Call for Michael Shayne [= Case of the Missing Twelve Days]

Chapter sixteen A kiss or a telephone number

“Okay,” said Shayne angrily. “You do that. Just so you don’t ask Will to put his vice squad on me after you get the fingerprint report.”

“The vice squad?” Painter was surprised and confused.

“What makes you think—?”

“Suppose she wasn’t my sister? What of it? I had to tell the clerk something, didn’t I? You know how these hotels are about that sort of thing.”

A look of comprehension dawned on Painter’s face. “Are you trying to tell me we’ll find a woman’s prints here?”

“Why do you think I tried to keep you and your mug from coming up here with me?” demanded Shayne irritably. “I didn’t know whether she’d got out yet or not. She was still asleep when I left early this morning.”

Painter thumbnailed his small mustache thoughtfully. “You may be telling the truth, Shayne, but I doubt it. I know your reputation for that sort of thing, but I’m still betting Arthur Devlin was hidden in this apartment while we were running around looking for him on the Beach.”

Shayne shrugged wearily and said, “Would you care to lay some even money on that?”

“If I were a betting man,” said Painter stiffly, “I’d be willing to give you heavy odds.”

“But you’re not,” Shayne jeered, “a betting man.” He stalked to the door and opened it. “I’m going down to Gentry’s office.”

“Hold on there, Shayne. I’m coming with you. Martin, you stay here,” Painter hastily directed his subordinate, “just to see that no one touches anything until Gentry sends his men up here.”

Shayne didn’t bother to protest the high-handedness and illegality of this procedure by an officer from another municipality. He had other things on his mind and it didn’t make any particular difference whether Martin stayed behind or accompanied them.

He was halfway to the elevator when he heard Painter close the door and break into a trot to catch up with him. They went down in the elevator and across the lobby to the desk. The clerk on duty was not the same one who had sent Arthur Devlin up to his apartment. He was, however, an old employee who had known Shayne for a long time and who knew Painter by sight.

Shayne leaned on the desk and closed one eyelid in a slow wink. “Do you know what time my sister left my apartment this morning, Bill?”

The wizened little man kept his face expressionless and said in a precise voice, “No, Mr. Shayne. I didn’t notice her go out.”

“Did she make any phone calls after you came on duty — or receive any?” persisted Shayne.

“I’m positive there weren’t any calls from your apartment, but I believe I put a couple through this morning. There was one around ten-thirty, I recall, and another about an hour later. She answered both calls promptly.” There was just the faintest emphasis on the “she” and Shayne knew that the clerk must have heard a man’s voice answer his phone.

Shayne said, “Thanks, Bill,” and turned quickly, apparently surprised to see Painter standing close by and craning his neck to overhear the low-spoken conversation. “I thought you’d gone on to the car,” he exclaimed, and started for the side entrance door.

Painter hurried after him saying, “From what the clerk said,” he conceded, “I guess I was wrong about you having Devlin in your apartment. But whoever the woman was, I’m betting she was mixed up in the Devlin case somehow — and I intend to find out how.”

“You’d bet on that,” Shayne reminded him, “if you were a betting man.” They reached the car and Shayne slid under the wheel, made a U-turn in front of the drawbridge with bland disregard for traffic regulations, and drove rapidly to police headquarters, parked in the space reserved for official cars, and got out.

Painter followed him down the corridor to Gentry’s private office, pushed past him as Shayne opened the door, and announced, “I’m not at all satisfied, Gentry, with the way Shayne is conducting this Devlin affair.”

“I’m not very happy about it myself right at the moment,” Gentry growled. “After this latest murder, Shayne, don’t you think you’d better give us everything you’ve got on Devlin?”

“Latest murder?” shouted Painter. “What’s this? Who’s dead now?”

“When your damned gorilla pulled me into your office,” grated Shayne, “I told you a woman’s life might depend on how fast I could get to Miami. Well — I got here too late. One of these days you’re going to rot in your own stinking jail for pulling a dumb stunt like—”

“Do you mean the woman who was in your apartment?” Painter cut in. “See here, Shayne—”

Shayne turned his back on Painter’s querulous voice. “I swear to God I’ve given you everything I’ve got on Devlin, Will. If I had the faintest idea where he is I’d give him to you like that.” He snapped his thumb and second finger loudly.

“I hope you mean that, Mike.”

“I do. Have you got him definitely pegged for the Janet Brice job?”

