nurse’s room? I think I’ll bother her with a few questions while I’m here.”
“I’m sure,” the girl told him sedately, “Charlotte won’t mind if you bother her.” There was a hint of malice in her voice.
Shayne glanced at her sharply. “Not jealous?” he drawled.
“Of course not. You flatter yourself.” She laughed softly and started down the hall. “I’ll show you her room. The only thing is,” she continued as Shayne swung along beside her, “that Charlotte very nearly drove me crazy asking questions about you when she went off duty this morning. She likes her men big and rough and redheaded.” She threw Shayne an impish glance.
“That gal’s got good judgment,” Shayne said. “I hope you didn’t tell her anything about me to cool her off.”
The nurse flushed. “I didn’t know anything to tell her. Only what I read in the newspapers.” She stopped before a closed door.
“That’s your fault. You could know all about me if you’d give me that phone number.”
She smiled at him and tapped on the door, then turned the knob and stuck her head inside.
“Here’s the boy friend, Charlotte.”
She stepped back, and Shayne went into the room as a sleepy voice asked, “What-who?”
The room was a replica of the room Phyllis Brighton had taken him to, both in size and furnishings. The nurse’s blond head lay on the pillow. Her eyes were only half open.
They opened wide when Shayne pulled up a chair by the bed and sat down. “Oh, it’s you, big boy?” Her voice was no longer a sleepy drawl.
“It’s me.” He grinned at her. “I thought you might be lonesome.”
“And how!” Charlotte exclaimed fervently. Her long body was fully clothed, and she moved restlessly on the bed.
Shayne’s gaze traveled over her. He said, “Did you by any chance mean that come-hither look you tossed me last night?”
She giggled. “They’ve kept me cooped up here till I’d give most any man the glad eye.”
Shayne frowned. “You’re not particular, eh? You’d even step out with me.” He made a move as though to leave the room.
“Wait a minute.” She caught his hand, and her eyes caressed him. “I was just kidding, big boy. You knocked me all in a heap when I first saw you. You got something that does things to me.”
Shayne subsided and lit a cigarette. He grinned and said, “You’d repeat that last statement with emphasis if you stepped out with me.”
“Uh-huh. I’ll bet I would,” she whispered.
“Well, why not?” He leaned toward her and lowered his voice to match her whisper.
She shook her head and said longingly, “I can’t.”
Shayne’s eyes looked squarely into hers for a long moment before he muttered, “You’re off duty tonight, aren’t you? Until midnight?”
“Yeah.” She moved her head restlessly on the pillow, drawing nearer to him, but she looked away from him when she said almost inaudibly, “But I’m supposed to stick around this dump all the time.”
Shayne leaned over her and asked, “What for? The other nurse will be on duty.”
“I know-but-” She moved her head off the pillow and moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. Shayne’s face was not more than a foot away from her, his eyes boring into hers.
“I’ve got an apartment.” He gave her the address and the number. “Better use the side entrance on Second Avenue. I’ll be there alone all evening.”
“I’ll remember that number.” Her eyes were bright and feverish. She hunched her shoulders to the edge of the bed. Shayne kissed her moist, parted lips.
She lay back and looked at him and said, “My God!” when he stood up.
He smiled crookedly and said aloud, “Thanks for the interview, sister. You and I have the same idea about a lot of things.” And he added under his breath, “I’ll be looking for you tonight.” He turned abruptly and went out, closing the door with a wave of his hand.
There was no one in the corridor. He went to the balustraded stairway and on down to the library. He saw Mr. Montrose engrossed with a number of papers at a desk on the far side of the room.
Shayne walked in and said, “Good afternoon.”
Mr. Montrose jumped. He smiled apologetically when he saw who it was, stood up, and said, “Mr. Shayne. You startled me.”
“Sorry.” Shayne walked across the room and drew up a chair to the side of the desk.
“Do sit down.” Mr. Montrose’s voice was unexpectedly cordial.
“Thanks.” Shayne sat down. So did Mr. Montrose. The wispy little man cleared his throat nervously. He said, “This has been a terrible ordeal for all of us, Mr. Shayne. I trust that you and the police have apprehended the murderer.”
There was a clean ash tray on the top of the desk. Shayne ground out the butt of the cigarette he had lit in Charlotte’s room and lit another one.
“We’ve struck nothing but blind trails thus far,” he confessed. “I’m working on a lead which may mean something.” He paused for a moment and assumed a deeply thoughtful attitude, then went on. “May I take the liberty of asking a few pertinent questions?”
“Oh, yes, indeed,” Mr. Montrose assured him. “I’ll be happy to assist you in any way possible.” He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his palms together.
“You’re Brighton’s secretary?”
“Yes.” Mr. Montrose nodded and waited.
“You’re fully conversant with his business affairs, I presume?”
“Yes, indeed. Since his illness the burden has naturally fallen on me.” He sighed as though the burden was a heavy one, but that he was bearing up as well as could be expected under the responsibility.
“What, in rough figures, is Mr. Brighton’s estate worth?” Shayne asked bluntly.
The little man gazed up at the ceiling and considered the question. “His holdings have been hard hit,” he said with a frown. “It is difficult, of course, to make a snap appraisal. I doubt seriously, however, whether the entire estate could be liquidated on the present market for more than a hundred thousand dollars-certainly not more than one hundred and fifty thousand.” He shook his head sadly. “And that, mark you, is the estate of a man worth millions a few years ago. Literally millions.”
“Yes. That’s tough,” Shayne granted. “Who inherits? The two children?”
“Equally. Have you heard, Mr. Shayne, that Miss Brighton has disappeared?”
“Yes. I heard something about it. No other heirs, eh? No other member of the Brighton clan to put in a claim if Rufus Brighton should kick off?”
“There are no other heirs,” said Mr. Montrose primly.
“No brothers or sisters?” Shayne persisted.
“As to that,” Mr. Montrose admitted, “Mr. Brighton has two sisters and a brother living. I helped draw up his will, however, and there is no provision for any of them.”
“Seems to me I’ve heard of the sisters,” Shayne muttered. “They’re both married and pretty high society, aren’t they?”
“Both of Mr. Brighton’s sisters married extremely well,” Mr. Montrose agreed with pursed lips.
“How about the brother?” Shayne frowned at his cigarette. “Wasn’t he mixed up in some scandal a few years ago?”
Mr. Montrose drummed on the desk with his finger tips. There was a look of distress on his face. “I do trust, Mr. Shayne, it will not be necessary to drag that story through the newspapers again.”
Shayne said shortly, “I don’t talk for publication. I simply want all the facts before me. I have a hunch this was murder for profit. Thus far I find only two persons who would profit by the death of Mr. or Mrs. Brighton. I understand that Brighton is just clinging to life and may let go at any time.”
“I begin to see the theory you’re working on.” Mr. Montrose nodded and ceased drumming on the desk.
“Theories are all right,” said Shayne. “But I need all the pieces. How about this brother? Weren’t they in business together or something? And didn’t the brother embezzle a wad of money and get put away for it?”
