He said to Tompkins, “You have a suite here?”
“On the sixth floor.”
“Handy if you want to do any night work,” Shayne suggested sardonically.
The thin man stopped his agitated pacing. “If I wanted to… yes.”
“I suppose you have an office key?”
“Naturally. But I didn’t use it last night, if that’s what you’re implying.”
“One of you three partners took the securities from the safe last night,” Shayne reminded him flatly. “Where were you?”
Tompkins took an angry step forward. “Are you accusing me?”
Shayne shook his red head. “Just asking you the same question the police will ask.”
“And you’ll get the same answer they’ll get,” said Tompkins, acidly. “It’s none of your damned business where I was.”
“You weren’t in around midnight when I dropped by.”
“I’m quite often not ‘in around midnight,’ as you can damned well find out if you bother to inquire at the desk. If the time comes that I need an alibi, I’ll produce one. But not to you.”
Shayne shrugged and asked Martin, “How much of your time can you cover satisfactorily after the office closed yesterday?”
“See here, Shayne,” he protested, his florid face becoming an angry red. “We called you in to help us find the money.”
“That’s what I’m doing. As I pointed out before, all three of you had access to the office and the combination to the safe. So I’d like an account of your time from the moment the office was closed.”
“But it’s perfectly obvious that Jim is the guilty one,” protested Martin. “Why else was he murdered?”
“Men are murdered for various reasons. For instance, right now the police are fairly well convinced that Mrs. Wallace shot him when she returned unexpectedly and caught him in the act of packing for a trip she knew nothing about. The money doesn’t necessarily enter into it.”
“That’s absolutely preposterous,” put in Tompkins. “Are you saying it was pure coincidence that the money was stolen and Jim Wallace was shot to death the very same night?”
“I’m simply pointing out the possibility. It would clarify things if you would both eliminate yourselves as possible suspects in the theft… and the murder of your partner,” he added.
“I refuse to be cross-questioned by you,” said Tompkins icily. “It was your idea to call him in, Martin. I warned you what to expect. Now you deal with him.” He stalked out of the door and closed it firmly behind him.
“What’s he got to hide?” asked Shayne.
“Nothing, I’m sure. You must bear with him, Mr. Shayne. Understand the terrible strain he’s been under. He… ah… admitted to me this morning that he spent the night with a… lady. I’m not positive, but I gather she is married and Tommy is quite disturbed lest her name be drawn into the investigation.”
“It will be,” said Shayne angrily. “Goddamn it, Martin, a man has been murdered and a million dollars are missing and you and Tompkins act as though you’re playing a game of parchesi.”
“I don’t mind at all accounting for my time. In fact, I’m delighted to do so. And I’m sure Tompkins will be glad to tell you… in strict confidence, of course, but you will certainly agree it wouldn’t be very honorable to divulge the name of the lady in question.”
Shayne repressed a snort of disgust and said, “Give me your time-table. Beginning with the moment you left the office yesterday afternoon.”
A buzzer sounded discreetly as he finished. Martin turned his head and spoke downward toward a small, round grill in the center of the smoking stand beside him, “What is it, Jane?”
“The Chief of Police is here, Mr. Martin,” a disembodied voice replied. “He insists on seeing you at once, even though I explained you were in conference with Mr. Shayne and could not be disturbed.”
Shayne got up, saying swiftly, “Take my advice, Martin, and tell Gentry about the money. It’s an important clue in the murder and he can be trusted to keep it quiet if it’s humanly possible.”
Martin shook his head stubbornly, getting up also and going to the door as a knock sounded. “Definitely not. I want you to be sole possessor of that information, and, if it does become public, I will know where the leak is.”
He opened the door and was confronted by a choleric Will Gentry who glared past him at the redhead and said, “You do get around, don’t you, Mike?”
Chapter eight
Michael Shayne said with disarming mildness, “I’m working on a case, Will. I’m not like you with a job where the taxpayers pay me to sit around on my dead ass all day.”
“All right,” said Gentry. “So you’re trying to earn a fee. Very laudable. Suppose you go on and work at it some place else.”
Rutherford Martin was standing aside, holding the door open during this by-play, and there was a bemused expression on his face as he glanced from one to the other.
“You’re Chief Gentry,” he managed to get out. “You wanted to see me?”
“Martin?” Gentry took a long black cigar from his breast pocket and sniffed it, as though undecided whether to put it in his mouth or throw it across the room. He eventually put it between his lips, though obviously not pleased with his decision. He said, “Yeah. I’d like a word with you, Martin. And with your partner. Alone, if you don’t mind.”
Shayne said, “I was just going, Will. There’s just one question I’d like to ask Mr. Martin before I go.”
“Well, ask it,” said Gentry sourly.
“It wouldn’t hurt you to listen to the answer, Will, even though you won’t know why it’s important.” He addressed Martin directly, “Did Jim Wallace have a passport?”
“A passport? I have no idea.”
“Put it this way,” said Shayne smoothly. “Has he been abroad recently?”
Martin shook his head slowly. “Not for several years. Not to any country that requires a passport.”
Shayne said, “Thanks.” He walked forward and Will Gentry stepped inside the room, out of the doorway, to allow him room to pass. Shayne grinned widely as he did so, pausing just a moment to say, in a low, conspiratorial whisper, “Watch your step with these guys, Will. They swing a lot of weight in this man’s town.” He went out blithely and down the hall to the door into the small reception hall. The redheaded girl was still at the information desk, and she glanced aside with a half smile for him as he emerged.
He paused beside her and looked down wonderingly at the mass of softly reddish curls atop her head. “I just don’t believe it.”
“Believe what?” She looked up at him, startled.
“That your name is really Jane. And I don’t believe your telephone number is Carter 8-2630 either.”
Her eyes sparkled at him and she demanded impishly, “What’s it to you, Mr. Shayne?”
He put two forefingers under her chin and tilted her face higher. He shook his head slowly, “You’re just not a Jane, that’s all. And what did you say the number was?”
She giggled and twisted her chin away from his fingers. “I didn’t say. We haven’t even been introduced.”
Shayne said, “How stupid of me.” He took two backward steps and said formally, “May I be allowed to present Michael Shayne, Miss… uh…”
She giggled again and said, “Higginbotham. Hortense. I’m delighted to meet you, Mr. Shayne.” She held out her hand drooping limply from the wrist, but Shayne glowered at her and made no motion to take it. “I don’t believe it,” he said flatly.