But the situation tonight was not quite normal. There was that unexplained telephone call at nine-thirty which either had or hadn't stated there was a murdered man in
Miss Paulson's room—depending on whether Evelyn had misunderstood 316 for 360 or not. And there was the more recent call from outside (promptly reported by Evelyn) inquiring about bodies disappearing from 316.
He said, "I'm afraid that would be quite against our rules, sir. We'll be very glad to have you make yourself comfortable here in the lobby while you wait."
Paulson smiled and said quietly, "I wouldn't blame you for taking that attitude if I weren't her brother. But I am, and I can prove it." He got out his wallet and withdrew an insurance identification card which he laid on the desk.
Dick glanced at it and nodded slowly. It looked all right. He said, "It wasn't that I doubted your word, sir. It's just that we do have these rules." He hesitated a moment. With everything that had happened, he decided Ollie had better take the responsibility of this. He handed the card back and said briskly, "Perhaps you'd like to speak to our Mr. Patton. I really don't have the authority—" He turned his head to Evelyn, "Ask Mr. Patton to step out here a moment, please."
Evelyn's eyes were rounded on Paulson's scarred face as she obeyed. What was this all about? She hadn't been able to overhear the conversation at the desk, but anything that needed Ollie's attention might prove very interesting. What with dead bodies that weren't there and all, maybe she wasn't going to mind missing her date with Roger so much after all.
Paulson nodded pleasantly at Dick's suggestion, negligently lit a cigarette and waited. When Patton came around the corner from his office, Dick introduced Paulson and explained the situation briefly.
The sleepiness went away from Patton's eyes as he listened. He studied Paulson carefully and nodded, took him by the arm to turn him toward his office and said, "If you'll just step this way, Mr. Paulson, there's a couple of questions I'd like to ask you."
Paulson went with him willingly, though he protested, "This is the damndest hocus-pocus I ever ran into about waiting for my sister in her room. I showed the clerk my identification."
"Sure, sure," said Patton soothingly, holding the door of his office open for Paulson to precede him inside. "No one doubts you're her brother. Just sit down there and tell me something about your sister, Mr. Paulson."
"What sort of things?" demanded Paulson tensely. "Has anything happened to Nellie?"
"Not that we know of. It's just that something real funny happened tonight that maybe has some connection with her. U-m-m, would you say she's much of a practical joker?"
"Nellie? Not to my knowledge. No more than anyone. She's got a good sense of humor, but— What the devil are you getting at?"
"Does she ever—uh—well, have hallucinations, sort of?" Patton probed delicately. "Maybe take a drink too many sometimes and see things when they ain't there?" He laughed lightly to take any possible sting away from the question, but Paulson's face clouded with anger.
"I don't like these insinuations about my sister. Tell me straight out what you're talking about."
Oliver Patton sighed. There wasn't very much to tell, actually. They had no proof whatsoever that it had been Nellie Paulson who made the phone call from 360. Indeed, there was evidence that she could not have made it, for Dick thought he recalled seeing her go out some time previous to the call, and she hadn't shown up in the hotel since it happened.
So he said placatingly, "The way it looks then is that someone else was trying to play a joke on her. Calling downstairs to say there was a dead man in her room."
Paulson's face expressed complete surprise. "A dead man in Nellie's room?" he gasped as though this were the first
he'd heard of such a thing. "When? Who was he?"
Patton waved a fat hand. "There wasn't anybody as a matter of fact. I checked right away, of course, and that's why I say it must have been a joke of some sort. But we got to check every angle of a thing Hke that. That's why I asked what sort of girl yoiu: sister is. Whether she's the type to pull a practical joke."
Paulson shook his head decidedly. "She isn't." He paused, looking away from Patton and seeming to nerve himself to speak further. "On the other hand, I—now that you've brought it up, maybe you'll tell me something. I don't suppose it has anything to do with what happened here tonight," he went on hastily, "but I'm afraid she has been running sort of wild and getting mixed up with some-queer characters recently. At home, that is. In Jacksonville. So maybe you could tell me something about how she's been conducting herself here. Whether she's—uh— been running around much. With men, you know? Any special man particularly."
