Shayne grinned and said, “Can’t I?”
“No. By God, you can’t.” Peter Painter’s dark eyes flamed dangerously. “That girl’s guilty as hell, and I’m going to break that case tonight.”
“Fair enough.” Shayne lit a cigarette and smiled mockingly at the little man. “Cherchez la femme.”
“You,” said Painter, “have got her hidden out.”
“Want to search the dump?”
“Hell, no. I don’t think you’re dumb enough to have her here. Where is she?” The question crackled at Shayne.
“She was in bed when I left the Beach.”
“What have you been doing since you drove away?”
“Sitting here drinking some very excellent cognac and cogitating upon the devious ways of murderers and the like.”
“Why,” asked Painter savagely, “did you run away from the scene before I arrived?”
“That’s your bailiwick,” Shayne reminded him. “I wanted to give you plenty of room for your schoolboy antics.”
Painter stiffened and said, “By God-”
“Now, now,” Gentry interposed again. “There’s no use getting tough,” he admonished Shayne.
“Why the hell shouldn’t I get tough?” Shayne flared at him, disregarding Painter. “This mail-order detective busting in here with his damfool questions and accusations. To hell with him! I was all set to give him what dope I had picked up, but now he won’t get a thing from me.”
Through tight lips, Painter said thinly, “I’ll jerk you in as an accessory if you don’t watch your step.”
Shayne didn’t pay any attention to him. He went on talking to Gentry.
“What’s the angle? Suppose the girl has disappeared? Does that make her a murderess? And what am I supposed to do about it? If he can’t keep tabs on his suspects am I supposed to do it for him?”
“See here, Shayne.” Painter sat down, making it evident that he controlled himself with difficulty. “Do you want to answer my questions now or shall I swear out a warrant for your arrest and drag you in where you’ll have to talk?”
“I’ve been in better jails than yours.”
“All right. Come clean and you needn’t get in mine.”
Shayne added, “And worse.”
“Now wait,” Gentry said hurriedly to Painter. “You’re off on the wrong foot. I’ve worked with Mike Shayne before. He’ll rot in your Miami Beach jail before he’ll answer any questions he doesn’t want to answer.”
“And I’ll stink like hell while I’m rotting,” Shayne added sardonically.
Painter compressed his lips and said, “I’ll take that drink you offered me.”
Shayne emptied the bottle of Martell into the third glass and handed it to him. “Off duty,” he said, “you might not be a bad guy.”
Painter drank half the liquor and set the glass down, fiddling with its slender stem. He said slowly, “I understand you were retained on the case by Doctor Pedique.”
“I was.”
“Because he feared the girl might murder her mother.”
“Right.”
“And you arrived this evening too late to avert the expected tragedy.”
“You’re getting ahead of yourself,” Shayne told him. “A tragedy, if you’re talking for the headlines.”
“The girl had already killed her mother when you got there, hadn’t she?”
Shayne emptied his glass and grinned wolfishly. “Had she?”
“Well, damn it!” Painter exploded. “She was dead, wasn’t she?”
“She was dead,” said Shayne carefully, “when Doctor Pedique took me to her room.” He gazed benignly into the Beach detective’s angry eyes.
“Which makes a strong case against the girl,” said Painter harshly.
“Admitted.” Shayne paused, then added casually, “Did they tell you we found the girl’s door locked-on the outside?”
“There might be a dozen explanations for that.”
“Sure,” Shayne agreed soothingly. “The kid might have bumped her mother, gone back and locked her door, and then crawled into her room through the keyhole. Only trouble with that theory,” he added, “is to figure how she got the key back into the keyhole after crawling through.”
Gentry choked on the last of his drink while Painter snorted, “Being funny isn’t going to help.”
“Then your methods,” Shayne told him, “aren’t going to solve the case.”
“For God’s sake,” implored Gentry, “you two guys quit knifing each other.”
Shayne said, “I’ll get another bottle,” and went out to the kitchen. When he came back with a full bottle of Martell neither detective had changed his position.
“I should be getting almost drunk enough to do some real detecting,” said Shayne pensively as he opened the bottle.
Painter rubbed his sharp chin and asked, “Then you don’t think the girl did it?”
“When you grow up enough to shave that silly mustache off,” Shayne muttered, “you’ll maybe have learned not to indulge in too many theories on a murder case.”
Peter Painter stood up, quivering with indignation. “I didn’t come here to be insulted.”
Standing, Shayne towered over the dapper detective chief. “No? Then why did you come?”
“To give you a chance to clear yourself,” Painter snarled.
Shayne poured himself and Gentry a drink, held the bottle invitingly over Painter’s glass. He muttered, “You’re hell on duty,” when Painter shook his head.
Painter turned away indecisively, and Shayne sat down, asking in an interested tone, “Did you find whatever they used to kill Mrs. Brighton?”
Painter swallowed hard and looked back over his slim shoulder. “I have a hunch you know more about the murder weapon than anyone else.”
“You’re giving me a lot of credit,” said Shayne mockingly. “Hell! Didn’t they tell you I wasn’t alone in the house a minute?”
Painter turned about with his jaw rigidly jutted. “I know your record, Shayne. You stay out of my territory hereafter or I’ll throw you in the can on general principles-and keep you there.”
Shayne stood up. His fists were knotted, and his eyes were mad. “You’re in my territory now,” he said softly, and moved around the table toward Painter.
Gentry lurched up and got his solid bulk between them. “No, Mike. No.” He pushed the redheaded detective back and said out of the corner of his mouth to Painter, “Scram, for Christ’s sake. I’ll see you in my office later.”
Shayne said thickly, “The little twerp. I’ll wring his neck.” He pushed Gentry aside and moved toward Painter, breathing heavily.
Painter whirled before Shayne reached him, went out the door, and slammed it shut.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” Gentry said when Shayne came back.
“Why not?” He poured out a drink, held the glass up to the light and peered through it, shook his head unsteadily, and poured the liquor back in the bottle, spilling a few drops on the table.
Gentry said, “He’s a smart little guy.”
“He can’t push me around without getting pushed.” Shayne dropped into the chair Painter had vacated and lit a cigarette.
“I told him to take it easy,” Gentry rumbled. “But God, you know how these city guys are. Always got to be shaking a leg.”
“He’s not a city guy now,” Shayne told him. “He’s nothing but a chief of detectives.”
Gentry grimaced wryly but didn’t say anything.
“What the hell sent him prowling around here looking for the girl?” Shayne went on. “I haven’t started taking up with the screwy kind-or kids-yet.”
Gentry sipped his cognac. “She’s got to be somewhere, Mike.”
“Hell, yes. So has prosperity, but that doesn’t mean I’ve got a line on her.”
“Haven’t you, Mike?” Gentry did not look at him.
Shayne grinned amiably. “That’s a Beach case. Let him find out where she is.”
“I know. I’m just trying to make it easy on you. Painter’s not going to quit.”
“Thanks, Will.” Shayne’s tone was curt. “I’ll make it easy on myself.”
“Okay.” Gentry drained his glass and spread out his hands. “I’m not trying to put the heat on you.”
Shayne said, “Don’t,” in a remote tone.
Gentry studied him thoughtfully. “You’re plenty tough, Mike. But Painter-I wouldn’t push him too far.”