wrong.”
“I’m not complaining. Anything you want me to do, Mike, go down in a catch basin, break my neck in an automobile-”
He shot across the bridge over the Miami River and made the quick jog east to Biscayne Boulevard. He slowed enough for a quick glance in both directions, and ran through a red light.
“That’s better,” Shayne grunted.
“Except if I get stopped and we have to spend fifteen minutes arguing it may not look too smart. Where on the Beach?”
“The St. Albans.”
Shayne uncapped the cognac bottle, waited till Rourke had the Ford on the smooth concrete of the causeway, and drank deeply. He had been faked out of position, but he was almost beginning to persuade himself that he had recovered in time.
“If you’re going in a hotel, Mike-well, I don’t want to put you down. Take a look in the mirror.”
Shayne switched on the overhead light and turned the mirror. He ripped a piece off his shirttail. Using the cognac, he cleaned the worst of the blood off his face. The pattern of the bicycle chain remained clearly imprinted along his jaw.
“It’s O.K. They know me there.”
“Yeah, but you have to consider the tone of the place, too. You’re going to lower it, pal.”
“Too damn bad.”
He had another quick drink and put the cognac away. Rourke crossed the Beach on Arthur Godfrey Road and turned north on Collins. There was more traffic here, but he had decided to show Shayne he could drive recklessly when he wanted to, and he didn’t slow down until he used his brakes again for the curving approach to the great wedding-cake hotel.
Shayne jumped out and thrust a bill at the doorman. “Be back in a minute. Don’t move it.”
“Right, Mike,” the doorman said.
The clerk at the front desk, who didn’t know Shayne, looked at him oddly when he asked for Tom Moseley’s room number. Then, leaning forward, he made a point of noticing Rourke’s muddy pants and bare feet.
“That’s 1421,” he said, making a discreet sign to summon the night security man. “Will you use the house phone, please?”
“Tim,” Shayne snapped. “Call him and tell him I’m on the way. I’ll explain while he’s getting dressed.”
“Why don’t I come too,” Rourke suggested, “and then you won’t have to explain twice?”
Shayne waved him away. The security man, Reuben Kaufman, looked out of his little office.
“Anything you want me to do, Shayne?”
“Just picking up somebody.”
He shut himself in an automatic elevator, which took him rapidly to the fourteenth floor. He found 1421 and buzzed. He could hear the phone ringing inside.
When the phone continued to ring he whipped out his picks, already knowing what he would find. Using only a hard celluloid strip, he forced the latch and entered the room.
The lights were on. “Yeah,” Shayne said softly.
There was a dead man on the floor.
He looked down at the body for only an instant. He had been clubbed from behind with a gin bottle. The bottle, three-quarters full, lay a foot or so from the dead man’s head, which amid the blood and clotted hair clearly showed the triangular indentation. The man had been wearing his glasses when he was struck, horn-rims with straight earpieces. He was fully dressed, in a business suit.
The phone went on ringing. Shayne pulled a Kleenex from a box on the bureau and picked it up carefully.
“Tim?”
“Yeah. What’s wrong?”
“What do you think is wrong? He’s been murdered.”
CHAPTER 16
Shayne bent over the body and smelled the blood. Then he looked around. The television picture was coming in without sound. There were various small signs that a fight had taken place. A loaded ashtray had been knocked over. When Shayne returned to the body he saw something on the floor beside the right hand. At first he thought it was fur. Using the point of a pencil, he turned it over. It was a patch of human hair, blonde and curling. Each individual hair had been sewn to a piece of silk.
Shayne left it there. The buzzer sounded.
“Open it from outside,” he called. “I don’t want to smear the knob.”
The security man used his keys. Tim Rourke entered with him.
“Jolly,” Rourke commented, looking down. “Single occupancy. Not really supposed to have guests.”
“Tim, you have to handle this for me. He’s been dead a couple of hours, so I doubt if Painter will try to lay it on me. Tell him I’ll call in.”
“Mike, you found him,” Kaufman pointed out. “I’m afraid I’ll have to insist that you stay around till Painter gets here. It won’t be long.”
“You’re well within your rights,” Shayne assured him. “Insist. Tim, did you leave the keys in the Ford?”
“Yeah. But Mike, Kaufman has a point. Painter’s going to want to know what you wanted with him, and that’s for openers. What do I tell him?”
Shayne allowed himself a tight grin. “Tell him you can’t say anything before you talk to a lawyer. Mention the Supreme Court.”
“That’ll send him up the wall! Be reasonable, Mike. I’ll be glad to go down another catch basin, or anything easy. But I’m getting older. I’m losing my sense of humor. Petey doesn’t amuse me any more!”
Shayne went out. In the doorway, Rourke called after him, “Don’t leave me out on a limb too long, Mike, or you’ll lose a friend.”
Alone in the elevator, Shayne doubled his fist and slammed it against the wall. It relieved his feelings slightly. With Moseley’s help, the next step would have been easy. Now it might turn out to be very touchy indeed-he wasn’t sure he could pull it off.
He crossed the lobby, ignoring the stares of the guests who were still up. In Rourke’s Ford, he found he had to baby the carburetor to keep it operating while he shifted into the upper gears. He felt the front wheels shiver, but he reached the Sunrise Shores with everything still intact.
The guard at the gate didn’t think he looked trustworthy, and came with him to be sure he was welcome aboard the
Shayne’s pace quickened. He heard a girl’s cry. Sally Lyon hurried down from her father’s boat and ran into his arms.
“Mike, I didn’t know what to do! Your car phone didn’t answer-” She pulled back and looked at his face. “You’re hurt!”
“It looks worse than it is. When did they pull out?”
“Do you know this man, Miss Lyon?” the guard said.
“Isn’t that obvious? Go on back.”
The guard turned reluctantly and Sally went on, “About half an hour ago. I thought we ought to call the police, but Dad talked me out of it. You should have seen them! They were in no condition to-”
She was bouncing in his arms. He took her by the shoulders and made her hold still. She was still wearing the same short nightgown.
“Sally, tell me how it happened.”
“They were drunk and they just took it into their heads to go for a sail. Mrs. De Rham, mostly. Paul was trying to stop her. He looked so desperate! They woke everybody up. They were disgustingly plastered-staggering around drinking out of the bottle! They went out without lights, they forgot to cast off one of the lines and pulled
