Chapter Five
Shayne stopped shaving and looked at his watch as soon as the door closed behind Rourke. The time was two minutes past eleven. He hurried out and turned on the small radio on the bedside table, switched to a local newscast and heard:
“… death weapon was identified by Timothy Rourke, well-known reporter for the Miami News and close friend of the murdered woman, as a highly prized possession of Miss Morton’s, a testimonial gift presented to her by the Better Citizenship Bureau of Akron, Ohio, two years ago, in gratitude for her outstanding public service in exposing criminal conditions in that city.
“At this time there are no new developments in this sensational case, but keep tuned to this station for on- the-spot bulletins for which we will interrupt any of our regular programs.
“Police are still seeking Michael Shayne, nationally famous private detective of this city, and the dead woman’s private secretary, Miss Beatrice Lally, for questioning. It is known that Mr. Shayne and Miss Lally left the hotel together, shortly after nine o’clock, to search among her favorite nightspots for Miss Morton, apparently unaware that she was dead at that time. It is known that Miss Morton sought professional advice from Mr. Shayne shortly before her death, and police are confident that information in his possession will point to the identity of the killer as soon as he can be reached.
“Do you wake up feeling irritable and sluggish in…”
He snapped the dial and, returning to the bathroom, shaved hurriedly, showered, and padded to a chest of drawers in the bedroom as he toweled his rangy body. He was buckling a belt around the waist of gray flannel slacks when the telephone rang. He answered on the bedside extension: “Mike Shayne speaking.”
A cultured masculine voice said, “Please listen carefully, Mr. Shayne. I’m calling from a public booth at a roadside tavern, so don’t try to trace this call. I will be miles away before anyone could get here if you notified them.”
“Fair enough. Who are you and what do you want?”
“I heard the eleven o’clock newscast,” the voice went on, “and learned that Miss Sara Morton has been murdered.” He spoke with breathless intensity and a note of desperation.
“That’s right.” Shayne waited, tugging at his ear lobe, his eyes narrowed thoughtfully as he tried to identify the voice.
“When was she murdered, Shayne? The newscaster didn’t say, and it is vitally important to me.”
“Why?”
“Because-” His voice faltered, and Shayne could hear his heavy breathing; then he went on urgently, “Was she alive as late as seven o’clock?”
“I don’t know why I should give out such information,” said Shayne impatiently.
“Would you like to earn ten thousand dollars, Shayne?”
“I wouldn’t turn it down.”
“I didn’t think you would,” he said, “from what I’ve heard about you. Have you told the police what Miss Morton consulted you about today?”
“No.”
“And the secretary? Has she talked to the police since learning of Miss Morton’s death?”
“I have her stashed away where the police can’t get at her until I say the word,” Shayne told him. He paused briefly, then added carefully, “I had a hunch you might be willing to pay a little something to keep this quiet.”
“Then-you know who I am?”
“I think I know your name,” Shayne lied tranquilly.
“I assure you that I did not kill her, Shayne.” His voice broke on a falsetto key like the changing voice of a teen-aged boy.
“But you have no alibi for before seven?” Shayne said.
“Precisely. And even if that alibi is sufficient, you can readily understand that a police investigation would bring the whole story to light-and ruin me.”
“Naturally.” Shayne scowled heavily, wondering how long he could keep the man talking without giving away the fact that he hadn’t the faintest idea what he was talking about.
“If you and the secretary could be induced to listen to reason-that is, I infer the secretary knows all about it. She must have typed the script.”
“I think I can handle Miss Lally,” Shayne broke in, “but there’s no use discussing a thing like this on the phone.”
“My thought exactly, Shayne.” His tone held a hint of hope. “I suppose I’ll have to trust you to come alone. If you will give me your word of honor-”
“That’s no good,” Shayne broke in again, harshly, and sweat dripped from his face. “If you make arrangements now and something goes wrong-the police get onto you from another angle or manage to follow me- you’d never believe I hadn’t turned you in… Let’s do it this way,” he continued, improvising swiftly. “Can you be in the barroom of the Golden Cock on Biscayne Boulevard in half an hour?”
“I can just about make it. But if this is a trap-”
“How can it be trap?” Shayne interrupted. He took a chance and added, “I don’t know what you look like, so it’ll be safe enough for you to go there. Do you know me by sight?”
“I’ve seen your picture in the papers.”
“I want to handle this so you’ll know I haven’t double-crossed you no matter what happens. The Golden Cock bar will be crowded, and I’ll mingle in the thickest of the crowds. The police may tail me and be watching. Don’t speak to me or give yourself away in any way. Have a brief note wadded up to slip into my right hand, telling me where to meet you. I’ll stay in plain sight after you give it to me, and won’t communicate with anyone until I go out to my car and read the note. You can follow me to make sure I’m not being tailed. Then you’ll know I’m on the level.” Shayne paused, feeling uncertain, yet hopeful. He knew it wasn’t very good, but it was the best he could think of on the spur of the moment.
“That sounds like a lot of melodramatic hocus-pocus,” his caller complained.
“That’s the way it has to be if you want to see me tonight,” he said flatly. “At the Golden Cock in half an hour.” He cradled the receiver before the man could make further protests.
There was no rush now. The Golden Cock was only ten minutes away. Shayne selected a gray and red tie, tied it carefully, then put on a Palm Beach coat a shade darker than the slacks. He combed his wet hair and pulled a clean gray hat down over it, determined that the genial manager of the Golden Cock should not have to apologize for his appearance.
In the living-room he poured a stiff drink and sat down to wait.
The case was breaking even faster than he had anticipated. He wondered who the devil his caller was, frowning because he hadn’t been able to trick him into giving his name. But there was no way he could have found out without revealing the fact that he had not talked to Sara Morton.
That was his one trump card, the supposition that he knew a great many things he didn’t know. If word got around that Miss Morton had been unable to reach him for consultation the case was apt to drag out interminably.
He finished off the cognac and went down in the elevator and out through the side entrance without seeing any of Gentry’s men. He got in his car and drove leisurely to the Golden Cock, watching through the rear-view mirror, but seeing no car that appeared to be tailing him.
He drove past the doorman and parked his car where he could find it in a hurry and as near the exit as possible, got out and sauntered back to the entrance.
The manager hurried to greet him, saying, “Well, well, back again, Shayne. Miss Morton hasn’t showed up yet, but I have a nice table where you can-”
“Thanks, Harold,” he said, “but I just dropped in for a drink. Miss Morton has been located.” He turned from the dining-room entrance and went into the crowded cocktail lounge, stopping just inside the doorway to light a cigarette and letting his gaze wander slowly over the faces toward him, hoping to spot the man who should be watching for him if he had already arrived. He nodded to several acquaintances who lifted a hand or voice in
