“Not that he ever told me. Not even this morning when it was all on the radio. But he never does,” she added bitterly. “You’d think a private detective would come home with all kinds of interesting stories to tell, wouldn’t you? But not Max. He always says it’s just a job like anything else. From what I read in the paper,
“Did he work last night?” Shayne asked idly.
“Last night… and every Friday for the past month. Out till all hours. Some cheap divorce case, I guess.” Her upper lip curled. “That’s all Max gets mostly.” There was defeat in her voice and Shayne felt obscurely sorry for the woman who had married Max Wentworth expecting to share the glamour and excitement of his work.
He lit a cigarette and assured her, “My cases are pretty humdrum most of the time, too.” He glanced at his watch, aware of an obscure sense of foreboding that was tugging at him.
“How late was he last night?” he asked abruptly, without knowing he was going to ask her until he heard the words come out.
“I don’t know for sure. Midnight I guess, anyhow. I went to sleep about eleven and didn’t hear him come in.”
“And he didn’t say anything to you this morning… after he heard the broadcast about Mrs. Nathan?”
“No. That was at ten o’clock. He’d finished his breakfast and was getting ready to go to the office when we heard it. I hadn’t turned it on before that so he could sleep late. He said he’d just be a little while. I don’t know what’s keeping him.”
Shayne looked at his watch again and got to his feet. “I’m afraid I can’t wait any longer, Mrs. Wentworth. When Max comes in tell him I’d like to have him call me. Either at my office or my hotel.”
“I’ll surely tell him, Mr. Shayne. But I
Shayne said, “I’m sorry. I must go.” He went out and she followed him to the door, protesting that Max
It took him less than five minutes to reach an empty parking space in front of the building on West Flagler Street that housed Wentworth’s office. There was a dingy lobby that was empty on this Saturday afternoon, an air of desolation and decay about the premises. There was an elevator at the rear but it wasn’t in use today, and a directory on the wall listed Wentworth’s office as 212.
Shayne climbed the stairs to the second floor without hearing anything to indicate that any of the offices were occupied. He stopped in front of 212 and knocked on the door perfunctorily, studying the simple lock at the same time and getting a ring of keys from his pocket.
He selected one which entered the lock but refused to turn inside it.
The second key he tried opened the door. He pushed it open directly onto a gloomy, square room with a big desk in the middle of it.
Max Wentworth lay on the floor in front of the desk. His head was smashed in and lay in a pool of thickening blood.
CHAPTER TEN
Shayne stood on the threshold and looked down at the dead man in the dim light for a long moment. Then he nudged the door shut with his shoulder, not hard enough to let the latch catch, got a pencil from his pocket and used the end of it to flip the wall switch by the door and flood the room with light.
He knelt beside Wentworth’s body and touched the cool flesh of the man’s wrist and studied the clotted blood that had flowed from a vicious blow that had crushed the detective’s right temple and the side of his head above the ear.
Shayne guessed he had been dead at least a couple of hours.
He got to his feet slowly and thrust his hands deep into his pockets to remind himself not to touch anything inadvertently, and inspected the room slowly and carefully.
There was no sign of a struggle; nothing appeared to be out of place. The desk was bare except for a telephone on one corner of it; a swivel chair was pushed back from behind the desk. There were three straight chairs in an orderly row against the right-hand wall, and two metal filing cabinets against the opposite wall.
Shayne circled the body to stand in front of the filing cabinets. Each one had three drawers, and an oblong of cardboard in a slot at the top of each drawer. They were lettered consecutively, A-D, E-H, etc.
The top drawer of the second cabinet was the M-P file. Shayne put his pencil inside the handle and pulled. The drawer was unlocked and slid out easily on roller bearings. The drawer held two or three dozen cardboard folders, some very thin and some bulging with papers, each with a name tab on it in alphabetical order. The first one was tabbed Mason, J. M. They were held upright by a metal divider inside the drawer, and Shayne flipped through half a dozen M’s to Nederov, P. He hesitated with a frown, checked back on the last M to be certain he had not made a mistake, then went past Nederov to Nelson and to Nestiger.
There was no file tabbed Nathan in the drawer. Either Wentworth had not got around to starting a Nathan file, or else the folder had been removed from its proper place.
Shayne pushed the drawer shut with his pencil and stood back, tugging thoughtfully at his earlobe. There was no logical reason, of course, to connect the detective’s death with the fact that he had received a $250 retainer from Mrs. Nathan a month previously. Yet the thought was strongly in Shayne’s mind because that was the circumstance that had brought him to Wentworth’s office, and he didn’t like the coincidence of a third death that had no connection with the two deaths the preceding night.
As he stood there scowling, it came to him suddenly that Elsa signed her checks with her maiden name. Also, he recalled the question he had asked himself previously… whether Wentworth was the detective Eli had employed previously and whether he had recommended the man to his daughter.
He tried the top drawer of the first cabinet and hit pay-dirt at once. The third folder in the drawer was labeled, Armbruster, Elsa. Shayne lifted it out carefully between his fingernails and laid it open on the desk. The first item was a letterhead with scribbled notations on it in pencil. Clipped to the top of the page was a 4x6 photograph of Paul Nathan. Below, the detective had scribbled, “Paul Nathan. V.P. Beach Devel Corp.” with a Lincoln Avenue address on Miami Beach, followed by the Nathan residence address and a telephone number which Shayne recognized. After that was written, “White Thnderbrd Conv.” and a license number.
Below this was scrawled, “Tail Friday nights, 5:00 on. Exec. Pkng lot, office. $100 amp; exp. $250 pd.”
And below that was the additional notation, “Chek Miss Mona Bayliss for possble contact with subject past months amp; presnt.”
Shayne turned that page back and found a carbon copy of a neatly typed report dated Friday, two weeks previously. He eased one hip down to a corner of the desk and read every word of the two-page report carefully.
It was headed, SUBJECT, Paul Nathan. Movements from 5:00 p.m. until 4:20 a.m.
It began: “Subject left office 5:10 to car in lot. Proceeded on Lincoln to ocean, south to Hi-Lo Bar corner 6th. Three drinks at bar alone, evidently killing time, checking watch. Out at 5:52 and across Causeway to Red Cock Restaurant Miami. Met young girl in lobby, evidently by prearrangement. Blonde, 5–2, 110 lbs. red cocktail dress. (Later ascertained she is Suzie Conroy, secretary in office. Newcomer in Miami from New York. Employed six weeks ago. No previous contact with Subject can be traced.) Cocktails and dinner to 7:47. Drove to apartment building 267 Northwest 17th St. (Later ascertained Miss Conroy’s address, apt 3-D.) Parted at front door with friendly good night.
“Arrived Fun Club 8:02. Upstairs to gaming rooms where Subject purchased $100 in $5 chips. Craps, blackjack and roulette, making $1 to $5 bets and losing slowly but steadily until chips were gone at 10:25. Spoke