The reporter flashed him a quizzical smile as Shayne got in beside him. “Neatly engineered,” he approved. “If you can’t find the evidence you need, just manufacture it.”
“Your brain is beginning to function,” Shayne said with marked flattery. “Let’s get back to that telephone booth.”
Rourke backed off the bridge and headed for the service station. Inside the phone booth, Shayne laid out four nickels. He called the Stallings campaign headquarters first. When a voice said Mr. Stallings was there, Shayne said, “Give him this message. Doctor Patterson calling. It’s imperative that Mr. Stallings return home at once. Absolutely imperative.”
Shayne hung up and called the Patterson Sanitarium. “Mr. Burt Stallings,” he said crisply. “Have Doctor Patterson come immediately. Tell him it’s a matter of life and death.” He hung up before any questions could be asked and called the Bugle Inn.
He got Arch Bugler on the wire and said, “Mike Shayne talking.”
“Haven’t they hung you yet?” a voice purred in Shayne’s ear.
“Not yet,” Shayne told him cheerfully. “I’m out at the Stallings place having a little conference with Burt and Doctor Patterson. We’ve about decided to hang the rap on you.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Arch Bugler’s voice reverted back to that of other days.
Shayne’s laugh was harsh and taunting. “As if you didn’t know. Hell, Bugler, you knew they’d crack under pressure — and you should have known I was just the boy to put the pressure on. Personally, I’m against making you the goat. I’d much rather hang it on Stallings — and win the election for Marsh. That’s why I’m calling you. We might fix something up if you’ll play ball with me.”
“I’ll be there in ten minutes,” Arch Bugler said gruffly.
Shayne called Jim Marsh’s apartment. The mayoralty candidate answered the phone. Shayne said cheerfully, “I’ve got everything fixed, Jim. Nothing to worry about now. I’m out here at Stallings’s house and he’s preparing to make a statement withdrawing from the race in your favor.”
“Good Lord, Shayne! What — But I thought — Do you mean that about Stallings?”
“Sure. It was the only way you could possibly win. After that newspaper story accusing me of murder you were sunk unless Stallings stepped out. So — I fixed it for you.”
“Wait, Shayne.” Marsh’s voice was panicky. “Wait until I can see you and talk it over.”
“I’ve got five grand invested in you,” Shayne reminded him.
“Yes, I know. That’s what I mean. I’ll take care of that so you won’t lose. Let me have a chance to talk with you privately.”
“Come on out, then, but make it snappy. We’ll hold off until you get here.”
Shayne emerged from the booth and grinned at Timothy Rourke. “It’s your turn now,” he said. “Call Painter and tell him I’ve just slipped across to Swordfish Island with murderous intent. Tell him to throw a cordon around the island so I can’t get away. And have him bring Whit Marlow along if he knows where the lad is.”
“I hope,” said Rourke, “you know what you’re doing.”
“So,” said Shayne gravely, “do I.” He gave Rourke a shove toward the phone booth. “Get in there and do your stuff. You can explain that your friendship with me stops at being an accomplice to murder.”
Rourke nodded when he came out of the booth. “He’ll have the island surrounded in ten minutes.”
“Come on. We’ve got to get over the bridge before the police get here. Wouldn’t do to disappoint Petey.”
They drove across the bridge, and Rourke parked in front of the house. They withdrew to the shelter of some shrubbery instead of entering the house at once, and watched while the procession began to arrive.
Dr. Patterson came first, with Burt Stallings right behind him. Arch Bugler was next, followed in a few minutes by Jim Marsh.
As Marsh went up the walk, Shayne nudged Rourke and grinned. “Time we were getting in on this. It ought to be good about now.”
They hurried up the walk behind Marsh, and Shayne caught the door as it swung shut behind him. He and Rourke entered in time to see Marsh following the maid out of the small anteroom. They trailed along to the library, a spacious high-ceilinged room already vibrating with loud questions tossed among the trio who had entered first. Marsh contributed to the general consternation when he entered and nervously asked for Shayne.
The detective lounged into the room behind Marsh and grinned widely at the confused expressions on the faces of the four who confronted him. He held up a big hand to halt the barrage of angry denunciations flung at him.
“Hold everything, gentlemen. I wanted to get you all together for a conference and I told each of you something that I thought would bring you in a hurry. That’s all there is to it.”
Dr. Patterson stood across the room near a window with his hands thrust in his coat pockets, glaring at Shayne. Arch Bugler was sunk deep in a chair with a sour sneer on his swart features. Jim Marsh stood near the door looking worried and uncertain. Burt Stallings took immediate command of the situation.
As soon as Shayne finished speaking, he rumbled, “I believe the police are anxious to get their hands on you, Shayne.” He strode forward toward a telephone stand behind Bugler.
Shayne laughed shortly. “You needn’t bother calling the police, Stallings. The island is already surrounded, and Painter will be here any minute to arrest the murderer.”
Stallings stopped a pace from the phone. The look of indecision went away from his face when bustling footsteps sounded in the hall and Painter appeared in the doorway behind Shayne. Whit Marlow, looking frightened and depressed, was by the detective chief’s side.
“There’s your man, Painter,” Stallings said, and pointed a long forefinger at Shayne. “I can’t imaging why he chose this melodramatic fashion of surrendering himself, but I hope you’ll manage to hold on to him this time.” His frown of disapproval rested on Painter’s immaculate features and attire.
“He won’t get away from us again.” Painter stepped back and jerked his head at two of his men in the hall. “Put the cuffs on the redhead,” he directed brusquely.
Shayne allowed his wrists to be handcuffed, though he protested. “You’re making another one of your damn-fool mistakes, Painter. Better save this hardware for the real criminal.”
“I’m satisfied to have them on you. Are you coming along, quietly?”
“I’d prefer to do a little talking while we’re all here together.”
“Go ahead,” Peter Painter crowed. “I don’t think even you can talk yourself out of this.”
Shayne shrugged his broad shoulders. “I made the mistake of talking this morning before I was sure of my facts. Like so many theories that look good, mine was faulty in that it didn’t take into account every fact in my possession. I didn’t take into consideration, for instance, the fact that nice girls generally wear pants even underneath a dress and slip.”
Blank silence followed his words. Rourke stared at him wonderingly, and grimaced when Shayne turned to him and added casually, “Remember, Tim? You were the one who noticed Helen Stallings wasn’t wearing any accessories under her dress.”
Rourke snorted loudly. “As if that proved anything. Not here in this Miami climate, Mike. Half the girls I know don’t wear any pants.”
“I said nice girls,” Shayne stressed. “But her lack of underclothing isn’t the only thing I’m hanging my present theory on. In addition to that you also made disparaging mention of the fact that she wore no make-up or nail color, and that her hair was unkempt and stringy. Remember?”