law here in Miami,” he said.
“More or less,” Shayne agreed quietly.
“I’m quite sure Chief Painter is doing everything that can be done to arrest the man who shot Rourke.”
“Why were you so hell-bent on keeping Rourke’s expose out of your paper?”
Bronson looked pained. “I don’t feel that my editorial policy is a matter for discussion.”
“The person who shot Rourke didn’t want that stuff printed either,” Shayne told him harshly.
“Are you insinuating that I-that I-?” Bronson choked over the enormity of the insinuation.
“You were sore as hell that night,” Shayne said coldly. “You got Rourke’s address from your office file and started out at nine-thirty with his pay check and personal belongings to give them to him. Why didn’t you?”
“I’ve explained to Chief Painter that I changed my mind and came directly home.”
“You didn’t reach here until after ten-thirty.” Shayne tried a shot in the dark, but it produced no effect.
Bronson waved his cigar and said, “I didn’t notice the exact time I arrived.”
“You left your office at nine-thirty.”
“Then I must have reached home not later than ten,” said Bronson. “I regret the attack on Rourke very deeply. If you can convince me that a private detective might prove useful in solving the case, I might consider retaining you.”
Shayne grinned and said lightly, “I’m on the trail of a few clues Painter has overlooked. One of them is a Colt automatic. Serial number four-two-one-eight-nine-three.”
Bronson’s expression did not change even so much as the flicker of an eyelash. He calmly drew on his cigar, then asked, “The-er-weapon that figured in the attack on Rourke?”
“We’ll know more about that after we make a ballistic test on a bullet fired from it.” Shayne shrugged and got up.
Mr. Bronson detained him by asking, “You say the police know nothing about this clue?”
“Not yet.”
Bronson was breathing heavily and his eyes were low-lidded. “Perhaps Chief Painter has been negligent,” he said with sudden friendliness. “Would you be interested in a retainer?”
“I’ll be frank with you, Bronson,” said Shayne grimly. “For once in my life I’m more interested in solving a case than in getting paid for it. I won’t work any harder for a fee than without one, so you might as well save your money. I’m out to get the guy who shot Tim Rourke.”
“Come now, Mr. Shayne. That doesn’t sound like the things I’ve heard about you. I may as well tell you I’ve been considering a public reward through the Courier. Quite a substantial reward, since the integrity of the press is involved. Perhaps twenty-five thousand.”
Shayne got it then. He got it very suddenly. He thought fast and played along in a hurry. “Why don’t you try an ad in the personal column?”
“Perhaps I will, Mr. Shayne.” He looked up at Shayne with a stony stare. “If that’s all you have to say to me now-”
“That’s all-right now,” Shayne said, and walked out through the living-room. He strode out rapidly and got in his car, frowning over the figure Bronson had offered. He didn’t know whether it was good or bad to have Walter Bronson think he was the originator of the note demanding 25 grand to keep still about a certain. 32 automatic. It opened up a lot of possibilities, but he couldn’t yet foresee where they might lead.
Chapter Thirteen: DOGGING SOME CLUES
Shayne was still sitting in his car parked outside the Bronson estate when a limousine rolled out of the driveway and turned in the opposite direction. The managing editor of the Courier was driving, and he didn’t appear to notice Shayne’s car.
Shayne sat on, undecided as to his next move, trying to straighten out some of the angles but not getting very far. Right now there were too damned many angles.
After several minutes he got out and walked back to the Bronson home and pushed the door button again. The same rosy-cheeked maid opened the door. She said, “Oh, it’s you again, sir.”
“I forgot something and came back. Mr. Bronson still here?”
“Oh, no, sir, he’s left for the office.”
Shayne scowled to show his irritation and disappointment. “He won’t be back until night, I suppose?”
“He doesn’t usually come back, but-”
“Mrs. Bronson will do just as well,” Shayne said and started forward. “Will you ask if she’ll see me for a moment?”
“Oh, no, sir,” the girl said in some alarm. “Mrs. Bronson is too ill to see anyone.”
“Ill?” Shayne stopped inside the door. “I didn’t know that. What’s the matter with her?”
“I’m not sure. Some sort of stroke, I guess,” the girl said in a hushed voice. “She hasn’t been out of her room for two whole days. Mr. Bronson gave strict orders she wasn’t to be disturbed for anything.”
“That’s too bad.” Shayne tugged at his left ear lobe and stared absently at the maid. “Does she look really ill?”
“I haven’t seen her.”
“Who takes her meals up?”
“Mr. Bronson carries up a tray every morning and night. She must be quite sick because she doesn’t eat much.”
“But you must go in to make up her bed and clean up,” Shayne persisted.
“Oh, no, sir. Mr. Bronson said we weren’t to bother her at all.” Agnes hesitated, her eyes downcast, and then said swiftly, “Cook and I have been wondering. It seems very strange. We’ve been wondering if she has something bad-catching, you know. We thought maybe that’s why he waits on her himself and won’t let us go in.”
Shayne said, “H-m-m. Who’s her doctor?”
“That’s just it,” she told him, her blue eyes round and grave. “They haven’t had any doctor. Mr. Bronson says it’s just sort of a nervous breakdown and all she needs is rest, but-”
“When did this breakdown occur exactly?”
“It was Wednesday morning when he first told us we were to stay away from upstairs and not disturb her.”
“And you haven’t seen her since then?”
The maid shook her flaxen head earnestly. “He-locks the door when he leaves in the morning. I know because I forgot yesterday morning and tried to get in.”
Shayne said, “I guess it’s nothing to worry about if he hasn’t called in a doctor. Don’t tell him I came back. We’ve got a deal on and he wouldn’t like it if he knew I’d forgot something. You know how he is about things like that.”
“I certainly do,” she said unhappily, and looked up at him wistfully.
Shayne pinched her pointed chin and said, “I don’t think there’s anything to worry about,” again, and went out. He didn’t waste any time sitting and thinking this time, but drove straight to police headquarters in Miami. Chief Will Gentry greeted him by announcing, “I just talked to the hospital. Rourke’s condition is encouraging. If he hangs on another twelve hours the crisis will be past.”
Shayne said, “Swell. That sounds better than the report I got at six-thirty this morning.” He sat down and ruffled his bristly red hair. “Seen anything of Jorgensen this morning?”
“Just long enough to find out you’re giving my men their orders,” Gentry answered with a grin. “He’s looking up some man named Dillingham Smith.”
“Here’s something else on Smith,” Shayne told him. “Though he’s kept his room at the Front Hotel, he’s been holed up at the LaCrosse Apartments on Fourteenth Street for the past couple of weeks. That’s another lead for Jorg to check. And I didn’t say anything last night about putting a tail on Smith, but I think you’d better. Particularly from two o’clock on. After the Courier Blue Flash is out. I want the exact time Smith makes any telephone calls after he reads the Blue Flash.”
Gentry was making notations on a sheet of paper as Shayne spoke. He nodded without looking up. “Anything
