“So Devlin was your patient?”
“Also my friend.”
“Did he tell you why he returned from his vacation ahead of time?”
“He did not,” said Thompson icily.
“Did he tell you he killed a man tonight?”
Doctor Thompson winced and closed his eyes for a moment. He opened them wide and said, “If you wish to show me a statement from Arthur Devlin, I am willing to comment on that statement. Otherwise, I must tell you that anything he said to me tonight was in absolute confidence which I shall not betray.”
Shayne slid deeper into his chair and stretched his long legs out. Thompson was playing it cautiously, he thought admiringly. He didn’t know whether Devlin had yet been arrested, or what story he had told the police if he had been arrested. Thompson was no fool.
“There’s such a thing as accessory after the fact,” Painter snapped. “Maybe a few days in jail would pull you off your high horse.”
“There is also such a thing as a doctor’s legal responsibility toward his patient,” said Thompson suavely. “I don’t think you would keep me in jail very long.”
“Even if that patient is a murderer?” Gentry asked.
“Is Devlin a murderer?”
“A lot of evidence points to him,” Gentry rumbled. “His fingerprints are all over a room in which a murder was committed last night.”
“That doesn’t prove his guilt,” said Thompson stoutly.
“What reason would Devlin have for luring you away on a fake call and then breaking in and going through all your files?” Gentry asked without warning.
Fear flickered over Thompson’s pudgy face. He sat up stiffly. “Did Art do that? Why, in the name of God?”
“That’s what we’re asking you.”
“He had no reason to do a thing like that. I can’t imagine—” He paused, ran smooth plump fingers through his hair agitatedly. “Could it have been Art who phoned me?”
“Don’t you realize it was his voice — now that you think back?”
Thompson shook his head slowly. “I don’t — think so. I can’t conceive of him pulling a stunt like that, and there’s absolutely nothing in my files to interest him.”
“Who would be interested?” Shayne asked.
Thompson looked at him in some surprise and said, “I haven’t any idea. My files consist wholly of case records.”
“Someone was.” Shayne hesitated a moment, his eyes speculative. “We don’t know that all this is connected with the murder tonight and with your visit to Devlin’s apartment,” he continued, “but it’s damned coincidental if it isn’t. Assuming they are connected — what could your office records have to do with Devlin murdering a man?”
“Nothing. I have only treated Art for a few minor ailments.” Thompson seemed completely bewildered.
“Did you have a patient by the name of Skid Munroe?”
“No. Is he the one—?”
“See here, Will,” Painter interrupted peevishly, “why do you sit there and let Shayne monopolize this investigation? He has no legal standing in the matter. He said, himself, he had no interest in it.”
Thompson stared at Shayne with a fresh interest when Painter spoke his name.
“Are you Mike Shayne?” he asked.
“That’s right. I got this bump on my head from whoever was going through your records.”
“I’d like to talk to you — later,” Thompson said.
“He’s not going to be talking to anyone for some little time,” said Painter officiously. “He’s holding something back, covering up for someone, and this time I’ve got him dead to rights.”
Shayne gave a sardonic chuckle. “You tell him, Will. Explain one of the basic facts of detection to him.”
“I’d rather hear you tell him,” Gentry told him.
“Are you going to deny that you knew Thompson was mixed up in this case when you left the Clairmount and hurried straight over here? Are you going to claim it was mere coincidence that brought you here?”
“Nuts,” said Shayne. “I heard the clerk give Gentry the telephone number Devlin had called — and a description of the man who came to see Devlin a short time later. What else do you think I needed?”
“Sergeant Hopkins had the number too, but it took him the best part—”
“That’s why Hopkins is still a sergeant,” Shayne broke in.
Painter flushed angrily. “Watch your step, Shayne. Just what did you do that was so brainy?”
“I knew Devlin’s visitor was a doctor,” said Shayne patiently. “The clerk said Devlin was in bad shape when he came in. In describing the visitor he said he carried an emergency bag. See? Sick man — doctor’s bag. So I got hold of a classified telephone directory fast and found the doctor that fitted the number.” He got up and picked up his empty brandy glass. “You’ve got good taste in brandy, Doctor. And in nurses. I’ll be getting acquainted with both while you get rid of these birds.” He started toward the door.
“Not so fast, Shayne,” said Painter. “That flimsy explanation will have to stand because we can’t disprove it. But don’t forget that Arthur Devlin called two numbers from his apartment last night.”
“Did he?” Shayne asked blandly.
“You know he did. The second one — just before he called down for a taxi — was a Miami number.”
“Miami has so many numbers,” Shayne said musingly, “I didn’t have time to look that one up.”
“But only one that gets your apartment hotel.” Shayne started a yawn. He broke it off in the middle and gaped at Painter. “Are you saying that Devlin telephoned me?”
“He called your hotel.”
“In which there are seventy-odd apartments,” Shayne reminded him gently.
“Do you deny that he phoned you for an appointment and then went directly to see you?” Painter challenged.
Shayne thought for a moment, then said, “He may have called me on the phone, but he certainly didn’t get me.” He shrugged and explained, “I have the man on the switchboard trained to ring my number only three times at night unless he’s convinced it’s a real emergency. Why don’t you check with him?” he urged. “I’ll be inside if you want me.”
He turned away toward the office and the nurse.
Chapter nine
A Doctor Wonders
Shayne had much better luck getting acquainted with Thompson’s brandy than with his nurse. Miss Dort got the bottle from a medicine cabinet and handed it to him with stiff disapproval, then reseated herself at the desk and bent her head over her work.
Shayne poured a slug in his glass, lit a cigarette, and strolled over to close the door leading to the reception room where Painter was badgering the doctor with questions which he refused to answer.
Shayne sat down in the only other chair in the office and asked, “Who has a key to that back door?”
“I don’t know.” She didn’t lift her head and her voice was coolly disinterested. “It’s generally bolted on the inside.”
“What about keys to the front door?”
“I have my key. I don’t know about any others.”
“Do you always come to work so early?”
Miss Dort lifted her head and looked directly at him. “Are you really a detective?”
“Why do you ask that?” Shayne had a chance to study her face for the first time. Her skin was too white for a girl who lived in Miami all the time, and he decided she didn’t get enough sunshine. There was a becoming flush of rouge on her cheeks, and her lips were full and highly rouged.
“The policemen in there — particularly the small one — seemed very angry when they reached here and found you knocked out. He was sure you had been ransacking the files.”
“What did you think?” Shayne got up and sauntered over to her desk, eased one hip on a corner of it.