At 6:30 that evening, the phone clanged in Michael Shayne’s Buick. Shayne and his friend Tim Rourke, a reporter on the Miami News, were parked in front of a fire plug on Biscayne Boulevard, talking quietly. Rourke had a big square Speed Graphic camera on his lap. He was slumped deep in his seat with his bony knees up against the dashboard. Extremely thin, unshaven, his clothes wrinkled and spotted, he gave no indication that he was actually extremely hardworking and very difficult to fool. He had won one Pulitzer Prize for local reporting and had been cited three other years, usually in connection with stories he had worked on with Shayne.
Shayne picked up the phone.
“Teddy Sparrow,” a voice said. “The Morse dame. She’s having dinner at Larue’s with a date.”
“Who’s the man?” Shayne asked.
“I never saw him before, Mike. He hasn’t got much of a tan. Good clothes-I think he’d be tanned if he lived here year-round. He’s driving a Hertz Chevy. I peeked at the card on the steering column.”
“Good, Teddy. Wait there. I’ll be with you in five minutes.”
He hung up and started the motor. Rourke dropped his cigarette to the floor and ground it out.
“How hammy do you want this to be, Mike? I take it the girl isn’t too stupid.”
“She’s probably smarter than both of us put together. We’re not trying to fool her. This is pressure.”
“The funny thing is,” the reporter said thoughtfully, “it would actually make a very nice series. These headhunters haven’t had much publicity yet. There’s a couple of others in town besides Begley. Miami’s logical place. A guy can come down and a personnel man can meet him. It’s really a job interview, but the theory is that everybody’s just on vacation.”
Shayne drove south on the Boulevard, turning left after a dozen blocks to a long ramp which took him onto the MacArthur Causeway. Halfway across the bay, he dropped onto Poinsettia Island and parked near a small French restaurant that had recently opened there, with a long private dock for customers who came by boat from the Miami Beach marinas.
Teddy Sparrow shambled up as Shayne got out. He was a mountainous, hopelessly inept private detective who seldom handled anything except open-and-shut divorces or tracer jobs for collection agencies.
“They got their table, Mike. They had one martini at the bar, one at the table. How do we handle this?”
“I handle it, Teddy,” Shayne said. “She’ll probably come out alone. See where she goes. She may have spotted you by now, but that’s not too important. Just don’t lose her.”
“I don’t get flimflammed too often,” the other detective said confidently. “Then I call you on the car phone, right?”
“Right.”
“I wish I had one of those phones in my car,” Sparrow said wistfully. “Throw me some more business, Mike, and damn if I won’t put my name on the waiting list.”
Shayne and Rourke entered the restaurant. “What’s the name of the maitre?” Shayne said. “George, isn’t it?”
“Hell, no!” Rourke said, shocked. “Albert. Imagine forgetting anything that important. You could end up at a table next to the kitchen.”
A dark man in a tuxedo came out of the crowd that was overflowing from a small bar.
“Mr. Shayne!” he exclaimed, glad to have the well-known detective to dress up his room. “A table. Certainly.” He looked at Rourke with less enthusiasm. “For two?”
“Not right now-Albert,” Shayne said. “You know Tim Rourke, don’t you? Of the News.”
“Of course,” Albert said with more warmth.
“We won’t give you any trouble,” Shayne said. “We want to get a picture. If the paper uses it, Larue’s will be mentioned.”
“Whatever you wish, Mr. Shayne. And if you could mention the location? Poinsettia Island.”
Shayne explained what they wanted while Rourke shut himself in a public phone booth and dialed Larue’s number. The phone rang in an alcove between the bar and the main dining room. After answering, Albert-dispatched a waiter to tell Candida Morse that she had a phone call from Pride’s Landing, Georgia.
Shayne, meanwhile, worked his way through the crowd in the bar. He came out at the far end as Candida Morse crossed the room and picked up the phone.
She had been given one of the desirable tables on the glassed-in terrace, with a view of the lights of downtown Miami. The man she was with had close-cut hair and black-rimmed glasses. He seemed pleased with himself. There was a tiny American Legion pin in his buttonhole. He was somewhat overweight, but expensive clothes took care of the problem. He was thinking pleasant thoughts as he fingered his martini, which had been served on the rocks in an old-fashioned glass.
His eyes met Shayne’s as the detective passed his table.
Their eyes held for an instant. Shayne gave him a half-nod of recognition, then turned back after a step and studied his face.
“Your name wouldn’t be Stanley Woodward, by any chance?”
The other man smiled. “Case of mistaken identity. Sorry.”
