Shayne made a note of the address. His gaunt face was expressionless as he picked up the receiver and called a number, waited a moment, then said, “That you, Harry? Mike Shayne. Yeh, I’m really out after the worm this morning. Any homicides last night?”
He tugged at his left earlobe as he waited. Devlin watched him, fists clenched hard and his face white.
“Too bad,” Shayne said into the mouthpiece, “some ginzo didn’t get himself bumped just to keep you from being bored, Harry. And one more thing — any disturbance reported at eight nineteen Palmleaf?”
He listened again, nodding his head. “No particular reason for asking. Been playing with my ouiji board and must have got the wrong address.” He chuckled and added, “Being a quiet night, I suppose Chief Gentry is home sleeping off an overload of beer. Thanks, Harry.”
He hung up and immediately called for another number, looked reassuringly at his client and said, “Nothing at headquarters on the Skid Munroe murder. If I’m lucky—” He said into the mouthpiece, “Will? Mike Shayne. Can you meet me on Palmleaf Avenue in about half an hour?”
Arthur Devlin sprang up angrily, his face white and his lips drawn tight. “Damn you,” he sobbed, “I thought I could trust you. I should have known—”
Shayne’s gray eyes were blazing. “Hold it just a minute, Will. There’s a little misunderstanding here.” He put a big hand over the mouthpiece and said, “What kind of an act is this, Devlin?” His voice was hard and cold.
“I thought you believed me,” Devlin cried angrily. “I thought you were taking my case as a private detective, but you called the police. That was Chief Will Gentry you were talking to.”
“So what?” Shayne’s tone was harsh and uncompromising.
“Is that any way to help me?” Devlin asked shrilly. “Sick the police on me? I told you they’d be after me as soon as the body was discovered and the taxi driver heard the story.”
“So what?” Shayne demanded again.
“I thought you’d cover up for me — go there and move the body. Anything except tell the police about it.” Devlin slumped down and covered his face with his hands.
Shayne’s eyes were bleak as he gazed at the slumped, quivering body. He said, quietly, “I’ll handle things my way or not at all, Devlin. Either you pull yourself together and keep your mouth shut while I make this call, or get out of my apartment.”
“Where will I go if I leave here?” he moaned. “What can I do?”
“That,” said Shayne, “is for you to decide. Make up your mind fast. Do I tell Gentry it was all a mistake and apologize for waking him up?”
“I–I—” Devlin sputtered through chattering teeth, dragging himself up straight. “Handle — it your way, Shayne,” he said, calming his voice with an effort. “I’m in your hands.”
“All right.” Shayne took his hand from the mouthpiece and said, “Sorry to keep you waiting, Will. Eight-nineteen Palmleaf Avenue. I’ll meet you there in thirty minutes.” He paused to listen, then growled, “You know I wouldn’t do this if it weren’t important. And Will — as soon as you hang up call headquarters and put a call on the short wave for the cabby who picked up a fare close to the Palmleaf address a little after midnight. Ask him to report in. A lot of those all-night hacks tune in police calls.” He cradled the receiver and got up and strode into the bedroom without a glance at his client.
Devlin sat stiffly erect, his red-rimmed eyes staring vacantly into space. Presently he got up and went to the bedroom door. Shayne had his trousers on and was buckling his belt.
“You really are cutting the ground from under me, aren’t you, Shayne?” he said. “If you had let things take their normal course the cab driver wouldn’t have read about the murder until this afternoon at the earliest.”
Shayne flung a tie around his neck and started tying it. “Do you want me to handle this or don’t you?” he growled.
“I do want you to,” Devlin told him. “You must have some reason—”
“Keep on thinking that,” said Shayne cheerfully. “It’ll save wear and tear on your nervous system.” He sat down on the bed and put his shoes on. “I’m not in the habit of explaining, Devlin, but I’ll do it this once because you’re so upset. If you’ve lied to me about this, God help you. But if you’ve told the truth, the best thing is for me to get in on it fast. I’ll get a lot more working with the police. Sure I want you traced to your apartment. I want Doctor Thompson traced so we can hear his story. This way, I can get the cops to do it for me without letting them know I represent you or where you are.”
“Everyone,” said Devlin, “will know where I am in a few hours. When a man is charged with murder it doesn’t remain a secret very long.”
Shayne got up to get his coat. “You won’t be arrested if you listen to me,” he told Devlin. “Stay here. There’s food in the kitchen, cigarettes and liquor. Don’t get drunk. Don’t open the door and don’t answer the phone. If you hear anyone at the door, come in the bedroom and close the door and be quiet.” He was moving about, talking swiftly, putting cigarettes and change in his pockets. He brushed past Devlin into the living-room, stopped to pick up the felt hat Devlin had worn, grabbed his own slouch hat from a hook near the door and went out hastily, leaving Arthur Devlin standing dazedly in the middle of the room trying to stammer his apologies and his thanks.
A crimson glow rimmed the eastern horizon when Shayne backed his car out of the hotel garage and drove rapidly across the causeway to the Clairmount Apartments. With only thirty minutes’ leeway before he was to meet Gentry on Palmleaf Avenue he was cutting it pretty fine, but he had his own reasons for wanting to pick up the clothing at Devlin’s place before the official investigation led the police there.
By taking the curves on the Venetian Causeway at fifty miles an hour he reached the Clairmount twelve minutes after leaving Devlin, parked down the street past the alley where an arrow pointed in and read Service Entrance.
He found the stairway at the extreme rear and climbed the two flights without being seen, went down the corridor to 3-B, and unlocked the door. After turning on the living-room lights he looked over the room reflectively.
The furniture and appointments were moderately expensive and masculine, the sort of neutral, unobtrusive background a man such as the Arthur Devlin he had met two years ago would select. He had come to realize that a lot could be learned about a man’s real personality by viewing his living-quarters.
He crossed the room and went into the bedroom. The discarded clothing lay in a pile on the floor beside the bed. He found a folded piece of brown paper in a partially denuded closet, opened it up and dumped the clothes onto it, and looked around for a piece of string. In one of the desk drawers in the living-room there was half a ball of twine. He went back to the bedroom and folded the clothing into a neat package and was tying the last knot when he heard a peculiar sound that caused him to stop and jerk his head around.
It came again. A faint and almost ghostly tapping in the early morning silence. Shayne straightened up and strode into the living-room, every sense alert as he went toward the front door and listened.
The sound came again, faint, cautious, and definitely from the rear door. He remembered then what Devlin had said about the fire escape. Shayne went on tiptoe toward the tapping, stopped to switch on the kitchen light, then moved across the linoleum to the door. There was a key in the lock. He put his hand on the key, leaned close to the crack, and said loudly, “What is it?”
“Devlin!” A harsh whisper came back. “Let me in. Quickly.”
Shayne turned the key and the knob at the same time. As the latch clicked the weight of a man’s body drove the door back hard against Shayne, catching him off balance and sending him back against the kitchen wall.