When they reached the cellar stairs, Rourke was coming up with a flashlight in his hand. “No soap,” he reported to Shayne. “Grossman must have made his getaway when we left the house uncovered to see what the shooting was about.”
“Your fault,” Gentry accused Shayne bitterly. “If we don’t pick him up I’m slapping a charge of obstructing justice on you.”
Shayne took the flashlight from Rourke. He led the way down into a small dank furnace room with a dirt floor. He flashed the light around, then walked over to a small rectangular area where the ground showed signs of having recently been disturbed. “Try digging here, but don’t blame me if Grossman doesn’t talk when you find him.”
“There?” Gentry gagged over the word. “You mean he’s dead?”
“Hell, he had to be dead, Will. Nothing else made any sense.”
“You mean nothing makes sense,” Gentry said perplexedly.
Shayne sighed and said, “I’ll draw you a few pictures. One question first, though. Did Guildford make a phone call between the time you checked for Miss Hastings at the Crestwood last night and before you came to my place looking for her?”
“Guildford? The lawyer?” Gentry’s voice intoned his bewilderment. “What the hell has he got to do with it?”
“Did he?” Shayne persisted.
“Well, yes, I think he did, come to think of it. He called his home from the public booth in the Crestwood after we learned the girl wasn’t it: I suggested that we see you, and he didn’t want his wife to worry if he got home later than she expected.”
Shayne nodded. “He said he called his wife. But you didn’t go in the booth with him and listen in on his conversation?”
“Of course not,” Gentry sputtered.
Shayne took his time about lighting a cigarette, then continued: “If you had, you would have heard him calling Pug or Slim at Chunky’s joint and telling them to hang around the Crestwood until Myrna Hastings came in… then grab her. He was covering every angle,” Shayne went on earnestly, “after he discovered that empty hiding-place in the Captain’s bedroom. He knew the Captain knew the location of the liquor cache after Samuels brought in a case and sold it for a hundred bucks to make a payment on the mortgage. And when the poor old guy died while he was torturing him, he must have been frantic for fear he’d never find the stuff.”
“Are you talking about Mr. Guildford, the attorney?”
“Yeh.” Shayne’s eyes were bleak. “Leroy P. Guildford, once a junior member of the firm of Leland and Parker. They specialized in criminal practice and defended John Grossman in 1930. He must have known of the existence of the liquor cache all the time, but it wasn’t worth much until the recent liquor shortage, and Captain Samuels wouldn’t play ball with him. After he killed Grossman, Samuels was his only chance to learn where the stuff was hidden.”
“Are you saying Guildford killed Grossman?”
“Sure. Or had Pug and Slim do the job for him. He brought Grossman out here last Tuesday, then went to Samuels and told him what had happened and suggested that with Grossman dead they might as well split the liquor.”
“But Grossman talked to you over the phone just this morning,” Gentry argued.
Shayne shook his head. “I knew that couldn’t be Grossman. He had to be dead. The only person it could be was Guildford, disguising his voice to lure me out here so he could get rid of the only two people who knew about the logbook and the liquor.”
“Why,” asked Gentry with forced calm, “did Grossman have to be dead?”
“Nothing else made sense.” Shayne spread out his big hands. “Captain Samuels knew where the liquor was all the time and he was practically starving and in debt, yet he never touched it. Why? Because he was an honorable man and it didn’t belong to him. Why, then, would he suddenly forget his scruples and sell a case? Because Grossman was dead and it no longer belonged to anybody.”
Gentry said gruffly, “My head’s going around. Maybe it’s this air down here.”
Back in the big room upstairs, Shayne knelt beside the bottles and straw. “Do you know where this came from, Myrna?”
“Certainly. Those men fished it up out of the lagoon this morning, all sewed up in canvas. They talked about it in front of me. I think they planned to kill me, so they didn’t care what I heard.”
“What did they say about it?” Shayne was shaking the bottles free of their straw casings and lining them up on the floor.
“It’s all in the bottom of the lagoon. A whole boatload. Just where Captain Samuels and his crew dumped it overboard as he described in his logbook. That’s why the authorities could never find any liquor here when they raided the place, the men said.”
Shayne got up with a bottle dangling from each knobby hand. He slipped them into the side pockets of his pants as Detective Yancey came hurrying in to tell Gentry excitedly: “We got the whole story from that man before he died. Grossman is dead, Chief. Buried in the cellar. And the real guy is—”
“I know,” said Gentry wearily. “Get to a telephone and have Guildford rounded up right away.”
“What are you doing?” Gentry demanded as he turned in time to see Shayne slide a third and fourth bottle into his hip pockets.
“Making hay while the sun shines,” Shayne said, stooping to get two more bottles from the floor. “With you horning in I won’t have any chance at all at that stuff under the water.” He put two more bottles in his coat pockets and reached for two more, looking wistfully at the remaining bottles on the floor. “This is the only fee I can collect on this case.”
Myrna Hastings laughed delightedly. “I can carry a few for you.”
Gentry turned away and said gruffly, “There’d better be a couple of bottles left for evidence when the revenue men get here.” He strode out, and Shayne began stacking bottles in Myrna’s arms.
“You owe me something,” he told her, “for the turn I got when I went back to my apartment and found the back door unlocked and the place burgled. I thought you were mixed up in it and your feature story was just a blind.”
She laughed as she swayed slightly under the weight of eight bottles. “I wondered if you’d suspect me after they found the key and I admitted that it was to the back door of your apartment. I’m afraid they thought I was an immoral girl. I hated to have them take the key away from me,” she ended gravely.
Shayne promised, “I’ll give you another one,” and they staggered out with as many bottles as both could carry.
Dinner at Dupre’s
Chapter one:
A Corpse With No Name
Michael Shayne was asleep. Violent and insistent pounding on the front door of his apartment woke him with a start. He reached out a long arm and turned on the bedside lamp. An alarm clock on the table said 2:15.
He yawned and sat up in bed, a scowl bringing his ragged red brows together as the pounding went on, then swung long pajama-clad legs over the edge of the bed. Going to the door, he jerked it open.
“What in hell’s the idea?” he demanded.
A stocky man in police uniform had his heavy foot swinging toward the door. He stumbled off balance, caught hold of the door facing.
“Why the devil didn’t you say something,” he growled.
“You didn’t expect me to be sitting up waiting for you in the middle of the night, did you?” Shayne parried angrily. “What do you want, Frank?”
“Captain Denton needs you down at the Quarter. He’s got a stiff for you to identify.” Sergeant Frank pushed on into the room. “Put some clothes on, Shayne, and let’s get going.”