He memorized the number and looked down guilelessly into her eyes as she replaced the card and turned to tell him, “Mr. Blake did ask us to transfer any calls to another telephone number last Tuesday until further notice. He asked that the new number not be given to anyone, and it would be a breach of confidence for me to give it to you.” She spoke with firm severity and Shayne didn’t know whether she realized he’d read the number over her shoulder or not. He rather suspected she did, and he thanked her gravely. “You’ve been a great help, and I certainly wouldn’t want to urge you to give away your client’s secrets.”
He hurried out to the nearest telephone before he forgot the hastily memorized number, and dialled it. A dulcet voice said, “Good afternoon. Seaspray Hotel. May I help you?”
Shayne said, “You have, honey,” and hung up.
The Seaspray was one of the huge, rambling hotels that had been built during the first boom of the Twenties. There was some sort of convention in progress, and the lobby was athrong with milling delegates and lines of guests who were checking in and out.
Shayne made his way through them to the elevator and squeezed in. It let him out on the 4th floor, and he found #410 and knocked on the door. It opened after about thirty seconds and Shayne faced a man wearing slippers and slacks and undershirt and holding a towel in his hands. His brown hair was damp and uncombed, muscular arms and shoulders were deeply tanned. He fitted Tiny’s description of Gene Blake perfectly.
He held the door half-open and frowned at the rangy redhead, and said aggressively, “I think you have the wrong room,” and started to close the door.
Shayne stepped into it and shoved the door and the man back. “Right room… right guy,” he said, looking around the large sitting room of an expensive suite. The bathroom door stood open, and beyond it was a closed door leading into the bedroom. There was no one else in sight.
“What sort of deal is this? You can’t force yourself into a man’s room, and…”
Shayne growled, “I have, Blake. Who’s in the bedroom?”
“My wife, and I don’t propose.”… Blake dropped the towel on the floor and doubled up his fists, getting in front of Shayne and jutting his jaw belligerently.
Shayne said, “We both know you don’t have a wife, Blake. I’m taking a look.” He put the flat of a big hand on the man’s chest and shoved. Taken off balance, Blake staggered back two paces, and then unclenched his fists and got a half-shamed smile on his face.
“Can’t we handle this differently?” He fumbled for his wallet and made his voice placating.
Shayne said, “This isn’t a shakedown. I just want a look at the woman in your bedroom.” He moved forward purposefully, and Gene Blake got out of his way, still protesting weakly, but not as though he cared too greatly. When Shayne rapped on the door, he called out, “It’s okay, Peggy. Don’t be worried.”
Shayne opened the door and looked in the bedroom. On the other side of the room a woman sat in front of a dressing table with her back to him, calmly putting on lipstick with a tiny brush. Meeting her reflected gaze in the mirror, Shayne saw that she in no way resembled the photograph of Ellen Harris in his pocket.
He said gruffly, “I’m sorry, Ma’am,” and closed the bedroom door. Blake had backed away toward the center of the room and was lighting a cigarette with trembling hands. “What kind of Peeping Tom stunt is this?”
Shayne asked, “Where is Ellen Harris, Blake?”
“Ellen Harris? I don’t think I know anyone named that.”
“Maybe this will refresh your memory.” Shayne took the picture from his pocket and held it out. Blake studied it wordlessly, and then licked his lips. “I guess maybe that was her name. Ellen something. I met her at the Beachhaven bar last Monday. That the one?” He looked at Shayne curiously, but apparently without fear.
Shayne said, “That’s the one. Where is she?”
“How in hell should I know? I haven’t seen her since Monday night. She ditched me at the Gray Gull for another guy.”
Shayne said, “Sit down and tell me all about it.”
“Why should I? Who are you and what’s all this about?”
Shayne said uncompromisingly, “Sit down and talk to me, or get a shirt on and we’ll go to headquarters. My name is Shayne,” he added impatiently. “I’m a private detective looking for Mrs. Harris.”
