With the roar of wind and ocean it was impossible to hear a word that was spoken through the tightly closed window. Shayne straightened up, retraced his steps, and turned the corner where a flagstone path led to the front door.
He found the electric button, put his finger on it, pushed, and waited.
Chapter Eleven
He waited several minutes before anything happened. A faint glow finally showed through leaded panes of glass in the door. He took his finger off the button. The ceiling porch light came on and the front door was opened a few inches to allow Harsh to peer through.
The opening widened immediately and the financier greeted him with a disapproving frown. “Shayne! Why are you disturbing me here at this hour? I delivered the money to your hotel as agreed.”
“Have much trouble getting that amount of cash?” Shayne asked pleasantly.
“Not a great deal. I had to stop at three places before accumulating the full sum.”
“What three places?”
Burton Harsh’s frown deepened. “What possible reason can you have for asking a question like that? I’ve met your demand, Shayne, and I fail to understand-”
“I have a good reason,” Shayne interrupted him. “Have you any special reason for not telling me?”
“No-but I don’t see-”
“Then quit stalling and tell me.”
“Very well-if you insist. I cashed a check for two thousand at the Flamingo, one for twelve hundred at the Silver Crescent, and procured the last eighteen hundred at the Eldorado. Does that satisfy your curiosity?”
Shayne reviewed the locations of the three widely separated night clubs. If Harsh was telling the truth, it was fairly certain that getting the cash together and delivering it to his hotel would have required all the time that had elapsed since they separated, leaving him very little spare time to have arranged or taken part in Miss Lally’s abduction.
“It satisfies me for the moment,” he said evenly, “subject to checking the truth of your story by inquiring at those places.”
Harsh bristled visibly. “See here, Shayne, I don’t like your tone,” he complained. “I don’t understand any of this. Why should you doubt me, and what earthly difference does it make?”
“Why don’t you invite me inside for a drink, and I’ll explain why it all matters a great deal.”
“Really-it’s quite late,” he hedged, “and I confess I’m pretty much worn out. I was on my way to bed when you rang.”
“There are things we need to talk over.” Shayne moved forward and Harsh reluctantly stepped back to allow him entrance to a wide hallway.
“Very well, then,” said Harsh, covering his irritation with a casual tone and a poker face. “There’s a small sitting-room off here if you really feel it’s important.” He turned right and had his hand on a doorknob when Shayne stopped him:
“Wouldn’t the library be more comfortable? The one back this way on the other side of the house.”
“Really, Shayne-don’t you think you’re taking advantage-ah-being somewhat rude?
“Not at all,” Shayne answered imperturbably. “As my host, it seems to me you’re being rude if you don’t ask me back to your private study to join you in a drink-and to meet your other guest,” he added as though it were a casual afterthought.
Harsh’s hand dropped nervelessly from the knob. His strong, irregular features appeared to turn into wax and melt into a mass of wrinkles. He was suddenly a frightened old man, and the solid bulk of his body seemed to shrink under the impact of Shayne’s words.
“How did you know?” he faltered, the hint of a whine breaking through. “I don’t understand how you knew I had another guest,” he continued, controlling his voice with an effort and managing to show slight indignation.
“Never mind that now.” Shayne took his arm and turned him toward the rear of the hall.
With slumped shoulders, Harsh went with him, gradually forcing himself erect. After a dozen or more steps he suddenly halted and faced Shayne:
“I don’t know what you suspect, but I assure you that Carl’s visit is the most natural thing in the world. We’ve been discussing the effect of Miss Morton’s death upon the possible publication of the story, Shayne. Carl is in a position to help me prevent publication, and we’ve merely been trying to devise some method of getting hold of the manuscript.”
Harsh had stopped less than ten feet from a door on the right. It stood ajar and light shone through. He spoke in a firm tone which would easily carry inside the room, and Shayne realized that if they had been discussing anything else, Carl Garvin was now warned not to continue the discussion.
“I have several questions to ask Garvin,” Shayne told him. “Several points in this whole thing which you and he can clear up for me, now that I’ve got you together.” He went on to the door and shoved it open, and Harsh followed him reluctantly.
Garvin was sitting tensely erect in a wing chair near the closed fireplace. He was in his mid-twenties, with a high forehead that bulged slightly below a thinning hairline. He wore rimless, pinch-on glasses, and his upper teeth protruded enough to give his face a faintly fatuous grin. He was smoking a cigarette and trying nervously to balance a highball glass on the irregular weave of the wicker chair arm.
He came stiffly to his feet as Harsh pushed in behind Shayne and said, “This is the detective I told you about, Carl. Michael Shayne. His coming at this time is quite fortuitous, because we can all three discuss this thing.”
“How do you do, Mr. Shayne,” Garvin said cordially. “I’ve known you by reputation for some time.”
Shayne acknowledged the introduction tersely, then said, “I’ve some questions to ask you before we go into your problem, Garvin.” He turned to Harsh. “Remember what I told you earlier tonight? The only way in God’s world for me to keep your name out of this murder investigation and prevent the entire story from being made public is to solve the case fast before the police get around to you.”
“I understood it was solved.” Garvin’s voice was reedy and tremulous. “Aren’t the police convinced that Miss Morton’s husband killed her?”
“They’re looking for Ralph Morton,” Shayne agreed impatiently, “but I’m not at all sure he won’t have an alibi. It may develop that she was still alive at seven-thirty-more than an hour after he was seen entering her room.”
“That will clear me, also,” Harsh reminded him. “Sit down, Shayne.” He waved toward a chair and sank into his own with a sigh of relief. “I told you that Carl and I met for dinner at seven.”
“I know.” Shayne sat down and looked at Garvin, who was standing beside the mantel again. He said evenly, “How deep is Leo into you?”
“Leo Gannet?” The gambler’s name came out in a surprised squeak, and Garvin’s pale gray-green eyes popped with astonishment.
“Don’t try to stall,” said Shayne harshly. “I know you’re in over your head, but I want to know exactly how much.”
“I don’t see what that has to do-that it’s any of your business,” he said, switching his answer hastily.
“Maybe not,” Shayne admitted, “but it’s one of the things bothering me right now. How much, Garvin? Ten grand?”
Garvin’s expression told Shayne his guess was not too high. His flushed face and general manner revealed that he had had too much to drink to be quick-witted, and as he hesitated in replying, Burton Harsh broke in impatiently:
“Aren’t Carl’s finances his own business, Shayne? If he has been gambling beyond his resources, I’m sure he can work it out for himself.”
Shayne gave the financier a sharp look, recalling that Harsh had given him the impression earlier that Garvin’s gambling was restricted to social games with comparatively low stakes.