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But that was over now. The pressure was off. She was dead and no power on earth could make that part of it right again. He had let her slip away from his apartment-had stood supinely by while a man with a. 45 walked out to look for her-had cleverly concealed her whereabouts from Will Gentry because he had felt capable of handling the thing himself.

For those reasons, she was dead. Why did he feel time was running out now?

His watch said 11:46.

And then he knew suddenly. Fourteen minutes to midnight. He had promised Lucy, that was it. That he'd be back by midnight for the drink she had poured out for him.

Salvadore came up beside him and laid the photograph down with a sigh. "No soap, Shamus. Not one of them will say positively yes or no."

Shayne looked down at the picture wonderingly. As though he had never seen it before. Because now it didn't matter. Because now he knew what had been nagging at him.

He slid ofiE the stool without even thanking Salvadore, went toward the door in long strides, his face bleak with anger at his own stupidity.

He didn't hear the check girl call out to him as he stormed past her. He broke into a trot as he went out the door, ran to his parked car and jerked the door open. A moment later it was roaring away from the curb.

TWENTY-THREE: 11:47 P.M

The Tropical Arms Hotel on North Miami Avenue was located between a liquor shop and a delicatessen. The liquor store was still open when Shayne pulled up in front of the hotel and leaped out.

The Tropical Arms was an old hotel, very much gone to seed. There was a big, empty lobby with shabby, rococo decorations, yawning chairs and wilted potted palms.

A drop-light over the desk was the only illumination, and there was no one behind the desk.

A hand-printed card propped against a mechanical push-bell instructed Shayne to "Ring for service."

He hit the button sharply with his palm and a loud, metallic "ping" echoed through the empty lobby. Nothing happened, and he kept on pinging until a door opened in a side wall behind the desk and a fat man in his shirt-sleeves emerged. He had pouting lips and he smelled strongly of gin as he waddled up to the desk and grunted, "I heard you the first time. Mister. No need to wake up all the guests."

Shayne skipped the obvious retort. He demanded, "Do you have a Miss Paulson?"

"Miss Paulson?" The fat man belched as he shook his head. "No siree, we sure don't."

"Mr. Paulson? Bertr

"Well, yes, now. Mr. Paulson is with us for a fact."

"Since when?"

"Just this evening checked in. Not more'n an hour ago."

"What's his room number?"

"Well, I'll tell you, Mister. You wanta talk to Mr. Paulson, I reckon-"

"What number?" Shayne's voice rasped like a file on tempered steel.

"Two-ten. But I'm trying to tell you-"

Shayne turned away fast and went past the closed door of an elevator to stairs on one side. He climbed two flights and found 210. He knocked loudly and tried the door. It was locked and his knocking brought no response.

He cursed at the delay, studied the lock as he got a ring of keys from his pocket. The lock yielded to the first key he chose. Shayne flung the door open on a lighted bedroom. He stood glaring at the huddled figure of a man on the floor beside the bed. An Army automatic lay on the floor beside him. But there was no smell of gun-powder in the tightly closed room.

Shayne pulled the door shut and walked over to look down at the man with the scarred face. His cheeks were very red and his mouth was open and he breathed ster-torously. Just beyond his right hand lay a corked pint bottle of whisky about a quarter full.

Shayne leaned over and shook him roughly, calling, "Paulsonl Wake up, Paulson," in his ear. He got no response.

He stepped back with narrowed eyes and kicked the drunken man hard in the buttocks. There was still no response.

Sighing, Shayne went into the bathroom and turned on the light. There was a rust-stained tub with a shower apparatus on the wall at one end.

He went back and got a grip under Paulson's armpits, dragged him into the bathroom and tumbled him inside the tub. He lay there, an inert mass, still breathing loudly and steadily.

Shayne drew the tattered shower curtain to protect himself from the spray, reached a long arm past it and turned on the cold water.

The spray hit full on Paulson's legs, and Shayne reached up to the adjustable head and moved it so it hit him in the face.

Paulson moaned and feebly lifted one arm to ward off the cold water. Shayne turned it on full force and moved the head slowly, sending the stinging spray up and down the length of Paulson's body.

He twitched and jerked and moaned, then sat up suddenly with his eyes wide, grunting, "I'm drowning. Turn it off, I tell you."

Shayne moved the head so the spray took Paulson squarely in the face. He blinked and shuddered and put his hands up, then squirmed to a kneeling position and turned his back on the tormenting water.

Shayne turned it off and reached in to gather up a handful of Paulson's water-soaked coat between the shoulder-blades. He pulled the sodden man upright and slapped him viciously, first on one cheek and then the other.

Paulson cried out in surprise and hurt, then cursed thickly and twisted away.

Shayne let him go and stepped back grimly. Paulson slid to a crouching position, opening and shutting his mouth without uttering a sound, his eyes gleaming madly.

Shayne leaned forward and slapped him again. He asked coldly, "Can you hear me, Paulson? Understand what I'm saying?"

"I'm c-cold. I'm f-freezing."

Shayne said, "To hell with that. Let's see if you can stand up." He got a grip on his arm and heaved. Paulson helped himself a little and made it to his feet. Shayne dragged him over the edge of the tub, gave him a hard shove through the doorway. He staggered and went fiat on his face on the bedroom floor.

Shayne followed and rolled him over on his back, jerked him up to a sitting posture. The madness was going out of

Paulson's eyes, being replaced by fear.

Shayne got the whisky bottle and uncorked it. He held it up to Paulson's open mouth and ordered, "Swallow."

Paulson swallowed two gulps. He coughed and retched and then looked up miserably.

'Tou're Shayne?" His voice was thick but he sounded rational. "Where's Nellie?"

"We'll know after you answer some questions." Shayne moved aside to pick up the. 45 automatic. He stood over Paulson with the heavy weapon negligently in his hand. "Hesitate just once," he said pleasantly, "and I'll break this over your head. Now then. When you reached Jacksonville from Detroit, you found your sister gone. Is that right?"

Paulson nodded dumbly.

"And you nosed around and discovered she had run out on a badger game rap that she'd been pulling with some guy who she pretended was her brother. Right?"

Again, Paulson nodded. He looked down and his fingers scrabbled for the whisky bottle where Shayne had dropped it on the floor. He got it to his mouth with difficulty and drained it. Then he threw it away and put his hands in front of his face and said brokenly, "My fault. All my fault. If I hadn't gone off and left her alone-"

"Shut up and listen to me," said Shayne inexorably. "WTiile you were away, she'd been living with some man and passing him off as her brother. Who was he?"

"Don' know." Paulson's head weaved from side to side. "I don' know. Hired detective to find her. Then I came here-"

"And had a car accident and broke your glasses as you neared Miami," Shayne filled in for him. "You had your sister's room number, and when you reached the Hibiscus you went straight up. And you saw this blonde come running out of her room and you thought it was Nellie afraid to face you because of what she'd done, although you actu ally couldn't recognize her in that dim light without your glasses."