her hips provocatively.
Shayne slumped to a more comfortable position, stretching his long legs out in front of him. He ruffled his bristly red hair with blunt, knobby fingers, then lit a Picayune.
He could hear voices and movement through the partition between the two living-rooms. He checked back over his story rapidly and knew it was full of holes, but it would have to do. Above all else he didn’t want to disclose to Peter Painter the truth about the letter he had picked up in Rourke’s box. That was his one ace in the hole. Without that link, Painter would have no proof that Madge’s murder was in any way connected with Rourke. And this thought reminded him that the letter was still in his pocket.
He took it out as Helen came in from the kitchen with a tray holding two tall frosted glasses. She set it down on the coffee table in front of the couch, saying, “All I had was some gin and Tom Collins mixer.”
“That’ll be swell.” He took a glass and started to drink from it. Holding it in the air, he said, “I’m damned. What in hell’s your last name?”
“Porter. You almost slipped up there, Redhead.” Again she narrowed her eyes at him. “Say, are you on the level about being a private dick?”
Shayne asked hastily, “Married?”
She tossed her head and laughed. “I never met a guy I’d want to be tied down to.”
“All right,” Shayne said impatiently. “Would you recognize Madge’s handwriting?”
“I guess so. Why?”
He handed her the letter. “Did she write that?”
Helen studied the envelope for a moment and nodded. “I’m pretty sure she did. Looks like the paper she uses too.”
“It’s the tip that brought me here. We’ve got to get rid of it. Tear it up and flush it down the drain.”
She stepped back from him, holding the letter in both hands, her eyes wary. “I don’t know about that. How do I know-?”
“Open it and read it. I’m not putting anything over on you.”
She pulled the note out and glanced at the brief message, nodded, and began slowly tearing it into small bits, walking back to the bathroom.
Shayne heard the toilet being flushed just as the doorbell rang. He reached for his glass and took a long drink, got up as the bell rang a second time. With the glass in his left hand and a cigarette drooping from the corner of his mouth, he opened the door. He stepped back and said happily, “Come in, Chief.”
Chief Peter Painter stiffened on the threshold, his flashing black eyes going over Shayne. His mouth, beneath a black threadlike mustache, was mobile. He wore a Palm Beach suit that was immaculate, and as he stood there quite evidently trying to master his surprise, Shayne thought that he had not changed. Peter Painter could still strut standing perfectly still.
He said, “Shayne,” as though the mere forming of the single word caused him acute pain.
Shayne said, “Come on in,” affably, and lounged toward the couch.
Helen Porter re-entered the room. Shayne introduced her to Painter and said, “Come on and get your drink, honey, before the ice melts.” He sat down and patted a place beside him.
Chief Painter moved into the room and stood facing them. He said, “Shayne, by God,” with a passionate intonation, then added bitterly, “I might have known when that apartment-house manager called me it’d be you. When we got out here and found a corpse-hell, it had to be you.”
“That’s right.” Shayne grinned and took one of Helen’s hands in his. “I always did manage to get ahead of you in the old days.”
“Who is she, Shayne? What’s your connection with her?”
“With Helen Porter? She’s an old friend.”
“I’m talking about the woman in Six-Fourteen.”
“I don’t know anything about her. Helen says her name is Madge.”
“Don’t give me that. You tried to call her before coming over here.”
Shayne rumpled his brow and looked perplexed. “Tried to call her? The dead woman? You’re nuts. I tried to call Helen but she was in the tub and didn’t hear the phone ring.”
“Do you deny that you’re the man who broke into Rourke’s apartment by impersonating an officer?” Painter folded his arms. His tone was that of a man fighting to keep a tight rein on his temper.
“I went to Tim’s apartment for a look around,” Shayne admitted quietly. “I used his telephone to try to call Helen.”
“Causeway 3842?” Painter snapped.
“Causeway 1286,” Shayne corrected. “That’s Helen’s number.”
Helen nodded. She was sitting very close to Shayne, erect and anxious, looking from one speaker to the other, frowning a little as though straining to understand what they were sparring about
“But you asked Information for the address after the number didn’t answer. She told you Six-Fourteen Tempest. The number there is Causeway 3842.”
“I don’t know anything about that.” Shayne shrugged and took a long drink from his glass. “Information gave me the address as Six-Sixteen Tempest. That’s Helen’s address.”
“Mr. Henty said Six-Fourteen Tempest when he called me on the phone,” Painter said with dangerous calm. “He suspected something wrong when he noticed Rourke’s mail gone from the box. He listened in on your call and he told me Six-Fourteen. Why else do you think the radio car stopped here and went in to find the body?”
“Sounds like a crazy coincidence,” Shayne said. “Either Henty made a mistake or you misunderstood him.”
“Are you trying to tell me you don’t know anything about the dead woman? That you didn’t try to phone her? That it just happens you popped up here next door to a corpse a few hours after you reached Miami?”
“The damnedest things happen to me,” Shayne marveled. “Sometimes it seems like I’ve got a natural affinity for corpses.”
“It’s a put-up job,” Painter snorted angrily. “You planned it with this young lady to avoid telling your real connection with the dead woman.”
Shayne looked pained. “I hadn’t seen Helen for almost three years until today.”
“You’ve had plenty of time to coach her since you’ve been here.” Painter strutted six steps away from them and back, then demanded of Helen, “Do you deny he fixed up this lie with you?”
“Wait a minute.” Shayne sprang up. “I’ve let you throw your bantam weight around because I thought maybe after two years we could get along together. Call in your man Hudson if you want to find out the truth. He was here when I arrived-he and his partner. Ask him which door I came to. Ask him if I expected to find a dead woman here-or came to see Helen.”
Painter’s black eyes were sulphurous with rage. He drew his thumbnail across his mustache, went to the front door, and barked, “Hudson!”
The patrolman came in after a few minutes. Painter said, “I want you to tell me exactly what happened and what you and Martin did when you answered this call.”
“We got it over our car radio while we were cruising along Ocean Boulevard. We whipped it over here in not more’n three minutes. Six-Fourteen was dark, but this side was lighted. Martin rang the bell and when nobody answered, I rang this lady’s bell. I asked her about next door, and she said she thought the lady was out, hadn’t seen her around for a couple of days. Then Martin tried the door and found it was unlocked.
“We went in and turned on the lights. We found the stiff in the bedroom. I knew we better not use the phone in there on account of fingerprints, maybe, and I left Martin there and came over here to call you and report. I heard a car pull up and park behind ours just before I rang the bell, so I ducked back and waited to see what he wanted.” He nodded toward Shayne.
“It was him. He came up and rang this lady’s bell. She opened the door and he grabbed her and asked was she glad to see him after all this time. She laughs and says ‘Sure, Mike,’ and he kisses her. They were still kissin’ when I walked in.” Officer Hudson stopped to mop sweat from his face.
Painter said, “Go on,” sharply.
“Well, that’s about all, Chief. I come in and says I want to use the phone and he gets sort of wringy and asks what’s the matter with the phone next door, but I didn’t tell him anything. I just went on and called in to report the body.”
