“How could she possibly plan to get her hands on a sum like that? Think carefully, Blanche. You knew Rose. If it were an inheritance, she would have given you the details. You must have wondered about it… why she was so secretive. Didn’t you come to the conclusion that she’d planned something illegal… something she knew you wouldn’t approve, and thus didn’t tell you?”
Blanche nodded miserably. “Yes. I did think that. She was a peculiar girl. Nice, but… but, she was hard too. She was an orphan and had to make her own way from the time she finished high school. She didn’t exactly feel the world owed her a living, but she did feel… oh, I don’t know exactly. That whatever she could get out of life, she deserved. That’s why… she saw nothing really wrong about tricking Rutherford Rodman into marriage by making him believe she was rich. Later, when it developed he’d tricked her too, she was philosophical about it.”
“Blackmail?” suggested Shayne gently. “Would that be out of her line?”
“I don’t know,” Blanche confessed miserably. “Under certain circumstances. If the person had a great deal of money and Rose felt he didn’t deserve any decent consideration. Yes, I think I can see her justifying blackmail under those conditions.”
“Someone like Rutherford Rodman,” said Shayne flatly.
“Yes. Certainly Rutherford,” said Blanche with spirit. “I’m positive Rose wouldn’t have hesitated to blackmail him if she were given the opportunity. But he had no money.”
“Neither did Jerome Fitzgilpin,” said Shayne broodingly. “Not the sort of money that would appeal to Rose. I just don’t know at this point. You’ve been a big help,” he told Blanche, finishing his chicken and glancing at his watch. “And you’ve got a date to go dancing. Shall we just have coffee and skip dessert?”
“Oh, yes,” she said a trifle ruefully. “I never eat dessert though I can’t seem to lose a pound. You will let me know about Rose, won’t you? As soon as you find out anything. The one thing I can’t understand is why she didn’t let me know. That last night when I saw her… she promised me so faithfully that she would let me know how things turned out. I can’t think of any reason why she hasn’t even dropped me a card.”
Shayne could think of one reason, but he didn’t mention it to Blanche. If blackmail had been Rose’s object, it was a pretty dangerous project to embark upon.
They finished their coffee while talking about trivialities, and Shayne found a taxi outside which dropped Blanche at her apartment and then took him back to the airport in ample time for him to put in a call for Timothy Rourke at the News before his plane took off.
“I’m at the New York airport,” he told the reporter. “Catching an eight-thirty plane back. Eastern, Flight number six. Meet me at the airport?”
“What in hell are you doing in New York?” groaned Rourke. “All hell has broken loose here. The widow Fitzgilpin has disappeared and Painter is having kittens all over the place.”
“Disappeared? When? How?”
“No one knows. She just turned up missing when Painter finally got around to her. She and both the children. I guess he suspects you spirited them off to New York with you. Did you?”
“Hell, no,” growled Shayne. “I don’t know any more about it than you do. Has he caught up with Nourse yet?”
“That’s another thing,” said Rourke aggrievedly. “I’m sitting on that and wondering when in hell it’s going to blow up under me. Yeh. Painter caught up with Nourse. In L. A. this afternoon. Nourse is there and swears he hasn’t been in Miami for over a year. Painter believes him.”
“Doesn’t Petey realize it’s only five hours by jet plane to Los Angeles?”
“Evidently not. Anyhow, that’s when he decided it was time to interview the widow… and she wasn’t home when he got there. Have you got her hid out, Mike?”
“No. Look, I’ve got to get on that plane, Tim. One thing I want you to do. Check on any unsolved murders in the last couple of months. Unidentified bodies of gals in their mid-twenties on either side of the bay. I’ve run into a missing person here in New York.”
“Right now I don’t remember… wait a minute,” said Rourke with rising excitement. “I think there was such a one, Mike. I’ll have to check it out, but…”
“You check and have all the dope for me when I get there. They’re calling my plane right now. See you at the airport, Tim.”
14
Back at the Miami airport Shayne found Timothy Rourke, as expected, waiting for him at a small table just inside the bar. The reporter had a drink in front of him, and he was alert and eager as Shayne sat down and ordered a drink. “What’s this fast trip to New York about? Damn it, Mike. Why don’t you keep me posted?”
Shayne said, “Hold your horses. I’ll bring you up to date fast enough. One thing at a time. Is Linda Fitzgilpin still missing?”
“Right off the face of the earth. And Painter is really gunning for you. He blames you for preventing him from getting her story earlier.”
“At noon today he was thanking me for it. You heard him yourself.”
“Yeh. But that was noon. Level with me, Mike. Did you arrange to have her hide out from Painter?”
“No. In fact the last time I spoke to her… before noon… I extracted a solemn promise from her that she’d tell him the exact truth when he came around. When did he discover she was missing?”
“About five o’clock. After he’d checked out Nourse in L. A. and become convinced the man hadn’t been in Miami last night. You’re sure he was, Mike?”
“No. I’ve only the widow’s word for it. No one else saw him that I know of.”
“Any reason for her to lie about it?”
“I sure as hell can’t see any.” Shayne sipped his drink and frowned. “It was about the worst sort of admission she could make, and I had to drag it out of her piecemeal. Painter went to her place at five?”
“Yeh. With Sergeant Drake from Miami Homicide. They got no answer at her door, and got the super up to let them in… fearing, I guess, that maybe she’d done both herself and the youngsters in. No sign of them. Everything in order. No evidence of packing or hurried departure. He figured, naturally, that you’d spirited her away.”
“Naturally,” Shayne agreed blandly. “After all, she is a good-looking redhead. We’ll find her, Tim. I can’t believe she’s gone very far. What did you pick up on that other? Any unidentified female bodies in the last two months?”
“Just one.”
“That’s all I need. Give.”
“It was just about two months ago.” Rourke got some notes from his pocket and consulted them. “Body of a young woman washed up on the West shore of Biscayne Bay about Eightieth Street. She’d been in the water several days and just wore a slip and underwear. Her face had been bashed in, and several days in the water hadn’t improved her appearance. There was never any identification. Missing Persons put flyers out on her all over the country with no results. And you know something, Mike?” Rourke paused dramatically, pleased as a child with the secret he was about to impart.
“Not very much.”
“Autopsy showed she was full of sodium amytal when she was beaten and thrown in the water. How do you like that?”
“Very much. Rose McNally.”
“Who?”
“Mrs. Rutherford Rodman. Remember the photograph I showed you this morning? Together with this menu?” Shayne got them from his pocket and showed Rourke the picture again. “That’s Rose McNally when she got married over a year ago. The man is Rutherford Rodman. Jerome Fitzgilpin was a witness at their wedding.”
“How do you know all this?” Rourke asked helplessly.
“That’s why I flew to New York. Rose disappeared from there headed for Miami about two months ago. She told a girl friend she was excited about getting her hands on a big wad of money. How does that figure to you?”
“Attempted blackmail?”
