Shayne lifted his hat politely and did his very best with a smile.
“Is Mr. Marco in?”
“No.” Her voice was vinegary.
She started to close the door. Shayne got his foot in the way.
“That’s all right. I really came to see Miss Marco.”
“You can’t see her,” the woman told him sharply. “She’s sick abed.”
“Of course,” Shayne said. “That’s why I’m here. I’m Doctor Shayne.”
“But Doctor Holcomb’s already-”
“I know,” Shayne told her with asperity. “As a matter of fact it was Doctor Holcomb who asked me to drop in and see his patient. He’s a little worried about certain phases of her case, and called me in consultation.”
The woman looked at him doubtfully, her eyes lingering on his sport jacket, and Shayne realized he must look completely undoctorish. Still, in Miami a member of the profession was likely to call on patients in plus fours or fishing clothes, so he pushed forward impatiently, saying, “I haven’t a great deal of time. Going for a cruise today, but I promised Doctor Holcomb I’d see his patient first.”
The housekeeper said, “Well-” and gave way before him with reluctance.
He followed her through a wide hallway to the foot of the stairs where she stopped and pointed up.
“There’s one of the maids in the hall upstairs. She’ll show you Miss Marsha’s room.”
Shayne climbed the stairs and found a young woman rocking back and forth in a chair at the end of the upper hall. She had a broad, heavy-boned, Slavic face, and she was chewing gum rhythmically. She didn’t get up when he stopped in front of her. A thick braid of blonde hair was coiled above her forehead, and heavy breasts bulged the front of her starched uniform.
“I’m Doctor Shayne,” the detective told her brusquely. “Which is Miss Marco’s room?”
The maid stopped chewing. Her jaw sagged a trifle as she regarded him with dull bovine eyes.
“This here’s her room.” She indicated a closed door behind her. “But Mr. Marco said-”
“Mr. Marco would fire you like that if you kept the doctor away from his daughter.”
Shayne snapped his fingers to indicate the speed with which she would be discharged. He moved quickly to the door, but the maid got to her feet to intercept him. A key hung from a piece of white tape around her neck, and she held it up in front of Shayne, saying placidly, “Wait, and I’ll unlock the door.”
Shayne stood back to let her unlock the door, then pushed past her into the darkened bedroom, closing the door behind him, saying, “I don’t want to be disturbed while I’m diagnosing the case.”
He looked at the bed, saw the covers were thrown back. It was empty. He swiftly crossed the room to a closed door and rapped on it, then turned the knob and opened it.
It was a bathroom, also empty.
A clothes closet offered the only other place of concealment. He pulled the door open, calling Marsha’s name, then pressed the dresses and coats back on their hangers to assure himself the girl wasn’t hiding against the wall.
Emerging from the closet, he started toward the door. His eyes were wary, anxious. He stopped with his hand inches from the knob, wheeled and went swiftly to the shaded windows near the head of the bed.
The end of a twisted bedsheet was knotted to the caster and led out the center window. He lifted the shade and found the screen swinging loose on hinges. He thrust his head out and looked down at two twisted sheets tied together and almost touching the ground.
He lowered the shade, turned to look around the room uncertainly, then started talking in a low persuasive voice, “Now, Miss Marco, you mustn’t adopt that attitude. I can’t diagnose your case unless you’re entirely frank with me,” all the while crossing to a littered vanity where a note lay beneath a comb. He picked it up and read:
“I can’t stand this. I’d rather be dead. I’m going where you’ll never see me again.
“MARSHA.”
He folded the note, slipped it into the side pocket of his jacket. Then he explored the drawers of the vanity, lifting his voice a trifle so it would carry across the empty room to the hallway outside.
“I understand, Miss Marco. I’m inclined to feel that your case isn’t quite as serious as Doctor Holcomb intimated. I’ll have to ask you a few more questions.”
He continued a rambling, low-toned conversation, interspersed with frequent pauses, while he carefully rummaged through the room, wondering irritably where the devil a girl like Marsha Marco would keep her handkerchiefs hidden.
He passed over a pink satin folder in the long center drawer at first, but making a second round, he lifted the top and found layers of folded handkerchiefs neatly arrayed, with a couple of tiny sachet bags nestled among them.
He studied each one dubiously, and finally picked up a frilly square of sheer linen that looked an exact duplicate of the one he had taken from Grange’s lifeless fingers. Closing his eyes, he sniffed the delicate fragrance, trying to remember the scent of the other handkerchief, realizing with deep disgust that he was probably the poorest connoisseur of perfume in the world.
He had a hunch that it was the same perfume, but it was no more than a hunch.
A hard lump beneath the handkerchief folder attracted his attention. Lifting the holder, he stared down at a. 32 automatic. He took it up and smelled the muzzle, getting only an odor of oil which indicated the pistol had been cleaned since last being fired.
He slid the automatic and handkerchief into his jacket pocket, closed the folder and replaced it, moved to the center of the room where he stood in scowling indecision for a moment, then stepped noiselessly to the clothes closet where he looked through the hangers until he found a light silk jacket. On a shelf was a small felt toque to match.
He unbuttoned his shirt and slid those two articles of Marsha’s wearing apparel down in the front, distributing them so they would not bulge, then went toward the door, saying aloud, “I understand perfectly, Miss Marco. I’ll have a consultation with Doctor Holcomb, and I’m sure you’ll begin to respond to treatment at once.”
He opened the door as he finished the sentence, turned to block the entrance with his body and said, “Good day, Miss Marco,” and closed the door firmly behind him.
The maid was standing close to the door, twiddling the key, a curious look of uncertainty on her broad, stupid face.
“Is she-she’s awake, huh?”
“Partially.” Shayne watched her alertly from beneath drooping eyelids. “She’s not quite herself, I’d say. Don’t disturb her until she calls.”
“Yessir.” The maid was obviously relieved.
As Shayne turned away, he heard the click of a key in the lock behind him.
He had to restrain himself to keep from taking the stairs two at a time, holding his body erect and dignified as be imagined a physician would do. He drew a deep sigh of relief when he reached the front door without encountering the housekeeper again.
Chapter Nine: GAMBLING WITH A GAMBLER
Shayne drove slowly away from the Marco residence. He unbuttoned his shirt and transferred the articles of clothing to the side pocket of his car, tossing the automatic in after them.
At Ocean Drive, he turned to the left and drove directly to Marco’s Seaside Casino, turning in the curving driveway and parking his roadster at the curb directly behind a glittering limousine.
Tall royal palms with trunks like columns of gray concrete shaded the gambling casino. Its appearance was desolate by daylight. There was no uniformed and beplumed doorman on duty, and the grilled front doors stood open.
Shayne heard the voices of cleaning women drifting out from rear rooms as he strode down the long hall to the stairway and went up to the second floor. A door directly in front of him came open as he reached the top, and he was confronted by the tall white-haired man who had taken Marsha Marco out of her father’s office last night.