“Who was the man your secretary described?”
Shayne kept on shaking his head and protested. “How would I know? You heard Lucy. Heavy-set. Gray suit and Panama hat. Mustache. About fifty years old. Good God, ten thousand people in Miami answer that description.”
“Not very many of that number know you well enough to walk into your apartment at midnight when they find the door unlocked.”
“Lots of people know me. Lots more know where I hang out.”
“Nice friends you’ve got,” said Harvey dryly. “What man who answers that description and knows your apartment number would feel free to walk in, answer your telephone, and then impersonate you and make a date with a dame who’s just lost a fortune in jewelry?”
“If it happened to be someone who knows me well, he might start out thinking it was funny. You know-midnight and a woman asking for me-”
“Then tries to kill your secretary, and did actually walk out leaving her to die. That won’t do, Mike. You know who it was.”
Shayne said, “Maybe I do.”
“Give.”
“I’ve got to figure this Dustin angle. There’s a wad of reward money to be picked up from that if a man plays his cards right. Maybe this guy was somebody looking for an angle to cut himself in.”
“Goddamn it, Mike, are you going to cover up for a murderer in hopes of getting a cut on some lousy reward money?”
Shayne quirked a bushy red brow at the homicide sergeant and shrugged. “The way I read that stuff in the bedroom it was more an accident than attempted murder. I doubt whether Mr. X meant for her to crack her head on the radiator.”
“Hold on, Mike. It became attempted murder as soon as he saw how badly she was hurt and walked off and left her like that. Dr. Price himself said a few minutes more delay might have been fatal.”
“The guy might not have realized how badly she was hurt,” said Shayne.
“Nuts,” exploded Harvey. “He took the pains to pick her up and put her on the bed. She must have bled a lot, and he’d have known she was unconscious. First time I ever knew you to stick up for a murderer.”
Shayne’s eyes were bleak. He leaned back and crossed his long legs and lit a cigarette. He kept his gaze on the telephone and didn’t reply.
Harvey sighed and finished his drink as Richardson came in from the bedroom. “Nothing in there,” he reported.
“You boys report back to headquarters. I’ll be along later.”
“How about sending a flatfoot up to keep Miss Naylor company and see that Mr. X doesn’t pay a return visit?” Shayne asked.
“What’s the matter with you?” demanded Harvey. “Afraid you can’t handle him alone?”
“I’ve got a hunch I won’t be in much the rest of the night. If you don’t want to assign a man here, I’ll call Will Gentry at home and get him to send somebody.”
Harvey turned to Richardson and said, “When you get down to headquarters tell Jerico to send one of the reserve squad over.” He waited until his two subordinates had gone out, then poured himself another small drink of rye. “You got a late date?” he asked Shayne casually.
“I’m hoping Mrs. Dustin still wants to see me.”
“Good looker?”
Shayne said, “U-m-m,” as though he hadn’t really heard the question. He stood up and began restlessly pacing up and down the room in front of the telephone, tugging at his earlobe and glaring at the silent instrument each time he passed it.
Sergeant Harvey watched him and said nothing. He knew the redhead’s moods, knew it was useless to argue with him further. He hadn’t been fooled by Shayne’s apparent indifference to the plight of the wounded girl. He shrewdly suspected that Shayne either knew or could guess the identity of her attacker and that he wasn’t giving out information which might help the authorities get to him first.
When the telephone rang both men started as though the sound was the last thing in the world they expected to hear. Shayne whirled to grab the receiver. He said, “Shayne speaking,” and listened for a long time without interrupting the flow of words coming over the wire.
His voice was grim and urgent when he finally said, “I get the picture, Harry. Keep a man in the room with him. Get hold of Peter Painter and start turning the Beach upside down until they find her. Check every phone call to and from their suite since the robbery, fine-tooth the hotel for anything you can find out. I’ll be over quick.”
He hung up and turned to report succinctly, “Mrs. Dustin has disappeared. Mr. Dustin is alone in bed, passed out from an overdose of sleeping-tablets. They can’t rouse him. We’ve got to find her and we’ve got to find Mr. X. Will you stay here until your man comes?” He was striding toward the bedroom as he spoke. He went in, and emerged a few moments later with the Colt automatic in one hand and a tie in the other. He dropped the gun on top of his coat, swiftly knotted the tie around his throat.
Sergeant Harvey said, “Sure. I’ll stick around, Mike. I thought you never packed a rod when you’re working,” he added with a curious glance at the gun.
Shayne shrugged into his coat and dropped the. 38 in a side pocket. “This is a special sort of case. Be seeing you.” He grabbed his hat on the way out and closed the door gently.
Chapter Eleven
Michael Shayne found chief painter interrogating one of the elevator operators when he reached the Dustin suite at the Sunlux Hotel. Painter looked worried and his black eyes flashed angrily as he disposed of the man with a scathing: “If you birds had eyes to see with or minds to remember with, a police officer’s job would be easier. Go on back to your elevator.”
Harry Jessup was seated comfortably in a deep chair across the room. He was a paunchy man with gray hair and a placid face. He rolled out his thick lips in a grimace at Shayne as Painter whirled on the Miami detective and demanded, “What’s all this about?”
Shayne said, “Suppose you bring me up-to-date. Have you found Mrs. Dustin?”
“Not a trace of her. She’s vanished completely. Flown out the window as near as I can make out from what I can learn around here.” He gestured savagely toward one of the wide-open windows. “Jessup says you sent him up here to investigate. Why? How did you know anything about it?”
“You should realize by this time that I generally know quite a lot about what’s going on.” Shayne looked over Painter’s head and asked Jessup, “Has her husband had anything to say yet?”
“The doctor’s in there trying to bring him out of it,” snapped Painter. He thrust himself forward aggressively as Shayne walked over toward Jessup.
“According to Jessup,” Painter went on, “you suspected something was wrong because Mrs. Dustin had tried to get in touch with you earlier and then didn’t answer her phone when you called back.”
“I didn’t waste time telling Jessup the whole story. Some bird entered my apartment while I was out, tried to kill my secretary, and answered the telephone, impersonating me and promising Mrs. Dustin he would see her at once.”
Shayne went on to give both men a swift resume of Lucy Hamilton’s condition and the fragmentary story she had told. He left out all reference to his encounter with the two men in Mickey’s Garage basement, and spread out his big hands when he added, “That’s everything I’ve got. I don’t know any more than you do why Mrs. Dustin called me. I don’t know who knocked Lucy out and answered my phone.”
“Where did you go after you left here earlier?” Painter demanded, eyeing the bruise on Shayne’s face. “Who did you tangle with?”
“Too much liquor,” Shayne said ruefully. “I dropped in a couple of bars and overestimated my capacity. Ended up ramming a culvert on Delaware Road and knocking myself out. What have you found out about Dustin tonight?” he asked Jessup.