Timothy Rourke stood beside him with his hands thrust deep into trouser pockets, his tall thin body hunched forward and his nose seeming to sniff the air while his deep-set eyes roved slowly about the room, taking in everything there was to see, and coming to rest finally on the framed photograph on the bureau.
Watching him carefully, as he had often before watched the reporter view a murder scene, Shayne thought he noted a sudden intensification of interest in the glittering eyes as they studied the photograph.
“That’s Renshaw’s wife, all right,” he told Rourke. “Makes the Fred Tucker alias pretty certain. Same woman was in my office this afternoon.”
Rourke glanced over his shoulder at a plainclothesman standing just outside, and said, “Nice looking pair of kids. It always gets your goat, goddamit, when you think about the wives and the innocent kids left behind…” He paused in his generalization to turn on Shayne abruptly as he appeared to do a double-take. “You said three hundred-dollar bills stuffed inside a loaf of bread?”
“I didn’t see them myself. The loaf was broken in half and was lying on the floor. You know how I never touch anything at a murder scene until the cops get here,” he went on righteously.
“About an eight-buck a day room,” muttered Rourke. He slouched forward, stepping over the pool of drying blood, and leaned over the bureau, peering out through the dirty pane of glass at the darkened window in the next cabin about ten feet away. “Was anybody in Number Two when it happened?”
“I don’t think so. No car in front.” Shayne moved to one side slightly, to more effectually block the interior of the cabin from the detective’s view outside.
The reporter continued to lean forward and peer out the window, and now his hands were out of his pockets and were hidden from Shayne’s view in front of him. Long association with Rourke on many cases in the past gave Shayne an instinctive warning that the reporter was up to something which he didn’t want discussed in front of the police.
The look of bland satisfaction on Rourke’s face when he turned back, and the fact that all three front buttons of his jacket were tightly fastened were all Shayne needed to verify his suspicion, and it didn’t really require a fleeting glance at the bare top of the bureau to tell him that Rourke was boldly walking off with the photograph that had been there.
“I guess there’s nothing here for us,” Rourke made his voice dissatisfied as he reached Shayne’s side. “Let’s get out and let ’em lock it up.”
They stepped out with a nod to the detective who was on duty outside, and saw Gentry coming toward them from the office.
“Any dope I can print on the missing manager that might help you find him?” Rourke asked loudly.
“Some you can print and some maybe you better not,” Gentry told them. “Name seems to be Peterson, and one of my men remembers a couple of Peeping Tom complaints from out here the past two months. So our man’s got a photographic darkroom fixed up in the back with pictures that look like they’ve been snapped through the windows of these cabins at night. Camera with infra-red attachment that caught poor devils when they thought they were safe in the dark inside. That could be his reason for taking off… if he had reason to believe something had happened in Number Three to bring the police around.”
Shayne said honestly, “Could be, Will. I didn’t know Tucker’s cabin number when I got here, and I asked at the office. Told him it was police business to get it out of him fast.”
“Impersonating an officer,” grunted Gentry sourly. “Some day, by God, Mike…”
“On the other hand,” argued Shayne, “unless he had some idea what I was going to find in Tucker’s cabin why would he anticipate a police investigation?”
“Who ever knows why a guy with a guilty conscience suddenly takes it on the lam? This dancer friend of Tucker’s or Renshaw’s at the Bright Spot, Mike. I think you better come along and we’ll have a talk with her.”
“Sure, you go on with him,” urged Rourke. “I got to get back to the paper and file a story.”
“What about Mrs. Renshaw and getting an identification?” asked Shayne as Rourke shambled away toward his car with his arms clasped tightly across his chest.
“You think she can identify the dead man as her husband?”
“I doubt it,” said Shayne honestly. “Your fingerprint boys say he isn’t the man who’s been occupying the cabin. But there are a lot of things we don’t know about this setup, and a positive denial from Mrs. Renshaw would be something.”
“All right. Let’s get her down to the morgue to take a look. Where is she?”
“Uh…” Shayne scowled and snapped his fingers. “I don’t know, Will,” he confessed. “I had Lucy take down her Miami address when she left my office.”
“Call Lucy and find out. She’ll remember, won’t she?”
“Oh, she’ll remember all right.” Shayne turned back. “I’ll telephone her right now from the office.”
In the motel office, a detective put the telephone up on the counter for Shayne, and he dialed Lucy Hamilton’s apartment. He stood and let the telephone ring seven times before dropping the instrument back and going out to tell Gentry disconsolately, “Lucy doesn’t answer, Will. I don’t know how to get hold of Mrs. Renshaw.”
“Hell of a detective you turned out to be.” Gentry ostentatiously looked at his watch. “Where is Lucy this time of night?”
“She was at the Bright Spot with me,” Shayne explained patiently, “with Tim Rourke. When I found out there might be trouble here, I took off fast, and told Tim to see she got home. You heard him when he turned up.”
“As I recall it, he said, ‘I sent Lucy home okay.’ So, where is she?”
“How do I know?” Shayne pretended elaborate nonchalance though he was secretly worried. “I imagine Tim put her in a cab. She might have decided to stop off any one of a dozen places on her way home. I haven’t got any strings on her, Will.”
“You should have,” grunted Gentry. “All right. Let’s see what we can find out at the Bright Spot.” He turned to his chauffeured car, but Shayne caught him by the arm and suggested,
“Why don’t you ride with me and have your driver follow us a few minutes later? The kind of dive that is, they’re not going to spread out the red carpet for the chief of police.”
“It’s outside my jurisdiction,” snapped Gentry. “Besides, I don’t want a red carpet… just information.”
“Which you’re a hell of a lot more likely to get if you roll up unobtrusively with me, instead of in an official car.”
Gentry said ungraciously, “I think I’m being rooked somehow,” but he told his driver, “I’m riding over to the Bright Spot with Mr. Shayne. Give us about ten minutes, and then park in front and wait for me.”
The driver nodded and saluted. Will Gentry walked back with the redhead and got into the front seat of the sedan that was still parked directly in front of the motel office. Shayne settled his rangy body under the wheel beside the chief and started the motor.
The parking lot at the Bright Spot appeared completely full as they pulled up in front of the entrance, and the same parking attendant who had taken care of Shayne’s car a short time previously came around to his side and shook his head firmly as the redhead cut off his motor and started to get out.
He said, “I’m sorry, sir, but we’re full. If you’d like to come back in about an hour…”
From the man’s manner, Shayne couldn’t tell whether he was telling the truth or whether he had been advised that Shayne was not welcome at the club any more that night.
He unlatched the door and pushed it against the man’s body and slid out from under the wheel, and said flatly, “We’re staying. If you’ve got no parking space, leave it here until someone pulls out.”
“I can’t do that, sir,” the attendant protested. “You’ll have to drive away…”
Shayne started around the front of the car past him, and the attendant made the mistake of grabbing his arm and trying to pull him back. Shayne swung with the pressure and hit him behind the ear with his right fist. The parking attendant went backward and to the ground.
On the other side of the car, Gentry said happily, “So this is the way you roll up unobtrusively, Mike, and get the red carpet treatment. Next time I’ll try it my own way.”
Shayne strode around the front of his car and took Gentry firmly by the arm and led him under the canopy. The doorman pretended not to see them. He said grimly, “Let’s find out whether that was meant specially for us or not.”
They found out immediately. Inside the lighted hallway, the same burly tuxedoed man who had met Shayne before came hurriedly toward them as soon as he saw them in the doorway. He blocked their way and said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Shayne. Your party has already left.”
