“Don’t you see, Michael?” Lucy’s eyes were very bright. “Those tickets and the clothes laid out in the bedroom make it look as though Mr. Wallace had planned to fly to South America tomorrow, a few hours before his wife returned. Don’t you get the implication? Don’t you realize what the police and newspapers would make out of that?”
“I get the implication, all right,” Shayne agreed with a sigh. “From all the evidence, it looks as though someone put a bullet in his head to keep him from making that trip. Does Mrs. Wallace want to know who did the job … or doesn’t she? It boils down to that.”
“Mr. Shayne!” Mrs. Wallace pulled herself away from Lucy’s arm and sat up very erectly. She was dry-eyed now, and outwardly very calm. “I don’t care what the evidence says, nothing will ever convince me that Jim planned to fly to South America tomorrow morning without notifying me. Nothing, do you understand that? We’ve been married thirty years and I know Jim. He was a good man. A good, honest man.”
Shayne drew in a deep breath and tugged at his left earlobe, while his gaze fell broodingly on the airline tickets in his hand. “Then the sooner we get the police here to clear up the misunderstanding, the better it will be for everyone concerned.”
“But think of the scandal before it is cleared up. Think of … Helen. Our daughter.” Mrs. Wallace compressed her lips and swallowed hard. “She’s … in a delicate condition and she’s always been her daddy’s girl.”
“Don’t you remember I told you, Michael?” Lucy broke in straightforwardly. “Helen’s pregnant, and she’s already had two miscarriages. God knows what the news of her father’s death will do to her, but think of how she’ll feel if it appears that he was also unfaithful … that he was killed while planning to desert her mother.”
Shayne shook his red head slowly. “It’ll have to come out, Lucy. This is murder, and you can’t suppress the facts in a murder case. If Mrs. Wallace is correct and there is some innocent explanation, the faster we get to work on it, the better.”
“That’s what I hoped you’d do, Mr. Shayne. Can’t you make a private investigation … find out the truth before it all becomes distorted in newspaper headlines and ruins my daughter’s life?”
“Of course you can, Michael,” Lucy broke in impatiently. “Don’t you see that Mrs. Wallace doesn’t want you to do anything wrong? Just go ahead and solve the case without telling anyone about the airplane tickets. Isn’t that what you mean, Mrs. Wallace?”
“It’s the first thought that came to me,” she faltered. “Or, the second thought, I guess. When I first saw the tickets and realized the way they’d be construed, I wanted to tear them up. But I knew I shouldn’t. I knew they must be an important clue to Jim’s death and that it would be wrong to destroy them. But I couldn’t bear the thought of what might happen to Helen, and Jim’s unborn grandchild, if all the facts were made public before the real truth was known. And then I thought of you, Mr. Shayne. Lucy has told us about the times you’ve solved cases by yourself before the police were able to, and it didn’t seem to me there was anything wrong about calling you first. You are a detective. If you have all the clues to work on, do the police have to have them, too?”
“Nothing wrong about it,” muttered Shayne angrily. “Just a little matter of tampering with vital evidence in a homicide is all. Just my license at stake and a few years in the penitentiary is all. Good Lord, Lucy! You know.…”
“I know this, Michael Shayne.” Lucy Hamilton stood erect, slim and stiff and wrathful. “I’ll never speak to you again if you give those tickets to Will Gentry. ‘Tampering with vital evidence!’ When did you get so smug and legal? What about the first time you met Phyllis and took that bloody butcher knife away from her and hid it from the police? What about the man who fell dead inside your office door and you took the piece of the baggage check out of his hand and concealed it? What about that time in New Orleans when you met me … and the brandy bottle you stole from the scene of the crime?”
Lucy’s eyes flamed and her voice became increasingly scornful as she enumerated some of his past cases. “You talk about tampering with evidence. You’ve been doing it all your life.”
“But those times were different, angel. In each one of those cases.…”
“Different?” She practically spit the word at him. “I’ll tell you how they were different. Each of those times you wanted to do it. You had a personal motive, and you didn’t give one damn about legalities or losing your license or anything else. This time, you’re not involved. So, you don’t care who gets hurt. It’s just my best friend, is all. You’ll let her entire life be ruined … her baby be born dead prematurely just so you can be smug and self-righteous. Is that what you want?”
