The message was unsigned.
Shayne grabbed the messenger’s thin arm and demanded harshly, “Where did you get this?”
“Corner of Miami Avenue and Fourth. Shamrock Bar.”
“Who gave it to you to bring here?”
“Bartender had it for me.” The messenger twisted uneasily, dropping his rheumy gaze from Shayne’s hot eyes. “Paid me two bucks and said to deliver it right away.”
“How did you know to go there and pick it up?”
“Central office sent me. We get calls like that all the time. Pick-up and deliver.”
Shayne let go his arm and he scuttled down the hall toward the elevator.
8
“What is it, Mike?” Rourke was beside him, his voice anxious.
Shayne extended the sheet of yellow paper wordlessly. Rourke read the brief message at a glance and swore softly. “They moved fast. Goddamn it, Mike! If you hadn’t been so quick on the trigger getting hold of Tolliver…”
“But I was quick on the trigger,” said Shayne angrily. “And the autopsy’s already ordered.” He grabbed the sheet of yellow paper from Rourke and glared at it. “Who, in the name of God? And how did he know…? Did you leave the grave open, Tim?”
“No. I filled it back in and smoothed it over the best I could in the dark. Of course, if someone went back and checked carefully…”
“Someone did,” Shayne said. He whirled around and strode to the center table, opened the telephone book and riffled through the pages to the Rogell number. He gave it to the operator and waited for a long time with the receiver to his ear. A woman’s voice finally said, “Mrs. Rogell’s residence.”
“This is the police,” said Shayne curtly. “Sergeant Hanson speaking. I want to talk to the Rogell chauffeur. At once.”
“Charles?” He was certain it was Mrs. Blair’s voice. “I’m afraid that’s impossible. He’s sleeping now… under heavy sedation.”
“Wake him up then,” grated Shayne. “This is the police.”
“I don’t care who it is,” said Mrs. Blair spiritedly. “I don’t believe you could wake him if you tried. Doctor gave him two pills he said would knock him out at least eight hours. He needs the rest, goodness knows. I suppose the doctor did report what happened here tonight?”
“That’s why we’re checking,” lied Shayne. “How long ago did Charles take his pills and go to bed?”
“Right after doctor left. I made him go out to his own apartment and tucked him in myself.”
“Is Mrs. Rogell’s brother still there?”
“Marvin’s here, all right, but you won’t get much out of him either. He didn’t need any pills to pass out cold.”
Shayne hung up the receiver, shaking his head at Rourke. “No help there. The housekeeper claims both Charles and the brother are dead to the world and can’t be wakened.”
“I been thinking, Mike. Whoever snatched Lucy and wrote this note thinks you got it before you had time to do anything with the dog. They wouldn’t know about Tolliver doing a fast job for you. If you can keep them thinking that…”
Shayne said, “Yeh.” He lifted the phone again and gave Will Gentry’s home telephone number. When the chief answered, he said, “Mike Shayne again, Will. Something has come up at this end.” The urgency in his voice kept Gentry from asking any questions. “Have you ordered the autopsy?”
“Sure. They should have already picked the body up from the undertaker’s.”
“How many people know that?”
“What do you mean?”
“Just what I asked. Can’t you understand plain English?”
“Hold your water, Mike. Nobody outside the department except the undertaker, and he’s sworn to secrecy. Doc Higgins promised him he’d have the corpse back in its casket tomorrow morning so no one will know.”
Shayne breathed a fervent, “Thank God,” and then went on strongly, “Promise me this, Will. Don’t take any action tomorrow morning no matter what the P.M. says. Not till you talk to me first. Will you promise that?”
“Now, wait a minute, Mike. What gives?”
Shayne hesitated, then said flatly, “They’ve got Lucy. She’ll stay alive as long as they think we haven’t found poison inside the dog and haven’t autopsied Rogell. If he can be cremated tomorrow with them still thinking that…”
“Lucy?” rumbled Gentry. “Who’s ‘they’?”
“That’s what I’ve got to have time to find out, Will. Someone who doesn’t want an autopsy on Rogell. So, for the love of God, keep it quiet, Will.”
Gentry said gruffly, “I like Lucy, too. You want help?”
“That’s what I don’t want right now. Just complete secrecy on the autopsy… and a call as soon as you know.”
Gentry said, “You’ll have that,” and Shayne hung up. He got up and said, “Drive me out to Lucy’s, Tim. Maybe we can pick something up there.”
The reporter hastily tossed off the last of his drink and said “Let’s go.”
Downstairs, Shayne stopped at the desk to tell the clerk, “I’ll be at Miss Hamilton’s number in about fifteen minutes. Try her phone if anything comes up.”
He got in the driver’s seat of Rourke’s car and headed toward Miami Avenue, explaining, “We’ll stop at the Shamrock first.”
“I don’t get this, Mike. How could anyone get to Lucy so fast? None of the people involved know her, do they?”
“She was out there this afternoon. Charles was smart enough to figure she was my secretary, and the rest of them knew what he suspected.”
“But she’s not listed in the phone book. This may all be a bluff.”
Shayne said, “Maybe.” He was driving north on Miami Avenue, and slowed as he approached Fourth Street. A corner saloon had a sign in green neon, SHAMROCK BAR. He parked and they got out.
It was a small bar, dingy and dimly-lighted. At this hour there were only three men on stools with drinks in front of them. The bartender was thin and sallow-faced, wearing a dirty white jacket. He came toward them incuriously as they ranged up against the front end of the bar, and Shayne said, “A cognac,” mechanically, his gaze sliding over a row of bottles behind the bar. “Martel will be fine, with water on the side. And Grandad on the rocks.”
He got out his wallet and extracted a five-dollar bill, smoothed it flat on the bar between his big hands as the bartender set their drinks in front of them. He moved the bill forward and said, “Keep the change. I want to ask you a question.”
The bartender put his fingertips on the bill but did not pick it up. Pale blue eyes studied Shayne’s face warily. “Sure, Mister. Go ahead and ask.”
“A messenger from Western Union picked up an envelope from you fifteen or twenty minutes ago. Tell me about it.”
“What about it?”
“Everything.”
The man shrugged, keeping the tips of his fingers on the bill, but not drawing it toward him. “There was this guy came in and busted a ten for a boiler-maker and asked could he use the phone. I said sure.” The bartender jerked his head to a coin telephone on the wall behind him. “I was standing close enough to hear him ask for Western Union, and then say to send a messenger to make a pick-up from here for immediate delivery. Then he asked what the charge would be for downtown Miami, and then hung up.
“He came back to his drink, and gave me these two envelopes, see? And three ones. Said he was in a hurry and would I give the letters and the money to the messenger when he came. I said sure, and that’s all there was to it.”
Shayne said hoarsely, “Two envelopes?”
“Yeh. There was two. Just alike. Addressed with a pencil.”
“Addressed to whom?” Shayne’s voice was unnecessarily harsh, and the bartender looked at him with a touch of belligerence. “How do I know, Mister? None of my business and I didn’t pry. I just laid them on the cash register with the three bills, and gave ’em to the messenger when he came. Anything wrong in that?”
Shayne slowly exhaled a long-held breath. He said, “No. Nothing wrong with that. You’re sure you didn’t see either of the names? It would be worth twice that bill to me.”