turned away.
Phyllis breathed unevenly and watched with wide eyes while he went to the corpse and knelt down, began rifling the dead man’s pockets.
A tuneless whistle came from the detective’s lips as he made a little pile of personal belongings on the floor. Presently he squatted back on his haunches, examining and returning loose change, a key ring, and such trifles to the same pockets they had come from.
He retained a worn leather wallet which he went through carefully. He counted a sheaf of small bills, laying aside two hundred and putting a five and some ones back. He carefully examined all the papers in the wallet, refolded and replaced them, then put the wallet back in the dead man’s inside coat pocket.
Shayne frowned, ruffling the sheaf of bills, then placed them inside his own wallet and said over his shoulder to Phyllis, “You can make an entry in the ledger: ‘Two hundred dollar retainer from Jim Lacy.’”
A little gasp from her lips brought him around to look at her. He grinned when he saw her expression.
“Don’t look at me with such loathing, angel. How am I going to find out anything if I don’t do some snooping?”
“It’s ghoulish,” she burst out, “looting a dead man’s pockets.”
Shayne shrugged wide shoulders. “I left the cops a few dollars to fight over. Who’s going to pay my fee if Jim Lacy doesn’t?”
“Then it is Jim Lacy?”
“In person. Unless someone has gone to the trouble of planting Jim Lacy’s billfold on him.”
“Does that make it right to steal his money?”
“Steal isn’t a nice word,” Shayne complained. “I told you to enter it in the ledger to make it legal.”
“But how do you know there’s going to be any case? Your client’s already dead.”
“That,” Shayne told her, “is my case. I practically never let the murder of a prospective client pass unnoticed.” He got up and went toward Phyllis. She stood up, her young face strained and anxious.
Shayne put his arm about her shoulders. “You insisted on playing at being my secretary, Phyl. Part of that job is not asking questions and not passing judgments. You’re upset by having a dead man fall in the door. I didn’t arrange it, but hell! That’s the way things go in this business.” He put a forefinger under his wife’s firm chin and tipped her face up. “Are you going to take orders-or would you rather resign right now?”
The look of strain went away from Phyllis’s face. “I guess I am upset. I haven’t even drunk my wine.”
A twinkle came to Shayne’s gray eyes. He released her with a push toward her desk. “Now, you’re more like the gal I married. Drink your wine.” He hesitated, rubbing his bony chin, then muttered, “I still don’t know what they didn’t get.”
He studied Lacy’s body a moment, then knelt beside the dead man again. He gently withdrew the right hand from its coat pocket, frowned at the empty palm, and tried the other hand.
This time his eyes glistened with satisfaction. The fingers of Jim Lacy’s left hand were tightly clenched in death over a small piece of white cardboard. Shayne spread the fingers out one by one. He rocked back on his heels and turned the torn fragment over and over in his hands.
Watching him curiously, Phyllis asked, “What is it, Michael?”
“Damned if I know.” His frown deepened. “It looks like- something familiar. There’s printing on it-parts of words-it’s been torn on three sides-” He shook his head. “The only thing I’m certain of is that it’s what they didn’t get from Lacy.” He slipped the piece of cardboard in his pocket and stood up, reached for his hat.
“Get this straight, Phyl. Here’s what you’re to do. Call headquarters as soon as I get out. Get some excitement in your voice and report that a man just stumbled through the door and fell dead. You don’t know where I am.”
“Where will you be?”
“Out.” He stepped toward the door, paused. “You’d better tell them about the phone call from Jim Lacy-the truth. They might trace it. But forget that I was here when he dropped in-and you don’t know anything about the identity of our caller.”
Phyllis nodded, her lips tightly compressed. She kept her face averted from the corpse. “I understand.”
Shayne grinned reassuringly. “I’ll beat it. I think you’ll lie more convincingly without an audience.” He stepped over the dead man and started out.
The telephone on Phyllis’s desk shrilled as he went through the doorway. He stopped and looked back.
Phyllis lifted the receiver and said, “Yes?” She listened a moment, widening her eyes at her husband to let him know the call was for him.
“I don’t believe Mr. Shayne will be able to-” She paused, biting her lip and listening further. She put her hand over the mouthpiece and said:
“It’s the clerk downstairs. There’s a girl to see you.”
Shayne shook his head. “Tell her-”
“She says that Jim Lacy sent her,” Phyllis interrupted.
Shayne stopped shaking his head. He said, “That’s different. Have the clerk stall her a few minutes, then send her upstairs to the apartment. I’ll trot up there and see what she wants. You go ahead and call the cops. Don’t mention the girl. Tell them exactly what I told you to. And wash out that glass of mine and put it up.”
He hurried out, leaving the door standing open, went to the end of the corridor and up one flight of stairs. He hastily unlocked a spacious corner apartment and strode in, shucking off his coat. He tossed coat and hat into the bedroom and returned to the living-room, loosening his tie. Miami’s late-afternoon sunlight flooded the room warmly from an open west window.
He lit a cigarette as an elevator stopped and opened its doors down the hall. He swiftly stepped aside and manipulated a wall mirror so it swung about and revealed a compact assortment of liquors and glasses. He grabbed a bottle of cognac and poured a wineglass half full, carried it to a deep chair, and settled back just as a knock sounded on the door.
He yelled, “Come in,” and took a leisurely sip of cognac as the door opened.
CHAPTER TWO
A girl paused hesitantly just inside the threshold. She appeared quite young, with lustrous, smoothly waved hair that gave off an illusive sheen like the patina of old and well-rubbed silver. She wore a dress of dove-gray silk, and looked cool and poised. She had a slender, well-put-together body and nice legs.
Shayne set his glass down and went to meet her. She peeled off a white lace glove and smiled, but her blue eyes were frightened.
Shayne engulfed her hand in his and drew her into the room, shutting the door. “You wanted to see me?”
“It’s-are you really the detective-Michael Shayne?” Her lips parted breathlessly, her eyes were wide with doubt.
Shayne ruffled his red hair and grinned his nicest grin. “Disappointed?”
“N-No. Only-” She shrugged well-fleshed shoulders and pivoted away from him, looking around the living- room with interest. “This isn’t at all what I imagined a detective’s office would be like.” She moved to an open window, casually glancing inside the bedroom through the open door.
“My wife is out,” Shayne told her equably. “We’re alone here if that’s what’s on your mind.”
She turned slowly, pressing the heels of her palms against the window sill behind her. Her hair glistened with a yellowish tinge in the tropical sunlight. She narrowed her eyes at Shayne, then parted generous lips in a slow smile. “I didn’t know you were married.”
“That,” said Shayne, “is the reason I hastened to mention it.” He went to the table and lifted his glass. “Can I get you a drink?”
“No, thank you.” The smile went away from the girl’s lips. She said jerkily, “My name is-Helen Brinstead.”
Shayne lifted his glass in acknowledgment. “Miss Brinstead.” He sipped from the glass, his eyes holding hers over the rim. “You said a man named Jim Lacy had sent you.”
