He dropped into the main compartment, where the enlisted man gave him a cigarette. Brady was unconscious, breathing heavily.
Shayne picked up the tawny wig and the cotton jacket. There was a small hole in the front of the jacket, the kind made by a.25 slug. His face blank and dangerous, Shayne ran the tip of one finger into the tiny hole. He had never been fooled this badly, but he was about to start collecting some of his outstanding accounts.
Shayne was finishing breakfast in the officers’ mess when Painter’s party arrived, in two cars, using both sirens. Shayne had been given a denim coverall, a size too small for him. He finished his coffee without hurrying, postponing the moment when he would have to confront the little chief of detectives. He was in for a painful couple of hours. Shayne didn’t mind being asked questions, but one of Painter’s biggest troubles was that he rarely took time to listen to the answers.
The wall phone rang.
“Your call to New York, Mike,” Ensign Gray said.
“Thanks. Would you mind telling Painter I’ll be with him in a minute?” He took the phone. “Joshua?”
“Michael. Good news or bad news?”
“Pretty bad. For one thing, Tom Moseley’s been murdered.”
Loring sucked in his breath. “No!”
“He was bludgeoned in a hotel room early this morning. I can’t give you much on it now. A cop’s waiting for me, and he burns on a very short fuse. One thing I need to know-did Moseley go to Harvard?”
“Yes,” Loring whispered.
“In the same class as De Rham and Brady?”
“I think so. They’re all about the same age.”
“Can you check it for me? The other thing is, will you find out what company wrote the insurance on Winslow’s Massachusetts plant? I want to talk to the official who okayed that claim. I’ve picked up some evidence that the fire was set. I took a bad beating getting it, and there’s no reason I shouldn’t get some compensation.”
“You mean that Dotty-”
“I’m sorry, but you must have known it was in the cards. Tell him to call me at this number as soon as possible.”
“Mike-is she all right?”
Shayne waited, considering various answers, and then depressed the bar, breaking the connection.
Painter, told to meet Shayne in the aid station, was on his way out to look for him. The two men met in the doorway. As in every collision between Shayne and Painter, the smaller man got the worst of it. He was immaculately dressed, even now, with the points of a carefully folded handkerchief peeping from the breast pocket of an Italian silk suit. He had found time to shave, and his little hairline mustache was neatly trimmed.
“This isn’t a one-way transmission now, Shayne!” he fumed. “Can you hear me? Am I talking loud enough for you? Not that you took me in with that one-way dodge! I’ve known you too long.”
“Petey, slow down a minute.”
“And just what do you think gives you the authority to issue orders? Go there, do this, pick up so-and-so. I’m the one who gives the orders, do you understand? The sooner you get that through your head the better.”
“Orders?” Shayne said mildly. “I hope that radioman didn’t misquote me. All I said was that if you had nothing better to do, I’d appreciate it if you stopped by the Opa Locka Airport. I’m glad you could make it.”
“You don’t fool me for a minute, Shayne! I know the way you talk about me behind my back. People have told me. I’ve had verbatim quotes.”
“Petey, is this getting us anywhere? Did you locate Mrs. Brady?”
Painter held up one hand. “Do I have your permission to speak? Before I tell you what I’ve done about your polite request to locate a certain Mrs. Katharine Brady, would you kindly tell me who the hell Mrs. Katharine Brady is and why you want her?”
“She killed Moseley,” Shayne said.
Painter had a habit of hearing only the things he wanted to hear, but he heard that. He gave his mustache a quick flick in both directions.
“She killed Moseley, did she?” he said sarcastically. “Here I’ve been going on the supposition that you killed Moseley. Rourke gives you an alibi for the crucial time, but everybody knows about you and Rourke, you’ve been co-conspirators for years. This wouldn’t be the first time somebody killed a man, then came back an hour later and found the body. What makes you think you can pin it on this woman?”
They were alone in the anteroom except for a Coast Guard yeoman on duty at the desk. Sometimes there was only one way to make Painter stop talking. Shayne gathered a handful of his suit in one fist and walked him backward against the wall.
Painter took it well. “I warn you, Shayne,” he said pleasantly. “Take your greasy hand off my suit.”
“Did you find Katharine Brady?”
“Why should I answer your questions when you don’t answer mine?” He called over his shoulder, “Richardson! Foster!”
Shayne pulled him away from the wall and walked him to the inner door. Two Beach detectives held up in the doorway.
“It’s you, Mike,” Richardson said.
Shayne was grinning. “We do better in front of an audience, don’t you think, Petey? I can usually keep my temper when we have witnesses.”
Still grinning amiably, he backed the smaller man into a room in which Paul Brady lay, his head heavily bandaged. A Coast Guard medic was with him.
There was only one chair, and Painter took that, more at ease now. Shayne looked out in the anteroom.
“Can we get some more chairs in here?”
The medic at the bed looked around. “This may not be such a good idea, Shayne. Better wait.”
Shayne went to the bed. “Paul, this is Mike Shayne talking. Did you hear the doctor?”
“Yes,” Brady whispered. “What happened to-”
“Mrs. De Rham? That’s what we’re going to be talking about. If you mean did we recover her body, the answer is no. I got my hands on her but I couldn’t hold her. You’re probably curious about what happened. I have to explain a few things to Chief Painter, who’s sitting here trying to control himself. There’s no reason why you can’t listen. Otherwise you’ll get it in bits and pieces over the next couple of weeks, which would be bad for your peace of mind. It’s up to you. If you’d rather do it later-”
Brady’s lips moved. “Get it over with.”
“I thought you’d prefer that. Any time you want us to clear out, let us know.”
Shayne heard a familiar screech of tires on the asphalt, and Tim Rourke came running in.
“The traffic in this town, I mean it. I’ll have to get the paper to buy me a siren. Who loaned you the jump suit, Mike? Too small, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” Shayne said wryly, easing the pull on his crotch. “Painter doesn’t want to answer any questions, for some reason. Something about protocol. What did he find out about Moseley?”
The reporter looked skeptically at Painter. “Let’s put it this way, Mike. Nothing.”
“How about Mrs. Brady? Did they locate her?”
“Easily. She checked out of the St. A. at six to make a seven-o’clock New York flight. It’s five after seven now. They had a good description of her from the hotel people, and they shouldn’t have too much trouble identifying her. I mean, with the seat number and her name on the reservation. Of course with Miami Beach detectives you never know.”
“Birds of a feather,” Painter remarked bitterly. “Now that you have the information you wanted, Shayne, will you kindly return the favor? It’s time to do some talking.”
Chairs had begun to arrive. After they were distributed Shayne sat down close to the bed and said in a low voice, “Some of this may not hit you the first time, Paul, and if you want me to repeat anything, move your hand. Remember you have no obligation to say anything. You’re entitled to a lawyer if you want one.”
There was a slight answering movement from Brady to show that he understood. Painter, across the room, had the sense to remain silent.