couple, just that Mr. Henderson was “well-known in New York financial circles” and Mrs. Henderson was identified as the former socialite wife of Ralph Graham. A daughter of her first marriage was mentioned. Muriel Graham, who will attend the exclusive finishing school on Miami Beach conducted by Miss Overholzer.
Next, a few months later, was the announcement that Saul Henderson had purchased a partnership in the local brokerage firm of Wallach amp; Dutton, and a few brief items following which indicated that Mr. Henderson was establishing himself solidly as a progressive and civic-minded citizen of Miami Beach, first as a member of various committees and local charity drives, and then as chairman of other, more important committees.
There was quite a long obituary for Mrs. Henderson when she died in her home several months before. She was described as an invalid and as having succumbed to a lingering illness, though cancer was not specifically mentioned. Her daughter by a former marriage, Muriel Graham, was listed as the only survivor along with her husband.
That was the last item in the newspaper file on the Hendersons before the final news story dated some weeks previously. This was a front-page feature story covering a banquet at one of the most exclusive and expensive hotels on the Beach which had been televised on a national network because one of the country’s top television personalities had been honored as the “Beach Booster of the Year” and presented with a key to the city by Mr. Saul Henderson, President of the Miami Beach 100-Club and prominently mentioned in local political circles as the Reform Candidate for mayor of Miami Beach in the forthcoming election.
There was a picture of Saul Henderson beamingly presenting the key to the television comedian while three cameras recorded the event for the edification of viewers throughout the country, and Shayne studied the photograph carefully and with increasing aversion as he recalled the story the man’s stepdaughter had told him the preceding evening.
Without that knowledge of the man’s true character, Shayne was honest enough to admit to himself that in the picture Henderson looked very much like a right guy. In his mid-forties, with lean features that appeared almost ascetic, yet with a certain air of boyish bravado, Shayne could see how the man might easily capture the imagination of enough voters to become the next mayor of the beach city.
Yet, with what he knew about the man, Shayne was able to see that the piercing black eyes were a little too close together so that there was something predatory about them, the lips were too thin and too tightly compressed, the chin was pointed rather than prominent, the little tight curls of hair on each side of his high forehead resembled horns rather than carrying out the slightly boyish effect they gave at first glance.
After passing on from the photograph, Shayne glanced through the story which contained nothing new about Henderson, and then closed the file and returned it to the Herald librarian.
Lucy Hamilton was alone in the office when he returned. She stood up determinedly from her typewriter when he breezed in, and said, “Michael. I want to talk to you.”
He said, “Sure, angel. Any time. But first, look up the phone number for Saul Henderson on the Beach. Call it and try to find out how to contact a stepdaughter named Muriel Graham. She’s nineteen years old,” he went on, “and been living on the beach about three years going to Miss Overholzer’s School. Her mother died of cancer a few months ago. Take it from there and think of some good reason for getting her present address if you can’t reach her at home.”
Lucy bit her underlip hard, and then released it. In a taut voice, she asked, “You mean I’m not to mention your name?”
“That’s right, angel.” Shayne seemed completely unaware of the tension gripping his secretary. “Be an old school-friend or something. Maybe you knew Muriel in New York before her mother married Henderson and they moved down here. Use your imagination.”
He stalked into his own office, blandly disregarding the fact that Lucy was blinking violently to hold back angry tears, and there he crossed directly to a filing cabinet behind his desk and took a bottle of cognac from the second drawer. He uncorked it and turned to the water cooler where he nested two paper cups together and filled the inner one nearly to the brim with cognac. With a companion cup of water for a chaser, he settled himself at his desk and took an appreciative sip of liquor just as Lucy came in.
She said with heightened color and dangerous calm, “Maybe I don’t possess enough imagination to do this job right. After that outrageous scene of yours earlier, I guess maybe you’ve got a monopoly on the imagination around here.”
Shayne grinned irritatingly and raised ragged red eyebrows. “Is that a prelude to admitting you failed to get Miss Graham’s address?”
“I talked to a housekeeper,” said Lucy flatly. “She says that Muriel is visiting friends in New York. She doesn’t know how she can be reached there… or simply isn’t telling. But now I’m telling you something, Mr. Michael Shayne,” she went on fiercely. “If you ever… if you ever… act the way you did this morning again, I’m through. Do you hear me? That’s spelled t-h-r-o-u-g-h period. Get yourself another secretary. In fact, get another one right now so far as I’m concerned.”
“Why should I?” asked Shayne amiably. “You’re doing all right. Beating the bushes for new business all over the place. Who else would show the same sort of initiative? Did you work out a profitable deal with the insurance guy… fix it so you can have dates with him every night in the week?”
Her eyes widened and then tears started streaming out of them. She walked directly to his desk, disregarding the liquid flow down her cheeks, leaned forward and said distinctly, “Damn you, Michael Shayne. You disappear somewhere on your own every night for a week leaving me around twiddling my thumbs. And then when a nice man comes along and invites me out to dinner and I spend the entire evening dutifully laughing at his corny jokes while I impress on him what a wonderful detective my boss is and get him to come up with a whopping retainer… when I do all that just for you… what do you do? Well, tell me,” she insisted fiercely. “What do you do?”
Shayne got up swiftly with his cognac in one hand, circled the desk and put his left arm tightly about her slim waist. He tilted her tear-streaked face back and held the paper cup to her lips while she sipped convulsively. He tossed off the rest of the drink when she stopped swallowing, tossed the empty cup on the floor and kissed each of her wet eyes lingeringly.
Then he said coaxingly, “Tell me about the contract you wangled out of Waring, angel, and I’ll tell you why I’ve been staked out the last few nights. And you’ve got a dinner date with me tonight, no matter what you fixed up with Waring.”
9
A little before noon Shayne dropped by the hotel where he had a room under the name of Wayne to get his things and check out. With his key, the clerk handed him a telephone message. It was stamped ten o’clock that morning and said, Call Mr. Paul Winterbottom at once, and a telephone number followed.
Shayne went up to his room with a frown of perplexity on his face. He didn’t know anyone named Winterbottom, and besides, who could be calling Mike Wayne at this hotel? The only person who knew that a Mike Wayne was registered there was the Jane Smith of the preceding night.
In his room he went directly to the telephone and asked for the number on the telephone message. A diffident and young-sounding masculine voice answered.
Shayne asked, “Paul Winterbottom?” and the young man answered, “Oh? Would that be… is this Mike Wayne?”
“Yes.”
“Could I see you right away, Mr. Wayne? It’s terribly important and I can take my lunch hour now.”
“What about?”
“It’s a personal matter.” Paul Winterbottom cleared his throat and lowered his voice. “Pertaining to… a young lady whom you met on the Beach last night.”
Shayne said, “Okay. Where?”
“There’s a quiet little bar on Eighth Street, just east of Miami Avenue. The Dolphin. Could you meet me there in about ten minutes?”
“Okay. How will I know you?”
“I’ll know you, I’m sure,” the young man told him earnestly. “I’ll try to be in a booth near the back.”
