In his car Shayne was still grinning to himself. Now that he had established his status in the case as that of merely doing a favor for Will Gentry, he was free to work fast without interference from Painter. He had no doubt that Brooks would hastily report his actions to Painter.
He was speeding up Collins Avenue, swearing under his breath at the closed filling-stations. He figured he had only a very few minutes to spare.
Swinging into the first open station he came to, he flung himself out and trotted into the office before the sleepy attendant could come out. “Telephone book,” he said tersely. “Sorry, but that’s all I need.”
The attendant pointed to the corner and Shayne snatched up the directory, riffled through to the T’s, and ran a long forefinger down until he came to Thompson, Ronald W., Physician. The address was in one of the newer Beach residential sections near 79th Street.
He trotted out, leaving a mutter of thanks floating behind him, got in and gunned his motor and headed northward.
Ten minutes later he pulled up in front of a neat bungalow set in a square of freshly planted lawn shadowed with palm fronds. He leaped out and went up the walk to the small porch. A bronze sign beside the door read Dr. Ronald Thompson, M.D. Office hours 10:00 A.M. — 2:00 P.M. Enter and Ring Bell.
He put his finger on the electric bell and held it there. He could hear it ringing inside and had a queer sensation that it was ringing on emptiness — that its summons would not be answered.
He removed his finger and stopped the ringing after a full minute. He tried the door knob. The door was locked. He glanced at the front windows. Venetian blinds were tightly drawn.
Turning, he hurried down the steps and trotted around the side of the house across fresh sod to the rear door.
The screen door was closed, but the wooden door was wide open. He hesitated only a few seconds, then pulled the screen door open and entered a small rear hall where there was a large, gleaming refrigerator. On his left an open door led into a small modern kitchen, its cleanliness attesting Doctor Thompson’s precise bachelor habits.
A swinging door led out of the kitchen. Shayne pushed it open and saw a small shadowed room which appeared to be a combination office and private study. He stood in the doorway with his right hand holding the door open, appalled by the evidence of destructive violence that met his eyes. Drawers were pulled out from the desk and from two filing-cabinets. Papers and cardboard folders littered the floor in torn and crumpled disorder. Two straight chairs were overturned and the room was filled with the heavy, sweetish odor of some anesthetic which had apparently spilled from one of the broken bottles beside an overturned cabinet in the far corner.
He took a step forward and let the door swing shut behind him. He sensed movement to the right and rear of him and swung around to meet the crushing impact of a blow high on his cheekbone. He went down without knowing what struck him.
Chapter eight
Basic facts for Peter Painter
Michael Shayne heard a faint ringing and a strange sensation of drifting through fragrant, perfumed space. He heard the faint murmur of a voice, far away and soft and soothing. He felt the gentle touch of finger tips on his wrist and he tried to move his own fingers to catch hold of them before he fell from the emptiness through which he was drifting. Without conscious volition one of his eyes opened and he saw the face of a girl bending over him.
She was quite pretty, with smooth cheeks, brown curls clustered at the nape of her neck. Her lips were red and parted slightly in the complete absorption of counting his pulse. He closed his eye and moved his lips to produce an indistinguishable mumble, but nothing happened. He tried again, a little louder this time.
The finger tips tightened on his wrist and an anxious voice spoke close above him. “He’s coming around, I think. What was it you said?”
Shayne mumbled again and a strident voice stabbed through the ringing in his ears: “What’s that, nurse? Did he say something?”
The nurse said, “Shh. Don’t arouse him suddenly, Chief Painter. It might be dangerous.” She leaned close to Shayne’s ear and asked soothingly, “Can you hear me?”
Shayne lay very still and didn’t try again to make a sound. Peter Painter’s voice had jarred him back to consciousness and remembrance rushed through his brain. He could feel the girl’s face very close to his, smelled the illusive scent of her lipstick mingled with the fragrance of her perfume. When he felt her breath on his face he moved his head upward suddenly and his mouth touched hers for an instant. His eyes popped wide open and looked into hers not more than an inch away.
She jerked her head back at the same moment that Shayne let his fall back on the pillow. She was startled, but his wide grin and twinkling eyes reassured her. “I like being your patient,” he told her. “Next time I get slugged on the head—”
“Shayne!” Chief Painter strutted forward, glaring down at him with angry black eyes and the thin line of his mustache twitching. “Have you been pretending? By God, I ought to—”
“Hold it, Painter.” Will Gentry stalked into view. “You heard what the nurse said when she patched Shayne up. He’d been out cold at least fifteen minutes before she found him. Are you okay, Mike?” he asked when he reached the foot of the narrow hospital bed.
Shayne pulled himself up slowly and felt pain for the first time. He put his hand to his face and felt a bandage and adhesive tape. “I guess I’m okay,” he said, his gray eyes looking slowly around the spotless operating-room, coming back to rest on the nurse who had stepped back and was regarding him with demure intentness through wide black eyes.
“Where is Doctor Thompson?” Painter demanded. “Did he catch you in the act of tearing his place to pieces?”
Shayne managed the wide grin that never failed to irritate the Miami Beach chief of detectives, then turned to Gentry and asked, “Where am I?”
“In the room where Doctor Thompson treats his patients,” said Gentry. “The nurse came a few minutes before we did and found you lying in there.” He pointed a stubby finger toward a door that led into another room. “What the devil happened?”
“You’ve got a lot of explaining to do, Shayne,” Painter snapped. “Breaking and entering — destroying evidence—”
“What sort of evidence?” Shayne growled.
“I don’t know yet, but I’m sure it must have been important for you to have slipped over here ahead of us. It wouldn’t have happened if I’d been at the Clairmount.”
Shayne swung his feet over the edge of the narrow bed and turned his back squarely on Painter. The swift movement pained his face. He steadied himself and grinned at the nurse. He asked, “Don’t you keep any stimulants around for your patients — other than yourself, I mean. A spot of brandy, maybe?”
She said doubtfully, “I think there is some brandy in the outer office, but I don’t think you need any.”
“It’s the one thing I do need,” Shayne assured her. “And a place to relax with a cigarette,” he added to Gentry.
“We’ll go in the reception room.” Gentry moved heavily through a side door into the front living-room of the bungalow which the doctor had converted into a reception room replete with comfortable chairs, a long couch, and smoking-stands. Shayne shambled in behind him and dropped into the first chair he came to. Peter Painter filed in behind him.
“The back room was like that when I got here,” Shayne told Gentry. “The front door was locked and the back door was wide open. I came in and pushed the swinging door open and stood there looking at the mess somebody had made of Thompson’s office. When I let go of the door to step inside, zowie! Somebody was standing behind it, waiting. That’s all I know. You haven’t located Thompson yet?”