was closed and I didn’t consciously listen. In fact, I typed fast and tried not to listen when I heard a man’s voice. He was angry and talking loud and I thought it was Ralph.”
“But you couldn’t swear it was Morton?”
“No.” She hesitated, closed her eyes, and opened her purse, reached in for her glasses, and put them on. “I wouldn’t want to swear to it, Mr. Shayne,” she said, looking at him levelly.
Lucy came in with a tray, her brown eyes reflecting the gay smile on her lips. “Here they are. I hope-oh!” She saw Miss Lally’s glasses, recovered swiftly from the shock, and resumed: “I do hope the daiquiri will taste right.” She set the tray down without adding, “Beatrice,” as she had intended. She handed Shayne a triple cognac and a glass of ice water. “So you can guzzle and go.” She laughed, then carefully lifted the brimming daiquiri glass and passed it to Miss Lally. “You’d better take a big swallow before it spills.”
Miss Lally took a big swallow while Lucy picked up her water and cognac mixture, generously iced, and sat down on the edge of the couch.
“Did you succeed in reaching Miss Morton, Michael?”
“Yeh. But too late,” he said morosely. “She was murdered a couple of hours before I got to her. Miss Lally has been Sara Morton’s confidential secretary for ten years.”
Lucy said, “Oh! How terrible!” Miss Lally’s hand trembled violently and her drink sloshed over the rim and onto her dress.
Lucy grabbed a cocktail napkin from the tray and pressed it on the wet spot. “Michael and I are so accustomed to reaching for a napkin when we need one-” she began apologetically.
“Miss Lally’s upset and nervous,” Shayne broke in. “We had a few bad moments, and you can thank her for the bullet I didn’t get in my back. Talk to Lucy as much as you can tonight,” he went on, turning to the girl. “Tell her everything-about Miss Morton, your work with her, the assignment she was working on in Miami.” He finished his drink, chased it with ice water, and stood up. His face was gaunt, and his eyes stared bleakly over Lucy’s head, not seeing the fear on her face.
“Take good care of her, Lucy, and stay right here with her in the morning until you hear from me.” He turned and strode to the door, opened it, hesitated briefly, then said, “I’ll call you when I can, but I expect to be moving fast. And don’t worry.”
In his car, Shayne made a U-turn and drove back to the Boulevard, drove south past Bayfront Park and Flagler Street to a right turn on Southeast First. He parked at the side entrance of his apartment hotel, got out, and went through a short hall to the lobby.
The night clerk, a thin, precise little man with pale blue eyes, began beckoning him with rapid crooks of a forefinger and urgent jerks of his head. Shayne was striding toward the desk when he was intercepted by Edwin Paisly, who jumped up from a chair near the elevator.
The young man’s face was strained, and a single lock of damp blond hair hanging down his forehead seemed, oddly, to give a disheveled look to his entire appearance. He got in front of Shayne, and when the redhead didn’t stop he walked backward, saying excitedly, “Mr. Shayne, I have to talk to you. I’ve been waiting and waiting. Really, Mr. Shayne-”
“Sit down over there and take it easy while I have a word with the clerk,” Shayne growled, stepping aside and going past him without slowing. Over a period of years Shayne had learned to judge by the night clerk’s expression whether his important news concerned a blonde or a brunette. The utter lack of any secretive and knowing look in John’s pale eyes told him now it was neither.
“I been waiting to catch you when you came in,” he said. “They told me I wasn’t to tell you, but if you’re dodging them as I know you want to sometimes I knew you’d like to know.”
“What?” Shayne asked patiently.
“They’re waiting up in your apartment-that reporter friend of yours and the big dumb-looking cop that comes here sometimes. It was him that said I wasn’t to tell you they were up there.”
Shayne smothered a grin at his description of Will Gentry, Miami’s chief of police. He said, “Thanks, John. I’m not dodging them, this time, but you never can tell when a tip like that may keep me out of jail.” He turned and crossed the lobby to where Paisly sat slumped in a chair in a far corner. “Didn’t Miss Morton show up for the dinner date?” he asked.
