The insistent ringing of the telephone wakened Shayne. He lay in the darkness and mechanically counted the rings. On the tenth, he threw back the covers and turned on the light. A long-standing arrangement with the switchboard operator in the hotel gave him no hope that the phone would stop ringing until he answered. Not if the call was important. If the operator considered it unimportant he would let it ring three times, inform the caller that Shayne was not in, and break the connection.
Shayne took his time, stretching and yawning widely. He looked at his watch. The time was seven minutes after two. He padded into the living-room, barefooted and gaunt-faced after less than an hour’s sleep. Lifting the receiver he growled, “Mike Shayne.”
“Dead drunk-from the time it took you to answer.” Chief Will Gentry’s gruff voice rumbled over the wire.
“Not yet,” said Shayne amicably. “Hold the line a minute, Will, while I pick up a bottle.”
“Damn it, Mike,” Gentry protested, before Shayne laid the receiver down and went across the room where he took a half-filled cognac bottle from the liquor cabinet. He drew the cork as he returned to the desk, took a long drink, grinning at the unintelligible snorts emanating from the prone instrument.
Plunking the bottle down hard, he picked up the receiver and said, “What’s on your mind, Will?”
“Your office, Shamus,” Gentry snapped. “Get down here as fast as you can.”
“What about my office?” Shayne scowled at the wall. “What in hell are you doing there?”
“I’ll expect you in ten minutes,” Gentry said flatly.
The banging of the receiver rang in Shayne’s ears. He hung up, took another drink from the bottle, and tugged absently at his left ear lobe as he slowly returned to the bedroom.
It took him five minutes to dress and only a few minutes more for his long-legged strides to carry him the few blocks to the downtown office building where he had rented a suite because Lucy Hamilton, his secretary, did not consider it proper to work in her employer’s apartment.
Chief Gentry’s sedan and two radio cars were parked at the curb, and a uniformed patrolman guarded the entrance to the building. The officer intercepted Shayne as he swung into the doorway.
“Nobody allowed in-” he began, then stepped aside. “It’s you,” he amended. “Chief’s waiting for you upstairs, Mr. Shayne.”
Shayne strode to the elevator which was manned by another officer whom he didn’t recognize. He stepped inside, and the man fumbled with the controls to get the door closed, sent the cage jerkily upward to the third floor where Shayne got out and went down the corridor.
He stopped in front of an open door that was scarred from jimmy marks around the lock and bore leaf-gold lettering on the frosted glass reading: Michael Shayne-Private Investigator.
Detective Sergeant Riley stood just inside the reception room over which Lucy Hamilton presided from nine to five every day. Around her desk and the filing-cabinet papers were scattered over the floor.
Shayne’s bleak gaze swept over the disorder and came back to the sergeant’s face. “What the hell goes on, Riley? If you guys wanted something-”
“The chief’s inside,” Riley interrupted, jerking his thumb toward a closed door marked Private.
Shayne set his jaw and stalked to the door, flung it open to a scene of devastating wreckage. The drawers of his desk were pulled out and piled on the floor. The compartments of a tall green metal filing-cabinet stood open, and piles of papers and cardboard folders lay haphazardly around it.
Two men squatted on the floor, their backs toward Shayne, pawing through the papers. Shayne closed the door quietly and watched for a moment, his eyes smoldering dangerously.
“If you’re looking for a drink,” he said, “I keep a bottle stashed in the top compartment.”
Will Gentry turned his graying head slowly, grunted as he heaved his bulk upward, and turned to face Shayne; but his companion continued to squat on his heels, poking industriously through the papers.
Shayne lounged forward and lowered one hip to a corner of his desk. He lit a cigarette and said, “Even if you’ve got a search warrant, Will, you might have called Lucy and asked her to get whatever you’re looking for. Sometimes she has a little trouble finding things, but she never has to go this far.”
Chief Gentry was a big man with a normally ruddy and good-natured face. Now, purple veins stood out from the ruddiness, and his murky gray eyes were angry. “You know we didn’t do this,” he snorted.