“Oh, Christ. You’re Mike Shayne. Sure. I should have recognized you right off.” Blake looked crestfallen. “What’s happened to Mrs. Harris?”
“That’s what I hope you can tell me.” Shayne sat down and lit a cigarette. “I know you picked her up in the bar and she signed the chit for a couple of drinks, and you went out with her through the rear door to the hotel parking lot. You take it from there.”
Gene Blake seated himself and drew thoughtfully on his cigarette. “There was something funny about her. In the beginning, it looked like a real hot deal. She was damned attractive and all out to have a good time… with no reservations as far as I could see. We used her car, rented, I think, and I suggested dinner first, but she didn’t want food. Wanted to gamble. I remember particularly because I never did get dinner that night, and had a hell of a hangover the next day as a result.
“As I look back on it now, I got the impression she was sort of forcing herself. As though it was a completely new role for her. That she was trying to act wanton, maybe.”
“Did she suggest the Gray Gull, or did you?”
“Damned if I remember. Probably I did, though there are a couple other places I’d just as soon steer a woman into. She just bought fifty dollars worth of chips to start with, and she settled down at a roulette table to make small bets. They gave me five hundred to go on… I suppose you know that sort of deal?” He mashed out his cigarette and looked at Shayne inquiringly.
He nodded and said, “I talked to Willy this afternoon.”
“Yeh, well he’ll bear me out that she wasn’t much of a gambler. I stayed with roulette for awhile, and then began to get bored and drifted over to the crap table, but I kept going back to her… you know… and she stayed about even without doing any real betting at all. Then I saw her getting real friendly with another guy who’d sat down beside her, and I didn’t mind because about that time I started talking to Peggy at the crap table.” He paused and arched his eyebrows at the closed door. “She was alone and out for a good time and we started hitting it off, and I’d already decided there wasn’t too much percentage in Ellen, so I went back one last time and she practically cold-shouldered me… flirting with this other fellow.”
“Do you think she knew him, Blake? That maybe she had got you to take her there so she could meet him?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t think anything like that at the time.” Blake looked honestly puzzled. “Why would she have bothered? She had her own car and could have gone there alone.”
Shayne said, “Maybe she didn’t know that,” recalling that Tiny had said she didn’t know whether she would be allowed at the bar unescorted. “Maybe she felt she needed an entree.”
“Maybe,” Blake conceded. “Could be, I guess. That would explain why she cooled off so fast after we got there. Anyhow, I just thought to hell with it and went back to Peggy. We played a little more and then hit three or four more spots… and ended up at my place in the morning.” He shrugged. “We moved in here the next afternoon, and it’s been a ball ever since.”
“Can you describe the man Ellen Harris was making up to?”
Blake narrowed his eyes and appeared to be thinking hard. “Sort of neutral, the way I remember him. Forty, maybe. Heavy-set, I think. One thing… I don’t think he’s a native. Not enough tan and he was wearing a dark suit.” He paused and got to his feet as the bedroom door opened and Peggy came into the room. She was short and a trifle on the dumpy side, and her hair was almost certainly dyed that shade of red. She was completely self-possessed, as she sauntered in from the bedroom, and she looked at Shayne curiously as he remained seated. “Who is t
his man, hon?”
“He’s a detective, sweet. Private,” Blake added hastily, “and not interested in our love-life. He’s trying to trace that dame I ditched for you at the Gray Gull last Monday night. Remember the one…?”
“Hold it,” Shayne interposed. “I’d like to hear Peggy’s story of that evening without any prompting from the sidelines. How do you remember it, Peggy?”
“Shall I tell him?” She settled herself in a chair and smoothed a short skirt down over thick thighs.
“Sure. Tell him just how it was. I got nothing to hide. He’s got a reputation around town for being a square shooter.”
“Well, I was at the crap table there at the Gray Gull and being bored. It was about nine o’clock, I guess.” She glanced at Gene and he nodded and said, “About that. Maybe a little after.”
