“That’s too bad.”
He asked the operator for the number of the Hotel Mayflower and started his new drink while he waited. A moment or two later Hallam’s father was on the line.
“Shayne!” he exclaimed when he was told who was calling.
“Camilli decided not to arrest me,” Shayne said. “He’s putting in for retirement instead. Something’s come up that has to do with your son, Mr. Hallam.”
“Don’t tell me about it!” Hallam snapped. “You no longer have any legal right to ask members of my family or executives of my company any questions whatever on any subject.”
“That’s pretty sweeping,” Shayne said mildly. “Forbes is right here. Do you want to talk to him?”
“Put him on.”
Forbes took the phone, holding it as though it might go off in his hands. “Dad, do you remember those stupid IOU’s I was worrying about last spring? We want to find out if you-”
His father interrupted. The harsh rasp in his voice carried to Shayne without forming any recognizable words.
“But Dad,” Forbes said, “if you did buy them that would-”
His father broke in again, giving him no chance to say anything more. The electronic rasp continued for some time, concluding with an audible click. Forbes looked at the phone, puzzled.
“He said not to talk to you. He’s flying back. He says you’re after more money.”
“He offered me eight thousand to quit,” Shayne said. “I don’t think anybody else will top that. Now I have to ask you the yes-or-no question, Forbes. Did you sell the folder to Candida?”
“No.”
But there was no conviction in his voice, as though this detail was of no interest to him. After a long swallow of whiskey, he burst out, “I don’t see why I shouldn’t talk to you! My God, we can’t just expect you to-”
“He doesn’t want you to incriminate yourself,” Shayne said. “When we check on it, I think we’ll find that Lou Johnson or somebody acting for Lou Johnson received the full five thousand, and if it didn’t come from your father, the assumption would be that it came from you. But there’s one other outside possibility-that there’s a third person involved, who really stole the folder and set up the poker game so you’d take the fall if it ever got that close.”
“That’s nonsense.”
“I think Candida would have been willing to go as high as thirty or forty thousand for that material. A five-thousand-buck payoff to Johnson would be cheap insurance.”
Forbes rattled the ice in his drink. He shook his head.
“Johnson was Ruthie’s friend. She knew he was staying in the hotel, and it was her idea to get in the game. In fact-”
“In fact what?” Shayne said when he stopped.
“It seems to me she suggested taking off the limit, and that’s when the trouble started. I’m not sure of that part, but if somebody introduced her to Johnson-hell, maybe she collected a small percentage, I’ve never been able to make out where her money comes from. But if somebody arranged that game to get my signature on some IOU’s, she knows who it was. We can find out in the morning.”
Shayne drained his glass and stood up. “We’d better ask her now. She may be many miles away in the morning.”
“She’s asleep.”
“Maybe not. She was pretty strung out when I saw her. The sleeping pills wouldn’t take hold right away. Coming, Candida?”
“Needless to say, for my own protection.”
Shayne overpaid the waiter and hurried the others to the elevator. He and Harry Hurlbut exchanged a look, and the elevator door slid shut. They rode up in unfriendly silence. On the twelfth floor, Forbes led them to Ruth’s room.
Shayne knocked. When there was no immediate response, he said, “Keep knocking. I’ll get a key.”
“I have one.”
Forbes unlocked the door. “Ruthie?” he called softly. He turned to Shayne. “I told you she’s asleep.”
“Maybe we can wake her up.”
Shayne turned on the ceiling light. This room was like most other hotel rooms in Miami Beach-a low ceiling, walls painted light green, furniture and fixtures modern, clean-lined and anonymous. But Ruth Di Palma was an exceptionally untidy guest. Her clothes were everywhere. Slacks and sweatshirt were crumpled in the middle of the carpet. Sandals and underclothing made a trail toward the bathroom. A damp footprint had been left on the carpet by a bare foot, beside a wet bathtowel. There was a glass of water and an open bottle of pills on the bedside table, with a spilled cigarette package, a sheaf of bills and other odds and ends from Ruth’s open bag.
Ruth herself was sleeping face down in the untidy bed, breathing hard. She was unclothed. Her midsection was covered by a corner of the sheet.
“We’re wasting our time,” Forbes said. “She never gets to sleep right away, but once she makes it-”
Shayne reached the bed in two strides. He touched the flesh at the corner of the girl’s mouth. Dropping to one knee, he felt for the wrist that was dangling over the side. For a moment he couldn’t find a pulse. Her breath caught and held, caught and held. He finally picked up a pulse-beat. It was faint and ragged.
He grabbed the phone, knocking her opened bag to the floor.
“Get a doctor up here in a hurry!” he said urgently when the switchboard answered.
CHAPTER 17
She died at 1:30 the next morning.
Shayne and the others were waiting in an unoccupied room across the hall. Hurlbut summoned Shayne out to the hall with a movement of his head.
“Goddamn it, Mike,” Hurlbut said in a savage undertone. “Fifteen minutes earlier and they think we could have saved her. She had looks, good health, brains, friends-why do they do it?”
Shayne lit a cigarette. “You think it was suicide?”
“That’s how it looks. We’ll have to go to an autopsy to find out. It’s either that or an accident-too much liquor and too many different pills. They had a case like it at the Sans Souci last week. I didn’t think she looked too bombed when she came through the lobby.”
“She’s been taking bennies all weekend to stay awake.”
The security man swore under his breath. “I really liked that kid, Mike.”
Shayne entered the room where the girl had died. She still lay on the bed, covered by the sheet. A Mt. Sinai interne was dismantling the resuscitator. The hotel doctor, a tired-looking man Shayne didn’t know, was closing his case at the bureau. Ruth’s sweatshirt was still in the middle of the carpet. It had been walked on.
Shayne went over to the doctor. “My name’s Michael Shayne. This girl’s part of a case I’m working on. I know you can’t give me a definite cause of death, but are there any indications one way or another?”
The doctor finished what he was doing. He was a young man, going bald. “You know better than that, Shayne. Wait for the autopsy.”
He went into the bathroom to wash his hands. Shayne was waiting when he came out. The doctor said angrily, “Is it important?”
“Damn important.”
The doctor buttoned his shut collar and tightened the knot of his necktie. He went to the bedside, where he turned down the sheet and lifted the dead girl’s left arm. Turning her wrist, he showed Shayne several spidery red lines.
“A prior attempt? Maybe. Several years ago, I’d say. I don’t know the girl, never been my patient. I think it’s a case of barbiturate poisoning, twenty-five grains minimum. No signs of alcohol complication. Half-empty prescription bottle, wrist scars. What does it look like to you? But I’d like it better if she’d left a note. People are so used to having pills around, they get careless.”
He looked down at Ruth’s face. Her expression was peaceful, not much changed from the way it had been in life.
“Not knowing what she had on her mind,” the doctor said, “I have to say it’s a tossup. Look at the room, the mess in that handbag. Not an orderly person, but the kind of person who would lose count and swallow too many pills accidentally?” He broke off. “The hell with it. I can’t help you. Talk to the medical examiner. Now I’m going to bed.”