Forcing himself to discard for the moment the sessions with Nora Carrol and Gentry, he went back to the telephone calls immediately following their departure. First, the man who had given his name as Ludlow had expected him to recognize his voice and know what he was talking about.
Ludlow had said, “He was dead when I got there... I didn’t give my name when I reported to the police because I didn’t know what your position was, but I know enough of your reputation... if they drag you into it, and then you tell about me, I’ll be in a spot. Wait a minute... this ain’t Shayne. The cops have already—” Then the click of the phone and silence.
That was fairly clear, Shayne thought morosely, or would be, if he were mixed up in the situation as Mrs. Carrol and the Wilmington attorney claimed. He summed up the Ludlow angle.
Ludlow had discovered Carrol’s body, reported it to the police, and was now panicky. He wanted to be assured that he could be kept in the clear. He had been certain that Michael Shayne had arranged the reconciliation scene. He had gotten Shayne’s apartment number from Information. That made sense. Anyone seeking to reach him at three-thirty in the morning would get his number from that source. But Ludlow suddenly came to the conclusion that Michael Shayne’s voice didn’t sound right. He had hung up. He had expected another voice to answer, but had been too excited and afraid, at first, to recognize his error.
Scowling through the windshield, he thought of Nora Carrol and wondered how much of her story was true.
He turned his thoughts to the more immediate future when he would meet his second caller at Seventy-Ninth Street. The man had said, “You wouldn’t know my name... but it’s very important. We must keep Nora out of it... ten thousand dollars to forget everything you know about tonight... I don’t trust you... if you’re on the square and there aren’t any cops, you’ll get your money!”
Ten thousand dollars! A nice round sum, as Shayne had told the man over the phone. But what was it being offered for? That had not been made clear. Was this caller another who believed that he had set the scene for Mrs. Carrol’s entrance to her husband’s bedroom? Or did he know the truth and was offering Shayne money to keep still about what actually happened?
There was almost no traffic on the boulevard, and the roadside filling-stations and refreshment stands were dark.
The designated station on the southeast corner of Seventy-Ninth appeared to be deserted when Shayne pulled into the drive. There was no car, and no sign that his caller was waiting. Shayne parked in front of the pumps and cut off his motor. He looked at his watch and saw it was three minutes past four. He yawned, took out a cigarette, and leaned forward to press in the dashboard lighter.
There was a faint sound in the night silence at his right. He jerked his head aside to see the figure of a man materialize in the faint moonlight from the deep shadow of the station building.
The man moved toward Shayne’s car. Still leaning forward with the unlighted cigarette drooping from his lips, his fingers on the lighter, as he waited for it to heat and pop out, Shayne watched the man come toward him.
He was medium-sized and wore a hat that shadowed his face. He stopped beside the open right-hand window and asked cautiously, “Shayne?”
The lighter popped forward. Shayne straightened with the glowing disk in his hand. This voice was husky, too, but not furred with sleep or drink as it had sounded over the telephone.
Shayne said, “Yeh. Expecting me?” He put the lighter to his cigarette.
The man said, “Yeh.” He opened the door and slid into the seat, looking at Shayne curiously. “You’re the private eye? I’ve heard lots about you.”
Shayne leaned forward to replace the lighter. From this lower position he glanced sideways and upward beneath the hat brim. His companion was young and thin-faced with commonplace features and a blond mustache.
Shayne settled back and asked, “What’s all this about ten grand?”
“Ten grand?” The young man laughed nervously. “I wouldn’t know about that. I was just to meet you here, see?” He closed the car door and added in a cautious voice, “You drive west a ways on Seventy-Ninth while I watch to make sure there’re no cops following.”
Shayne took a long drag on his cigarette. “You mean you’re not the man who telephoned me?”
“Gosh, no. I was sitting in this bar, see? There was this man sitting beside me and he asked, did I want to make fifty dollars fast. Well, with me down to my last buck, I says, ‘Sure,’ and then,” he paused, putting his head out the window to look back. “I’m supposed to make sure nobody follows us,” he said nervously. “You’d better start driving toward Little River a ways. Then I take you to him, see?”
Shayne started the motor and swung out into the intersection and west on Seventy-Ninth. “This man who hired you, what does he look like?”
“I dunno,” said his companion vaguely. “Middle-aged, I guess. Broad-shouldered and wearing horn-rimmed glasses.”
“You were sitting in a bar,” Shayne prompted. “When was that?”
“Half hour ago, I guess. I was sitting there, just killing time with a last drink before going home to the wife, I hadn’t noticed him much, until he sat up suddenly and gave a jerk that knocked over my drink. I started to get sore, but he apologized and ordered me another one. I could see he was pretty excited about a newscast that was coming over the radio.” Again he interrupted his story to look back as they rolled across the F.E.C. tracks. “Make the next right turn,” he ordered, “and take it slow for a few blocks.”
Shayne slowed down and made the turn, then asked, “What was the newscast about?”
“Mostly about a murder. Some fellow named Carrol that’d been found dead in a hotel. Stabbed to death, I think. You could tell that was what made him so jumpy. Stop here,” he ordered abruptly, “and turn off your lights. We’ll wait a few minutes and if nothing comes along I’ll show you where to go.”
The redhead cut his motor and lights, and rolled to a stop beside the pavement.
“After he bought me another drink for the one he’d knocked over,” the young man went on with evident relish, “he asked me if I’d listened to the murder report from the first. Said he hadn’t paid much attention until the murdered man’s name was mentioned. He wanted to know if I’d heard them mention the dead man’s wife.” He turned for another look at the deserted street behind them. “I told him they hadn’t, and that sort of worries me now,” he confided earnestly to the detective. “Because I hadn’t been listening careful. I didn’t hear them mention anything about the dead man’s wife, but I thought he was just curious. I didn’t think it mattered much. So I said no — you know, the way a man will in a bar. Just making conversation, sort of. And then he asked me if they’d mentioned your name, Michael Shayne. So, I said no again, and then he got up and went back to the telephone.”
The man again looked back, then said, “It’s okay, I guess. I got to be sure no cops follow us. That was the thing he told me to be careful about when he came back from telephoning. I don’t get my fifty bucks if anything like that happens. Drive back to the boulevard now, and turn north from Seventy-Ninth Street.”
Shayne started the motor, made a U-turn, cruised back to Seventy-Ninth, and turned east to recross the railroad tracks.
“I sure hope I didn’t give him the wrong steer,” the thin-faced man went on dubiously, “about the radio not mentioning Mrs. Carrol’s name. That’s what interested him most, I’m sure. Was I right, do you think? I swear I didn’t hear them say anything about a woman. Just that the police had an anonymous tip, and found the guy dead in his bed. Did you hear the broadcast?”