They moved to the doors. “This is where I broke out last night,” Shayne said. He tried the door knob, found that it turned. He pushed the door open and then stood looking at Hodge.
Hodge entered the house and called out. He did not get an answer. They were in a vast living room that was expensively furnished. Shayne guided them back to the den and the first thing he saw as he entered was his hat. It was on the carpeting. He jammed it on his head and stood looking around. They could have left his .45 too. But he didn’t spot it.
“This is it, Hodge,” Shayne said.
“Let’s look around.”
“I’ll take the second deck,” the detective said.
He wandered in and out of bedrooms. Each was spotless. He checked closets and dresser drawers. What he didn’t find bothered him and finally he stopped in one of the bedrooms and stood scowling out a window. He had the impression they had invaded a house that had not been occupied for a long time. The only trouble was he knew this was the right house. He had his hat.
He went downstairs and found Hodge in the living room.
“Nothing topside,” he growled.
Hodge nodded. “Do you have the impression this place has been unoccupied? With the exception of those french doors, I’m running into secured locks everywhere, including the front door.”
“If I didn’t know better,” Shayne said, “I’d say the occupants are off on a long vacation. Those closets upstairs—”
“Mike!”
Rourke’s shout from the depth of the house made Shayne whirl. Hodge trailed him. They found Rourke in a vast kitchen. He stood near a hall doorway. The hall went on back into the house.
“Down here,” Rourke said, his mouth twisted in a grim line.
The dead man was sprawled on a bed in a large room. Two pillows covered his head, but the blood that had soaked the bed told the story. Shayne carefully lifted one of the pillows and it became obvious how the guy had died. Someone had stuck a gun between the pillows and fired a shot into the man’s head, using the top pillow as a muffler.
Shayne lifted the bottom pillow. The dead man’s head had been shattered. The detective got down on his knees and squinted. He didn’t recognize the man. He shook his head. “He’s not one of my boys.”
“Then who is he?” Rourke wanted to know.
Shayne stood, yanked at his ear. “Housekeeper, butler, maybe a caretaker. What do you think, Hodge?”
The narc man said, “Could be.” He looked around. “And this could be his room.” He went to a dresser, picked up a wallet, looked inside. “I.D. for a man named John Martinson. Occupation listed: security.”
“He’s been dead a while,” Shayne said, scowling.
“Leave him,” Hodge said. “Let’s do some checking with neighbors.”
The nearest neighbor lived in a low, sprawling, patioed structure a hundred and fifty yards away. Although the house looked as if it had been put together by a kid playing with blocks, the yard had been laid out by slide rule with a miniature green forest between the two homes.
A sprightly, white-haired man named Lafranc — “Jules Lafranc, gentlemen, film director, retired,” — had put in the forest. “It isn’t that I don’t like my neighbor,” he said with a chuckle, “it’s just that I once fancied I had a green thumb, but my plantings got away from me. You say you came over here from the Bainbridge place? Is there something wrong over there? Frank and Marie are in Europe, you know, have been for about four months now, but John is on the place, or should be. Didn’t you find John? He’s been with Bainbridge for years. Good man, John Martinson. Wish I could find someone like him.”
“Do you know just where in Europe Mr. and Mrs. Bainbridge might be at the moment, Mr. Lafranc?” Hodge wanted to know.
“Well, not for sure,” the white-haired man frowned. “They were to visit their son in Paris and then go on to Switzerland. I think they planned to spend about six weeks with Bob — that’s their son — and then go on. I would guess they are in Bern. Why?”
“What is Mr. Bainbridge’s occupation?”
“Like me. Retired.”
“From what?”
“Lordy, from everything, Mr. Hodge. If you need specifics, go downtown, the Bainbridge Building. They could tell you. He had a hand in a lot of things.”
Later, in the car, Shayne said thoughtfully, “Did Martinson have a piece of the action or was he knocked off for another reason?”
“We’ll run him through our files,” Hodge said. “He may be just what I’m looking for. Where’s this carbine you buried? I want to run some tests on it.”
“And then what?” Shayne wanted to know.
Hodge navigated a green traffic light before shooting the detective a glance. “You’re out of this now, Shayne. You, too, Rourke,” he added over his shoulder. “We may have stumbled into a big operation. Worldwide. One thing is certain: we’ve got two factions squared off. And that could mean a ripoff. I don’t want outsiders involved.”
Shayne snorted. “And what do you think that was out along South Dixie Monday night?”
Hodge grunted. “Yeah, and there’s that,” he said, his voice flat, his tone suddenly sharp. “Did you have to kill those people, Shayne?”
“Hey, man, they—”
“They tell me you’re pretty free with the use of a gun.”
The redhead stared. “What’s with you, pal?”
“If I had my way about things, Shayne, guns would not exist. Guns are trouble. Period. And I especially don’t like guns in the hands of non-professional law—”
“Catch that empty slot at the curbing up ahead, Hodge,” Shayne interrupted angrily.
He left the car, slammed the door and walked off down the sidewalk, his strides long, heels pounding, rugged face drawn down in a black scowl.
Rourke finally caught up with him, grabbed his arm. “Cool it, Mike. The guy pitched you an opinion, that’s all.”
“Was that what it was?” the detective snapped. He shook off Rourke’s hand, waved a long arm at a cruising cab. He piled into the cab and looked outside at his friend. “Coming?”
“Where are you going?”
“Home — to put on my lace underwear!”
Rourke remained standing where he was. “I’ll phone you later today, Mike.”
Shayne told the cab driver to take him to his Flagler Street office. He had a spare .45 at the office. He’d holster it, might even strap on the holster over his coat. The hell with the Hodges of the world.
He didn’t make it to the .45. A kid named Bird was waiting for him on the Flagler Street sidewalk. Bird pushed away from the building with a smile. He looked very young in daylight, except for his eyes. His eyes were wary, crafty. Those eyes had seen a lot.
“Shayne,” Bird nodded politely.
The detective scowled. Gentry supposedly had a pickup out on this kid. Why hadn’t the net closed? Probably because the cops were sniffing around in shadowed alleys and rundown bars, while the guy they wanted was leaning up against a building in sunshine on a Flagler Street sidewalk.
Shayne grinned suddenly. “I’ll bet you’ve come around with my ten, huh, kid?”
“Not quite, Shayne,” the youth said, keeping his smile. “But I can lead you to it.”
VII
They drove to a Holiday Inn. The swarthy man who was waiting for them inside a ground floor unit looked forty and was a chain smoker. He smelled hood, borderline between punk and smoothie. What he needed most was a big take to put him on Gold Avenue, make him something to be reckoned with in the underworld.
Shayne liked what he saw. Borderline hoods were eager, took chances.
The redhead said flatly, “Who are you?”
The guy lit a fresh cigarette from a butt in his fingertips. “It doesn’t matter.”