“Yeh,” Griggs said slowly. “You’ve sold me a bill of goods, Shayne. It sure as hell can’t hurt anything… and with Mrs. Larson being missing and all…”
He nodded his bald head decisively and got up from behind the desk. “If anything comes out of it you’ll get the credit,” he added generously.
Shayne said, “Forget the credit, Sergeant. I just want one favor. Let me know the minute you get the P. M. report. No matter what time of night.”
“You’ll get it,” promised Griggs, and he hurried out of his office with Shayne following at a slower pace behind him.
10
Michael Shayne again parked his car at the curb in front of the side entrance to his hotel because he expected Lucy Hamilton to be waiting tor him upstairs and that he would drive her home a little later. He climbed the one flight of stairs that by-passed the elevator and went down the hall toward his door, instinctively getting out his key as he approached. He unlocked the door and it opened silently and the ceiling light was still on as he had left it when he dashed out a couple of hours previously. But Lucy wasn’t there to jump up and greet him with eager curiosity as he had expected. He advanced slowly into the room, noting the tray with the glasses still on it where he had set it down on the center table to answer the telephone, with the liquor bottles standing beside it where Rourke had placed them.
He stopped and looked around uncertainly, and then a broad grin spread over his rugged features. Lucy lay curled up asleep on the shabby sofa against the right-hand wall. She had kicked off her shoes onto the floor beside the sofa and she lay on her side with her cheek nestled into the palm of her left hand, and she was breathing as sweetly and quietly and happily as a child that has been bedded down with loving care by its mother after having said its prayers in full confidence that they will be heard.
Shayne moved over slowly and silently to stand at the head of the sofa looking down at his sleeping secretary, and his grin widened when he saw the book lying open and face down where she had dropped it on the floor. It was a copy of Michael Shayne’s Long Chance, a mystery novel which Brett Halliday had written from one of his cases, the story of his first meeting with Lucy Hamilton in New Orleans soon after his wife had died, when she had been one of the prime suspects in a murder case and long before either of them dreamed she would eventually wind up as his secretary.
He leaned down to pick the book up to see how far she had read, and was touched to find it was open at page 169, at the point in the story where he had asked her to decide whether she wished to take a long chance with him on a wild hunch which he hoped would blow the case wide open. That was when he had called her ‘Lucile’ and she had said to him then, “I think I know you better, Michael Shayne, than I’ve ever known any man,” and her eyes had been shining and her voice confident as she said it those many years ago.
He turned away slowly with the book in his hands, and laid it face down on the table beside the tray and poured cognac into the empty glass waiting there.
A long time ago, and a great many things had happened since that day in Lucile Hamilton’s New Orleans apartment when she had first thrown in her lot with him. He tipped his head back and let cognac trickle down his throat and wondered if Lucy now regretted that decision she had made in New Orleans. There had been good times and bad times for each of them, and out of it all they had built an enduring relationship which was as close to marriage as either of them wanted.
He lowered the glass and turned his head to look at Lucy again, and he saw her eyes were sleepily half-opened and fixed on him although she had not moved from her sleeping position.
She said drowsily, “I’ve been dreaming, I guess. I was reading that book, Michael, and I got to thinking back…” Her voice trailed off and she closed her eyes again and a little half-smile of contentment came over her softly flushed features.
Then she opened her eyes wide and pushed herself up on the sofa and fluffed her brown curls with both hands and said practically, “It was that champagne I drank at dinner. You shouldn’t have given me so much. You know my capacity.”
“Tim Rourke was paying for it,” he reminded her. She blinked her eyes at him, and suddenly frowned and demanded, “What happened, Michael? You and Tim dashed off to try and stop his friend from shooting the columnist. I called the police as you told me, and then I sat here waiting. What happened?”
“We were about a minute too late to head Ralph Larson off,” he told her. “Wesley Ames is dead and Ralph is in jail charged with murdering him.”
“Oh no!” she cried instinctively. “That’s too bad. I don’t know them, of course, but it all sounds so useless.”
Shayne nodded somberly. “Most murders are. You want a drink now, angel? You were about to have a C and C when I got that call.”
Sitting on the edge of the sofa, Lucy shuddered as she leaned down to slip on her shoes. “That was hours ago and the champagne has all worn off now. I’d like a nice tall glass with ice cubes and cognac and filled to the top with soda. Then you can tell me all about Ralph Larson and Wesley Ames. I’ll go in the bathroom to comb my hair and put my face back on. I feel quite disheveled and practically wanton.”
Shayne chuckled and told her, “You looked like an innocent child asleep there on the sofa.” He took the tray into the kitchen to get fresh ice cubes and open a bottle of soda, and the telephone started ringing as he returned with the tray.
Lucy was coming out of the bathroom and Shayne stood by the table with the tray in his big hands scowling down at the instrument. “I’m afraid this isn’t our night for quiet drinks, angel. If we’re lucky that’ll be Dorothy Larson calling again.”
“Why lucky?” asked Lucy curiously, and Shayne realized that she didn’t know about Dorothy being missing. He set the tray down and picked up the phone, but this time it was the voice of the desk clerk from downstairs:
“There’s a man to see you, Mr. Shayne. He says it’s very important.”
“Who is it?”
“Mr. Sutter, he says. From New York, and he has to see you at once.”
Shayne said, “Send him up,” and put the instrument down and scowled at Lucy and tugged at his ear lobe. “A lawyer from New York named Sutter,” he told her. “He was at the Ames house waiting to see the man when he was killed. I don’t know what he wants with me, but he’s on his way up.” He shrugged his shoulders and poured a generous dollop of cognac into a tall glass holding three ice cubes. He filled the glass to the top from the bottle of Club Soda and handed it to Lucy just as a knock sounded on the door. He told her, “I’ll get it,” and went across the room to admit the pudgy figure of Alonzo J. Sutter.
Shayne nodded pleasantly to the New York attorney, noting that the man carried himself more erectly than before and that his round eyes behind the rimless glasses were not as bloodshot as they had been. He said, “Come in, Mr. Sutter. Perhaps you’ll join us in a drink.” He closed the door and turned to wave a big hand at Lucy who was gracefully settling herself in one of the comfortable chairs with her glass in hand. “My secretary, Miss Hamilton,” he said formally. “This is Mr. Sutter, Lucy.”
Sutter nodded vaguely toward Lucy and said, “I’m delighted,” in a tone which belied his words. He shook his head firmly at Shayne and said, “No drinks, please. I came here hoping and expecting to have a very private talk with you about a very confidential matter, Mr. Shayne. It is of vital importance,” he went on severely. “I made inquiries about you after you left the Ames residence, and I ascertained that you are highly regarded locally as a discreet and competent private investigator. I wish to consult you in your professional capacity,” he ended abruptly, again with a doubtful glance toward Lucy and the array of liquor bottles and glasses on the table.