“I think the only thing that’s really in danger is my collecting the first half of a ten grand fee,” he told her. “It was Will Gentry, of course. Gentry and Tim Rourke together. They probably had one of Gentry’s men make the actual call in case you answered the phone. Tim told me he called earlier but you refused to tell him anything.”
Lucy nodded and her face brightened. “About eleven-thirty. I recognized his voice and simply denied that I knew anything at all about a Miss Lally. What do you mean about losing a fee, Michael?”
“A man named Burton Harsh. I jockeyed him into laying five thousand on the line within an hour on my promise to keep Lally away from the police. The fool got tight and threatened to kill Sara Morton last night.” He gave Lucy a brief resume of Harsh’s story, added, “If Harsh learns that Gentry has Miss Lally before he deposits that down payment at my hotel he won’t deposit it.”
He sat for a moment tugging at his left ear lobe and frowning, then muttered, “If they really do have Morton’s husband tagged for the job, there’s no reason Harsh’s threat need be made public. If I can reach Gentry and get him to listen to reason-”
He swung up from the couch and started for the phone, saying, “How about a drink, angel, while I call Will.”
He dialed headquarters and asked for Gentry when a strange voice answered.
“The chief is out at the moment,” the man told him. “Can I help you?”
“It’s a personal matter,” Shayne hedged, “having to do with Miss Beatrice Lally, a witness in the Morton case.”
“Oh-yes. We want very much to get in touch with Miss Lally. If you have any information as to her whereabouts, please give it to me.”
“I understood she had given herself up and was with the chief now,” Shayne said.
“I’m afraid you’ve been misinformed. Hold on just a moment. By the way, who is this calling?”
“Captain Holden, Miami Beach Homicide,” Shayne answered. “We’ve got some questions to ask the Lally woman.”
“I see. Hold on, Captain.”
Shayne hung on, the trenches in his cheeks deepening, and sweat standing on his forehead. He took out a handkerchief and wiped his face, then held out his hand for the drink Lucy was bringing in. He had time for a quick swallow before the man at headquarters said:
“I don’t know where you got your information about Miss Lally, Captain. She isn’t here. However, it’s possible Chief Gentry has made contact and is with her now. May I call you back?”
“Don’t bother,” Shayne grunted, dropping the instrument on its prongs and glaring at it. He took another drink, and Lucy handed him an ice-water chaser.
“Did you find out anything, Michael?” she asked.
“I think it’s all right. I don’t believe Beatrice is in any danger. Will is out of the office-probably meeting her some place they arranged over the phone.”
“I’m glad it isn’t anything worse than that,” she breathed. “I got to thinking, back there in the kitchen, and I was afraid it might be the murderer and she was in danger. And it would have been my fault.”
Shayne’s gray eyes were bleak and staring. He said, absently, “You had no way of knowing it wasn’t me.”
“But I should have known,” she persisted. “I should have known it was a trick to get her out of here when she gave me that hocus-pocus about not even telling me where she was to meet you. That was a dead giveaway, but instead of using my head I got mad. She did look young and pretty with her glasses off; and I guess she has got what you’d call sex appeal,” she ended in a small, self-accusing voice.
Shayne finished his drink, set the glass down, and went over to put his arms around her. Tears swam in her eyes and he kissed her lids gently, forcing the tears to her cheeks. He kissed her lips not so gently and said:
“Now will you stop accusing me of making assignations with other women?”
She nodded her head, gasping for breath, and she was laughing when he let her go. “What will you do next, Michael?”
Shayne’s mouth twisted in a humorous grin. “About what, angel?”
“Michael Shayne! You know very well what I mean. About Miss Lally.” Her cheeks flamed suddenly and her eyes were very bright.
“I’ll have to find Will and see if he’s ready to play ball with me by keeping Burton Harsh’s name out of the papers.”
“He will agree, won’t he? If they catch Ralph Morton and pin it on him?”
“Probably.” He thought for a moment, asked, “How did Beatrice leave here? Afoot or by cab?”
“She phoned for a cab to pick her up here. I gave her the number.”
“What company?” Shayne picked up his hat and jammed it down over his unruly red hair. “With the new radio dispatching system they’re using and with two-way radios in the cabs, it’s not difficult to check the destination of any fare.”
“Why do you want to check her destination? That is, if you’re sure Chief Gentry has her.”
“I’m not sure of anything. What company did she call?”
“Martin’s Cab Company. The one I always use.”
Shayne rubbed his jaw reflectively and muttered, “I don’t know anybody at Martin’s.” He reached for the telephone, asking, “What’s the number?”
Lucy called the number as he dialed. When the cab company answered, Shayne said:
“One of your cabs was called to this address to pick up a party about twelve-fifteen.” He gave Lucy’s street number and continued casually, “I’m afraid she got mixed up and went to the wrong address. Would it be difficult for you to check your records and let me know exactly where she went?”
“It wouldn’t be difficult,” the voice said, “but we don’t give out such information without authorization. If you’d like to give me the correct address I can check and let you know whether they are the same.”
“Okay,” Shayne said in a resigned tone. “I didn’t much hope you’d fall for that. This is Michael Shayne speaking. I’m a detective and I’m trying to trace the party who left this address in one of your cabs at approximately twelve-fifteen.”
“A detective?” The voice was more dubious now. “If this is a legitimate police matter-”
“I’m private, but it’s still legitimate. What in hell do I have to do to get it-a court order?”
“I’m sorry, sir, but I’m just the night dispatcher and don’t have authority to give out such information except to the police.”
Shayne muttered an oath and hung up. Lucy stood beside him, her young face anxious again. “It’s all my fault for letting her leave here,” she said.
“It’s going to be all right,” he assured her, “but I’d better check personally with Will.”
“Is there anything I can do, Michael?”
“Sure. Go back to bed and get your beauty sleep.” He caught her to him roughly and kissed her, then turned her around by the shoulders and gave her a little shove toward the bedroom. “I’ll call you if anything turns up,” he promised, and hurried out
Chief Will Gentry was alone in his private office when Shayne reached police headquarters a few minutes later. Gentry rolled his heavy lids up slowly and watched the detective’s approach with weary, solemn eyes.
“How’s it with you, Mike?” he rumbled. “Did that fellow call you back?”
“I didn’t suppose you were interested any more.” Shayne swung a straight chair around with the back toward Gentry and straddled the seat, folded his long arms across the top and rested his chin on them. “Rourke told me you had the Morton case busted wide open with her husband tagged for the killer.”
Gentry drummed blunt fingers on his desk. “Two or three things don’t check very well,” he grated. “We pretty well place him in her room at six-fifteen, but that letter she wrote said six-thirty, Mike.”
“And her watch was an hour slow,” Shayne reminded him. “So that may have meant seven-thirty.”
“I haven’t forgotten that. And why the devil would a husband send threatening notes to his wife? Why would he want to run her out of town?”