Shayne’s fingers were being stabbed with sharp needles as the blood came back. He put his face down to the coffee and breathed in the pleasant fumes.
“When did she leave?” he said.
“Barbara? Twenty minutes ago. Today’s her nurse’s aide day, but I don’t know if that’s where she’s going. She was in a foul mood. We had words, and she slammed the door on the way out, as if we don’t already have enough broken glass. Hell, I’ll help you.”
She steadied his head with one hand and lifted the coffee with another. For an instant, after taking the first sip, he felt almost normal.
“Who’s the guy with the beard?”
“Hank Sims, Kitty’s husband. Is he the one who jumped you? Of course. You’re working for Kitty and he’s in the middle of a mean divorce. I’m kind of surprised you let him get away with it, though.”
“Had my back turned,” Shayne said bleakly. “Loan me your. 25.”
“What for?”
He made a peremptory gesture and she shrugged. “O.K. If you’re going after Hank Sims in that condition, you’d better have something. He’s nobody’s dream boy. Shoot a couple of holes in him and I’ll give you a dollar.”
She left him sagging over the coffee. As soon as she was out of the kitchen he fought his way to his feet and followed quietly.
He stopped at the top of the two steps leading down to the living room. She was rummaging in the little drawer in the long mahogany table. After sliding the drawer shut she straightened and stood for a moment, her back to Shayne, thinking.
She turned decisively. Seeing Shayne, she put her hand to her heart.
“Not there?” Shayne said.
“How hard do you have to get hit before you stop thinking? No, it’s not there, which doesn’t mean a single damn thing. I’m getting forgetful in my old age. I put it somewhere else, that’s all.”
“Or else Barbara took it to Miami.” Shayne came down the steps and dropped onto the sofa, at the end nearest the phone. “Bring me the coffee.”
“Go to hell.”
Shayne rubbed his forehead. “Eda Lou, if Barbara’s walking around with a gun in her purse, I want to know it. I need that kind of information. I also need coffee.”
“Poor man, my heart bleeds.”
She went to the kitchen, came back with coffee and put it down near him. “But she didn’t take the gun. I remember now-I put it away upstairs. And on second thought, I think I’d better hang on to it.”
“Are you going to help me with the phone?” Shayne said wearily.
She lit a cigarette deliberately. “I suppose I have to, if I want to find out what’s going on. Why don’t I take you to the doctor first?”
After a moment she moved a straight chair into position and sat down.
“The News,” he said. “Ask for Tim Rourke.”
He told her the number. The switchboard girl at the paper passed the call on to the city room. She gave Shayne the phone.
He dropped it. She picked it up for him and wedged it into place against his shoulder.
“Mike?” Rourke was saying. “Mike?”
“Yeah,” Shayne grated.
“I’ve been wondering,” Rourke said with none of his usual levity. “I talked to the helicopter guy on Goose Key and he said he hadn’t heard from you. At twenty-five bucks an hour he’s in no hurry. Where are you?”
“Same place. Is Natalie in the office?”
“Sure. Want to talk to her? Kitty got off to New York O.K., if that’s what you’re worrying about. Nat can give you the details.”
Shayne motioned at Eda Lou. She gave him her cigarette and lit another for herself. He crouched over the coffee and took a long sip. As he straightened he noticed Eda Lou flick back her sleeve to look at her watch.
“Mike?” Natalie said, out of breath. “We were thinking of calling out the Marines.”
“I got sidetracked. Tell me about Kitty.”
“She’s in New York, Mike. She just called me from Kennedy. She woke up early and couldn’t get back to sleep so she took the six-o’clock plane. She left me a note. She’ll be staying at the airport hotel, the International, if you want to call her. She said to tell them who you are and they’ll keep on ringing her room till she wakes up.”
Shayne tried to remember what else he had meant to ask her.
“Mike?”
“Yeah. Put Tim back on.”
“Mike,” Rourke’s voice said, “I’m sitting here trying to write the Brad Tuttle story. There’s a hell of a lot I don’t know.”
“There’s a hell of a lot I don’t know. You’ll have to go with a bulletin in the first edition, whatever the cops put out.”
“I already told the desk that was pure crap,” his friend protested. “I said I’d write the real story as soon as I heard from you.”
“That’s how it has to be for now,” Shayne said. “How did he die?”
“Gunshot. He’d been in a fight, knifed in the lower abdomen, bad cut over the eyes. He had about ten-percent vision, they figure, which is one reason he didn’t stop when they yelled.”
“What were the cops doing there?”
“That I didn’t ask. I assumed they were cruising.”
“Tim, I want you to get hold of Shanahan. Somebody has to hold his hand till I get back. Tell him what happened to Brad. Then stick with him. I mean in the same room till he goes to court. Go to the john with him. Hold on a minute.”
He asked Eda Lou, “How much did Frank pay for the judgeship?”
“Forty thousand,” she said promptly, then caught her breath and threatened him with her fist.
Shayne returned to the phone. “If he tries to throw you out, tell him you know about the forty thousand, who got it and in what size bills. I’ll meet you at the court house as soon as I can.”
“Mike, do you feel O.K.? You sound kind of fuzzy.”
“I’m fine. Get on it.”
Eda Lou broke the connection. He refreshed himself with more coffee. His mind had begun to move, lurching painfully from point to point.
“The St. Albans on the Beach.”
She looked up the number and dialed it, then looked at him questioningly.
“Harry Hurlbut,” Shayne said.
When the hotel security man answered, she asked him to hold the line.
“This is Mike Shayne, Harry,” the detective said, taking the phone. “I want to check a reference. Who’s your assistant night manager nowadays?”
He felt for the envelope on which he had jotted down two of the names on the affidavits Hank Sims had flashed in front of Barbara. “The name Emory J. Sedge doesn’t mean anything to you? One more thing. If you have your payroll handy, look under the T’s and see if you have a bellman named Robert Truehauf.”
He waited.
“I didn’t think you would,” Shayne said. “Thanks. I’ll buy you a drink in a day or so and tell you about it. I have to rush.”
He dropped the phone in his lap and told Eda Lou: “Get me Will Gentry, Miami Chief of Police.”
She placed the call. Gentry wasn’t in his office, she was told, but he was in the building somewhere; they would hunt him down and have him return the call.
She squinted at Shayne over her cigarette. “You have no reason to confide in me, but I’m on the fringes of the family and I can’t help wondering. How did you get those St. Albans names, just for instance?”
“I used a bullhorn with a two-way amplifier,” Shayne said.
Her lips twitched, depositing cigarette ash on the front of her suit. “Sarcastic son of a bitch, aren’t you? We don’t have TV down here. I have to make my own entertainment. And where were you at the time, may I ask?”
She removed her cigarette. “I know!” Going to the kitchen, she came back with Shayne’s gag and shook it out. It was a torn piece of black cloth with part of a skull-and-crossbones showing.
“Barbara’s tree house! How long were you up there?”
“Long enough,” Shayne said.
The phone rang. Shayne picked it up.
“This is Gentry,” a gruff voice said. “What is it now, Mike, trouble?”
“The usual kind,” Shayne said. “Murder.”
“Who’s been murdered?”
“Two brothers, Ev and Brad Tuttle. Ev was a drunk. He went out in a mattress fire. You have it listed as accidental. You’re probably working on Brad now.”