The interior was a pleasant and cheery sight. A gasoline lantern was suspended from a low beam in the center of the long main room, shedding light on bright cotton rugs and comfortable chairs grouped around a table where the three men lounged with glasses in their hands and an unmistakable air of good fellowship in their attitudes.
A murmur of conversation ceased as the door opened and three heads turned to look at the intruder on the threshold. Devlin came to his feet first, his face flushed with anger. “Shayne! So you were double-crossing me — and you followed me here!”
Shayne’s coat was unbuttoned and hanging open, revealing the butt of the automatic in his belt. His gaunt face was impassive as he stalked into the room with Sergeant Pepper at his heels. “I followed you here, Devlin, but I don’t know about double-crossing you. You’re all three under arrest. You know what the charge is against you, Devlin.” He turned to Thompson and Morgan. “The penalty for aiding a murder suspect to escape is from one to ten years,” he advised them.
“Nonsense,” sputtered Thompson. “There was no question of escape. Art was simply going to remain here until you dumb cops got things cleared up and it was safe for him to return. Morgan and I didn’t relish the idea of seeing you frame a friend of ours for murder.”
Shayne shrugged and walked over to the limestone fireplace and leaned an elbow on the mantel. Sergeant Pepper remained unobtrusively watchful nearer the front door.
“Such a friendship is a beautiful thing,” Shayne said ironically. “Why did you run out on me, Devlin?”
“Why did I run out on you!” His face twisted spasmodically. “After the way I trusted you and put myself in your hands and you went straight to the police with everything I told you! Can you deny that I’d be in jail right now if I hadn’t got out of Miami when I did?”
“No,” said Shayne, “I don’t deny that. But who told you I was working with the cops against you?”
“Chief Painter admitted it to Tommy. He said you had promised to give me up to them whenever they wanted, and that you were gaining my confidence by pretending to look for evidence to clear me while you were actually building up a case against me.”
Shayne looked at Thompson in astonishment. “Painter told you that?”
“He certainly did. Boasted about it, in fact. Why else do you think I would have insisted on Art getting out of your apartment and coming down here?”
“How did you know he was in my apartment?”
“Chief Painter practically told me. I took a chance and called there, and Art answered the phone.”
Shayne said quietly, “Painter lied, Devlin, if he told Thompson that.” His glance strayed to Roger Morgan. “How did you get in on this?”
Morgan removed his nose-glasses and polished them absently. “How did you know we were here?” he countered.
“Your boss told me.”
“I see.” Morgan replaced his glasses. “Then I’m not giving away any secret when I tell you that Doctor Thompson and Devlin came to Mr. Masters for help against police persecution. They wanted fast transportation down here, so I ran them down.”
“Very kind of you,” said Shayne sardonically. “You risked a ten-year jail sentence just out of the kindness of your heart? Nuts. Why did you come, Morgan? After all this time — have you come to the conclusion that the man who blackmailed Lily Masters into suicide is one of these two?”
“Now see here,” Thompson began, and Morgan exclaimed, “Blackmail? Mrs. Masters? I don’t know what—”
“Isn’t that what she said in her suicide note? You were in love with her, weren’t you, Morgan? That’s why you withheld the note from the police and from Masters. Because it was actually written to you. Were you blackmailing her?”
“I was not in love with her,” said Morgan angrily, “and I certainly wasn’t blackmailing her.”
“I believe you were in love with her, and were afraid she had named you in the letter she wrote her sister. You couldn’t afford to let Devlin go aboard the Belle and get the information from Janet Brice, so you went in his place.”
“So — I wasn’t aboard the Belle?” Devlin asked, his voice little louder than a mutter, as though he spoke to himself. “If you can prove that, Shayne—”
“Shut up,” Shayne growled. “I’m the guy who’s been double-crossing you, remember? Why doesn’t somebody offer me a drink?” he added.
The three men looked down as though surprised to see the glasses in their hands. Doctor Thompson smiled pleasantly and emptied his. “Sorry to be such a poor host. You and Morgan ready for a refill, Art?”
They both drained their glasses and held them out to Thompson. He asked Shayne, “Rye or Scotch? There’s plain water and ice.”
Shayne said, “Rye.” He looked across the room inquiringly at Pepper, but the sergeant shook his head. Shayne followed Thompson casually as he went through a door into a well-equipped kitchen and lit a candle in a wall bracket. “You seem to have all the comforts of home here, Doctor.”
“I keep the place stocked for emergencies — but I haven’t been able to get down at all this summer.” Thompson opened a refrigerator and took out a tray of ice cubes.
Shayne said, “Make mine strong,” and returned to the living-room.
Devlin and Morgan were sitting tensely erect in constrained silence while Pepper watched them from behind. Shayne crossed to the sergeant and whispered in his ear. Pepper nodded and took a flashlight from his pocket, disappeared into one of the bedrooms while Shayne strolled back to take up his position on the hearth.
“Where were you at twelve o’clock today, Devlin?” he asked abruptly.
He looked startled at the question and said, “Why — in your apartment.”
“Thompson telephoned you at eleven-thirty,” Shayne reminded him, “to tell you what Painter had said about me turning you in. Did you stay there after that?”
“I was afraid to go out,” Devlin confessed. “And Tommy thought I would be safe there as long as they didn’t know that I knew I wasn’t safe. Tommy couldn’t get away until after office hours at two o’clock, so I stayed until one-thirty.”
“Which you have no way of proving,” said Shayne harshly. “Where were you at noon, Morgan?”
“What’s that to you?”
Doctor Thompson entered with a tray of drinks, ice cubes tinkling pleasantly in tall glasses.
“Janet Brice was murdered in Miami between twelve and one o’clock — after your radiogram brought her from Key West,” Shayne told Devlin conversationally. “I just wondered if any of you had an alibi.”
“No!” Devlin got to his feet slowly, his face white and frightened, the injury above his ear an angry purple.
Roger Morgan said slowly, “Janet — Brice? I’ve been waiting to hear something like this.” He was on his feet, his teeth bared and a revolver in his hand. “Don’t reach for your gun, Shayne.”
Shayne didn’t move. He glanced casually over his shoulder at Thompson, who stood stockstill with the tray of glasses extended awkwardly in front of him. He said, “Now that we’re all cozy like this, Doctor, suppose you tell us why you employed a dope addict like Marge Jerome as your office nurse?”
“To hell with that stuff, Shayne,” said Morgan thickly. “If Devlin murdered Janet, it’s a cinch he’s also responsible for Lily’s death. I know all about his amnesia story — he and Doc Thompson cooked it up and I don’t intend—” There was a sharp report from Pepper’s service revolver and Morgan’s gun dropped to the floor. Shayne lunged forward and scooped it up while Morgan stood stupidly staring around the room.
None of them had seen Shayne’s quick nod toward the back of the room where Pepper stood. Shayne shoved Morgan into his chair and said over his shoulder: