“Because they identified the blackmailer,” said Painter quickly.
“But if the guy who got the money
They looked at each other for a long moment, and each man helplessly shook his head in bafflement.
“One more thing I wanted to ask you,” Shayne said briskly after a moment. “That thirty-two automatic you found beside the body. Was it the murder weapon?”
“Ballistics says it was. And it’s registered in Dr. Ambrose’s name. He’s had a permit for years. Are you sure he wasn’t carrying it last night, Shayne?”
“No,” said Shayne truthfully. “I didn’t shake him down. I don’t think he was lying to me, though.”
“There’s nothing to indicate it was taken out of the glove compartment,” muttered Painter. “In fact, very careful chemical tests practically rule out the possibility that the gun has been in the glove compartment for months at least. If he normally kept it at his office…”
“His nurse swears he didn’t,” Shayne told him.
“What’s that? Have you talked to Miss Jackson?”
“This morning. I drove her over to the doctor’s house, where she’s going to spend a few days with the bereaved widow. Who, by the way, looked pretty spiffy this morning. Miss Jackson claims he had mentioned owning a gun to her, and said he kept it at home.”
Painter drummed impatiently on the top of his desk with his small fingertips. “She was dead drunk when he was getting himself shot in their driveway.”
Shayne nodded agreeably. “So that puts her in the clear.”
He glanced at his watch and stood up, stretching and yawning. “I guess that just about winds it up.”
“What did you mean by that last statement?” demanded Chief Peter Painter suspiciously.
Shayne looked at him benignly. “Doesn’t it?”
“Wind it up?” demanded Painter.
Shayne looked surprised. “I thought you meant my saying that Celia Ambrose seems to be in the clear.”
“Why shouldn’t she be? My God, do you think she shot her husband… with a quart of vodka inside her?”
“Doesn’t seem reasonable,” Shayne agreed amiably. “I’ve got a luncheon date.”
He strode out of the Chief of Detectives’ office, and went down a corridor to a side exit leading out to the parking area and his car.
The Doubloon Restaurant was on the ocean front, halfway north toward 79th Street.
Shayne turned his car over to a parking attendant and went into the dimly-lighted interior. It was just 12:20 when he entered. He stopped and peered around at the half-dozen waiting people in the small foyer without seeing Lucy, and went on to the entrance to the dining room where the headwaiter greeted him:
“Mr. Shayne! You are lunching alone?”
Shayne said, “No. My secretary is meeting me. You know Miss Hamilton?”
“But, yes. She is… I think not come yet.”
Shayne said, “Good. I can use a drink or two. I’ll be at the bar.”
He turned to the left to a small bar, where he found an empty stool and sat down. He ordered a sidecar and lit a cigarette, and wondered what was keeping Lucy Hamilton so long.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Shayne had his second sidecar in front of him when he felt a light tap on his shoulder and turned his head to look into Lucy Hamilton’s dancing brown eyes.
He regarded her sourly and demanded, “All right. What should a detective look like?”
“They’re mostly flat-footed, fat slobs. Which you aren’t.” Lucy linked her arm in his. “They’ve got a table for us.”
Shayne slid off the bar-stool and nodded to the bartender. “I’ll finish my drink at the table.” He went into the dining room with his secretary, and when they were seated, she confided to him, “Mrs. Ambrose doesn’t like you, Michael. I think she suspects you’re in league with the gamblers who she is convinced killed her husband. On the other hand… that big bitch of a nurse. Oh, my!” Lucy widened her eyes laughingly.
He shrugged and said blandly, “We rolled on the floor together last night. There’s nothing like a fast roll on the floor to induce lasting friendship.”
A waiter set his drink in front of him, and Lucy wrinkled her nose. “For a man who was headed straight for bed last evening, you appear to have had a pretty full night. Can I have a sidecar, too?”
He said, “Sure,” and nodded to the waiter and waved aside the menus offered them. “We’ll order when you bring her drink. What did you manage to find out, Lucy?”
“Not much. Nothing important, I’m afraid. The Ambroses led a quiet, orderly, and seemingly circumspect life. He was very well regarded professionally, and had a thriving practice. They didn’t go out a great deal, and almost never entertained at home. Celia was regarded as something of a recluse, and didn’t encourage neighborhood friendships.”
“A lush?” demanded Shayne.
“Possibly. I guess I should make that probably. There was some reluctance to discuss her personal habits in the light of what happened last night, but I got several hints that she was in the habit of hitting the bottle at home alone. But she didn’t bother anybody or do it in public, and her neighbors are inclined to be charitable.”
“No financial difficulties?”
“That…” Lucy hesitated as the waiter set a sidecar in front of her. Shayne told him, “We’d both like the stuffed French pancakes…
“It is the neighborhood consensus that they lived quite frugally… considering the doctor’s estimated income. This
“Lucy Hamilton! The slang you do pick up.”
“All in the day’s work as a representative of the Women’s Civic Betterment Association.” She wrinkled her nice nose at him over her cocktail glass. “I think I pulled that off pretty damn well.”
“That’s something I want to take up with you. Why the devil did you come barging in at the Ambrose house when you must have seen my car parked outside? You could have waited until I left.”
“I didn’t notice your car, Michael. I swear I didn’t. I was just as surprised as you were when I walked in. Anyhow, the widow Ambrose confided in me that she didn’t trust you one little bit and had no intention of answering any of your questions.”
Shayne said, “She’ll have to answer them later.”
“What sort of questions?”
“Mostly about the doctor’s pistol… which she claims was at his office and Belle says he kept at home. Also, I’d like to know what time of day she started drinking yesterday.”
“Belle?” said Lucy, wrinkling her nose at him again and finishing her cocktail with a gratified sigh. “You know something, Michael?”
“Probably not. What?”
“I got a strange feeling that neither one of those gals is actually and honestly and truly mourning the doctor’s demise.”
Shayne stared across the table at her for a long moment, very soberly. “What gave you that impression?”
“I just picked it up out of the air.” Lucy made a little deprecating gesture. “They were both gushing about ‘Dear Doctor’, but, damn it, it just didn’t seem to ring true.” The waiter wheeled up a serving-table with a blue- flamed alcohol burner on it and a silver platter above the flame carrying four small pancakes, rolled about a creamed mixture of chicken wings and giblets. He poured warm brandy over the rolls and tilted the platter to catch flames from the burner, and served them on hot plates as the brandy burned out.
