Shayne’s first and strongest impression was one of latent power and of blunt-spoken dominance. A man who had always known what he wanted and who generally managed to get it.
Thrip stood flat-footed behind his desk and inclined his head some five degrees. “The detective, eh? Sit down, Mr. Shayne.” His manner was curtly cordial, his voice held the resonance of an assured after-dinner speaker.
Shayne tossed his hat onto a filing-cabinet. Loose-limbed, he stalked to the realtor’s desk and folded himself down into a straight-backed chair.
Mr. Thrip sat down and placed the palms of smooth hands flat down on the desk top. He said:
“I called you, Mr. Shayne, because I heard you highly recommended by our Miami Beach chief of detectives last night. You’re acquainted with Mr. Painter, of course.”
Shayne nodded and hooked spatulate thumbs in his belt, tilted back in his chair. He crossed one bony knee over the other and his face creased into a smile that was more sardonic than humorous. “That’s a new angle for Painter, recommending me for a case. I was under the impression that he hated my guts.”
“Quite right.” Arnold Thrip did not smile. Shayne wondered if he could smile.
“I overheard Mr. Painter discussing private detectives,” Thrip went on, “and their function in modern society at a meeting of the Beach Betterment Association last night. He cited you as a particularly vicious example of the worst of your class. I gathered from his remarks that there is little you would refuse to undertake-for a price.”
Shayne shrugged. His smile was replaced by a blandly receptive expression. “Whom do you want murdered, Mr. Thrip?”
Thrip shook his head from side to side. A breeze came through the open window behind him and swirled gray cigar ashes into a mound at the edge of the onyx tray. He pointed a forefinger at Shayne and spoke sternly:
“I am a man of few words, Mr. Shayne. I trust you will not waste my time and yours in feeble witticisms. I have a business proposition to put to you confidentially.” He paused, hunched his heavy body forward to pick up the lighted cigar which now held half an inch of gray ash.
Shayne took a cigarette from his shirt pocket and stuck it between his lips. Past the flame of a match he said “Shoot.”
“From Mr. Painter I gathered that you are in contact, on rather intimate terms, with the criminal element in Miami, Mr. Shayne. Mr. Painter, in fact, gave me the impression that the personnel of your detective agency is composed of men whom he characterized as yeggs and hoodlums.”
Shayne didn’t explain that his was a one-man agency. He said with deceptive mildness, “Peter Painter has a flair for going out on a limb with unfounded statements.”
Arnold Thrip did not appear to hear him. He did not look at Shayne. It was apparent that the man was finding it difficult to come to the point. Still staring down his cigar at the desk, there was a trace of plaintive appeal in his voice:
“I’m sure you will understand that this is an unusual situation for me; a difficult situation to say the least. To a man of your type what I have to propose will seem commonplace, I presume, but it does not come so easily to one who for many years has been a leader among right-thinking men.”
Michael Shayne said nothing. A light flared behind his eyes but Thrip did not look up to see it. Shayne waited for him to go on, holding in check his natural inclination to lash out at the nasty-nice hypocrisy of the realtor.
“I need the services of a man who will force an entry to my home, Mr. Shayne. A man who will carry out the assignment in a professional manner and leave unmistakable traces behind him as evidence of his illegal act.”
Shayne didn’t say anything. He was relaxed and attentive, his lean face expressing no emotion beyond a mild interest.
Thrip glanced up at him and gained assurance from Shayne’s attitude. His voice again took on that familiar resonance which Shayne had noted at first:
“I presume you will require no further explanation, Mr. Shayne. The less one knows sometimes the better, eh? Ha-ha. I’m sure we understand each other.”
“We don’t,” Shayne corrected. “You seem to have the wrong impression of the functions of a private detective. In the first place I don’t send men out on assignments without knowing what it’s all about.”
“I fail to see why you need to know any more about it, Mr. Shayne.”
Shayne said, “Then you’re a damn fool, Mr. Thrip.” He got up and half turned to reach for his hat.
The realtor’s mouth gaped open and he snatched for his cigar. “You’re not-you can’t walk out on me,” he sputtered.
“Why not?” Shayne’s lean face was saturnine. “You haven’t any strings on me. You’re wasting my time unless you’re ready to come to the point.”
“Sit down, Mr. Shayne. I was coming to the point, which will interest you.” His lower lip rolled out to form a pinkish gray bulb. “I assure you I am prepared to pay handsomely for your time.”
Shayne turned back and laid his hat on Thrip’s desk. He put his doubled knuckles down on each side of it and leaned forward. In a flat monotone he said:
“Now I’ll tell you something, Thrip. I have a license to practice my profession just the same as you do. It’s a hell of a lot harder to get a detective’s license than a realty broker’s, and a damn sight harder to keep one. I’m responsible to the state of Florida for any man I send out on a job. If you’ve got a proposition to make, I’ll listen to it and decide whether it’s something I want to take on. I’ve been picking my cases for years, and when I get in trouble I walk into it with my eyes open and I’ll take the consequences. I don’t play any other way.”
“But-er-can I trust you to keep what I say in strict confidence should you-er-decide against taking the case?”
Shayne straightened from his hunched position. In a cold voice he said, “If you don’t think you can trust me you’d better find another detective.”
“I do trust you. If I can have your assurance that you will treat this-er-confidentially.”
Shayne said, “No,” angrily. “If you’re planning a murder you’d better not tell me about it.” He reached for his hat but the realtor stopped him with uplifted palm and a forced laugh.
“A murder? Oh, no. Nothing quite so violent, I assure you. The-er-deception I propose will not be directed at any individual. I’m sure you will have no qualms about undertaking it when you hear me out.”
Shayne frowned, then dropped back into his chair. “I’m listening.”
“It’s a matter of business necessity,” Thrip explained haltingly. “What I require of your operative entails no danger whatsoever-no criminal act on his part, in fact. As I have explained, I merely wish him to force an entry, leaving distinct traces behind him. Once inside he will go upstairs to my wife’s room where he will discover her jewel case on the vanity dresser. I want him to carry the case away with him-and to create some commotion so the house will be aroused and his getaway observed by witnesses to testify to it. He will be in no danger, for I possess the only firearm in the house. Is that clear enough, Mr. Shayne?”
“It’s beginning to make sense,” Shayne admitted. “The jewel case will be empty, I suppose?”
“My wife’s maid will testify that all her jewels, which are conservatively appraised at two hundred thousand dollars, were in the case when she retired,” the broker told him blandly.
“Also insured for two hundred grand?”
“Why, yes. One naturally carries insurance on such costly articles.”
“Quite naturally,” Shayne murmured. “I gather you don’t plan to explain to the insurance company that you have removed the jewels before the empty case is stolen.”