Shannon muttered. “I’ll see that the boys stay clammed up.”
A frightened Negro operator was waiting to take them up in the elevator. He rolled his eyes at the burly sergeant with the redheaded detective, clanged the door shut, and went up to the third floor without waiting for an order.
A couple of cops outside 306 were holding back an excited and morbidly curious group of chattering tenants. They stepped aside to let Shannon push Shayne through.
A police photographer had his tripod set up and was shooting pictures of the interior of Mona Tabor’s apartment with the body of Carl Meldrum lying in the center of the floor. His forehead was smashed and there were dried trickles of blood on his heavy cheek. His mouth gaped open, showing bloodless gums. He didn’t look much like a dashing Don Juan. There was a bloody cognac bottle on the floor beside him.
Two men were methodically getting fingerprints from objects in the room, and the sound of subdued voices came out through the open bedroom door.
Shayne and the sergeant walked around the body to the door. Buell Renslow was sitting upright on the unmade bed, and Will Gentry stood solidly in front of him. Two detectives lounged in the background. Renslow’s wrists were handcuffed in front of him. His clothes were mussed and there was a bruise and a small cut under his right eye. Haunted eyes stared out of his ashen face and his lips twitched back from his teeth.
Gentry was saying, “That sort of story isn’t going to get you anywhere. Nobody else saw any girl. You’re the only outsider the elevator boy brought up tonight. You might as well come clean and get it off your mind.”
Renslow looked past him and his eyes lighted up when they saw Michael Shayne in the doorway. He croaked, “There’s Shayne. He’ll tell you when I left the Tally-Ho. He’ll tell you I couldn’t have got here in time to kill him.” His eyes appealed to Shayne, then his lids batted down several times in quick succession, as if he tried to send a secret message.
Gentry turned slowly. He said, “Hello, Mike. I’ve been wondering when you would turn up.”
Shayne nodded and stepped forward with hands in his coat pockets. He avoided meeting the frantic petition in Renslow’s eyes. He asked, “What goes here?”
Will Gentry gestured disgustedly toward the prisoner. “We walked in on this bird red-handed and he gives us a nutty story about getting here after it happened. He swears he doesn’t know a damned thing about it. Says you’ll alibi him.”
“What about some girl?”
“That’s the craziest part of his story,” Gentry snorted. His back was to Renslow and he dropped his right eyelid in a slow, significant wink for Shayne. “He claims this girl was in there with the corpse when he opened the door. She threw down on him with a. 25 automatic and he jumped her. He says they wrestled over the pistol and he finally got it, but she sprinted out and did a neat disappearing act.”
“That’s the way it happened,” Renslow said hoarsely. “She must have slipped down the stairs while you were coming up the elevator. If you’ll just look for her-”
“We’ve got the description you gave us on the radio,” Gentry said patiently over his shoulder, then went on to Shayne: “This guy’s a quick thinker all right. He had a description of the girl on tap. If he’s telling the truth maybe you’ll recognize her-maybe you’ve run into her with your fooling around on the Thrip case. Here’s what he says she looked like…” He described Phyllis in, detail, while holding the detective’s gaze fixedly.
Shayne’s frown became deeper and his expression more perplexed as Gentry finished He shook his head and said placidly, “Why, no, Will. I’m pretty sure there’s no one like that mixed up in this case. Just grabbing for an out, I guess.”
“That’s what I thought,” Gentry told him briskly. “Just for the record, you might bust the alibi he claims you can give him.”
“When did you fellows get here?” Shayne asked guardedly.
“Eleven-fifty-five. We got a riot call from the landlady at eleven-fifty. She screamed murder in apartment three-o-six and a radio car was here in five minutes.”
Shayne hunched his shoulders up and shook his head. “I’m afraid I can’t alibi him. He left the Tally-Ho at eleven-thirty-eight-I looked at my watch. It’s an easy ten-minute drive.”
An animal snarl came from deep in Renslow’s throat and twisted on his lips. “You dirty bastard! You dirty double-crossing cop. You’re all alike. Putting me on the spot, damn your soul to hell. Not me! Not this time!”
He came to his feet with a rush, swinging his manacled arms high.
Gentry and Shayne grabbed him and pushed him down on the bed. His features were fearfully contorted and he wheezed loudly between tight lips.
Gentry said sharply to his two men, “Watch him, you lugs,” then turned to Shayne. “Maybe you know how he figures in this, Mike. The dead man is the Carl Meldrum you were talking about this morning in connection with the Thrip killing. And this is Mona Tabor’s apartment. Is there any tie-up, or is this something different?”
“I’ve told you I don’t know anything about the other,” Renslow panted from behind them. “I just came to see Mona and I walked into a murder.”
Gentry disregarded the ex-convict’s outburst, regarding Shayne gravely. “How about it, Mike?”
Shayne’s eyebrows were drawn down and there were three deep creases flaring out from between his eyes. He asked gently, “Do you know who you’ve got handcuffed, Will?”
“No. He’s got no identification on him and he refuses to tell his name.”
“His name,” said private detective Michael Shayne with a faint note of pity, “is Buell Renslow. He just happens to be Leora Thrip’s brother-an ex-convict who did a stretch in Colorado for murder. Is that answer enough, Will?”
Curses were frothing out of Renslow’s mouth in a deadly monotone.
Will Gentry nodded briskly. “I’d say that was plenty. Do you think he was hooked up in his sister’s death?”
Shayne didn’t answer at once. He was tugging at the lobe of his left ear and he looked perplexed. The two detectives were holding Renslow while he cursed Shayne and Gentry impartially.
At last Shayne said, “To tell the absolute truth, Will, I’m pretty sure I have positive evidence that Renslow murdered Mrs. Thrip last night-that he killed Meldrum to keep him from talking.”
“Shut up,” Renslow raged. “Are you forgetting that million I promised-”
“Good for you, Mike,” Gentry exulted. “Damned if you don’t always pull one out of the bag when you need it the worst.” He moved away from the bed, adding over his shoulder, “Take this mug down and book him on suspicion of murder.”
Shayne drew back with Gentry, keeping a placidly unconcerned countenance when Renslow broke into rasping sobs as he was led away.
Gentry followed them into the outer room and conferred briefly with his homicide experts, then came back and closed the bedroom door.
Shayne had sunk into a rocking-chair near the window and had a cigarette going. His head was tilted back and he watched whorls of blue smoke eddy up toward the ceiling.
Gentry sat down heavily and lit a cigar. The silence became oppressive. Gentry twisted uneasily and finally asked, “How about it, Mike?”
“How about what?”
“Well-you know, damn it. Your wife, mostly.”
Shayne got up. He turned his back on the chief of Miami detectives and took two short strides to the opposite wall. He stopped, facing it, and his voice was muffled.
“What about Phyllis?”
“Better talk it out right now,” Gentry advised. “There’ll never be a better time. I had to put her description on the radio.”
Shayne whirled on the older man. “Why did you have to? You could have stalled it. I thought you were my friend. Hell!”
Gentry said, “Don’t, Mike.”
“Why not?” Shayne’s nostrils were widely flared, his eyes crazy. He leaned his shoulders against the wall and put his hands deep in the slash pockets of his belted trench coat. “Why shouldn’t I say it out loud? I trusted you, like a damned fool. I told you Phyl had gone to Meldrum to help me out. Your damned flatfeet are out hunting her now. They’ll drag her in off the street and throw her in the can with a lot of whores. And you ask me what about my
