Rourke started looking without asking why. In a moment he gave Shayne a telephone number and address, and the detective reached to lift the phone from his desk and said, “I’ll talk to her if she answers.”
Rourke dialed the number for him, and after several rings a sleepy and somewhat worried voice answered, “Yes? Who is it?”
“This is the detective who was in your office this morning, Mrs. Perkins. Michael Shayne.”
“Oh yes, Mr. Shayne. Whatever is it? I’m afraid I was asleep…”
“Sorry to disturb you, but something important has come up. Would it put you out terribly if I stopped by in about half an hour for just a minute?”
“Of course not, Mr. Shayne. Is it something to do with… Mr. Fitzgilpin?”
“You may be able to identify a murderer for me,” he told her grimly, then added reassuringly, “Not in person. But by looking at a picture.”
“I’ll certainly do my best,” she faltered.
He hung up and told Rourke, “Let’s take one of those pictures of Betsy Ann Durand with us. With Mrs. Perkins’ positive identification we’ll be in a better position to put pressure on Rodman.” They drove over together to Miami Beach in Shayne’s car, and found Mrs. Perkins’ address was in a neat apartment building only a few blocks from the insurance office. Shayne left Rourke in the car while he went in with the photograph in his hand and rang the bell of her ground-floor apartment.
She opened it at once, wearing a faded, gray housecoat and with her hair done up in curlers. “You’ll have to excuse my appearance, but I was asleep when you called like I said, and I just didn’t take time…”
He said, “That’s perfectly okay, Mrs. Perkins. I appreciate you seeing me at this late hour. I want you to look at this picture and tell me if you’ve ever seen the woman before.”
She took the picture from him and looked at it. “Yes. Of course,” she said at once. “It’s a picture of that Mrs. Kelly. You remember. The one I told you about who came to see Mr. Fitzgilpin…”
“About taking out an insurance policy on her husband without his knowledge,” Shayne ended for her grimly. “Thank you, Mrs. Perkins. That’s the one positive link I needed.”
“But… was it her did it, Mr. Shayne? Whatever on earth…?”
He said, “I think you’ll be able to read all about it in the newspaper tomorrow morning. Go on back to bed knowing that you’ve done more to break the case than any other single person.”
Back in the driver’s seat of his car, he told Rourke jubilantly, “Got it. No question whatsoever about her identification.”
He started the motor and drove northward, letting Rourke watch for street signs and direct him to the Durand mansion.
It was a huge, three-storied pile of weathered coral standing alone on a small man-made island in the Bay, reached by traversing a short private bridge from the bayshore.
There was dim light showing in a second-story window when Shayne stopped under the wide porte-cochere beside a black Thunderbird.
They got out and Shayne slid his hand over the sleek hood of the other car as they went by. It was very warm to his touch.
They mounted stone steps and Shayne found an electric button and put his finger on it. He held the button pressed down for at least ninety seconds before a light showed behind the glass pane above the door.
He took his finger off the bell and waited, heard a chain being released inside and then the door opened cautiously. A broad, solemn-faced man of middle age confronted them. He was in his undershirt and suspenders, and there was a look of outrage on his face. “I say now. Whatever is the meaning of this?”
“Police business,” Shayne told him curtly, moving forward so he couldn’t close the door. “Call Mr. Rodman, please.”
“Mr. Rodman has retired, I’m afraid. Police business, you say. And what may I ask…?”
“Roust him out,” Shayne interrupted. “He hasn’t been retired long.”
“What’s the meaning of this intrusion, Albert?” The incisive question came from behind Albert and above him. He stepped back and turned, opening the door wider so Shayne could see the tall and darkly handsome figure of Rutherford Rodman standing on the landing of a wide stairway that led directly up from the entrance hall.
He wore a foulard dressing gown tightly belted around his slim waist, and he looked every inch the Master of the Manor. He also held a heavy. 45 automatic in his right hand by his side with every indication that he knew how to handle it.
16
“These men say they are police officers, Sir,” Albert replied.
“Policemen? At this time of night?” Rodman lifted one eyebrow ironically. “Suppose you show Albert your credentials before you come any farther inside my house.”
“I didn’t say we were cops,” Shayne told him. “I said we’re here on police business. I’m a private investigator from Miami, and this is my associate, Mr. Rourke.” He got out his wallet and flipped it open to show the butler his I.D. card.
“A private detective?” said Rodman. “If this is police business, why aren’t the police here to conduct it?”
“You can have them if you prefer. In a matter of minutes,” Shayne told him. “I’m giving you a chance to answer some questions privately which may obviate calling in the police at all.”
“His credentials seem to be in order, Sir,” Albert said nervously, handing Shayne’s wallet back to him.
“Very well then.” Rutherford Rodman descended the stairs slowly, lowering the barrel of his pistol and letting it dangle at the end of his arm. “Show them into the library, Albert.”
The butler switched on another light and led them down a short hall on the right to a large, gloomy room with its walls lined with books. Rodman followed them in and crossed to a fireside chair and laid his automatic on a table beside it. He said, “That will be all, Albert, but remain on call.”
Albert said, “Very well, Mr. Rodman,” and soft-footed out.
“Now,” said Rodman. “What is this about? You say your name is Shayne?”
The redhead sat down in a chair near Rodman and nodded. “That’s right.” Rourke unobtrusively took a chair slightly behind Rodman and took some copy paper from his pocket.
“I’m investigating a murder that occurred here on the Beach last night,” Shayne explained amiably to his host. “I think you may be able to give us some valuable information. The dead man is Jerome Fitzgilpin.”
Rodman nodded thoughtfully, making a tent of his ten fingers in front of him. Not a flicker of expression showed that the name meant anything particular to him. “I read about it in the paper,” he said indifferently. “Really, I don’t know what sort of information you expect me to have.”
“You knew him, didn’t you?”
“A man named Fitzgilpin?” Rodman looked surprised. “Not that I am aware of.”
“You knew him in New York a year and a half ago well enough to ask him to be a witness at your first wedding.”
Rodman sat rigidly still, looking down at his hands and pressing the palms tightly together.
“Was that his name? The little fellow who stood up with us? I didn’t even know he lived in Miami, and his name has slipped my mind entirely.”
“Wouldn’t you like to change that to: You didn’t know he lived in Miami until you saw a write-up about him in the paper two weeks ago?”
Rodman looked up with a flash of anger. “No, I wouldn’t. What makes you suggest that?”
Shayne shrugged. “You do admit a former marriage in New York to a girl named Rose McNally at which Fitzgilpin was a witness?”
“I’ve stated I don’t recall the man’s name,” snapped Rodman. “Possibly it was Fitzgilpin.”
“And,” Shayne went on smoothly, “you admit you concealed your first marriage from your present wife?”
“Is that a crime? I consider it wholly a private affair what I may or may not have told my wife.”
“I suspect it was a bit of perjury,” Shayne told him cheerfully. “I believe you have to swear to the facts when you take out a wedding license. But we’re not interested in perjury. How about bigamy, Mr. Rodman?”