Patton hesitated, rubbing the third fold of fat beneath his chin and studying Paulson speculatively. "It isn't the sort of information we're supposed to hand out about our guests. This ain't the F.B.I., you know. We don't keep any dossier on our guests."
"I know that," said Paulson impatiently, "but I also know something about the way hotels are run. The bellboys and the maids and the clerk. They always know pretty well what's going on. Whether there're late parties and how many drinks they take up, and who has visitors and how long they stay. That sort of stuff." He smiled win-ningly at Patton. "You're the house detective, aren't you? Don't tell me you didn't ask around and check up on my sister's conduct during the past two weeks when this thing happened tonight."
Patton clasped his hands together in front of his paunch and looked down at them studiously. "I wouldn't say I
didn't. But it still isn't the kind of information we give out."
Paulson grimaced and got out his wallet. He half withdrew a ten and glanced covertly at Patton, then sighed and made it a twenty instead. He folded the bill lengthwise four times and said, "I wouldn't expect you to give it out to anyone except her brother. But I certainly have a perfect right to know. I tell you I've been worried about the way she's been acting—and now with this thing tonight—and her not being here to meet me as she promised-"
Patton unclasped his hands from in front of his paunch, and the bill was whisked out of sight. He said, "Sure. Being her brother and all, I guess it wouldn't be right not to tell you.
"Well, your sister has been mighty pleasant.and quiet in the hotel, and minds her own business. I did go over the room service charges on her bill tonight, and most nights she's had ice and sometimes soda up. A bottle of whisky twice in two weeks." He spread out his hand. "No, I'm not denying the bellboys and maids, like you say, notice things that go on. They can't help it, having eyes and being human. But the way I get it, your sister has entertained men frequently, but never too late. And never no commotion or trouble at all. Just the sort of thing any nice, attractive girl in a hotel in Miami on her own might be expected to do."
He nodded benignly at Paulson. "Mostly one particular fellow, the way I get it. With maybe a couple others off and on. But she minds her own business, and so do they. She paid up her first week's bill promptly and we haven't any complaints at all. That the sort of stuff you wanted to know?"
Paulson wet his lips and nodded. "Exactly. Thanks, Mr. Patton." He arose. "And now is it all right for me to go up to her room to wait?"
Patton arose with him. "Sure. I'll go up and let you in myself. Give me a chance to check around a little more to be plumb certain she hasn't got any bodies concealed. That's strictly against the rules, you know." He winked jovially at his own joke. "And then I reckon I might just as well wait there with you until she does come in. Ask her a couple of questions there in private, just to get everything real clear."
Paulson said, "That'll be fine. Glad to have company while I wait for Nellie."
They went out and strolled toward the elevator together, and Paulson stopped abruptly in mid-stride. "It's getting so late maybe I'd better get my baggage and check into a room of my own. Take me half an hour perhaps. I had a little accident outside of town and had to leave my car at a garage. If Nellie comes in before I get back, tell her to stay put, will you?"<
br />
"Sure."
Oliver Patton fidgeted painfully on his bunion-infested feet and watched Paulson's tall figure striding across the lobby with a speculative frown. Maybe it wasn't anything, but the young fellow had appeared to lose interest abruptly in waiting in his sister's room when Patton suggested that he would go up and wait with him. And it was funny the way he suddenly remembered that he hadn't got his baggage with him and decided to go fetch it. Why hadn't he thought about that when he left his car? He must have known he'd be spending the night at some hotel in town and would be needing it.
Starting to turn back to his office, Patton saw Bill signal to him from where he stood beside the open elevator. He plodded across to him and Bill said eagerly:
"Joe, here, swears he's seen that guy in here before. Some time this evening, he thinks, but he's not sure."
"That's right, Chief." Joe scratched his head dubiously. "I know I've seen him. In the elevator, I reckon. Seems
like I noticed him special because I thought he was trying to hold the scarred side of his face away from me. Like maybe he didn't want to be recognized."
"This evening?" demanded Patton tautly.
