“Not half as much trouble,” Shayne told her grimly, “as I’m going to cause if you don’t tell me where he is.”
“I don’t know.” Her eyes blazed with angry defiance. “And I wouldn’t tell you if I did.”
“You’re making a mistake,” he said gravely. “Don’t you know he’s mixed up in a murder?”
“If he is, you got him into it. Get out!”
Shayne said mildly, “All right. But tell your boss the longer he hides out the worse it’ll be for him.” He turned, went down the hallway to the studio and across it in firm strides that echoed loudly. The bell tinkled when he opened the door, and he marked time for a couple of steps, then closed it quietly. He waited a moment, listening, before tiptoeing back through the studio.
He reached the office doorway just as the blonde seated herself at the desk with her back to him and lifted the telephone. Watching over her shoulder, Shayne memorized the number she dialed.
After a moment she said sharply, “Three-one-nine, please.” Her breathing was audible, and beads of perspiration glistened on her plump neck.
“But I know he must be in,” she said impatiently. “Ring him again.”
Then, as though a sixth sense warned her, she turned her head and glanced toward the door. Her eyes rounded, and her mouth sagged open, when she stared up into Shayne’s face. She slammed the phone down and sprang up with her hands clawed.
Shayne beat a strategic retreat and reached the outer door in a few long strides. He hurried to a public-telephone sign on the corner, went in, and dialed the number she had dialed.
A voice said, “Hotel Trainton. Good morning.”
Shayne hung up and went out to riffle through the telephone directory. The Trainton Hotel was in the southwest section of the city. He trotted out to his car.
Some twenty minutes later he entered the gloomy and unprepossessing lobby of the Trainton and went to the desk, where an elderly man in shirt sleeves was leaning on the counter chewing tobacco.
“A friend of mine checked in early this morning. Three-one-nine, I think he said. Is he in now?”
The clerk shook his grizzly head. “Just had a phone call for him. He didn’t answer.”
“You see him go out?”
“Didn’t notice. Took his key if he did.”
Shayne said brusquely, “I’m afraid there’s trouble. Get a duplicate key and let’s go up.”
The old man shifted his wad of tobacco and continued to lean on the counter. “You the cops?”
“Private.” Shayne took out his wallet, showed his card, and extracted a ten-dollar bill. “Let’s get going.”
The bill disappeared, and the clerk turned to pluck a key from a box behind him. A bellboy was dozing on a bench near the desk. The clerk nudged him awake as he went by and said, “Watch the desk a minute, Ned,” then led the way to the elevator.
Shayne followed him down a musty, dimly lit hall to a door on the left. After a perfunctory knock he inserted the key and eased the door open. The shade was drawn at the single window and the room was quite dark. The clerk switched on an overhead light, grunted, and stepped back with a gesture for Shayne to look inside.
Wearing only a pair of shorts, the occupant of the room lay sprawled face downward on the bed. There was a strong odor of whisky in the tightly closed room. “Reckon he’s dead?” the old man asked impassively. Shayne brushed past him to the bed. He touched the man’s bare shoulders and, finding the flesh warm, flopped him over on his back. He stood looking down at a thin, sallow, unshaven face sparsely whiskered, wide-open mouth, and closed eyes.
“Dead drunk,” Shayne told him shortly. “Thanks. I’ll take care of him.”
“Well, I do declare,” the old man said. “So that’s how come he didn’t answer.”
Shayne caught the clerk’s arm, propelled him out the door, closed and locked it after him, then turned to look swiftly around the room. A corked fifth of cheap whisky, about one-fourth full, lay on the floor beside a pair of shoes and socks. A brown suit and white shirt were piled on a chair.
When he lifted the coat to examine it he saw the Argus flash camera in a leather case. He found a shabby billfold in the inner coat pocket. It contained John P. Ludlow’s business card, and he didn’t look further. He went to the window and raised the shade to the top, opened the window as wide as it would go, then stalked into the bathroom and turned cold water into the tub.
Returning to the bed, he leaned over and shook Ludlow vigorously, but all he got was a slobbery mumble. The eyes stayed shut and the body limp.
He stepped back and surveyed the photographer with a frown of disgust. He was thin to the point of scrawniness, with sharp elbows and big-boned wrists, lean shanks, knobby knees, and splayed feet. Cords stood out on either side of his sunken throat, and his open mouth showed yellowed teeth with two lowers missing in front.
Shayne lit a cigarette and went to the bathroom door to watch the level of water slowly rise in the tub. When it was half full he returned to the bed, lifted the limp figure in his arms, carried it into the bathroom, and dumped it into the tub.
Ludlow thrashed and shivered in the cold water. His eyes came open and he stared about wildly, mumbling curses. He tried to grab the edge of the tub to pull himself up.
Shayne shoved him back each time he tried to get out, and finally held him down until his lips began to turn blue. Then he caught Ludlow’s arm and lifted him to his feet. He helped the shaking man to remove his sodden shorts, steadied him when he stepped onto the bath mat, handed him a towel, and said curtly, “Rub yourself down with this.”
In the bedroom, Shayne retrieved the whisky bottle and a glass that had rolled under the bed, poured a good two inches of liquor into the glass, and returned to the bathroom. The photographer was sitting on the toilet seat with his head lolling back against the tank.
“Snap out of it,” Shayne demanded sharply. “Here, drink this if you think you can hold it down.”
Ludlow looked up, his teeth chattering, and tears streaming down his cheeks. He tried to take the glass, but his hands trembled too violently to hold it. Shayne put an arm around his shoulders, pressed the glass to his lips, and ordered, “Swallow.”
Ludlow gulped half the whisky down, shuddered, and sputtered. “God! ’S horrible.”
“Finish it.” He held one hand at the back of Ludlow’s head and pressed the glass against his lips again. The photographer swallowed mechanically. His trembling gradually subsided, and color came into his face.
Hauling him roughly to his feet, Shayne took a towel and began rubbing his body vigorously, pummeling any fleshy spot he could find with his fingers. He wondered how, in the name of God, a buxom blonde could fall for a guy like this!
When Ludlow started howling with pain from the redhead’s rough treatment, Shayne shoved him into the bedroom and onto the bed, pulled the sheet over him, and growled, “Stay there and relax. When you’re over the shakes we’ll talk.”
The photographer blinked Watery eyes at him and said, “You’re Mike Shayne,” in a feeble, fearful voice. “What’s happened? What went wrong last night?” His teeth started chattering again.
Shayne poured the rest of the whisky in the glass and held it out to Ludlow, who shuddered and said, “God, no!” Then he dragged himself to a sitting position, took the glass, and drained it. After a period of gagging and screwing his thin face into a grimace of distaste, he asked, “How’d you find me here? What do you want with me now?”
“I want some information.” Shayne tossed the man’s clothes on the foot of the bed and sat down on the chair. “How did you recognize me just now?”