A wry smile twisted his lips as he got in and drove away. You had to hand it to Lucy. She did pull that sort of thing off well. He hoped Nurse Jackson would come out and join them while Lucy conducted her interview. He would be exceedingly interested to know how she reacted to Belle.
At the Miami Beach Police Headquarters, Shayne had no difficulty this morning getting into Chief Painter’s private office.
The head of the detective division sat rigidly upright behind a wide expanse of clean-surfaced desk and regarded the redhead with snapping black eyes that managed to appear accusing. “You’ve been long enough coming in, Shayne.”
Shayne said, “I was checking a couple of things.” He pulled a straight chair closer to Painter’s desk and sat down. “What can you do for me?”
“What can you do for me?” Painter challenged. “I want to know more about Dr. Ambrose’s blackmail payoff last night.”
“I’d like to know more about it myself.” Shayne unconsciously touched the twin lumps on his head and winced. “Have you heard anything about the possibility that he handed his money over to the wrong man?”
“What’s that? Don’t hold out on me, Shayne!”
“Why should I hold out? I was the Patsy in the deal.” Shayne hesitated and then said carefully, “Tim Rourke tells me you checked the Seacliff and got some kind of confirmation that Ambrose met his blackmailer there at nine-thirty… as I assumed.”
“Yes. That is… it’s all pretty vague. I couldn’t get a definite identification of the doctor, but the description is close enough. What do you know about a flashlight picture being taken of the transaction?”
“Rourke mentioned that.” Shayne frowned thoughtfully and lit a cigarette. “Ambrose certainly didn’t tell me he had anything like that in mind.”
“You think Ambrose arranged it?”
“Who else?” argued Shayne. “Remember, I told you he claimed he didn’t know who was blackmailing him. It looks to me as though he wanted some proof the pay-off had been made, and hired a man to take a picture.”
“What’s that got to do with your suggestion that he paid off the wrong man?”
“A lot, maybe. I don’t know. Here’s how it went.” He proceeded to give Painter a straightforward account of his encounter in the hotel lobby with Jud and Phil, and his interview with the Boss at the Bayside Hotel. “You figure it out,” he urged when he ended. “Seems to me that picture of the man receiving the money from Ambrose might be damned important.”
“I still don’t see who killed the doctor… or why,” exploded Painter.
“I don’t either,” Shayne agreed mildly. “That’s your problem. What’s this thing Tim Rourke told me about the doctor’s office last night?”
“You mean the nurse and the empty strongbox?” Painter asked reluctantly.
Shayne nodded. “What do you make of it?”
“It just gets screwier and screwier,” muttered Painter. “According to the woman’s story, he had some private papers in the box which he had asked her to destroy if anything happened to him. But someone beat her to it. When she searched the office, after learning the doctor had been murdered, she found the box open and empty.”
“Not forced open?” Shayne asked urgently.
“No. Unlocked with a key, from all indications. The office door, too.”
“Was there a key-ring in the doctor’s pockets when you checked his body?”
“No. His wallet was intact… but no key-ring.”
“Why in hell,” asked Shayne thoughtfully, “would his murderer make the effort and risk the danger of going to his office and emptying that strongbox? What was in it to make it worthwhile?”
“You tell me,” suggested Painter.
“If none of these other things had happened,” said Shayne slowly, “I would assume the strongbox held some documents that referred to the matter the doctor was being blackmailed about. But why would he keep them? And why would someone want to get hold of them after he had already paid off?”
“Because they identified the blackmailer,” said Painter quickly.
“But if the guy who got the money wasn’t the actual blackmailer…?”
They looked at each other for a long moment, and each man helplessly shook his head in bafflement.
“One more thing I wanted to ask you,” Shayne said briskly after a moment. “That thirty-two automatic you found beside the body. Was it the murder weapon?”
“Ballistics says it was. And it’s registered in Dr. Ambrose’s name. He’s had a permit for years. Are you sure he wasn’t carrying it last night, Shayne?”
“No,” said Shayne truthfully. “I didn’t shake him down. I don’t think he was lying to me, though.”
“There’s nothing to indicate it was taken out of the glove compartment,” muttered Painter. “In fact, very careful chemical tests practically rule out the possibility that the gun has been in the glove compartment for months at least. If he normally kept it at his office…”
“His nurse swears he didn’t,” Shayne told him.
“What’s that? Have you talked to Miss Jackson?”
“This morning. I drove her over to the doctor’s house, where she’s going to spend a few days with the bereaved widow. Who, by the way, looked pretty spiffy this morning. Miss Jackson claims he had mentioned owning a gun to her, and said he kept it at home.”
Painter drummed impatiently on the top of his desk with his small fingertips. “She was dead drunk when he was getting himself shot in their driveway.”
Shayne nodded agreeably. “So that puts her in the clear.”
He glanced at his watch and stood up, stretching and yawning. “I guess that just about winds it up.”
“What did you mean by that last statement?” demanded Chief Peter Painter suspiciously.
Shayne looked at him benignly. “Doesn’t it?”
“Wind it up?” demanded Painter.
Shayne looked surprised. “I thought you meant my saying that Celia Ambrose seems to be in the clear.”
“Why shouldn’t she be? My God, do you think she shot her husband… with a quart of vodka inside her?”
“Doesn’t seem reasonable,” Shayne agreed amiably. “I’ve got a luncheon date.”
He strode out of the Chief of Detectives’ office, and went down a corridor to a side exit leading out to the parking area and his car.
The Doubloon Restaurant was on the ocean front, halfway north toward 79th Street.
Shayne turned his car over to a parking attendant and went into the dimly-lighted interior. It was just 12:20 when he entered. He stopped and peered around at the half-dozen waiting people in the small foyer without seeing Lucy, and went on to the entrance to the dining room where the headwaiter greeted him:
“Mr. Shayne! You are lunching alone?”
Shayne said, “No. My secretary is meeting me. You know Miss Hamilton?”
“But, yes. She is… I think not come yet.”
Shayne said, “Good. I can use a drink or two. I’ll be at the bar.”
He turned to the left to a small bar, where he found an empty stool and sat down. He ordered a sidecar and lit a cigarette, and wondered what was keeping Lucy Hamilton so long.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Shayne had his second sidecar in front of him when he felt a light tap on his shoulder and turned his head to look into Lucy Hamilton’s dancing brown eyes.
He regarded her sourly and demanded, “All right. What should a detective look like?”
“They’re mostly flat-footed, fat slobs. Which you aren’t.” Lucy linked her arm in his. “They’ve got a table for us.”
Shayne slid off the bar-stool and nodded to the bartender. “I’ll finish my drink at the table.” He went into the dining room with his secretary, and when they were seated, she confided to him, “Mrs. Ambrose doesn’t like you, Michael. I think she suspects you’re in league with the gamblers who she is convinced killed her husband. On the other hand… that big bitch of a nurse. Oh, my!” Lucy widened her eyes laughingly. “She thinks you’re pretty much of a guy. Darned if she doesn’t practically blush every time your name is mentioned. How did you get so well acquainted with her so fast, Michael?”