“Would the bomber know that?” Lucy Hamilton insisted.
“If he ever met her, he would. Besides I’m not at all sure that blast was meant for her. That’s one reason I got Tom here out the back way as fast as I could. I think it was meant for him and she got it by mistake.”
Rumbo took a mouthful of brandy and choked and sputtered. “Beer’s more my drink,” he said in apology.
“Why do you think it was meant for Tom? You must have a reason, Michael,” Lucy said.
“I’ve got a reason all right. I got a good look in at where that thing went off. She’d been sitting at the table and from the debris I think it’s a hundred to one she’d been sorting the mail.”
“She always did that,” Rumbo said. “Every day she took in the mail and sorted it out before putting it by our doors. She was real nosy and wanted to know who got what mail?”
“Was she ever nosy enough to open up mail addressed to one of the boarders?”
“I don’t know for sure,” the little man answered. “That sort of thing ain’t easy to prove. But there was times— Yes, a couple of times I could almost swear letters to me had been tampered with. They could have been steamed open and then sealed up again. Come to think of it, some of the others used to think so too. Nobody could prove it, of course.”
“That would explain it,” Mike Shayne said. “I think the thing that did her in was one of those letter bombs like they’ve been using in political assassination attempts lately. They put the explosive in a letter rigged so it won’t go off unless the envelope is opened. It looks like a fat letter. Then when the person it’s addressed to rips it open — boom. He has it right in his hands and it can’t miss killing him.”
“Oh my God,” Tom Rumbo said.
“Sure,” Shayne told them. “You were Sam Willison’s best friend. You had it figured they wouldn’t take a chance on letting you talk. So they send you one of those death-in-the-mail-box notes.
“Only, luckily, you did not get to open it. That old woman gets the mail first and decides to see who’s writing old Tom Rumbo about what. Maybe she was wondering about Willison too. We’ll never know for sure now.
“Anyway she decides to take a quick peek into your mail. She’d done the same thing before and got away with it. What harm would once more do? So she opened it up, or started to. Only this time she found out why it pays to mind your own business.”
“I don’t like what you said,” Tom Rumbo said then. “If that’s true, then my life is in danger all the time. That’s funny because I really don’t know all that much to make me dangerous to them whoever they are.”
“They must think you do,” Lucy Hamilton said, “and that’s just as bad from their viewpoint. Or maybe you know more them you think you do. If that’s so it’s a good thing for you that you sent that note to the insurance company.”
“All I know is that my friend got scared about the time he decided to take out that policy. After that he was scared all the time, and somebody he called Big Hans was mixed up with his being afraid. That’s all I know.”
“It’s enough so somebody delivered a bomb,” Mike Shayne said.
“Michael,” Lucy Hamilton asked, “why would Mr. Willison make the retirement home the beneficiary of his policy? Isn’t that unusual? Doesn’t it make them a suspect if he was murdered?”
“That’s a lot of questions, Angel. I asked Bradley at Intercontinent some of them. He says no, it isn’t unusual. Lots of the people who go into these homes need a lot of care and they can’t pay high rates. The home takes them anyway in return for being made their beneficiary. That way everybody gets a good deal. Besides the amount in itself was pretty small to be a motive for murder. It isn’t as if the policy had been for twenty or thirty thousand dollars.”
“There’s folks in this town would cut your throat for loose change,” Tom Rumbo said in an ominous tone.
“I know that. I’m not counting out the thirty-five hundred bucks as a motive. Right now it’s the only motive we’ve got. The next thing I’m going to do is take a look at this Friendly Rest Home. I’m also going to see if I can find this Big Hans guy.”
“I’ll go with you.”
“No you won’t,” Shayne said. “I want you off the streets and where I can find you. Why give them another free shot at you? You stay right here with Lucy. Don’t go out for anything. She’ll have food sent in if you get hungry.”
“I’m a detective too,” Rumbo protested. “I want to do something to help.”
“I’m in charge of this case,” Shayne said. “You can help best by doing as you’re told and keeping out of trouble. Later on I may have more for you to do.”
The Friendly Rest Retirement Home was in downtown Miami on the Northeast side, a few blocks from where the late Sam Willison had lived.
At some time in the distant past the building had been a tourist hotel, but that time was long gone. The neighborhood was run down now, an area of sleazy shops selling poor quality goods, of rooming houses catering to the social security people, of warehouses and automobile body shops.
The Friendly Rest was a big building that took up almost half of a small city block. The four sides were built up three stories and enclosed a courtyard entered from the street by an archway closed by wrought iron gates. The paint on the gates had given way to rust and the fountain in the center of the court held only a couple of inches of rainwater.
Inside the gates, to the left of anyone entering, was a heavy oaked door with a sign that said: OFFICE.
Mike Shayne pushed the door open and went in to a big room containing three old oak desks and a number of metal filing cabinets. There were framed photos of boomtime Miami on the walls and what looked like a couple of diplomas, too faded and fly-specked to read.
Only one of the desks was occupied. That was the one with the painted plaque that said; President.
The man behind the desk wasn’t much bigger than Tom Rumbo but he was certainly at least thirty years younger. He had a thin face and an oval skull already beginning to grow a bald streak back along the crown. His nose and lips were thin and his eyes a pale watery grey-green. He wore expensive slacks arid a sport shirt that had to have come from one of the better local department stores.
He looked at Mike Shayne and said: “Good morning.”
“I’m interested in your place,” Shayne said. “Oh, not for me of course. My wife has an uncle living here in Miami. He isn’t really sick or anything, but he is getting pretty old.”
“You’re thinking of putting him in Friendly. Rest? In that case we decide if he’s sick.” The tone was very businesslike. “All our guests have a thorough physical exam before we accept their applications. We aren’t a hospital here, you know.”
“I know that,” Shayne said. “Do you give the exam yourself?”
“No, I’m an administrator, not a doctor, Mister — uh, you didn’t give your name?”
“It’s Kelly,” Shayne said. “From Chicago. Would you mind if I looked around a bit before I decided anything?”
“Not at all, Mr. Kelly. It’s what we’d want you to do. I’ll have someone take you through.” He pressed a call buzzer on his desk. “My name is Amor, Mr. Kelly. Paul Amor. I’m president and resident administrator at Friendly Rest. The guests call me doctor, but it’s only a courtesy title.”
“I understand,” Shayne said with a smile. “Doctor Amor it is to me too then. And thanks for letting me look around.”
He heard the office door open behind him.
“Ah there you are, Nurse Hadley,” Dr. Amor said. “This is Mr. Kelly. His wife has an uncle — I’d appreciate your giving him the tour.”