“How long did you stay in Chicago?”
“’Till last month. This I wangled, because in the back of my mind I’ve never forgotten Mrs. Masterson’s diary. Would you, in my shoes? So when Senator Wall looked me up
“Did he have anything to do with the investigation last year?”
“He had access to the files. More than that I don’t know. We felt each other out. I was still a little leery, but as soon as he told me there were National Aviation funds available, it solved my problem.”
“I don’t think I get that, Ron.”
“I mean I could sell it in that quarter without risk. Dealing with Toby, eyeball to eyeball-well, I don’t know if I have the stature for it, frankly. It just so happened that I knew where they could contact Olga and take it from there, because the minute I got transferred back from Chicago I went to work on it. I ran down about ninety blind leads until I came across the right one. It turned out that she’d been away. One of her brothers-she has two, both apes-owned this joint, and when she came back to town she went to work for him. I dropped in one night to look it over. She let out a yell, recognized me right away. Her brothers walked me to the door and gave me a kick in the slats to remember them by. I’m not like you, Mike. I don’t keep fit. I had to let them get away with it.”
“You didn’t find out why she went out of town, or where?”
“Mike, they didn’t let me utter more than two or three words. OK, what should I do now? I decided that doing nothing might be the best bet. But it kept gnawing at me. It took away my peace of mind. And then in walked Senator Wall, out of the blue, so to speak. I brought him up to date and sold him Olga’s address. I made it clear-no public testifying, because I value my rating. Gee,” he said abruptly, “maybe I made a mistake taking that last drink. I have a tremendous capacity for liquor, but isn’t there something about the dregs at the bottom of a wine bottle?”
“Ron, stay with me another minute. Did this Mrs. Masterson ever have anything to do with an Air Force colonel?”
Bixler fell against the arm of the sofa. “Snuck up on me. Millions of Air Force colonels.”
“This one’s about five-ten, broad through the shoulders-”
Bixler waved his hand to stir up the air in front of him. “Funny thing. All I can see is bubbles.”
“Is Mrs. Masterson still in Washington?”
He fixed Shayne with an eye that suddenly seemed off-center. “Not in the papers any more. Going to find out first thing in the morning. Child’s play for experienced investigator. Maybe there’s more money in this. Could be, you know.”
He stood up, his hand to his mouth. “’Scuse me, Michael. With you in a minute.”
He headed for the bathroom in an S-shaped line, taking the last few feet at a run. He slammed the door. Shayne waited, listening to the bathroom noises, then made up his mind and let himself out.
CHAPTER 11
2:45 A.M.
Accumulated fatigue caught up with Michael Shayne as he got into his car. Heavy weights pulled at his eyelids. His hands suddenly became too heavy to lift. For an instant, as he sat at the wheel, willing himself to turn the key, he went to sleep. Wall, Hitchcock, Sam Toby, Trina, Maggie Smith-they were like scattered pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, and as he slept they shifted about and changed places, turning over and over. He seized each in turn and made it hold still. Even then nothing would fit.
He snapped awake. The car seemed to start itself and glide away from the curb with no help from Shayne. He was finally beginning to adjust to Washington’s pattern of avenues and circles. A short drive north brought him to the Capitol, and after that it was no problem to find Connecticut Avenue and the Park Plaza Hotel. Leaving the Ford double-parked, he asked at the desk if Senator Wall was in. Again the answer was no.
He lit a cigarette after getting back in his car. At some point, he knew, Bixler had stopped telling the truth and started lying. He had sold one set of facts to Shayne, another to Senator Wall. In spite of his denials, had he sold still a third to Toby?
The detective smoked the cigarette down to the stub before deciding that, late as it was, he had to tell Hitchcock what he had learned. Bixler had worked for Hitchcock’s committee. If he had been dealing with Toby, Hitchcock should know about it. Not in the morning, but right now.
Sighing, Shayne tried to get his bearings. He turned the wrong way on Massachusetts Avenue, realizing his mistake after several blocks. He was relieved to see the big mounted statue of General Sheridan. He knew his way from there.
He was surprised to see the lights still on in Hitchcock’s house. As he slowed, he heard a car door slam. Fully awake now, he accelerated, cut in sharply, then slammed on his brakes. The car that was backing out of the Hitchcock driveway, a big station wagon, slithered to a stop inches away from his front fender.
A woman wearing dark glasses, with a scarf tied over her hair, craned out the window. “Move your car, please,” she said, in a voice that showed she was used to having her suggestions followed. “You’re blocking me.”
Shayne got out to look the situation over. “Yeah, you’re right.”
She raced her motor angrily. “Do you want me to ram into you?”
“That might work,” Shayne admitted. “Your car’s heavier than mine.”
“Is this some kind of joke?” she demanded. “Move out of my way this instant or I’ll call the police.”
“You wouldn’t really do that,” the redhead said politely. “Would you mind taking off your dark glasses? I just want to be sure you’re Mrs. Redpath before I say the wrong thing.”
She took out her feelings on the motor, racing it violently. “Damn it, you only saw me for ten minutes. It’s dark, and I hoped you wouldn’t recognize me. Please, Mr. Shayne, I can’t talk to you now.”
Shayne grinned at her. “You were friendlier the last time I saw you. You even said you’d help if there was anything I didn’t understand. Mrs. Redpath, there’s hardly anything I
“I said that hours and hours and hours ago.” Her voice climbed.
Shayne went on grinning. “I’ve been wondering what your husband did for Sam Toby on that Manners contract, and why. That’s what you’ve been talking to Hitchcock about, isn’t it?”
She managed to control herself, but the effort showed. She took off her dark glasses.
“I understand you’ve been doing all right without any help.” Drawing a quick breath, she produced a fairly presentable smile, though her arms and shoulders were still tense. “My husband doesn’t know I’m here. I hate to think what would happen if he wakes up before I get back. Senator Hitchcock can explain. If there’s anything else you need to know, come to see me in the morning. I’ll arrange to be alone.”
She smiled again, and this time it looked more real. With her foot on the brake, her skirt had slipped back from her knee. Her legs were brown and slender. She was effective, and she knew it.
Shayne said stubbornly, “This will only take a minute. I need the answers right now.”
Her smile departed. “You won’t get them! I can’t answer that kind of question on the spur of the moment! I need some advice first.”
“Legal advice?”
She switched off the motor and hauled at the emergency brake. “I can’t make you move. At the same time I don’t think you’re sure enough of yourself to hold me by force. I’ll find a taxi.”
She unlatched the door. Shayne shut it again.
“I’ll give you some advice, Mrs. Redpath. If you can’t help being anxious, don’t let it show so much.”
“You know nothing whatever about it!” she snapped.
“God knows that’s true.”
He returned to his Ford and backed out of her way. She came past him, stopping when the two cars were parallel.
