urgent. You’ll find him at the St. Albans Hotel, room 1421.”
The radioman chuckled. “Since when have you been on speaking terms with Painter?”
The officer took the mike and said sharply, “Put that call through.”
“Yes, sir.”
The helicopter rose, turned, and the jets cut loose. Soon the column of smoke was only a smudge on the horizon.
The voice announced, “I’ve got Painter on the line. Shayne? He wants to know where the hell you are and why the hell you had the goddamn nerve to walk away after you found the body. Over.”
“I’m not receiving you too well,” Shayne said. “Tell him-”
“I say again. Chief Painter wants to know-”
Ensign Gray grabbed the mike and snapped, “Use some intelligence. Relay Shayne’s message.”
“Oh, I get you, sir. Go ahead.”
Shayne said, “Tell him to pick up a woman named Katharine Brady. Katharine Brady. I think she’s registered in a Beach hotel, one of the expensive ones. Check with the airlines, and if they have her listed for an outgoing flight, get there before the plane leaves and pull her off. Don’t let her get out of town. Check the parked cars at Haulover Beach. He’ll find one with rental-agency plates and a man’s clothes in it. I want to know who rented it. Wait a minute.”
He looked at the officer. “Where do you take your casualties?”
“We have an aid station at the base.”
Shayne went on, “Tell him we’ll collect at the Opa Locka aid station. As soon as possible, because I’ve been up all night.”
“Are we still having the same transmission difficulties?”
“Yeah, getting worse.”
He handed the mike back. The officer grinned.
“If you’ve been up all night, maybe you’d like a small nip. We carry brandy as part of our medical stores.”
“If you’ll join me.”
“Maybe I can find you some clothes.”
A long time ago, Shayne had left his shorts on Katharine Brady’s boat, and the rest of his clothes on the
He dropped into the main compartment, where the enlisted man gave him a cigarette. Brady was unconscious, breathing heavily.
Shayne picked up the tawny wig and the cotton jacket. There was a small hole in the front of the jacket, the kind made by a.25 slug. His face blank and dangerous, Shayne ran the tip of one finger into the tiny hole. He had never been fooled this badly, but he was about to start collecting some of his outstanding accounts.
Shayne was finishing breakfast in the officers’ mess when Painter’s party arrived, in two cars, using both sirens. Shayne had been given a denim coverall, a size too small for him. He finished his coffee without hurrying, postponing the moment when he would have to confront the little chief of detectives. He was in for a painful couple of hours. Shayne didn’t mind being asked questions, but one of Painter’s biggest troubles was that he rarely took time to listen to the answers.
The wall phone rang.
“Your call to New York, Mike,” Ensign Gray said.
“Thanks. Would you mind telling Painter I’ll be with him in a minute?” He took the phone. “Joshua?”
“Michael. Good news or bad news?”
“Pretty bad. For one thing, Tom Moseley’s been murdered.”
Loring sucked in his breath.
“He was bludgeoned in a hotel room early this morning. I can’t give you much on it now. A cop’s waiting for me, and he burns on a very short fuse. One thing I need to know-did Moseley go to Harvard?”
“Yes,” Loring whispered.
“In the same class as De Rham and Brady?”
“I think so. They’re all about the same age.”
“Can you check it for me? The other thing is, will you find out what company wrote the insurance on Winslow’s Massachusetts plant? I want to talk to the official who okayed that claim. I’ve picked up some evidence that the fire was set. I took a bad beating getting it, and there’s no reason I shouldn’t get some compensation.”
“You mean that Dotty-”
“I’m sorry, but you must have known it was in the cards. Tell him to call me at this number as soon as possible.”
“Mike-is she all right?”
Shayne waited, considering various answers, and then depressed the bar, breaking the connection.
Painter, told to meet Shayne in the aid station, was on his way out to look for him. The two men met in the doorway. As in every collision between Shayne and Painter, the smaller man got the worst of it. He was immaculately dressed, even now, with the points of a carefully folded handkerchief peeping from the breast pocket of an Italian silk suit. He had found time to shave, and his little hairline mustache was neatly trimmed.
“This isn’t a one-way transmission now, Shayne!” he fumed. “Can you hear me? Am I talking loud enough for you? Not that you took me in with that one-way dodge! I’ve known you too long.”
“Petey, slow down a minute.”
“And just what do you think gives you the authority to issue orders? Go there, do this, pick up so-and-so. I’m the one who gives the orders, do you understand? The sooner you get that through your head the better.”
“Orders?” Shayne said mildly. “I hope that radioman didn’t misquote me. All I said was that if you had nothing better to do, I’d appreciate it if you stopped by the Opa Locka Airport. I’m glad you could make it.”
“You don’t fool me for a minute, Shayne! I know the way you talk about me behind my back. People have told me. I’ve had verbatim quotes.”
“Petey, is this getting us anywhere? Did you locate Mrs. Brady?”
Painter held up one hand. “Do I have your permission to speak? Before I tell you what I’ve done about your polite request to locate a certain Mrs. Katharine Brady, would you kindly tell me who the hell Mrs. Katharine Brady is and why you want her?”
“She killed Moseley,” Shayne said.
Painter had a habit of hearing only the things he wanted to hear, but he heard that. He gave his mustache a quick flick in both directions.
“She killed Moseley, did she?” he said sarcastically. “Here I’ve been going on the supposition that you killed Moseley. Rourke gives you an alibi for the crucial time, but everybody knows about you and Rourke, you’ve been co-conspirators for years. This wouldn’t be the first time somebody killed a man, then came back an hour later and found the body. What makes you think you can pin it on this woman?”
They were alone in the anteroom except for a Coast Guard yeoman on duty at the desk. Sometimes there was only one way to make Painter stop talking. Shayne gathered a handful of his suit in one fist and walked him backward against the wall.
Painter took it well. “I warn you, Shayne,” he said pleasantly. “Take your greasy hand off my suit.”
“Did you find Katharine Brady?”
“Why should I answer your questions when you don’t answer mine?” He called over his shoulder, “Richardson! Foster!”
Shayne pulled him away from the wall and walked him to the inner door. Two Beach detectives held up in the doorway.
“It’s you, Mike,” Richardson said.
Shayne was grinning. “We do better in front of an audience, don’t you think, Petey? I can usually keep my temper when we have witnesses.”
Still grinning amiably, he backed the smaller man into a room in which Paul Brady lay, his head heavily bandaged. A Coast Guard medic was with him.
