Shayne turned decisively away from the window, strode to the door and pulled it open. David Waring had pulled a straight chair across the anteroom and was seated in it close to the low railing and was in an animated huddle with Lucy Hamilton, who sat at her desk with paper in her typewriter taking direct dictation from him with her fingers flying over the keys. Both his voice and her typing stopped abruptly when Shayne opened the door. Her brown eyes looking past Waring implored him to be sensible as she said, “We’re working out the rough draft of an agreement, Michael. Have you time to check a couple of points?”
Shayne went on toward the outer door, reaching for his hat. “I told Waring you had full authority to set it up any way you want. I’ll sign whatever you have typed when I get back.” He went out and pulled the door shut with unnecessary violence behind him.
Downstairs, he went to the Herald morgue for the information he wanted, instead of the News. He might run into Rourke at the latter newspaper office, and he wasn’t ready to explain to Tim the reason for his sudden interest in Henderson. Knowing Shayne as well as he did, the reporter had a disconcerting habit of reading the redhead’s mind before Shayne himself knew what was in it. Like last night. His casual, parting reference to Henderson’s stepdaughter as “utterly charming” and a “nice” girl-quoting Shayne’s own descriptive words for Jane Smith right back at him-were indication enough that the reporter suspected the truth.
In the back files of the Herald, Shayne found everything he needed. The folder on Saul Henderson was thin, but it went back three years when Mr. and Mrs. Saul Henderson of New York purchased a $60,000 home on Miami Beach and announced their intention of settling in as year-round residents. There wasn’t much background on the couple, just that Mr. Henderson was “well-known in New York financial circles” and Mrs. Henderson was identified as the former socialite wife of Ralph Graham. A daughter of her first marriage was mentioned. Muriel Graham, who will attend the exclusive finishing school on Miami Beach conducted by Miss Overholzer.
Next, a few months later, was the announcement that Saul Henderson had purchased a partnership in the local brokerage firm of Wallach amp; Dutton, and a few brief items following which indicated that Mr. Henderson was establishing himself solidly as a progressive and civic-minded citizen of Miami Beach, first as a member of various committees and local charity drives, and then as chairman of other, more important committees.
There was quite a long obituary for Mrs. Henderson when she died in her home several months before. She was described as an invalid and as having succumbed to a lingering illness, though cancer was not specifically mentioned. Her daughter by a former marriage, Muriel Graham, was listed as the only survivor along with her husband.
That was the last item in the newspaper file on the Hendersons before the final news story dated some weeks previously. This was a front-page feature story covering a banquet at one of the most exclusive and expensive hotels on the Beach which had been televised on a national network because one of the country’s top television personalities had been honored as the “Beach Booster of the Year” and presented with a key to the city by Mr. Saul Henderson, President of the Miami Beach 100-Club and prominently mentioned in local political circles as the Reform Candidate for mayor of Miami Beach in the forthcoming election.
There was a picture of Saul Henderson beamingly presenting the key to the television comedian while three cameras recorded the event for the edification of viewers throughout the country, and Shayne studied the photograph carefully and with increasing aversion as he recalled the story the man’s stepdaughter had told him the preceding evening.
Without that knowledge of the man’s true character, Shayne was honest enough to admit to himself that in the picture Henderson looked very much like a right guy. In his mid-forties, with lean features that appeared almost ascetic, yet with a certain air of boyish bravado, Shayne could see how the man might easily capture the imagination of enough voters to become the next mayor of the beach city.
Yet, with what he knew about the man, Shayne was able to see that the piercing black eyes were a little too close together so that there was something predatory about them, the lips were too thin and too tightly compressed, the chin was pointed rather than prominent, the little tight curls of hair on each side of his high forehead resembled horns rather than carrying out the slightly boyish effect they gave at first glance.
After passing on from the photograph, Shayne glanced through the story which contained nothing new about Henderson, and then closed the file and returned it to the Herald librarian.
Lucy Hamilton was alone in the office when he returned. She stood up determinedly from her typewriter when he breezed in, and said, “Michael. I want to talk to you.”
He said, “Sure, angel. Any time. But first, look up the phone number for Saul Henderson on the Beach. Call it and try to find out how to contact a stepdaughter named Muriel Graham. She’s nineteen years old,” he went on, “and been living on the beach about three years going to Miss Overholzer’s School. Her mother died of cancer a few months ago. Take it from there and think of some good reason for getting her present address if you can’t reach her at home.”
Lucy bit her underlip hard, and then released it. In a taut voice, she asked, “You mean I’m not to mention your name?”
“That’s right, angel.” Shayne seemed completely unaware of the tension gripping his secretary. “Be an old school-friend or something. Maybe you knew Muriel in New York before her mother married Henderson and they moved down here. Use your imagination.”
He stalked into his own office, blandly disregarding the fact that Lucy was blinking violently to hold back angry tears, and there he crossed directly to a filing cabinet behind his desk and took a bottle of cognac from the second drawer. He uncorked it and turned to the water cooler where he nested two paper cups together and filled the inner one nearly to the brim with cognac. With a companion cup of water for a chaser, he settled himself at his desk and took an appreciative sip of liquor just as Lucy came in.
She said with heightened color and dangerous calm, “Maybe I don’t possess enough imagination to do this job right. After that outrageous scene of yours earlier, I guess maybe you’ve got a monopoly on the imagination around here.”
Shayne grinned irritatingly and raised ragged red eyebrows. “Is that a prelude to admitting you failed to get Miss Graham’s address?”
“I talked to a housekeeper,” said Lucy flatly. “She says that Muriel is visiting friends in New York. She doesn’t know how she can be reached there… or simply isn’t telling. But now I’m telling you something, Mr. Michael Shayne,” she went on fiercely. “If you ever… if you ever… act the way you did this morning again, I’m through. Do you hear me? That’s spelled t-h-r-o-u-g-h period. Get yourself another secretary. In fact, get another one right now so far as I’m concerned.”
“Why should I?” asked Shayne amiably. “You’re doing all right. Beating the bushes for new business all over the place. Who else would show the same sort of initiative? Did you work out a profitable deal with the insurance guy… fix it so you can have dates with him every night in the week?”
Her eyes widened and then tears started streaming out of them. She walked directly to his desk, disregarding the liquid flow down her cheeks, leaned forward and said distinctly, “Damn you, Michael Shayne. You disappear somewhere on your own every night for a week leaving me around twiddling my thumbs. And then when a nice man comes along and invites me out to dinner and I spend the entire evening dutifully laughing at his corny jokes while I impress on him what a wonderful detective my boss is and get him to come up with a whopping retainer… when I do all that just for you… what do you do? Well, tell me,” she insisted fiercely. “What do you do?”