Their eyes held for a moment. Shayne said, “Nickerson may have told you I owe him a favor. It’s a big one, and I don’t enjoy having it hanging over me, because I don’t like or admire the man. This would be one way to work it off. There are things about it I don’t like. I don’t think dirty movies do any real harm. I also think the present governor has done a pretty fair job.”
“That’s your privilege,” Tucker said through tight lips. “I disagree with you, of course. The man’s as slippery as a weasel. I don’t see that it matters. I’m not asking for your vote. I’m asking you to find my wife.”
Shayne nodded curtly. “As long as we understand each other. The fee’s a thousand dollars. I’ll take care of my own ordinary expenses unless I have to pay for information.”
“That’s fair.”
“I’ll need a picture.”
“I know, and that’s a problem.” He had an envelope ready. Opening it, he handed Shayne four snapshots. “Another thing she’s been refusing to do lately is have her picture taken. These were the best I could find. They won’t be much help.”
The four photographs might have been taken of different women. They had two things in common, blond hair and glasses, but the glasses were three different shapes and the hair was differently arranged each time.
“Which is the most recent?”
“This one,” Tucker said. “But she’s gone back to wearing her hair straight, unless she’s cut it again in the last couple of days, which wouldn’t surprise me.”
Shayne put the photographs away. “You’ve given me two theories — that Capp is hoping to use her, and that she’s hoping to use Capp. Which do you think it is? It could make a difference.”
“I don’t know. She dislikes me, and she dislikes herself. But does she hate me enough to want to destroy me? All I know, for what it’s worth, is that she voted against me in the last election. She urged our friends to vote against me. I haven’t forgiven her that.”
“What do you want me to do if I find her?”
“Put her in your car and bring her home,” Tucker said grimly. “Then we’ll get to the bottom of this Frankie Capp business.”
Shayne finished his drink and stood up. “It’s pretty vague. If she’s taken a few elementary precautions she can stay ahead of me indefinitely. I’ll start with Frankie. But I’ll need a better picture.”
“I’ll keep looking. There are some old ones in Washington, but she’s changed so much in the last year.”
“And you’d better get on the phone and start calling people. Call everybody who may have seen her. You’ll have to announce that she’s left you, but it won’t mean anything politically unless it gets in the papers, and I don’t see why it should.”
“You’re right, I know. But God, it’ll be painful.”
“If you hear anything, call me on the car phone.”
CHAPTER 3
Both sides of Balfour Drive, between Collins Avenue and Indian Creek, were lined with cars. Shayne pulled out of the parking area and turned toward Collins, and as he did so, a flicker of movement in the front seat of one of the parked cars caught his eye.
He parked on Collins, in an open slot blocking a fire hydrant, and started back on foot, on the general theory that it would be useful to know who was watching his client’s building, preferably without being seen himself. There were too many streetlights. Before he could cross the street, he heard the slap of sneakers behind him, and turned.
A determined-looking woman was jogging toward him. She was a touch overweight, her black hair tied in a ribbon. Shayne smiled slightly and stepped out to block her.
“That looks like fun. Can I join you?”
She came down to a walk. When Shayne stayed in her path, she halted and glanced around, hoping to find that she wasn’t alone on this quiet block with a big, ruggedly built, red-haired stranger.
“Were you speaking to me?”
Shayne said pleasantly, “I’ve been thinking I ought to get more exercise. That’s a great way to do it. But I’m too chicken to go out alone. I worry about what people think. Seriously, let me keep you company. I’ll stay two feet away.”
“Actually, I prefer to run by myself.”
He sidestepped when she tried to edge past him.
“You ought to pick up your feet more and come down on your heels. You can give yourself shin splints that way. Let me show you.”
“I don’t need any coaching, thanks. Anyway, I’m about to go in.”
“My God, it’s hard to meet women in this town!” Shayne exclaimed. “What’s everybody so uptight about? What do you think I want to do, rape you?” He gave her a closer look. “And that might not be such a terrible idea. I don’t think I’ve ever raped anybody in a sweat suit.”
She took a backward step, her hand to her heart.
“O.K.,” Shayne said, laughing, and took out his wallet. “Let’s try it this way. I’m a private detective, and somebody’s sitting in a parked car down the street. I’d like to see who it is without scaring him too much.”
“Michael Shayne,” she said, reading his name from his license. “Why didn’t you say so? I thought you were making fun of me. Most people think people who run at night are ridiculous. I should care! I sleep better. All right, but try to keep in step.”
They set out at an easy jog, elbow to elbow. He had told her she looked as though she was having fun. The truth was, she looked as though she were being tortured.
“Don’t you feel conspicuous?” he asked.
“Not any more. There are more of us each day. Goodness, if I stopped doing things because of public opinion—”
“Come down on your full foot. Don’t clench your fists.”
“Like this?”
“Better.”
The sidewalk had been built at a time when there were still pedestrians, but tonight, except for Shayne and the young woman, it was empty. They came abreast of the car he wanted to look into. It was a cream-colored Dodge, with dealer plates, fenders that had been bashed in and pounded out and repainted. Shayne caught the first three numbers of the license — 576. A muscular young man was hunched over the wheel, his chin resting on his folded forearms. He had yellow hair cut shorter than was usual among persons his age. He was wearing wraparound dark glasses.
After jogging another thirty feet, Shayne’s companion said in a low voice, “People who run at night are ridiculous? I think people who wear shades at night are ridiculous.”
“He’s hiding.”
“Who is he? I live next door to that building. Should I be nervous?”
“Pay no attention. Do you know your neighbor Nick Tucker?”
“By sight. Somebody gave a coffee for him last year and I got to shake his hand, lucky me. I liked her better than him. He jogs, by the way, and that’s the only nice thing I can say about him.”
They continued to Indian Creek, then north to the Harbour Way and back to Collins, where Shayne stopped beside his car. He thanked her.
“You’ve got a good pair of lungs,” she commented, “along with everything else. If you’re in the neighborhood, I’m usually out at about this time. You’re right, it’s better with two people.”
She jogged off, clenching her fists again.
Shayne went up the front steps of the house on Vicenzo Island, which Frankie Capp had been able to buy, at a nice price, from the widow of a man who had been machine-gunned from a powerboat as he sat on his front terrace. A number of lights were on inside. Shayne rang the chimes twice. Nobody came.
He had been here before, and he knew that in Capp’s absence the house was protected by a German shepherd, trained to slobber on its owner’s hand and to tear out anybody else’s throat. Shayne returned to his car for a.38, which he stuck in his belt. He looked for a window that would be easier to force than one of the doors. Through a slit beneath a jammed blind, he was able to see into the living room. Somebody had already shot Capp’s dog. No longer dangerous, its front legs protruding stiffly, the animal lay in an unnatural position near the middle of a white rug, which would have to be cleaned.