Shayne offered her a cigarette. “Did you resign?”
“By request — with two weeks’ pay. Wasn’t that nice of them? The office manager feels that there’s something essentially indecent about a girl getting herself mixed up in murder.”
“That reminds me,” Shayne said hastily. He reached in his pocket and brought out the picture Soule had given him. He handed it to her. “That’ll be on the front page of the Item tonight if things go wrong this afternoon.”
Lucile studied the photograph and unconsciously sucked in her breath sharply, but she said in a gay voice, “It’s a very good likeness, isn’t it — of both of us.”
She got up and went to the kitchenette, leaving half her drink on the end table.
Shayne got up from the couch, looked at his wrist watch, and went to the telephone. He called police headquarters and asked for Inspector Quinlan. When Quinlan answered, he said, “This is Mike Shayne. Heard anything from Joseph Little?”
“Yes. He arrived a few minutes ago by plane and telephoned me. I put him in touch with Henderson from the insurance company and they’ve gone over to identify the body. I promised to try and have you meet them here about one-thirty to sign that affidavit you promised Henderson.”
“I’ll be there,” Shayne assured him. “Say — how big is that office of yours, Quinlan?”
“What did you say?”
“I asked you how big your office is.” Shayne’s wide mouth spread in a grin close to the mouthpiece.
“Why, about twelve by fourteen, I guess. What the devil are you driving at? Drunk?”
“Sober as an Inspector,” Shayne told him. “You see, I’ve taken the liberty of inviting quite a few others for a one-thirty conference in your office, and I wanted to make sure there’d be room. There’ll be — let’s see — Soule, Henri, Denton, Drake, Little, Henderson, Lucile, Tim, Veigle — that makes nine besides us. Is there another office where we can gather?”
“Look here, Shayne,” Quinlan asked angrily, “what have you got up your sleeve?”
“Rabbits. White ones with pink eyes.”
Quinlan groaned. “If you’ve held out evidence—”
“I haven’t, Inspector,” Shayne assured him. “I’m doing a lot of wild guessing, and God help me if I’m wrong. There’s only one thing — will you arrange to have Edmund Drake there at one-thirty? He’s the only one who hasn’t been issued a personal invitation.”
“The girl’s uncle? Why, he’s to meet Little here. Little talked to him on the phone before he called me.”
“He did? So Drake was telling the truth,” Shayne said slowly. “How does Little explain the cock-and-bull story he told me in Miami?”
“I haven’t discussed it with him. I thought you’d want to do that.”
Shayne’s voice was grim when he said, “I do. One-thirty, then.”
When Shayne hung up and turned from the telephone he saw a platter of hamburgers in the center of the small table, flanked by a large wooden bowl of tossed salad and a dish containing three baked yams. Lucile came in with a bowl of gravy spiced with barbecue sauce and set it beside the platter. She apologized for baker’s bread, saying, “I’d like to have made cornbread but my oven’s so small I can cook only one thing at a time.”
Shayne said, “Don’t apologize,” and helped himself to a hamburger and ladled the sauce over it as she poured the coffee. He sniffed the sauce, then tasted it, raised his bushy brows and asked, “Garlic?”
“Just a smear. And lots of other things. It’s my own concoction. If you don’t like garlic—”
“I do,” Shayne said emphatically, and broke a hamburger easily with his fork. Juice flowed from it and he said unbelievingly as he tasted it, “Do they have a special brand of hamburger cows here?”
She laughed delightedly and sat down opposite him. “I call it poor-girl steak. It’s neck meat, the cheapest cut, and I have the butcher grind it twice with a little piece of bacon for extra flavor.”
“You’ve been wasting your talents in an office,” he told her as he speared a yam. He sighed with contentment and went to work with knife and fork.
They were relaxed over the third cup of coffee when the telephone rang. Shayne reached out a long arm and lifted the instrument and said, “Hello.”
Timothy Rourke’s voice answered him. “Just hit the airport, Mike. What’s the schedule?”
“What time is it?”
“Twenty after one.”
“The hell it is!”
“Listen, Mike,” Rourke said earnestly, “do you know of any openings for a good leg man in this town?”
“Why?”
“If your story isn’t a whingeroo there’s no use of me going back to Miami. Do you know what this trip cost the office?”
“It’ll be worth it,” Shayne told him. “Meet me at Inspector Quinlan’s office in ten minutes, Tim.” He gave specific directions and hung up.
“We’ll have to get started,” he said to Lucile.
“We?”
“Sure. Didn’t I tell you you were invited?”
“Oh, no, Mike — I’d rather not.”
Shayne said, “Sorry. We’re going to need you for a quorum.” He pushed his chair back and stalked into the living-room.
“But why?” she wailed, following him in. “You know everything—”
“Well, for one thing, there’s an insurance adjuster trying to make an issue of the identification of the body. Tim brought a picture of Barbara Little and I want you to back me up in identifying her.”
“Oh — that’s why you asked him to bring the picture. I meant to ask you.”
Shayne had his coat on and was striding to the telephone. “I’ll call a taxi. Get your hat on and your apron off.”
Chapter seventeen
When the taxi pulled up to the curb at police headquarters, three men were getting out of a tan sedan just in front of them. Shayne grinned at Captain Denton and asked, “Ready to go into your spiel?”
Denton’s only answer was a scowl. Shayne saw his black eyes narrow with surprise and speculation when he assisted Lucile from the taxi. Henri Desmond darted a frightened look in their direction, and Soule’s eyes glittered coldly beneath his odd, puffy lids.
Lucile gripped Shayne’s arm as they followed the trio inside. She whispered, “I’m frightened, Mike. Who’s the man with the evil eyes and the mustache?”
“That’s Rudy Soule. Hasn’t Henri ever told you about his big-shot boss?”
“I don’t think so. Are you sure—”
“I’m not sure of anything,” he answered blandly. “Keep quiet when we get in Quinlan’s office unless I ask you something.”
Soule, Henri, and the police captain stopped on the threshold leading into the inspector’s office. They went in as Shayne and Lucile came up behind them. Quinlan was alone. He said, “Hello, Denton,” and nodded curtly to Soule.
Shayne pushed in behind them and said breezily, “I suppose you know Rudy Soule, Inspector, but maybe you haven’t met Henri Desmond.”
Quinlan said, “I’ve heard about him.” He looked past Shayne at Lucile.
“Miss Hamilton — Inspector Quinlan.”
Quinlan nodded and asked, “The missing witness?” He had a harried look.
“She hasn’t been missing, Inspector. I’ve kept close contact with her since I left your office this morning.”
Quinlan said, “Little and Henderson are waiting for us in there,” indicating an open door leading into another office. He added significantly, “Henderson has heard Little’s story and is willing to accept it.”
Shayne asked, “Shall we join them?”
Captain Denton cleared his throat, glanced at Shayne, said doggedly, “I’ve got to tell you something, Inspector. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking—”
“Save it,” Shayne muttered, “until we can all hear you at once.”