“Police,” Gentry said, showing a badge. “Two-B and Two-A. What about them?”
“Moran and his dancer. What about ’em?” The manager’s first belligerence changed to righteous indignation.
“Are they in?”
“How should I know? I don’t stay up till three-four in the mornin’ checkin’ my tenants in.”
“You haven’t seen them tonight?” Gentry persisted. “Either in or out?”
“Not for days,” he answered sullenly. “They stay pretty close and don’t make no trouble.”
“Get a passkey and take us up,” ordered Gentry.
The manager slouched away, grumbling under his breath. He returned with a brass key dangling from a metal ring, led the way up a flight of stairs complaining. “Don’t blame me if there’s something goin’ on between them two. I rent out my apartments and got no call to see they sleep in their own beds.”
Shayne said, “Keep it quiet, and try the girl’s door first.”
When the door was unlocked Shayne motioned the man aside, opened it quietly, reached in, and turned on the light. A naked hundred-watt bulb in the ceiling revealed a small, one-room apartment with a studio couch. Two inner doors stood open, and he stalked first into a tiny bathroom, then into a kitchenette.
Dorinda was not there.
When he returned to the hallway Gentry and the manager were at the door of 2-B. It was a replica of the girl’s apartment. The day bed was opened out and made up for sleeping, but had not been slept in. Crumpled newspapers and cigarette butts littered the table and chests of drawers. A half-empty whisky bottle stood on the floor beside the one comfortable chair, and dirty dishes were piled in the sink.
“That’s all,” said Gentry, dismissing the surly manager. “We’ll look around up here and then seal this room for a day or two. Moran won’t be back. He’s at the morgue right now, and after I’m through here I’ll take you down to identify the body.” He closed the door firmly in the man’s gaping face. He asked Shayne, “You want to take this chance to look for anything?”
“Just enough to see if we can get any sort of line on Moran,” said Shayne, opening the closet door and pushing half a dozen suits back on their hangers. He came out with two suitcases, and added, “The girl’s room, too. If we can find something there to prove she’s Julia Lansdowne we’ll be that much ahead.”
One of Moran’s suitcases was empty. The other contained a frayed scrapbook filled with theatrical clippings from five years back, which indicated that he was exactly what the girl had claimed, a small-time booking agent for talent in second-rate night clubs.
Dorinda’s apartment yielded nothing to prove or disprove the story she had told. There was no scrap of paper with her name, nothing whatever to reveal her identity. Except for a few simple summer frocks, her clothing consisted of underthings that looked expensive to the men. A smart traveling bag with matching hatbox, and her toilet articles, seemed more expensive than a protégé of Ricky Moran’s was likely to possess. These were the only indications that she had been telling the truth about her background, and they were not conclusive.
Shayne rode back to the city with Gentry and the apartment house manager. He got off at his hotel, and Gentry promised to let him know the moment anything turned up on the girl.
He stopped at the desk to inquire for messages, and Dick said, “Not a single call. Gee, Mr. Shayne, did you really blast that guy? He pulled a gun, huh? Was the girl still there? Was that it? I thought he was trouble when he came in offering me money to give him your number without announcing him. But I wouldn’t do that.”
“That’s right, Dick.” Shayne grinned and took some bills from his wallet. “It was forty bucks you turned down, wasn’t it?” He laid two twenties on the desk.
A fair-haired young man and an ardent worshiper of the detective, Dick colored to the roots of his hair. “Golly, no, Mr. Shayne. I didn’t mean—”
“You earned it, Dick. Comes off the expense account.” He swung away and went up to his apartment.
It was a little after six o’clock, and he was groggy from lack of sleep. He couldn’t get through to Judge Lansdowne’s Washington office until nine o’clock, so he set the alarm for that hour, kicked off his shoes, and dropped into the bed.
Chapter VIII
The alarm woke Shayne from druglike sleep at nine. A glance at his fully clothed body brought swift realization that the alarm had been set for a purpose. He dragged himself up and padded into the living-room where he put through a call to Washington. It netted only the information that Judge Lansdowne was expected back sometime before noon. He left his number with an urgent request that the judge call him collect the moment he came in.
He then called Lucy Hamilton and said, “You may as well go to the office and take any calls. I’ll be in and out — in touch with Will Gentry most likely, and maybe Tim Rourke.”
Returning to the bedroom he stripped off his clothes as he went, bathed and shaved, and by nine-thirty had disposed of three scrambled eggs, four slices of bacon, and three slices of toast. He was smoking a cigarette and working on his third cup of coffee when someone knocked on the door. He answered it, and was surprised to see Henry Black.
There was a stubble of dark beard on his sallow face and his brown eyes were bleared with sleepiness. He shambled into the living-room with his shoulders drooping wearily and asked, “Got another cup of that Java?”
“Sure. Sit down. You want a stick in it, Hank?”
“Not this morning. I better stay sober.” He sank into a chair, stretched his legs out, and closed his eyes.
Shayne went into the kitchen and returned with cream, sugar, and an extra cup and saucer. He filled the cup from the pot on the coffee table, passed it to Black, and resumed his seat on the couch.
Henry Black declined the offer of cream and sugar. After a long drink of coffee he asked quietly, “You hiding Brewer out, Mike?”
Shayne didn’t try to hide his surprise. “No. What happened?”
“He seems to have disappeared.” Black’s voice was toneless. “Would he duck out just to avoid paying me two hundred fish — and expenses?” he added wryly.
After a moment’s thought, Shayne said, “I don’t think so, Hank. Did you pull off last night’s job okay?”
“Nothing to it. Mathews and I picked up Godfrey at the plant when he came out the front door and got in his car. If the guy had murder on his mind, I spent the night trying to rape the mayor’s wife. We didn’t lose him for an instant, not until he boarded the eight-o’clock plane. And we watched it take off.”
“Sleep with him?”
“Practically.” Black yawned widely and emptied his coffee cup. “Except I didn’t sleep. So I’m waiting at the office for this Brewer character to show up at nine o’clock and pay off,” he continued in an aggrieved voice. “The help says he’s always prompt. But he doesn’t show. At nine-twenty I call his house. A woman answers — housekeeper, I guess — and snaps that Brewer hasn’t been home all night and hangs up. So then I wonder.” Black shrugged his thin shoulders. “I remember the lawyer you mentioned, so I call his office. He’s not in, and the gal sounds funny. Won’t tell me where he is or when he’ll be back. But when I mentioned it was in connection with Mr. Brewer she got excited and said I’d better talk to the police. I got the idea maybe lawyer Gibson is at headquarters. So I wondered what the angles were. Thought you might know something, Mike. So I came here before I walked into something down there.”
Shayne massaged his lean jaw, then spread out his hands. “I gave you everything I know last night. I never saw Brewer until he walked into my office about five-fifteen, and haven’t seen or heard from him since.”