“What the hell am I supposed to think?” said Shayne. “I find the two of you squatting on your haunches going through my stuff.”
“Cut it,” said Gentry wearily. He went to the swivel chair behind the desk and dropped into it. “Let it go, Morgan,” he said to the officer. “Go on out and wait with Riley. And close the door,” he added as the Homicide dick reluctantly arose and let the paper in his hand flutter to the floor.
Shayne’s eyes narrowed when he recognized Detective Morgan. He waited until the door was closed before asking Gentry, “How does Homicide come into this?”
“A stiff,” grunted Gentry. He took out an ugly blackish cigar, looked at it distastefully with slightly protuberant eyes, and returned it to his inside pocket. “When were you here last, Mike?”
Shayne half-stood, turned, and lowered the other side of his buttocks onto the desk to face Gentry. “About four-thirty. Lucy and I closed up early. We had a dinner date, and she went home to doll up.”
“Neither of you been back?” Gentry persisted.
Shayne shook his red head slowly. “Who’s the stiff, Will? Give it to me.”
“Can you prove you haven’t been here since four-thirty?” Gentry parried.
“I had to doll up, too. You know how Lucy is. Do I need an alibi?” he asked impatiently.
Gentry took the cigar out again, lit it, and said, “What you working on now, Mike?” He emitted a puff of noxious smoke and watched it float drearily through the airless room.
“Nothing. That’s why we closed up early.”
“No recent client?”
“Look, Will,” said Shayne patiently, “if I had a client I’d be working.”
“Put it this way, then. What have you got hidden in your office that somebody’d go to all this trouble to find?” He waved a plump, stubby hand over the wreckage.
“Not a damned thing,” said Shayne promptly. “I mean it, Will. All this stuff is junk-stuff from old cases that are closed.”
“A man was murdered tonight,” Gentry rumbled, “so that killers could get in here and go through your office.”
“Who?”
“The night elevator operator. Don’t hold out on me, Mike. It’s got to be a case you’re working on.”
“I’m not working,” Shayne reminded him. “Mike Caffrey?”
“That’s the name we found on his operator’s license,” said Gentry.
Shayne ground out his cigarette in a desk ash tray. A muscle twitched in his angular jaw, and his eyes were bleak. An innocent old man who addressed him as “Mr. Shayne” and whom he always called “Mike” was dead. And a wide-eyed dame named Betty, a fanatic named Bert-and maybe Tim Rourke, plus a reporter named Brooks were probably responsible-plus a Mr. Big and a girl named Marie.
He was brooding over the possibility when Gentry said, “We haven’t anything to go on, Mike. Just Caffrey with his head smashed to a pulp. Soon as we know what they wanted from your office we’ll have something to work on.”
“I swear I don’t know, Will,” he said solemnly.
“Can you tell if anything is missing?” Gentry demanded.
Shayne looked at the piles of papers and said disgustedly, “Lucy might-after a month or so of straightening up and refiling. You know how I work. When I’m on a case I carry most of my stuff here.” He tapped his temple. “Lucy records the case afterward with whatever documentary evidence comes to light.”
“That’s not good enough.” Gentry bobbed forward in the new, well-oiled swivel chair. “You must have some idea-”
He was interrupted by a rapping on the door which opened immediately to admit the tall, emaciated figure of Timothy Rourke. He whistled expressively as he closed the door and said, “I just got home and was ready to park my car and turn in when I got the flash. What’s up, Mike?”
“Ask Will,” said Shayne. “He’s telling the story. I’m on the side line this time.”
“I doubt that,” said Gentry. “It has to be something important-worth killing for.”
Rourke’s slate-gray eyes glittered in their cavernous sockets, and his nostrils flared. “Could it be the Bert Jackson deal, Mike?”
“As I’ve told Gentry,” Shayne said calmly, “I have no idea what anybody could be after.”
“Who’s Bert Jackson?” Gentry demanded, his half-closed lids rolling up like miniature awnings, his murky eyes fixed on Rourke.
