The cognac was Martell. Shayne’s nostrils flared as he got the bottle open and poured a generous draft in the empty glass. He needed this drink. Just as he needed a bath, some clean clothes, and a period of relaxation. He had a lot of thinking to do, and there wasn’t any place he could do it better than right there in the familiar living-room with a glass of cognac and ice water at his elbow.
Without consciously realizing it, he had resolutely thrust all thinking about what had been happening from his mind after talking with Will Gentry on the telephone. He needed time and quiet to digest the things Gentry had told him, to see how in hell they fitted into the curious pattern of events that had engulfed him.
He drank the cognac slowly and appreciatively, took a sip of water, and then went into the bathroom which opened directly off the living-room beside the closed bedroom.
He fixed the shower as hot as he could stand it and got under the spray, stood there for a long time, and then cooled it by degrees until it was as cold as water will run out of the pipes in Miami.
The telephone rang while he was drying his rangy body with a rough towel. He went into the living-room and answered it.
Henry said from the desk phone, “That policeman from the Beach and your newspaper friend are on their way up to see you, Mr. Shayne. They came in just now and seemed to know you were here, and I hardly dared pretend you weren’t.”
Shayne said, “That’s all right, Henry. Just so you don’t suddenly remember about the suitcase.” He hung up as a knock sounded on the door, went across to open it, holding an end of the towel in each hand and leisurely moving it back and forth to dry his back.
Peter Painter stood officiously on the threshold, and immediately behind him was the tall, emaciated frame and the melancholy face of Timothy Rourke.
Shayne said, “Hello,” stepped back, and continued drying himself.
Painter, chief of the Miami Beach detective bureau, was short and slender and exceedingly well dressed. He had a thin black mustache and piercing, inquisitive black eyes. He said angrily, “I thought we were rid of you, Shayne. You made a great to-do earlier this evening at the Leslie Hudson home about catching that midnight plane.”
Shayne said, “I decided to come back. I had a hunch there might be some more schoolboy stuff you’d be needing my help on.”
Painter bristled and entered the familiar room with short, deliberate steps, darting his sharp eyes around inquisitively.
Timothy Rourke stood in the doorway, narrowing his feverishly bright eyes and chuckling when he saw the condition of Shayne’s mouth. “Do the stewardesses on National carry knives to protect them from lecherous passengers? Or did she get over-enthusiastic and chew when she should have been kissing?”
Shayne touched his cut lip tenderly with the back of his hand. “I think she had panther blood, Tim,” he said soberly. They walked into the room together.
In a self-satisfied tone, Painter announced, “I had a hunch all along that that clerk was lying about renting this apartment to someone else. That plane jump to Palm Beach was just a dodge to throw me off the track.”
Shayne turned a look of innocent surprise on Timothy Rourke. “What’s your pint-sized friend talking about, Tim? Doesn’t he realize he has never been on the track?”
“Very funny,” snapped Painter. “You planned to come back all along, Shayne. Why did you make such an effort to make us think you were going back to New Orleans?”
Rourke chuckled and went over to pour himself a drink of cognac. His clothes hung on his bony body like the ill-fitting habiliments of a scarecrow. “I don’t know why he’s got the wind up, Mike. Is Chick sore at you?” he ended casually.
“Chick?” Shayne frowned, as though trying to recall the name. “Oh, Farrel? Chick has hated my guts ever since I beat his time with a redhead a few months ago. Why?”
“Never mind that.” Painter strutted forward, smoothing his thready black mustache with his thumbnail. “What have you been doing since you got back to Miami, Shayne? How does it happen I find you here in your old apartment when it’s supposed to be rented to another man?”
“It is rented to another man, but he hasn’t moved in yet. I’m simply borrowing it for a bath and a chance to change clothes.” Shayne gestured toward the strapped suitcase in the middle of the floor near Painter’s feet.
Painter snorted and went into the bathroom to look around. Shayne looked at Rourke with lifted eyebrows. Rourke shook his head slightly and lifted his own brows in response.
Painter came briskly back from the bathroom and demanded, “Where are the clothes you wore up here?”
Shayne said, “You seem to forget this apartment has a bedroom. A man usually undresses in his bedroom, but it so happens that the clothes I wore up here are there on the floor.” He pointed a bony forefinger to the dirty coveralls lying near the suitcase.
Painter went over and stooped to touch the dirty garment with his manicured fingertips, but instead, moved the coveralls with the tip of his shoe. He saw the pair of discarded socks and nothing more. “You were wearing more than this when you left to catch the plane. What have you been doing in this outfit?”
“One of these days,” said Shayne with disgust, “the city fathers on the Beach are going to catch on and give your job to the night clerk downstairs.”
“What?” Painter’s small mouth gaped open.
“Henry,” Shayne explained patiently, “deduced that her husband must be a mechanic and that he came home too soon.”
Timothy Rourke laughed happily and sat down. Painter started to speak, but didn’t. He looked Shayne’s naked body up and down and then snapped, “Don’t you have any decency? Get some clothes on so I can question you formally.”
Shayne said, “I’m sorry if my nudity offends you. What the hell are you doing up here, anyway?”
Painter retorted angrily, “Get into some clothes and I’ll be very happy to explain.” He turned away stiffly.
Shayne threw Rourke an amused look and said, “I’ll bet Petey used to undress behind a bush when he and the boys went swimming.” To Painter he said, “All right. I’ll put on a pair of shorts and make this formal.”
The big towel fell to the floor as he bent over to unfasten the leather straps and loosen the metal catches at each end of the bag and press the center lock to release the catch.
It didn’t release. Shayne frowned and pushed it back and forth, trying to pull the bag open, muttering, “It can’t be locked. I lost the key years ago.”
Rourke got up and came over to him. “Maybe it accidentally locked itself,” he offered. “Let me try one of my keys on it. Nearly all these locks are the same.” He squatted beside Shayne, took out a ring of keys, and carefully selected one.
Shayne shrugged and settled back on his haunches to watch. Suddenly he stiffened; his eyes widened with surprise. This was not his Gladstone. He was positive his had been unlocked. He saw, too, that this was a little newer than his. The same color and size, but not quite so battered. He was certain of it when he looked at the leather straps. One of his straps was badly worn in one place where it had been buckled for years. Neither of these straps was badly worn.
“There you are,” said Rourke triumphantly. He removed his key and pressed the knob. The bag came open a few inches, and Rourke lifted the top half which had a center layer of leather snapped in place to separate the contents of the two sides.
Shayne saw the contents at the same moment Rourke did. Neat bundles of bank notes spread across folded clothing in the bottom of the Gladstone. The top bill on each bundle was a hundred-dollar denomination, and a single glance told both men they were looking at a lot of thousands of dollars.
Shayne glanced at Peter Painter. He was still standing with his back turned on Shayne’s sinewy and lanky body, waiting for him to get some clothes on.
Timothy Rourke expelled the long breath he had been holding, gently and noiselessly. He let the Gladstone close itself. His eyes burned more feverishly than before as he turned them on the grimly set face of the detective.
Shayne moved his head negatively and his bleak gray eyes bored into Rourke’s. He pressed the Gladstone shut with a click and said, “Just to save Petey further embarrassment, I’ll go in the bedroom to dress.” He stood up with the Gladstone in his hand.
