“Must be the killer,” whispered Rourke tautly. “He could have got the key from Doc’s body.”
Shayne nodded. “Probably. You stay here, Tim.”
“You got a gun?” Rourke demanded.
Shayne shook his red head in the moonlight and drew a large, well-filled key-ring from his pocket. “That’s an easy lock,” he muttered.
“I’ll call the cops,” offered Tim, his teeth chattering slightly.
“And have them get their hands on all Dr. Ambrose’s secrets?” asked Shayne calmly. “I thought that’s what you wanted to avoid at all costs.”
“Well… yeh… sure… but if that’s a murderer in there, Mike…”
“Then we take him,” said Shayne coldly. “Just stand back out of the way, Tim.” He patted the reporter confidently on the shoulder and moved forward to crouch in front of the door again.
Using the sliver of light, he selected a key from the ring and tried it in the lock. It did not enter… nor did the second key he selected. The third went into the keyhole but would not turn. Shayne studied it very carefully after drawing it out, and then chose a fourth key.
This one not only entered, but turned the lock smoothly and soundlessly.
Shayne got to his feet and put the flashlight back into his pocket. He gripped the knob firmly and put hard downward pressure on it as he turned. Keeping the hard downward pressure on the knob, he pushed the door open and stepped quietly into the carpeted reception room. He felt Rourke’s breath on his neck as he stepped forward, and it was too late to order the reporter to remain safely outside.
The glow of light they had seen on the blinds came through a half-open door across the room. There was a clicking sound within the lighted room. Shayne moved springily across the carpeted floor until he reached the door, then lunged through it without hesitation or warning.
His momentum carried him crashing into the stooped figure of a woman leaning over a desk with a metal strongbox in her hands.
She screamed and they went to the floor together, and the metal box clattered against the wall. Shayne was on top of her for a moment, and was conscious of soft, warm, womanly flesh beneath him, and he got a hand over her mouth to muffle her screams and as he rolled off he heard Timothy Rourke exclaim in astonishment, “Belle! Miss Jackson. What in the living hell are you doing here?”
Shayne sat up and blinked at her. Belle Jackson was quite a hunk of woman. She lay on her side with her skirt riding high up on thick but beautifully formed thighs, and her big breasts were heaving, and the panicked look slowly went away from her face as it was replaced by an expression of recognition.
She said, “Mr. Rourke! Whatever in the world?” She pushed herself up to a sitting position, glanced down at her exposed thighs and modestly tugged the hem of her skirt down, and looked at Shayne accusingly. “If you’re a friend of Mr. Rourke’s…?” There was acid in her tone.
Shayne sat there on the floor in front of her and clasped his arms about his knees and began laughing helplessly. She was about forty, with a well-fleshed, un-lined face, and soft, blue eyes that were so righteously indignant that it seemed to him the most ludicrous moment he had ever known in his life. As he continued to laugh, he heard her voice going on severely, “Really, Mr. Rourke! You and your friend might have knocked. This is a private office and it’s closed, you know.”
And he heard Rourke moving over to her, and his voice was soothing. “We thought it was a murderer in here, Belle.” He choked back his laughter and opened his eyes to see Rourke gallantly offering his hand to assist her to get up. The reporter looked down at him and explained, “This is Dr. Ambrose’s nurse. Miss Jackson.”
She got to her feet with a sort of flounce, and settled her skirt down over her hips. She looked down at Shayne doubtfully and repeated, “A murderer?” and then her placid face fell apart and she wailed, “Doctor’s dead, Mr. Rourke. He’s de-ad! Oh, Mr. Rourke!” And her big body wilted and she collapsed against him, sobbing convulsively.
Shayne figured she must weigh at least thirty or forty pounds more than the emaciated reporter, and he got to his feet hastily before she overwhelmed him with her blubbering weight.
He slid one arm around her quivering shoulders and pulled her away from Rourke, turned her about to face him and deliberately slapped her face-hard. She choked over her sobs and looked at him blankly. He put both hands on her well-fleshed shoulders and shook her roughly.
“Come out of it, Belle. I’m Mike Shayne. A detective. How do you know Doctor Ambrose is dead?”
“I heard it on the TV. I couldn’t believe it… and then…”
“And then what?” Shayne shook her again.
Her head lolled back loosely. She had corn-colored hair that was woven into two heavy braids on each side of her head and twisted together in a knot at the nape of her neck. Her soft blue eyes were glazed over for a moment, and she wasn’t seeing him.
“I knew what I had to do,” she said slowly speaking with great precision. “Doctor had told me what I must do if that ever happened. So I called a taxi and came straight down here to get the box from the bottom drawer of his desk like he always said to do if anything happened to him.
“But it was lying on the floor, open and empty when I got here. I was too late to even do that last thing for him. Oh, God! I got here too late.”
Shayne shook her again. “What was in the box, Belle?”
“I don’t know. He never said. Just that I was to take it away locked and get rid of it. ‘Throw it in the ocean,’ he said. I don’t know.” She wailed, awareness creeping back into her eyes. “I just knew I should do it.”
Shayne stood with his hands on her shoulders, looking into her eyes for a long moment. He had a feeling that this was a lot of female… that if she gave herself to a man she’d give every bit of herself. With no reservations.
He released his grip on her shoulders and stepped back from her, knelt down in front of the metal strongbox and studied it carefully without touching it. It had a hinged top like a bank safe-deposit box, and a strong, well-made lock in front that would require a small flat key to open it. There was no indication that it had been forced open. He asked Belle over his shoulder, “Did you have a key to this?”
“Oh, no. Doctor had the only key… so far as I ever knew. He carried it on his car key-ring… along with his office and house-key.”
Shayne rocked back on his heels and looked up into her face with narrowed eyes. “Let me get this straight… fast. You were at home and heard on TV that your employer had been murdered. He had previously instructed you to take possession of this locked box and dispose of it with contents intact if anything happened to him?”
Belle Jackson nodded wordlessly when he paused. Her face was composed again, though tears rolled in a stream down both cheeks.
“So you hurried down here,” said Shayne dispassionately, “unlocked the outer door with your own key and came in… to find the box lying on the floor, opened and empty?”
“Yes. I…” She paused, biting her full lips and darting a glance aside at Timothy Rourke. “And then you slammed through the door and knocked me down. If you’re really a detective like Mr. Rourke says…”
“All right,” said Shayne wearily, getting to his feet. “I guess we were all too late. Tim. Call the police. Get Painter if he’s back yet. Tell him to get over here. You and Miss Jackson wait, and don’t touch anything until they get here. Tell them the exact truth except about me. Better just say you drove by the office out of curiosity or something and saw a light. When you investigated, Miss Jackson opened the door and told you about the box.”
“Where’ll you be?”
“Home and in bed… I hope and sincerely trust.” He sidled past them toward the door. “Miss Jackson. It’s been a pleasure meeting you, and next time we roll on the floor together I hope it’ll be because we both want to.”