“A punk I threw out of my apartment this afternoon,” Shayne interposed. “I told you that, Tim. I told you I wouldn’t touch his proposition with a ten-foot pole.”
“Yeh. You told me that,” said Rourke. His eyes shifted feverishly from Shayne to Gentry and to the littered floor.
“What sort of proposition?” rumbled Gentry.
“What does it matter?” Shayne said hastily. “I’ve told you I turned it down flat.” He didn’t look at Gentry, but turned to study Rourke with brooding curiosity. He caught a glimpse of panic in the reporter’s expression before he turned away and slumped into a chair.
There was a long silence between them. Gentry chewed his cigar across his mouth twice, then said, “You can go home if you’re not going to give us anything we can use.”
Shayne slid from the desk and took a turn around the small private office. Rourke was sprawled in the one extra chair in the room, his head lolling against the back and his eyes closed.
Stopping before Gentry, Shayne said, “You know I’d give if I had anything, Will.”
“If you thought you wouldn’t pass up the chance to make a buck. Don’t lie to me.”
“Have I ever lied to you?” Shayne demanded.
“Hell, yes. Any time it suited you. And I think it suits you now, by God.” Gentry struck the desk resoundingly with the heel of his doubled fist. “When I prove it, you’ll lose your license. I’ve been lenient before, but I warn you that this time I mean it.”
Shayne rubbed his angular jaw thoughtfully. “We’ve been friends a long time, Will.”
“And I’ve taken a lot from you,” fumed Gentry. “What about this Bert Jackson? Rourke said-”
“Why don’t you call Lucy and ask her?” Shayne interrupted.
“I did call Lucy, before I called you.”
“And?”
“How do I know you hadn’t called her first and told her to keep quiet?”
“But I didn’t know about any of this,” Shayne declared, waving his big hands toward the muss of papers, “until I got here.”
“Maybe you didn’t and maybe you did,” said Gentry wearily. “You can get out of my way now and let me finish up here.”
“If you find anything, let me know,” Shayne said. He tapped Rourke on the shoulder, and the reporter jumped as though suddenly awakened from a deep sleep.
They went out together, closed the door, and as they walked silently to the elevator Shayne scowled in deep concentration. The cop took them down, and when they emerged from the building Rourke said, “I’ve got my heap here. Let’s find a bar where we can talk.”
“Okay.” Shayne’s tone was stiff and his fists clenched. There were deep trenches in his gaunt cheeks when he walked around the press car and settled beside the reporter. He took off his hat and laid it on the seat as Rourke pulled away from the curb, leaned his head back against the cushion to let the night air from the open window blow across his face.
After a moment of relaxation he became aware of an uncomfortable wetness against the back of his neck. Glancing aside he saw that Rourke had his head out the window watching for a place to stop. He sat up and ran his palm over the short hairs, then dabbed the back of his hand against the seat.
From long experience he knew that the sticky, viscous stuff on his hands and neck was partially dried blood. He got out a handkerchief, wiped his hands, then sat rigidly erect to avoid contact with the seat cushion again.
Shayne’s thought went bleakly back to another case when Rourke had jumped the gun in an effort to scoop a story and had received bullet wounds that nearly cost him his life. Now, there was every indication that he was mixed up in this one right up to his scrawny neck.
Rourke slid the car to the empty curb before a dingy all-night bar. They got out and walked silently through the door, and it was not until they were seated with drinks on the table that Shayne frowned at the palm of his right hand and said, “Why in the name of God did you mention Bert Jackson to Gentry?”
“Do you know that Bert hasn’t been home yet?” Rourke countered. “I phoned at two o’clock, and Betty said he wasn’t there.”
“I don’t know and I don’t give a damn if he never goes home,” said Shayne angrily. “Do you?”
“Of course I do,” said Rourke gravely. “Why in hell do you think I’ve been hunting all over town for him tonight?”
Shayne took a drink and made a distasteful grimace before saying, “From what Betty Jackson told me, I assume it’s because you were afraid he was going ahead with the blackmail deal on his own without cutting you in on a share of the loot.” His voice was bitter and his gray eyes bleak.
