“The vice squad?” Painter was surprised and confused.
“What makes you think—?”
“Suppose she wasn’t my sister? What of it? I had to tell the clerk something, didn’t I? You know how these hotels are about that sort of thing.”
A look of comprehension dawned on Painter’s face. “Are you trying to tell me we’ll find a woman’s prints here?”
“Why do you think I tried to keep you and your mug from coming up here with me?” demanded Shayne irritably. “I didn’t know whether she’d got out yet or not. She was still asleep when I left early this morning.”
Painter thumbnailed his small mustache thoughtfully. “You may be telling the truth, Shayne, but I doubt it. I know your reputation for that sort of thing, but I’m still betting Arthur Devlin was hidden in this apartment while we were running around looking for him on the Beach.”
Shayne shrugged wearily and said, “Would you care to lay some even money on that?”
“If I were a betting man,” said Painter stiffly, “I’d be willing to give you heavy odds.”
“But you’re not,” Shayne jeered, “a betting man.” He stalked to the door and opened it. “I’m going down to Gentry’s office.”
“Hold on there, Shayne. I’m coming with you. Martin, you stay here,” Painter hastily directed his subordinate, “just to see that no one touches anything until Gentry sends his men up here.”
Shayne didn’t bother to protest the high-handedness and illegality of this procedure by an officer from another municipality. He had other things on his mind and it didn’t make any particular difference whether Martin stayed behind or accompanied them.
He was halfway to the elevator when he heard Painter close the door and break into a trot to catch up with him. They went down in the elevator and across the lobby to the desk. The clerk on duty was not the same one who had sent Arthur Devlin up to his apartment. He was, however, an old employee who had known Shayne for a long time and who knew Painter by sight.
Shayne leaned on the desk and closed one eyelid in a slow wink. “Do you know what time my sister left my apartment this morning, Bill?”
The wizened little man kept his face expressionless and said in a precise voice, “No, Mr. Shayne. I didn’t notice her go out.”
“Did she make any phone calls after you came on duty — or receive any?” persisted Shayne.
“I’m positive there weren’t any calls from your apartment, but I believe I put a couple through this morning. There was one around ten-thirty, I recall, and another about an hour later. She answered both calls promptly.” There was just the faintest emphasis on the “she” and Shayne knew that the clerk must have heard a man’s voice answer his phone.
Shayne said, “Thanks, Bill,” and turned quickly, apparently surprised to see Painter standing close by and craning his neck to overhear the low-spoken conversation. “I thought you’d gone on to the car,” he exclaimed, and started for the side entrance door.
Painter hurried after him saying, “From what the clerk said,” he conceded, “I guess I was wrong about you having Devlin in your apartment. But whoever the woman was, I’m betting she was mixed up in the Devlin case somehow — and I intend to find out how.”
“You’d bet on that,” Shayne reminded him, “if you were a betting man.” They reached the car and Shayne slid under the wheel, made a U-turn in front of the drawbridge with bland disregard for traffic regulations, and drove rapidly to police headquarters, parked in the space reserved for official cars, and got out.
Painter followed him down the corridor to Gentry’s private office, pushed past him as Shayne opened the door, and announced, “I’m not at all satisfied, Gentry, with the way Shayne is conducting this Devlin affair.”
“I’m not very happy about it myself right at the moment,” Gentry growled. “After this latest murder, Shayne, don’t you think you’d better give us everything you’ve got on Devlin?”
“Latest murder?” shouted Painter. “What’s this? Who’s dead now?”
“When your damned gorilla pulled me into your office,” grated Shayne, “I told you a woman’s life might depend on how fast I could get to Miami. Well — I got here too late. One of these days you’re going to rot in your own stinking jail for pulling a dumb stunt like—”
“Do you mean the woman who was in your apartment?” Painter cut in. “See here, Shayne—”
Shayne turned his back on Painter’s querulous voice. “I swear to God I’ve given you everything I’ve got on Devlin, Will. If I had the faintest idea where he is I’d give him to you like that.” He snapped his thumb and second finger loudly.
“I hope you mean that, Mike.”
“I do. Have you got him definitely pegged for the Janet Brice job?”
“Now see here,” Painter interposed. “I’m completely in the dark on all this.”
Gentry paid no attention to him. “We haven’t anything definite on it, Mike. We traced her back to the seaplane dock where she landed from Key West at noon. She appears to have been met by some man and drove away with him. Nearest we can judge he drove to the Seventy-Ninth Street causeway, bopped her over the head somewhere along the way, and dumped her body out of the car on a deserted street on the Miami side. The message in her purse signed by Arthur Devlin makes it pretty certain he was the man who met her.”
“If she flew in from Key West at noon,” Painter expostulated, “how could she have received a telephone call in Shayne’s apartment at eleven-thirty?”
“What in hell is he talking about?” Gentry asked, scowling heavily. “Who said Mrs. Brice was in your apartment at eleven-thirty?”
“He’s as far off base as usual,” Shayne snapped. “There’s one thing out of line, Will. If Arthur Devlin killed Mrs. Brice, why did he leave that radiogram signed by him in her purse? That was a dead give-away.”
“We never know why guys do things like that.” Gentry sighed heavily. “Sometimes I think they just feel sorry for the poor dumb cops and want to help us out. He may not have known she had it with her. Or he just didn’t think about it in the excitement of committing his second murder within twelve hours. Or he realized there’d be a record of the message on file and we’d pick it up sooner or later. After all, from the background you gave me this morning we know he’s the only man in Miami who had a good reason to get her away from Key West before you got there and had a chance to talk to her.”
“But what could he gain by putting her out of the way?” Shayne demanded irritably. “With her death chalked up against him along with Munroe’s, he hasn’t the chance of a snowball in hell.”
“Murderers never think that way,” said Gentry heavily. “Somehow or other they hope to keep one jump ahead of things by killing everyone who gets in their way.”
“I demand to know what you’re talking about,” said Painter fretfully.
“You and Will can have a nice quiet chat as soon as I get a few items of information from him,” Shayne promised Painter. “Then I’ll be on my way.”
“You’ll be on your way where?” Painter snapped. “To help this murderer escape a second time? You’re a fool if you let Shayne out of your sight,” he appealed to Gentry.
Gentry studied Painter thoughtfully for a moment, then shifted his gaze to Shayne’s deeply lined face. “Painter’s got something there, Mike.”
“You don’t really think that. I’m getting things together, Will. You won’t regret giving me a free hand. But if you tie me up now—”
“I warn you, Gentry,” Painter broke in. “I’ve had experience with him before and—”
“There are a few things I want,” Shayne said.
Gentry took a dead, soggy cigar butt from his mouth and tossed it into a wastebasket. He said to Painter, “I’ve had a lot more experience with Shayne than you have.” Turning to Shayne, he asked, “What do you need, Mike?”