“Gordon’s a New York racketeer who learned about the painting somehow, and came down here to snatch it. The not-quite-dead guy was his torpedo. They weren’t hooked up with Montrose and Julius at all-didn’t know anything about the hoax-nor care. They just wanted the painting.”
“I’m getting things straight,” Painter muttered. “Who blasted you on the sidewalk that night? And why?”
“That was Montrose and his little playmate, Oscar. I don’t know whether they tracked Charlotte to my apartment, or whether she put the finger on me for them. I suppose I’ll never know.”
Shayne paused reflectively and lit a cigarette, then went on. “It was Montrose and Oscar that jimmied my door that morning and found Phyllis in my bed. You’ll find a jimmy out in Oscar’s tool box in his bedroom that’ll fit the marks on my door.
“Montrose was worried as hell about that first murder and wanted to hang it on Phyllis-wanted to get her out of the way, anyhow, I suppose, to save trouble beating her out of her share of the estate. So when they found her asleep they slipped out without waking her-or so they thought-and phoned you while one of them watched the outside door. But she must have wakened when they were there and played possum, then slipped out the back way and down the fire escape before you got there.”
“What about the girl now?” Painter demanded. “Where is she?”
“I wish to God I knew. I expect she’s hiding out around town. She’s hiding from you. You were so hell-bent on tying her mother’s murder on her. She’ll pop up when the papers announce the case is broken wide open.”
Shayne got up stiffly. “Is that all you want to know? You got it straight to hand to the reporters?”
“‘I’ll do some checking first.” Painter’s eyes glittered with excitement. “There’s that phony nurse upstairs. And the body in the trunk. Man!” He smote Shayne’s shoulder in his excitement. “If it ties together like you’ve given it to me, it’ll be the biggest story of the year.”
Shayne winced with pain and backed away from Painter’s enthusiastic hand. “Worth five hundred berries?”
“I’ll say,” Painter exulted. He started out the door and met Pelham Joyce coming in. He turned back with a frown and muttered, “About that picture-I’d like to get that straight.”
Shayne grinned at Joyce as he replied. “Better get Henderson’s statement on the painting. But here’s what happened. He picked it up in Europe for a genuine Raphael while he was on the Brighton payroll. In order to get it out of Europe and into this country, he disguised it as an imitation by painting over Raphael’s signature and putting ‘R M Robertson’ on top.
“It was stolen from Henderson on his arrival here, and by a peculiar quirk came into my possession. I jockeyed with Gordon and Montrose, who were both after it, and got them together, each thinking they were going to buy it from the other. Montrose had Henderson here to identify it as genuine, and Gordon brought Mr. Joyce along as his expert.
“Before the deal went through,” Shayne continued glibly, conscious of twenty thousand dollars in his pocket of which Painter knew nothing, “Henderson proudly scrapes off the name of Robertson and shows us what is supposed to be Raphael’s signature. But,” Shayne chuckled, “Joyce wasn’t to be caught napping. He thought the signature looked phony and insisted on scraping below it. Henderson did, and found Robertson’s name underneath.”
“Holy smokes!” Painter ejaculated. “Then Henderson was trying to put one over?”
“I think not,” Pelham Joyce broke into the discussion. “Mr. Henderson’s reputation is unassailable. I believe Henderson was absolutely honest in judging it a Raphael. An error in judgment rather than dishonesty.”
Painter walked over to the picture and studied it with interest. “It’s already cost three lives-and it’s not worth a damn, eh?”
“No one seems to be particularly interested in it now.” Shayne shrugged and said to Joyce, “Suppose we take it along with us for a souvenir?”
“An excellent piece of work.” Pelham Joyce’s finger tips caressed the painting. His face lighted up. “There is a spot in my studio where I should love to hang it.”
The coroner came bustling in as Joyce lovingly rolled up the painting and wrapped it in its covering.
Shayne said to Joyce, “Let’s get out of here.” They went toward the door together, and Shayne said over his shoulder to Painter and the coroner, “We’ll both be on hand for the inquest.”
They went out through throngs of Miami Beach policemen and got in Shayne’s car. He groaned as he set the car in motion, and gripped his underlip hard between his teeth. His shoulder throbbed with excruciating pain. His head lolled back against the seat as the car stopped. He muttered to his startled companion, “Flag a car and send me to the hospital. You hang-onto-the-Raphael.”
CHAPTER 18
It was hours later when Shayne came back to consciousness in the emergency ward of the Jackson Memorial Hospital. He gritted his teeth, sat up, and asked what time it was. A doctor came hurrying to his bed and told him it was four o’clock and that he must take it easy and get some rest until his strength returned.
Shayne said, “Rest be damned. I’ve been here three hours already. Where are my clothes?”
It was the same doctor who had treated his wounds when he was brought in from the midnight shooting. He shrugged his shoulders and said, “All right. Be stubborn. I warned you to take care of yourself the other time. You’ll carry this cast around for an extra month just because you horsed around when you should have been in bed.”
Shayne chuckled and asked for a cigarette. Then he again demanded his clothes.
The doctor shook his head and called an orderly to bring Shayne’s clothes. “But, what’s your hurry?” he argued. “We were going to move you into a private room as soon as you woke up. A night here with fresh dressings in the morning would fix you up as good as new.”
“I’ve got a date,” Shayne informed him with a wide grin. He dressed with the orderly’s aid, and whistled expressively when he found the twenty thousand dollars intact.
“You’re an honest bunch,” he grunted.
The orderly gazed at the bills in respectful awe.
“God in heaven! Who are you? The Secretary of the Treasury?”
“Just a flatfoot trying to get along,” Shayne told him cheerfully. He put the money back in his pocket and his feet on the floor. A slight dizziness was the only discomfort he felt. “If you’ll whistle up a taxi, I’ll be set,” he announced.
The orderly complied, eying Shayne with unmitigated respect as he went out.
Shayne gave the driver his address and settled back comfortably. As they turned into Flagler he heard the newsboys shouting an extra. “All about the Brighton case! Three dead in final roundup!” Shayne had the driver pull up at the curb while he got a paper. He spread it out on his knees and chuckled while reading the lurid news account of the affair.
Peter Painter was the hero of the day. According to printed accounts, he had fearlessly entered the fray single-handed and come out with three dead, one wounded, and two prisoners.
Under questioning, the sick man in the upstairs room had confessed he was Julius Brighton, and that his brother Rufus had died in New York-insisting that he died a natural death, and admitting no regret over the attempted imposture which Montrose and Oscar, his former cell-mate, had helped engineer. The trunk containing Rufus’s embalmed body had been dug up on the beach. The bogus nurse had confessed nothing, but a ballistic test proved that her. 25 automatic had killed Charlotte Hunt.
The real Myrtle Godspeed had made a telephonic statement of her innocent entanglement in the affair, and arrangements had been made to bring her back from Cuba to confront the woman who had inveigled her into accepting an expense-paid vacation in Cuba.
That was about all. It was enough. Shayne’s name was mentioned only casually, and not at all in connection with the solving of the case. “Which,” he told himself as he got out at his hotel, “certainly justifies a payoff.”