“Please, Lucy,” Mrs. Wallace cried out despairingly as the rush of angry words ceased while Lucy paused to catch her breath. “I guess Mr. Shayne is right. It’s too much to ask of him. I see it now. I hadn’t quite realized.…”
“It isn’t too much for me to ask of him,” Lucy raged. “It won’t hurt him one single bit to put those tickets in his pocket and not mention them when the police come. In fact, he’d have a freer hand to find your husband’s killer if he did keep that clue to himself. You know it’s true, Michael,” she went on fiercely. “You’ve often said so to me in the past. You’re not tied down by official rules and regulations. I’ve heard you throw that in Will Gentry’s face often enough. I’ve heard you boast that Miami is your town, and that you were going out and tear it wide open with your two hands looking for a killer that you wanted to find. Well, go start tearing it apart now. Don’t just stand there.” She stamped her foot angrily.
Shayne didn’t look at Lucy or the other woman. His gaze remained broodingly fixed on the airline envelope in his hand while his fingers idly clawed through his hair. She was right, of course. Damn it, she was so right. He had built his reputation as a private detective by playing fast and loose with the law. By ruthlessly driving ahead on his own, suppressing evidence any time it seemed a good idea to do so.
He drew in a deep breath and tucked the airplane tickets in the breast pocket of his coat. “All right, angel,” he said mildly. “I can’t very well refuse when you put it that way. I’ll play along on one condition.”
“Oh, Michael!” Lucy’s voice broke and she swayed toward him so he had to catch her and hold her close. “I knew you would and I bet you won’t regret it.”
“What is your one condition, Mr. Shayne?” Mrs. Wallace was completely calm now. Looking at her sitting erect and precise on the sofa, no one could have guessed the strain she was under … that the body of her husband lay on the floor not more than twenty feet away.
“You listen to this, Lucy.” Shayne held her away from him and shook her a little. “You both have to promise me you won’t tell the police a direct lie. I won’t touch this otherwise, because we’re all playing with fire.
“Here’s the way you do it,” he went on rapidly. “I’ll get out of here fast. Wait five minutes and then you phone the police, Lucy. Tell them the truth. That Mrs. Wallace telephoned you at home and you hurried over to her without knowing what the trouble was. That you found Mr. Wallace dead, and phoned the police. You don’t have to tell them how much time elapsed or that I came with you. Let them assume that you came alone and phoned immediately.
“Then telephone me a few minutes after you call the police and before they get here. Leave a message if I haven’t reached my hotel by that time. When Gentry gets here, tell him you phoned me. Then he won’t be surprised when I turn up a little later, and he won’t ask any embarrassing questions … I hope.” Shayne drew in a long breath.
“Got that? Don’t tell any lie that may tangle you up later. No one saw me come in with you, and if I’m lucky no one will see me go out.
“Now, Mrs. Wallace. Tell me a couple of things fast. Your husband was some sort of broker, wasn’t he?”
“Yes. A partner in the firm of Martin, Wallace and Tompkins. The main office is in New York,
and Mr. Martin manages a branch office here. During the winter season, my husband and Mr. Tompkins normally alternated coming down, but during the past month both have been here.”
Shayne said “Martin?” rubbing his jaw. “Rutherford Martin? Didn’t he run for city councilman a few years ago?”
“He did. And was defeated.”
Shayne nodded. “I know him casually. Has a house in the Little River section. Do you know the address?”
Mrs. Wallace supplied him with a number on N.E. 106th Street.
Shayne wrote it down and said grimly, “Here we go. Both of you, for God’s sake, watch yourselves. This is dynamite, and don’t forget it. You’re in for a rough time, Mrs. Wallace. Start working on your alibi before Gentry gets here.”
“My … alibi, Mr. Shayne? Surely no one will suspect that I could possibly.…”
“You’re set up for the prime suspect,” Shayne told her roughly. “Start going back every moment of the time that’s elapsed since you landed at the airport. Remember whom you saw and spoke to, exactly what you did.”
