“Of course.” Painter sounded a trifle petulant. “Have you seen this morning’s Herald? In my statement I mentioned your splendid co-operation and-”
“I just woke up,” Shayne grunted. “I’m sure you fixed the headlines in a big way. I’ll have a News reporter here at noon to get the complete story. Don’t fail to be on hand so you can act as though you know what it’s all about.”
He hung up, grinning widely at Painter’s hurt protest that he was fully aware of what was taking place.
He called Will Gentry next. The chief of Miami detectives sounded tired and unsure of himself. “When are you going to crack this thing, Mike? I feel as though I’m sitting on a box of dynamite with this confession of Meldrum’s in my pocket.”
“Twelve o’clock sharp,” Shayne told him blithely. “Painter will meet us here at my apartment and we’ll clean the whole mess up in five minutes.”
“You sound as though you had something up your sleeve.”
Shayne said, “Maybe I have,” and hung up before Will Gentry could question him further.
His next call was to the Miami Daily News, where he got Timothy Rourke on the wire. He held the receiver inches away from his ear while the angry reporter bellowed:
“A hell of a pal you turned out to be, shamus! What’s the idea of leaving me out in the cold while the Herald cracks Painter’s admission that the Thrip case ain’t iced up? Damn it, Mike, I gave you what you wanted yesterday on your promise that we had the inside track. What are you holding out?”
“Headlines that’ll sell your afternoon papers,” Shayne told him calmly. “Keep your shirt on and shut up long enough to listen to me. I’ve always fixed the breaks so they go your way. All the Herald had this morning was a vague retraction from Painter. Be at my office at twelve-fifteen on the dot and you won’t squawk about what you get. And, Tim! Bring an AP man along. I want the story to hit the New York papers fast.”
“What’s coming off, Mike? Our deadline is one o’clock.”
“That’s why I timed it as I did. Keep your front page clean for a bomb to explode.”
Shayne hung up and moved to the center of the floor where he rubbed his bristly jaw undecidedly. There was a gnawing in his stomach and he wondered if a small snifter would help. He decided not. Food was definitely indicated.
Shayne went down through the lobby, long-legged it to the hotel where he had registered for a brief interval last night. He had the room key in his pocket so he strode right past the desk and up to his room.
Inside, he turned the mattress back and felt inside the slit in the ticking. Carl Meldrum’s original note was where he had thrust it last night. He put it in his pocket and went downstairs, tossed his key on the desk as he went out.
He stopped at a small cafe on Flagler Street and wolfed down four scrambled eggs with crisp bacon on the side. The gnawing went away from his midriff. It was eleven-fifty when he finished his second cup of coffee.
It was eleven-fifty-eight when he got out of his hotel elevator on the third floor.
A man was rapping on the door of his office. Buell Renslow turned to face him as he came up the corridor. Relief twitched over the ex-con’s pallid face. “I’m a little early,” he said huskily, “but I was afraid maybe you wouldn’t wait if I wasn’t.”
“This is just perfect,” Shayne assured him. He unlocked the door and stepped in, held his hand out to Renslow. “Got it on you?”
“Yes, I–I got it.” Renslow dug a roll of bills out of his pocket and pressed them into the detective’s hand. He tensed and swung toward the door when he heard the tramp of feet sounding in the hallway.
Shayne unconcernedly thrust the roll in his pocket without counting it, reached out, and pulled the door open.
Will Gentry came in first. He was followed by Mr. Thrip and by Peter Painter, who was bowed over by the weight of an office model typewriter.
Arnold Thrip looked hot and nervous. His eyes sought Shayne’s worriedly. Renslow took a quick backward step when he saw Will Gentry. He frowned with sudden perplexity and fear when he recognized his dead sister’s husband. He darted forward to get out the door when Painter stepped inside.
Shayne casually got in his way and thrust him back. He grunted, “You’re not going anywhere, Renslow,” and locked the door, putting the key into his pocket.
Desperation flamed in Renslow’s eyes. He started a forward movement against Shayne, then sagged back limply against the wall. Almost soundlessly he intoned, “Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God,” and the phrase was not blasphemy.
Gentry and Thrip stopped a few feet inside the room, while Painter went on to the table, where he thumped the typewriter down and straightened up with his fingers pressed against the small of his back.
Shayne leaned his shoulder blades against the locked door and said, “Welcome, gentlemen. Will, I believe you and Mr. Thrip know Renslow, but Painter hasn’t met him. The mustache with the handsome man behind it is Peter Painter-our persevering chief of detectives from across the bay who still hopes to solve a case some day.”
Painter took a step forward and nodded with dignity. He caressed his threadlike mustache with his forefinger and did not deign to reply to the insult.
Renslow remained sagged back against the wall, his eyes darting from one to another of the trio in a frenzy of fearful speculation.
Mr. Thrip inclined his head and spoke in a tone of pompous irritation. “Perhaps I misunderstood you, Mr. Shayne. I didn’t-ah-realize there would be such a gathering here.”
“That’s quite all right. You can pay me off in the presence of these witnesses as well as though we were alone. Mr. Thrip,” Shayne gravely explained to the heads of the two detective bureaus, “has retained me on this case to solve his wife’s murder. On payment of a specified fee I have promised to deliver evidence into the hands of the police that will convict the murderer. I’ll take that six grand now, Mr. Thrip.”
Behind him Buell Renslow moaned faintly. “You dirty double-crosser! I might’ve known.”
No one paid any attention to Renslow’s laments. Painter and Gentry watched in silence while Mr. Thrip hesitantly offered Shayne a long sealed envelope. The detective tore it open and counted out six thousand-dollar bills with an expression of pleasure on his gaunt face. He nodded and thrust the bills into his pocket on top of the wad Renslow had passed over just previously.
He went past the three men to the center table, saying briskly, “I think we can finish up our business in short order.” He frowned down at the typewriter Painter had brought. “Is this Carl Meldrum’s machine?”
“Not his,” Painter explained. “It belongs to the Palace Hotel, but Meldrum often used it, In fact, the clerk definitely recalls that he used it just before noon yesterday.”
Shayne said, “U-m-m. To type the note I recovered after Renslow tore it up, I suppose. Also, to type the extortion notes, no doubt, if he authored them.”
He slid a sheet of paper in the roller and began punching keys aimlessly, suggesting to Painter and Gentry, “Let’s take a look at the notes and make some rough comparisons to see if the typing checks.”
Thrip’s eyes bulged when Gentry pulled out the sheet with strips of a typewritten message pasted on it. He shot an angry glance at Shayne. “But I thought-I understood the message was in your possession and you threatened to withhold it from the police unless I-ah-”
“Unless you paid off,” Shayne finished for him. He took the note from Gentry and held it so Thrip could not see the words. “Well, you wouldn’t have paid the six grand otherwise, would you?” he demanded, then turned to call to Renslow, who had slumped down into a chair behind them. “Better join us. You’ll be interested in the results of these comparisons.”