Then why? Just for an address? An address, he thought grimly, for her to give to a dumb private detective so he could contact her without any chance of his learning who she really was?
She had been at La Roma two nights ago, he reminded himself. Yet, she hadn’t checked into the Waldorf as Mrs. Davis until the next afternoon. Just before going to his office and telling him an interesting story and hiring him to do what?
Shayne shook his head savagely as he stopped in front of his office building and got out. When he entered his office Lucy Hamilton looked up from the telephone and said happily, “Here he is now. Just a minute, Mr. Black.”
Shayne nodded and strode into his private office. He picked up the receiver and asked, “What is it, Hank?”
“Looks like they just hauled Brewer’s body out of Biscayne Bay up beyond Seventy-Ninth Street,” Black said in a nasal monotone. “Thought you might be interested.”
Shayne exhaled his pent-up breath in a long, low whistle.
“Me, too,” said Black sadly. “Who the hell’s going to pay my fee now?”
“You might bill his widow. From the way Brewer talked last night I gather she’ll feel this is worth two hundred, plus expenses.” Shayne’s voice was callous, and he hung up before Black could say anything else.
Now only two of the three were missing.
Chapter IX
The telephone rang immediately, and Shayne was not surprised when Timothy Rourke’s voice came over the wire.
“Thanks for the tip on that story last night, Mike. But why didn’t you tell me to print it fast?”
“What story?”
“The Brewer thing. I could have gotten the jump on the other boys if I had taken a chance and said the man was dead.” Rourke’s tone was aggrieved.
“When did you hear it?” Shayne asked.
“We just had a flash at the office that they had pulled his body out of the bay around Ninetieth Street a little while ago. I’ll pick you up in five minutes.” Rourke hung up before Shayne could reply.
Shayne cradled the receiver slowly. He got up, tugging at his left ear lobe, and went to a window where he stared out with a distracted expression on his lean face. He whirled abruptly and stalked into the outer office. On the way to the door he said to Lucy, “I’m out with Tim Rourke to take a look at the body of the man we didn’t take on for a client last night.” He was halfway down in the elevator when he remembered that he hadn’t asked his secretary the questions that seemed so important when he entered the office and found Henry Black on the phone.
Rourke pulled up to the curb a couple of minutes after Shayne stepped outside the building. He got in, and the reporter sped away toward Biscayne Boulevard, saying, “I guess your man knew what he was talking about, Mike.”
“It looks that way,” Shayne agreed morosely. “How much have you got on Brewer’s death? When did it happen?”
“I don’t know. Just a flash from headquarters. As soon as I heard the name Brewer, I called you. I think some boys found the body just a short time ago, and Gentry’s on his way out.” He turned north on the boulevard, and continued. “It seems your friend, Henry Black, wasn’t any too efficient last night.”
“I’m not too sure about that, Tim.” Shayne told him about Black’s visit to his apartment that morning and the talk with Will Gentry at police headquarters. “I didn’t go over Black’s notes on Godfrey’s movements,” he added, “but I imagine Will checked pretty thoroughly. If we accept Henry Black’s statement at face value it appears that Godfrey is the one man in Miami who couldn’t have murdered Brewer.”
“But he was the one man Brewer was afraid of,” Rourke protested.
“As far as I know,” Shayne conceded. “That’s the story Brewer told me. If Godfrey didn’t murder him, I would say Brewer was either mistaken or lying.”
“What about Elliott Gibson — Brewer’s lawyer? Shouldn’t he have been worried when Brewer didn’t turn up at his office last night?”
“Yeh,” said Shayne absently. “There’s something peculiar about that. Brewer told me he had phoned Gibson to say he was coming. Yet Gibson denies it.”
“Why would he deny it?”
“How do I know? Maybe Brewer lied to me.”
Rourke said in a puzzled voice, “I don’t see why either one of them should lie about a thing like that.” He paused, then added reflectively, “How did the lawyer strike you, Mike?”
“Negative. Not too good, not too bad. I wouldn’t pick him for a murderer at first glance.”
“Let’s see how the timing works out,” Rourke suggested. “Brewer was in your office about five-thirty?”
“That’s right. Black’s notes indicate that I called him at five twenty-six.”
“And Brewer left your office soon after that?”
“Within a couple of minutes after I finished talking to Black. He seemed in a great rush to get to Gibson’s office a couple of blocks away.”
“Yet he never reached that office?”
“According to Gibson he didn’t,” said Shayne.
They passed 79th Street, and Rourke slowed his car to watch for street numbers. Just beyond 90th Street he swung to the right toward Biscayne Bay, and at the dead end of the street they saw a group of police cars and an ambulance. The beach was wide at this point, and glaring sunlight beat down upon a group of men gathered around an object lying on the sand close to the water’s edge.
Will Gentry arose from his knees and turned as Shayne and Rourke joined them. “I’m glad Tim picked you up, Mike,” he rumbled. “This is a bad business.”
“Brewer?”
Gentry nodded. “I guess so. Plenty of identification on him, but maybe you can help us.”
Henry Black stood to one side of the group. He gave Shayne a sour glance and said, “Looks like I wasted a night tailing the wrong guy.”
Shayne shook his red head slowly, and made no comment.
Elliott Gibson detached himself from the group and came toward Shayne exclaiming bitterly, “Do you still think that Godfrey shouldn’t be taken off the plane and brought back here on a murder charge?”
Shayne shrugged. “Do you identify the body?”
“Of course I do. It’s my client and friend, Milton Brewer. If you and Gentry had taken me seriously this morning you’d have Godfrey picked up by this time. God knows where he may have gotten to by this time!”
Shayne lifted one ragged red brow inquiringly at the police chief. “How did Black’s story check, Will?”
“On the head. I don’t see how Godfrey could have swatted a fly last night without Black’s knowledge.”
“Nonsense,” Gibson interposed angrily. “What makes you think you can trust one of these private dicks to tell the truth? Can’t you see that Black and Shayne are probably in on this together?”
“A little more of that, Mr. Gibson, will be too damned much.” Shayne turned away from the bristling attorney and asked Gentry, “How long has the man been dead?”
Gentry looked doubtful. He said, “We’ll have to let Doc make a guess on that. He’s been in the water a long time, and he’s pretty well smashed up.”
Shayne moved closer to the corpse and nodded to a chubby little man with a worried face. “What can you make out of it, Doc?
The police surgeon hunched one shoulder toward the body stretched out on a length of canvas. “Not much right now. Take a look for yourself.”
Shayne took a look. The body lay on its side. The man’s face was brutally smashed and beaten. His drenched hair was as glossy black as Shayne recalled it, but his beautiful light suit was water-soaked. The collar of the shirt had the tabs buttoned tightly, but the tie was awry. His nose was so bludgeoned that it was impossible to tell whether he had ever worn glasses. He was dressed exactly the same as when he visited Shayne’s office, down to the white-and-tan sports shoes on his rather small feet.