“But how could they suspect her, Michael? She came here and found him dead. There’s no gun here.”
“That’s what she says, angel.” Shayne swung on his heel. “Remember to wait five minutes before calling police headquarters. Get yourself excited and a little hysterical. Just give the address and tell them Mr. Wallace is dead. Phone me a few minutes later. I’ll be around … and I won’t know anything about the set-up when I get here. Don’t tell any lies that may catch you up.”
He went out swiftly, rubbing both doorknobs as he’ went through to obliterate fingerprints and trying to remember whether he had touched anything else inside the apartment that would betray the fact that he had been there.
He didn’t think he had. He hoped not. The elevator was waiting at the floor where he and Lucy had left it, and he went down and out the front door, again rubbing away fingerprints, without being seen by anyone in the apartment house so far as he knew.
A moment later he was in his car headed for downtown Miami fast.
CHAPTER THREE
It was exactly eight minutes later when Shayne strode briskly into the lobby of his apartment-hotel on the north bank of the Miami River. The desk clerk was at the night switchboard as he entered, and he waved to the detective when he turned his head and saw him.
“A call for you, Mr. Shayne,” he called out as the redhead increased his pace. “It’s Miss Hamilton. You can take it on the house phone there.”
He manipulated plugs and Shayne lifted the indicated instrument and said, “Lucy?”
“I’m so glad I caught you, Michael. I’m at Mrs. Wallace’s apartment. Mrs. James Wallace. Remember? Helen Pearce’s mother?”
Shayne said, “I remember. What’s up?”
“It’s Mr. Wallace, Michael. He’s been murdered. I’ve called the police, but they haven’t come yet. It’s on Northeast Fortieth.” She gave him the street number of the apartment house.
Shayne said, “Sit tight. I’ll be tied up for a short time, but I’ll get there as fast as I can.”
He hung up and the clerk turned from the switchboard with the headset still on. “Trouble, Mr. Shayne? I couldn’t help hearing.…”
For once, Shayne was glad that the clerk took so much interest in his affairs and had a propensity for monitoring the telephone. If the police did have occasion to ask any questions, Dick could testify that Lucy had called him after notifying the police.
Shayne nodded, rubbing his jaw thoughtfully. “James Wallace has been murdered. One of his partners is a Rutherford Martin. Got a phone book there, Dick?”
“Right here, Mr. Shayne?’ Dick picked it up, eager to be helpful.
“See if you can find Martin’s address and number.”
The clerk flipped through the pages. “Rutherford Martin.” He read off the street address Mrs. Wallace had supplied Shayne, and added a telephone number. Shayne jotted them down on a sheet of hotel stationery, and glanced at his watch. “It’s a little late, but … try that number, Dick.”
“You bet.” The clerk turned back to the switchboard and Shayne leaned a negligent elbow on the desk, getting out a cigarette and lighting it, then lifting the receiver of the house phone as Dick nodded over his shoulder to him.
A distant telephone was ringing steadily. It stopped ringing and a woman’s voice said, “Yes?”
“Is Mr. Martin at home?”
“He’s retired. Who is calling?”
Shayne hung up without replying. The clerk looked at him with a dropped jaw and said, “Jeez, she’ll be wondering.…”
Shayne grinned and waved a big hand as he started out. “Part of the technique, Dick. Keep ’em wondering.”
He drove north on the Boulevard again, slowing as he passed 40th Street to glance toward the Bay. The lights of a police cruiser were blinking at the curb a block and a half away. He speeded up to 79th Street, swung left and then to the right after a few blocks. It was a fairly new residential section of substantial homes with large, well-kept lawns. Most of the houses were dark, but there was an automobile parked in front of the Martin residence, the porch light was on and the front windows showed light behind drawn curtains.
Shayne parked behind the other car, strode up the walk and rang the bell. After a brief wait the door opened cautiously and a placid-faced, middle-aged woman looked out. She frowned and said, uncertainly, “Yes?”
Shayne dragged off his hat and smiled. “Mrs. Martin?”
“Yes. I’m Mrs. Martin. What is it?” Her voice was sharp.
He said, “My name is Shayne. I have to see your husband on a very important matter.”
