Shayne backed out of the closet, breathing hard. A wooden tool chest stood at the foot of the bed. It opened readily. Inside was a bewildering assortment of wrenches, hammers, hacksaws, and the accumulated nuts, bolts, and odds and ends which a mechanic tosses into his tool chest. Shayne fumbled through them, lifted out a cloth-wrapped roll which he untied and spread out on the floor. His expression did not change as he found himself looking down at a complete set of burglar’s tools.
He tied the roll up again, replaced it, and put down the lid. In the front room, he hesitated a moment, then went out. A deep scratch led from the doorway to the top of the stairs.
He started down and saw Oscar come around the corner of the garage. The chauffeur stopped and stared when he saw Shayne.
The detective paused on the bottom step and awkwardly got a cigarette between his lips with his left hand. He lit it as Oscar moved nearer.
Oscar’s face was a curious study in conflicting emotions. Fear and anger were there, but they were overlaid by a placating smile. He wet his thick lips, and his gaze was fixed on Shayne’s injured arm in its sling.
“Say,” he rumbled, “I didn’t do that, did I?” All of Shayne’s face except his eyes smiled. He said, “I don’t know. Did you?”
He stepped off onto the ground and looked levelly into the eyes of the man who had kicked him in the face yesterday.
“I-didn’t think so,” Oscar mumbled. “I didn’t see that your arm was hurt when I left you in your car on the causeway.”
Shayne said placidly, “Your foot’s pretty heavy, Oscar. It’s dangerous business, kicking people around like that. You can’t tell what complications will develop.” The smile left his face. His nostrils flared at the base as his breath came faster.
“Well, say, I–I guess I got mad yesterday.” He dropped his gaze. “I-hadn’t oughtta done that.”
“No,” said Shayne softly, “you really hadn’t oughtta, Oscar.”
“Well, I–I’m sorry.”
“You’re going to be a hell of a lot sorrier,” Shayne said in the same level tone.
Oscar’s big hands doubled into fists, and he took a step forward.
Shayne said, “Better not, Oscar. Don’t push your luck too far.”
“I hate cops that come messing around,” Oscar said heavily.
“I hate lugs who don’t keep their feet where they belong.” Shayne turned and went toward the house while Oscar stood and looked after him with his mouth open.
Going in the rear door, Shayne passed an open door leading in the kitchen. He stopped and spoke to a fat Negress who was rolling out pie crusts and humming “Jesus Loves Me.”
“Hello, Mammy. I’m looking for the gardener.”
She ceased humming and rolled her eyes at him. “Dey ain’ no gahdner heah dat I knows ’bout.”
“Who takes care of the lawn and flowers? Does the chauffeur do it?”
“Dat Oscah man? Lawsy, no.” Her fat body shook with mirth. “He don’ do nuffin, ’cep’ walk aroun’ lookin’ mad an’ skeerin’ folkses.”
He thanked her and went on thoughtfully, meeting no one on his way to the library where he peered in. Clarence was sprawled out in a deep chair with his back to the door. Shayne stepped back and went on without being observed. He went up the rear stairway that Phyllis had shown him that first night. At the top he stopped and listened. An oppressive silence gripped the house. A heavy, unnatural silence. The silence of death, Shayne told himself wryly.
He went quietly down to the sickroom at the end of the hall and opened the door without knocking. A girl in a nurse’s uniform was sitting in a rocking chair by the window.
She didn’t hear the door open. She was leaning forward with her chin in the palm of her hand, looking out the window. Shayne stood there staring at her profile. It was a nice profile but that wasn’t why he stared. There was something strikingly familiar about her. He didn’t know where he had seen her before, but he knew it was important.
She turned to face him as he stepped inside then sprang up briskly.
Shayne recognized her as soon as he saw her full face. The severe white uniform made quite a difference, but it could not wholly disguise her. The absence of make-up also gave her a much younger, fresher appearance than when he had seen her before, but there wasn’t any doubt in his mind concerning her identity. She was the girl whose reflection he had seen in the mirror in suite 614 of The Everglades. The girl who was registered as Mr. Ray Gordon’s daughter.
It was a little too much for Shayne to digest all at once. He stood and stared at her and wondered what the hell while she tilted her head and moved toward him.
She said, “No visitors are allowed here. The patient is very ill,” in a controlled tone which managed, somehow, to be brisk and hard at the same time.
Shayne leaned against the door, studying her eyes and trying to determine whether she recognized him or not. It was impossible to deduce anything from them; they were curiously light, hazel he supposed, of the type incapable of expressing any emotion. Her manner was grave, professional, and questioning. She was, Shayne mentally conceded, a hell of a good actress if she recognized him.
He said, “Are you the new nurse-replacing Miss Hunt?”
“Yes.” She kept her voice low, coming close to him and making a gesture of caution toward the screen behind which the sick man lay.
“I’m Shayne,” he told her. “The detective who is supposed to keep people from getting killed around here.”
She did not smile pleasantly at this. Her manner indicated that she was totally devoid of a sense of humor. She said, “Yes?” again and lifted her eyebrows. They were beautifully plucked and arched.
Shayne asked, “How’d they come to get you on the job, sister? And why didn’t I get here sooner?”
“I was called from the Nurses’ Registry.” She disregarded the implication in his second question.
“What’s your name?” he asked. “And I could use your telephone number, too.”
“Myrtle Godspeed.” She shook her head dubiously. “You wouldn’t have any use for my phone number.”
“You don’t know me, sister. Of course”-he glanced deprecatorily toward his bandaged arm-“I’m in pretty bad shape right now.”
He stared levelly into her eyes. She stared back, her gaze cold and remote. He pushed past her, and she got out of his way, watching him with low-lidded eyes as he leaned against the wall by the dresser.
“This damned place is like a morgue. Where is everybody?”
“They’re asleep, I think. I was called this morning early to relieve the other girl who had been on duty all night. I don’t believe anyone here got much sleep last night.”
Shayne moved impatiently. His right elbow brushed against the dresser and knocked off a handbag lying near the edge. It fell to the floor with a dull thump. He bent over awkwardly and picked it up. The girl started forward impulsively to help him, but he straightened with a grimace.
“I made it all right.” He offered her the bag. “Yours?”
She took it from him and said, “Yes.”
“That’s a mighty expensive bag for a trained nurse to be toting around,” he said softly.
She compressed her lips and said icily, “I paid for it.”
Shayne’s chuckle was throaty. “I’ll bet. And how! Give me your phone number and you can have another one just like it.”
She gazed at him disdainfully. “What gave you the idea you were such hot stuff? If you haven’t anything else on your mind, I’ll ask you to go. I won’t weep any salty tears if I never see you again.”
Shayne grinned and said, “I’m beginning to think it was too bad the other doll got bumped. She liked her men big and tough and redheaded.”
The nurse turned away from him and said, “I don’t,” emphatically.
“Okay, sister.” Shayne’s manner changed. He lounged toward the door and asked, “Where’s Pedique?”