“After midnight. We were at a place in Coral Gables, five of us. I couldn’t sleep. Gil was playing a six-string guitar, very softly. The phone rang downstairs. He went to answer it, and after that I think he went outside.”
“For how long?”
“Ten or fifteen minutes. He brought back a bullet. I think it was a blank, it looked sort of flat at one end. We all compared ours with it. There was a lot of rummaging around. By that time we had quite a collection of various ammunition, and when he found the right size he went out again and everything settled down. Then he came back and started playing the guitar. I never did get to sleep.”
“Except for that one period, he was in the house the whole time?”
“Yes. Everything was all worked out, and all we had to do was sit around and try not to get too nervous.”
“Did anybody else leave during the night?”
“No.”
“All right, that fills in a few gaps. The woman who shot Crowther is two or three inches shorter than you are. Ten years older, and those have been long, hard years. Not as much bosom, skinnier in the can. Her hair would be any color, any length. When I saw it today it was hacked off short, a streaky light brown or chestnut. But she has a variety of wigs at home. She was very red in the face this morning, but that’s not how she usually looks. Does any of this mean anything to you?”
She shook her head, and Shayne continued, “She was at the airport at nine. She knew her apartment building was being watched, so she wouldn’t go back there. We checked every hotel and motel and rooming house, and most of her friends. We didn’t find her. She spent the night someplace. One of the few things I know about her is that she isn’t up to making any elaborate arrangements herself. If Ruiz gave her some bullets, maybe he also gave her a key. There weren’t any keys in his pockets. How long’s he been in town?”
“A week. Less than that, five days.”
“And he’s been very hot. Somebody probably rented him an apartment under a fake name. On a side street, with its own entrance, probably on the edge of the Spanish district.”
“I wonder,” she said doubtfully. “Can I use your phone?”
He had drawn in the antenna. He extended it again and brought in the operator.
“Mr. Painter called again,” she said, and laughed. “We had a terrible connection and I couldn’t hear him very well. But he sounded excited.”
“Keep lying to him,” Shayne told her.
He passed on a number Adele gave him, and handed her the phone. In a moment she began talking rapidly in Spanish. She broke the connection and gave the operator another number.
This time she was met with a barrage of questions, and it was a moment before she could break in. After another moment she asked Shayne, “Does the woman you’re trying to find speak Spanish?”
“Probably not.”
“Then perhaps-” She returned to the phone. After another breakneck exchange she hung up and told Shayne excitedly, “She’s there now!”
“Let’s go.”
“In this car?”
“Yeah. Fast.”
The motor caught with a roar. He telescoped the antenna and stowed the phone unit under the front seat. “What part of town?”
“Fourth Avenue, near Riverside Park.”
He swung over into the back seat and was out of sight on the floor by the time she passed through the gates and turned onto 8th Street.
“Slow down now,” he said. “You’re going to have to leave me the car. You can pick up a cab on Flagler. Who were you talking to? Don’t turn your head. Talk to the steering wheel.”
“She lives across the street. She was supposed to watch the house while Gil was there, to make sure everything was all right. I don’t want to get her in trouble.”
“I’ll get her a citation. What was all that chatter, Adele? Put it in English.”
She slowed for a turn. “God, the cops are thick around here. Keep down, Mike.”
“I’m down.”
“Last night she went to bed early. She knew Gil was going to be somewhere else. This morning there was a car in the driveway with Alabama plates. She’s been worrying about it, because she didn’t think anybody was supposed to be using the house. Then a woman came out and drove off. If the time’s important, it was between ten and eleven. Crowther’s plane got in when? About eleven fifteen? She came back about an hour later, turned too soon and hit the hedge. She managed the second time, but she did everything very slowly. Then she just sat there. Finally my friend went over and asked if she needed help. The woman couldn’t understand Spanish. Her face was very red, and she looked sick. She said she was fine and went in the house. The car’s still there.”
“OK. You’ve earned the thousand bucks.”
“Mike,” she said after a moment, “will you tell my uncle I’m-”
When she didn’t go on, Shayne said dryly, “I’ll give him the message.”
“What a lot has happened,” she said, still addressing the steering wheel. “I met you. We made love. I took part in my first battle. I don’t know, maybe my last. All of a sudden I feel much, much older. But all I can think about is how sleepy I am.”
She made the final turn and Shayne gathered himself. “It’s on the second floor,” she said, braking. “There’s a car coming… all right, I think everything’s OK. Can I send you a postcard from Mexico?”
“Better not.”
He had the thousand dollars ready, the same thousand Dr. Galvez had given him when they had thought he would have to buy Lorenzo Vega. He passed it to her, jackknifed forward and opened the back door. The Alabama car, parked at a slant across the driveway, was a Pontiac convertible with a patched top. Shayne cut across a poorly maintained lawn to the house.
Adele, too, was out of the car. She walked away without looking back.
CHAPTER 15
Shayne made no attempt to be quiet. He opened a downstairs door and went up. The door at the top of the stairs was unlocked.
There was no furniture in the front room except a phone on the floor under the windows, nothing in the bedroom except a mattress and some scattered clothing. The kitchen had been used by someone who had been living on dry cereal, cold cuts and coffee. He found Camilla in the bathroom, sitting on the closed toilet seat.
She was wearing a black shoulder-length wig, slightly askew, and nothing else except a torn half-slip. She looked blankly at him, without recognition.
“There you are,” he said. “What kind of medicine have you been taking?”
“Medicine.”
“Fine. We’re communicating.”
He went down on one knee, and caught her shoulders as she began to tilt. He shook her and made her look at him. Her pupils were huge. To the drugged brain beyond those eyes, he must have seemed dim and shifting. He dug his fingernails into her shoulders. Her breasts swayed.
“Look at me. I’m Mike Shayne. We’re both in bad trouble, but if you can stay awake for a few minutes maybe we can do something about it.”
“I know,” she said wearily.
The words were distinct, but they came out heavily, as though she was using her last strength to move them past her lips. He held her erect, but her head rolled.
“What did you take? Barbiturates?”
“Adrenalin,” she said after a moment.
“Like hell you took Adrenalin. You mean you gave yourself a shot?”
