At the Palace Hotel, Shayne asked at the desk for Carl Meldrum. The clerk was not the one who had been on duty when the detective called early that morning. He shook his head with disinterest and said that Meldrum had been out all day.
Shayne questioned the clerk and listened grimly while he learned that a young lady had called for Meldrum before noon, had gone up to his room, and come down with him about an hour later. Meldrum had ordered his car brought around from the garage and they had driven away together.
Again, as he had over the telephone, the clerk described the young lady who had gone out with Carl Meldrum. He had no idea what the girl’s name was. But Mike Shayne recognized Phyllis in his words.
Further questioning produced no information beyond that which Gentry’s man had elicited. As far as the clerk knew, Meldrum was a typical wealthy tourist taking the Miami sun and avoiding boredom by spending much time at the hot spots in the company of various women. He primly informed Shayne that it was not the policy of the hotel management to inquire too closely into the private affairs of their guests, and admitted that it was not unusual for Meldrum to be absent from his room for a couple of days and nights at a time. He understood it was a police matter and was perfectly willing to co-operate, but he had no suggestion as to where to start searching for Meldrum. He was certain, however, that neither Meldrum nor the girl had taken any luggage.
When Shayne turned away from the desk he spotted a Miami plain-clothes man seated unobtrusively in a corner of the lobby. He gave the man a wink as he strolled to the door and the cop joined him outside a moment later.
He said, “Hi, Mike. I didn’t know whether you wanted me to make you in there or not.”
Shayne frowned. “It wouldn’t have mattered a hell of a lot, Fred. Are you laying for Meldrum?”
“Yep. He hasn’t shown yet”
“I don’t think he will. But if he does, for God’s sake don’t lose him. You’ve seen my wife’s pictures in the paper, haven’t you, Fred?”
“Yep. She’s a knockout, Mike. I don’t see how the hell you rated-”
Wearily Shayne said, “Skip it. She’s the woman who went out with Meldrum.”
The Miami detective’s eyes widened. “Your wife? Now, what the hell-”
Again Shayne broke in. “She contacted him with some crazy idea of helping me out of the spot I’m in for the Thrip killing. If Meldrum finds out who she is-”
He paused, his face sober in the deepening twilight. With an effort he shrugged his heavy shoulders. “If they come back together get her away from him, Fred. If he comes back alone, grab him and get him across the line to Miami before Painter can stop you.”
“Sure,” Fred said awkwardly. “Say, I’m sorry as hell.”
Shayne nodded. He turned up the collar of his belted trench coat and thrust his hands deep into slash pockets. He turned away, got in his roadster while the cop watched him anxiously, and drove straight to the Miami Beach police headquarters. There he parked and went in.
A group of cops in the outer office scowled at him as he went by. He went on back to Peter Painter’s private office, turned the knob, and strode through the door. Painter looked up from some papers with a wispy smile on his thin lips. He tilted his swivel chair back and said unpleasantly, “Ah, Shayne. I wondered where you were hiding out.”
Shayne hooked his toe under the rung of a straight chair and dragged it close to Painter’s desk. He sat down solidly and explained, “I’ve been too busy looking for Mrs. Thrip’s murderer to do any hiding out.”
Peter Painter’s forefinger trembled while the tip of it caressed his silky black mustache. “Still determined to make an ass of yourself, eh?”
“The same kind of an ass I’ve always been,” Shayne agreed shortly. He hunched forward with his elbows on Painter’s desk. “Do you know anything about a Carl Meldrum at the Palace Hotel?”
Peter Painter shook his head impatiently. “Why should I?”
“Maybe you shouldn’t,” Shayne agreed. “It merely appears that he’s the bird who strangled Mrs. Thrip.”
Painter snorted his disgust. “That case is closed,” he said with sharp finality.
“You wish it was,” Shayne corrected him. “Have you got those extortion notes Thrip gave you?”
“Yes. And I’m keeping them.”
