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

Chapter eight Basic facts for Peter Painter

Michael Shayne heard a faint ringing and a strange sensation of drifting through fragrant, perfumed space. He heard the faint murmur of a voice, far away and soft and soothing. He felt the gentle touch of finger tips on his wrist and he tried to move his own fingers to catch hold of them before he fell from the emptiness through which he was drifting. Without conscious volition one of his eyes opened and he saw the face of a girl bending over him.

She was quite pretty, with smooth cheeks, brown curls clustered at the nape of her neck. Her lips were red and parted slightly in the complete absorption of counting his pulse. He closed his eye and moved his lips to produce an indistinguishable mumble, but nothing happened. He tried again, a little louder this time.

The finger tips tightened on his wrist and an anxious voice spoke close above him. “He’s coming around, I think. What was it you said?”

Shayne mumbled again and a strident voice stabbed through the ringing in his ears: “What’s that, nurse? Did he say something?”

The nurse said, “Shh. Don’t arouse him suddenly, Chief Painter. It might be dangerous.” She leaned close to Shayne’s ear and asked soothingly, “Can you hear me?”

Shayne lay very still and didn’t try again to make a sound. Peter Painter’s voice had jarred him back to consciousness and remembrance rushed through his brain. He could feel the girl’s face very close to his, smelled the illusive scent of her lipstick mingled with the fragrance of her perfume. When he felt her breath on his face he moved his head upward suddenly and his mouth touched hers for an instant. His eyes popped wide open and looked into hers not more than an inch away.

She jerked her head back at the same moment that Shayne let his fall back on the pillow. She was startled, but his wide grin and twinkling eyes reassured her. “I like being your patient,” he told her. “Next time I get slugged on the head—”

“Shayne!” Chief Painter strutted forward, glaring down at him with angry black eyes and the thin line of his mustache twitching. “Have you been pretending? By God, I ought to—”

“Hold it, Painter.” Will Gentry stalked into view. “You heard what the nurse said when she patched Shayne up. He’d been out cold at least fifteen minutes before she found him. Are you okay, Mike?” he asked when he reached the foot of the narrow hospital bed.

Shayne pulled himself up slowly and felt pain for the first time. He put his hand to his face and felt a bandage and adhesive tape. “I guess I’m okay,” he said, his gray eyes looking slowly around the spotless operating-room, coming back to rest on the nurse who had stepped back and was regarding him with demure intentness through wide black eyes.

“Where is Doctor Thompson?” Painter demanded. “Did he catch you in the act of tearing his place to pieces?”

Shayne managed the wide grin that never failed to irritate the Miami Beach chief of detectives, then turned to Gentry and asked, “Where am I?”

“In the room where Doctor Thompson treats his patients,” said Gentry. “The nurse came a few minutes before we did and found you lying in there.” He pointed a stubby finger toward a door that led into another room. “What the devil happened?”

“You’ve got a lot of explaining to do, Shayne,” Painter snapped. “Breaking and entering — destroying evidence—”

“What sort of evidence?” Shayne growled.

“I don’t know yet, but I’m sure it must have been important for you to have slipped over here ahead of us. It wouldn’t have happened if I’d been at the Clairmount.”

Shayne swung his feet over the edge of the narrow bed and turned his back squarely on Painter. The swift movement pained his face. He steadied himself and grinned at the nurse. He asked, “Don’t you keep any stimulants around for your patients — other than yourself, I mean. A spot of brandy, maybe?”

She said doubtfully, “I think there is some brandy in the outer office, but I don’t think you need any.”

“It’s the one thing I do need,” Shayne assured her. “And a place to relax with a cigarette,” he added to Gentry.

“We’ll go in the reception room.” Gentry moved heavily through a side door into the front living-room of the bungalow which the doctor had converted into a reception room replete with comfortable chairs, a long couch, and smoking-stands. Shayne shambled in behind him and dropped into the first chair he came to. Peter Painter filed in behind him.