“Now see here,” Painter interposed. “I’m completely in the dark on all this.”

Gentry paid no attention to him. “We haven’t anything definite on it, Mike. We traced her back to the seaplane dock where she landed from Key West at noon. She appears to have been met by some man and drove away with him. Nearest we can judge he drove to the Seventy-Ninth Street causeway, bopped her over the head somewhere along the way, and dumped her body out of the car on a deserted street on the Miami side. The message in her purse signed by Arthur Devlin makes it pretty certain he was the man who met her.”

“If she flew in from Key West at noon,” Painter expostulated, “how could she have received a telephone call in Shayne’s apartment at eleven-thirty?”

“What in hell is he talking about?” Gentry asked, scowling heavily. “Who said Mrs. Brice was in your apartment at eleven-thirty?”

“He’s as far off base as usual,” Shayne snapped. “There’s one thing out of line, Will. If Arthur Devlin killed Mrs. Brice, why did he leave that radiogram signed by him in her purse? That was a dead give-away.”

“We never know why guys do things like that.” Gentry sighed heavily. “Sometimes I think they just feel sorry for the poor dumb cops and want to help us out. He may not have known she had it with her. Or he just didn’t think about it in the excitement of committing his second murder within twelve hours. Or he realized there’d be a record of the message on file and we’d pick it up sooner or later. After all, from the background you gave me this morning we know he’s the only man in Miami who had a good reason to get her away from Key West before you got there and had a chance to talk to her.”

“But what could he gain by putting her out of the way?” Shayne demanded irritably. “With her death chalked up against him along with Munroe’s, he hasn’t the chance of a snowball in hell.”

“Murderers never think that way,” said Gentry heavily. “Somehow or other they hope to keep one jump ahead of things by killing everyone who gets in their way.”

“I demand to know what you’re talking about,” said Painter fretfully.

“You and Will can have a nice quiet chat as soon as I get a few items of information from him,” Shayne promised Painter. “Then I’ll be on my way.”

“You’ll be on your way where?” Painter snapped. “To help this murderer escape a second time? You’re a fool if you let Shayne out of your sight,” he appealed to Gentry.

Gentry studied Painter thoughtfully for a moment, then shifted his gaze to Shayne’s deeply lined face. “Painter’s got something there, Mike.”

“You don’t really think that. I’m getting things together, Will. You won’t regret giving me a free hand. But if you tie me up now—”

“I warn you, Gentry,” Painter broke in. “I’ve had experience with him before and—”

“There are a few things I want,” Shayne said.

Gentry took a dead, soggy cigar butt from his mouth and tossed it into a wastebasket. He said to Painter, “I’ve had a lot more experience with Shayne than you have.” Turning to Shayne, he asked, “What do you need, Mike?”

“First, have you dug up anything on Marge Jerome — and her husband?”

“A little.” Gentry opened a folder on his desk and began looking through the papers it contained. Selecting one, he said. “They’ve been married six years and both have records. He’s doing a ten-year stretch at Raiford for armed burglary, and she took the cure six months ago at the State Hospital. Released on parole.”

“Dope?”

“U-m-m. She was a nurse and picked up the habit like some of them do. They have access to the stuff and think they know how to use it — then first thing you know it’s got ’em.”

“Any record of where she used to work?”

“I can get her entire past record without much trouble.”

“Find out if she ever worked for Doctor Thompson — or Doctor Myron Spencer on the Beach. Or any other doctor who ever attended Mrs. Bert Masters.”

Gentry’s rumpled lids rolled up slowly. “Still harping on Mrs. Masters, Mike? What’s the connection?”

“I don’t know,” Shayne admitted broodingly. “But there has to be a connection some place. I’m convinced it all leads back to her death.” His gray eyes were bleak when he met Gentry’s slightly protruding and questioning gaze.

“If you want my advice,” said Painter in a tone of injured dignity, “you’ll leave Bert Masters strictly out of this. He is an important man and was quite upset this morning when you forced yourself into his home with certain insinuations—”

“When I want your advice,” Shayne interrupted bluntly, “I’ll write you a letter. If the Jerome woman is on parole, Will, she must report to a probation officer and he will know about her present job.”

“That’s right. But I haven’t been able to contact him yet. As soon as he returns to his office I’ll get that information.”

“Get to her the minute you find out where she is,” Shayne broke in hastily. “She must know plenty about this whole thing. Anything else for me?”

