is my wife and sees the stuff I had in the News today, God knows what he’ll do.”
“Which is your fault for putting such bilge in the News. Let it be a lesson to you. As far as your wife’s being in danger and needing you to help her, that’s just bilge too. We have police to protect citizens from harm. To hear you talk, one would think the world would come to an end if you were put out of circulation for a night or two. I don’t think it would. Really I don’t, Shayne. You’re not that important.”
Painter reached forward again to touch the button that would bring men in to arrest Michael Shayne. This time the redheaded detective lunged out of his chair and shoved Painter back.
“I don’t give a damn what you think. I’m staying out of jail tonight, Painter. I practically killed a man an hour ago when he got in my way. I’d just as leave kill a chief of detectives as anybody.”
Painter put up a hand to ward off a blow as the big detective towered over him. “Don’t touch me,” he panted. “You’re crazy, Shayne. You can’t-you can’t get away with this right here in my office.”
“I am getting away with it.” Shayne held his big hands in front of him, moving forward deliberately while Painter frantically shoved his wheeled swivel chair back. “I’ll break your neck,” Shayne went on menacingly. His tone bore out his threat.
“No, no.” Backed against the wall, Painter cowered down in his chair. “I’m not going to arrest you. Don’t you know I wouldn’t arrest you when your wife’s in trouble? Can’t you take a little kidding?”
Shayne stood over him, his hands a few inches from Painter’s throat. He said, “I don’t like your way of joking.” Then he relaxed slowly, straightened up. “Will you give me your word of honor to let me walk out of here unmolested? Will you swear to hold that warrant in abeyance until tomorrow morning?” Shayne sounded like a high official administering an oath to a lesser official.
“Yes, of course,” Painter chattered. His perfect teeth showed between his dashing little mustache and trembling lower lip in an attempted smile. “I didn’t mean it at all. I know how you must feel about your wife. If there’s anything I can do-”
“There isn’t. Except to leave me alone.”
Shayne turned his back on the detective chief and strode to the door. He opened it and went out, closing it softly behind him. Then, without releasing the knob he jerked it open again.
Painter was leaning over his desk reaching for the button with a look of crafty triumph on his sleek face.
Shayne rushed him in five quick long strides. Painter yelped just before he was knocked back five feet by the impact of Shayne’s furious fist. Painter made no move as he relaxed on the rug.
Shayne stood over him breathing hard, then whirled and went out. This time he closed the door firmly and whistled a gay off-tune melody as he went through the outer office and past the curious stares of the Beach officers.
Outside, he got in his car and switched on the lights, swung about in a vicious U-turn, and drove away at high speed.
Chapter Fourteen: ONE JUMP AHEAD OF THE LAW
Shayne pushed his car hard to the north and east. At the Thrip home he pulled aside to let a long, cream- colored limousine come out of the drive in a hurry. A uniformed chauffeur was behind the wheel and Shayne caught a quick glimpse of Mr. Thrip, alone in the spacious tonneau. He felt sure the pudgy realtor had not seen him, for he was sitting pompously erect and staring straight ahead. Shayne scowled after the handsome car as it slid away, then swung his roadster into the palm-lined, curving driveway.
The horse-faced butler was at the front door, as stoic and solemn-eyed as on his last encounter. Upon recognizing Shayne, he tried to shut the door in his face, but Shayne’s shoe got in the way.
“Mr. Thrip is not in,” the butler protested. “He just left for Miami.”
“I saw him. He almost ran me down as I was turning in.” Shayne’s tone was sour. He pushed past the butler. “I want to see the boy and the girl, anyway.”
“You can’t see Mr. Ernst, sir. It was on his account that the master was called to Miami so hurriedly.”
“That so?” Shayne queried indifferently. “What happened to the young pantywaist?”
“It is not an occasion for slurring allusions, sir,” the butler protested severely. “Mr. Ernst is badly injured. He is in the hospital, unconscious, so the message revealed. At the point of death, I dare say.”
Shayne feigned astonishment. “Don’t tell me Ernst has got himself involved with the police.”
“In an innocent manner,” the butler assured him. “An officer discovered him in a brutally beaten condition in an alleyway. He was evidently attacked and robbed by ruthless ruffians.” There was a hint of relish in the butler’s suave voice.
Shayne muttered, “Good old Will,” to himself, then said aloud, “All right, I’ll tackle Dorothy if that’s all that’s left for me.”
“You can’t, sir,” the man said firmly. “Miss Dorothy is at present engaged with her personal maid.”
“To hell with that. I’ll take her and the maid in my stride.” He pushed forward impatiently and the butler drew back in silent reproach, then conceded:
“Very well, sir, if you insist. She’s in her upstairs sitting-room. I’ll have a maid show you-”
“I know the way.” Shayne’s long legs were already going up the stairs. He didn’t know how long Peter Painter was going to stay unconscious on his office floor undiscovered, but he did realize it wouldn’t be smart to waste too much time on this side of the bay.
He knocked on the sitting-room door, then turned the knob and walked in.
Dorothy Thrip was lounging on a chaise longue across the room and a short, square-bodied, and square- headed female was kneeling on the rug in front of her doing something to her feet. Dorothy wore a belted chenille bathrobe and she was languidly smoking a cigarette in a foot-long jeweled holder. The air was sweetish from its smoke. Her head lolled back and soft brown hair was spread out like a nimbus to frame her face. It curled up at the ends in big, loose ringlets.
Her eyes were as round as Shayne remembered them and they looked up at him without curiosity. She did not move from her relaxed position. She appeared to be enjoying herself greatly. In the strong light of a floor lamp her face appeared even more pointed and vixenish than it had that morning.
The broad-backed maid did not turn around when Shayne closed the door. Taffy-colored braids were twined around her head. She was bent forward, arduously concentrating.
Shayne moved toward them and saw that Dorothy Thrip’s toenails were being pedicured and tinted with carmine polish. He lifted his shaggy left eyebrow and grinned.
The girl flipped ashes onto the rug and demanded, “What’s the matter with you? Haven’t you ever seen a girl having her toes manicured?”
“No,” Shayne admitted, with a smile of genuine amusement, “that’s one of the more unpleasant aspects of life which has hitherto been denied me.” He dragged up a chair and sat down, adding pleasantly, “Don’t let me interrupt the gilding of the lily.”
“We won’t,” Dorothy assured him.
The maid looked up at the detective with an expression of bovine wonderment and Dorothy admonished her: “Don’t pay any attention to him, Gertrude. He’s a species of vermin that comes out of holes in the wood around this house.”
“That was clever when Dorothy Parker first tossed it off,” Shayne told her. He lit a cigarette and Dorothy Thrip made a face at him. The maid concentrated on her task of brushing carmine stain on her mistress’s toenails. There was silence in the sitting-room.
Shayne blew out smoke and asked, “Have you seen Carl today?”
“No.”
“Not since he called you last night from the Tally-Ho?”
“No. What do you know about his telephoning last night?” She twisted to let her round, agate-like eyes stare sullenly at her interrogator.
Shayne made a negligent gesture. “Just one of a detective’s specialties-tapping telephone wires and all that.”
He saw quick fear rush into her eyes. It was swiftly replaced by crafty speculation. She said, “Now I know