“From New York,” Shayne said. “Stanley J. Woodward. Cashier, Guaranty Trust Co. Butch haircut, horn-rims, always has an American Legion insignia in his buttonhole.”
The man glanced down humorously at his own buttonhole. “You’re barking up the wrong tree, I assure you.”
“For your sake I hope so,” Shayne grated, “because the man I’m thinking of beat his bank out of forty-odd thousand in cash.” He flipped open his leather folder to give the man a fast glimpse of his private detective’s license. “Your identification, please.”
“Look here-” the man started to protest, but broke off and took out his wallet. “Driver’s registration. Diner’s Club. Social Security card. Take your pick.”
Shayne looked at the data on the Missouri driver’s registration. The man’s name was Clark Ahlman. He lived in St. Louis, where he worked for a large lead company.
“I may have made a mistake, Mr. Ahlman,” he said more politely. “That’s the trouble with these condensed descriptions-they fit too many people. That American Legion button did it.”
“No harm done,” Ahlman said. “I’m sorry to hear a fellow Legionnaire’s an embezzler.”
“It’s Michael Shayne,” Candida’s voice said coolly at Shayne’s elbow. “The line was dead, which seemed odd. Now I understand it. You two know each other?”
“We just met this minute,” Shayne said cheerfully, returning Ahlman’s wallet.
He stepped aside. Tim Rourke, who had followed Candida back through the dining room, crouched with the big Speed Graphic to his eye and shot a picture of Ahlman pulling out her chair so the girl could sit down. She was wearing a low-cut black dinner dress. The exploding flashbulb caught her with an expression Shayne had never seen her without: cool, withdrawn, faintly amused. It went with her careful makeup and well-groomed hair.
Ahlman said threateningly, scowling, “What is this? What are you people trying to pull?”
“It’s on the nature of a practical joke,” Candida said, seating herself. “I wouldn’t worry about it. I won’t introduce you because they aren’t staying.” She brought a waiter to the table with a flick of her finger. “Will you ask Albert to step out here, please?”
The waiter disappeared.
“Practical joke, hell,” Rourke said, unscrewing the blackened flashbulb. “We’ve been trying for a picture of Candida Morse in action for a couple of weeks. And it wouldn’t be any good without the guy’s name.”
“Candida,” Ahlman murmured, “I think on the whole-”
“Sit down, Clark. Mr. Shayne and friend are merely trying to rattle me in connection with something altogether different. We’re within the Miami Beach city limits, aren’t we, Mr. Shayne? I believe so. And it’s well known that you’re not popular with the Beach police. I’ll call them if you like, but it would be simpler if you just went away. Take Tim Rourke with you.”
“We don’t seem to be wanted, Mike,” Rourke said, grinning. “And I thought she’d like to hear about the series we’re running.”
“What series?” Ahlman said, alarmed.
He had sat down, but he was using only the front few inches of his chair, unable to imitate Candida’s ease of manner.
“I’m on the News,” Rourke explained. “We’re working up an expose of industrial-spy outfits that masquerade as executive employment agencies. People are always complaining that I only give one side of the story. I thought I’d give Miss Morse a chance to express her point of view.”
Candida shook her head pityingly. “What a hypocrite you are, after all, Mr. Rourke. I know the kind of hatchet job you’re capable of. I’m certainly not going to offer the back of my neck.”
The waiter appeared and said almost rudely, “Albert had to go out.”
Clark Ahlman stood up. “Candida, this isn’t anything that calls for the police. Let’s simply cancel our dinner order and go somewhere else.”
“They’d come with us, I’m afraid,” she said with a smile. “One of the things a private detective and a newspaper reporter have in common is a thick hide. Let’s assume our evening is over. I’m sorry. You go on, Clark. I’ll call you at the hotel later.”
“Are you sure it’s O.K.?” he asked, itching to leave. “I mean, I wouldn’t want to feel-”
“I’m quite sure. Don’t be concerned about me. I eat private detectives like canapes.”
Picking up a stalk of celery, she bit into it with a quick crunch of her even white teeth. She held out her hand. Ahlman shook it quickly and went off among the tables, turning to glance back at the entrance.
“Farewell, cowardly lion,” Candida said coolly. “Farewell ten-percent commission. When I call his hotel, I’m afraid I’ll be told he’s already checked out. Are you really doing a piece on us, Mr. Rourke?”
“Thinking about it,” he said, grinning. “But Mike’s been telling me that if I do it his way, I could end up with something bigger. He’s usually right.” He flicked a hand at the detective. “That gets rid of the guy, and I’ve got to take off. See you, pal.”