“That bundle of clothes you gave me — and the money. I’ve got a preliminary laboratory report here.” He took another paper from the folder and glanced at it. “There’s one rather peculiar angle. All the blood in the room, on the blackjack, towel — everything — is type AB. Skid Munroe’s type.”

“Probably Devlin’s, also,” Shayne said, “since he must have bled some, and the towel must be the one he cleaned up with. What’s queer about two men being the same blood type?”

“That’s not the queer part. It seems almost positive that Devlin is AB, too, because analysis of sweat stains on the clothing he was wearing is AB. But the odd thing, Mike, is that tests on his hat bring out an O blood grouping. Different from Skid and Devlin. How do you like that?”

Shayne’s gloomy face spread in a wide grin as he digested the full meaning of Gentry’s statement. “I like it fine. By God, Will, that’s the first thing about this case I’ve liked. Now you’d better start thinking of some one-syllable words so Painter can understand what this is all about. I’ll be checking back with you at intervals.” He started toward the door.

“Where to?” Gentry called after him.

“Doctor Thompson’s office first. I want a list of his patients for the last couple of weeks, and I still haven’t got Miss Dort’s telephone number.” He turned his head and grinned in Gentry’s direction, then continued out the door.

The air was cooler outside now. Clouds hid the sun and the wind had risen, coming in from the bay. Shayne put his hat on the seat of the car, rolled the windows down, and let the cool air blow through his unruly red hair. A glance in the rear-view mirror showed the bruise on his face, but the swelling had gone. He stepped on the accelerator and again sped over the causeway.

It was more than an hour past the 2:00 p.m. office hours posted on Doctor Thompson’s front door, but Shayne rang the bell. When no one answered, he turned the knob and found the door unlocked. He walked into the waiting-room just as Miss Dort opened the door of the side office.

The rouge had worn off of her lips, leaving them colorless, and her dark eyes looked dull, as though she were weary or depressed. Her lips parted when she recognized him and she said, “Oh — it’s you.”

“You’re not beaming with joy,” Shayne complained and grinned widely.

“Should I be?”

“Why not?” Shayne moved toward her as she stood in the doorway facing him, one hand resting on each side of the frame. She looked at him quietly and seemingly without interest until he stopped directly in front of her with his face not more than a foot from hers.

When she didn’t move and didn’t speak, he said speculatively, “I might kiss you again. That sample I snatched this morning tasted all right.”

“I don’t think you’d better,” she murmured.

“Why? Is the doc in?”

“Doctor Thompson is never here after office hours.”

Shayne lowered his face to hers. She didn’t move. Her eyes remained wide open and expressionless.

She shuddered violently when Shayne’s lips touched hers. She took a sudden step backward and cried, “No! You mustn’t!” She was clenching and unclenching her hands, poised like a wild bird ready for flight.

“What the hell’s the matter with me?” Shayne asked curiously.

“I wish you’d go. Please go.”

“Not,” said Shayne cheerfully, “until I have either a kiss or a telephone number.”

“Here.” She backed away until she reached the desk, reached behind her for a pad and pencil. She scribbled a number on it, ripped it from the pad, and pressed it into his hand. “Now will you please go,” she breathed.

“I really came on official business,” Shayne told her. “I want to look at Doctor Thompson’s office records for the past two weeks.”

She moved around the table and dropped into her chair as one exhausted. “They aren’t here,” she told him. She passed a hand over her face and said again, “Please go. I’m — very tired.”

“Where are they?” Shayne demanded.

“Missing from the file.” She gestured vaguely toward the back room. “Why would a burglar want those?”

“Probably for the same reason I do. Let me see his appointment book then.”

“All the pages for the past two weeks are torn out of it, too.” She smiled up at him wanly, then came to her feet slowly. “If you don’t mind, I have some work to finish up in the hospital room.”

“One thing more. Is Roger Morgan one of Doctor Thompson’s patients?”

“Perhaps,” she answered evasively.

“Would you have a record of his blood type if he is?”

“Not here. If he has had an operation it would be in the hospital records. Do you want me to look?”

“Don’t bother.” Shayne turned on his heel and went out, scowling blackly as he sought to analyze the queer emotional reaction he appeared to have aroused in Miss Dort. Something had happened to her since he had seen her this morning. She was like a person who was slowly running down, whose vitality was being drained away and who had no reserve strength to call upon.

He got in his car as he pondered, gunned the engine, and turned south toward Bert Masters’s construction office.