CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
It was six o’clock before Michael Shayne finally got away from Police Headquarters in Miami and found time to telephone Lucy.
He let her telephone ring a long time, thinking she might be in the shower, but got no answer.
He frowned as he hung up, and hesitated, then dialled his office on the off-chance that she might still be there. Her voice answered on the first ring.
He said, “Why aren’t you home?” and she replied in that tone of patient forbearance, which only secretaries and wives can manage:
“Because I’ve been sitting here the last two hours expecting you to call every moment. I thought you’d be interested in a final report on Fritz Harlan.”
“I just talked to Abe Lincoln,” Shayne told her. “How about meeting me for dinner?”
There was a brief pause. Then Lucy replied frigidly, “If you’re quite sure you can drag yourself away from your nurse that long, I will be happy to accept your invitation, Mr. Shayne.”
He chuckled, realizing that she knew nothing about what had happened and must suspect that he had spent the entire afternoon with Belle. He said blithely, “That’s okay, Angel. She’s otherwise occupied for the evening. How about some seafood? Meet you at the Seacliff in five minutes.”
She said, “Ten,” and hung up.
It was nearer fifteen minutes later when she hurried inside the restaurant. Facing the door in the third booth, Shayne waved to her and she came toward him eagerly with a sunny smile on her face. “Why didn’t you
“I was saving it for a surprise.” Shayne fingered the cocktail glass in front of him, and nodded to the waiter. “Two more sidecars, please.”
“So it was Belle who did it? And you actually came here and helped a blackmailer collect his money last night?”
“I was sucked into it beautifully. Right here in this booth while I stood at the bar and watched it happen.” He emptied his glass and shoved it aside. “But Mrs. Montgomery will get her money back.”
“Mrs. Montgomery? Was she being blackmailed?”
“I forgot you didn’t know about my visit with her. On account of her son, Cecil.” Shayne spoke the name with distaste, using a short “e.” “That’s how Fritz Harlan got mixed up in the deal.”
Two sidecars were set in front of them and Lucy took a sip of hers before saying, “I didn’t understand that very well when Mr. Lincoln tried to explain it over the phone. Did he take a picture of them?”
“He hired George Bayliss to. But he recognized Dr. Ambrose at once, and because he had been a participant in the old scandal that was behind the blackmail, he got frightened and went into hiding instead of turning the picture over to Cecil.” This time he pronounced the name with a long “e.”
“Mrs. Montgomery was afraid he had killed the doctor and might implicate Cecil,” Shayne added, lifting his glass and drinking deeply.
“Like me to take a picture of you and the pretty girl, Mister?” a wheedling voice asked beside him, and Shayne turned to see one of the strolling photographers, who infest Miami during the tourist season.
He grinned widely and said, “This is where I came in last night. Sure, take a picture. We’ll send it to her husband back home for a souvenir.”