“The back room was like that when I got here,” Shayne told Gentry. “The front door was locked and the back door was wide open. I came in and pushed the swinging door open and stood there looking at the mess somebody had made of Thompson’s office. When I let go of the door to step inside, zowie! Somebody was standing behind it, waiting. That’s all I know. You haven’t located Thompson yet?”

“No. There wasn’t anybody here when we arrived. Miss Dort arrived a little before seven. She says she always comes around that time to clean up the place and go over the appointments. She found you lying on the floor back there. No sign of Thompson.”

“That’s a preposterous story, Shayne,” said Painter. “Do you expect us to believe the house was ransacked before you got here?”

“I don’t give a damn what you believe,” Shayne said wearily. “Sorry, sweetheart,” he said by way of apology to the nurse as she entered carrying a white enameled tray with a small glass containing a couple of ounces of brandy. “Do you know what anyone could have been looking for in the doctor’s study?”

“I haven’t any idea. Just his files are in there. I really haven’t had a chance to check up on what may be missing.” She handed him the glass and admonished, “Sip that slowly.”

Gentry said, “You’d better give us some background on this, Mike,” persuasively. “Arthur Devlin is missing. Do you think he was the man behind the door?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea,” said Shayne truthfully.

“I want all the information you have on this case,” Painter cut in. “Gentry has been stalling as to just what your interest is, but I’ll slap you in jail if you try to withhold information from me.”

“What sort of information would I have?” drawled Shayne. “If I knew who conked me, I’d certainly tell you. Maybe you’d like to give them a medal,” he added, grinning up at Painter, who stood stiffly before him.

Painter’s black eyes flashed with anger and irritation. “What connection is there between Devlin and the dead man — between Devlin and this Doctor Thompson?” he demanded.

“Didn’t Will tell you we got on Devlin’s trail through a taxi driver? I just followed along and don’t know any more about it than you do,” Shayne told him pleasantly.

“And I suppose you just followed along when you sneaked over here from the Clairmount. How did you know where to come when it took Sergeant Hopkins some time to check the telephone number and get this address?”

“You know I work fast, Petey,” Shayne said, deliberately antagonizing him. “If I gave away all my trade secrets people wouldn’t pay me fat fees for solving your cases for you.”

“Trade secrets, hell! You had inside information that brought you here. It’s perfectly evident that you knew Doctor Thompson had been Devlin’s visitor all along, yet you kept that information to yourself and hurried over here ahead of the authorities.”

Shayne shrugged and said, “Is it?”

“Is it what?” Painter asked in confusion.

“Perfectly evident.” Shayne turned an amused glance on Gentry. “Doesn’t Petey really know how I found this place?”

Gentry’s expression was one of cautious resignation. His rumpled eyelids were at half-mast, his slightly protruding eyes rueful. It was clear that he didn’t know either, but was determined not to give Painter the satisfaction of hearing him admit it. “I don’t believe he does, Mike,” he drawled. “But to hell with that. Where’s Devlin and where’s Thompson?”

As though on cue, the nurse hurried into the reception room and exclaimed, “There’s the doctor now!” She flung the front door open as a shiny black coupe pulled up behind the police cars outside and a man got out and slammed the door shut.

Doctor Thompson walked into tense, questioning silence in the reception room, his small black bag in his hand. He was bareheaded and perspiration streamed down his plumpish cheeks. He looked perturbed and worried and angry.

Dropping his bag onto an empty chair, he folded his arms across his chest and glared at the three men, then said, “What is the meaning of this, Miss Dort? You know no one is to be admitted before ten o’clock.”

“Doctor Thompson?” Will Gentry pulled his heavy body up from the deep chair and moved toward him.

“Yes. And who, may I ask—?”

“Police,” said Gentry quietly. “I’m from Miami and haven’t jurisdiction, but Chief Painter is with me.”

“Police.” Doctor Thompson echoed the word as though he had expected and feared it. “I see. Please take my bag in the office — and wait there.”

When she was gone he went over and closed the door, then asked stiffly, “May I ask why you are here?”

“First, I’d like to ask you a couple of questions.” Gentry motioned toward Shayne. “Ever see him before?”

