“That’s the way it reads,” Shayne admitted grimly. “The papers are making the mistake of listening to Painter, as usual. Joe wasn’t on the prowl. He went in on a ready-made lay-planted and primed for him. He wasn’t worried about any squawk. He was expecting some slight interference to make it look good when the insurance investigators checked up on the missing loot. He wouldn’t have jumped the woman. He didn’t.”
“The hell you say.” Gentry’s mouth fell open and he held the cigar half an inch from it. “Then those notes-all that stuff about him guarding the joint for you-is all that phony?”
“There were notes all right-blackmail-but the rest of the setup is phony as hell. But I can’t prove a word of it. My only out is to turn up the real murderer-Joe’s murderer too, by the way, since he swallowed a slug on account of Thrip triggering in a hurry without taking time for questions when he saw his wife stretched out stiff and Joe in the room.”
Gentry’s graying head bobbed up and down. “I knew it had to be something like that. Anything I can do, Mike?”
“I don’t know,” Shayne told him truthfully. “I’m following two or three leads. Joe could tell us a lot if he could talk. He’d know who went in and came out. You can do this, Will. Every visitor with a criminal record is supposed to register when he hits town. See if a Buell Renslow, pardoned lifer from Colorado, is on your list. He probably isn’t because that’s just another goofy law you can’t enforce.”
“Probably not but we’ll see,” Gentry agreed amiably. He flipped the switch on an interoffice communicator on his desk and gave an order.
“And I’d like to locate a Mona Tabor who gives a Little River post-office box as her address”-Shayne waited while Gentry made a note of it-“and dig up anything you can on Carl Meldrum at the Palace Hotel on the beach,” he ended.
A buzzer sounded. The chief said, “Shoot,” into a phone and listened a minute. He shook his head at Shayne. “Nothing on your ex-con.”
“Then wire Colorado for his mug and prints. And circulate the word among your stoolies that he’s wanted. He shouldn’t be hard to pick up if he runs true to form. Another angle will be Mrs. Thrip’s lawyers. They’ve been paying out monthly sums to Renslow. You might tackle them officially.”
Gentry was scribbling notations on a pad. He grunted with surprise and looked up at the detective. “What’s the connection? How does the con figure?”
“Mrs. Thrip’s brother,” Shayne told him briefly. “I’d like to know where he was between one-thirty and two last night. He made something like a million during that half hour.”
Gentry made his lips into a big O and permitted a whistle to escape him. “Nice work if you can get it. Better than a cop drags down.”
“Or a private dick.” Shayne stood up, tangling his coarse red hair. “Will you hop onto that stuff, Will? And phone any dope over to me. I’ve got one call to make before I land back at my apartment.”
Gentry said, “You bet,” and lifted his heavy hand in farewell as Shayne went out.
The detective’s roadster was parked against the curb outside headquarters where it was marked No Parking — Police. He got in and pulled up to the traffic light on Flagler, waited for it to change, and turned east past the Bade County courthouse.
In front of the First National Bank on the corner of Flagler and Northeast First Avenue he parked in the space reserved for armored cars and went in to cash Leora Thrip’s check into a sheaf of twenties,
Shayne’s next stop was the Miami Daily News tower on Biscayne Boulevard. He went up to the noisy, smoke-filled city room just before press time and found Timothy Rourke relaxed in front of a littered desk in a corner overlooking the bay.
Rourke looked up and waggled a finger at Shayne with portentous gravity. “Naughty, naughty, Michael. There’s an old Hindu proverb that says, He who playeth with fire shall someday find himself in the middle of a mighty conflagration.”
Shayne nodded soberly, pushed back some papers to slouch down on a corner of the reporter’s desk. “That’s rank plagiarism on the Chinese. What’s your first-edition headline, Tim?”
“Hot off Petie Painter’s platter. Revocation of Shayne’s License Demanded. And it’s subbed: An indignant citizenry rallied solidly behind police authorities and civic leaders this morning to press demands upon the governor that Michael Shayne’s authority to prey upon innocent victims be annulled at once,” Rourke quoted gravely, “or words to that effect.” He grinned cheerfully and offered Shayne a cigarette.
Shayne shook his head. “So you boys are convicting me without a trial.”
“A trial? What the hell, Mike? Isn’t it open and shut? You don’t deny Darnell was working for you, do you?”
“It wouldn’t do me any good to deny that,” Shayne admitted. “The catch is, Tim, Darnell didn’t choke the dame.”
“Wh-a-a-t?” Rourke choked over a windpipeful of smoke.
“He didn’t,” Shayne said with a driving intensity that riveted all of Rourke’s attention. “I’ve given you stuff in the past,” Shayne went on harshly, “and you’ve made money by listening to me. The Herald nailed me to the cross on Painter’s say-so this morning. Why don’t you guys try printing the truth?”
Rourke’s flaring nostrils quivered like a hound’s on the scent. “Good God, Mike! Have you got any proof?” He was reaching for a wad of copy paper and a pencil.
“Not a damn bit. But I’m telling you. You can quote me, can’t you? Do you think I’m taking this lying down? Joe Darnell didn’t kill Mrs. Thrip. Painter’s willing to let it lie that way because he hasn’t got brains enough to catch the real murderer and because it harpoons me.”
“But what about Thrip? If Darnell didn’t kill Mrs. Thrip what reason did Thrip have for killing Darnell?”
“Plenty of reason,” Shayne insisted. “Breaking and entering. Hell, I’m not blaming Thrip. His story is straight enough. He did what any man would do under the circumstances. My quarrel is with his interpretation of what he saw when he turned on the light. I’m working on the theory that Mrs. Thrip was dead before Joe Darnell entered her bedroom.”
Rourke’s keen eyes dulled as Shayne spoke. “That’s not like you, Mike,” he observed absently. “This is the first time you ever blatted out a theory for publication. I thought you left that angle for the Painters.”
“I’m working on this with two strikes on me before I come to bat,” Shayne explained. “I want the murderer to know I’m on his tail. I’ve got to smoke something out, Tim. There are so damned many angles-” He paused, shook his head gloomily, then asked, “Well, Tim?”
“It’s a story,” Rourke told him. “Right or wrong, it’s a different angle.”
“Play it like it was right and you won’t regret it,” Shayne assured him. He slid off Rourke’s desk and barged out of the smoke-fouled room to the elevator.
Out on the street, he strolled leisurely to his car, got in, and drove to his hotel. Going through the lobby, he saw that the clerk had observed his entrance but was studiously pretending to be looking elsewhere in the evident hope that Shayne would go on up without stopping.
Shayne’s heels thudded across the tiled floor. He stopped in front of the desk. “Anything for me, Jim?” he asked pleasantly. “You know, Michael Shayne,” he added as the young man jerked around with a show of surprise.
“Oh, yes. Sure, Mr. Shayne. Of course, I know-ha-ha-No, there isn’t anything in your box this time.”
“Don’t believe everything you see in the newspapers,” Shayne admonished. He turned to the elevator and the clerk gaped after him, rubbing his diminutive chin with shaking fingers.
Shayne knocked on the door of his apartment, a gay rat-ta-tat-tat-tat-tat which would tell Phyllis that it was himself coming home. When the knock was not answered he opened the door with a key. He called, “Phyl-hey, Phyl,” but the call was echoed back by silence from the four empty rooms.