“Keep as calm as you can,” Shayne told her. “You didn’t do it. Your door was locked on the outside and you couldn’t have got out if you’d tried.”
“Oh! Where is she? I must see her,” the girl cried. She threw the covers back and started to get out of bed.
Shayne stepped forward and put his hand on her shoulder and gently forced her back. “Take it easy. You’re not in any shape to see her now.”
She sank back obediently. Shayne turned to Hilliard and said, “Better look after her, doc. Get her calmed down before the police come.”
Dr. Hilliard stepped forward with professional calm, and Shayne said to the others, “We’ll get out. Whoever did the killing must have locked the girl in her room first. It’s a cinch she didn’t do it and then lock herself in.”
Dr. Pedique took a white silk handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his face. “I don’t understand,” he said as they went down the hallway.
Shayne grinned at his back. “I don’t, either,” he said, “but I guess my job’s finished. I’ll be running along.”
“Wait!” sputtered Dr. Pedique. “The murderer. The police will be here!”
“Let them worry about the murderer,” said Shayne. “That’s their job, not mine. I’m breezing before they start pestering me with idiotic questions.” He went down the front stairs while the doctor and Clarence stared after him, bewildered.
Shayne lost no time in getting his car out of the drive. Two blocks south a racing automobile passed him with screaming siren. He grinned at the police car and drove leisurely back to his apartment hotel in Miami. This time, he went in the front way and up the elevator. A grin accompanied an involuntary sigh when he closed the door of his apartment and walked over to the center table. He took off his coat and gingerly took the butcher knife and nightgown from his pocket and laid them on the table beside the bottle of cognac. The look of being withdrawn from what he was doing began to come over his face once again. It meant that Michael Shayne was beginning to add up the score. So, when his eye lit on the two hundred-dollar bills, which were lying where he had left them, he merely grunted, picked them up, and stuck them in his pocket without any indication of whether he was surprised to find them still there or not. Then he went to the bedroom and undressed, slipped his gaunt length into tan pajamas, and pulled on a dressing-robe. With felt bedroom slippers on his feet, he padded out to the other room, took the tall glass to the kitchen where he crushed new ice cubes and made another glass of ice water.
Returning, he set the glass carefully on the table, poured a wineglass of cognac, and set cigarettes and matches on the small stand near by. Next he lowered himself info the deep chair, lit a cigarette, and proceeded to gaze through the blue smoke at the chiffon-wrapped butcher knife before him.
It was a few minutes after ten when he sat down. Two hours later the ash tray was filled with half-smoked butts, the level of the liquid in the brandy bottle was considerably lower, the small amount of water remaining in the glass was warm, but he had reached no conclusion. Carefully he poured another glass of cognac and debated whether he should get more ice. Deciding it was too much trouble, he lifted the glass to his lips.
He held it there, but his eyes shifted toward the door as a soft tapping sounded on the panel. After one reflective sip, he set the glass down carefully and stood erect. The tapping sounded again. Shayne’s arm shot out and opened the table drawer. The other arm swept the knife and nightgown in it. He closed the drawer soundlessly and padded to the door.
When he opened it and looked out, he said, “I’ve been expecting you,” and stood aside to let Phyllis Brighton enter.
CHAPTER 3
She was wearing a two-piece knitted dress which clung tightly to her firm young body. Hatless, her black hair was wind-blown and very curly; without make-up, her complexion seemed engagingly fresh, though she was unnaturally pale. Shayne studied her sharply. She passed him toward the center of the room, whirled about to face him with the palms of her hands flat on the table behind her as he closed the door.
“Tell me I-that I didn’t do it.”
“You tell me,” Shayne suggested. He moved toward her, and his face was grim.
Her elongated eyes held his, and her body was tensely arched like a drawn bow. When she answered, her voice sounded as if she had been running. “No one else can help me. I had to come to you.”
He stood close to her and said harshly, “You’ll get us both in the jug and then I won’t be a hell of a lot of help. Why in the name of God did you come here and how close are the cops on your tail?”
“I had to come here. They’re not following me. I slipped my car out of the garage and came out the back way.”
“Who saw you come upstairs?”
“No one. I found a side entrance.”
“Where’s your car parked?”
“In a parking-lot on Second Street.”
Shayne nodded glumly and stepped around her to the table to light a cigarette. The girl’s eyes followed him, her body holding the same tense pose, as if she feared she would wilt to the floor if she relaxed one muscle.
Shayne frowned at the cigarette and went to the cabinet where he got another wineglass. Still only the girl’s eyes and head moved. The rest of her was like a brittle statue.
Shayne poured both glasses full and moved in front of her with one in each hand.
“Drink this.”
She made no move to touch the glass he offered, shaking her head despairingly. “I can’t. I never drink.”
“It’s time you learned,” Shayne told her. “You’ll learn a lot of things not in the book if you stick around. Drink it.”
Her eyes wavered before his. Her right hand came up slowly from the table top, and then she swayed. Shayne cursed deep in his throat and caught her, spilling some of the cognac. He held the glass in his other hand to her lips and she swallowed obediently. A brief grin broke the hard intentness of Shayne’s look; he tilted the glass up and kept on holding her till it was empty. Phyllis Brighton choked and sputtered, and he let her down into the chair he had been sitting in.
“The first pint is always the hardest,” he told her cheerfully. “I’ll get some ice water.”
He drained the other glass, and setting them both on the table, went to the kitchen and fixed a small pitcher of ice water. Phyllis’s eyes were watering, and she was still sputtering when he came back. He poured a glass of water and handed it to her, pulled up another chair in front of hers so their knees touched when he sat down.
“All right,” he said. “Tell me all about it.”
“What can I tell you?” She shuddered helplessly. “I came here for you to tell me.”
Shayne lit another cigarette and said carefully, “What am I supposed to know, sister, that you don’t know?”
She set the glass down and gripped the arms of her chair. “Tell me I didn’t-kill Mother.” Frenzy lurked in the smoky depths of her eyes.
Shayne looked at the ceiling and sighed. “I’ve seen queer ones but this beats them all.”
The girl reached for the water glass with shaking fingers. “Can’t you see you’re driving me crazy?”
“Driving you, sister?” Shayne looked at her in mild disgust.
“Yes.” She choked over a gulp of water.
Shayne said, “You’d better fix up a coherent story if you want me to keep you out of jail when the coppers come.”
“I don’t want to fix up any story,” she cried wildly. “I want to know the truth. I don’t know what happened tonight. If I did it I’ll kill myself.” Her body vibrated like a taut wire in a wind. She fumbled with the catch on her handbag and brought out a pearl-handled. 25 automatic pistol.
“That,” said Shayne evenly, “would wind up the case beautifully. Go ahead.” He nodded toward the automatic.
She wilted suddenly and began to sob. Shayne reached out an immoderately long arm and plucked the tiny
