“I know. I’m just trying to make it easy on you. Painter’s not going to quit.”
“Thanks, Will.” Shayne’s tone was curt. “I’ll make it easy on myself.”
“Okay.” Gentry drained his glass and spread out his hands. “I’m not trying to put the heat on you.”
Shayne said, “Don’t,” in a remote tone.
Gentry studied him thoughtfully. “You’re plenty tough, Mike. But Painter-I wouldn’t push him too far.”
Shayne pushed the bottle toward his friend and grinned a mirthless, fleeting grin. “Drink up.”
Gentry shook his head. “No more, thanks. Painter will be waiting for me at my office.”
“How do you and he stand?” Shayne asked abruptly.
“Well-he’s only been over on the Beach a couple of months. I don’t know him so well but I guess he’s okay. Sort of hotheaded little rooster-and he likes to play hunches.”
“Tell him not to get any more hunches about me.” Shayne ground out his cigarette as Gentry got up.
“Play it your own way,” Gentry said. “But I’m warning you, Mike. Painter’s under pressure on that new job and he’s going to break this Brighton case or else.”
“Sweet Jesus,” groaned Shayne, getting up. “Between the two of you, you’ll have me believing I slit Mrs. Brighton’s throat. Who put the finger on me in the first place?”
“I wasn’t there,” Gentry reminded him. “I just came along with Painter when he said he was coming up.”
“Pedique told him my part of it,” Shayne growled. “That was finished when we walked in and found the old lady already croaked. What makes him think I stole the girl?”
“He’s going around in circles and had to end up somewhere,” Gentry said, moving toward the door.
“Sure,” sneered Shayne. “Just like all the rest of these boy-scout dicks. He hits a tough case and feels like he has to make a pinch whether he can make it stick or not. You can tell him for me,” he added as he opened the door, “that if I had the girl I’d keep her hid out just to get his goat.”
“I think he’s already figured that out,” said Gentry thoughtfully. He stood in the corridor and took off his hat, crushing it in his hands. “Well-g’night, Mike.”
Shayne said good night and stood in the doorway and watched the Miami detective chief go down the hall and board an elevator. Closing the door he went back into the room and stopped by the table to listen intently. No sound came from the closed bedroom.
He went to the door and opened it quietly. The gentle sound of relaxed breathing came to him. He went into the room and stood beside the bed. In the dim light he could see the girl lying on her left side with her face turned to the wall. Her left arm was curled up on the pillow, and her cheek rested on it. She was breathing evenly, and he wondered if she was asleep.
He said, experimentally, “Hey.”
She did not move. The spread was pulled down, and a bare shoulder was exposed. Shayne leaned over and said between his teeth, “It’s all right. They’ve gone.”
She still didn’t move. He straightened doubtfully, shaking his head. Then he said, “Hell,” in an undertone and went to the door. He stopped there, turned, and watched her for a full two minutes. If she wasn’t asleep she was doing a good job of playing possum.
He said, “Hell,” again and went out, closing the door behind him. Then he went over to the table, pulled out the drawer, and looked down at the nightgown-wrapped butcher knife with hard eyes.
His fingers groped in the pocket of his dressing-gown and came out with the. 25 automatic. He dropped that on top of the butcher knife and closed the drawer. Then he took the empty brandy bottle, glasses, and water pitcher to the kitchen, and remembered to open the kitchen window. It would be a hot night, and at least he might as well be comfortable. Then he went into the bathroom, opened that window wide, too, and left the door open for ventilation as he came out. In the living-room he pulled the studio couch out and spread it up to sleep on. For all his profession, Mike Shayne had something domestic in him. Years of hotel rooms had made him fond of his own brand of comfort. Moving a straight chair to the head of the bed he put an ash tray, cigarettes and matches on it, lit a cigarette, and turned out the light. Sliding under the sheet, he puffed lazily, thinking about the sleeping girl in his bedroom.
