The corner of Shayne’s mouth twitched. “I’m afraid there is-afraid Phyl’s in trouble. Put a tracer on any calls that come in for me the moment you connect me,” he directed.
He stalked to the elevator, tearing the envelope open. It was a second message from Murphy in New York:
Mace Morgan now fugitive escaped Sing Sing last week doing five to eight rap for hundred grand holdup of Jim Lacy messenger for Gross Ernstine Gross and Barton Wall Street brokers. Morgan married to former Helen Dalhart Scandals thirty seven blonde with trimmings. Am working on her present whereabouts.
Shayne frowned over the import of the telegram as the elevator went up.
Lacy had been the bank messenger involved in the holdup for which Morgan was convicted. Helen hadn’t mentioned that point when he talked with her. Perhaps she had forgotten, or didn’t know about it, or thought it wasn’t important. Perhaps it wasn’t important. But it was a link between Lacy and Mace Morgan. It might serve to explain Lacy’s advice to her on how to get rid of her husband. Lacy had been a vindictive sort of cuss those years ago when Mike had known him in New York. If Lacy carried a grudge against Morgan for the stick-up, it was not surprising that he wanted to see the escaped con put on the spot.
But why the hell hadn’t Lacy taken the job himself? It wouldn’t hurt his reputation any to have tracked the fugitive to Miami and then been forced to kill him while making the arrest. Poetic justice, rather. It would have made headlines all over the country. But maybe Jim Lacy hadn’t wanted headlines. So he had steered Helen onto Shayne instead.
Shayne shrugged and put the telegram into his pocket as the elevator stopped. He went down the corridor to his door, selecting a key as he approached.
There was a rush of movement from around the corner as he inserted his key.
Helen Brinstead ran up to him, caught hold of his arm with both hands. Her face was taut and white, her blue eyes round and imploring. Pressing against him, she cried brokenly, “I’ve been waiting-hoping to God you’d come.”
Shayne pushed the door open, broke her grip with a shrug of his wide shoulders, and gave her a shove into the room. He entered behind her and switched on the light, his gaunt face expressionless.
Helen whirled to face him. She wore the same dress of dove-gray silk, but she no longer looked either cool or poised. Her full lips were tight, drawn apart, and thinned against her teeth. She said, “I’m frightened,” without separating her teeth, imparting a hard, nasal quality to her voice.
Shayne said, “I think you have plenty reason to be scared, sister.” He studied her for a moment, noting that the illusion of extreme youth and naivete had disappeared under the impact of fear. Her flesh appeared less firm, and even the shimmering luster of her hair seemed dimmed. Her gloveless fingers nervously clutched a large leather handbag while her eyes searched his for some sign of pity or understanding.
He turned to the liquor cabinet and got a glass. When he came back to the table she had dropped into a chair, and again he noted that her legs were very nice. She leaned forward and gripped the arms of the chair with both hands, wetting tight lips with the darting tip of her tongue.
“You’ve got to help me, Mr. Shayne. I don’t know where else to turn. I know that Jim trusted you.”
Shayne laughed shortly. He poured cognac in both glasses and handed her one. She took it, her eyes rounded with terror, holding his as if spellbound.
He said, “But Jim Lacy is dead.”
“That’s it. As soon as I read about it, I knew-” She stopped abruptly and clamped her lips together.
Shayne leaned over her. “What did you know?”
She shook her head slowly, keeping her lips together tightly, avoiding his gaze by lowering her eyelids.
He put both hands on her shoulders. His thumbs found the soft hollows of flesh beneath her collarbone. “What did you know?” he demanded with grim urgency.
She sighed and her taut body went lax. She stared up at him, parting her lips to wet them with her tongue again. His grim face was only a few inches from hers.
“Stop,” she cried. “You’re hurting me-my shoulders.”
Shayne snorted and put more pressure on his thumbs.
She drew in a shuddering breath. “I knew Mace must have found out-what Jim and I planned. I knew-I was likely to be next.”
“Do you think Mace Morgan killed Lacy?”
“He must have. Don’t you see? It must have been Mace. Who else would have done it?”
Shayne straightened up and took his hands from her shoulders. He said, “Drink that liquor,” and stepped back to pick up his own glass.
She sipped the cognac, watching him fearfully over the brim of her glass.
“And you’re afraid you’re next on your husband’s list?” he asked after a moment.
“I’m sure of it. If he found out-” She stopped abruptly.
“That you and Jim Lacy were planning a way to get him bumped off,” Shayne finished for her lightly. “Yes. That is an angle. Some men are funny about things like that.” He emptied his glass and set it down, stretched his lean length in a chair, and took out a cigarette. Without looking at Helen, he asked:
“How could Morgan have found out what you had in mind?”
“I don’t know. That’s one of the things I don’t understand. He may have friends here-underworld contacts. Perhaps Jim spilled our plan to someone.”
Shayne said, “U-m-m.” He shifted his gaze to her through a cloud of expelled smoke. “Where did you go after you left the Danube Restaurant?”
She set her glass down so hard that some of the liquor slopped over the edge. “Wh-at?”
“After you finished dinner tonight,” he amplified.
She said, “Then he was one of your men?”
“Who?” Shayne’s eyes became very bright.
“The man at the restaurant. The one who said you wanted to see me.”
Shayne settled back. “Tell me all about it,” he directed. “Everything.”
She hesitated for only a second, then began rapidly. “A man came to my table as I was finishing dinner. I had never seen him before but he said he was one of your operatives and he was to take me to you at once. He had a car outside, and when he drove away he took great precautions to keep from being followed.
“He was disturbed and angry when a taxi swung in behind us. He drove around several side streets and wouldn’t tell me anything except that he had to get rid of whoever was trailing us in the cab. I-somehow it seemed to me that he acted very strangely, and I found myself beginning to doubt that he really was one of your men. I got scared. He finally stopped along a deserted street. The cab stopped half a block behind us and he got out and went back to intercept it, telling me to sit tight and wait for him.
“I was sure there was something wrong by that time. He acted more like a gangster than a detective. As soon as he left, I jumped out and ran up the street. I found a cruising taxi about half a block away and I came straight here. I’ve been waiting for you to come-hiding around the corner and watching your door.” She looked at Shayne with wide-open eyes as she ended. “Had you sent him to get me?”
Shayne shook his head. Her story sounded straight enough, and it tied in with Phyllis’s note. He asked, “You didn’t see who was in the cab behind you-nor what happened when your driver went back?”
“No. I didn’t look back. I was terrified. I don’t know why exactly, but there was something sinister about that man.” She shuddered. “Was he working for you?”
Shayne said, “Describe him.”
She described Leroy. Not too exactly, but with enough detail so that there could be no mistake.
Shayne rubbed his uninjured jaw thoughtfully. Helen waited for him to speak. After a moment he asked, “What about Gorstmann?”
Her look of bewilderment was good enough to convince Shayne that she had never heard the name before. “Who?”
He shrugged irritably. “Never mind.”
He got up and began prowling up and down the room. The girl sat relaxed, not looking at him. The bottom of her tight skirt had crawled above her knees and she didn’t seem to know or care.
She emptied her glass, and Shayne refilled it silently. Tonight, he noted, she wasn’t making any fuss about downing the hundred-proof cognac without a chaser.
