worrying whether he still had a secretary or not.
He reached the airport at eight-twenty and got the gate number for the incoming Chicago flight, went to it and edged his way through the press waiting to greet arriving passengers until he reached the forefront just as the plane swooped down on a far runway and turned slowly to taxi in toward the Administration Building.
A uniformed attendant held the gate latched and there was a large sign over his head that said: No One Allowed Beyond the Gate to Meet Incoming Planes.
Shayne had a five-dollar bill loose in his left side pocket, and he drew it out with just a corner showing between his fingers as he said to the attendant in a low voice, “I’ve just got to have a word with the stewardess on the Chicago plane before she gets away. How’s if I slip through when the passengers start coming in?”
The guard grinned fraternally but started shaking his head. He stopped the motion when he glanced down and saw the number 5 on a green background between Shayne’s fingers. He shrugged and muttered, “I guess no one will notice if you wait till they start coming through,” and the bill changed hands.
Shayne waited quietly behind the barrier until the big plane was spotted opposite the gate, the stairs were wheeled up, the door of the passenger compartment opened and the trim figure of a stewardess appeared in the doorway and stood there with a pleasant word and smile for each departing passenger.
He eased aside when the gate swung open to let the first ones through, then unobtrusively sauntered against the stream toward the plane, reaching the foot of the stairs just as the last passenger started down. He stayed on the ground and dragged off his hat, catching the stewardess’s eye before she turned back inside, and called up to her, “Have you a parcel for Michael Shayne?”
Her eyes lighted as she took in his red hair and rugged countenance, and she nodded, putting a finger to her lips before disappearing through the door. She was back almost immediately with a thin flat parcel wrapped in brown paper, and hurried down the steps to him, saying breathlessly, “This is against the rules, you know. But when the man in Chicago explained that you were the famous detective and how important this is, I thought… well…”
Shayne said warmly, “You thought just right,” and knew immediately that he should not insult the girl by offering her money. “An important murder case depends on this,” he told her. “Read the headlines in this afternoon’s News.”
“Oh, I will.” She handed the package from Ben Ames to him and went back up the stairs to do whatever stewardesses have to do at the end of a flight.
It was a few minutes after nine o’clock when Shayne got off the elevator on his floor with the unopened package under his arm. Across the corridor, the outer door of his office stood ajar, and his gaunt features tightened perceptibly as he strode to the door and pushed it open.
Lucy Hamilton was alone in the small reception room beyond the low railing, bending over the open drawers of her desk, lifting things out and placing them inside a large, rattan shopping bag, open on her chair.
She straightened slowly and glanced sideways at Shayne as he crossed the narrow space toward her. Her voice was icy as she said, “You’re early this morning, Mr. Shayne. I had hoped to have my desk cleaned out and be out of your way before you got here.”
Shayne stopped beside the railing and said angrily, “Cut it out, Lucy. You know damned well you’re not quitting me.”
“That’s right. I’m not.” A tight smile flitted across her face. “Because I already quit. Last night. Remember? Or were you so taken up with that slut of a Meredith woman and her quarter-million-dollar bribe that you didn’t hear me when I said it?”
“Forget about all that. Look, you were sore and didn’t know what you were saying. Maybe you had a right to be sore. But you know I can’t run this office without you, angel.”
“But don’t forget you won’t have to be running an office after you put over your big money deal. You’re going to retire on the proceeds and buy baby-blue convertibles and mink coats for your woman.”
She turned her back on him and bent down to rummage in the bottom drawer.
Shayne smothered an exasperated oath, and leaned over the railing to clamp a heavy hand on her shoulder. “I haven’t retired yet,” he growled. “We’ve still got an office to run this morning, and a couple of murders to clear up. After that you can walk out and be damned. But right now we’ve got work to do. Has the morning mail been delivered?”
She remained bent over and he felt her slender body shudder beneath his hand. In a stifled voice she said, “Ten minutes ago. I put it on your desk… unopened.”
“Come in while I open it,” he said gruffly. “If the stuff from Mrs. Wallace is here, we’re going to be ready for a fast wind-up.”
He gave her shoulder a final squeeze, turned away and long-legged it into his private office without looking back to see if she was following.
A neat pile of letters lay in front of the swivel chair behind his desk. He put the package from Ben Ames beside it, and pawed through the letters, extracting an eight-by-ten manila envelope with Mrs. Leon Wallace’s return address in the upper left corner.
He laid it aside with a grunt of satisfaction and picked up Ames’s parcel as Lucy came in with her head held high and her cheeks flaming scarlet. “If you think for one moment, Michael Shayne…”
“Cut it for now,” he said tersely, ripping off the scotch-taped brown wrapping. “I have here a picture taken of Mr. Meredith in Chicago last night. In that envelope from Mrs. Wallace there should be a picture of Leon Wallace and the empty envelopes in which she received the money from him during the past year. Open it up and let’s see what we can see.”
Lucy compressed her lips, and then with quickened interest and despite her anger went around him to pick up the envelope.
Shayne discarded the wrapping paper and took a glossy photograph from between two sheets of cardboard. He laid it on the desk and studied the picture with brooding intensity. It was a full-length shot of a bareheaded young man standing in the doorway of a house. He was slender and about medium height, and his face had a slack- jawed look of astonishment indicating his surprise at the photographer’s flash-gun.
In the meantime, Lucy had extracted a four-by-six wedding photograph in a cheap cardboard frame, and she laid it beside the other one without speaking. The glowing bride was unmistakably Mrs. Wallace, a couple of years younger and prior to the birth of twins, and the beaming young man beside her had a strong, square face and a broad-shouldered body that towered six inches above her.
Shayne shook his red head slowly and his gray eyes were bleak as they moved from one photograph to the other. “See if you can see any resemblance. Damn it, no man could possibly change that much in two or three years.”
“Of course there’s no resemblance at all. You say that’s a picture of Mr. Meredith. The man Albert Hawley’s wife married after she divorced him? Did you think she had married Leon Wallace… under an assumed name?”
“It seemed a reasonable assumption.” Shayne stepped back with a frown. “He was a gardener at the Hawley place and vanished without a trace just about the time she got her divorce… sending his wife money to support his children. Where else did he go, if not off to marry her after deserting his wife?”
“I don’t know,” said Lucy. “But he certainly didn’t turn himself into this picture of Mr. Meredith.”
Shayne said, “No. That’s one thing he didn’t do. Are the envelopes in there?”
Lucy rummaged in the manila envelope from Mrs. Wallace and took out three long pre-stamped envelopes similar to the one Mrs. Wallace had shown them the previous morning. All were addressed in ink to Mrs. Leon Wallace, Littleboro, Florida but none had a return address. They were postmarked in Miami at three-month intervals during the past year.
Shayne studied the three empty envelopes carefully, and suddenly a glint of excitement showed in his eyes. It was also clearly in his voice as he said, “Do we have the original envelope from Wallace? The one she showed us?”
“Yes. I put it in the file with his letter.” Lucy hurried in to her desk, forgetful for the moment that she was no longer Michael Shayne’s secretary, and returned with the first envelope which she laid beside the others.
There was no doubt, as Mrs. Wallace had stated, that all four envelopes had been addressed by the same person, but as Shayne studied them carefully another fact also became apparent.
He told Lucy slowly, “I’m no expert on such things, but I can almost swear that all four envelopes were addressed at the same time with the same pen and same ink. See what you think, angel. They’re all faded to the
