Shayne said, “No,” through clenched teeth. He got to his feet slowly and looked down at the reporter. “Don’t kid me about being jealous, Tim. Lucy’s a big girl like you say, and she doesn’t have to get my permission to stay out until after midnight. At the same time, I’m going over to her place to see what’s what. Drive me to the dock to pick up my car?”
Rourke averted his gaze from the rangy redhead’s eyes, and said, “Sure.” He finished his drink and unfolded himself from the deep chair.
The telephone rang again. Shayne turned back to the table and grabbed it fast. It was the clerk downstairs.
“There’s a Western Union messenger here, Mr. Shayne. Shall I send him up?”
Shayne said, “Yes,” and exhaled a deep sigh as he dropped the receiver. He told Rourke happily, “A telegram. Lucy must have had to go out for something and knew I’d be worried…” He turned and went to the door to pull it open.
Rourke chuckled aloud and said, “Why don’t you two get married and have done with all this nonsense? Then you could legally chain her up every night and beat hell out of her once a week to keep her in line.”
The elevator door clanged open down the hall, and jingling coins in his pocket as he waited by the open door, Shayne grinned over his shoulder and said, “Maybe I’ll do that. Maybe, by God…”
He broke off to withdraw half a dollar from his pocket as a wizened little man appeared in the doorway wearing an oversized messenger’s uniform. He intoned, “Message for Mr. Michael Shayne,” and deftly exchanged a white envelope for the coin.
Shayne’s expression changed as he looked down at the envelope, with his name and address penciled in crude print on the outside. He exclaimed, “Wait a minute. This isn’t a telegram.”
The messenger said placidly, “It sure ain’t. But it’s for you if you’re him that’s writ down there.” He started to turn away, but the detective grated, “Wait a minute,” as he tore the envelope open. There was a single folded sheet torn from a yellow scratchpad inside. In the same crude printing as the address, Shayne read:
“You got the dog but we got your secretary. If you want to see her alive again, throw the pooch in the bay and forget you ever saw her.”
The message was unsigned.
Shayne grabbed the messenger’s thin arm and demanded harshly, “Where did you get this?”
“Corner of Miami Avenue and Fourth. Shamrock Bar.”
“Who gave it to you to bring here?”
“Bartender had it for me.” The messenger twisted uneasily, dropping his rheumy gaze from Shayne’s hot eyes. “Paid me two bucks and said to deliver it right away.”
“How did you know to go there and pick it up?”
“Central office sent me. We get calls like that all the time. Pick-up and deliver.”
Shayne let go his arm and he scuttled down the hall toward the elevator.
8
“What is it, Mike?” Rourke was beside him, his voice anxious.
Shayne extended the sheet of yellow paper wordlessly. Rourke read the brief message at a glance and swore softly. “They moved fast. Goddamn it, Mike! If you hadn’t been so quick on the trigger getting hold of Tolliver…”
“But I was quick on the trigger,” said Shayne angrily. “And the autopsy’s already ordered.” He grabbed the sheet of yellow paper from Rourke and glared at it. “Who, in the name of God? And how did he know…? Did you leave the grave open, Tim?”
“No. I filled it back in and smoothed it over the best I could in the dark. Of course, if someone went back and checked carefully…”
“Someone did,” Shayne said. He whirled around and strode to the center table, opened the telephone book and riffled through the pages to the Rogell number. He gave it to the operator and waited for a long time with the receiver to his ear. A woman’s voice finally said, “Mrs. Rogell’s residence.”
“This is the police,” said Shayne curtly. “Sergeant Hanson speaking. I want to talk to the Rogell chauffeur. At once.”
“Charles?” He was certain it was Mrs. Blair’s voice. “I’m afraid that’s impossible. He’s sleeping now… under heavy sedation.”
“Wake him up then,” grated Shayne. “This is the police.”
“I don’t care who it is,” said Mrs. Blair spiritedly. “I don’t believe you could wake him if you tried. Doctor gave him two pills he said would knock him out at least eight hours. He needs the rest, goodness knows. I suppose the doctor did report what happened here tonight?”
“That’s why we’re checking,” lied Shayne. “How long ago did Charles take his pills and go to bed?”
“Right after doctor left. I made him go out to his own apartment and tucked him in myself.”
“Is Mrs. Rogell’s brother still there?”
“Marvin’s here, all right, but you won’t get much out of him either. He didn’t need any pills to pass out cold.”
Shayne hung up the receiver, shaking his head at Rourke. “No help there. The housekeeper claims both Charles and the brother are dead to the world and can’t be wakened.”
“I been thinking, Mike. Whoever snatched Lucy and wrote this note thinks you got it before you had time to do anything with the dog. They wouldn’t know about Tolliver doing a fast job for you. If you can keep them thinking that…”
Shayne said, “Yeh.” He lifted the phone again and gave Will Gentry’s home telephone number. When the chief answered, he said, “Mike Shayne again, Will. Something has come up at this end.” The urgency in his voice kept Gentry from asking any questions. “Have you ordered the autopsy?”
“Sure. They should have already picked the body up from the undertaker’s.”
“How many people know that?”
“What do you mean?”
“Just what I asked. Can’t you understand plain English?”
“Hold your water, Mike. Nobody outside the department except the undertaker, and he’s sworn to secrecy. Doc Higgins promised him he’d have the corpse back in its casket tomorrow morning so no one will know.”
Shayne breathed a fervent, “Thank God,” and then went on strongly, “Promise me this, Will. Don’t take any action tomorrow morning no matter what the P.M. says. Not till you talk to me first. Will you promise that?”
“Now, wait a minute, Mike. What gives?”
Shayne hesitated, then said flatly, “They’ve got Lucy. She’ll stay alive as long as they think we haven’t found poison inside the dog and haven’t autopsied Rogell. If he can be cremated tomorrow with them still thinking that…”
“Lucy?” rumbled Gentry. “Who’s ‘they’?”
“That’s what I’ve got to have time to find out, Will. Someone who doesn’t want an autopsy on Rogell. So, for the love of God, keep it quiet, Will.”
Gentry said gruffly, “I like Lucy, too. You want help?”
“That’s what I don’t want right now. Just complete secrecy on the autopsy… and a call as soon as you know.”
Gentry said, “You’ll have that,” and Shayne hung up. He got up and said, “Drive me out to Lucy’s, Tim. Maybe we can pick something up there.”
The reporter hastily tossed off the last of his drink and said “Let’s go.”
Downstairs, Shayne stopped at the desk to tell the clerk, “I’ll be at Miss Hamilton’s number in about fifteen minutes. Try her phone if anything comes up.”
He got in the driver’s seat of Rourke’s car and headed toward Miami Avenue, explaining, “We’ll stop at the Shamrock first.”
“I don’t get this, Mike. How could anyone get to Lucy so fast? None of the people involved know her, do
