Rourke shrugged, toyed with his tumbler, said, “If you could call it that. At the airport. She gave us a little speech — a set piece. Len Sturgis had his boys there and they whisked her away for questioning.”
“Why? She can’t be a suspect.”
“For b.g. info on the Whiting kid — I’ve got a hunch, too, that they’re looking for Myra Rainey.”
“Figures,” said Shayne. “How long ago?”
The reporter looked at his wristwatch, said, “About two hours back. A little less, actually.”
“Then she’s probably still at Headquarters,” the redhead thought out loud. “What did she tell you?”
“That she hardly knew, the girls well. Says she went to college with Myra’s mother and was glad to rent them the smaller house. Said they were fine girls, good tenants. Couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to kill either of them. She cut short her Bermuda trip when she heard the news. Said she was very distressed.”
“Understandable.” Shayne nodded. “Anything else?”
“Not much.” Rourke hesitated, then, “She did give me her phone number. Said it was unlisted. The tip was, if there were further interviews with the press, she’d prefer to conduct them over the phone.”
“What was your impression of her, Tim?” Shayne took a hearty belt of his double Martell.
“Forty-ish, blonde, good enough looking. She’s a double divorcée and not hurting for money.”
“And she said she didn’t know the girls well?”
“That’s what she said.” The reporter shrugged again.
“You don’t believe her?”
“Mike, at the moment, I have no opinion either way. Are you onto anything?”
Shayne gave his old friend a concise account of his day’s activities. Rourke’s eyebrows rose.
“You’ve got another button man after you?” Tim shook his head. “For Christ’s sake, be careful. I didn’t get you into this to be wasted.” A pause, then, “A damn shame you didn’t catch up with Rainey.”
“I will, Tim.”
His steak sandwich arrived, steaming hot and redolent of its own rich juices. Before he tackled it, the detective said, “By the way, what’s the Fowler woman’s number?”
Rourke got out his notes and gave it to Shayne. Something rang a gong in recent memory. A number — scrawled in pencil on the wall of the girls’ cottage — a number whose glitter had caught his eye when it reflected the sun’s light that morning. There could have been a variety of legitimate reasons for the Whiting-Rainey pair to have Mrs. Fowler’s unlisted number.
But the houses were so close that a loud whisper should be communication enough. And the landlady had told the press t the airport that she was not close to the girls. Somehow, the redhead thought, it didn’t quite being true.
A call from Carl Dirkson got one reporter on his way to follow another lead. Shayne finished his steak sandwich with a second double Martell, then paid his tab and departed for the Royal Pineapple, one of the newest Miami Beach hotels.
He was passed on by three separate underlings, two male, one female, before being ushered into the presence of Ryan Akanian, who received him on a glassed in terrace of his imposing suite.
From Roy Latimer’s fulminations against the rival publisher, Mike Shayne was expecting to meet a small, wiry, nervous Napoleon type, another little monarch of all he surveyed. Instead, Ryan Akanian was tall — perhaps an inch taller than the detective — and burly. His slacks and. shirt looked off-the-rack in contrast to the tailored elegance the redhead had imagined.
The only similarity between preconception and reality was that both versions of Ryan Akanian were visibly nervous. This was revealed by the way in which the publisher kept running a hand over the left side of his head, and by the mound of half-smoked cigarillos in the large crystal ashtray at his elbow.
The tall man rose from an armchair to greet the detective cordially, had a drink bought for him, explaining apologetically, “I’d join you if I could. Unfortunately, I’m not allowed.” Shayne nodded his sympathy, said, “I gather Meadows and MacRae informed you I wanted to see you. Incidentally, I am here with my client’s knowedge and approval.”
Akanian nodded slowly, studied the detective as he sipped his drink. When Shayne put his glass down, the big publisher said, “I’ve heard of you, of course. That’s why I allowed you this visit. Your reputation has spread to far more than Miami.”
Shayne shrugged, said nothing, until Akanian added, “To what do I owe this honor?”
The redhead moved to the attack. “We have just discovered that you’re the man who’s bankrolling Carl Meadows. My principal seems to feel there is a question of ethics involved.”
“Ethics schmethics!” Akanian exploded. “The newspaper game is dog eat dog like any other business.”
“Up to and including murder?”
The publisher snorted, said, “How the hell do you think Al Capone got to Chicago? Back in the Twenties, Hearst and Colonel MacCormick were battling it out and the going got rough. It was Hearst’s circulation manager who went to Johnny Torrio and asked for some likely boys to keep the Examiner on the streets. So Torrio imported a few New York guns. Capone was one of them.”
“Then you condone the Cathy Whiting killing?” the redhead asked softly.
“Shayne,” said the publisher, “I wish to hell I’d never got into this tug of war with Roy Latimer. He’s really a nice little man. I’ve got nothing against him personally. And now, with violence erupting...” He let it hang.
“Why did you become involved?” the Shayne inquired.
“The way Meadows presented it to me, it looked like too good an opportunity to pass up. I’ve been hunting for a Southeastern property for years to round out my chain of newspapers. This looked like a ripe apple, just waiting to be plucked.”
“So why stay involved?” the detective pressed.
“I’m in too deep. With men like Meadows and MacRae, it’s not so easy to pull out. Having that poor girl killed the way they did — hell, she hadn’t done anything...”
He shook his head, his lips pressed tight.
Shayne said, “Meadows and MacRae claim they had nothing to do with it.”
“Those bastards! My God, Shayne, do you think I’d knowingly risk compromising a lifetime of empire building by ordering a cheap shot like that.”
“Button men are not cheap these days,” the detective reminded him.
“I’m not joking!” Anger flushed the publisher’s face. “And I didn’t order anyone killed or even threatened.”
“Somebody did.” The redhead got to his feet. “I wonder who it could have been.”
Mike Shayne walked off the terrace and out of Ryan Akanian’s suite, battling his own erupting temper. Somebody was behind the threats that had caused Myra Rainey to go into hiding. Somebody was behind the capper who had slain Cathy Whiting, who had twice nearly killed Shayne and finally been killed by the detective.
Somebody, he decided, was going to pay through the nose.
Waiting for the down elevator from the publisher’s lofty terrace suite with its view of the Bay and the city beyond, the detective took a series of deep breaths to restore his composure.
It occurred to him that this strange business of the visit to Ryan Akanian might have been a setup for the new hit man in town, He felt his hackles rise again as he waited in the basement garage for the attendant to bring his Buick around. All at once, he felt exposed, naked to the world in that shadowy underground area.
As he waited, the telephone number he had seen on the cottage wall that morning rose again in his mind’s eye to plague him. There was a public pay phone against the garage wall, almost at his elbow, and the detective decided to try it before his car came around.