“Sit down,” Candida said. “This is an expense-account evening. I’ll buy you both dinner.”
“You won’t buy me dinner,” Rourke said. “I’m due on the other side of town half an hour ago and theoretically I’m supposed to have a clean shave when I get there.” He looked her over admiringly. “Baby, you’re terrific. I have the feeling I’ll see you again. Don’t let Mike scare you. He’s not as tough as he looks.”
“You’ll join me, won’t you, Mr. Shayne?” she said, giving Shayne a slanting upward look as Rourke walked away. “You can eat Mr. Ahlman’s dinner.”
Shayne moved the table and slid into the unoccupied chair. “What’s he having?”
“Crabmeat thermidor. It’s supposed to be quite good here.”
Albert loomed up at the other side of the table to find out if everything was satisfactory.
“I was told you went out,” Candida said icily.
“For a minute,” Albert told her without embarrassment “Would you care to order dinner, Mr. Shayne?”
“I’m having the crabmeat that’s already ordered,” Shayne said. “Send me a double cognac in a wine glass. Miss Morse, another martini?”
“I’ll wait for the wine.” When they were alone, she said to Shayne, “It would be stupid, wouldn’t it, after all we went through in that Pittsburgh Plate Glass business, not to use our first names?”
Shayne shrugged. “All right with me.”
“I caught a glimpse of Teddy Sparrow in my rearview mirror. I suppose that was your doing?”
“I thought you’d probably spot him.”
“That was the idea, wasn’t it, so I’d know I was being chivvied? We used Teddy for a small job once. Never again. I suppose I can look forward to the pleasure of his company for an indefinite period?”
“The client’s paying for it.”
“And who is your client, Mike?”
“Despard’s. You know that.”
“I suspected as much. Have they lost something valuable?”
Her lips moved at the corners. She was leaning toward him slightly, her eyes alive. A bracelet sparkled as she revolved her martini glass. She had set out to charm him, and she obviously thought it was going to be easy. He decided to remove her smile.
“Walter Langhorne’s dead.”
The smile went. He was looking into her eyes, and he thought the shock there was real.
“Walter.”
“Hallam shot him in the face with a twenty-gauge shotgun at pointblank range.”
The blood drained out of her face. Her eyes rolled upward, which gave her the look of falling forward. Then she actually did fall. He shot an arm in front of her to take her opposite shoulder, catching her before she was too far out of balance. From other parts of the terrace, heads swung toward them. Candida’s blonde hair partially concealed her face.
“Sir? Is anything wrong with the lady?”
It was the waiter, bringing Shayne’s cognac. Still gripping the girl’s shoulder, most of her weight on his forearm, Shayne reached over his own arm and fished an ice cube out of one of the water glasses.
“She’s out cold!” the waiter exclaimed.
“Yeah.”
Shayne pressed the ice against the soft flesh behind the lobe of Candida’s ear. As the ice melted, the cold water ran along her jawline and down her neck. She shivered. When her shoulder tightened under his hand, he let her go.
Her head continued forward a few inches, but she snapped the rest of the way out of her faint before she hit the table. Pushing back her hair, she looked from face to face, ending at Shayne’s. The intelligence was back in her eyes.
“I fainted.” She made it an accusation.
“Yeah, probably for the first time in your life,” he said. “Anybody can see you’re not the swooning type. If that was a fake, it was a good one. More cognac,” he told the waiter. “Two doubles. Here.”
He held the glass to the girl’s bloodless lips. Taking it from him, she drained it in one long pull and breathed out with a cough. Although still pale, she was nearly back to normal.
“You believe in body-punching, don’t you, Mike? That really jarred me. You must know I’ve been seeing Walter, or you wouldn’t have done it that way.”
“It’s almost the only thing I do know,” Shayne said. “Young Hallam told me somebody saw you together at an art auction in Palm Beach. I didn’t think it meant anything. If you’d wanted not to be seen, you could have fixed something.”
“Don’t forget the law of averages, Mike. It’s too small a world.” She drew another long breath. “I’m sorry about Walter.”
“Another lost commission.”
She gave him a straight look and said in a level voice, “There was no question of a commission. He’d already decided to stay where he was. You caught me off balance, but I’m beginning to ask myself a few questions. You wanted to scare me into thinking Hallam shot him because of his meetings with me. I don’t believe it. That was a typical duck-shooting weekend-whiskey and loaded shotguns. It was an accident, of course.”
“Maybe,” Shayne said briefly.
The waiter brought two more cognacs. Candida shook her head when he put one in front of her, and slid it toward Shayne. The detective drank.
