followed him out into the hall.
Beads of sweat stood on Shayne’s forehead as he held out his hand. This was the crucial moment. If Gordon paid without being noticed by Montrose-
There was no difficulty. Guessing that Shayne was planning on a piece of private profit, but unwilling to forego the bargain, Gordon sullenly counted out ten one-thousand-dollar bills into the detective’s outstretched hand.
Shayne thrust them into his pocket and went back into the library to lean over Joyce’s shoulder and peer at the painting. In the presence of the two experts, he muttered, “I don’t pretend to know a damned thing about art but the thought just struck me-in connection with that bogus signature painted over Raphael. How do you know positively this is an original signature? Why couldn’t someone have cleverly painted Raphael’s name over that of an imitator?”
D. Q. Henderson swelled up like a pouter pigeon and began on a lengthy tale of how his eagle eye had detected the masterpiece in a ruined French chateau. There could be no possible doubt.
But Pelham Joyce frowned as he leaned over the signature and studied it keenly. He exclaimed, “Henderson, I do believe this is a slovenly imitation of Raphael’s authentic signature. Good God, man! You’ve let your imagination run away with your better judgment. I must admit that I was taken in by my first cursory examination. But, my dear fellow,” he went on patronizingly, “you certainly should be familiar enough with the master’s signature to realize that this is not at all characteristic.”
He pointed out certain minor discrepancies while Henderson choked and sputtered and rubbed his eyes, while Mr. Montrose pawed at him frantically, bleating, “What is it? What is it?”
Gordon moved up behind Pelham Joyce and swung him about with a heavy hand on the artist’s withered shoulder. “Caught them trying to put something over on us, eh?”
Joyce wriggled away without loss of dignity. “Let us have no more hasty judgments, gentlemen. I’m sure all of us wish to ascertain the exact truth. Suppose we stand aside while Mr. Henderson again applies his penknife and discovers whether an unworthy imitator has superimposed the master’s mark upon his own signature.”
D. Q. Henderson was dazedly moaning, “It can’t be. I tell you it’s impossible.”
Gordon was glaring at Montrose, and he remarked acidly, “I certainly intend to know before I leave here.”
“And I,” Mr. Montrose returned with equal acidity, “also intend to know before you leave here.” Each of them, thinking the other was the seller, glared with complete animosity and distrust.
Mr. Montrose wet his lips, and his eyes flashed a signal to Oscar.
Gordon moved slightly toward Dick as Henderson tremblingly opened his penknife again. Shayne stood in the background with a sardonic grin on his gaunt face, his left hand gripping the slack of Joyce’s coat behind the shoulders, his gaze mentally calculating the distance behind him to the hall.
There was only the sound of nervous breathing as Henderson unhappily bent forward and scraped away paint to reveal a bold R M Robertson.
He could not believe his eyes and he could not meet the accusing gazes fixed upon him as he straightened up and faltered, “By heavens, gentlemen-” His voice broke and he backed away as Montrose and Gordon took a simultaneous step toward him.
“I’ve been duped,” he cried hoarsely. “This is nothing-a rank imitation.”
Mr. Montrose screeched a shrill epithet at Gordon and jerked a table drawer open, fumbling for a pistol inside. Gordon threw a curse back at him as a Luger and a. 45 came out of hiding.
Shayne’s long leg shot out and neatly knocked Henderson’s feet from under him as his left arm jerked Pelham Joyce backward into the hallway.
Inside the library a Luger barked murderously, and Oscar’s. 45 thundered in reply.
CHAPTER 17
Peter Painter came headlong through the front door as the reverberations died away in the library. There was the whimpering of an art critic, unwounded but too frightened to get up off the floor. Shayne grunted with pain as he gathered himself together in the hallway where he had tumbled with Joyce. His shoulder cast had broken, and his side was one numbing sheet of pain.
Painter ran past him with a. 38 in his hand, flinging questions and curses indiscriminately until he reached the doorway and cautiously peered into the library. He drew back and turned to Shayne with a subdued air. “What- happened?”
Shayne was helping Pelham Joyce to his feet. Assuring himself that the artist was only shaken up, he went toward Painter, asking grimly, “Did they all cash in?”
“It looks like it.” Painter followed him into the death chamber, exclaiming bitterly, “And you promised me there’d be no more deaths.”
“Justifiable homicide,” Shayne told him cheerfully. “Save the state plenty of money.”
D. Q. Henderson came slithering out of the library on hands and knees.
Painter jumped for him, but Shayne said, “Let him go. He was an innocent bystander. Better have your men watch the stairs and let no one down.”
Painter issued the order to his men who were crowding in, then he and Shayne surveyed the shambles in the library.
Dick was the only one of the quartet still alive. He was shot through the groin, and his body thrashed about on the floor while his eyes were like those of a cornered rat.
Gordon had died easily with a. 45 slug through his head.
Mr. Montrose was crumpled grotesquely over the table with his hands spread out toward the canvas as though he sought to clutch it to him in death.
Oscar had taken a lot of killing. The Luger had drilled him four times through the belly before it stopped him.
“Everything’s under control here,” Shayne said quickly. “There’s still a job to be done upstairs. Come on.”
He and Painter hurried out, and Painter gritted an order to his men to drag Dick out and try to patch him up. As he trotted to keep pace with Shayne’s long strides, he muttered, “You’d better start talking fast. There’s a hell of a lot of explaining to be done.”
“Wait till we clean it up.” Shayne was leaping up the stairs with Painter at his heels, a pistol in his hand.
Shayne ran down the corridor to the sickroom and threw the door wide open.
The nurse who was impersonating Myrtle Godspeed was crouched close to the door, her face haggard and frightened. Her hand dived into her expensive handbag when she saw Shayne.
He kicked her hand as it came out, and a pearl-handled. 25 automatic went spinning across the floor. Shayne grappled with her with his good arm, and snarled at Painter, “Get Julius Brighter on the bed. He’s the man you want.”
The pseudo nurse was sobbing and scratching. Shayne grimly pinioned her arms to her side and dragged her to the bed where a gaunt scarecrow of a man was putting up an amazing fight with Painter before the Beach detective chief got cuffs on his bony wrists.
“Put some cuffs on her, too.” Shayne shoved her into Painter’s arms. “She killed the other nurse, Charlotte Hunt, with that little automatic that I kicked out of her hand. Come on down to the library where we can be alone, and I’ll give you the whole thing so you can pass it on to the press.”
Painter’s detectives were crowding in by that time. He turned the two prisoners over to them with orders that they were to be kept separate and not allowed to talk. Then he followed Shayne down to the library where he faced the redheaded detective and grated, “There’s a gang of reporters in my office waiting for a story.”
Shayne sat down and lit a cigarette. “And what a story.”
“What happened?” Painter spoke curtly and gestured toward the bodies.
“I gave the whole outfit the double cross, and they each thought the other had done it. That picture on the table,” Shayne went on amiably, “is the Raphael D. Q. Henderson has been raving about having stolen from him
