“All right. What’s your theory on the case, Mike?”
“I don’t waste my time having theories,” Shayne growled. “That luxury is only for detective chiefs.”
He glared at Gentry, and Gentry grinned and puffed on his cigar, finally asking patiently, “What do you want me to do, Mike?”
Shayne leaned across the scarred desk. “I want the dope on Doctor Joel Pedique-all the way back.”
Gentry nodded. “I’ll shake up what I can. Anything else?”
“That’s all for now. And thanks.” Shayne lumbered to his feet.
Gentry told him that was all right, and Shayne went out. He stopped at a drugstore and called Dr. Hilliard’s office. A nurse informed him that the doctor would be in at ten-thirty. It was ten-twenty, so Shayne sauntered down Flagler Street and south a block to an office building on the corner. The elevator carried him up to the tenth floor, and he walked down the hall to the sumptuous suite of offices occupied by Dr. Milliard and an associate.
The golden-haired reception girl smiled, took his name, and asked him to wait. She went through an inner door and came back, nodding for him to go in.
Dr. Hilliard greeted him affably, and they talked a long time. But the doctor could not or would not give Shayne any more definite information about Phyllis Brighton than he had proffered last night. Shayne talked vehemently and at great length, setting forth an idea that was in his mind. The doctor admitted many of the premises as possibilities, but professional ethics forbade his discussing Dr. Pedique’s conduct of her case.
After a time Shayne abruptly switched his questioning to Mr. Brighton’s condition. On this point Dr. Hilliard was less reticent. He told Shayne frankly that the man’s condition puzzled him. There was no organic disease, yet the patient did not improve. From his study of the case he was willing to admit that Dr. Pedique had apparently done everything possible to effect a cure. It seemed to Dr. Hilliard that Mr. Brighton had simply lost the will to recover. Every test indicated a healthy physical condition, yet he continued to grow steadily weaker. They were, he told Shayne, conducting tests to ascertain whether certain glands were functioning improperly. If these tests tailed to indicate such was the case, he would be at a complete loss to diagnose the ex-millionaire’s malady.
Shayne listened attentively, asking leading questions and drawing the physician out as much as possible, clearly showing his disappointment when Hilliard failed to confirm his suspicions of Dr. Pedique. After a pause, he leaned forward and asked, “Isn’t it possible, doctor, that certain drugs might be responsible for Mr. Brighton’s continued weakness? Wait!” He held up his hand as Dr. Hilliard started to shake his head.
“I’ve got a theory,” he went on. “I’m not a medical man and I’m not trying to horn in on your game. I’m simply tying up logic with facts. I’m not accusing anyone-yet. But there’s been a murder committed. Take a long time to think this over before you answer. Is it possible- possible, doctor-that someone having access to the patient could be giving him some sort of drug, some sort of wrong medicine or wrong treatment, doing something to keep him in the weakened condition which you find inexplicable?” He leaned his long frame far over the desk and held Dr. Hilliard’s eyes intently.
The doctor lifted his eyeglasses and fiddled with them while he considered the implications contained in Shayne’s question. He was an ethical and honorable man. He was fully conscious of his duty toward society. He liked Shayne and he disliked Dr. Joel Pedique. He had read the morning paper and he shrewdly guessed that Shayne was seeking to protect Phyllis Brighton from a murder charge. From his observation of Phyllis he did not believe her guilty. He considered all these things before answering.
“It is utterly impossible, Shayne. I’m sorry I can’t advance your theory. Really I am.” He settled his glasses back on his nose and shook his head regretfully. “There are, however, certain conditions which preclude consideration of the hypothesis that any outside agency could be responsible for Mr. Brighton’s condition.”
Shayne sank back with a disappointed, “Damn.” He lit a cigarette and puffed on it morosely.
“You’re sure?” he burst out finally.
“I do not,” Dr. Hilliard told him, “offer snap judgments.”
Shayne muttered, “No. God knows you’ve never been accused of that.” He breathed hard, and the base of his nostrils flared. “That knocks my swell theory into a cocked hat.” He stood up and grinned crookedly. “That’s what I get for having a theory. Hell! I’m as bad as a chief of detectives.”
Dr. Hilliard stood up with him. “Any time-any information I can give you-”
“Thanks, doc.” Shayne nodded and ambled out.
It was almost twelve when he got out of the elevator downstairs. He went to a phone booth and called the clerk at his hotel to learn if there had been any calls for him.
The clerk had one urgent message. Shayne was to call a Mr. Ray Gordon at suite 614 at The Everglades at once. Shayne thanked him, hung up, and called The Everglades.
There was a short wait. A voice finally said, “Hello.”
“This is Michael Shayne. You left a message for me to call you.”
“Mr. Shayne? Good. Can you come to my suite immediately on a matter of urgent business?”
Shayne said he could. He hung up and started to walk the few blocks to the hotel.
CHAPTER 6
A big man opened the door of 614 at Shayne’s knock. He was almost as tall as the detective, with broad shoulders bulkily emphasized by the heavily padded double-breasted coat he wore. Clean-shaven, the contours of his face were a series of square corners. His lips were thin, his complexion gray. His eyes were cold, as expressionless and hard as two marbles.
Mr. Ray Gordon’s most distinctive feature was the type of haircut he affected. His hair was clipped high on a square head all the way around from one temple to the other, leaving a mop of bristles on top which stood erect and added deceptively to his appearance of great height. There was nothing else out of the ordinary in his appearance. His blue coat and sports trousers were of fine texture and beautifully tailored, but conventional enough. A modest pearl scarf pin enhanced the quiet gray of a four-in-hand which matched the shade of his soft-collared shirt.
He inclined his head and stepped aside for Shayne to enter. A large, comfortably furnished living-room overlooked Biscayne Bay. There was no one else in the room, but open doors led off to the left and right.
Shayne stopped inside the room and turned to face the man, asking, “Mr. Gordon?”
Gordon nodded. He closed the door and studied Shayne. Not covertly nor antagonistically, but with a curious directness and complete disregard of the other’s reaction.
“You’re Michael Shayne?” His words were clipped and hard, though not harsh.
Shayne nodded and stared back aggressively.
Gordon moved to a chair and motioned Shayne to another one, making no offer of his hand or further greeting. He said, “Shamus Conroy told me about you.”
Shayne sat down and lit a cigarette. His eyes were veiled. He said, “That bastard?” unemotionally.
“Conroy said that’s what you were,” Gordon told him. He took a long cigar from a leather case and lighted it with a gold-inlaid lighter. “I considered that a good recommendation-knowing Conroy.”
Shayne relaxed visibly. “I thought maybe you were a friend of his.”
“On the contrary.” Gordon considered his cigar with approval. “I’ve got a job for a private dick. One that can keep clammed and isn’t too thick with the local police.”
Shayne said, “I’m listening.”
Gordon blew a lazy smoke ring and asked, “Want a drink?”
“Call your shots,” said Shayne. He stretched out his long legs and looked out the window at the palm-fringed shore of the Beach beyond the shimmer of Biscayne Bay.
Gordon called, “Bring in a couple of setups, Dick.”
They both smoked in meditative silence. Shayne heard the clink of glasses through the open door on the left. From where he sat he could see into the open bathroom which led off to the right. The outer surface of the door opening inward to the bathroom was a full-length mirror which reflected the interior of another connecting bedroom on the other side of the bathroom.
The lights were on in the inner room, and a woman was sitting before a low vanity making up her face. Her back was toward the bathroom, and Shayne contemplated the reflection with idle disinterest. It was a youthful
