story…”
“I read the note her daughter left her. I’ve got it in my pocket,” Shayne told him angrily. “For Christ’s sake, don’t work so hard being cynical, Tim. This is on the up-and-up. The girl shot him in self-defense when he came to the hotel room looking for her mother… and then attacked her. No jury in the world would ever hold her for that.”
“Then why get yourself involved? If it’s open and shut like you say…”
“Because the guy she shot to death was her own father… only she didn’t know it. You see, the guy deserted her mother before she was born, and she never saw him. Now do you get the picture? Are you going to contend that she should be told the truth… on the eve of her wedding… give her something to live with the rest of her life?”
“Won’t she find out anyhow?”
“Not if we’re lucky and can get hold of that damned corpse and dispose of it somewhere a long way from the Encanto. It’s a long story, Tim, but take my word for it. The odds are fifty-to-one she’ll never know it was her father this way. If I’d left the body lying there and called the cops as I should have, there would have been different headlines in tomorrow’s paper. You would have done the same damned thing I did under the same circumstances.”
“Maybe,” muttered Timothy Rourke. “Fifteen years ago… sure. But we’re growing up, Mike.”
“Speak for yourself,” Shayne told him blithely. He stretched out his long legs and took a deep drag on his cigarette, and then chuckled happily. “Personally, I haven’t had so much fun in years. When those cops told me I was driving a stolen car… and with a stiff locked up in the trunk there at headquarters… He threw back his head and laughed heartily at the recollection. “That stupid Georgia Cracker putting the handcuffs on me! If he’d just gone around and unlocked the trunk…”
“I’ll bet you weren’t laughing then,” Rourke said sourly. They were approaching the intersection at 79th, and he slowed and pulled into the left lane to make the turn.
“No,” agreed Shayne. “But it is funny now… looking back on it.”
Rourke turned on 79th and drove slowly through the Little River business section to Miami Avenue where he turned south two blocks and then onto 77th Street. Leaving the avenue behind them, they entered a residential section of modest homes where practically all the houses were dark at this time of night.
In the 200 block, only one house was lighted at either side of the tree-lined street. Rourke slowed to a crawl as he approached it, checking the numbers. He muttered, “That’s the Duclos house with the lights on. They must be celebrating getting their car back.”
He continued past without actually stopping, and Shayne, looking out the window on his side, saw there was no Ford parked in the driveway, and the one-car attached garage stood open and empty.
“It’s not there, damn it. Pull in to the curb here at the corner and shut off your lights. Where the hell do you suppose Duclos is? He was supposed to have left the station before I did.”
“Maybe he had a flat tire driving home,” suggested Rourke caustically. “Maybe every police car in town is looking for Mike Shayne right now.”
“Maybe. But let’s wait here a little and see what happens. If he drives up pretty soon, we can go back to the Avenue for a drink and wait for him to get settled for the night. It’s pretty dark back there in the middle of the block, and the driveway and garage are well shaded.”
Rourke sighed and slumped morosely behind the wheel. “It’s your job, Mike. I just drove you out here.”
They both smoked two cigarettes while they sat in silence and waited, and not a single car came down the residential street. Behind them, the front windows of the one-story Duclos house continued to show bright light, but there was nothing to indicate what was going on inside.
When Shayne spun the butt of his second cigarette away, he said impatiently, “This isn’t getting us anywhere. We might sit here all night.”
Rourke pulled himself erect behind the wheel and reached for the ignition key. “My sentiments exactly. Let’s get the hell out…”
“And drive around the block and come back and stop right in front,” Shayne told him calmly. “You go in and find out what’s what with that Ford.”
“Me?”
“You’re a reporter,” Shayne reminded him. “You’ve come out to get an interview with Duclos about how his car was stolen and got recovered so quickly. Nothing queer about that. Ask his wife where he is and when she expects him.”
“Suppose he’s there?” Rourke was slowly driving around the block as Shayne directed. “He might have left the car some place… loaned it to a friend or some damn thing.”
“Then find out where it is,” said Shayne. “Tell him you want to examine it for fingerprints to disprove my story that someone else stole it and loaned it to me. He’ll go for that. He was sore at the police station because they didn’t have me locked up in a cell.”
Rourke sighed and turned back into the block where the single lighted house stood out like a beacon in the night. He said wonderingly, “I get sucked into doing the damnedest things.”
“All in a good cause,” Shayne told him heartily. “I’ll slouch down out of sight if a car pulls up.”
Rourke stopped directly in front of the lighted house and shut off his ignition and lights. He got out and went up the walk to the front door with a porch light on, and Shayne watched from the front seat of the car while he rang the bell and waited for at least a full minute before the door opened to admit him.
A woman stood inside the door blinking uncertainly at Timothy Rourke. She had a thin face and straggly brown hair streaked with gray, a sharp nose and faded blue eyes. She wore a cotton print dress and a pair of scuffed blue slippers without any stockings.
He said, “Mrs. Duclos,” and she nodded slowly, considering him without rancor but without apparent interest.
He stepped forward briskly and she moved aside to let him enter a small, steamy, cluttered sitting room, with shabby furniture and a general run-down appearance.
“I’m a reporter from the Miami News,” he told her. “I’d like to talk to your husband if he’s home.”
She said, “He isn’t here right now. But I’m expecting him any minute. I don’t know. They called him about his car being stolen. The police did. And he went down to see about it. That was an hour or so ago. Was that what you wanted to talk to him about?”
Passing close in front of her to get inside, Rourke got a strong whiff of gin and tonic on her breath, and glancing across the room at a low armchair with a faded slipcover on it and pages of the News scattered on the floor around it, he saw a tall glass on a side table with the remnants of a drink in the bottom of it
He said hastily, “Yes. It’s about the stolen car. I’m surprised he isn’t home yet I know he picked his car up at headquarters about an hour ago.”
“George’ll be along I guess,” she said indifferently, closing the door and waving one hand vaguely toward a butt-sprung couch. “You want to wait, he’ll be along, I guess. He was that upset about the car when they telephoned him.” She moved past him toward the armchair, sliding her feet along on the worn carpet carefully, almost shuffling, and giving the impression that she wasn’t entirely too steady on her feet. “He didn’t know it was stolen, you see… until they called him. He’d parked it out front and, when they asked him over the phone, he looked out and then he said, ‘Why, by God! It’s gone.’ You know. You don’t expect something like that to happen. Not in a quiet neighborhood like this, you don’t. And so they had a police car to stop by to pick him up to go down and identify it, and I don’t know why he isn’t back home yet. Won’t you sit down… Mister? Could I offer you something to drink, maybe?” She lifted her own glass and drank the dregs, then looked at him over the rim almost coyly. “There’s gin in the kitchen… and some kind of mixer, I guess.”
Rourke remained standing. He said, “Nothing for me. Thanks just the same.” His gaze wandered around the room, avoiding the somewhat avid look in her pale blue eyes while he mentally cursed himself for allowing Shayne to push him into this sort of situation. “Not much use my waiting, I guess,” he said uncertainly. “If you don’t know what’s holding him up, you don’t know how long he’ll be.”
He paused abruptly, his roving gaze caught by a 4x6 photograph in a cardboard folder on the mantel of an ornamental (though certainly not usable) fireplace at the end of the room. The woman in the picture was quite clearly Mrs. Duclos, taken ten or fifteen years before, and the features of the man standing beside her brought a strong feeling of recognition to the reporter.
