“No.” Her eyes were wide and candid. Her head moved almost imperceptibly from side to side. “I didn’t see Harry again. That is, to speak to him.”
Shayne got up abruptly and went into his bedroom where he fished around in his soggy coat pocket and found the handkerchief he had picked up at the murder scene. He carried it back into the living-room and handed it to Phyllis.
“Is that yours?”
She picked it up by one corner and held it up for inspection. “No,” she said with decision. “Why?”
“Maybe nothing. Maybe a hell of a lot.” Shayne sat down and shoved his empty cup over for a refill with the request, “Not too full this time. Leave room for the royal.”
“What’s that?”
“Coffee royal,” he explained. He took the cup from her and, carefully floating brandy on top, went deeper into the subject. “Coffee royal is what used to make kings kingly-before dictators started dictating.”
He leaned back, sipping the pungent mixture thoughtfully, shaking his head while a scowl of irritation spread over his angular face.
“What do you mean about the handkerchief? Is it important? A clue or something?” Phyllis asked.
“I’ll be damned if I know, Angel.” He smiled briefly. “I’m glad it isn’t yours. Preposterous as it sounds, it would appear that three men have died during the last twelve hours because of that little square of cloth.”
“Not-not actually?”
Her eyes were round with awe. She wanted to know why and how and when and where, but he shook his head at her questions, insisted that he didn’t know himself.
When they finished their coffee, he told her she had better go back home.
“And don’t do anything foolish,” he admonished her gently. “I’d just as leave have you keep on living.”
She faced him near the doorway with very bright eyes. “You’re keeping something from me,” she accused. “What makes you think I might be in any danger?”
“Just a hunch,” he insisted. “What I mean is-stay out of dark alleys and don’t go riding with strange men.” He paused, then added irrationally, “You haven’t met a mug named Chuck Evans in your meanderings, I suppose.”
“No-not that I recall.”
He muttered, “I didn’t suppose you would have. It’s too much to ask for something to make sense.” He slid his arm around her shoulders and moved her toward the door. “Strange as it seems,” he said lightly, “I have to work for a living.”
“Are you working on a case?”
“Not yet. Not until I see the glint of a stray dime that may be in it for a guy named Mike Shayne.”
He grinned and squeezed her shoulders, released her and went to the door to look down the hall. He turned back and tilted her face and kissed her lips.
“Run along now. Nice to have seen you again, sister. Do come back some time when you have more news of mom and pop and all the girls.”
He looked into the hall again, saw that it was empty, and gave her a little shove through the door. She turned to make a grimace at him, but the door was already closed.
Chapter Eight: THE EMPTY ROOM
SHAYNE SAT DOWN in a straight chair at the table and pushed coffeepot and cups back to clear a space in front of him. He opened a drawer and got out a sheet of blank paper and a pencil, lit a cigarette and started writing:
1. Who telephoned last night? Could it have been Grange disguising his voice?
2. Did Larry Kincaid do the job and leave my pistol to frame me?
3. Whose handkerchief? Left intentionally or by oversight or planted?
4. Did the mugs want the handkerchief-or something else that was taken from Grange by the murderer before I got there?
5. Who called Painter to the murder scene?
6. Why were the mugs waiting for me here when I was supposed to be locked up? (Phyllis, too.)
7. When and how did Chuck Evans suddenly get in the money?
8. Did Grange know Chuck?
9. Did Chuck know Thomas?
10. Was Marsha the girl Phyllis saw in Grange’s car? (Marsha’s handkerchief?)
He stopped and stared down at the list of questions, frowning and tugging at the lobe of his left ear. Then he wrote:
11. What the hell’s in it for me?
He poured a short drink of cognac and sat there alternately sipping it and puffing on a cigarette. Then he checked questions six and eleven, folded the sheet of paper and put it in his shirt pocket. He went to the telephone and called a number.
When a man replied, he said, “Hello, Tony. This is Mike Shayne.”
“Hi, boss. Your neck, she ain’t stretched yet, huh?”
“Not yet. Do you know where Chuck Evans hangs out?”
“Lemme see, Mike. I think mebbe so. Him and Belle have been holed up at Mamma Julie’s all winter. But wait, boss. Somebody said last week Chuck made a killin’ out at Hialeah. I dunno whether he’s still there or not.”
“Mamma Julie’s? That’s down on Fifth, isn’t it? Okay. And listen, Tony.”
“Yeh, boss.”
“Stick around close. I may have a job for you.”
“You betcha. I’ll be on tap.”
Shayne hung up and waited a minute, then called another number.
When a woman’s voice answered, he said, “Helen? Mike Shayne speaking. Let me speak to Larry.”
“Larry hasn’t come back.” Helen Kincaid sounded worried. “He’s in Jacksonville on business.”
“Jacksonville?”
“Yes. I didn’t know anything about it. I thought maybe you did. He left home last night saying he was going to see you at your apartment.”
Shayne asked sharply, “How do you know he’s in Jacksonville?”
“I had a telegram from him early this morning. Said he’d been called away unexpectedly and didn’t know how long he’d be gone.”
She hesitated, then asked in a taut tone of repressed fear, “What-did you and Larry quarrel about, Mike?”
“He told you about that, did he?”
“Y-Yes. Not very much though.”
“I’ll be out to see you later,” Shayne said abruptly. “If the police or anyone question you, don’t tell them about the telegram from Larry. Don’t tell them a damned thing.”
“Is Larry-in trouble?”
“It’s your fault if he is,” Shayne told her brutally.
He hung up and went to the bedroom where he put on a tie and slid his wide shoulders into a light sport jacket. Stopping at the table on the way out, he pocketed the handkerchief and strode out to the elevator where he pressed the DOWN button.
In a pleasant, sun-filled lobby downstairs, he sauntered to the desk and glanced at his empty mailbox. The clerk on duty greeted him respectfully.
“Good morning, Mr. Shayne! That was a pretty close call last night.”
“What?”
Shayne’s ragged red brows came down in a straight line.
“Over at the beach,” the clerk amplified hastily. “Walking into that dead man like you did.”
Shayne said, “Oh-that? Yeh.”
He turned and went out into the hallway leading to the side entrance, got into his car parked at the curb and made a U-turn, drove to S. E. First Street where he turned west into one-way traffic and followed it to the F. E. C. railroad tracks, where he made a right turn and parked at the curb that said: NO PARKING, POLICE.
He nodded pleasantly to a couple of loitering patrolmen and went into the Miami police station, down a hall to the private office of the chief of detectives. Pushing the door open, he found Will Gentry sitting back at ease with his feet on a scarred oak desk reading the latest edition of the Miami Herald.
Gentry lowered the paper and glanced placidly at his visitor with a twinkle in his blue eyes.
“’Lo, Michael. Why can’t you learn to stay out of Painter’s pretty hair?”
Shayne grinned and slid into a chair in front of the desk.
“To hell with Painter. Let him stay out of my hair. I heard you had a mysterious telephone conversation early this morning. Anything in it?”
Will Gentry was a big man, stolid and lacking in imagination. He said: