The Corpse That Never Was

home and arranging to have a talk with her if possible.

This knowledge changed all that. He didn’t want to see Mona Bayliss quite yet. Not until he knew more about her relationship with Robert Lambert. Not until, goddamnit, he knew more about Robert Lambert himself.

He caught himself looking down at the photograph of Joe Grogan again, and was reminded of the promise he’d made Mrs. Grogan.

He called police headquarters and was connected with the Missing Persons Bureau, and was lucky enough to find a man he knew in charge.

“This is off the record for the moment,” he said after identifying himself. “I’ve got a missing guy named Joe Grogan. Since last evening.” He described Joe from the photo and from what Mrs. Grogan had told him, including the way he had been dressed when she last saw him.

“We’ve got nothing that fits that, Mr. Shayne. Unless,” he added hopefully, “you’re thinking about the stiff who blew his head off with a shotgun last night. Superficially…”

“Yeh. I’ve already thought about that angle,” Shayne growled. “If anything at all comes in let me know, huh?”

He hung up, still staring down at Joe Grogan’s picture. Then he called the number for James R. Norris and got a cheerful, youthful voice in reply.

“This is Michael Shayne, Mr. Norris. I understand you know Paul Nathan quite well.”

“The detective? Say, that was terrible last night, wasn’t it? I was the one who told Paul. Just ran into him by chance at a joint on the Beach, and he hadn’t even heard the news.”

Shayne said, “I know. I think you also had a drink with him last evening after you left the office together?”

“Let’s see. Yesterday? That’s right. There were two or three of us…”

“I’d like to talk to you,” Shayne cut him off.

“Well… I… Let’s see. It’s about four-thirty…”

“Let me buy you a drink,” suggested Shayne. “I’ve got a couple of things to do. About six o’clock?”

“Six o’clock? Sure. Where can I meet you?”

“How about the Red Cock? I’m having dinner there.”

“Fine. I’ll see you at six.”

“Ask the bartender. He knows me.”

“Oh, I’ll recognize you, Mr. Shayne.” Norris sounded youthfully eager. “Your picture has been in the paper often enough.”

Shayne hung up and called Lucy Hamilton to ask her to meet him for dinner at the Red Cock at six. She was delighted to accept the invitation, and he finished his drink and then had a fast shave and shower and changed into fresh clothes for the evening.

It was a little after five when he drove out West Flagler Street beyond the F.E.C. railroad tracks and stopped in front of a dingy apartment building. He climbed up one flight and went to the rear of the building and knocked on a flimsy door behind which he could hear the muted sound of folk music.

A thin-faced young man opened the door onto a large untidy studio room with windows along the entire north wall. He was in his shirtsleeves and was barefooted; his hair was awry and his white duck pants were smeared with daubs of paint. A couple of easels occupied prominent places in the room, and the walls of the studio were hung with paintings and prints, mostly of female nudes. He was one of the most successful free-lance commercial artists in the city and a friend of long standing.

He exclaimed with pleasure, “Mike Shayne, the demon sleuth! Come in and rest your ass and I’ll dig up a drink. Burgundy, huh? The budget doesn’t run to cognac these days.”

Shayne stepped inside and grimaced. “I’d have brought a bottle, Peter, if I’d thought about it.”

Peter Holding went to a cupboard and rummaged inside, triumphantly turned around with a gallon jug half full of domestic burgundy and two water glasses. “This stuff goes farther than cognac.” He sloshed red wine into a glass and handed it to the redhead. “I see you’ve been in the headlines again.”

“I’ve got a job for you, Peter.” Shayne got the photograph of Joe Grogan from his pocket and showed it to the artist. “Can you put a small, dark mustache on this guy and sketch in a pair of blue-tinted horn-rimmed glasses?”

Holding studied it professionally. “I could do a better job if the face were blown up about twice that size.”

“You can blow it up, can’t you?”

“Sure. I do all my own photographic work here.” He drank wine from his glass and shot an intent glance at the detective. “Some miscreant trying to disguise himself?”

“We may end up with a picture of the guy who blew his head off with a shotgun last night.”

“That one?” Peter looked at the photo with new interest, then began shaking his head. “I don’t believe it. This guy likes life.”

Shayne sighed. “It’s a wild shot in the dark,” he agreed. “I don’t know how you’ll work this, Peter, but what I’d like as an end result is an actual print of him wearing a mustache and glasses. So it isn’t clearly evident that it’s been painted on. That always throws a witness off. When they see it’s been doctored, they always start thinking what he looked like before it was doctored.” He gestured vaguely. “See what I mean?”

“Sure. There’s nothing to it, Mike. I’ll first photograph the head from this and make an eight by ten. I’ll put the mustache and glasses on that print, and then rephotograph it and reduce it to about a normal four by six.”

“How long will that take?” Shayne asked dubiously.

“Couple of hours I can give you a finished print.”

Shayne said, “It’s worth a hundred bucks if I can pick it up by eight.”

“Sold! To the highest bidder,” said Peter Holding enthusiastically. “If you’re not going to drink that dago red, just set it down and I’ll get around to it later.”

It still lacked a few minutes of six o’clock when Shayne entered the cocktail lounge at the Red Cock. He didn’t see Lucy at any of the tables, and went to the bar where the bartender nodded to him and set a double shotglass in front of him which he filled with cognac. He added a glass of ice water on the side and Shayne said, “No one asked for me, Ed?”

“Not yet this evening, Mr. Shayne.”

“I’m expecting Miss Hamilton and a fellow whom I don’t know to meet me here. Jim Norris.”

“I don’t believe I know him by name.”

Shayne said, “I’ll take my drink over to a table, and make a dinner reservation. If Miss Hamilton shows up, have her sit down and order a drink.”

He carried the glasses over to a table in one corner, and then sauntered through a side door to the dining room entrance.

The maitre was there with his reservation book, and he greeted the detective affably, “A table, Mr. Shayne?”

“In about half an hour. For two, Andre.” Shayne waited until he made a notation in his book, and then asked, “Do you have a customer named Paul Nathan?”

“You mean for dinner tonight, Mr. Shayne?”

“Not necessarily. I mean, does he often eat here?”

“Mr. Nathan? Once a week, perhaps. Last evening, I think.”

“Would you see if he had a reservation?”

Andre raised his eyebrows, but turned two pages back in his book. “At six-thirty. For two, Mr. Shayne.”

“Do you remember the woman who was with him?”

Andre considered this carefully. “She has accompanied him before, I think. Young and pretty. Quite petite.”

Shayne nodded his thanks and turned back into the lounge. Lucy Hamilton was just seating herself at the table where he had left his drink, and Ed was hovering over her. Shayne went to the table and sat down and Lucy smiled at him expectantly, and said, “I stayed at the office until three, but you didn’t come back.”

He said, “I’ve been busy all day,” and then looked up at a tall, handsome young man who was bearing down on him with a wide, white-toothed smile. “It is Mr. Shayne, isn’t it?”

Shayne stood up and shook hands, receiving one of those offensively bone-crushing handclasps which he