From behind the horn-rimmed lenses Doctor Thompson’s eyes studied Shayne’s bandaged face. “Not that I recall.”

“Are you positive you didn’t knock him out about an hour ago when you caught him ransacking your study?” Painter demanded, strutting forward.

“My study — ransacked? An hour ago? I don’t understand.”

“Where have you been?” asked Gentry. “And how long?”

“On a wild-goose chase,” Thompson said angrily. “If I had hold of the fool who pulled such a stunt, I’d wring his neck. I’ve been chasing all over this damned peninsula for the last two hours,” he went on indignantly, “trying to find a non-existent Hyacinth Island. Did any of you ever hear of Hyacinth Island?”

All three shook their heads, but Painter said, “That doesn’t mean there isn’t one. Nobody can keep track of all those new dredging developments in the bay. New islands are sprouting up all the time.”

“That’s what I thought,” said Thompson, “when I started out to find it. But there isn’t a Hyacinth Island. But you haven’t explained why you’re here to see me,” he broke off abruptly.

“Right now I’m interested in this call you’ve been on,” Gentry told him. “Tell us all about it.”

“The telephone rang about five. I’d just gotten to sleep soundly after another late call. It was a man, excited and in a hurry. He seemed to know me and I had a feeling the voice was familiar, though I couldn’t place it — and he didn’t give me a chance to ask questions. Just said there’d been a terrible accident on Hyacinth Island and two men were dying. He begged me to come at once, and hung up.” The doctor shrugged his heavy shoulders. “What else could I do? I thought I’d have no trouble finding it. But damn it, there is no such island anywhere around Miami Beach.”

“Are you sure about the time, Doctor?”

“I looked at my watch when I was dressing. It was five after five.”

“It was five-thirty when you left me at the Clairmount,” Gentry said to Shayne. “How long were you getting here?” At the word Clairmount, Shayne, who had not taken his eyes from the doctor for a moment, noted that he started slightly and his eyes took on an owlish glint of understanding.

“Not more than fifteen minutes,” Shayne told Gentry readily. He asked Thompson, “Do you always leave your back door wide open when you go out on calls?”

“Certainly not. I didn’t go out the back door. I left my car parked in front when I came home earlier.”

“From visiting Arthur Devlin at the Clairmount?” Gentry rumbled.

Doctor Thompson pursed his lips and a harried look settled on his face. He moved to one side and seated himself, placed both hands on his knees and told Gentry quietly, “Yes. I saw Art earlier. About two o’clock. Did he send you here?”

“We’ll ask the questions,” Painter snapped, interposing himself between Gentry and the doctor. “Why did Devlin call you to his apartment?”

“Ask him.”

Gentry walked back to his chair and sat down while Painter planted himself in front of the doctor. “None of that,” he said. “We intend to have the truth.”

Doctor Thompson drew in a deep breath and said forcibly, “I have no intention of discussing one of my patients with you.”

“So Devlin was your patient?”

“Also my friend.”

“Did he tell you why he returned from his vacation ahead of time?”

“He did not,” said Thompson icily.

“Did he tell you he killed a man tonight?”

Doctor Thompson winced and closed his eyes for a moment. He opened them wide and said, “If you wish to show me a statement from Arthur Devlin, I am willing to comment on that statement. Otherwise, I must tell you that anything he said to me tonight was in absolute confidence which I shall not betray.”

Shayne slid deeper into his chair and stretched his long legs out. Thompson was playing it cautiously, he thought admiringly. He didn’t know whether Devlin had yet been arrested, or what story he had told the police if he had been arrested. Thompson was no fool.

“There’s such a thing as accessory after the fact,” Painter snapped. “Maybe a few days in jail would pull you off your high horse.”

“There is also such a thing as a doctor’s legal responsibility toward his patient,” said Thompson suavely. “I don’t think you would keep me in jail very long.”

“Even if that patient is a murderer?” Gentry asked.

“Is Devlin a murderer?”

“A lot of evidence points to him,” Gentry rumbled. “His fingerprints are all over a room in which a murder was committed last night.”

“That doesn’t prove his guilt,” said Thompson stoutly.

