Shayne shrugged. “Maybe. And maybe he’d been stepping out with the wrong guy’s doll. Looks like a straight burglary to me.”
“Those are possibilities we’ll investigate,” Quinlan agreed. “But we need to cover your angle, too.”
“I haven’t any angle,” Shayne snapped. “I don’t know who he is nor why he wanted to see me.”
Quinlan said, “If you get anything, Shayne, don’t hold out on us. This is murder.” He called to Sergeant Frank and ordered, “Drive Mr. Shayne home.”
“Wait a minute,” said Shayne. “If he was bumped off because he was a prospective client of mine, maybe I’ve got an interest in this thing. That appointment book might have some dope if we’d go through it carefully. Let’s have a look—”
“You’re staying out of this, shamus,” Denton growled. “You don’t know the stiff and he didn’t have an appointment with you. That lets you out.” Turning to the Sergeant, who had joined them, he said with heavy sarcasm, “Take him home and tuck him in bed, Frank.”
“All right — if that’s the way you want it.” Shayne swung around and followed Sergeant Frank to the waiting police car.
Back in his walk-up apartment, Shayne gulped down a stiff drink of brandy, then went to the phone and called the number of Lucy Hamilton, his secretary.
When she answered, he asked, “Were you asleep, Lucy?” and sent a chuckle over the wire.
There was a brief pause, then she asked, “What do you suppose I’d be doing at three-thirty?”
He teased her for a while, then asked seriously, “When did you start making nine o’clock appointments for me?”
“What’s the gag, Michael? You’ve never gotten to the office by nine.”
“You didn’t make an engagement for me this morning?”
“Of course not. What on earth’s the matter?”
“Do we have any new clients I haven’t met?”
“We don’t have any clients, period,” she told him. “You’re sort of drunk, aren’t you?”
He said, “Sort of.” He hung up, took off his clothes, and went to bed.
It was shortly before nine o’clock when he awoke. He didn’t loiter over his breakfast as was his custom, and by nine-twenty he was putting on his hat to leave for the office when the telephone rang.
Lucy Hamilton’s voice was apologetic. “I hate to disturb you, Mr. Shayne, but there’s a policeman here in the office. He was outside the door when I arrived at nine, and insisted on following me in. He’s watching every move I make, and a moment ago, when I started into your private office, he stopped me.”
Shayne said incisively, “Give Captain Denton my compliments and warn him that if he touches anything in my office without a search warrant I’ll see that he’s broken for it.”
Her voice came again, in a whisper. “There’s another policeman coming in, Michael. What’ll I do?”
“I’ll be right down,” Shayne said, and banged the receiver down.
Lucy was seated behind her desk beyond the low railing which separated her office from the rest of the reception room when Shayne went in. Her hands were folded in her lap and her brown eyes were blazing at a uniformed policeman lounging against the casing of the open door which led into his private office.
Lucy sprang to her feet, beckoned Shayne to the railing. “They’re in there — Captain Denton and the other one. This one,” she said, indicating the man at the door, “just came in. They searched my desk and found my appointment book and looked through it.”
In a deceptively gentle tone, Shayne asked, “Did you tell Denton what I said about a search warrant?”
“Y-yes.” Her voice broke angrily. “He’s got one.”
Shayne patted her shoulder and went toward his office. Captain Denton was examining the contents of the right-hand drawer of the desk. Sergeant Frank was behind him trying a series of flat keys on the locked drawers of a green steel filing-cabinet.
Denton looked up and said sourly, “I can’t find a thing in this desk.”
Shayne went to the desk and lowered one hip on it. He said, “My cognac is in the bottom drawer.”
“None of these keys work, Captain,” the Sergeant reported from the cabinet.
“Let’s have a key, Shayne,” Denton demanded.
“Sorry. I never have found the keys to that cabinet, Denton. It came locked like that and I’ve always wondered if there was anything inside. Hope you can get it open for me.”
“You know you’ve got a key,” Denton thundered. “Cough it up, Shayne.” The police captain held out a beefy hand, palm up.
Shayne lighted a cigarette and dropped the matchstick into Denton’s palm and said, “Thanks.”
Denton growled an oath. “I’m going through this office with a fine-toothed comb,” he said menacingly. “When I find something leading to that corpse we found last night I’ll have all I need to jerk your license.”
Shayne waved a big hand and said airily, “Go ahead. But you’d probably get better results if you used the finetoothed comb on your hair.”
Denton turned away and tossed Sergeant Frank another ring of keys. “Try those. If none of them fit we’ll call in a locksmith.”
Through the open door Shayne saw the postman come in and go over to Lucy’s reception desk. He waited a moment, then called, “You can bring the mail in if there’s anything I need to see, Lucy.”
When Lucy came through the door with two opened letters in her hand she hurried over to Shayne and said excitedly, “Here’s one from your friend in Miami,” and added on a tense note of warning, “and a check on that — other case.”
Shayne said, “Thanks.” He glanced at the note from Timothy Rourke and dropped it on the desk. He drew a check and letter from the other envelope. The check was drawn on the First National Bank of Cheepwee, Louisiana, in the sum of $200.00, and was signed by W. D. Carson.
The name was totally unfamiliar to him.
Chapter two:
One Jump Ahead of the Cops
Shayne laid the check face down on top of Rourke’s letter and opened the note accompanying it. It was written on the letterhead of the First National Bank of Cheepwee. A list of the bank’s officers informed him that Walter D. Carson was president of the bank.
The note was brief, and read:
Dear Sir:
I plan to be in the city on Wednesday, June 6, and am very anxious to discuss a matter of vital importance with you at that time.
I wish to return on the train leaving at 11:00 a.m. and therefore request that you see me promptly at your office at nine o’clock. Please wire me collect if this is not convenient, for I will consider it a definite appointment if I do not hear from you to the contrary by the afternoon of June 5.
I enclose my check in the sum of $200.00 as evidence of good faith.
Very truly yours,
Shayne absently massaged his left earlobe as he read the letter over twice. It was dated June 2. Cheepwee was less than a hundred miles upstate from New Orleans, and it was inconceivable that the communication was just reaching him.
Placing the letter face down on the check, he picked up the envelope and looked at it. The delay was explained by the fact that it had been incorrectly addressed to the National Building instead of the International Building. A correction had been made by the New Orleans postal authorities.
Shayne glanced around at Frank and Denton. Frank was busily trying keys on the cabinet. Denton was bent over and digging into a bottom drawer, breathing hard, his face as red as a beet.