"I just don't disremember for sure," groaned Joe. "You know how it is, Mr. Oliver. Up and down. Down and up. You don't really notice. But that man with the scar on his face—he's been in this here elevator last day or so, and that's a fact."
Patton said, "Let me know if he shows up again." He went to the desk and gave the same instructions to Dick. "And have Ewie give me an open wire if he calls, or if anybody calls for Miss Paulson."
Then, remindful of Mike Shayne's previous interest in the girl, he lumbered back to his office to telephone the red-headed detective. Unfortunately, Shayne's telephone was not answered.
TEN: 10:34 PM.
Before starting out to look for answers, Michael Shayne telephoned Lucy.
Her voice was acidly sweet as she replied in mock surprise, "Not finished with the blonde so soon, Michael?"
"All finished," he told her cheerfully, "so I decided to sick her onto you. She's not there yet?"
There was a tiny pause, during which he knew Lucy was trying to decide whether he was kidding or serious. Then she said, "Not yet."
"She should be showing shortly. Be nice to her, angeL She's really in a state."
"Because you got rid of her so fast?"
Shayne growled, "This is serious, Lucy. Her name is Nellie Paulson—at least, I guess maybe it is. I don't know whether she's actually nuts or not, but she's on the fringe. Scared out of her wits. There's a guy out on the town hunting her with a gun who claims he's her brother and wants to take care of her. But she claims this guy murdered her brother and is after her now."
Lucy said pleasantly, "What interesting people you do meet, Mr. Shayne. Just what am I supposed to do with this damsel who doesn't know whether her brother is a murderer or murderee?"
"Just keep her quiet there and take care of her," growled Shayne. "Put her to bed if you can. And don't let anyone get to her. Call me as soon as she gets there," he added hastily. "I'll be at police headquarters. In Gentry's office, if he's still there; if not, check with Sergeant Jenkins."
Luqr said, "Yes, Michael," in a subdued tone. Then, "And-Michael?"
"Yes?"
"Your glass of brandy is still sitting here and it's—still an hour and twenty-five minutes until midnight."
"Save it," he said blithely. "Our date is still on."
He hung up and got his hat, went down to drive directly to Miami police headquarters.
Will Gentry was still in his private office. He was closeted there with Timothy Rourke, reporter on the News and one of Shayne's oldest friends in the city.
Will Gentry was a big, square man, with a florid, open countenance. He sat behind a wide, bare desk, chewing vigorously on the short butt of a black cigar; while Rourke was tilted back in a straight chair against the wall, just finishing what he considered an extremely funny story, as Shayne walked in.
"—And so the gink said, 'What cow are you talking about?' " concluded Rourke, and began laughing uproariously.
Chief Gentry said, "Ha-ha," while looking at Shayne. "Anything up, Mike?"
"He is, damn it," said Rourke. "Just in time to spoil the point of my story. Thought you had a date with Lucy tonight?"
"1 did. A blonde came between us." Shayne grinned at him and pulled a chair close to Gentry's desk. "Had any unexplained corpses tonight, Will?"
"No corpses of any sort. You?"
"I'll be damned if I know," said Shayne, feelingly. "Had any sort of report of trouble at the Hibiscus Hotel?"
"I don't think so." Gentry looked at the reporter. "You had anything, Tim?"
"Not a thing all evening to make the Night Edition." Rourke tilted his chair forward so all four legs were on the floor, leaned his cadaverous body forward eagerly.
"Got something, Mike?"
"I'll still be damned if I know. Let's see what you two master-minds make out of this. Lucy and I had just settled down at her place for a night-cap when the clerk at my hotel phoned me—"
Shayne went on to tell about his return to the hotel, his first brief encounter with the young woman in the lobby who was so eager for him to take on an immediate tailing job, and his interview with the other girl upstairs. He omitted only the fact that he had given the girl a note to Lucy and told her to go there, ending the first part of his story with her locking herself in the kitchen while he admitted the man with the scar on his face.
"So, what do you make of it thus far?" he demanded.