“What reason would Devlin have for luring you away on a fake call and then breaking in and going through all your files?” Gentry asked without warning.

Fear flickered over Thompson’s pudgy face. He sat up stiffly. “Did Art do that? Why, in the name of God?”

“That’s what we’re asking you.”

“He had no reason to do a thing like that. I can’t imagine—” He paused, ran smooth plump fingers through his hair agitatedly. “Could it have been Art who phoned me?”

“Don’t you realize it was his voice — now that you think back?”

Thompson shook his head slowly. “I don’t — think so. I can’t conceive of him pulling a stunt like that, and there’s absolutely nothing in my files to interest him.”

“Who would be interested?” Shayne asked.

Thompson looked at him in some surprise and said, “I haven’t any idea. My files consist wholly of case records.”

“Someone was.” Shayne hesitated a moment, his eyes speculative. “We don’t know that all this is connected with the murder tonight and with your visit to Devlin’s apartment,” he continued, “but it’s damned coincidental if it isn’t. Assuming they are connected — what could your office records have to do with Devlin murdering a man?”

“Nothing. I have only treated Art for a few minor ailments.” Thompson seemed completely bewildered.

“Did you have a patient by the name of Skid Munroe?”

“No. Is he the one—?”

“See here, Will,” Painter interrupted peevishly, “why do you sit there and let Shayne monopolize this investigation? He has no legal standing in the matter. He said, himself, he had no interest in it.”

Thompson stared at Shayne with a fresh interest when Painter spoke his name.

“Are you Mike Shayne?” he asked.

“That’s right. I got this bump on my head from whoever was going through your records.”

“I’d like to talk to you — later,” Thompson said.

“He’s not going to be talking to anyone for some little time,” said Painter officiously. “He’s holding something back, covering up for someone, and this time I’ve got him dead to rights.”

Shayne gave a sardonic chuckle. “You tell him, Will. Explain one of the basic facts of detection to him.”

“I’d rather hear you tell him,” Gentry told him.

“Are you going to deny that you knew Thompson was mixed up in this case when you left the Clairmount and hurried straight over here? Are you going to claim it was mere coincidence that brought you here?”

“Nuts,” said Shayne. “I heard the clerk give Gentry the telephone number Devlin had called — and a description of the man who came to see Devlin a short time later. What else do you think I needed?”

“Sergeant Hopkins had the number too, but it took him the best part—”

“That’s why Hopkins is still a sergeant,” Shayne broke in.

Painter flushed angrily. “Watch your step, Shayne. Just what did you do that was so brainy?”

“I knew Devlin’s visitor was a doctor,” said Shayne patiently. “The clerk said Devlin was in bad shape when he came in. In describing the visitor he said he carried an emergency bag. See? Sick man — doctor’s bag. So I got hold of a classified telephone directory fast and found the doctor that fitted the number.” He got up and picked up his empty brandy glass. “You’ve got good taste in brandy, Doctor. And in nurses. I’ll be getting acquainted with both while you get rid of these birds.” He started toward the door.

“Not so fast, Shayne,” said Painter. “That flimsy explanation will have to stand because we can’t disprove it. But don’t forget that Arthur Devlin called two numbers from his apartment last night.”

“Did he?” Shayne asked blandly.

“You know he did. The second one — just before he called down for a taxi — was a Miami number.”

“Miami has so many numbers,” Shayne said musingly, “I didn’t have time to look that one up.”

“But only one that gets your apartment hotel.” Shayne started a yawn. He broke it off in the middle and gaped at Painter. “Are you saying that Devlin telephoned me?”

“He called your hotel.”

“In which there are seventy-odd apartments,” Shayne reminded him gently.

“Do you deny that he phoned you for an appointment and then went directly to see you?” Painter challenged.

Shayne thought for a moment, then said, “He may have called me on the phone, but he certainly didn’t get me.” He shrugged and explained, “I have the man on the switchboard trained to ring my number only three times at night unless he’s convinced it’s a real emergency. Why don’t you check with him?” he urged. “I’ll be inside if you want me.”

He turned away toward the office and the nurse.