Shayne shook his head. “That’s just guessing, Will, and so far as hatred goes, don’t forget that Thrip and Meldrum and Dorothy Thrip and that mewling Thrip boy hated her too.”
Gentry snapped, “Don’t try throwing me off the main track, Mike. We’re talking about Renslow. What he did fits the facts. It has to be that way.” He paused, thinking hard, then went on: “In holding out the evidence on Renslow, do you realize you’re not only letting Phyllis down but you’re also passing up a chance to exonerate Joe Darnell and yourself? What good will it do you to hold something over Renslow’s head while you’re lying in jail serving a term as accessory to murder?”
Shayne allowed himself a thin smile. “If your theory was correct, couldn’t you see it as a lever over our friend Painter’s head also? If I was good enough to withhold evidence implicating another man in the Thrip killing, don’t you think Painter would be grateful enough to quash the charges against me?”
“I don’t see why he should,” Gentry said hotly. “He’s a sworn officer of the law. He would be as guilty as you if he conspired with you to hide evidence in the case.”
“What would he care if the newspapers lauded him for solving a case at the first stroke?”
Painter bristled and ran a small hand over his mottled face. He started to speak, but Gentry bellowed, “Peter Painter is an officer of the law and-”
“You’re getting mighty ethical all at once,” Shayne kidded the Miami chief. “Don’t forget that Darnell is awfully dead already. And think of the spot our Petie would be in if he was forced to retract everything and admit that Darnell wasn’t guilty? After shooting off his mouth to the papers-wiring the governor-why, it would make our Petie the laughingstock of the state. You wouldn’t want that to happen, Will.” Shayne shook his head chidingly.
Listening to this byplay, Painter’s face flushed. Where Shayne had hit him was an angry purple. “I don’t need any help from you, Shayne. You don’t need to cover up for me.”
“You’ve taken help from me before,” Shayne growled out of the side of his mouth, “and been damn glad to get it.”
He still held Gentry’s gaze with a look of mockery. “No. It’s really out of your hands, Will. The less you know about the setup the better. Why don’t you let Painter and me thrash this thing out together?”
“Leave you two to cover up a murder and let your wife take the rap for it?” Gentry demanded, outraged.
“But I pointed out to you that Phyl isn’t in any real danger. Listen, Will, if your wife tried to meddle into your business, wouldn’t you try to give her a dose to cure her for all time? No jury would convict Phyllis,” he ended casually.
“But it would drag her name through the mud. Leave the stigma of guilt on her.”
“A million dollars can overcome a hell of a lot of stigmas,” Shayne told him cheerfully.
“No, Mike,” Gentry announced savagely, “I’m not going to let you do it. You’ve got that note some place. You wouldn’t destroy it because it’ll be worth plenty to you after Renslow is released and gets his hands on that dough. I’m not going away from here without it.”
“What makes you think it’s here?” Shayne parried.
“Because you haven’t had time to ditch it, even if you intended to. And you didn’t think we were going to find you here registered under an assumed name. Sending that note to Phyllis was one of the dumbest things you’ve ever done.”
“Yeh. It wasn’t smart,” Shayne conceded wryly. “But you’re wrong about that note. I threw the pieces away after I put enough together to get the gist of it”
“I don’t believe you,” Gentry growled.
The smile was driven from Shayne’s lips by a hard mask of anger that held a hint of desperation. He stood up slowly. “Calling me a liar is getting to be a habit around here.”
“It’s your own fault, Mike.” Gentry lumbered to his feet and faced Shayne. His lips carefully maneuvered a soggy cigar butt from left to right while he sucked it dry and swallowed with relish. “Are you going to hand over that note?”
“Hell, no. I wouldn’t give it to you if I had it.”
“I’m going to see if you’ve got it before I go out of this room,” Gentry told him patiently. He took a step forward and the detective’s fists knotted up at the end of his long arms. He said softly:
“I’d hate like hell to hit an old man, but don’t come any closer, Will.”
Gentry stopped three feet from him. He hesitated, then turned to the door with a shrug. “All right. You’re bringing this on yourself.” He opened the door and spoke curtly to the men in the corridor: “Come in, sergeant. And you, Casey and Rathbone.”
A sergeant and two heavy-bodied patrolmen trooped into the hotel room and stolidly waited for further orders. Michael Shayne stood back against the wall with his weight resting lightly on the balls of his feet. He warned, “Somebody’s going to get hurt, Gentry.”
“That,” said Gentry, “is up to you.” To the waiting sergeant he growled, “Get your saps out and take him. He never carries a gun, but don’t let him get a swing or you’ll think dynamite’s hit you.”
The trio started to close in with blackjacks swinging ready. Shayne glared over their heads and directed one last appeal to his old friend in a strained voice: “Don’t do it, Will. You’re going to regret it. I’m telling you for the last time-”
He ducked a blackjack swinging toward his head in a violent arc and lunged forward with his fists going like pistons. Rathbone was driven back five feet by one blow, but the sergeant coolly sidestepped and sapped the raging redhead behind the right ear,
Shayne grunted and his flailing fists lost their power. Casey grappled with him and the sergeant got a cuff on his left wrist, deftly jerked that behind Shayne’s back, and snapped the other cuff on his right wrist.
“That’ll do,” Gentry told his men. “Go on outside and wait for us.”
He threw his cigar savagely against the wall as they went out. “I hate this, Mike, but I’m going to search you. If that note isn’t on you I’m going to tear this room to little pieces looking for it.”
Shayne muttered, “Okay, Will,” with his hands pinioned behind him. He moved sideways on rubbery legs and slid down into a chair. “It’s in my inside coat pocket, and damn your soul for not letting me play this my own way.”
His chin dropped onto his chest while Gentry’s thick fingers rummaged inside his coat and pulled out the forged note. Peter Painter jumped up from his chair and came forward eagerly to read it over Gentry’s shoulder.
There was heavy silence while both men read the pasted strips of typewritten words that cleared Buell Renslow and left Carl Meldrum self-convicted of murdering Mrs. Leora Thrip.
Will Gentry blew out his breath and stammered, “B-but-what the sweet hell, Mike-This-Why, this isn’t-it’s not what I thought-”
“You wouldn’t trust me to know what I was doing,” Shayne ground out bitterly. “No. You had to see the thing for yourself. All right. There it is. Are you satisfied? What does that do to your case against Renslow for killing Meldrum?”
“It-shoots it all to hell, Mike,” Gentry rumbled. “According to this, the last person in the world to kill Meldrum would be Renslow. If Meldrum did leave a letter accusing Renslow of hiring him to murder Mrs. Thrip, it’ll look damn bad for the ex-convict.”
“Where does that leave Phyllis?” Shayne grated. “This seems to prove that Renslow got there too late to prevent murder. It’ll make his story stand up-” Shayne’s voice broke. His chin sagged forward and he breathed with heavy, rasping irregularity.
“It’s-why, this completely upsets our case against Joe Darnell,” Painter exclaimed in a stricken voice. “Yet-you weren’t going to make it public even to clear yourself.”
“Don’t be a complete ass,” Gentry advised Painter acidly. “He wasn’t holding it out to make it easy on you. Hell! This practically cinches the case against his wife for bumping Meldrum. Why didn’t you give me some hint?” he muttered fiercely to Shayne.