider it proper to work in her employer’s apartment.
Chief Gentry’s sedan and two radio cars were parked at the curb, and a uniformed patrolman guarded the entrance to the building. The officer intercepted Shayne as he swung into the doorway.
“Nobody allowed in-” he began, then stepped aside. “It’s you,” he amended. “Chief’s waiting for you upstairs, Mr. Shayne.”
Shayne strode to the elevator which was manned by another officer whom he didn’t recognize. He stepped inside, and the man fumbled with the controls to get the door closed, sent the cage jerkily upward to the third floor where Shayne got out and went down the corridor.
He stopped in front of an open door that was scarred from jimmy marks around the lock and bore leaf-gold lettering on the frosted glass reading: Michael Shayne-Private Investigator.
Detective Sergeant Riley stood just inside the reception room over which Lucy Hamilton presided from nine to five every day. Around her desk and the filing-cabinet papers were scattered over the floor.
Shayne’s bleak gaze swept over the disorder and came back to the sergeant’s face. “What the hell goes on, Riley? If you guys wanted something-”
“The chief’s inside,” Riley interrupted, jerking his thumb toward a closed door marked Private.
Shayne set his jaw and stalked to the door, flung it open to a scene of devastating wreckage. The drawers of his desk were pulled out and piled on the floor. The compartments of a tall green metal filing-cabinet stood open, and piles of papers and cardboard folders lay haphazardly around it.
Two men squatted on the floor, their backs toward Shayne, pawing through the papers. Shayne closed the door quietly and watched for a moment, his eyes smoldering dangerously.
“If you’re looking for a drink,” he said, “I keep a bottle stashed in the top compartment.”
Will Gentry turned his graying head slowly, grunted as he heaved his bulk upward, and turned to face Shayne; but his companion continued to squat on his heels, poking industriously through the papers.
Shayne lounged forward and lowered one hip to a corner of his desk. He lit a cigarette and said, “Even if you’ve got a search warrant, Will, you might have called Lucy and asked her to get whatever you’re looking for. Sometimes she has a little trouble finding things, but she never has to go this far.”
Chief Gentry was a big man with a normally ruddy and good-natured face. Now, purple veins stood out from the ruddiness, and his murky gray eyes were angry. “You know we didn’t do this,” he snorted.
“What the hell am I supposed to think?” said Shayne. “I find the two of you squatting on your haunches going through my stuff.”
“Cut it,” said Gentry wearily. He went to the swivel chair behind the desk and dropped into it. “Let it go, Morgan,” he said to the officer. “Go on out and wait with Riley. And close the door,” he added as the Homicide dick reluctantly arose and let the paper in his hand flutter to the floor.
Shayne’s eyes narrowed when he recognized Detective Morgan. He waited until the door was closed before asking Gentry, “How does Homicide come into this?”
