Casually Shayne refolded the letter, tucked it back into the envelope, put it in his breast pocket, and put the check in his billfold.
Frank moved back from the cabinet and swore. “None of these keys fit either, Captain. We’ll have to get a locksmith.”
“I’ll appreciate that,” Shayne said. “I’ve always meant to get it opened, but I figured if I’d wait long enough some nosy cop would do it for me.”
“Will you go on oath that there are no files in that cabinet pertaining to the man who was murdered last night?” Denton barked.
“Hell, no. Go ahead and find out for yourself.” Shayne slid from the desk and strolled out to the reception room. Lucy sat at her desk, her brown eyes round with wonder and fright. He grinned reassuringly at her and said, “See if you can dig up from our clipping file the story Hal Reynolds ran on me in the Times-Picayune about a month ago — after he got me tanked up and I spilled the El Paso story to him.”
“I know the one you mean.” She opened the center drawer of her desk and pulled out a slim ledger with newspaper clippings pasted on the blank pages. She turned the pages slowly until she came upon the clipping and handed the ledger to Shayne.
Shayne studied a clipping identical with the one found in the dead man’s pocket. It began: Michael Shayne, private detective with offices in the National Building in this city, has recently returned from El Paso where…
Closing the scrap book, he handed it back to Lucy, saying, “Hal should have sobered up before he wrote that story.” His hands were balled into fists and his knuckles showed white with strain.
Denton bustled into the outer office with Sergeant Frank at his heels. “I’ve decided not to bother with the filing-cabinet,” he said. “It’s probably loaded with empties.” He stopped close to Shayne with his blunt jaw jutting belligerently. “God pity you if you’re holding out on me, Shayne. We can’t even start an investigation until we learn the identity of the corpse. In the meantime his murderer is getting away. When we prove you knew who he was and refused to co-operate, you’ll be washed up in New Orleans.”
He stalked out of the office and his two men followed.
Lucy waited until their footsteps faded away before saying, “I don’t understand any of this about a nine o’clock appointment. But that letter—”
“That letter is it,” Shayne interrupted. “It puts me one jump ahead of Denton and if I move fast, I can stay one jump ahead.” His gray eyes were bleak as he went on: “Carson was murdered last night with no identification on him except a notation to meet me at nine this morning. Denton is running around in circles trying to find out who he is.”
“Shouldn’t you tell him?” Lucy asked, alarmed. “He can’t possibly catch the murderer without knowing who was killed.”
“Nuts. Denton couldn’t catch a cold in a flu epidemic. Get me the St. Charles Hotel. That’s where most out-of-town visitors stop if they can afford it. Ask if a W. D. Carson has registered with them and get his room number.”
He went back to his private office, sat down at the desk and took a bottle of cognac from the drawer, and took a long drink. As he returned the bottle to the drawer, Lucy appeared in the doorway.
“You were right, Michael,” she called out excitedly. “Mr. W. D. Carson has room 306, but he isn’t in.”
Shayne got up and put on his hat. “Okay,” he said. “You don’t know anything about this. You don’t know where I’ve gone or why.” He went out of the office and down the hall to the elevator.
After reaching the sidewalk, Shayne loitered along looking in shop windows. Out of the corner of his eye he was searching for anyone who showed signs of trailing him. Then he went into a drugstore where he looked over a magazine rack. In a couple of minutes he went out, walked a short distance to an alley and darted into it. He walked swiftly through the narrow passage and by a circuitous route made his way to another street, where he hailed a cab. He got in and said to the driver, “Go on a block, then swing down to Camp toward Canal.”
As they passed the intersection of Gravier, he told the driver to pull to the curb and stop. He got out, waited until the cab roared away, then hurried to the St. Charles Hotel.
Entering the lobby, he went directly to a waiting elevator, got in, and went up to the third floor. He swung purposefully down the hall to Room 306, studied the lock for a moment, and took out a ring of keys. The fourth key he selected opened the door. He slid inside and closed the door.
Except for a soiled white shirt tossed across the neatly made bed, and an expensive pigskin suitcase lying open on a chair, the room bore no evidence of occupancy.
Shayne wrapped a handkerchief over his right hand and went to the suitcase. It contained an extra clean white shirt, size fifteen; undershirts and shorts, 34 waist; and socks, handkerchiefs, and ties. The sizes were about right to fit the dead body he had seen the preceding night.
He prowled around the room, looking inside drawers and inspecting the clothes closet, but found no personal belongings. In the bathroom he turned on the light. One soiled towel lay on the edge of the tub, and there was an electric razor, toothbrush, and paste on the glass shelf over the lavatory.
He went down to the lobby and strolled around until he spotted a tall, thin-faced man dressed in brown tweeds leaning against a pillar.
Shayne went up to him and said, “Hi, Steve.”
Steve Rodell took a slim cigar from his mouth. “Hello, Mike. Working?”
“Sort of. Can you get me some dope on 306?”
The house detective studied Shayne warily with bright blue eyes. “What kind of dope?”
“Everything. I don’t know what. Phone calls made from the room or received — all that.”
Rodell nodded and straightened up. “Come on, we’ll see.”
“I don’t want to show. Get it for me, Steve.” Shayne moved around to a chair beside a brass smoking-stand and sat down. Rodell walked away.
He returned in ten minutes with a slip of paper in his hand. He sat down beside Shayne and read from his notes: “W. D. Carson. Small-town banker. From Cheepwee. Been stopping here off and on for four years. Sometimes with his wife. Checked in at four-thirty yesterday. Said he was only staying overnight. Made one phone call from his room.” He gave Shayne the telephone number.
Shayne recorded the number and said, “Thanks, Steve.”
Rodell folded the slip of paper and put it into his pocket. “Carson made that call at seven-sixteen, and no one remembers seeing him around since. His key is in the box and the maid reported he hadn’t slept in his bed.”
Shayne said, “Good work,” and started to get up. Rodell detained him by a gesture. “Hold it, Mike. What gives? Anything we ought to have?”
Shayne shrugged. “If you want to lend Captain Denton a helping hand you might take a bellboy or someone down to the morgue, look at a corpse, and tell Denton his name is W. D. Carson. And if you want to hang a real load of trouble around my neck you can tell him where the tip came from.”
“Denton has an unidentified body? Is that it?”
“That’s it.” Shayne hesitated, then explained the whole situation to Steve Rodell. “Do what you want to about it. If Denton can prove I refused to co-operate, he figures to jerk my license.”
“Can you keep the hotel out of it?” Rodell asked.
“I can try,” Shayne promised.
“That’s more than Denton would do,” Rodell said. “Let him identify his own bodies.”
Shayne grinned and got up. He thanked Rodell again, then went to a telephone booth, inserted a nickel, and called the number Rodell had given him.
A pleasant feminine voice answered, saying, “Park Plaza Apartments.”