He went on, “What were you talking to Langhorne about at that auction-a higher-paying job with some other company, or a new kind of paint? I thought I might find out if I sprung it on you. It hadn’t occurred to me that you might actually like him.”
“I liked him.”
“All right. You’ll hear about it from Begley as soon as he’s sober. The senior Hallam and Langhorne were alone in a two-man shooting blind. Hallam’s a big taxpayer in that part of the world. He knows the sheriff’s first name. I think it’s probably gone in as an accidental shooting. But there are a couple of odds and ends you may want to know about. Langhorne had Scotch for breakfast this morning. If his flask was full when he started out, he drank nearly a pint between four-thirty and seven. The first thing the sheriff was going to do when he got the body to town was get an alcohol count. Hallam said they’d been arguing. If I’d done a little hammering in the first five minutes, I think he would have given it to me word for word. That was another thing I didn’t think was important. He was having second thoughts when we talked later. By that time it didn’t sound much like a shooting argument. What he was really doing was rehearsing his story for the sheriff. When he talked to the sheriff, he probably stepped it down another notch.”
“Why do you say that this concerns me?”
“A man’s been killed, Candida,” Shayne said patiently. “That always makes a difference.”
He swung around so he could bear down on her. “Up to now I’m sure it’s all been wonderful fun. You have an adventurous job. You’ve been making money, eating in good restaurants, meeting fascinating men from St. Louis, setting up clandestine deals. Here’s the other side, all of a sudden. Who’s really responsible for Langhorne’s death? You are.”
“Mike, you’re raving,” she said uneasily.
“Hallam’s finger pulled the trigger. That’s the only thing there’s no doubt about. He kept making a funny remark. He said Langhorne fell toward the gun. Did Langhorne deliberately put himself in the way of the shot? Was the quarrel so tense and upsetting that they both forgot the loaded shotgun? Or did Hallam provoke it, to get Langhorne to rush him? I saw the duck go over. There was something wrong about the angle. Hallam should have been shooting more to the left, unless the gun went off before it was all the way to his shoulder. Those are the main possibilities, and you’re mixed up in every one of them.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Maybe your name wasn’t mentioned,” Shayne said softly, “but they were fighting about you. You haven’t started to think about it. If he was only a suit of clothes to you, you won’t be bothered by any of this. I doubt if you’re that far gone.”
“Mike, outside of trying to make me feel like a heel, what do you want from me, exactly?”
“Begley drew a hundred and twenty G’s from United States Chemical during the spring and summer. We assume that was payment for the transfer of a three-hundred-page report on a new paint developed by my client. I want to know who supplied that report and how much he was paid. If you pried it out of him for nothing, I want to know what you used as a handle.”
“That’s all.”
He grinned at her. “For openers. And I’d really like to put your boss in jail. That may not be possible this time, but if it isn’t I’ll keep trying.”
“Mike, you keep shifting ground. There are certain conceivable admissions Hal might make, but not at the point of a gun.”
“I don’t agree with you,” Shayne said. “That’s the only way to get him to do anything. You know him better than I do. How much pressure do you think he can stand?”
“I don’t think it’ll come to that. We’re in good shape on this, it seems to me. You’ve had a salutary effect on us, Mike. We’ve toned up our procedures. If you ever manage to subpoena our records again, you’ll find everything in order. On this consultant job for United States, we have the correspondence and a work schedule, and I don’t believe the courts would consider our fee excessive. What you can do in the way of pressure, if you’re willing to spend money, is scare off a few potential clients, like poor Clark Ahlman, who naturally don’t want their present employers to know they’re looking for a job somewhere else. I don’t think Hal will let himself be intimidated. In fact, we may close down the office temporarily and take a vacation.”
“When you come back, don’t open up in Miami.”
“The hell with you, Mike Shayne!” she said abruptly, pushing back her chair. “If you’re going in for low punching, you’d better get ready to take a few yourself. Hal wanted me to feel you out on a possible deal. I talked him out of it. I knew you wouldn’t be open to any reasonable arrangement. Tell Tim Rourke to have his lawyers check anything he prints for libel. We’d love to bring that kind of suit. Win or lose, the publicity would be divine.”
Shayne stopped her momentarily by saying in an amused voice, “How old are you, Candida?”
She made an angry exclamation, threw down her napkin like a grenade and stood up. She ignored the waiter, who was arriving with a large tray.
“The lady?” the waiter said, looking after her retreating back. “Doesn’t she want her dinner?”
“What did she order?” Shayne asked.
“Veal in caper sauce. Very nice tonight.”
“Leave it,” Shayne said. “I’m hungry.”