“No, sir. I’m sorry.”
“Look, honey,” said Shayne persuasively. “This is very important. Bill Nash was living there a couple of months ago, the first two weeks in January, for sure. Will you check and see when he left? And what forwarding address you have?”
“It’ll take a few minutes.”
Shayne said, “I’ll hold on.” He put his hand over the mouthpiece and explained to Lucy. “You heard enough this morning to realize that a lawyer in Wilmington claims he hired me to locate Ralph Carrol in Miami a couple of weeks ago. He didn’t, but he swears he had letters and phone calls from me. I just learned that he first wrote me early in January, while you were on vacation and Nash was in the office. Nash evidently decided to turn detective himself, and kept the letter from me, had some Michael Shayne letterheads printed, and replied to Bates on one of them. God knows how many cases he may have picked up.”
The girl’s voice was on the wire again. He said, “Yes?”
“Mr. Nash checked out on January fifteenth. He didn’t leave any forwarding address, but had us hold his mail. He drops in to pick it up occasionally.”
Shayne said, “Is there any mail there for him now?”
“Yes. Two letters that came several days ago.”
“Thanks. You’re a sweetheart and I’ll buy you a drink next time I’m around.” Shayne bent forward to cradle the receiver. He tugged at his ear lobe for a moment, muttering, “Bill’s biggest trouble was the bangtails. Where is the Dillmore Hotel?”
Lucy looked at the open directory and gave him a number in the seven-hundred block on North-East Second Avenue.
Shayne took a small address book from his pocket, read a telephone number to Lucy, asked her to dial it, and then reached for the receiver.
A man’s voice answered, and Shayne said, “Len? Mike Shayne. How they running these days?” He grinned as he listened. “That’s good. Look, Len, do me a favor? Where would I go on the seven-hundred block on North-East Second Avenue to lay two bucks on a filly’s nose?” The redhead gave Lucy Hamilton a left-eyed wink as the voice came over the wire. He said, “Maybe you haven’t got it in your head, Len, but check, will you? It’s damned important. Sure, I’ll hang on.”
Shayne waited for several minutes, then said happily, “That’s just what I wanted. I’ll do you a favor some day.” He tossed the instrument to Lucy and went out fast. Ten minutes later he pulled up at the curb, in front of a dingy bar and grill, half a block from the Dillmore Hotel.
Half a dozen loungers were clustered at the end of the bar, near the television set, watching a baseball game. The bald-headed bartender languidly chewed on a frayed matchstick and drew two steins of beer.
Shayne slid onto the front stool and waited until the bartender drifted toward him. “A slug with a beer chaser,” he said, and lit a cigarette. When his order was placed before him he asked casually, “Seen Bill Nash around lately?”
“Not much. He moved, you know. Drops in sometimes. I don’t know you, do I?”
“No. But you’re Joe, huh?”
“That’s right.”
“Bill’s moved, and I can’t locate him. I remember he told me once that you handled all his bets, and I figured maybe he still laid a few with you.”
Joe chuckled. “He phones one every day. Regular as clockwork.”
“Know where he hangs out?”
“Can’t say as I do.”
“But you do have a phone number where you can reach him,” suggested Shayne with a grin. “Just in case a broomtail should happen to drop in and whinny a hot tip.
“I might, and I mightn’t. You a friend of his?”
“We’re old pals. I’ve got a deal I could use him on if I knew how to get in touch.”
“That so?” Joe asked without much interest.
Shayne had a bill in his hand. He folded it to show the $10.00 denomination. “Bill’s phone number is worth this to me.”
Joe moved back warily, eyeing the bill. “Must be a big deal.”
Shayne shrugged. “You’ll be doing us both a favor.”
The bartender propped both elbows on the damp bar, directly in front of Shayne, and said in a sneering tone, “If you’re such a good friend of Bill Nash’s, whyn’t you save yourself money by taking a look down at the end of the bar and talking to him yourself?”
Shayne looked at the bartender with surprise and suspicion, then narrowed his eyes at the group watching television. “What the hell you giving me?” he said angrily. “None of those men even halfway look like Bill.”
The folded bill was expertly plucked from his fingers, and Joe said pleasantly, “Just wanted to make sure you’re a pal of his.” He moved to the center of the bar and consulted a book stashed under the counter. He returned and gave the redhead a number which he wrote down in his little black book. He shoved a half dollar across the bar and said, “I’ll tell Bill I saw you.” He went out without touching the drink he had paid for.
At the first public telephone down the street he dialed a number and said, “Mike Shayne. Give me an address that fits this telephone number.” He had the information in less than a minute, an address on North Miami Avenue in the Forties.
Some twenty minutes later he was standing before a door opening from the street onto a stairway leading up to an apartment above a cigar store. He went up and tried the door at the top. It opened readily into a shabby sitting-room with shades drawn against the sunlight. He crossed to an open door on the right and looked into a small bedroom.
Bill Nash lay on his back. His mouth was laxly open, and with every breath he emitted a snorting snore. Shayne stood on the threshold regarding the man with distaste. “Little man has had a busy night,” he muttered under his breath.
Turning back to the living-room he let up one of the shades, opened the window, crossed to a table with a portable typewriter on top, and opened the center drawer. There was stationery inside. He drew out one sheet and read the letterhead neatly printed:
It carried Nash’s North Miami Avenue address and telephone number. He took the sheet with him when he went into the bedroom and shook Bill Nash ungently.
His former employee sat up with a grunt. His jaw gaped when he saw the redhead leaning over him. Shayne slapped him with his open hand before he could speak.
Nash fell sideways on the bed and cowered there, holding his hands up to ward off another blow.
“Don’t, Mr. Shayne! Don’t hit me again. I swear I’m sorry, but I didn’t mean any harm.”
“Shut up,” Shayne growled, towering over him and holding out the forged letterhead. “Where’s the correspondence with Bates about the Carrol case that you stole from Wilmington this morning?”
“I burned it all up.” Nash cringed and clawed at the flimsy sheet as if to pull it over him for protection. “Soon as I heard on the radio that Carrol was dead, I knew it was a bad mess. But I never meant any harm. It just seemed like a smart angle when I started it. You were turning down that kind of case all the time and I didn’t see why I couldn’t get in on some of them. I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“How many other cases did you take on in my name?” Shayne demanded, his right palm poised above Nash’s face.
“Only three or four,” he vowed in a whining tone. “All stuff I knew you’d turn down, divorces and like that. I was all ready to quit when I got that second letter from Bates.” He paused to moisten his thin, dry lips, and added, “So I thought I might’s well do one more.”
“Why did you give Mrs. Carrol the wrong key last night?” grated Shayne.
“The wrong key?” His teeth chattered nervously, and he gulped before adding, “I didn’t. What you mean? I gave her the key to her husband’s apartment so’s she could slip in and get him caught with her to stop the divorce.”