CHAPTER 5
Shayne awoke early the next morning. The moment his eyes were open, he snorted and sat up to look around, then sank back and reached out a long arm for cigarette and match. Lighting it, he puffed heavily and watched the gray-blue whorls of smoke drift upward and impinge upon the ceiling. When the cigarette was finished, he shook the spread and sheet from his gaunt frame and heaved his legs over the edge of the couch. He rumpled his red hair with one hand while his feet felt about the floor for bedroom slippers and his eyes studied the closed bedroom door. When he had managed to find the slippers, he stood up, slid his feet into them, pulled on his dressing-gown, and went to the closed door.
He opened it gently.
Phyllis Brighton was still there in his bed. Asleep. He padded in quietly, made a collection of clean clothes for the day, and carried them out without awaking her. Closing the door, he went to the bathroom and shaved, came back to the living-room and dressed.
His ensuing actions were an oddly typical combination of domesticity and professional shrewdness. Shayne had learned to keep house with a minimum of required thought. Going into the kitchen, he turned on two plates of the electric stove and the top oven burner, measured out six cups of water and put them on to boil, slid four slices of bread into the oven to toast, got some little pig sausages from the refrigerator and arranged them in a heavy iron skillet which he put on one of the burners after turning it to low. All of which took him less than three minutes.
In the living-room again, he threw dressing-gown, slippers, and pajamas in the middle of the mattress and folded it over. After pushing the two halves of the studio couch together, transferring cigarettes and matches from the chair to his pocket, and setting the ash tray on the table there was no outward indication that he had not slept in his own bed. He inspected the room thoughtfully to make sure that even Painter’s sharp eyes would find nothing amiss. Then, more carefully, he pulled out the table drawer, carried the bloody butcher knife and nightgown to the kitchen, and put them down on the drainboard while he turned the sausage and looked at the toast.
With no change of manner or expression, he took the butcher knife from its flimsy wrapping, and scrubbed it thoroughly at the sink. Yanking down a dish towel, he dried the knife and chucked it in the drawer with his own kitchen utensils. Then he ran cold water in a dishpan and put the bloodied nightgown in a pan of cold water to soak.
The sausages were ready to be turned again, and the toast was browned on one side. He took care of them and measured seven heaping tablespoons of granulated coffee into the Dripolator with the same impersonal care he had just given the kitchen knife that didn’t belong in his kitchen. The water hadn’t boiled yet so he soused the nightgown up and down in its water while he watched for steam to come out of the aluminum teakettle. Shayne liked making breakfast. When the kettle boiled, he poured it in the Dripolator, turned off all three burners, set the drip pot on one, turned the sausage again, took the toast from the oven, and buttered it.
Then he soused the gown some more and rinsed it under the faucet. Wringing it out he slipped his thumbs under the shoulder bands and shook it down full length. He nodded approvingly when he saw the bloodstains had disappeared, went to the oven and tested its heat with his hand. It was warm but not hot enough to injure the fragile fabric. After carefully spreading the damp gown on the toasting-tray, he closed the oven door and left it to dry, reflecting on the convenience of being able to destroy evidence while you prepared breakfast.
Whistling softly he took down a wooden serving-tray from a shelf, split the sausages on two breakfast plates; put cups, saucers, and silverware on the tray; punched two holes in the top of a small
can of evaporated milk and put it on the tray beside a sugar bowl; balanced the toast on one end and the steaming Dripolator on the other; managed to get the whole thing set right side upward on the palm of his right hand.
In the living-room he set the loaded tray on the table, pushing the cognac bottle to one end. As an afterthought, he took half a bottle of dry sherry from the cabinet and carried it to the breakfast table with two glasses. Then he went to the closed bedroom door, knocked, and opened it.
Phyllis Brighton sat up with a dazed cry of fright and stared at him. He said, “Good morning,” went to the closet and took out a flannel robe which he tossed across the foot of the bed, saying, “Get into that and come on out to breakfast. It’s getting cold.”
The bedroom door opened, and the girl emerged timidly. The bathrobe was swathed about her slender body, trailing the floor behind her. She had tied the cord tightly about her waist, and rolled up the sleeves so her hands came out.
Shayne lifted his eyebrows and grinned at her. “You look about fourteen in that getup. How about a shot of sherry?”