“At this time of night? He’s been asleep for hours. I’m afraid.…”
“What is it, Ella?” another woman’s voice asked from behind her.
She turned her head, holding onto the knob tightly. “Some man to see Rutherford. A stranger, and I don’t.…”
“I’m a private detective, Mrs. Martin,” Shayne said quietly. “I assure you I wouldn’t be here like this if it weren’t extremely urgent.”
“Did he say his name was Shayne, Ella? That must be Michael Shayne. My goodness! Is he as big and redheaded as they say?”
Shayne pushed the door gently but firmly and Mrs. Martin reluctantly stepped back. She was a large woman with frankly gray hair and a small, pouting mouth. The woman standing directly behind her was tall and bony, at least ten years younger than Mrs. Martin, with snapping black eyes and wearing jangling bracelets on both wrists. Beyond the two women, in the sitting room, Shayne saw a card table in the middle of the floor with cards strewn on top and four coffee cups. Two other women still sat at the table looking toward the door with undisguised curiosity.
The bony woman pressed Mrs. Martin aside and looked him up and down avidly. Her thin cheeks were flushed and he realized she was a little bit drunk.
“You are Mike Shayne,” she announced excitedly and happily. “Think of it, girls.” She turned her head and tittered. “Maybe he’s come to arrest us for gambling.”
Shayne turned his left shoulder to her and told Mrs. Martin gravely, “I’m sorry to disturb you like this, but it’s imperative that I see Mr. Martin before the police get here.”
“The … police?” Her eyes widened and her mouth made a round O.
“They’ll be ringing your bell shortly,” Shayne told her. “One of your husband’s partners has been murdered.”
“Mr. Tompkins? Oh, dear. I don’t know.…”
“I’m sorry to disturb your husband if he’s asleep, but.…”
“He’s been asleep for hours,” she said vaguely and somehow defensively. “He detests bridge games. He always says.…”
Shayne took her well-fleshed arm firmly. “Which way is his bedroom?”
“Down this hall.” She let herself be turned away from the living room and the excited chatter of the others. “I suppose Rutherford would want to be wakened. But I think I should call him and explai
n. You could wait in the study here.” She paused doubtfully before an open door on the left, but Shayne said urgently, “There’s no time to waste. Which is your husband’s room?”
“At the end of the hall.” She gestured weakly to the right, and he let go her arm and walked ahead briskly and rapped on the door before thrusting it open.
The bedroom was dark, with two open windows letting in the night breeze. Shayne heard a creak of bed-springs and a grunting noise from one of the twin beds as he found a wall switch and flipped it. Subdued light sprayed the room from a rose-tinted ceiling fixture.
A bulky figure sat up abruptly in bed and stared at him, blinking his eyes and moving his lips in and out soundlessly.
He wore maroon pajamas and his thick gray hair was in wild disarray and his eyes protruded slightly.
The detective pulled the door shut and said rapidly, “I’m Michael Shayne, Mr. Martin. We’ve met a couple of times though you may not recall it. I’ve got bad news for you.”
“Shayne? Yes, I … the detective, of course. Bad news?”
“Jim Wallace has been murdered.”
“Jim … Wallace?” He closed his eyes tightly and sank back against the pillow, then raised himself aggressively. “Murdered? When? How? Good heavens, man. Do you mean it?”
“I mean it. Tonight. In his apartment. When did you see him last?”
“In the office this afternoon. I still can’t believe.…”
“The police will be here in a few minutes, Mr. Martin. My secretary is with Mrs. Wallace and I need the answers to a few questions.”
“But she’s in New York,” the broker protested. “Tommy and I were joshing Jim about it just this afternoon. About her coming back tomorrow and how he’d have to get rid of all his blondes and all.”
“How many blondes, Martin?”
He snorted and shook his head. “None, of course. Not old Jim. It was just in fun because he’s the last man in the world to slide off the straight and narrow while his wife’s away. Now if it were Tommy.…” Martin shook his head again. He swung his legs out of bed and reached for a silk robe at the foot of it. “God! I just can’t believe it,” he muttered. “Who would murder Jim? Of all people.”
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