The intruder stopped in mid-stride with a gasp of astonishment when he saw the redhead’s face. He was squarely built and heavy-set. A Panama hat was pulled low over spectacled eyes and the upturned collar of a swagger raincoat effectually hid the lower portion of his face.
For a fleeting moment they stared into each other’s eyes with not more than a foot of space separating them. Then, as Shayne righted himself and gained his balance, the man whirled and leaped nimbly through the opening and jerked the door shut behind him.
Shayne sprang forward with a curse and opened the door, stepped out onto the steel landing of the fire escape, and looked down as the clatter of retreating footsteps came up through the silence. The man had almost reached the ground, plunging downward two steps at a time and with no regard for the noise he made.
With a grimace of disgust at his clumsiness, Shayne reentered the kitchen and locked the door.
Most of his allotted thirty minutes had been used up and he didn’t want to keep Gentry waiting. There was a nightmarish quality about the whole incident that would have been ridiculous if Shayne hadn’t felt it might be very important to know the identity of Devlin’s early morning visitor. But there was nothing to be done about it now, so he finished tying the bundle of clothing, tucked it under his arm, and went down the back stairs to his car.
Chapter seven
A corpse for the cops
The tropical June day had begun in earnest when Shayne parked in front of the rooming-house on Palmleaf Avenue, but the air was still cool with the lingering breath of the night breeze rustling the palm fronds arched overhead. Number 819 was one of a row of similar three-story frame houses built close to the sidewalk and close together with cupolas in front and dormer windows on the sides. No one was yet moving on the street, but from some of the open windows came the sound of radios as the occupants began to stir themselves for a new day.
Shayne yawned widely and relaxed behind the wheel. He was lighting a cigarette when a gray sedan turned into the block and stopped at the curb behind him. He spun the match away and stepped out onto the pavement, walked back to the open left-hand door of the sedan.
The Miami police chief was grunting sourly and heaving his heavy bulk from the seat. His broad, florid face, ordinarily good-humored, wore a heavy scowl. His eyes were murky and red-rimmed and he was unshaven.
“What’s this all about, Mike? Why the devil did you drag me out of bed?”
Shayne grinned. “I’m not sure, Will. If it’s a false alarm, I’ll take you back home and tuck you in myself.”
“Doesn’t seem to be any excitement around here,” grumbled Gentry as he walked stolidly beside Shayne. “If this is one of your little jokes, Mike—”
“It’s not a joke, Will. Here’s our number. We’ll soon find out.” Shayne went ahead of Gentry, turned the door knob, and they went into a small entry with stairs leading up directly ahead of them.
There was no sign of life, no sound from behind any of the closed doors. A card on the first one on the right held a small printed card that read Manager.
Shayne closed the door quietly and went up the stairs with Gentry following. The air seemed musty with the smell of yesterday’s food and with the stench of long-decayed human hopes.
A dim, dusty bulb lit the narrow hall on the third floor. When they reached 304, Shayne started to knock on the thin door panel, hesitated, then tried the knob.
The door opened. Enough light came through the one window to show the body of the dead man crumpled at the foot of the bed, just as Arthur Devlin had described it. Shayne reached a long arm in and switched the light on, stepped aside, and said politely, “It’s all yours, Will. I won’t have to take you home and tuck you in after all.”
Will Gentry’s rumpled lids rolled up like miniature Venetian blinds. All signs of sleepiness were gone from his eyes and he gave Shayne a sharp, questioning look, then moved slowly and solidly to stand over the dead man. He sighed almost plaintively and said, “All right, Mike. Give it to me.”
“I’ve already given it to you, Will.” Shayne made a thrusting motion with his hands and stepped up beside the chief. “Skid Munroe,” he muttered in a tone of mild surprise.
“Who did you expect to find lying here?”
“Frankly, I didn’t have the slightest idea.”
Gentry grunted. “Another one of your hunches?”
“Look, Will, can I help it if I have sources of information?”
“Who killed him?”
“I don’t know.”
“How’d you know he was here?”
“If I didn’t keep my pipelines confidential I wouldn’t have any. You know how I operate.”
“Yeh. I know.” Gentry pushed his hat to the back of his head and scratched his heavy jowls. “Go down and wake the manager and phone Harry at Homicide. Bring the manager back with you.”
“Maybe you’d better phone Harry,” Shayne suggested. “He might get sore—”
“I’ll stay here while you do the phoning,” said Gentry without rancor. “You’ve probably been over everything already, but I couldn’t help that. Get Harry.”
“Okay. Okay, Will,” Shayne said soothingly. “But don’t forget who tipped you off — and let me in on whatever you find.” He turned and long-legged it out of the room and down the stairs.
When he returned a few minutes later he was accompanied by a wizened little bald-headed man who clutched a faded bathrobe around his shrunken middle and wheezed loudly through a long, sharp nose.
Gentry had been through the dead man’s pockets and had tossed a clip of bills and a key ring on the bed. He gestured toward them and growled, “That’s all he had on him. Eighteen bucks and some keys.”
Shayne said, “The squad boys are on their way. Harry is bringing the taxi driver I mentioned. He phoned in a few minutes ago.” Turning to the frightened, wheezing little man he said, “This is Mr. Erlang. I didn’t tell him anything, but he heard me phoning Homicide.”
“Come on in,” Gentry said brusquely. “Haven’t you ever seen a corpse before?”
“Not just — lying out like that,” he admitted through chattering teeth. He advanced a few cautious steps and peered nearsightedly at the body. “That’s him, all right. Signed the register George Moore. Just this afternoon. Paid me cash in advance. Said he was expecting someone to see him here tonight.”
“Who?” Gentry’s lids were rolled up and his eyes probed the little man’s steadily.
“Didn’t say who. Just some man. So when a man come at about ’leven and asked for my new roomer and sort of described him I told him 304 and he come up alone.”
“Didn’t he know Moore’s name?” Shayne cut in.
“Reckon not. Acted like he didn’t know, sure enough.”
“Describe the visitor,” Gentry ordered.
“Didn’t get a good look at him that time, but when he come down a couple hours later I saw him good. Tall he was, and mean-looking. Had his hat pulled low over his face and a look that scared me. Snarled something and went right past me and out the door like the devil was on his tail.”
“What time was that?”
“Short of two, I reckon. I’d been sitting up and waiting ’cause I didn’t hear him come down earlier and I figured maybe they was sneaking him in for the night. Two for the price of one, you see. They try that stunt on me a lot, but you can bet I watch out for it.” Mr. Erlang had backed away where he couldn’t see the corpse, and he cackled gleefully.
“You said you didn’t get a good look at the man when he came inquiring for his friend at eleven,” Shayne said. “Why not, if you directed him up here?”