She smiled bravely and shook her head. “No, thanks. Not before breakfast, at least.”
“Sherry should be our national before-breakfast beverage,” Shayne told her. He filled a glass and emptied it, then pushed the easy chairs aside and set two with straight backs at the table. “Sit down,” he said without looking at his companion.
He deftly transferred the things from the tray to the table as she sat down, dropped the tray on the floor, and poured two cups of strong, steaming coffee. Then he sat down opposite her and started eating. With downcast eyes she silently followed his example.
“What time did you go to sleep last night?” Michael Shayne deftly speared a sausage with his fork, bit half of it off, and chewed appreciatively.
“I-” She hesitated, lifting her eyes to him, but he was lifting his coffee cup and seemed interested only in determining whether it was yet cool enough to drink.
“I-it all seems so much like a dream that I hardly know what was sleeping and what was waking.”
Shayne nodded and grunted, “Eat your breakfast.”
She drew her sleeve back to reach for the sugar, and Shayne shoved it toward her, asking casually, “Did you hear the John Laws talking about you?”
“Part of it.” She shuddered and spilled sugar from her spoon. “Who were they?”
“Miami and Miami Beach detectives.”
“Oh.” She stirred her coffee.
“It’s a damn good thing you don’t snore.”
Her body tensed. “They-didn’t find out I was here?”
“Hell, no.” Shayne contemplated her in mild surprise. “You’d be in the cooler if they could find you.”
“You mean-arrested?” There was morbid fear in her voice and eyes.
“Sure.” Shayne drank his coffee with the healthy appreciation of a strong man for strong coffee.
“What did they-I pulled the covers over my head and tried not to listen.”
“They don’t know anything,” Shayne told her calmly. “Everything would have been jake if you just hadn’t taken the fool notion to run away. Painter has a reputation to uphold and he feels that he just has to pinch somebody. You’re it.”
“You mean-he’ll arrest me now?”
“If he finds you,” Shayne told her cheerfully. “Go on and eat your sausages. They won’t be any good after they get cold. And this coffee’ll put hair on your chest.”
Her lips quirked up at the corners. She dutifully nibbled at a sausage and sipped her coffee.
Shayne finished his share and poured himself another cup of coffee. Then he leaned back and lit a cigarette. “You’d better stick around here for a while, while I try to find out just what’s what.”
“Stay here?” She raised her eyes fearfully to his.
“This is about the last place they’ll look for you. Especially since last night.” Shayne chuckled and added, “Painter admitted he didn’t think I was dumb enough to bring you here.”
“But-what will they do to you if they find me here?”
He shrugged wide shoulders. “Not a hell of a lot. After all, you’re my client. I’m within my rights in protecting you from false arrest while I do some checking up.”
“Oh.” She breathed happily, and a flush colored her cheeks. “Then you do believe me? You’ll help me?”
Her gratitude and joy embarrassed Shayne. He frowned and said, “I’m going to try and earn that string of beads you handed me yesterday.”
“You’re wonderful,” Phyllis Brighton said tremulously. “Everything will be different if you’ll just believe in me. You’re so strong! You make me feel strong.”
Shayne didn’t look at her. He lifted his coffee cup and said into it, “I came damn near weakening last night, sister.”
The flush on her cheeks deepened to scarlet but she didn’t answer.
Shayne said, “Forget it.” He drained his cup and got up. “I’ve got to stir around and earn my fee.” He went into the kitchen and took her nightgown from the oven. It hung crisply dry from his finger tips when he came back.
Phyllis Brighton looked at the filmy garment in utter consternation. She gasped. “Why, that-that’s mine. Where did you get it?”
Shayne’s eyes were wary. He asked negligently, “When did you see it last?”
She frowned as though trying to remember. “I don’t know exactly. It’s one I wear quite often.”
Shayne kept on watching her. He said grimly, “If you’re lying you’re doing a hell of a good job.”
She shrank back under the impact of his words. “What is it about? I don’t understand.”
