confession. I’m doing my damnedest to keep it from the press, and so far I’ve succeeded.”
“Does he mention Michele?”
“Luckily, no. But we know he was feeding her information, because we’ve seen them together. The proverbial bad apple. He’s been living well over his income, and the note explains where he’s been getting the money. Do you have time for this, Mike?”
“A couple of minutes. Go ahead.”
“He’s been stealing drugs from the case files. Steamed open the envelopes and substituted cornstarch for heroin. I doubt if it amounted to much in terms of volume, but once he took that first step they could put on the pressure and he had to go along. Last night he apparently decided he couldn’t go through with it. The note doesn’t mention the robbery. He must have thought his suicide by itself would take care of that, we’d have to cancel the shipment to check through to find out how far the substitutions went.”
Shayne said, “Is there any chance that it wasn’t suicide?”
“A chance,” Power said doubtfully. “He wouldn’t be the first informer to end up with a hole in the head instead of ten percent of the loot. It’s an idea, Mike, but we’ll have to put it aside for the time being. Is there anything I ought to know about tomorrow?”
“No, except that it looks damned good. As far as I can see, she’s thought of everything.”
“I hope not everything,” Power said.
He wished Shayne luck and the detective put back the phone.
“Mike, to finish up about Kraus,” Rourke said. “I talked to the Bronx legman who phoned in that story and I picked up a few points. The girl’s name, for one thing.”
“You mean the fiancee?”
“That’s too big a word. They were going together, that’s all. They had a date last night. I thought I might go up and talk to her, but I really meant it when I said we ought to change places. Getting the feel of this kind of situation isn’t one of the things I do best. Hell, I’ll do what I can.”
Shayne thought about it, his hand on the door latch. “I might be able to get out tonight, late. Could you bring her over to Staten Island? There’s an intersection down the road from the house. A tavern, a couple of stores. Don’t be surprised if I don’t show up. It depends on how it goes.”
He gave Rourke directions, and Rourke promised to try to have the girl there around midnight.
“Hey, I almost forgot. I brought you a jug.”
He took a pint of Courvoisier out of his coat pocket and handed it to Shayne. The detective opened it and took a long drink.
“That’s sweet liquor,” he said, handing it back regretfully. “Keep it for me. I’m disguised as a blended- whiskey drinker.”
CHAPTER 9
The bored blonde in the ticket cage did a double take as Shayne bought a second admission. Even with dyed hair he carried an atmosphere that made him easy to remember. An unlighted cigarette in his mouth, he went up to the mezzanine. There were several pairs of young lovers there, a flock of alert, chattering homosexuals, several sleeping derelicts, a small handful of people actually watching the screen.
Shayne took a seat in a half-empty row, and soon closed his eyes. Presently a would-be pickpocket slid into the seat next to him. Shayne opened his eyes.
“Get far away from me, kid.”
The boy bridled. “Did-did you sign a lease on this seat?” he demanded, stuttering.
Shayne looked at him in the flickering light and the boy scurried away. Ten minutes later Michele took his place. Shayne’s eyes were closed again, but he could smell her perfume amid the reek of tobacco and other odors.
“How’s the picture?” she said.
“How’s the picture,” he said in disgust, sitting up and stretching. “Let’s get out of here.”
“With pleasure.”
She had brought a thin cowhide dispatch case. She resisted for an instant when he took it from her.
“Ladies don’t carry luggage when there’s a man along,” he said.
One of the homosexuals cut a slanting look at him as they passed up the aisle. “Isn’t he masculine?” he remarked to a friend.
Outside the theatre, Shayne said, “I want to buy a couple of shirts. Why don’t we decide where we’re going, and I’ll meet you?”
She took his arm. “Darling, you are sometimes funny. I would hate to mislay you at this stage. With the money in that case, plus a passport, you could disappear to Brazil and grow a big beard to go with a new name.”
“Why didn’t I think of that?” Shayne said.
“Because you know I would not allow it,” she told him. “You need more than shirts. I like to go shopping with a man, but I warn you. I have definite opinions.”
She signaled an eastbound taxi. “Brooks Brothers,” she told the driver.
When Shayne protested she said sweetly, “It is expensive there, but you have money to spend. This I can say of my own knowledge. And what would you spend it on otherwise?”
“Girls. Booze. Hell, I don’t know. I never have any trouble spending money.”
“Spend some of it on clothes, to please me, darling.”
Shayne looked at his unpressed gabardine. “What’s the matter with this suit?”
“What was the matter with the movie?”
The taxi took them up Madison Avenue and Michele marched Shayne into the citadel of correct gentlemen’s apparel. He submitted meekly, to the extent of six shirts, ties and a pair of Peale shoes on the main floor. The second floor yielded two suits, and the third, a sports jacket and slacks. Shayne balked at walking shorts, but gave in on a Locke hat. On the top floor, Michele exerted her full charm and exacted a promise that cuffs would be put on the pants by the end of the afternoon. Shayne paid cash all the way, and on the down-ride bought an English suitcase to put everything in.
Another taxi took them back to the Port Authority garage, where they transferred to Michele’s Chevy. She was bubbling with excitement.
“And now, darling!”
“Now we buy a bottle and some sandwiches and go to bed.”
“Yes! Hurry.”
He drove uptown on Eighth Avenue, stopping first at a delicatessen, then at a liquor store. In the liquor store he bypassed the shelves loaded with cognacs, and picked out a fifth of mediocre bourbon. Farther up Eighth, he turned into one of the big motels.
“Darling?” Michele said. “I thought my apartment. I might have a phone call.”
The same thought had occurred to Shayne. She couldn’t be told about the death of Herman Kraus if nobody knew where she was.
“I’m thinking about that dame in the hat,” he said. “Remember? She had a good long look at me, and I’m still wearing the same suit. I don’t want it to happen again. This time she might not faint.”
“Oh, merde, you are right, of course.”
He registered as Mr. and Mrs. Matt Maguire, of Rochester, New York. They were given a room on the eighth floor. It was a motel room, with no particular pluses or minuses. As she passed the TV she automatically switched it on. A solemn man was reading news bulletins. Shayne turned it off.
“Who wants to look at that crap?”
He pulled off his tie and jacket and made the drinks. Then he opened the dispatch case.
“Seven thousand, five hundred,” she said, watching him, “minus seven hundred and three.”
“What seven hundred and three?”
“You took eight hundred and three from me last night, and gave me back a hundred.”
