Shayne and Rourke stood very still, side by side, blocking the doorway. They heard Beatrice Lally’s whisper from the other door, tense and breathless.
“Is-she isn’t there, is she?”
Shayne’s elbow jabbed Rourke’s fleshless ribs before he started backing out. Rourke turned, half bent, with both hands pressed against his side, and followed him out.
Shayne was saying rapidly, “Take Miss Lally to her room, Tim. We’re going to have to work this fast and make no mistakes. Give her the lowdown when you get her to her room, and for God’s sake keep things quiet. I’ll be along in three minutes.”
Without a word, Rourke took the girl’s arm and led her out. Shayne watched them go, knowing he needed no reply from the reporter who had worked with him for years and who had not fully recovered from a bullet wound he received some three years ago.
Shayne bolted the door on the inside and went back to the death room, stood to the right of the body where less blood had seeped onto the carpet from the shaggy rug, and looked at her for a long moment.
Sara Morton wore a green hostess gown with flowing skirt and plunging neckline. Blood was caked between her firm breasts and over the bodice. The gold belt circling the slender waistline was clean, and the green, red, and blue gems in the buckle twinkled in the light of the ceiling fixture. Below the short puffed sleeves her firm, shapely arms were clear of blood, up-flung in a gesture of defiance.
Following the tapering lines of her right arm he saw a small diamond-rimmed platinum watch circling her wrist. Carefully kneeling outside the circle of congealing blood, he examined it. The tiny hands pointed to two minutes after eight. He frowned and looked at his own watch. The time was 9:05. He bent his ear close to her watch and was surprised to hear the regular ticking.
The frown deepened to a heavy scowl as he tried to evaluate the significance of nearly an hour’s difference. If her watch was slow when she wrote the note it was actually 7:30 instead of 6:30. Could she write it, seal and stamp it, and get it to the post office so fast?
That would have to wait until later, he decided, and studied the wisp of green paper clutched in her hand. He easily read the numerals in the exposed corner, and without touching it to feel the texture, he knew it was the other half of the five-hundred-dollar bill.
He rocked back on his heels with sweat dripping from his face. In death she held out a challenge to him to match it with the half she had enclosed in the special-delivery letter. Sara Morton was speaking to him, and her words seemed to linger there in the silent room.
This is it, Michael Shayne. At the moment of my death this is my way of saying to you what I left unsaid in my hasty note.
He took his handkerchief out and mopped sweat from his eyes and face, then touched his knuckles to her cheek. The flesh was cool. Room temperature. He judged she had been dead at least an hour, probably much longer.
The wound in her throat puzzled him. It was evident from the quantity of blood that the jugular had been severed with one vicious blow, but the cut was jagged, gaping in the center. The killer had either used a dull instrument, or a sharp one had been fiendishly twisted before it was removed.
He stood up abruptly and went to the front door. The inside latch was bolted. That meant that however the killer had entered the room, he had left through the connecting bathroom.
He turned and carefully surveyed the room through bleak, narrowed eyes. Everything was in order except the one rumpled bed where she had probably tried to relax while tensely awaiting his phone call. There was no sign of a struggle. Sara Morton had either been taken unawares by her murderer entering through the bathroom from 1420, or she had unlocked her door and admitted him with no thought of personal danger.
Yet, if her note meant what it seemed to imply, she felt herself to be in the gravest danger when she typed and mailed it, a fact that was borne out by her refusal to unlock her door even for her secretary at six o’clock.
There was a small metal typewriter table with an open portable close to a window across the room. He moved slowly toward it and stood with his hands clasped behind his back, studying the articles on the table. The box of heavy white stationery with the blue signature at the top was open beside the typewriter. On the other side was a folded copy of the previous day’s Miami Herald, and on top of it was a pair of shears with long tapering blades such as editors use for clipping copy.
But these were no ordinary shears. The handles were of gold, ornately designed and chased by a master craftsman. The points of the blades were very sharp, and he shuddered inwardly as he glanced from them to the gaping wound in Sara Morton’s throat. They were clean and shining, but if the murderer had used the shears as a weapon, the homicide boys would determine the fact with chemical tests.
The telephone had been moved from between the twin beds and placed beside the typewriter table. There was a memorandum pad on the stand, and a muscle tightened in Shayne’s cheek when he saw his name written at the top of the pad, and directly underneath it his office telephone number. Below that was a series of jerky pencil marks, but none of them seemed to be more than the unconscious doodling of an extremely nervous person.
He was reaching for the pad to rip the sheet off when he suddenly decided it would be to his advantage to leave it there for the police to see. He glanced at his watch, jerked out his handkerchief, and went out through the bathroom, wiping the doorknobs clean as he passed through on his way to the corridor. The outer door clicked shut on the night latch, and he went swiftly down the hall to Miss Lally’s room.
The door moved slightly when he rapped, and he pushed into the room where Rourke and the dead woman’s secretary sat on the double bed. Her head rested against the reporter’s bony shoulder and his arm was around her. Tears streamed down her face, and Rourke’s slaty eyes held the bewildered look of a man who had failed to stop a woman from crying.
Shayne closed the door and walked over to the bed, grinning humorously at Rourke, but his voice was harsh and urgent when he said:
“Miss Lally.”
She jerked her head up and looked at him with wet, sooty eyes. Her glasses lay on the bed beside her. Rourke put his handkerchief in her hand and she obediently blew her nose and wiped her eyes.
