The Corpse That Never Was

resented, particularly from athletic young men. He said, “Jim Norris?” and then, “My secretary, Miss Hamilton.”

Norris sat down as Ed brought Lucy a Tom Collins, and ordered Dewar’s on the rocks. He said, “You wanted to talk to me about Paul Nathan, Mr. Shayne?”

Shayne pulled his cognac and ice water in front of him. “I understand he was having an affair with a girl in the office,” he said bluntly.

“Oh. You mean Suzie Conroy? Not really an affair, I think.” Norris shook his head condescendingly. “She’s a cute little thing. Only been with us a month or six weeks. I think Paul’s taken her out to dinner a couple of times. He’s… he was… pretty much married, you know. The old man’s daughter.” He smiled in a man-to-man way.

“You mean he walked a straight line?”

“Pretty much. At least that’s my impression. I only saw his wife once or twice at the office. Never socially. But Paul used to talk about having one night out a week.” His scotch came and he lifted his glass toward them. “Cheers.”

“Is Paul Nathan left-handed?”

“No.” Norris’s reply was prompt and unequivocal.

“You had a drink with him after work last night?”

“Two or three of us went out to a bar. He didn’t stay long. I believe he did mention he was meeting Suzie for dinner and we kidded him a little. Said he’d better not let Elsa find out.” Norris winced as he spoke her name. “Seems queer now… after what happened last night. Do you suppose he… suspected what was going on?”

“I was going to ask you that.”

“I wouldn’t know. I wondered since… he never showed any interest in any of the girls at the office until just recently with Suzie.”

“What sort of girl is she?”

“Cute. Quite pretty. Flirtatious, I’d say, but not fast.”

“Good figure?” Shayne spoke absently. “How tall?”

“Nice. About… your size, Miss Hamilton.”

They finished their drinks and Jim Norris talked nervously about Paul and what a shock it had been to break the news to him last night. He’d accompanied him to the morgue, he said, to identify Elsa, and it had been a gruesome experience. He’d offered to go on home with Paul and spend the night, but Paul had refused. It was a hell of a nasty thing to happen, he kept reiterating.

Shayne politely waited until Norris had finished his drink before thanking him for meeting them there and saying it was time he and Lucy were going in for dinner.

Norris assured him it had been a pleasure, that he’d be glad to help any way he could because he certainly did feel sorry for Paul, and they left him in the bar ordering another drink for himself while they went in to a secluded corner table which Andre had reserved for them.

Shayne ordered sidecars for them both this time, and Lucy propped her elbows on the table and cupped her chin in her hands and said sweetly, “All right, Michael. You’re just bursting to talk about it, I can tell. What have you found out today?”

He grinned ruefully, gave her a cigarette and took one for himself, lit them both and blew out a double stream of smoke from his nostrils.

“Bits and pieces, Angel. One contradiction piled on top of another. You’re right about my wanting to talk about it. Maybe something will clarify itself if I put it in order and say it out loud.”

The waiter brought their drinks and menus, and when he went away Shayne began talking slowly and thoughtfully, giving Lucy a complete and concise fill-in on his movements during the day while they each had another drink, ordered and ate a delicious dinner.

They were dawdling with after-dinner coffee and cognac when he reached the end of his interview with Peter Holding, glanced at his watch and finished, “As soon as we’re finished here, we’ll stop by at Peter’s studio and pick up the picture he’ll have for us.”

“Then you think Joe Grogan is actually Robert Lambert?”

“It’s the only thing that makes sense at the moment. We’ll go to your place and see if the manager and Mrs. Conrad identify the picture with a mustache and glasses.”

“But how can he be, Michael? You know he was at work on the Beach those two preceding Friday nights when Lambert was entertaining Mrs. Nathan in that apartment above me.”

“I told you there were contradictions. But I’ve been thinking about that and I’ll have to check with the Hacienda. It’s my impression those croupiers work short shifts. Maybe only four hours. In that case, he may not go on until midnight.”

“But Mrs. Conrad says they stayed in that room together until after midnight.”

“She says the outer door remained closed and no one came out until after midnight each night.” Shayne hesitated, scowling. “There’s another way out. Down the fire escape.”

“But why would anybody…?”

“I haven’t gotten to the whys yet,” he said morosely. He paused. “I don’t even know whether Joe Grogan is left-handed or not. I’ll have to ask his wife.”

“Who killed Max Wentworth?” she asked helplessly. “You said a left-handed man. But Lambert is already dead.”

“I’m not too sure he is,” Shayne told her slowly.

“Then who… was that you found?”

“Maybe it was Joe Grogan lying there with his head blown off.”

“You’re talking in circles, Michael.”

“I’m thinking in circles,” he agreed with a wry smile. “I told you there were contradictions piled on top of contradictions. But somebody killed Wentworth, even if that was a legitimate suicide pact last night.”

“It doesn’t have to be anyone connected with them. You said yourself that Max had lots of enemies.”

“Sure. And Grogan may have just gone off on a binge and is still sleeping it off. But I’m on the edge of a hunch, Lucy. A crazy irrational hunch that won’t come straight.”

“What’s bothering you, Michael,” she told him severely, “is that huge sum of money that Mr. Armbruster offered you to prove his son-in-law guilty. That’s why you refuse to accept the obvious.”

He paid no heed to her. “Those notes,” he muttered angrily. “The wording of them. They don’t sound like a man named Joe Grogan… not one married to the woman I met this afternoon.”

“Then he can’t have been Lambert,” Lucy pointed out patiently. “His signature on the rent receipt proves he wrote them.”

Shayne said slowly, “Y-e-a-h. You’re right, Angel. Maybe you put your finger on something. Let’s drink up and get that picture from Peter.”

Lucy had taken a taxi to the restaurant, so Shayne drove her to the studio on West Flagler Street and got out. “Do you mind waiting? If I take you up, Peter will insist that you drink some lousy burgundy while he makes passes at you.”

She laughed and said, “I’ll wait,” and Shayne hurried inside. He emerged within five minutes and got under the steering wheel. He handed Lucy a still-damp 4x6 print, exulting, “He did a terrific job.”

She held the picture to the light of a street lamp as he pulled away. “It certainly looks like an actual photograph. You’d never guess it had been tampered with.”

When they stopped in front of Lucy’s apartment building and went in, Shayne asked her, “Does the manager live here?”

“Mr. Barstow? Yes. He has the ground-floor apartment just to the right of the elevator.”

Shayne said, “You go on up. I’ll try this on him and then be right with you. There’s another angle I want to figure out before we tackle Mrs. Conrad.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Lucy had left her door ajar for him and Shayne had the photo in his hand when he entered five minutes later.