Shayne turned it over and over questioningly in his hands, then scowled down at Conroy’s unconscious body. He dropped the motel key in his own pocket and checked the man’s pulse, found it was strong but irregular, and that his breathing was steady.
He turned his head as the New York attorney emerged from the back seat of the taxi, and exclaimed, “You certainly did give me a surprise, Shayne. I had no idea you were impersonating the driver. Is the young man hurt badly?”
“Just knocked out. He’ll come around soon enough. You get your stuff all right?”
“Yes. All the papers seem to be in order. What are you going to do with Conroy? Will he have to be charged with attempted blackmail, with me subpoenaed as a witness? After all no harm has really been done. I have the papers I came for. If this entire affair can possibly be kept quiet you will be doing my firm and our client a great service, and I assure you that adequate payment will be made.”
“I’ve got a fairly adequate payment in my pocket already,” Shayne told him bluntly. “I’ll consider that my fee if I can keep this quiet. Unfortunately, though, it may be evidence against Conroy for murder, and you may be required to testify.”
“Murder? I don’t understand. I thought that was all settled.”
“I told you things had changed. Here’s what I advise you to do,” Shayne went on swiftly. “Can you drive Conroy’s car?”
“I presume so. It seems a standard model.”
“Then get back to your hotel right away. No. You’d better stop some place. At another hotel lobby on the way where you can address that envelope and get some stamps for it. Put it in the mail for New York before you go to the Costain. Then leave the Pontiac parked a block or so away and go in and straight up to your room. The cops will either be waiting for you, or they’ll be around soon. They’ll be asking you questions about the period you were in the Ames house before he was shot, but we’ll hope they have no lead on this and won’t question you. Don’t volunteer anything. Be evasive about where you’ve been since checking in at the Costain. If I can clear up Ames’ murder in the meantime, there’s no reason this blackmail caper has to enter into it. Just sit tight and hope you’ll be allowed to take a morning plane to New York. Get in that car and drive it away so I can get out of here,” he went on gruffly, turning back to Conroy and getting the limp body onto his shoulder.
He carried the man around to the other side of the taxi and thrust him into the front seat where he huddled down in a crumpled heap, breathing stertorously but with his eyes still tightly closed.
Sutter was behind the steering wheel of the Pontiac starting the motor when Shayne hurried around and got into the cab. He got the other car moving, and headed sedately southward toward downtown Miami, and Shayne made a left turn in the taxi at the next corner and drove to Biscayne Boulevard where he turned north.
Victor Conroy began to stir and make funny noises, and try to lift his head on the seat beside him. Shayne watched him out of the corner of his eye while he drove at moderate speed in the right-hand lane of the almost deserted Boulevard. They were past 79th when Conroy managed to pull himself up and turn his head and blink dazedly at his companion.
“Wha… where are we? What happened?” he managed to blurt out. “You’re… Mike Shayne, by God. You were driving that cab. I remember now.”
“Keep right on remembering,” Shayne said grimly. “You’ve got a lot of talking to do, Conroy.” Ahead of them on the right, a high, arched neon sign spelled out BISCAY REST, and beneath that in smaller letters, Sorry-No Vacancy.
“My head,” moaned Conroy, hunching forward and trying to retch, putting both hands up to his forehead. “What did you hit me with?”
“First a gun and then my fist,” Shayne told him stolidly. He slowed to turn in to the motel entrance, drove past the darkened office to a U-shaped courtyard lined on three sides with connecting motel units. Parked cars stood in front of most of the doors, and at least ninety percent of the units were dark. Shayne checked the numbers on the doors and found 25 with an empty parking space in front of it and a night light on over the door.
Conroy lifted his head from his hands to look around apprehensively when the taxi stopped and Shayne cut off the motor. “Where are we?” he demanded, his voice thin with rising hysteria.
“End of the line,” Shayne told him. “I think I’m about to pin a murder rap on you… maybe two.” He leaned past him to unlatch the door, shoved him out roughly with a firm grip on his left arm.
“I didn’t… kill anybody,” stammered Conroy with his teeth chattering. “You’ve got it all wrong. He was dead when I went in there. I swear he was.”
Shayne said, “Shut up. First we’re going to take a look in number twenty-five. Then you can start talking.”
He put the motel key in the lock and turned it, opened the door and dragged Conroy inside and pressed a wall switch by the door.
Overhead light showed a double bed and the figure of a woman lying on her back with arms outstretched. She was fully dressed and her eyes were closed and her face was very white.
It was Dorothy Larson.
Shayne shoved Conroy across the room away from him with such force that he struck the wall and slid to the floor. He jerked the door shut and bolted it and then took two strides to the side of the bed where he picked up one of Dorothy’s wrists. It was limp, but it was warm, and there was a strong, steady pulse. She appeared to be in a deep, drugged sleep, but her lips came apart and she moaned faintly as Shayne bent over her, and her eyelids fluttered and then rested shut again.
Shayne straightened up and turned on Conroy who was picking himself up from the floor. “What did you use to knock her out?”
“A couple of sleeping pills,” Conroy mumbled eagerly. “Just enough to keep her quiet until I could get back. They’ll wear off pretty soon and she’ll tell you. I didn’t hurt her. She was just hysterical and I was afraid she might do something crazy. So I brought her here where she’d be safe from her husband. Don’t you understand? That was before he came back and shot Wesley and got arrested. I thought he might come after her next. And I didn’t know what she’d do or what she’d tell him. I was afraid to take a chance. Don’t you understand what I’m saying?”
Shayne said, “Frankly, no.” He moved back to a chair near the door and sat in it and got out a cigarette. “Was this after you stabbed Ames and stole the papers Sutter wanted?”
“I didn’t stab him.” Conroy sank into a chair across the room and looked at him wide-eyed, the picture of innocence. “You did find that out finally, huh? I wondered when you and that sergeant came back. He wouldn’t tell any of us why he was reopening the case when we all thought he had it wrapped up with Ralph Larson as the killer. And then you asked about the paper-knife.”
“Is that what you used?” Shayne asked levelly.
“I tell you I didn’t. I went in his study and he was dead. I could see he’d been stabbed in the heart, and I thought of course that Ralph Larson had done it. Why shouldn’t I think that?” he demanded heatedly. “He was the last one who’d been up the back way to see him. We all knew that Ralph suspected Wesley was laying his wife. You could hear them arguing in there and then Ralph went out the back, and when I went in fifteen minutes later, Wesley was dead. Naturally, I thought Ralph had done it. You don’t know how mixed up I felt later when I came back to the house and discovered Ralph had broken in with a pistol and shot Ames after I knew he was already dead. What could I say? All I could do was keep my mouth shut and hope that was the end of it. What did it matter whether Ralph was electrocuted for stabbing or shooting him… or both? Though I still don’t understand why he came back to shoot a man he had already killed with a paper-knife.”
“Let’s back-track a little bit,” said Shayne reasonably. “You claim you heard them arguing and Ralph leave… and you went in the study a few minutes later and found Ames stabbed to death. Is that your story?”