casually to various people, seemed known by housemen and liked.
“Drove north on the Boulevard to Bay Breeze. Arrival 10:42. Purchased another $100 in chips (also cash), and lost at various tables until out of chips at 12:10. Downstairs to dining room for three drinks and sandwich.
“12:45 across 79th Street Causeway to Bel Luna on Beach. Another $100 dribbled away (only craps here) and departed at 1:52. Drove to El Cielito, and another $100. Had run at blackjack and more than doubled stake, then lost at crap table shooting up to $20.
“To the Hacienda at 3:03. Purchased another $100, tried blackjack and then roulette. Played low stakes at roulette, seeming to stretch stake to closing time at 4:00. Appeared particularly friendly with croupier, and when play stopped at 4:00, they left together. Downstairs to bar for two drinks in a booth and ten minutes of conversation. Subject left at 4:20 and drove directly home where he put car in garage and went in side entrance. (Later ascertained croupier at Hacienda is Joe Grogan, lives in Miami with wife, steady worker at Hacienda, can discover no outside contact with Subject.) END FIRST REPORT.”
The next page was headed, “INTERIM REPORT. SUBJECT Miss Mona Bayliss.
“It was necessary to go back more than a year to trace Subject to present address, which is 729 Hibiscus Road, Miami, Apt. 511.
“Interviews with former friends and coworkers indicate that Subject was badly broken up when jilted by Paul Nathan a month prior to his marriage. Consensus is that she was bitter about treatment by former fiance, began going out with other men, and absenteeism from work led to loss of her position as insurance secretary six weeks later.
“Subject then moved from modest apartment she shared with another girl, and cut off old ties and friendships. Rented a rather expensive apartment ($300 per month) and did not seek another job.
“Source of income not known, but indications are that she may have become ‘party’ girl. She is believed to entertain a man (or men) frequently, and often into the late hours.
“Found nothing to indicate she has had any contact with Paul Nathan since he broke their engagement. No conclusive proof otherwise, but his photograph not recognized by employees in building. Possibility that they have met clandestinely elsewhere will be explored if you direct. Will await instructions.
“END INTERIM REPORT.”
The next page was again headed: “Subject, Paul Nathan.” It was dated the previous Friday and there was the notation: Movements from 5:00 p.m. until 3:36 a.m.
Shayne glanced through this report quickly, confirming his impression that Paul Nathan followed very much the same routine on each of his Friday nights “out.”
This time he had left the office soon after five o’clock, driven directly to the Red Cock where he sat alone in the bar and nursed a couple of drinks until he was joined for dinner at 6:15 by the same Suzie Conroy who had dined with him the preceding Friday. After leaving the Red Cock and depositing her at her door, he had followed the same routine as before. First to the Fun Club, then to the Bay Breeze; across Biscayne Bay to the Bel Luna, then El Cielito, and finally to the Hacienda.
At each one of the five places he visited, he invariably bought a stack of chips for $100, and remained until he lost that exact amount. This night he reached the Hacienda at 2:30, and ended up at the roulette table presided over by Joe Grogan just a few minutes less than an hour later.
In his report, Wentworth noted that he was the only player at the table during his last fifteen minutes of play, and that he and the croupier had engaged in conversation while the wheel was going around and he was losing the last of his $100. From the table he had gone downstairs alone and had a single drink before driving directly home as before.
When he finished reading the two reports, Shayne didn’t have to check the notes on last night which he had in his pocket to know that Paul Nathan was a methodical and losing gambler who evidently set himself a loss limit of $500 each Friday night, spreading that amount equally and doggedly at each of the five places he visited each night, remaining at each one until he had lost exactly a hundred dollars, and then moving on.
It wasn’t a very exciting or imaginative way to spend a night gambling, and Shayne wondered why he bothered to make the rounds at all. He supposed the guy felt he had to do something with the one night of freedom allowed him by his wealthy wife each week, and he evidently felt a certain compulsion to fritter away the five hundred bucks his wife allowed him for each night “out.”
All in all it seemed to shape up as a rather dreary sort of married life, and Shayne found himself beginning to feel an unwilling sort of pity for the man who had jilted another woman to marry an heiress.
He closed the file reflectively, digging out a cigarette and lighting it. There was nothing to indicate whether Max Wentworth had been on the same tailing job last night or not. If so, his conscientious and carefully detailed report of Nathan’s movements would probably provide the husband with a perfect alibi. There hadn’t been time for him to type up his report, of course. Perhaps that was what he had come to the office to do. That might indicate he would have his notes on the evening with him, because he would have to keep notes as the evening progressed to make up an exact timetable such as the other reports provided.
Shayne took the folder carefully by its extreme edges again, and replaced it in the drawer where it had been. He hesitated before closing the drawer, recalling his former question about Eli Armbruster and the detective. He looked behind the folder he had just studied, and nodded with grim satisfaction when he discovered that the next folder was tabbed, Armbruster, Eli. He opened it and saw that it was dated a year before, and was headed: SUBJECT, Paul Nathan.
He lifted it out, glanced at the next folder to note that it was also labeled, Armbruster, Eli. He opened it enough to see that it went back three years and the Subject was a man named John L. Pierson. The following folder was also Armbruster’s, dated four years previously, and was a report on someone named David Lobb.
Shayne opened the Nathan folder on the desk, leaving the other two in place. He wondered if Paul Nathan realized that he, also, had been investigated by a private detective, as well as the other two men who had evidently sought to marry Elsa.
He skimmed through the report swiftly and found that it contained no derogatory information about Paul Nathan who was described as 33, 5–9? 145 pounds, from Sandusky, Ohio and a graduate of the State University. He had lived in Miami three years at the date the report had been made, employed continuously during that time as an insurance salesman by a Miami Beach broker on a drawing account of $100 per week against commissions which averaged between $125 and $150. He lived quietly in a bachelor apartment, was well-liked and industrious, and for six months had been engaged to a girl employed as a secretary in the same office whose name was Mona Bayliss.
The report noted merely that the engagement had been broken off just a month before without indicating whether this had occurred before or after Paul Nathan had met Elsa Armbruster.
Shayne replaced the folder in its proper position in the file and pushed the drawer shut.
Nothing he had found so far proved very much of anything. Except that Eli hadn’t missed a bet in checking up on prospective sons-in-law, and it seemed likely that Elsa had come to Wentworth on her father’s recommendation when she decided to hire a private detective to tail her husband on his Friday nights away from home.
He sighed and turned back to the stiffening corpse on the floor, not liking what he was about to do, but knowing it had to be done before he called the police in.
A careful search of Max Wentworth’s pockets, however, failed to reveal any notes the detective might have jotted down the previous evening. He either had not kept any… or he hadn’t brought them to the office with him… or his murderer had found them first.
Shayne rocked back on his heels while he considered this possibility. It was still, he conceded to himself, far out in left field to believe there was any connection between the Nathan case and the murder of Max Wentworth. He had no doubt that Max had made dozens of enemies in his somewhat checkered career who might have been happy to do the job. Max wasn’t, he told himself grimly, above trying a spot of discreet blackmail if the occasion arose… and the opportunity for blackmail often did arise during the course of a private investigator’s daily work.
He got to his feet and stretched out a big hand toward the telephone on the desk, halted the movement before he touched it.
Thus far he had touched nothing in the office. Better leave it that way. Gentry would be happier if he didn’t find any of Shayne’s fingerprints in the room, possibly smudging some others.
He pulled the door open with the tips of his fingers on the edge of the wood, went back down the stairs to a