“No. I waited another half hour after you and Miss Lally left, then called the hotel. I don’t think they rang her room at all, Mr. Shayne. Some man answered and demanded to know who I was and what I wanted with Miss Morton. He was frightfully rude, and I’m afraid I replied rather sharply. Then he said he was a policeman and that I should come to the hotel at once.” Paisly didn’t get up from the chair, but sat up stiff and straight. He had combed his hair back sleekly, and seemed restored to his former immaculacy.
“Did you go?” Shayne asked, staring steadily down at him.
“Certainly not.” Paisly’s dark eyes fluttered up to meet Shayne’s gray gaze, then turned away. “At first I considered it rank impertinence. Then I began wondering what was wrong. Do you think it was the police, Mr. Shayne? Will they arrest me for not coming at once as I was ordered? And what do you suppose is the matter?”
“I think it would be smart to get over to the hotel and find out,” said Shayne gruffly. “Tell them you were detained on the way.” His eyes didn’t waver as he waited for a reply, but Paisly’s upward glance never reached higher than the round neck of his polo shirt, and Shayne turned abruptly away.
Paisly leaped up and caught his arm. “There’s something else I’ve got to know. Why did Sara call in a private detective today?”
“That’s my business.”
“It’s mine, too,” said Paisly fiercely. “We’re going to be married in a few days-just as soon as her divorce is granted. Doesn’t that make a difference?”
“I think you’d better ask her,” Shayne told the frightened young man.
“Oh, no. I–I wouldn’t want to do that.” His slender, manicured right hand slid into his pocket and came out with a platinum money clip holding a thin sheaf of folded bills. He removed a C-note, saying, “I simply want to know what she consulted you about. I don’t expect you to betray any professional confidences, but I have a right to know if there’s some hitch in the divorce.”
“Go peddle your pennies somewhere else,” Shayne told him roughly.
Paisly reluctantly unclipped another C-note. “I’m a little short of cash just now, but”-he tilted his head slightly and gave Shayne a shrewd, man-to-man smile-“things will be different after we’re married. I’ll be perfectly frank and admit it means a great deal to me, Mr. Shayne. Sara is a lovely person, and I simply don’t believe I could stand it if anything happened to interfere with our marriage. I’m sure you know what I mean.”
There were certain delicate nuances here which Shayne didn’t quite comprehend. Paisly was trying to thrust the two bills into his hand while he babbled on. “No matter what Sara may have told you today I want you to understand that I truly love her. No matter what she suspects or what she may have told you today. Please accept this as a token payment, and I give you my word of honor to double whatever fee she offered you-after our marriage, of course.”
Almost unconsciously one of Shayne’s fingers closed over the bills Paisly was pressing against his palm. He frowned at them, only half hearing Paisly’s words as he went on intensely:
“Every bit of this came out of that secretary’s nasty mind. She hates me. She hates any man Sara looks at twice. If any man ever looked at Miss Lally she’d probably faint. And that makes her hate all men, don’t you see? So she’s taking out her hatred on me right now.” He fluttered slim white hands in exasperation.
“And she influences Sara so. In an unhealthy way, I’m sure. After we’re married Miss Lally must go, at once. I imagine she realizes that, so she has deliberately set herself to poison Sara’s mind against me. That is what she consulted you about-the divorce, I presume,” he ended uncertainly.
Shayne straightened the one finger holding the bills and they floated to the floor. “Where were you between six-thirty and seven tonight?” he asked abruptly.
He thought Edwin Paisly was going to cry. His mouth primped up and he said, “Oh, you! What does it matter where I was?” and his tone figuratively stamped its foot.
“It may matter a great deal,” Shayne grated.
“You’re supposed to be a detective,” Paisly snapped. “Find out for yourself, nosey.” He reached down and snatched the two bills from the floor and hurried out of the lobby.
Shayne debated a moment whether or not to follow him, decided against it, and took the elevator up to his
