He closed the door silently, stalked back to the lavatory, and took another long drink, looking away from the unpleasant ugliness of his reflection.
He poured more liquor into his glass and drank it. Then he looked around him, saw a cake of Phyllis’s complexion soap. He hurriedly took off his tie and turned his shirt back at the throat, rolled up his sleeves, and doused himself with soapsuds and hot water. He found his razor, spread shave cream over his face, and shaved hurriedly, carefully edging the ugly scratches. He doused his bristly hair with hot water and combed it down sleek.
Replacing his tie, he took a last look at his reflection in the mirror and strode into the living-room.
Phyllis was sitting in a deep chair rocking back and forth with her hands covering her face. Her shoulders were shaking uncontrollably and the sounds of suffering from behind her fingers were unendurable.
Shayne dropped on his knees before her and put a long arm around her. “Don’t, Phyl. For God’s sake, I can’t stand this.” He tugged gently at one of her hands to get it away from her face.
Suddenly she lifted her head. There were no tears in her eyes. Convulsed with mirth, her eyes were wickedly bright, her young face radiant.
“Michael Shayne,” she choked out, “how you ever got to be the world’s best detective I don’t know.”
His arm tightened around her. Abruptly he swung her up from the chair and sat down in it, laying her neatly across his knobby knees. He cupped his palm to make a resounding noise as it came down.
“I should have done this long ago,” he said grimly and in a tone which rang with sheer relief. “Say ‘’nuff’ when you’re ready.”
“’Nuff,” she cried through her hysterical laughter.
He swung her upright and caught her close in his arms. “Now, tell me, what’s the occasion for all this burlesque? You scared me out of my wits.”
“Oh, Mike,” she caroled, “you looked so-so woebegone-so damn funny when I started in. I didn’t mean to keep it up, honest.”
He muttered, “Yeh, I guess it was funny.”
Phyllis drew back from him and looked at his hair. She ran soft fingers over his cheek, then she ran both hands through his hair and left it standing on end.
“I’m sorry, Michael. It was a lousy trick. But I–I got started and couldn’t stop. It was-the first time I realized I could handle you.” She gazed at him with round, dark, wondering eyes.
Shayne let his legs down and dumped her on the floor. “Next time you pull a stunt like that I’ll whale hell out of you.”
Phyllis turned her bright smile into a pout. “Well, I really had cause to put on a scene. You certainly looked as if you were playing for keeps in that picture.”
Shayne looked down at her sitting with her knees doubled up and her arms clasping them. “What picture, angel?”
“Why, the one of you and that Taylor girl.” She swung to her feet and ran across the room to a small table. She picked up a photographer’s envelope and came back, opening the flap and drawing out a glossy print.
“There,” she said, handing it to him and dropping again to the floor in front of him. “If that isn’t the most shameless thing I ever saw.”
The photograph was, as Conway had gloatingly predicted, a honey. Three lines of blood showed on Shayne’s cheek and the camera had caught a perfect expression of guilt as he jerked his head toward the flash of the bulb. His arm was tightly around Midge’s waist as though he hung on doggedly while she sought to wrestle away, and the fingers of his other hand were curved suggestively close to the torn bosom of her dress as they might have been had he ripped the fabric.
Midge Taylor was drawn back from him tautly, a look of real terror and of maidenly anger on her face.
Shayne studied the print from several angles, nodding gravely. “Playboy Shayne at his best,” he commented. “That’s an example of the technique I had just perfected when you slipped up on my blind side and married me.”
Phyllis laughed scornfully. “That’s your innate modesty. You know you never had to tear the clothes off women.”
“How did you get hold of this?” He reached for the envelope and read the printed legend: Ace-High Studio, Jake Liverdink, Prop.
“Oh, I forgot you didn’t know,” Phyllis said. She sprang from the floor and sat on the arm of his chair, cuddling against him. “Mr. Matrix sent it up while you were out-along with this note.” She unzipped the front of her gown to get out a folded note.
Shayne took it and read:
Here’s the only print there’ll ever be. Keep it for a souvenir from Midge and me. This puts you in the clear to go after MacFarlane and his racket any way you want to.
GIL MATRIX.
A queer light came into Shayne’s eyes and he sat for a moment staring into space.
Phyllis looked impatient. “What does it mean?” she demanded eagerly. “Is this what you wouldn’t tell me about your trip out to the Rendezvous-when you insisted on talking about kittens in the road?”
Shayne grinned and nodded. “That’s exactly it, angel. Gil spoiled the game by breaking into the studio and smashing the plate-as much for Midge as for us, I imagine.”
The telephone rang in the bedroom before Phyllis could question him further.
Shayne sprang to his feet as though propelled by a coiled spring and rushed to answer it.
Will Gentry said, “I’ve just received a wire signed by the chief of police of Urban, Illinois.”
“Read it to me.”
He said, “Claude Bates and Lucretia Grant only couple married on that date. Now, what the hell, Mike?”
Shayne said, “Thanks, Will,” and hung up quickly. He took a notebook from his pocket and scribbled down the two names, then sat on the edge of the bed rubbing his lean jaw.
He then lifted the phone and asked the hotel switchboard operator to get him the warden of the state penitentiary at Joliet, Illinois.
Chapter Seventeen: NO REST FOR THE CORONER
Michael Shayne held the telephone to his ear with one hand and fished a cigarette from a pack in his pocket while he waited. Phyllis came in and sat beside him, struck a match and lit his cigarette with silent competence.
He listened to long-distance operators talking back and forth, and finally a voice informed him, “We are ready with the state penitentiary at Joliet, Mr. Shayne, but the warden is not in. Will you talk to someone else?”
“Anyone in authority,” Shayne answered, and after another brief wait the voice said, “Here’s your party. Go ahead, please.”
Shayne said, “Hello, Joliet,” and a male voice answered, “Hello.”
“This is Michael Shayne speaking-a private detective in Miami, Florida. I’m working on a murder and counterfeiting case and I think you have information that will crack it for me.”
“What information do you need?”
“The dope on a couple of former inmates. Their names are Claude Bates and Theodore Ross. Got that?”
“Just a minute while I write them down. All right.”
“I don’t know the date you received these men. About ten years ago-or less than that. I don’t know what the charge or sentence was, though I have a hunch they went up for some sort of counterfeiting racket-printed forgeries of some sort, I imagine.”
“It’ll take some time to check the records on that meager information,” the voice from the penitentiary warned him. “Do you want it tonight or-”
“I want it right now. I’ll hold the line while you check.”
He heard a resigned, “Very well,” and relaxed to wait. He sucked on the cigarette, staring straight in front of him with brows knitted. Though he had spoken over the telephone with crisp certainty, he wasn’t at all certain that his hunch was right. In one sense it had to be that way, but in a dozen other logical answers there might be one that would fit the facts in his possession as well.
After waiting and listening for ten minutes, he said to Phyllis, “It’s taking them a hell of a long time to get the information. They should have all the names of former prisoners filed alphabetically. It shouldn’t take so long-”