Shayne awoke early the next morning. The moment his eyes were open, he snorted and sat up to look around, then sank back and reached out a long arm for cigarette and match. Lighting it, he puffed heavily and watched the gray-blue whorls of smoke drift upward and impinge upon the ceiling. When the cigarette was finished, he shook the spread and sheet from his gaunt frame and heaved his legs over the edge of the couch. He rumpled his red hair with one hand while his feet felt about the floor for bedroom slippers and his eyes studied the closed bedroom door. When he had managed to find the slippers, he stood up, slid his feet into them, pulled on his dressing-gown, and went to the closed door.
He opened it gently.
Phyllis Brighton was still there in his bed. Asleep. He padded in quietly, made a collection of clean clothes for the day, and carried them out without awaking her. Closing the door, he went to the bathroom and shaved, came back to the living-room and dressed.
His ensuing actions were an oddly typical combination of domesticity and professional shrewdness. Shayne had learned to keep house with a minimum of required thought. Going into the kitchen, he turned on two plates of the electric stove and the top oven burner, measured out six cups of water and put them on to boil, slid four slices of bread into the oven to toast, got some little pig sausages from the refrigerator and arranged them in a heavy iron skillet which he put on one of the burners after turning it to low. All of which took him less than three minutes.
In the living-room again, he threw dressing-gown, slippers, and pajamas in the middle of the mattress and folded it over. After pushing the two halves of the studio couch together, transferring cigarettes and matches from the chair to his pocket, and setting the ash tray on the table there was no outward indication that he had not slept in his own bed. He inspected the room thoughtfully to make sure that even Painter’s sharp eyes would find nothing amiss. Then, more carefully, he pulled out the table drawer, carried the bloody butcher knife and nightgown to the kitchen, and put them down on the drainboard while he turned the sausage and looked at the toast.
With no change of manner or expression, he took the butcher knife from its flimsy wrapping, and scrubbed it thoroughly at the sink. Yanking down a dish towel, he dried the knife and chucked it in the drawer with his own kitchen utensils. Then he ran cold water in a dishpan and put the bloodied nightgown in a pan of cold water to soak.
The sausages were ready to be turned again, and the toast was browned on one side. He took care of them and measured seven heaping tablespoons of granulated coffee into the Dripolator with the same impersonal care he had just given the kitchen knife that didn’t belong in his kitchen. The water hadn’t boiled yet so he soused the nightgown up and down in its water while he watched for steam to come out of the aluminum teakettle. Shayne liked making breakfast. When the kettle boiled, he poured it in the Dripolator, turned off all three burners, set the drip pot on one, turned the sausage again, took the toast from the oven, and buttered it.
Then he soused the gown some more and rinsed it under the faucet. Wringing it out he slipped his thumbs under the shoulder bands and shook it down full length. He nodded approvingly when he saw the bloodstains had disappeared, went to the oven and tested its heat with his hand. It was warm but not hot enough to injure the fragile fabric. After carefully spreading the damp gown on the toasting-tray, he closed the oven door and left it to dry, reflecting on the convenience of being able to destroy evidence while you prepared breakfast.
Whistling softly he took down a wooden serving-tray from a shelf, split the sausages on two breakfast plates; put cups, saucers, and silverware on the tray; punched two holes in the top of a small can of evaporated milk and put it on the tray beside a sugar bowl; balanced the toast on one end and the steaming Dripolator on the other; managed to get the whole thing set right side upward on the palm of his right hand.
In the living-room he set the loaded tray on the table, pushing the cognac bottle to one end. As an afterthought, he took half a bottle of dry sherry from the cabinet and carried it to the breakfast table with two glasses. Then he went to the closed bedroom door, knocked, and opened it.
Phyllis Brighton sat up with a dazed cry of fright and stared at him. He said, “Good morning,” went to the closet and took out a flannel robe which he tossed across the foot of the bed, saying, “Get into that and come on out to breakfast. It’s getting cold.”