Chief Gentry took the soggy cigar butt from his mouth and regarded it with intense distaste. With the easy and unthinking accuracy of a major-league shortstop throwing to first, he tossed it aside into a brass spittoon in one corner. "The Hibiscus should have notified us," he growled, reaching for a button on his desk. "I'll get Patton in and—"
"Wait a minute. Will. You know Ollie. He's okay. But he's got a job. If your damned pensions were big enough to support a man, he wouldn't have, but they aren't and so he gets paid a salary to keep things as quiet as he can for the hotel. You know that," remonstrated Shayne. "What was there for him to report? He found no evidence of murder."
"All right," said Gentry. "Sure, Ollie's okay, but these hotel dicks are always covering up. Was the girl drunk or nuts?"
"Not drunk," said Shayne. "Nuts, maybe. How do you tell? Her story sounded straight enough when she was telling it."
"Yeh? Then how did her scarred face friend follow her to your place? According to her, she left him standing in the street while she went off in a taxi without knowing
where she was headed,"
"He explained to me that he caught the number of her taxi, went to the company's office and got her destination from the driver over their radio system."
"Could be," said Gentry shortly. "What sort of story did he tell? Cut out this continued-in-our-next stuff."
Shayne grinned cheerily and said, "That's what you call a cliff-hanger. All right. He claims he's her brother. And that she's half nuts and screamed and ran away from him the moment she saw him in the hotel corridor."
"Was this scar a fresh one, by any chance?" asked Tim Rourke with interest. "One that just healed up this evening?"
"It looks more like one from Korea," Shayne said briefly. He went on to relate everything Bert Paulson had told him about the inexplicable affair, ending at the point where he had pulled an ex-Army gun on Shayne and gone storming out into the Miami night to search for his sister.
"And you let him walk out just like that?" demanded Rourke incredulously. "Knowing how terrified she was of him?"
Without revealing that he felt she would be perfectly safe with Lucy Hamilton, Shayne scowled at the reporter and asked, "How many slap-happy ex-G.I.'s have you gone - up against while they had forty-fives in their fists?"
Rourke shrugged his thin shoulders. "That's why I'm a reporter instead of pretending to be a detective. Look, Mike." His voi
ce became reflective. "Did you say Paulson? Bert Paulson? From Jacksonville, huh?"
"That's what he said. Offered identification cards to prove it."
Both Shayne and Gentry remained silent while Tim Rourke rocked back in his chair again, carefully placed the tips of ten fingers against each other in front of his nose and studied them with a frown. They both respected his encyclopedic knowledge of current affairs as reported
in the newspapers and his prodigious memory, and they waited to see if he could dredge anything up for them.
"Paulson? Yeh. Hell, it's been quite recent. Last two or three weeks. Jacksonville?" He closed his eyes a moment in fierce concentration, then snapped his fingers excitedly.
"Got itl Badger game. Girl named Nellie Paulson and her brother. Only they tried it on the wrong sucker two weeks ago and he called cops. It wasn't much of a splash. Just a couple of lines in the News here, but there was a description of both of them. They both got clean away," he went on. "Beat it fast when the guy refused to pay off. Jax should have a pick-up out on them," he added to Gentry.
"Doubt if they'd bother," he grunted, leaning forward to open the inter-com on his desk and speak into it. "Those badger games are hard to pin down. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred the sucker refuses to prefer charges."
"I don't believe it," Shayne told Rourke flatly.
He shrugged thin shoulders. "Come up to the morgue with me and I'll find the paper. Why do you doubt me?"
"The girl mostly. She may be nuts, but I'll be damned if I can see her playing the badger game. And her brotherl Damn it, have you forgotten he says he was in Detroit until two weeks ago?"
"Maybe he made a special trip back to shake down a sucker she had lined up."
Shayne said, "Maybe. But that sure as hell wasn't the way he told it to me."
"Would you expect a guy to tell you about a badger game he'd been pulling with his sister as decoy?" Rourke demanded acidly.
A voice came over the inter-com and they all listened intently to a report from the records room that no Paulson was currently listed as wanted.
"There you are," said Shayne. "For once, Tim, your vaunted memory—"
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