Rourke looked at him in astonishment. “For God’s sake, Mike! You don’t believe I’d go into a thing like that!”
“I phoned you when Bert was with me,” Shayne reminded him. “You didn’t say no then.”
Rourke swallowed half of his drink, set the glass down, and rested both elbows on the table. “What did Betty tell you?” he inquired casually.
“A little about some incident on the News,” Shayne said, studying Rourke’s anxious face. “The way I got it, you pulled the same stunt Bert’s trying to pull, and Bert was in on it. You got him fired because he knew too much.”
“Betty has it all wrong, Mike,” Rourke told him gravely. “She’s been listening to Bert.”
“How was it?”
“Lay off me,” Rourke grated. “Damn it, Mike, if you feel that way-”
“How am I supposed to feel?” Shayne spread his right hand, palm up, showing the dark stain clearly. “Know what that is? It’s blood. Know where it came from?”
Rourke leaned forward and squinted at the detective’s palm. “Where?”
“From the back of the seat cushion in your car,” Shayne told him. “You say you were chasing Bert Jackson all over town tonight. You’d better level with me, Tim. Did you catch up with him?” He looked up and met Rourke’s eyes.
Rourke moved his head uneasily under Shayne’s hard stare. “What in the name of God have you got on your mind, Mike?”
“I don’t know,” he confessed wearily. “Betty Jackson was worried about what might happen if you and Bert met. I’m wondering if you did meet.”
“Why? Why was Betty worried?” The reporter’s eyes were feverishly bright again.
“Because of that thing on the News, I guess. Because she thinks you’re afraid Bert will bring it out into the open if anything happened while he was trying to pull the same stunt. For God’s sake, Tim!” Shayne exploded. “I can’t go on in the dark. Tell me where you stand and what this is all about. I keep thinking about the crack you made about Jackson in my office. Why pull that in front of Gentry?”
“Because it hit me all of a sudden,” said Rourke slowly. “Someone killed the elevator operator and tore your place up looking for something. Could be the guy Jackson planned to blackmail-if Bert didn’t get to him tonight.”
“Why would he tear up my place?” said Shayne. “I ran Jackson out-”
“I know, you told me that,” Rourke broke in irritably. “But I got to thinking.” He paused, raking his fingers through his sparse hair and drawing them down over his bony face.
“You got to thinking that I lied,” Shayne said in a fiat, toneless voice. “You decided that I threw in with Bert and that I lied to you to cut you out of your share of the blackmail. Damn it, Tim.”
“Get off your high horse,” Tim shouted hoarsely. “We’ll get nowhere suspecting each other this way. I didn’t think anything like that. I did think maybe you’d got the kid to leave his story with you, and that maybe you’d stall him like I asked you to over the phone.” He stopped talking long enough to drain his glass, then flung the accusation.
“That thing at your office looked exactly like what might happen if Bert had spilled everything. Now that he has disappeared, I wonder.”
Shayne looked at the liquor in his glass, and his mouth tightened with distaste. “It’s what might have happened if he had turned his dope over to me.” He stood up. “Lucy and I will have a mess to clean up in the morning.”
Rourke arose with him. “I’ll drive you over.” Neither of them spoke until Rourke drew up to the curb at the side entrance to Shayne’s hotel. The detective opened the door, got out, said, “Good night,” and turned away.
Rourke hesitated, hunched over the steering-wheel. His face showed intense strain. Then he jerked his door open and followed Shayne in, hurrying up the stairs behind him. Catching up with him on the top step, he panted, “I’ll be damned if I’ll let it break off this way, Mike. We’ve been friends too long to let a couple of punk kids come between us.”
Shayne shrugged and continued down the corridor. “You’re always welcome to a drink, but I don’t-”
He stopped abruptly as he reached the door of his apartment. It sagged open, and the marks of a jimmy scarred the doorframe. He reached inside to switch on the lights and began to curse deep in his throat when he saw the wreckage.