The bedroom door opened, and the girl emerged timidly. The bathrobe was swathed about her slender body, trailing the floor behind her. She had tied the cord tightly about her waist, and rolled up the sleeves so her hands came out.
Shayne lifted his eyebrows and grinned at her. “You look about fourteen in that getup. How about a shot of sherry?”
She smiled bravely and shook her head. “No, thanks. Not before breakfast, at least.”
“Sherry should be our national before-breakfast beverage,” Shayne told her. He filled a glass and emptied it, then pushed the easy chairs aside and set two with straight backs at the table. “Sit down,” he said without looking at his companion.
He deftly transferred the things from the tray to the table as she sat down, dropped the tray on the floor, and poured two cups of strong, steaming coffee. Then he sat down opposite her and started eating. With downcast eyes she silently followed his example.
“What time did you go to sleep last night?” Michael Shayne deftly speared a sausage with his fork, bit half of it off, and chewed appreciatively.
“I-” She hesitated, lifting her eyes to him, but he was lifting his coffee cup and seemed interested only in determining whether it was yet cool enough to drink.
“I-it all seems so much like a dream that I hardly know what was sleeping and what was waking.”
Shayne nodded and grunted, “Eat your breakfast.”
She drew her sleeve back to reach for the sugar, and Shayne shoved it toward her, asking casually, “Did you hear the John Laws talking about you?”
“Part of it.” She shuddered and spilled sugar from her spoon. “Who were they?”
“Miami and Miami Beach detectives.”
“Oh.” She stirred her coffee.
“It’s a damn good thing you don’t snore.”
Her body tensed. “They-didn’t find out I was here?”
“Hell, no.” Shayne contemplated her in mild surprise. “You’d be in the cooler if they could find you.”
“You mean-arrested?” There was morbid fear in her voice and eyes.
“Sure.” Shayne drank his coffee with the healthy appreciation of a strong man for strong coffee.
“What did they-I pulled the covers over my head and tried not to listen.”
“They don’t know anything,” Shayne told her calmly. “Everything would have been jake if you just hadn’t taken the fool notion to run away. Painter has a reputation to uphold and he feels that he just has to pinch somebody. You’re it.”
“You mean-he’ll arrest me now?”
“If he finds you,” Shayne told her cheerfully. “Go on and eat your sausages. They won’t be any good after they get cold. And this coffee’ll put hair on your chest.”
Her lips quirked up at the corners. She dutifully nibbled at a sausage and sipped her coffee.
Shayne finished his share and poured himself another cup of coffee. Then he leaned back and lit a cigarette. “You’d better stick around here for a while, while I try to find out just what’s what.”
“Stay here?” She raised her eyes fearfully to his.
“This is about the last place they’ll look for you. Especially since last night.” Shayne chuckled and added, “Painter admitted he didn’t think I was dumb enough to bring you here.”
“But-what will they do to you if they find me here?”
He shrugged wide shoulders. “Not a hell of a lot. After all, you’re my client. I’m within my rights in protecting you from false arrest while I do some checking up.”
“Oh.” She breathed happily, and a flush colored her cheeks. “Then you do believe me? You’ll help me?”
Her gratitude and joy embarrassed Shayne. He frowned and said, “I’m going to try and earn that string of beads you handed me yesterday.”
“You’re wonderful,” Phyllis Brighton said tremulously. “Everything will be different if you’ll just believe in me. You’re so strong! You make me feel strong.”
Shayne didn’t look at her. He lifted his coffee cup and said into it, “I came damn near weakening last night, sister.”
The flush on her cheeks deepened to scarlet but she didn’t answer.
Shayne said, “Forget it.” He drained his cup and got up. “I’ve got to stir around and earn my fee.” He went into the kitchen and took her nightgown from the oven. It hung crisply dry from his finger tips when he came back.
Phyllis Brighton looked at the filmy garment in utter consternation. She gasped. “Why, that-that’s mine. Where did you get it?”
Shayne’s eyes were wary. He asked negligently, “When did you see it last?”