“We got to talking, Gene and me, and… we hit it off right away.” She gazed at him fondly. “I knew right off he was a good sport, and… well, the chemicals were right, if you know what I mean.” She gazed boldly at Shayne and tittered slightly.
“And he told me he’d brought this other woman playing roulette, but he’d just as leave ditch her anyhow, and so why didn’t we go some place else.”
“Did he point her out to you?”
“Sure. That is, I watched him go over and speak to her. A sort of horsy blonde wearing a bright red dress cut all the way down to here.” She made an exaggerated slashing motion down to her navel. “So you didn’t have to do too much guessing about what was underneath the red dress, if you know what I mean. Some men go for that kind of thing, but Gene admitted he preferred to make his own discoveries.” Again, she gazed fondly at her room-mate. “Anyhow, she was already making up to some other guy, and so we slipped out.” She shrugged. “That’s all there was to it.”
“Did you notice the man you say she was already making up to?”
“I can’t say that I did. I wasn’t too interested in either one of them right about then.”
“Is this a picture of the woman at the Gray Gull?” Shayne showed her the picture of Ellen Harris.
She nodded disinterestedly. “I guess. She wasn’t really near that pretty, but I guess it’s her all right.”
“Are you prepared to testify that you haven’t seen the blonde since then, and that you and Gene spent the rest of that night together… and have been together ever since?”
“Hey! What’s this about testifying? You don’t have to drag Peggy into this.”
“She’s already dragged into it,” Shayne told him coldly. “So far as anybody knows right now, you two are the last people who have seen Mrs. Harris. You’ll have to come down to police headquarters and sign a statement.”
“Police headquarters?” It was an anguished cry from Gene’s outraged lips. “You’re private. What you got to do with the police? Look, I came clean with you thinking we could keep the whole thing nice and quiet.”
“This woman has been missing for five days. Her husband is here from New York raising hell all over the place. This picture is going to be reproduced on the front page of tonight’s News with a headline asking for information about her. You can’t get away from it, Gene. If your story checks out, the chances are it won’t have to be made public. Let me take you in and give you to Peter Painter right now, and your chances for keeping it quiet will be just about doubled. He hates my guts enough that he’s going to be so damned sore I got to you first that he’ll do practically anything to prove your innocence. So, let’s go.
“Besides, you haven’t got any choice,” Shayne ended grimly, getting to his feet. “Either get dressed and come along with me like a good citizen, or I’ll call in and have them send the wagon around for both of you.”
11
Peter Painter kept the three of them cooling their heels for at least fifteen minutes in a small anteroom just off his private office at Miami Beach headquarters. Shayne sat in a chair a little removed from the other two and placidly smoked two cigarettes while they talked together in whispers, interspersed now and then by a fluty giggle from Peggy.
Neither of them appeared really upset or frightened. They resented being brought down by Shayne, but that was perfectly natural under the circumstances. He would have resented it himself in the same situation.
Shayne went over Blake’s story of Monday evening point by point while they waited, and he was inclined to believe it… or most of it at least. It shouldn’t be too difficult to check what had happened at the Gray Gull on Monday night. The cashier would remember passing out the packet of free chips to Blake, and what sum he returned. One of the roulette dealers would almost certainly remember the striking blonde whom Gene Blake had brought in, and who deserted him during the course of the evening for another man. With more opportunity to observe them together at his table, he might well have formed an opinion as to whether they were strangers when they met.
At the moment, this was the most puzzling aspect of Blake’s story. If this later meeting had been prearranged before her arrival in Miami… if it were, in fact, an assignation, why go to such a roundabout, cloak-and-dagger way of effecting it?
There was only one answer that made sense to Shayne. If she suspected she was being tailed, all that circumlocution about picking Gene up in the bar might have seemed necessary. Otherwise, for God’s sake, she was ostensibly on her own in Miami for two weeks with no strings attached. All they had to do was to meet some place. Her reservation had been made in advance at the Beachhaven… her plane ticket purchased in advance and time of arrival known.
