“You’re perfectly right, Mr. Shayne.” The strain was gone from Brewer’s face, and he seemed almost happy. “My attorney will put me up. In fact, it will be quite convenient because we have a great deal to talk about. I don’t mind telling you that after what happened this afternoon, I made up my mind to begin divorce proceedings. And I shall immediately cancel my partnership insurance.” He arose, fidgeting with impatience.
“I should hurry to Gibson’s office now. I phoned him on my way to your office and asked him to wait for me.” He hesitated, taking out his wallet again. “I can’t tell you how grateful I am, and if you’ll allow me to pay you something I’d be glad to.”
Shayne shook his red head and said pleasantly, “I’ll drop around in mango season and let you pick me out a case of Haydens.” He got up and lifted his hand in farewell as Mr. Brewer went with a mincing gait to the door.
When the door closed, Shayne poured a small drink of cognac in his glass and gulped it down, reseated himself and leaned back.
The whole thing sounded pretty screwy. From Brewer’s description, Hiram Godfrey sounded like the pleasanter man of the two. It was quite probable, he thought, that Brewer’s own sense of inadequacy and fear had built the whole situation up in his mind. The incident on the boat might well have a dozen different explanations. If Godfrey was okay it wouldn’t do him any harm to be shadowed for one night, he decided, grinning widely, and Henry Black would pick up a couple of centuries for eating money.
He rolled his chair back, got up, and stalked into the outer office to make his peace with Lucy, but she was gone. A note, however, was prominently displayed on her desk. It read:
Go right ahead, Michael Shayne. There are other men in Miami who will appreciate my new dress.
Shayne rubbed his lean jaw and frowned perplexedly. That wasn’t like Lucy. Or was it? How was a man to ever know what any woman was really like?
Chapter III
Michael Shayne had showered, shaved, and dressed and was knotting his tie when he heard the living-room door open. He called, “Tim?”
“Why, I thought you were expecting me, Mr. Shayne,” Timothy Rourke said in a high, cracked voice. “I’m the lissome blonde who’s been disturbing your dreams lately.”
“Fine, Hortense,” Shayne returned. “Keep your clothes on and pour yourself a drink.” He drew the knotted tie snug against his collar and went into the living-room humming an off-key version of “Has Anybody Here Seen Kelly.”
Rourke was standing beside the battered oak desk which Lucy Hamilton had refused to let him bring into the new office, whisky glass in hand, and peering down with interest at the publicity photo of Dorinda. Elongated and thin with the tough leanness of a greyhound, the reporter had black hair and cavernous slate-gray eyes that gave his face a look of settled melancholy. He looked up from the picture and said, “Nice enough, but looks like jail bait.”
“She’s supposed to be eighteen.” Shayne crossed to the built-in liquor cabinet, took out a bottle of cognac and a wineglass, set them on a low table in front of the couch, then went into the kitchen. He returned with a tumbler of ice cubes and water, settled himself on the couch, and asked, “Know anything about the girl?”
Rourke shook his head sadly and draped his long body in a comfortable chair. “Rumors have seeped around that she’s worth going to the joint to see. Are we taking Lucy with us?”
“Lucy?” Shayne’s ragged brows went up.
“I — ah — inadvertently heard part of your conversation with her before I hung up,” he admitted with a grin.
“I wouldn’t want to shock Lucy. And this is business.”
“What kind of business?”
“Thought you might like to interview her,” said Shayne casually. “Learn the facts of life.”
Rourke’s nostrils quivered. “What’s your interest?”
Shayne frowned, took a sip of cognac, and chased it with ice water. “A client saw that picture,” he said guardedly. “Thinks he recognizes the daughter of an old friend, a Washington big shot and one of the few liberals that haven’t been kicked out. Her family thinks she’s attending Rollins College.”
“Oh, my sweet grandmother — what a lovely, lovely story,” said Rourke. “Who’s the government big shot?”
“It’s not for publication,” Shayne told him flatly. “That’s my job, Tim. To get her out of there and keep it quiet if she does prove to be the right one.”
“Wait a minute, Mike.” Rourke dragged his spine from the chair cushion, his eyes feverishly bright. “I make a living with stories like that. First you say I’m to interview her—”
“You don’t use this story,” Shayne cut in sharply. “My God! Think how our conservative press would crucify her father if it leaked out. Give something like this to one of those archreactionary senators or congressmen—”
“Okay,” said Rourke reluctantly, and resumed his sprawled position. “Although why any honest liberal wants to stay in Washington these days is beyond me. How do we prove the gal’s lying when she gives us a song and dance about being an innocent farm girl from Ohio where she learned this sort of dancing at the local husking-bees?”
“You might be a little help there,” Shayne pointed out mildly. “The management certainly won’t be averse to publicity. You can nose around without anyone suspecting why you’re doing it.”
Rourke sighed. “Lot more interesting to go to the source.”
“We’ll do that, too,” Shayne agreed. He looked at his watch. “Drink up, and let’s be off.”
Rourke emptied his glass and held it out for a refill. “A swell suggestion, Mr. Shayne — knowing the kind of stuff they set out in a place like La Roma.”
Shayne poured a generous drink for Rourke, then asked absently, “Do the names of Brewer and Godfrey mean anything to you?”
“I’ve seen their advertisements. Fruit shippers. Milton Brewer and Hiram Godfrey. Should they mean something?”
“They may — by tomorrow morning. This is a story you might be able to print.” Shayne gave him a brief resume of the facts Brewer had given him.
Rourke’s face showed both interest and amusement, and when Shayne finished, he said, “What’s your bet? Will a couple of private eyes be able to prevent murder if Godfrey actually has it planned?”
“Probably not, if he’s determined. On the other hand, Hank Black is a hell of a good man, and so is Mathews. Fifty-fifty — if Brewer’s assumption is right and it isn’t just a false alarm.” He shrugged and finished his drink, and they went out together.
It was shortly before ten o’clock when Shayne parked his car amid fifty or sixty others in the big parking-lot beside La Roma on the western outskirts of Coral Gables. The building was long, low, and unprepossessing on the outside, with a row of small windows along each side that gave out no light.
The heavy front door opened as they approached, spilling an unhealthy blue light and a miasma of stale air redolent with alcohol fumes and tobacco smoke. A burly man barred their entrance while he looked them over. He wore a dinner jacket that was too small for his formidable body, and thick, hairy wrists protruded from the sleeves. He had a blunt jaw, and his flat nose had the appearance of having been broken several times. When he was dubious about passing them in, Rourke said curtly, “I have a table reserved for ten o’clock.” He gave his name, and the big man stepped aside.
The girl at the hat-check booth on the right gave them a bright smile when they entered. Rourke dragged off his soiled, disreputable Panama, handed it to Shayne, and said, “Take care of it. I’ll go in and see about the table.”