She frowned as though trying to remember. “I don’t know exactly. It’s one I wear quite often.”
Shayne kept on watching her. He said grimly, “If you’re lying you’re doing a hell of a good job.”
She shrank back under the impact of his words. “What is it about? I don’t understand.”
“You and I,” Shayne told her wearily, “are in the same boat.” He tossed the gown to her. “Put it on and go back to bed. It’s silk and it’ll soon get rumpled and won’t show that it’s recently been washed without benefit of ironing.” He stalked to the corner and took down his hat.
Phyllis turned her head to watch him. She half arose, and her voice was frightened.
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m going out to walk around in circles.” He put on his hat and went to her and rubbed his knuckles against the soft smoothness of her neck between the hairline and the rolled collar of the robe.
“You stick it out here. Better wash up the dishes first thing-at least one set. Then go back to bed. And put that nightie on. Close the door and stay in bed no matter what happens until I tell you to come out. Understand?”
She nodded with a quick intake of breath, pressing her cheek down hard against his hand before he withdrew it.
He moved toward the door, warning her. “Don’t pay any attention if the phone rings or somebody knocks. And don’t move if you hear someone come in. It might be me, but I might not be alone. You stay behind that closed door no matter what happens. Rest and try to sleep. Don’t try to think.” He went out and closed the outer door on the night latch.
He stopped at the desk in the lobby for mail. There wasn’t any. It was almost ten o’clock. He chatted with the clerk for a minute, telling him he would be back at noon or would call for any messages.
Outside in the bright Miami sunlight he walked to Flagler, then west to the police station. He went in a side, door and down a hall to Will Gentry’s office. The door stood ajar. He rapped and pushed it open.
Gentry looked up from the newspaper he was reading and grunted, “Hello.”
Shayne tossed his hat on the desk and sat down in a straight chair.
Gentry said, “Painter got his headlines, all right.”
“Did he?” Shayne lit a cigarette.
“Haven’t you seen the paper?”
Shayne said he hadn’t, so Gentry pushed it across the desk to him. The detective smoothed it out and read the headlines, squinting through the upward-curling smoke of his cigarette. He glanced swiftly through the two-column version of the Brighton murder and pushed the paper aside.
Gentry leaned back in his swivel chair and thoughtfully bit the end off a black cigar.
Shayne said, “Mr. Peter Painter and the press find the girl guilty.”
Gentry nodded. “The poor devil had to give the papers something. Her disappearance looks bad.”
“Yeah.” Shayne contemplated the glowing end of his cigarette.
“You’d better dig her up, Mike.” Gentry lit his cigar.
“Not as long as that little twerp is on her tail. The damned-” Shayne unemotionally mentioned Painter’s probable ancestry in censorable terms.
Gentry waited until he had finished. Then he said, “He was here waiting for me when I got back last night. Had a couple of reporters and gave them the statement you just read. He was going to tie you up with the girl’s disappearance but I told him he’d better lay off.”
Shayne swore some more. Not so unemotionally this time. Gentry listened with an appreciative grin. He said, “All right. What’s your theory on the case, Mike?”
“I don’t waste my time having theories,” Shayne growled. “That luxury is only for detective chiefs.”
He glared at Gentry, and Gentry grinned and puffed on his cigar, finally asking patiently, “What do you want me to do, Mike?”
Shayne leaned across the scarred desk. “I want the dope on Doctor Joel Pedique-all the way back.”
Gentry nodded. “I’ll shake up what I can. Anything else?”
“That’s all for now. And thanks.” Shayne lumbered to his feet.
Gentry told him that was all right, and Shayne went out. He stopped at a drugstore and called Dr. Hilliard’s office. A nurse informed him that the doctor would be in at ten-thirty. It was ten-twenty, so Shayne sauntered down Flagler Street and south a block to an office building on the corner. The elevator carried him up to the tenth floor, and he walked down the hall to the sumptuous suite of offices occupied by Dr. Milliard and an associate.
