the bar and placed two more drinks in front of them. Shayne counted out the exact change for the drinks and pushed it across the bar. Horseface turned away without a word, moved to the center of the bar where he began washing glasses as though he had no interest in anything else in the world except getting the glasses clean as fast as he could.
Rourke gulped some of his bourbon appreciatively and smacked his lips. He said loudly, “Damned if I know why, but this one tastes better than the first one.”
Shayne relaxed and grinned at his old friend. He said, “It’s on account of the service. Something psychological about getting served with a smile.”
They sat and finished their drinks in silence and the bartender continued to wash and dry glasses as though his life depended on it.
When both their glasses were empty, they got up and walked out of the bar together. In the bright sunlight outside, Rourke looked at Shayne with brightly expectant eyes and asked, “You going to let him get away with that?”
“With what?”
“I’ll swear he’s covering up something.”
“Sure he is,” Shayne agreed amiably. “But I need something to pressure him with. I’ll come back for another talk when I get hold of it.”
Rourke chuckled and said, “You seemed to be pressuring him fairly effectively when he let go that home- made billy.”
Shayne said, “Right then, I wanted a drink. I got it. You headed back to your office?” he asked abruptly.
“I’d better get a story written.”
“Give me the address of Fitzgilpin’s insurance office. I’ll drop in there and see what I can find out.”
Rourke consulted his penciled notes and provided the address. Then they went to their own cars and separated.
6
Michael Shayne found the office of the Fitzgilpin Insurance Agency on the ground floor of a run-down office building about ten blocks north and west of the Sporting Club. The door of the office stood open and a plump, pleasant-faced woman was typing behind a desk in the anteroom, facing the outer door.
She appeared to be in her mid-thirties, wearing a fresh, white shirtwaist and a brown skirt, and her eyes were red-rimmed from weeping.
She looked up from her typing as Shayne paused in the doorway, pushed back a straggling lock of brown hair from her forehead, and frowned nearsightedly at him. “Yes? Is there something I can do for you?” Her voice trembled slightly and her teeth gnawed nervously at her full lower lip which already had most of the rouge chewed off it.
Shayne took off his hat and stepped inside. “Are you Mr. Fitzgilpin’s secretary?”
“Yes. That is… I was.” She blinked her nice brown eyes and a single tear slid out from beneath each lid and coursed down her cheeks. She lifted her lids and faltered, “Perhaps you haven’t heard yet…?”
Shayne said hastily, “I have heard. In fact, that’s why I’m here. I’m a private detective and also a personal friend of the Fitzgilpins. My name is Michael Shayne.”
“Oh yes. Of course.” Her eyes were wide now, still moist, but friendly and welcoming. “I should have recognized you from pictures I’ve seen in the papers. I didn’t know Mr. Fitzgilpin knew you, Mr. Shayne. I never heard him mention your name.”
“His wife… widow… is a close friend of my secretary’s,” Shayne told her, sitting down in one of the two chairs in the small reception room. “She called me this morning as soon as the tragic news reached her, and I’ve promised to do what I can to help.”
“Oh, Mr. Shayne. Isn’t it terrible? I can hardly realize it yet. Jerome… Mr. Fitzgilpin was such a wonderful man. Always so kind and considerate to everyone. Who would do such a dastardly thing as that?”
Shayne said, “I hope you can help me find out, Miss…”
“Mrs. Ella Perkins. That is, I’m a widow. Have been for ten years. Ever since I came to work for Mr. Fitzgilpin. I never had a better employer or a position that I enjoyed more. It was positively a pleasure to work for Mr. Fitzgilpin and do things for him. Is it true, Mr. Shayne, that he was poisoned?”
Shayne said, “I’m afraid it is. Have the police been here?”
“Yes. An hour ago. They asked all sorts of the most outrageous personal questions. About Mr. Fitzgilpin and the intimate details of his family life. Did they quarrel, and did he have women friends… and did he ever date me.” She clasped her plump fingers together in front of her and gulped back a sob. “I got the distinct impression that they… they can’t suspect her, can they, Mr. Shayne? I didn’t know her well, but she seemed such a nice person. And I know he was devoted to her and the children. Just an old-fashioned family man… I always felt he was. He didn’t have an enemy in the world, and I told those policemen so.”
“That’s what everyone says about him,” agreed Shayne. “Do you always work on Saturdays, Mrs. Perkins?”
“I come down every Saturday morning to bring the records up to date for the week-end. He stays late on Friday nights, you know, and I like to have everything entered and filed and fresh for Monday morning.”
“I understand he collects a certain amount of cash every Friday night. Do you know how much it was last night?”
“Yes. The police asked me that. Two hundred and sixty-two dollars and forty cents.”
“And he always took it home with him?”
“Always. You see we have no safe here in the office and he felt it was safer that way. He’d stop by the bank to deposit it on Monday morning.”
“How many people do you suppose knew this was his habit?”
“I simply don’t know. It’s not the sort of thing he’d mention casually, is it? On the other hand, he was always so friendly. Even with complete strangers. He’d never think it was something he should conceal. He was so confiding. So full of goodwill himself that he would never suspect anyone else of having an ulterior motive.”
“Do you know who his last client was last night?”
“Yes. The police asked me that and I checked the record. A man named Julian Summerville. He paid a nineteen dollar premium and that’s the last entry for the night.”
“You don’t know what time that was?”
“No. Mr. Fitzgilpin generally stayed until nine or ten o’clock on Fridays.”
“This Summerville,” probed Shayne. “Was he an old client? Particularly friendly? Would your employer have been likely to ask him out for a drink?”
“I don’t believe so. I know the police took his name and address, so I assume they’re checking with him.”
“All right, Mrs. Perkins. What’s your opinion of this? You were probably closer to Mr. Fitzgilpin than anyone else in the world… excluding his wife. And I know lots of secretaries who are actually much closer to their employers than their wives are. No offense intended,” he went on hastily, seeing a hurt, protesting look on her face. “Certainly you know a great deal more about his business… his daily associates. How was his business, by the way? Would you say it was thriving?” Shayne let her see him glance disparagingly about the small and shabby reception room.
“I don’t know what you mean by thriving,” she responded with more spirit than she had shown before. “His income was adequate for his needs, and the business has grown steadily every year since I’ve been here. Actually…” and her face began to glow with pride. “… just recently Mr. Fitzgilpin was honored with an award that is given annually by an insurance association in the United States for being among the top ten brokers in the country showing an increase in policies sold during the year. He was interviewed by a reporter for the Miami paper and had a real nice write-up. He didn’t want to expand too much,” she went on earnestly. “He liked having a one-man office and maintaining a direct personal contact with every one of his clients. He wanted to know them… about their personal lives and their problems. He felt strongly that every insurance policy he sold should be tailored to each
