“I thought it was a good idea.”
“And I suppose it was you who telephoned Mr. Brannigan and pretended you were the man who died in my house.”
“I was playing detective,” he said amiably, “but your president was too smart to take the bait.”
“Because he never heard of Eddie Seeney,” she said witheringly.
His gaze flickered over the filing cabinet. He sighed and said, “I suppose there’s no use going through your records now. You’ve had time to get rid of any evidence showing that Seeney worked for you.”
“If you think that’s what I’ve been doing here…”
“It’s what you would have done if Seeney had been employed here,” he interrupted. He took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and offered her one.
“No… thanks,” she said.
Shayne took one and struck a light on his thumbnail to light it.
She went stiffly to her desk and sat down, rested her elbows on the table and cupped her chin in her palms. “Why do you persist in believing those things about me, Michael?” she asked in an injured tone.
“You had some good reason for rushing down here at night.”
“I often work at night,” she said wearily. “I was upset, and I certainly didn’t want to sit around and look at the blood on the floor.”
“Did you get in touch with Brannigan about Seeney?”
“Of course I did. I was anxious to know whether there was any connection.”
“And he told you?”
“He had never heard of Edward Seeney… until you made that silly attempt to trap him into an admission over the phone.”
Shayne said blandly, “I make a lot of mistakes, but I usually come up with the right answers.”
“And you still think I’m a murderer?”
“I don’t think… I know. You killed a man.”
“Oh, why did you come here, Michael? Why don’t you leave me alone?”
“I didn’t know you’d be here. I rather hoped to go over the records undisturbed.”
“Breaking and entering.” She twisted her lips scornfully. “You could be shot for that, you know.”
Shayne looked at her in mild surprise. “That’s the way a detective has to work. Didn’t you know?”
“You enjoy it, don’t you… snooping around and suspecting everybody.”
“It’s a living.” He puffed on his cigarette, then asked, “Does a boathouse go with that estate of yours?”
“Of course there’s a boathouse.”
“With a motorboat thrown in?”
“I don’t know. The boathouse is locked and I haven’t bothered to investigate. How does that concern you?”
Shayne touched the bruise on his face and said, “A man tried to kill me today… and he got away in a motor-boat before I could kill him.”
“Are you sure it wasn’t I, dressed as a man?” Her sarcasm lashed out at him.
“How about fixing me up with a membership in your organization?” he suggested. “I need to be protected against a lot of things.”
“If you think I’m going to…”
“Oh, I don’t want you to give me one.” He took out his wallet and extracted a five-dollar bill. “That’s the initial fee, isn’t it?”
Her lips curled as she looked at the bill in his hand. “That’s not one of my duties,” she said sternly. “If you’ll come around in the morning…”
“It has to be tonight,” Shayne told her firmly.
“I think you’re utterly insane, Michael Shayne,” she said without conviction.
Shayne grinned and said, “It’s very simple,” cheerfully. “The more I learn about the Motorist Protective Association the more I realize I’m just the kind of guy who needs a membership.”
“We reserve the right to refuse membership to anyone.” She stiffened her body and looked at him, and it was as though she suddenly clothed her body and her expression with armor of steel.
Shayne laughed softly. “You’re not afraid, are you, Edna? Not afraid of what I might learn if I became a member?”
“Of course I’m not afraid. Our business is strictly legitimate.”
“Then prove it by giving me a membership card.”
She took a keyring from her purse and stood up, walked swiftly through the reception room, and unlocked the door marked PRIVATE.
Shayne followed her, looking over her shoulder when she opened a steel file drawer. She took out a card and went to a typewriter desk. He followed her again, and while she filled out the card, filling in his description without looking at him, he picked up a blank sheet of typewriter paper and held it up to the light.
The paper was not Hammond Bond.
She signed the card and looked up. She said angrily, “Go ahead and search the place if you want to. I don’t believe I’ve left any bodies around.”
Shayne handed her the bill when she stood up and gave him the green membership card. He asked, “Can the newest member aspire to the honor of seeing the vice-president home?”
“I’m not going home,” she said icily. “I’ve some work to do.”
Shayne tucked the card in his wallet and said, “I’m sorry as hell things have to be this way,” and went out.
The elevator took him downstairs and he went out on the sidewalk.
His car was parked directly in front of the building door. As he started toward it he paused. The rear window was lowered a few niches. He was positive he had left it tightly closed when he had gone into the building. His nostrils flared and drew in a scent of cigar smoke. He looked to the right and left, but saw no one smoking a cigar.
Shayne’s eyes narrowed. He took a cigarette from his pack and lit it nonchalantly, tossed the match away, and strode to his car.
He opened the door and slid under the wheel without looking in the back seat.
As he pulled away from the curb, a voice from the rear seat said, “Take it easy and keep your hands on the wheel.”
Shayne recognized the curious hoarseness of the voice. It belonged to Gene, the gunman who had shot Pat at Tahiti Beach.
CHAPTER 14
Shayne took it easy and kept his hands on the wheel. A man climbed over the back seat and slid in beside him. Shayne glanced aside and was surprised to see that it was not Gene. This man had smooth, regular features and a tiny black mustache.
Shayne said, “Mr. B. Antrim, I presume?”
“It ain’t a bad monicker to sign on a hotel register,” he said.
“You’re a lousy shot with a rifle,” Shayne muttered.
Gene’s hoarse voice said from the rear seat, “Cut it out. Turn the corner here, Shamus… to the right. Cross the drawbridge and pull off to the side and park.”
Shayne punctiliously obeyed orders. He eased up to the curb on the other side of the drawbridge and stopped. A car passed with dimmed headlights, and there were no other cars in sight.
Gene said, “Get out and go around on the other side, Mark. Get under the wheel. You slide over, Shamus.”
“But what about going over him?” Mark protested. “After what happened today…”
“Yeh,” Gene agreed, “go over him. And for chrissake do a better job than Pat on it.”
Shayne sat stiffly erect and let Mark go over him inch by inch searching for a weapon. He clenched his teeth to keep from wincing when the man’s rough hands pounded against his sore ribs.
Mark, alias B. Antrim, exhaled happily when his pawing hands found the concealed. 38 which was holstered against the front of Shayne’s right thigh. “Here it is,” he announced. “He ain’t got no pocket in his pants and the gat’s right down here where it’ll tickle him between the legs.” He pulled the weapon out as he spoke.
Gene growled, “I’m damned. Go on over the rest of him,” he ordered thickly.
Mark went over the rest of Shayne, finally saying, “I’ll swaller whole any gun left on ’im.”
“All right, let’s get going,” Gene ordered.
Mark got out and went around the rear of the car to the left side. Shayne slid over and let him get under the wheel.
“Tie up his glims while I hold my gun on him,” Gene directed. “The boss don’t want him to see where we take him, though I’ll be damned if I know why. If I have my way he won’t be coming back to tell anybody.”