who used to live at that same address with Blanche Carson before she married. Her maiden name was Rose McNally.”
He heard a sharp intake of breath at the other end of the wire. “Has something happened to her?”
“What makes you think that?”
“Well, you said you were a detective, didn’t you?”
“Do you know Rose?”
“No. Not personally. I never met her. But I know she was Blanche’s room-mate until she got married and I moved in with Blanche.”
“And Blanche has talked about her?” Shayne encouraged the girl.
“Some. You know. Not very much, really. There was something happened a month or so ago. I know Rose called up one day unexpectedly and Blanche had dinner with her. I know she came home worried about her, and there was something said about Miami, but I don’t remember what. And so when you said you were a detective from Miami calling about Rose, I wondered.”
“I understand,” said Shayne patiently. “And that’s all you can tell me?”
“That’s about all. Has something happened to Rose?”
“We’re not sure,” said Shayne cautiously. “You’re sure Blanche will be home by six o’clock?”
“She said she would. Shall I tell her you called?”
“Yes. And that I’ll be in touch with her about six o’clock.” Shayne hung up, and sat back, musing over this information. Excitement was beginning to churn up inside him. There was some connection, damn it. Blanche had been at the wedding with Fitzgilpin. The bride was her former roommate, and must have confided in her. They had remained in touch after Rose’s marriage… as lately as a few months ago. And there had been something about Miami…
How those bits and pieces added up to the murder of Jerome Fitzgilpin last night, Shayne couldn’t possibly guess. But he was suddenly convinced that Blanche Carson held the key to the mystery. She was the only contact he had.
He looked distastefully at the telephone as he considered calling her at six o’clock. People were apt to clam up over the telephone. If she suspected Rose were in some kind of trouble in Miami…
Blanche and Rose must have been close friends. Blanche would probably be inclined to cover up for her if a detective started interrogating her over the phone.
On the other hand, you could learn so much more asking questions face to face. Not so much by what the witness said sometimes, but how she said it. How she evaded direct answers to certain questions.
Shayne looked at his watch and made a quick decision. Jet flights to New York took less than two hours. If there were one leaving soon he could be there before six o’clock.
He called the airport and found there was a nonstop flight scheduled to depart in forty minutes. He made a reservation and hung up, then called Lucy Hamilton’s number and asked her, “Everything under control?”
“Oh, yes, Michael.” She sounded calmer than before. “I called Emily Cahill and she was very nice. She’s coming over in about fifteen minutes to pick up the children. And I peeked in upstairs a few minutes ago. Linda is still dead to the world, but sleeping peacefully as far as I can tell. Her pulse is strong and she’s breathing easily.”
Shayne said, “Fine. Just keep a check on her, Angel. I’m off to New York in about forty minutes. You might let Tim Rourke know. I hope to be back before midnight with something definite to work on.”
“To New York, Michael? Whatever for?”
“I’ve got hold of something,” he told her cautiously. “Right now, I’m not sure what. Stay sort of close to Linda, huh? Personally,” he added slowly, “I wouldn’t be too much upset if she remained incommunicado to Peter Painter. What I mean to imply is… if she should come out of it and feel like another drink, I wouldn’t discourage her too much if I were you.”
“Michael Shayne! You mean you want me to keep her so drunk she can’t talk to Chief Painter?”
Shayne grinned at her indignant voice over the telephone. “I didn’t say I want you to keep her drunk, Angel. Just don’t keep her from staying drunk if she wants to. When Painter does get around to talking to her, she’s going to tell him some things that he’s likely to misconstrue. That’s all I’m saying. So if she feels like another drink when she wakes up, just be sure it’s handy and that you pour with a lavish hand. As long as the children are out of the way and being taken care of,” he added.
Lucy said doubtfully, “All right, Michael. I’ll… do my best.”
“It’s for Linda’s sake,” Shayne said sharply. “Very frankly, I think Painter will put her under arrest when he hears her story. Right now, I don’t want that.”
“Arrest her? Oh, no, Michael! Nothing in the world could make me believe Linda had anything to do with it.”
“I told Painter that,” Shayne said blithely, “and he’s considering putting you on his payroll as psychological consultant.”
“What?”
Shayne laughed. “I don’t think he’d pay as much as I do. I’ve got to get out to the airport. I’ll try to call either you or Tim from New York… around seven or so.”
13
At the New York airport, Shayne went directly to the Information counter to inquire about return flights that night. There was only one scheduled. For eight-thirty. Shayne made a reservation for it on the chance that he’d be able to make it.
It was a quarter to six when he called Blanche Carson’s West side apartment. A pleasant, youthful, feminine voice answered.
He asked, “Is this Blanche Carson?”
“Speaking. Who is this?”
“I’m a detective from Miami, Miss Carson.”
“Oh, yes. Doris told me. Something about Rose. What is it?”
Shayne said, “I wonder if I could possibly have a talk with you. I’m at the airport. Just flew in from Miami particularly to see you.”
“Well… I don’t know. I have a date to go dancing at eight. What did you say your name is?”
“Shayne. Michael Shayne, Miss Carson. I’m a private detective…”
“Oh!” she thrilled. “Mike Shayne? Really? That cute one that was on TV a year or so ago?”
Shayne grimaced wryly and said, “I’m afraid I’m not quite as cute as the actor who portrayed me. But I am Mike Shayne. And I want very much to see you at once. Could we possibly have dinner together? I have to fly back at eight-thirty.”
“I’d be thrilled to death to have dinner with you,” caroled Blanche Carson. “Where?”
“Can you suggest a place close to you? I can be there in thirty or forty minutes.”
“There’s a nice French restaurant about two blocks away.” She gave him the name and address. “I’ll be waiting for you there in half an hour.” Shayne said, “That will be wonderful,” and hung up. Well, that was one thing a television series did for you, he told himself sourly, as he went to look for a taxi. You could make dinner dates with strange women without any difficulty.
When he entered the dim foyer of the restaurant forty minutes later, a girl arose immediately from a bench and came up to him. She was slightly on the plump side and wore glasses, but she had an intelligent face and her eyes sparkled. “You’re Mike Shayne,” she said eagerly, offering him her hand. “I’d recognize you anywhere.”
“From watching TV?”
“Of course not.” She laughed happily. “I know he was just an actor. But I’ve read lots of the books about you and your cases, and you’re just like the author describes you.”
Shayne grinned and took her arm and they went into a small, quiet dining room and were promptly seated at a secluded table in a corner of the uncrowded room.
Shayne asked if she would have a drink, and she said promptly, “I’d love one. I’ll drink a sidecar in your honor.