“You and I,” Shayne told her wearily, “are in the same boat.” He tossed the gown to her. “Put it on and go back to bed. It’s silk and it’ll soon get rumpled and won’t show that it’s recently been washed without benefit of ironing.” He stalked to the corner and took down his hat.
Phyllis turned her head to watch him. She half arose, and her voice was frightened.
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m going out to walk around in circles.” He put on his hat and went to her and rubbed his knuckles against the soft smoothness of her neck between the hairline and the rolled collar of the robe.
“You stick it out here. Better wash up the dishes first thing-at least one set. Then go back to bed. And put that nightie on. Close the door and stay in bed no matter what happens until I tell you to come out. Understand?”
She nodded with a quick intake of breath, pressing her cheek down hard against his hand before he withdrew it.
He moved toward the door, warning her. “Don’t pay any attention if the phone rings or somebody knocks. And don’t move if you hear someone come in. It might be me, but I might not be alone. You stay behind that closed door no matter what happens. Rest and try to sleep. Don’t try to think.” He went out and closed the outer door on the night latch.
He stopped at the desk in the lobby for mail. There wasn’t any. It was almost ten o’clock. He chatted with the clerk for a minute, telling him he would be back at noon or would call for any messages.
Outside in the bright Miami sunlight he walked to Flagler, then west to the police station. He went in a side, door and down a hall to Will Gentry’s office. The door stood ajar. He rapped and pushed it open.
Gentry looked up from the newspaper he was reading and grunted, “Hello.”
Shayne tossed his hat on the desk and sat down in a straight chair.
Gentry said, “Painter got his headlines, all right.”
“Did he?” Shayne lit a cigarette.
“Haven’t you seen the paper?”
Shayne said he hadn’t, so Gentry pushed it across the desk to him. The detective smoothed it out and read the headlines, squinting through the upward-curling smoke of his cigarette. He glanced swiftly through the two-column version of the Brighton murder and pushed the paper aside.
Gentry leaned back in his swiv
el chair and thoughtfully bit the end off a black cigar.
Shayne said, “Mr. Peter Painter and the press find the girl guilty.”
Gentry nodded. “The poor devil had to give the papers something. Her disappearance looks bad.”
“Yeah.” Shayne contemplated the glowing end of his cigarette.
“You’d better dig her up, Mike.” Gentry lit his cigar.
“Not as long as that little twerp is on her tail. The damned-” Shayne unemotionally mentioned Painter’s probable ancestry in censorable terms.
Gentry waited until he had finished. Then he said, “He was here waiting for me when I got back last night. Had a couple of reporters and gave them the statement you just read. He was going to tie you up with the girl’s disappearance but I told him he’d better lay off.”
Shayne swore some more. Not so unemotionally this time. Gentry listened with an appreciative grin. He said, “All right. What’s your theory on the case, Mike?”
“I don’t waste my time having theories,” Shayne growled. “That luxury is only for detective chiefs.”
He glared at Gentry, and Gentry grinned and puffed on his cigar, finally asking patiently, “What do you want me to do, Mike?”
Shayne leaned across the scarred desk. “I want the dope on Doctor Joel Pedique-all the way back.”
Gentry nodded. “I’ll shake up what I can. Anything else?”
“That’s all for now. And thanks.” Shayne lumbered to his feet.
Gentry told him that was all right, and Shayne went out. He stopped at a drugstore and called Dr. Hilliard’s office. A nurse informed him that the doctor would be in at ten-thirty. It was ten-twenty, so Shayne sauntered down Flagler Street and south a block to an office building on the corner. The elevator carried him up to the tenth floor, and he walked down the hall to the sumptuous suite of offices occupied by Dr. Milliard and an associate.
The golden-haired reception girl smiled, took his name, and asked him to wait. She went through an inner door and came back, nodding for him to go in.
Dr. Hilliard greeted him affably, and they talked a long time. But the doctor could not or would not give Shayne any more definite information about Phyllis Brighton than he had proffered last night. Shayne talked vehemently and at great length, setting forth an idea that was in his mind. The doctor admitted many of the premises as possibilities, but professional ethics forbade his discussing Dr. Pedique’s conduct of her case.
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