Yet both she and her husband had gone out of their way to make it clear that he had wanted her to make the trip, that he expected her to have fun, and had no intention of spying on her.
If not her husband, then whom had she suspected of keeping track of her movements in Miami so that she felt the need to cover up her tracks?
Of course, the simpler answer might be the correct one. It was entirely possible that she did just want to go out on the town and had tired of Gene Blake’s company after an hour or two. It is simple enough to strike up an acquaintanceship with a fellow gambler at a roulette table, and as Peggy had phrased it in the hotel, maybe the chemicals were right with this new man. In that case it was going to be much more difficult to trace a casual bystander than if there had been a previous connection between the two.
A young officer opened a door into the waiting room and stuck his head in. “The chief is ready for you, Mr. Shayne.”
Shayne got up and nodded to the couple, and preceded them into Painter’s office.
The detective chief looked up irritably from a desk littered with papers. He was a small, dapper man, with a very black, pencil-thin mustache.
He snapped, “What is it, Shayne? I’m extremely busy.”
Shayne said, “I’ve brought in a couple of people who want to make statements about Mrs. Herbert Harris.”
“Harris?” sputtered Painter. “That New York woman who’s been sleeping out a couple of nights? What’s your interest in her?”
“The New York woman who’s been missing since Monday night,” the redhead corrected him. “I’ve been retained to find her.”
“He came to you?” Painter’s voice trembled with wrath. “After I assured him everything possible would be done to locate her without publicity or a scandal? Why?”
“Possibly,” said Shayne modestly, “because I have a reputation for being one of the best men in my field in the entire country?”
“Who says so?”
“Mr. Harris,” said Shayne. He shrugged and grinned innocently. “I thought maybe you told him Petey, because he came straight to my office from here.”
“I told him nothing. Except that we have far superior facilities for that sort of work than any private detective, and that it would be a waste of money to hire one.”
“What have your facilities turned up?”
“Nothing very definite… as yet. We have determined that she allowed herself to be picked up in the Beachha
ven bar Monday evening by some smooth-talking gigolo, and went out with him evidently determined to make the rounds. We have a pick-up on her rented car, of course, and as soon as we locate that I’m positive it will lead us to her and her paramour.” Shayne shrugged and nodded toward the couple who stood close together, unhappily waiting to be noticed. “Here’s your smooth-talking gigolo, Painter. And standing beside him is his paramour of the moment. Do you want statements from them, or don’t you?” Peter Painter gulped back an oath and his black eyes glittered as he turned slowly to survey Gene and Peggy. “All right, Shayne,” he said in a choked voice. “How’d you dig them up?”
“By using my own facilities. You want me to sit in while they tell you what they know about Mrs. Harris, or shall I leave them to you? By the way,” he added, “I understand that Harris left a picture of his wife with you… a different pose from the one he brought me. It might be a good idea to let them identify it as well as the one I showed them.”
“I’m perfectly capable of deciding how to obtain an identification, Shayne.” He stabbed at a button on his desk, and when the young officer came in from a door on the opposite side of the room, he snapped, “Get your notebook to take down a couple of statements, Peters.”
Shayne moved back unobtrusively to a corner of the room and seated himself. When the stenographer was ready, Painter said, “Now. You first.” He stabbed a forefinger at Blake. “Step up here and tell me what you know about Mrs. Harris. Your full name, address and occupation first.”
Blake gave his name and address, and after momentary hesitation stated that his occupation was, “Salesman… unemployed at present.”
Painter then opened a drawer and drew out an 8x10 photograph and put it in front of him. “Do you recognize this woman?”
Blake studied it and nodded. “I met her in the Beachhaven cocktail lounge for the first time Monday evening, and she told me she was Mrs. Ellen Harris from New York.”
Painter nodded and leaned back with narrowed eyes. “Go ahead and tell me what happened.”
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