“Morgan took him in one of the cars. That’s why I’m asking him—”
“I beg your pardon,” said Morgan coldly, “but I am not a chauffeur, Mr. Masters.”
“But damn it all, I remember telling you to see that Devlin was taken care of,” he exploded.
“I’m quite sure he was taken care of. When I looked for him about eleven-thirty, he was gone — as were some of the other guests. I presumed one of them saw him safely off. If that’s all you wanted—”
“Hold it,” said Shayne. “There’s something else, Morgan.”
“Yes?”
“Why haven’t you told your boss that Devlin tried to call him early this morning?”
“What’s that?” demanded Masters. “What the devil’s Devlin doing back here? He’s not — I didn’t think he was due back.”
“He wasn’t,” Shayne cut in. “Why didn’t you tell him, Morgan?”
“Am I to answer this man’s questions?” Morgan asked icily.
“There you are, Shayne.” Masters chortled. “I hope that puts you in your place. You can tell me,” he went on angrily to his secretary. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t realize you were interested.”
“Is that why you refused to wake Mr. Masters when Devlin begged you to?” demanded Shayne.
“I used my own judgment about that.”
“Now, by God, Morgan,” began Masters threateningly, but the man turned full on him and interrupted in a firm voice:
“It was my responsibility and I did as I thought best. I couldn’t conceive of anything Mr. Devlin had to say that was important enough to disturb you for…” His voice trailed off to silence as he looked over the top of Masters’s head full into Shayne’s face for the first time. His mouth sagged open, then snapped shut as Shayne deliberately pushed his hat far back on his head and stood up.
“If you thought it was so unimportant,” said Shayne, “suppose you tell us why you hurried over to Devlin’s apartment immediately afterward and slipped up the fire escape to enter secretly through the rear door?”
“Good heavens!” Morgan exclaimed. “You — you’re the man who was in the kitchen.”
“That’s right, Morgan. You left rather hurriedly,” Shayne said mockingly.
“What is this?” demanded Masters. “You went to Devlin’s place early this morning, Morgan?”
“I was worried about him after he telephoned,” the man said precisely. “I realized he wasn’t due back yet, and decided he must be in some sort of trouble. So I went over to offer any assistance I could. I was confused and frightened when I opened the kitchen door expecting to see Devlin and saw — this man — instead. I was so alarmed I didn’t stop to ask questions.”
“And after you left there,” said Shayne harshly, “did you by any chance lure Doctor Thompson away from his house by a fake telephone call and then tear up his records? And did you waylay me as I came in the back door and slug me over the head and then beat it?”
“I did nothing of the sort,” said Morgan, staring at the bruised swelling on Shayne’s cheek. “I came directly back here and went to bed.”
“Can you prove it?”
“Why does he have to prove anything to you?” Masters jerked out. “I don’t like your damn manners, Shayne.”
“It’s mutual,” Shayne told him. “I don’t like getting bounced on the head, and I think this secretary of yours is playing some sort of game you should know about.”
“Such as what?”
“Such as holding out the name of your dead wife’s sister,” snapped Shayne. “That’s the question Devlin asked him over the phone this morning.”
An extraordinary change came over Bert Masters. He rose from the table slowly and his gross features were suffused with fury. “What’s my wife to do with this?”
“Plenty. What’s the name of her sister in New York? Janet what?”
“What has she to do with it?” Masters asked harshly.
“She’s on board the Belle of the Caribbean at Key West,” said Shayne, “with certain information about your wife’s death which I’m beginning to believe may incriminate your perfect secretary. Give me her name so I can get in touch with her.”
“Incriminate — Morgan? You’re crazy. Lily committed suicide.”
“Maybe,” Shayne grated.
“Of course it was suicide. The police — and the doctor—”
“Jumped through a hoop when you cracked the whip,” Shayne supplied. “Hell, maybe her sister’s story would incriminate you, Masters. Maybe your Man Friday here has been covering up for you all the time. Did you tell him to throw the bolt on the inside of the door leading from her bedroom into yours after he broke in the other door and found your wife dead? Did you send him on the Belle of the Caribbean—?”
Masters deliberately turned his back on Shayne. In a voice cold with rage and menace he demanded of his secretary, “How many men are around the place?”
“Men? There are the chauffeur — and the gardener — and—” Morgan stammered.
“Get them,” snapped Masters, “and throw this bastard out of here. If you break his neck doing it,” he went on venomously, “all three of you will find a bonus in your next pay check.”
Morgan said, “Certainly, sir,” and hurried out. Shayne chortled and leaned forward to mash out his cigarette. “It’s no good, Masters. I’m not Peter Painter. The kettle is beginning to boil and when it builds up strong pressure the lid’ll pop off. Give me Morgan,” he went on swiftly. “Why cover up for him? Hell, with a little co-operation from you I can hang a murder rap around his neck—”
“Get out!” Masters’s voice was thick with rage. “Get out and don’t come back.”
Shayne could hear excited voices and running footsteps inside the big house. He shrugged, strode to an open door leading onto the east terrace, vaulted the low limestone wall enclosing it, long-legged it around to the front of the house, and slid into the front seat of his car just as the front doors were flung open and Morgan rushed out on the porch followed by two men.
He waved to them as he started the motor, swung out of the driveway, and drove southward.
Chapter fourteen
A passenger is missing
Shayne stopped at a public telephone and looked up Arthur Devlin’s Miami Beach office address. It was on Fifth Avenue, only a few minutes’ drive.
He found a tall, angular spinster typing at a desk between two closed doors, both labeled PRIVATE. He took off his hat and tried out his most ingratiating grin as he approached, but she was at least fifteen years too old to respond to his blarney. She stopped typing and folded skinny forearms across her flat bosom, compressed thin unrouged lips, and began to shake her head before he said a word.
Shayne fumbled in his pocket for a business card, laid it before her. She studied it carefully, said, “I’m sorry, but Mr. Devlin is out of town and Mr. Howard is not in his office.”
Shayne said patiently, “I don’t want to see either Mr. Howard or Mr. Devlin. All I want is a name and address out of Devlin’s files.”
“I recall that you assisted us on a case sometime ago, Mr. Shayne,” she said, “but I wasn’t aware we had a controversial case—”
“I’m acting for Mr. Devlin, and I need the name of one of his clients. The sister of Mrs. Bert Masters who committed suicide a couple of months ago.”
“How do I know you’re authorized by Mr. Devlin to have this information.”
“Will you get the name for me?”
“Certainly not. Not without a direct order from Mr. Devlin.”
“Will a telephone call from him be enough?”
“It would be sufficient, but it so happens that Mr. Devlin is not available by telephone.”