Laughter gurgled up in Mona Tabor’s throat; she pushed her body against him and took a sip of absinthe while her wide eyes looked into his speculatively over the tilted rim.
He muttered, “I’m sorry but I’ve still got to see a man,” and started for the door in long strides.
She didn’t move to stop him. He was sure she expected him to stop of his own accord.
He didn’t. He was reaching for the doorknob when a knock sounded outside.
She cried, “No,” from behind him as he kept on reaching and got hold of the knob. With his hand grasping it he turned to glance at her over his shoulder.
She came to him shaking her coppery head, holding one crimson-tipped finger to her lips as the knock came again. “Don’t open it,” she whispered. “Whoever it is will go away. For God’s sake, redhead-”
He laughed down into her face from which self-assurance had vanished; fright was in its place. He turned the knob sharply, pulling the night-latched door wide open. The woman behind him cut short an angry remonstrance, then pressed close to Shayne as if for protection, sliding her arm about his neck. They stood like that, looking out at the tall, white-haired man who stood outside.
The man’s face was lined and weary. His deep-set eyes were haunted with tragedy. Shayne judged him to be about fifty. He was neatly dressed in flannels and a double-breasted coat with a soft shirt and a blue tie.
He stood solidly outside the threshold without making any move to enter, as if politely awaiting an invitation. His eyes studied Mona, then flickered upward to Shayne’s face.
He made no faintest show of recognition, but Shayne had a singular feeling of being recognized. The white-haired man carried a folded newspaper in his left hand, and as he looked at the detective he unobtrusively slid his right hand into the side pocket of his coat.
Shayne’s wide mouth twisted into a sour grin. He gave Mona a little push that sent her away from him, and said, “Come on in. I’m just leaving.”
The white-haired man said, “No, you’re not leaving,” scarcely moving his colorless lips but articulating with astonishing clarity. His right hand was bunched in his coat pocket and he leaned from the waist slightly, looking from Shayne to Mona and demanding:
“What are you trying to pull, anyway? I guess I wouldn’t have known he had been here if I hadn’t happened to run into him.”
“Well, what of it?” Mona Tabor’s voice was throaty with anger.
“You know what I’m talking about. Don’t try to-”
“Look,” Shayne interrupted affably, “if you’re pimping for her, don’t get any wrong ideas. She’s not holding out.”
“Keep your mouth out of this.” The man drew a short, big-muzzled gun from his pocket. He held it carelessly pointed at Shayne’s guts where it would do the most harm if it went off. His voice was gentle with that same absence of lip movement which Shayne had first noted, the words seeming to come from a point a foot or more in front of his mouth.
Shayne’s eyes narrowed and he took a step backward. He knew that brand of talk. The bartender-at the Cat’s Whiskers on Flagler Street-Joe Darnell-when others might be listening. A clever stunt learned in stir when the screws don’t permit convicts to carry on conversation openly.
Shayne decided that he wasn’t in as great a hurry to leave Mona Tabor’s apartment as he had first thought.
Mona laughed scornfully behind Shayne. “Don’t mind Buell,” she advised him. “He has no strings on me. I do what I please and-”
“Shut up,” said the white-haired man. He came through the door holding the pistol in front of him.
Mona said, “Nuts,” and moved back to the divan, where she slumped down and reached for her glass of absinthe.
Shayne kept his hands in sight and watched the man close the door firmly so that it latched. The folded newspaper which he carried was the latest edition of the Miami Daily News. Shayne had a hunch it carried the story he had given Timothy Rourke that morning.
From the divan, Mona spoke in a voice that dripped venom, “I don’t know what you think it’s going to get you to push in here flashing a rod. I’ll put the cops on you and-”
“You won’t put anybody on me any more than you maybe have already. I’m staying and this rod is staying until I find out what you’ve spilled to this copper.”
Shayne backed up toward the window seat while the man advanced. Mona sat erect and mumbled, “Copper? I don’t believe-”
“No? Didn’t you see this morning’s extra with his mug spread all over the front page? This guy is Michael Shayne. Take a gander at this story in the News”- he tossed the folded newspaper into her lap-“and see if you still think he just came here to give himself a good time!”
He turned to Shayne. His face darkened when he said, “Looking for a fall guy to take the rap for you, huh? All right. Just so you don’t make the mistake of trying to make a sucker out of me.”
Shayne backed up to the window seat and lowered himself onto it carefully, placing his hands on his knees. He nodded. “It’s your party, Renslow, but you’d better go easy on that trigger. Remember you’ve already done one long stretch for murder.”
The change which came over the ex-convict’s face was sudden and terrifying. The prison gray appeared to cover the two months’ tan of Florida sunshine. There was a trapped-animal viciousness in his pale eyes, a dangerous red.
“I’m not forgetting,” he gritted. “No smart dick is hanging the rap on me this time. Not if I have to mess up Mona’s rug with your guts to stay in the clear.”
Chapter Eleven: PORTRAITS FOR A FRAME-UP
“Spilling my guts on Mona’s rug wouldn’t be such a smart way out for you,” Shayne told him. “Why don’t you put that gat away and start making sense?”
“This gat makes sense to me.” Buell Renslow sat down on a chair facing both of them, balancing the heavy weapon across his thigh so the big bore covered the detective. His features were no longer twisted with anger but his blue eyes were those of a man goaded to desperation.
Mona was rustling the late edition of the News which Renslow had tossed over to her. In a wondering voice she read aloud:
“Private Detective Denies Darnell Guilt. In an exclusive interview with a representative of the Miami daily news today, Michael Shayne, ace private investigator, struck back at his critics with a blanket denial that Joe Darnell was in any way responsible for the murder of Mrs. Leora Thrip early this morning.
“Under fire by police authorities and civic leaders, facing the loss of his license and the charge of accessory before the fact in the brutal strangulation slaying of a prominent Miami Beach matron, Shayne threw a bombshell by publicly branding the charge merely a frame-up to disgrace him and cover police inefficiency and inability to solve the case and turn up the actual murderer.
“‘The convenient death of Darnell at the hands of the outraged husband provided Peter Painter with a perfect victim and solution,’ the fiery detective Michael Shayne pointed out to this reporter today. ‘Peter Painter hasn’t looked further because he doesn’t want to turn up any evidence pointing to another murderer and absolving Darnell. For months he has been endeavoring to drive me out of Miami and he sees this case as the perfect setup to accomplish that purpose.
“‘Only the thinnest thread of circumstantial evidence actually links Darnell with the murder of Mrs. Thrip,’ Shayne points out. ‘Undoubtedly, Darnell heard something suspicious in the upstairs bedroom and crept up to investigate. By an unfortunate coincidence, Mr. Thrip heard the same sound and investigated at the same time. Coming suddenly upon an intruder in his wife’s bedroom and seeing her lying dead, Thrip’s immediate and natural reaction was to mistake Darnell for the killer and shoot first before asking any questions.’
“That, in substance, is Michael Shayne’s theory of what actually happened and he is determined to prove it by bringing the real murderer to justice.