Shayne dropped him disgustedly on the sofa where he cowered, covering his wet and bruised face with both hands.
Shayne got out a pencil and wrote down the name. “Address?”
Birk gave it to him. An apartment building on Madison in the forties.
He didn’t hear Shayne go out. All he heard was the loud slam of the door behind the redhead, and he lay there weeping quietly and wondering in bewilderment why he was never appreciated… why things like this were always happening to him.
14
When Shayne reached the address, it was apparent that Lew Recker was much more commercially successful as a writer than his colleague in the Village. Either that, or he had independent means to help out.
It was a pleasant residential hotel, complete with doorman, nicely appointed lobby with dining room and cocktail lounge on one side. A fresh-skinned girl was at the switchboard, doubling as desk clerk and Information, and she looked doubtful, glancing up at the clock when Shayne asked for Mr. Recker.
“I don’t like to disturb him so early. Not before noon unless it’s extremely important.”
“It’s extremely important,” Shayne assured her.
She remained doubtful. “Would you mind saying what it is? He does have a vile temper when he’s disturbed in the morning.” She smiled briefly and confidentially at the redhead. “Claims he’s writing, you know, and that I shatter his mood. Frankly, I think he probably sleeps most of the morning.”
Shayne returned her smile, but said sternly, “This is police business. Give me his room number, if you wish, and I’ll be happy to do the disturbing myself. No reason he should know you gave it to me,” he added.
She said, “I’d as soon he didn’t know. It’s five-eighteen.”
Shayne thanked her and went to a bank of three elevators at the rear. A smartly uniformed lad took him up to the fifth floor, said, “Down the corridor to your left, sir,” when Shayne mentioned the number.
The detective from Miami went down a well-carpeted hall to a door near the end. He stopped in front of it and faintly heard the tapping of a typewriter from inside. He found no button by the door, so he rapped loudly.
The typing continued without interruption. He grimaced and knocked more loudly.
There was still no result though he knew the occupant of the room must hear him easily. He pounded on the door with his fists, and then called loudly, “Open up, Recker.”
That stopped the typewriter. The door was jerked open violently a moment later and Shayne was confronted by a dark, slender, angry young man of about thirty. His black hair was rumpled and he wore a back velvet smoking jacket with crimson lapels over gaudily striped pajamas and was barefooted.
“What in Christ’s world ails you?” he demanded. “Can’t a man have privacy in his own place? Go away!”
He tried to slam the door shut but Shayne had his big foot in the way. He said calmly, “I want to ask you a couple of questions about Elsie Murray.”
“Elsie Murray?” Lew Recker’s thin face twitched with scornful anger. “You come up here and pound on my door and utterly destroy a creative mood to ask me about Elsie. What about her? She’s a fair lay. That’s all I know. Now will you please get your big foot the hell out of my doorway before I phone downstairs to have you thrown out?”
“No,” said Shayne placidly. “I’m coming in, Recker. That wasn’t exactly what I wanted to know about Elsie, though it may help a little. Speaking from personal experience, were you?”
He moved forward implacably as he spoke, and Lew Recker was forced to step back or be trampled on.
He stepped backward, snarling, “You can ask plenty others besides me. Who are you and what do you want?”
“I’m a detective,” Shayne said blandly, “and I want all the information I can get about Elsie. She was murdered last night, you know?”
“I didn’t know,” raged Recker. “Wait a minute. What the hell did you say?” Incredulity replaced the anger in his voice. “Murdered?”
“Uh-huh.” Shayne took off his hat and looked around the room. It was small and orderly, with double windows overlooking the avenue. A metal typewriter desk stood directly in front of the windows, with an expensive “posture” office chair pulled away from it. There was a love-seat slipcovered in deep maroon along one wall, two comfortable chairs in a matching shade of lighter red.
“That’s a hell of a note,” Lew Recker said. There was no real shock or horror in his voice, more a note of personal affront. “How did it happen? When?”
“In her own apartment. Where were you from two to four o’clock this morning?” He sank into one of the comfortable chairs and crossed his long legs.
“Me? I’m not a suspect, I hope.”
“Every man who knew her is a suspect at the moment,” Shayne told him.
Lew Recker laughed a little raggedly. “That gives you plenty of ground to cover. You’d better get a whole squad of dicks out asking questions.”
“That’s not the way I heard it. You’re supposed to be the only one.”
“Nuts! Where’d you hear a thing like that?” Recker closed the door and crossed to the sofa, seated himself carefully and arranged the crimson lapels of his velvet jacket so a goodly expanse of pajama top showed.
“Your friend Avery Birk told me.” Shayne had a cigarette out and was lighting it. He watched Recker’s face keenly past the match flame.
The upper lip with its tiny black mustache that reminded Shayne unpleasantly of Peter Painter’s lifted in a sneer.
“That toad! Just because Elsie was too fastidious to go to that crummy joint of his. He rationalized his failure to make her by pretending to himself that she was unavailable to any man.”
“Except you,” Shayne said pleasantly.
Lew Recker shrugged, and a smirk replaced his sneer. “Well, yes. Even Birk could hardly rationalize that far.”
“All right,” said Shayne. “Where were you between two and four this morning?”
“Right here in my own bed.”
“Any proof of that?”
Recker hesitated the proper interval. He dropped his eyes and murmured, “That’s a leading question.”
“Answer it.”
“I don’t think I will,” Recker said complacently. “I’m not arrested or charged with any crime, am I?”
“Not yet,” growled Shayne. “But it can happen if you hold out evidence in a homicide.”
“I’m not holding out evidence in a homicide. What earthly proof do you have that my whereabouts have a single thing to do with Elsie’s death?”
“Were you at a banquet last night?”
Recker nodded. “The annual Poe Dinner of the Mystery Writers of America. Sure. I was there. Along with Elsie and several hundred others.”
“You a mystery writer?”
“Not exactly, I trust. I joined the organization for fun and games and to give them the support of my name. I write Novels of Suspense.” His voice supplied the capital letters.
“See here,” he went on suddenly, sitting erect and pointing a forefinger at Shayne while his thin dark face twitched with excitement. “Check up on an out-of-town writer named Brett Halliday. He writes those lousy books about a dumb redheaded private eye in Miami. He was really making a play for Elsie last night. Drunk as a coot and being obnoxious all over the place. Throwing his weight around until Elsie must have thought he was someone important. I can’t swear he persuaded her to leave with him, but he was working at it hard. Lots of us at the bar noticed it and were disgusted, and some of them must have seen them leave.”
Shayne nodded, his face blank. “I’ll check on that. Can you give me any other leads?”
“I’m afraid not.” Lew Recker shook his head thoughtfully.
“Tell me about Elsie herself.” Shayne leaned back comfortably and expelled blue smoke. “We often find the
