'But it won't be your doing if that's the way it happens. Goddamn it, Mike-'
'This isn't getting us anywhere,' interposed Shayne. 'You can sit here on your dead butt and rave all you want to, but we'll still be going around in circles in the dark. Let's take this systematically. From what we know now, do you believe the dead man was seen by Nellie Paulson in the Hibiscus at nine-thirty and then shoved out the window into the bay?'
Gentry had another cigar out and was chewing on it savagely without lighting it. 'That's my guess. Even if some dame did try to place him alive in the Silver Glade at ten.'
'All right. Taking that for a starter. Are you assuming that my scar-faced friend is actually Charles Barnes from New York, that the dead man is Bert Paulson as his sister insisted-and that Barnes switched identification after killing Paulson in his sister's room?'
'How else do you read it?'
Shayne shrugged. 'I'm just looking at all the possibilities. I guess we might assume Barnes was slated to be the next sucker in the Paulsons' brother-and-sister act, and he objected with a sharp knife. That the way you see it?'
'It's all theorizing at this point,' grunted Gentry. 'Without any solid facts to go on-'
'But all we can do right now is theorize. I keep going back to what Nellie Paulson told me in my room. Why did she claim she and her brother were staying at the Roney when we know she'd had that room at the Hibiscus for two weeks? And where's her brother been staying these two weeks?'
'You tell me. You're so damned pat with the answers.'
Shayne tugged at his ear-lobe and frowned. 'If Barnes is the killer, it would explain why he was so anxious to get his hands on Nellie-why he pretended to me he was her brother so I'd hand her over to him-and why he hurried back to the Hibiscus and tried to contact her there, still playing the brother angle.'
'Because she's the only one who's actually seen the body,' agreed Gentry gruffly. 'The only person alive who can testify there was a body in three-sixteen tonight. Sure. That makes sense. But how do you add in the other girl who tried to finger a dead man as being alive in the Silver Glade half an hour after he'd been dumped in the bay? Who the hell is she and how does she come into this?'
Shayne said, 'She's the one piece that doesn't fit into our pat little theory.' He shook his head irritably, running his hand through bristly red hair. 'Yet she's got to fit. She's the key-piece right now. It wasn't coincidence that put her in my hotel with that picture at ten o'clock.'
'Find her then,' grunted Gentry. 'Find her among the few hundred thousand people in Miami, and let's ask her. For God's sake, Mike, you didn't even take the trouble to ask her name when she was right there in front of you. Hell of a way to play detective.'
'I didn't know she fitted into the picture. Hell! At that point, I didn't know there was any picture for her to fit into. Remember, that was before I'd even talked to Nellie. I took her for another jealous wife trying to pin down some divorce evidence.'
'Maybe she is at that. Maybe Paulson is married-or was-and she's the wife-or widow, now.'
Shayne shook his head stubbornly. 'Then what made her think he was in the Silver Glade when we know he was more likely floating in the bay at that moment?'
'None of these questions are any good at this point,' snapped Gentry. 'Maybe she'd made a date earlier in the night to meet him there and just assumed that's where he was. And maybe she killed him and was trying to give herself an alibi by playing you for a sucker, expecting you to come along later just as you did and swear the guy was still alive at ten o'clock. To hell with all this,' Gentry ended flatly. 'Get out and hunt up some answers to the questions you've been asking. You know both of them by sight. That's more than any of my men have got. You messed everything up by playing it smart and letting the girl get away from Lucy, Get out in Miami and find her before she ends up with her throat cut or a forty-five slug in her belly.'
'Yeh,' said Shayne, 'I guess you're right. It is my baby now.' He pushed back his chair and stood up, rubbing his angular jaw thoughtfully. 'I'll be calling in, huh? You ought to have a fingerprint report on the corpse soon. And New York might have something interesting to tell us about Barnes. How soon will the Jacksonville dick get here with pictures of the Paulsons?'
Will Gentry looked at the big electric clock on the wall behind him. 'Any time now. Good hunting, Mike. But goddamn it, if you'd just-'
Shayne said grimly, 'I know. Don't rub it in. If anything happens to that girl now, it'll be bad enough without you rubbing my face in it.'
His wide shoulders slumped a little, and he turned and slouched out of Gentry's office.
SEVENTEEN: 11:27 PM,
There was an air of elegance, a feeling of almost oppressive luxury about the huge lobby of the Roney Plaza Hotel on Miami Beach. At this hour of night and before the winter season had officially opened, the lobby was none-the-less quite well filled with gay couples in evening dress, coming and going from the bank of elevators to the cocktail and dining rooms where late supper was being served and dancing was in progress.
Michael Shayne made his way among the milling guests to the wide expanse of desk where two clerks were still on duty. He waited behind a fat man wearing a scarlet cummerbund and white jacket with midnight blue evening trousers, who was complaining bitterly to the clerk about the length of time it had taken room service to deliver two rye highballs to his suite earlier in the evening.
The clerk was a tall, lean, middle-aged man with a very thin black mustache and a pained expression of solicitude on his face as he listened patiently to the complaint. He agreed soothingly that it was a shocking state of affairs when a guest at the Roney had to wait more than fifteen minutes for delivery of a drink, and gravely promised to give the matter his personal attention and see that the offending waiter was reprimanded harshly. He then turned his tired eyes on Shayne and lifted his upper lip a quarter of an inch in what was supposed to pass for a smile, and inquired, 'And what can I do for you, sir?'
'Do you have a Barnes registered? Charles Barnes from New York.'
'If you'd care to inquire at the house telephone, sir?' The clerk flipped a white hand toward a row of phones at Shayne's right.
The detective started to protest but, realizing he'd get faster results by observing protocol, went to one of the phones and asked the same question.
A pleasant female voice repeated the name and said almost immediately, 'Twelve-ten. Would you like me to ring them?'
Shayne said, 'Please.' He let the phone ring six times before replacing it.
He returned to the desk and said, 'Barnes in twelve-ten? Can you tell me anything about him?'
The eyebrow-like mustache lifted superciliously. 'I'm sure I don't know. If the telephone doesn't answer-'
Again, Shayne hesitated, and again he turned away with a slight shrug. He stepped back from the desk and lit a cigarette, looking around the lobby carefully.
He spotted a youngish man wearing a double-breasted blue serge suit leaning negligently against one of the pillars and apparently completely disinterested in everything that was going on about him.
Shayne threaded his way to him and asked, 'Is Jimmie Curtis still in charge of Security?'
The young man looked at him stonily for a moment, then his face relaxed in a pleased smile. 'You're Mike Shayne, aren't you?'
'That's right. Jimmie around?'
'He's not here any longer. Hasn't been for months. Mr. Gerdon took his place.'
'And where,' asked Shayne, 'can I find Mr. Gerdon?'
'I'll take you to his office.' The young man detached himself from the pillar and to Shayne's faint surprise it remained standing. He led him beyond the desk into a corridor, around a comer and down another with closed office doors on both sides.
He stopped near the end at a door marked 'Private,' knocked and then opened the door. He stepped inside and said smartly, 'Mr. Gerdon. This is Mr. Shayne from Miami.'
