CHAPTER 8
The Brighton Place looked much the same by day as by night. There was an atmosphere of oppressive gloom about the huge house which Shayne attributed to his knowledge of the unsolved tragedy of the preceding night. In the daylight, he saw that a drive led past the south side of the house to a large concrete garage in the rear. All the garage doors were closed, and it was impossible to tell whether there were any cars behind the doors or not. The upper portion of the garage appeared to be subdivided into living-quarters.
There were no parked cars in the drive nor beneath the porte-cochere. Shayne parked where he had last night, got out, and went up the steps. He pressed the electric button briefly.
The front door was opened after a short wait by the same maid who had admitted him previously. She looked more shrunken, and her eyes were red as if from lack of sleep. She recognized him, but didn’t seem particularly pleased to see him. In a dour tone she asked him what he wanted.
Shayne told her he wished to see Miss Brighton. “Miss Phyllis Brighton,” he amended.
“She’s not here.” The maid tried to close the door, but Shayne’s foot prevented her from doing so.
“When do you expect her back?”
“I don’t know.” The maid sniffed primly, a sniff of self-righteous indignation.
“It’s important,” Shayne told her. “Haven’t you any idea when she’ll be here?”
“No, I haven’t. She’s not been home since-since last night.”
“All right,” Shayne said cheerfully. “I’ll speak to Mr. Brighton.”
“Oh, no, sir.” The maid was aghast. “He’s ill. Very ill. No one is allowed to see him.” She pushed the door against Shayne’s foot.
“Very well,” he said placidly. “I’ll see Doctor Pedique.”
“The doctor is resting, sir. He’s not to be disturbed.”
“For Christ’s sake,” Shayne bellowed. He pushed the maid back and the door open. “I’ll just prowl around and talk to myself.” He stepped past her.
She pattered along after him. “I think Mr. Montrose is in the library.”
“That’s just swell,” Shayne grunted. “I’ll see him after I get through talking to myself.” He went up the front stairway, and the maid followed him after a moment of hesitation.
Shayne turned on her when he reached the top. “Which is Mr. Brighton’s room?”
“But you can’t disturb him, sir. It’s strictly against the doctor’s orders.”
“No doctor,” Shayne told her, “can keep me from seeing anybody I want to see. Show me his room before I start opening doors.”
“Very well, sir,” she said in an exasperated be-it-on-your-own-head manner, and led the way to the end of the left wing. She knocked gently on a closed door and stood obstinately before it so that Shayne would have to move her forcibly aside to enter.
The door opened a trifle, and a slender girl in a white starched uniform slipped out and closed it behind her. She was very young and small, with rosy cheeks and honest gray eyes.
“What is it?” She looked past the maid at Shayne.
“This- gentleman,” with a jerk of her shoulder toward Shayne, “insists on disturbing Mr. Brighton.” She slipped aside and glared at Shayne.
“Oh, no.” The nurse shook her head decidedly. “It’s strictly against the doctor’s orders.”
Shayne brushed past the maid and stood close to the nurse. The top of her stiff white cap was not as high as his chin. She looked up at him calmly.
He said irritably, “I’m not going to eat your patient. I simply want to look at him. Certainly there’s no harm in that.”
“I’m sorry,” she told him. “I can’t let you in.” The maid turned and stalked away.
Shayne smiled beguilingly and patted the girl’s cheek. “Be an angel,” he urged.
“You’ll have to get permission from the doctor,” she told him earnestly.
Shayne chuckled. “Right on the job, aren’t you, sister? Where’s the nurse I saw last night? The tall one with the come-hither eyes and the sex appeal in every movement. Now, she’d let me in.”
The girl’s gray eyes twinkled merrily. “Perhaps she would. You mean Miss Hunt? On night duty?”
“The doc called her Charlotte,” Shayne said.
“She’s off duty now, resting in her room down the hall. We’re changing shifts today. I stay on until midnight, then she relieves me.”
“That would be my luck.” Shayne sighed lugubriously. “Of course,” he went on, “I could like you just as well if you weren’t so tough about sticking to orders.”
“But I am.” She smiled, but made no move to step away from the door. Her eyes frankly questioned him.
“I’m a detective,” he told her bluntly. “There was murder done here last night. Better let me in to give your patient the once-over-else I’ll have to waken Pedique and get a certificate of admission.”
She hesitated, then smiled shyly and said, “You’re Mr. Shayne, aren’t you?” He nodded, and she went on. “I’ve seen your picture in the papers. I guess it’ll be all right, though Mr. Brighton is asleep. If you’ll promise not to awaken him-”
“I’ll be as quiet as a mouse with rubbers on,” Shayne assured her.
She opened the door and stepped silently inside. Shayne tiptoed after her into the sickroom. An east window was open, and a gentle breeze blew in, invigoratingly fresh, mingling with the faint odor of antiseptics permeating the room. A white screen stretched out before the bed. The nurse went to it softly, holding out her hand behind her as a signal for quiet.
Shayne moved up behind her, taking the soft hand in his and squeezing it as he leaned over her shoulder and peered at the sleeping patient. His face was turned toward them and he was breathing easily. An emaciated and bloodless face, ghastly in repose. He had been a large man, but illness had stripped his body down to the framework of bones. One talonlike hand lay outside the sheet, loosely gripping an open fountain pen. Ink had smeared the tips of his fingers and made a blotch on the sheet. The nurse drew her hand away from Shayne’s grasp, leaned forward, and gently took the pen from the sleeping man’s clutch.
She straightened up, and her shoulders pressed against Shayne’s chest. The man’s appearance had been photographically caught by the detective, and he moved back softly.
The nurse smiled and whispered, “He insists on trying to write letters in bed and is always making a mess.” She placed the fountain pen on an enameled table.
Shayne studied the pen as the girl moved toward the door. It was of odd design, filigreed with white gold. His hand darted out and picked up the pen, slipped it in his breast pocket with the point up as he strolled casually toward the door.
The nurse stepped outside with him and closed the door, leaned back against it. “Is that all you wanted?”
Shayne grinned engagingly and said, “I could use your telephone number.”
The girl smiled up at him but made no reply.
Shayne went on more seriously. “You might give me dope on the general setup over here. How long have you been on the case?”
“Ever since they arrived.”
“Do you live here?”
“Yes. In Miami.”
“How did you happen to come on the case? Know Pedique before?”
“No. They called the Nursing Registry, and I happened to be the next on the list.”
“I see.” Shayne hesitated. “And Miss Hunt-was she employed in the same manner?”
“Oh, no. She’s from New York. She came down with them.”
Shayne considered that. Then he said, “And she has a room, stays here all the time?”
“Yes.” She smiled again. “So you don’t need her telephone number.”
“I’d still like to have yours,” Shayne said, but went on without giving her time to reply. “Which is the other
