Shayne said calmly, “Are you going to tell me that Brewer has been figuring on something like this for ten years?”
Rourke’s enthusiasm was undaunted. “Not necessarily. But you have to admit it gives him an added factor of safety when he does get in a spot where he wants to disappear.”
“There’s generally a reason when a man is allergic to having his picture taken,” Shayne granted. “I’d like to know what Brewer’s was.” He paused a moment, then suggested, “Call his house and talk to his housekeeper. Tell her the paper wants to run his picture in connection with your story on his death.”
Rourke went out to telephone. Henry Black was with him when he returned.
“Brewer really had a phobia,” the reporter said exultantly. “The housekeeper says there ain’t no such thing. Not even a snapshot. She seemed surprised that everybody didn’t know about Mr. Brewer’s little peculiarity.”
Black came over and stood behind Shayne’s chair. Shayne spread out the two photographs of Hiram Godfrey and said, “Recognize this guy, Hank?”
Black bent over the table and studied them under the bright light for a long moment. “Godfrey?” he asked uncertainly.
“You tell us,” Shayne urged.
Black pulled up a chair and sat down. “I never saw him before last night, Mike,” he protested. “Looks like him.”
“Look, Hank,” said Rourke hastily. “I don’t want to plant any ideas in your head, but would you be willing to go on the witness stand and swear these are pictures of the man you tailed from the Brewer and Godfrey plant to the airport?”
“Put it that way,” said Black, looking steadily at the glossy prints, “no. Mathews and I didn’t get too close, naturally. It wasn’t too light when we picked him up at the plant. The best we saw him was when he came out of a restaurant after he’d been home and got fixed up to go to dinner.”
“That’s what I thought,” said Rourke triumphantly.
“One thing more, Hank. Think back hard. Did you see him stop and speak to anyone all evening? Any friend? Or anyone who called him Godfrey?”
Henry Black frowned and rubbed his blunt jaw. “No. I don’t believe he spoke to anybody that we saw. But he got on that morning plane. We could check the passenger list. What’s up, anyway? Are you saying the guy wasn’t Godfrey?”
“Checking the passenger list is out,” said Rourke. “Naturally, his reservation would be in Godfrey’s name. How do you like it now, Mike?”
Shayne shook his red head guardedly and didn’t answer. He explained to Black. “Tim has a crazy theory that the man you followed had been hired to impersonate Hiram Godfrey. Take another look at the pictures and give it to me straight.”
Black looked again, rumpling his thin hair nervously. “Offhand, I’d say there’s no doubt about it. Same sort of general appearance. But you know how it is on a tailing job. You spot your man and concentrate on staying on him without tipping your hand.”
“Then you wouldn’t swear to it?” said Rourke.
“Not from these pictures. Give me the man himself — let me see him walk, get in his car and drive it — and I’ll tell you definitely one way or the other.”
“If Tim is right, I’m afraid that isn’t feasible,” Shayne told him. “Take those pictures along; go with Hank and try them on Mathews,” he suggested to Rourke. “Maybe you’ve got something at that.” Shayne stood up.
“I’m betting on it.” Rourke scooped up the prints, then asked, “What’s your next move, Mike?”
“A private talk with Attorney Elliott Gibson. I want to know why Brewer didn’t go to his office as he told me he planned; and I want to know something about Brewer’s background before he came to Miami. Why, for instance, he was so damned careful not to have any pictures of him floating around where they might be printed in a newspaper.”
Chapter XIII
On the way to Gibson’s office Shayne determinedly shook off the hang-over from Rourke’s theory, and started back at the beginning. Why had Brewer failed to reach his attorney’s office the previous afternoon? The possibility of a traffic accident was out; and it was not probable that he would have stopped in a bar for a drink after declining to take one with him in his office. The distance to Gibson’s office was only two and a half blocks, and Brewer had seemed anxious to get there by six.
Now, Brewer had given the definite impression of being in deathly fear of his life, and he had selected Gibson’s home as a safe place to spend the last night Hiram Godfrey was to be in Miami.
Had something happened in the man’s frenzied mind to change his plan? Had he decided that Gibson’s home might not be so safe, after all? Assuming that the body was Brewer, and accepting Black’s notes as factual, then it became evident that Brewer had an enemy, or enemies, in Miami other than his business partner. Someone who had gotten to him during the time when Henry Black was riding herd on Godfrey.
An enemy, his thoughts raced on as he turned into the arcade and went toward Gibson’s office, who might well have known of Brewer’s fear of Godfrey, yet who was not aware that Brewer, himself, had taken steps to provide Godfrey with a perfect alibi for the night.
Shayne’s mouth was grim. Elliott Gibson certainly fitted that description. As soon as the attorney had learned his client was missing, he hurried to the police to accuse Godfrey, even before it was known that any crime had been committed, and demand that he be taken from the plane en route to New York. Also, there was no doubt of Gibson’s surprise and extreme displeasure when Henry Black’s testimony definitely removed suspicion from Godfrey.
On the other hand, if the situation was as Timothy Rourke theorized—
He turned the knob of the frosted-glass door and, entered an anteroom with coral-pink walls and a deep carpet of a duller though blending shade.
The blonde sitting behind the blond desk was as decorative as her setting. Her shoulder-length hair curled up at the ends, and her delicately tanned complexion reflected the glow of the walls. Her long golden lashes were lowered, and her red-tipped fingers punched the keys of an ivory typewriter languidly.
Shayne’s big feet were silent on the deep pile of the rug as he crossed slowly to the desk. The girl looked up with passive disapproval when he said, “I’m investigating the death of one of Gibson’s clients.”
Her eyes were gentian-blue, and her voice icily impersonal when she said, “I presume you’re from the police and have authority for your investigation?”
Shayne dragged off his hat, ran spread fingers through his unruly red hair, eased one hip down to a corner of the desk, and grinned at her cheerfully. “You’re a liar,” he said easily. “You know who I am, and you probably share your boss’s conviction that I officiated as accessory before and after the fact of Brewer’s death.”
For reply, she tilted her head at a disdainful angle.
“I want to know about some telephone calls yesterday afternoon,” Shayne said patiently.
“Do you wish to speak to Mr. Gibson?”
“I want to talk to you right now. About one call in particular.”
“I’m sorry I can’t assist you. I was out of the office all afternoon.”
“Swimming?”
“I had an appointment with my hairdresser at two, and Mr. Gibson gave me the rest of the afternoon off.”
“Gilding the lily?” Shayne reached over and ran a knobby forefinger through the roll of her curl on one side.
She didn’t move or look at him, but when he removed his finger, she patted the curl into place.
“What’s Gibson afraid of?” he asked abruptly.
“I’m not aware that Mr. Gibson is afraid of anything.” She lowered her long golden lashes and put the fingers of one hand on five typewriter keys.