The golden-haired reception girl smiled, took his name, and asked him to wait. She went through an inner door and came back, nodding for him to go in.
Dr. Hilliard greeted him affably, and they talked a long time. But the doctor could not or would not give Shayne any more definite information about Phyllis Brighton than he had proffered last night. Shayne talked vehemently and at great length, setting forth an idea that was in his mind. The doctor admitted many of the premises as possibilities, but professional ethics forbade his discussing Dr. Pedique’s conduct of her case.
After a time Shayne abruptly switched his questioning to Mr. Brighton’s condition. On this point Dr. Hilliard was less reticent. He told Shayne frankly that the man’s condition puzzled him. There was no organic disease, yet the patient did not improve. From his study of the case he was willing to admit that Dr. Pedique had apparently done everything possible to effect a cure. It seemed to Dr. Hilliard that Mr. Brighton had simply lost the will to recover. Every test indicated a healthy physical condition, yet he continued to grow steadily weaker. They were, he told Shayne, conducting tests to ascertain whether certain glands were functioning improperly. If these tests tailed to indicate such was the case, he would be at a complete loss to diagnose the ex-millionaire’s malady.
Shayne listened attentively, asking leading questions and drawing the physician out as much as possible, clearly showing his disappointment when Hilliard failed to confirm his suspicions of Dr. Pedique. After a pause, he leaned forward and asked, “Isn’t it possible, doctor, that certain drugs might be responsible for Mr. Brighton’s continued weakness? Wait!” He held up his hand as Dr. Hilliard started to shake his head.
“I’ve got a theory,” he went on. “I’m not a medical man and I’m not trying to horn in on your game. I’m simply tying up logic with facts. I’m not accusing anyone-yet. But there’s been a murder committed. Take a long time to think this over before you answer. Is it possible- possible, doctor-that someone having access to the patient could be giving him some sort of drug, some sort of wrong medicine or wrong treatment, doing something to keep him in the weakened condition which you find inexplicable?” He leaned his long frame far over the desk and held Dr. Hilliard’s eyes intently.
The doctor lifted his eyeglasses and fiddled with them while he considered the implications contained in Shayne’s question. He was an ethical and honorable man. He was fully conscious of his duty toward society. He liked Shayne and he disliked Dr. Joel Pedique. He had read the morning paper and he shrewdly guessed that Shayne was seeking to protect Phyllis Brighton from a murder charge. From his observation of Phyllis he did not believe her guilty. He considered all these things before answering.
“It is utterly impossible, Shayne. I’m sorry I can’t advance your theory. Really I am.” He settled his glasses back on his nose and shook his head regretfully. “There are, however, certain conditions which preclude consideration of the hypothesis that any outside agency could be responsible for Mr. Brighton’s condition.”
Shayne sank back with a disappointed, “Damn.” He lit a cigarette and puffed on it morosely.
“You’re sure?” he burst out finally.
“I do not,” Dr. Hilliard told him, “offer snap judgments.”
Shayne muttered, “No. God knows you’ve never been accused of that.” He breathed hard, and the base of his nostrils flared. “That knocks my swell theory into a cocked hat.” He stood up and grinned crookedly. “That’s what I get for having a theory. Hell! I’m as bad as a chief of detectives.”
Dr. Hilliard stood up with him. “Any time-any information I can give you-”
“Thanks, doc.” Shayne nodded and ambled out.
It was almost twelve when he got out of the elevator downstairs. He went to a phone booth and called the clerk at his hotel to learn if there had been any calls for him.
The clerk had one urgent message. Shayne was to call a Mr. Ray Gordon at suite 614 at The Everglades at once. Shayne thanked him, hung up, and called The Everglades.
There was a short wait. A voice finally said, “Hello.”
“This is Michael Shayne. You left a message for me to call you.”
“Mr. Shayne? Good. Can you come to my suite immediately on a matter of urgent business?”
Shayne said he could. He hung up and started to walk the few blocks to the hotel.