“Mind letting me have a look?”
“I do, certainly.” Painter’s voice was thin, wrathy. You’ve done your last messing into the affairs of the Miami Beach police department, Shayne. You stand discredited, with no official standing whatever.”
“The notes don’t matter, of course,” Shayne said with a wave of his big hand in dismissal. “It merely happens that I have an idea we’ll find the murderer when we find the writer.”
Peter Painter’s eyes bulged slightly. He ran the tip of his tongue over his upper lip, leaned toward Shayne, and started to speak, but Shayne cut him off by saying:
“Have you received an answer to the telegram you sent the governor?” His voice was gentle, his eyes guileless.
Painter’s face took on a purplish tinge. He pounded his desk with a smooth, small fist. “Not yet. But I think an arrest as accessory before the fact will cook your goose to a fine turn. I’m swearing out a warrant.”
Shayne said, “Don’t do it, Painter.”
“Why not? There’s sufficient evidence to convict you. I shan’t be swayed by any personal considerations.”
“But it will make you look considerably smaller than your five-feet-eight if I solve this case locked up in your jail. And I have a ball rolling that can wind it up tight-in jail or out.”
Their eyes locked for an instant. Painter began to smile. “You don’t relish the thought of jail, do you? You’ve reached the end of your rope and it doesn’t feel so good. After you cool your heels in a cell-”
“While Mrs. Thrip’s real murderer is going free,” Shayne reminded him. “Don’t go out on a limb all the way and make me saw it off. I can do it. I’ve done it before.” His gray eyes narrowed, gleaming through slits. “I’m pushing them all against the wall. I’ve got them coming to me. Another few hours will end it. It’ll be better, of course, if I’m free to follow up the stuff I’m smoking out.”
Painter laughed harshly. He slid thumbs into the arm-holes of his vest and strutted sitting down. “I have no right to make an exception in your case. My duty to the law-abiding citizens of this city demands that you be treated like any other criminal.”
“If you lock me up in your stinking jail tonight,” Shayne told him deliberately, “you’ll be abetting the escape of one murderer and possibly contribute materially to another one. You can’t do it, Painter.” Sweat was beginning to stand out on Shayne’s face. His bluff wasn’t going over. Phyllis was still missing. He dragged out a pack of cigarettes and put one between his lips without taking his eyes off Painter’s face.
Viciously Painter taunted him: “Can’t I? I think it’s time you learned that I am running Miami Beach. I know you’re running around desperately trying to cook up some sort of frame to clear Darnell and yourself. You’re through planting crooked evidence, Shayne. You’re through, by God, as an obstructor of justice. You’ve given your last lying headline to the Miami News. It was nice of you to walk in here to have the warrant served on you.” He stuck out a finger to poke a button on his desk,
Shayne brushed the finger away from the button. “No, Painter. Hell, I’m asking you as man to man. My wife’s in danger. She started out with some idea of helping me-and she has disappeared. She-God knows how badly she needs me.”
“Isn’t that too bad! Just too sweet and husbandly. For a tough Mick who takes them where he finds them and leaves them where he lays them, you’re considerably softened.”
Muscles were standing out like cords on either side of Shayne’s lean jaw, “All right. So maybe I’m tough. Phyllis is-hell, Painter, you know what Phyllis is-and she’s my wife,” he ended doggedly.
“Sure, I know. A rattlebrained gal with lots of money and not enough sense to pick a better man than you.”
“All right.” The words came from Shayne’s stiff lips freighted with warning. “She’s my wife,” he repeated. His fingers contracted involuntarily into huge fists.
“So what? Lots of men have wives. Lots of men that I arrest for one thing or another. If I listened to all their sob stories I’d never make an arrest.”
“This is different.” Shayne pounded out the words. “Phyllis has deliberately mixed herself up in this murder racket. She’s out right now with the man who either killed Mrs. Thrip or knows who did kill her. If he finds out Phyllis
