“Painter is inside with Henderson. The press is excluded and they won’t talk loud enough for me to catch more than half what they’re saying. Get in there and pitch, Mike.”
The detective grinned briefly and went toward the uniformed man who moved to bar his entrance to the room. Shayne stopped in front of him where he could see Saul Henderson and Peter Painter standing face to face in the center of the room where the party had been held that evening. He didn’t look at the cop, but called out, “Did you want me, Henderson?”
He wore a maroon silk dressing gown and bedroom slippers, and his hair was disheveled. He jerked his head around and said gladly, “Indeed I do want you, Shayne. Come right in.”
The cop stepped out of his way and Shayne went through the archway, grinning at the Miami Beach Detective Chief who glared venomously back at him.
He said, “Congratulations, Chief. This is one time you got on the scene ahead of me.”
“And I don’t need you messing into this case, Shayne. You can have a talk with your client after I’ve finished questioning him about this homicide.”
Shayne started to say that Henderson wasn’t his client, but decided to let it ride. He lounged forward and said, “I’ll stick around until you’re through if you don’t mind.”
“Suppose I do mind?” Painter demanded aggressively. He was a small man with glistening black hair and a very thin, very black mustache, impeccably dressed and groomed even at this hour of the morning.
Shayne said, “I’ll stick around.” He sank into a deep chair and got out a cigarette. “Go right ahead and interrogate the suspect. That is, if Henderson is the suspect.”
“Suspect isn’t the word,” snapped Painter. “He admits shooting the man down on his doorstep.”
“In self-defense,” said Henderson quickly. “I told you that he snatched a gun from his pocket as soon as I opened the door.”
“I know you told me. Prove it.”
“The pistol was lying right there beside his hand. I don’t know how competent your fingerprint men are, but they must have found his prints on it.”
Painter didn’t admit or deny the fact. He said, “You admit you came to the door prepared to kill whoever was there.”
“I admit nothing of the sort,” said Henderson hotly. “A man has a right to defend his own home and person.”
“You went to that door with a loaded and cocked pistol in your hand,” said Painter waspishly. “You claim you had no idea who was ringing your doorbell at that time of night, yet you armed yourself before going to the door. That looks like premeditation to me.”
“I didn’t know who it was. I still don’t know. I never saw the man before in my life.”
“Most people don’t carry a cocked and loaded pistol with them to answer their own doorbell.”
“Most people haven’t had two attempts made on their lives in the past few days,” retorted Henderson.
“Oh, yes,” murmured Painter, delicately smoothing his mustache with a thumbnail. “We come back to that, of course. But I’m not at all convinced those were actual attempts on your life, you know. In fact, you could easily have engineered both of them yourself. There’s no proof you didn’t.”
“I think that dead man on my doorstep is sufficient proof. Isn’t it perfectly obvious even to an imbecile like you that he came here to make the third attempt after his first two had misfired?”
Peter Painter’s mobile features tightened with rage. “To an imbecile like me, Mr. Henderson, the nasty thought occurs that those two previous incidents could have been stage-managed just to set up this kill as it happened tonight.”
“My God,” groaned Henderson. “How devious can you get?”
“I’ve known some pretty devious murderers in the past. Isn’t that so, Shayne? Doesn’t this setup look phony to you?”
Shayne waved his cigarette lazily. “Sure. I’ll buy it. All you have to do is turn up a strong enough motive for Henderson wanting the man dead.”
“We’ll probably get that as soon as we identify him.”
“For God’s sake, Shayne,” protested Henderson wonderingly. “You can’t be serious about accepting Painter’s fantastic theory. The reason I wanted you to come here was to testify that you had pertinent information indicating that someone is definitely out to kill me.”
“You mean the letter you showed me this afternoon?”
“Exactly.”
“What’s that about a letter?” snapped Painter.
“An anonymous letter threatening my life,” said Henderson hastily with a warning look and a shake of his head at Shayne. “Mr. Shayne can testify that he read it this afternoon.”
“And you withheld it from the police? It’s a felony to withhold evidence in a homicide.”
“But it wasn’t a homicide this afternoon,” protested Henderson weakly. “It was just proof that those were real attempts on my life.”
“It’s homicide now,” said Painter stiffly. “Let’s have the letter. If the dead man wrote it, it may clear you of suspicion.”
“I… I destroyed it after showing it to Mr. Shayne.”
“You destroyed it, eh?” Painter rocked forward happily on his toes. “Why, may I ask?”
“Because… well, I just didn’t think it was important any more. Mr. Shayne did read it and he can swear to its existence.”
“Can you, Shayne?”
“I can. I’m not at all sure that I will.”
“What do you mean by that crack?”
“Just what I said.”
“I don’t like your attitude.” Painter strutted forward with his chin thrust out aggressively, both hands planted on his hips. “If you can throw any light on this affair, it’s your duty to do so.”
Shayne said pleasantly, “You know something, Petey?”
“I know a lot of things and don’t call me Petey.”
“The something I’m wondering about is this,” said Shayne equably. “How much is your attitude toward Henderson influenced by the fact that you know you’ll be out of a job if he’s elected mayor of Miami Beach next election?”
“In the first place I don’t know that’s so. In the second place I didn’t even know he was a candidate. In the third place I don’t give one good goddamn who or what anybody is when I’m investigating a homicide. Does that answer your question?”
“Then why are you badgering the guy? Stop me if I’m wrong, but the way I get it is this. Some character comes ringing his doorbell at two o’clock in the morning, and because he’s nervous and frightened, he arms himself before going to the door. Whereupon the man pulls a gun, and he’s lucky enough to shoot first. Is that the picture, Henderson?”
“That’s it exactly. I never saw the man before… haven’t the faintest idea who he is.”
“So why don’t you quit barking up that tree, Painter, and start finding out who wants Henderson dead… and why? If the dead man is just a hired hand, the chances are this won’t be the end of it.”
“Hired gunmen,” said Painter stiffly, “don’t generally go out on jobs with a twenty-two automatic.”
“That what he was carrying?”
Painter nodded. “Henderson, on the other hand, was equipped with a forty-five. Made it sort of unequal. Have you got a permit for that cannon?” he added abruptly, turning away from Shayne.
“Certainly. Issued by your own police department. Does the dead man have a permit for his gun?” he probed acidly.
Painter said, “We’re checking the serial number.” He rocked forward on his toes and then teetered back on his heels. “Right now, Henderson, I want to question the other members of the household.”
“There is no one else.”
“You telling me you don’t have any servants with a layout like this?” Painter looked about the room appraisingly.
“There’s a regular housekeeper and a maid, of course,” Henderson told him stiffly. “But neither of them sleep in.”
“So there’s no one except you who can say what went on here tonight?”
“I don’t concede that my word needs verification.”
“I know you’re a widower,” Shayne put in. “But isn’t there a grown daughter, Henderson?”
Henderson looked at him angrily for bringing the subject up, but said, “A stepdaughter. She’s out of town at present.”