“Miss Morton is dead,” said Shayne, spacing the words evenly. “It happened at least an hour ago. Possibly two or three. We can do only one thing for her now. You’ve got to get hold of yourself.” He paused a moment, rubbing his angular jaw, his eyes thoughtful.
Miss Lally’s sobbing gradually stopped after a long, audible sigh. “I’m all right now,” she said. “Shouldn’t we notify the police?”
“Tim will do that-in about five minutes,” he said absently, then went on decisively: “Get a toothbrush and a wrap if you think you’ll need it. Don’t try to take anything else-”
“A toothbrush?” she interrupted, peering up at him with round, astonished eyes.
“Go wash your face,” he ordered. “We’ll all go down to the lobby together as if nothing had happened. Do you know any particular bars or restaurants where Miss Morton is known and where she might be expected to drop in during an evening?”
Miss Lally covered her amazement with the thick-lensed glasses and stammered, “There’s the-Golden Cock up the street. And over on the Beach-”
“You and I are going out to look for her,” he cut in. “Don’t forget the toothbrush. You may not get back here tonight.”
She saw his face clearly now, and responded to his quiet assumption of authority by getting up and going into the bathroom.
When she closed the door, Rourke said angrily, “Look here, Mike, if you think I’m going to stay here and be your fall guy-”
“You’re going to stay right here like any sensible reporter who’s lucky enough to be on the inside of a hot case, and get all the dope from the police investigation,” Shayne said firmly. “I need time-and freedom from the cops tailing me, Tim.” He paused a moment, then hurried on. “If I can keep Miss Lally away from the police until I can get all she knows about the Morton woman, and keep it quiet-you know how it is, Tim. She’d be in danger if the murderer thought she knew too much and found out the police had her up for questioning.”
“But what the hell do I tell the police?” Rourke protested.
“You don’t. Joe Clarkson, the night dick, will tell the police. Look, Tim, when we go down to the lobby you go to the bar for a drink. Put it down fast, act like you’re worried, then find Joe and tell him about your date with Sara Morton and the secretary meeting you instead. The truth about everything that can be checked. But don’t tell him I’d been fishing and hadn’t contacted her. You assume I talked to her on the phone, but didn’t tell you what she wanted.”
He paused a moment, tugging at his left ear lobe, his gray eyes narrowed. “We came up together to see why Miss Morton didn’t answer her phone, knocked on her door and got no answer, and the three of us came here for Miss Lally to get a wrap before going out with me to find her. Miss Lally didn’t mention having a key to fourteen-twenty,” he went on swiftly as the secretary re-entered the room. “You won’t know about the connecting bathroom. You’re mad because she stood you up on an important engagement. Act tight if you want to. Tell Clarkson you’ll call in the police and cause a stink if he doesn’t go up with you and investigate.”
Rourke lay sprawled on his back on the bed. His eyes were closed, and his only response was a deep groan when Shayne paused for a moment.
“Clarkson will find fourteen twenty-two latched on the inside when he tries a passkey. The light is on, and you have real reason for alarm now. He’ll know about the connecting rooms. You go in and discover the body together. Got it?”
“Sure,” muttered Rourke. “Did you talk to her?”
“Leave that for later. You can tell the police Miss Lally told you about Miss Morton phoning me. There’ll be a Herald reporter with them. See that he gets a story in the morning edition playing up the fact that Sara Morton phoned me today and that I dashed out with her secretary looking for her. Ready?” He turned to the girl who waited with a light coat over her arm.
She nodded, her face paler than its normal whiteness, accentuating the red of her lips, her eyes small and doubtful behind the glasses. “Will it be-all right for me to evade questioning by the police?” she asked. “Isn’t there a law?”
“There’s no law against your passing out from shock and grief,” said Shayne. He took her arm, and Rourke followed them out the door.
In the elevator Shayne said in a bantering tone, “Tell Tim to get lost, Bea,” for the benefit of the other passengers. “It was all right for you to cadge drinks off him, but I’m here now.” He drew her closer to him.
“Okay, so I’m ditched,” said Rourke sullenly, taking the cue promptly. “Twice in one night. If you find that Morton dame you can tell her for me-”
“Sh-h-h,” cautioned Shayne, glancing around at the strange faces with simulated dismay. “Miss Morton is probably waiting for you in the bar right now,” he went on cheerfully as they reached the lobby and he pushed his way out past the reporter with a firm grip on Miss Lally’s arm.
Rourke scowled, took a step forward as though to follow them, shrugged, and turned toward the barroom.
The same doorman raised the same brows as the couple went through the doorway, and added an icy stare when Shayne paused to ask:
“Do you know Miss Morton by sight? Sara Morton, the newspaper writer.”
“I’m afraid not, sir,” he answered snootily, plainly indicating that he had no intention of discussing the lady with a tramp in faded dungarees.
Shayne hurried his companion across the southbound traffic lanes to his parked car, opened the door for her, stalked around to the other side, and pulled away fast.
Miss Lally relaxed against the cushion and sighed. “I was glad to get away from that reporter so I could talk to you privately, Mr. Shayne,” she said in the low, controlled tone he had first heard. “I do know why Miss Morton phoned you. I know she wanted it kept quiet, but now I suppose it will have to come out.”
“I know, too,” he said. “That’s why I wanted to get you away where we could talk and act fast without being held by the police.” He eased over to the outer lane and increased his speed. “We’ll be at the Golden Cock in a moment. Wait until we’ve asked there for her.”
“Why do you keep up this farce when we know she’s back-back there in her room-” Her voice began to tremble and she didn’t finish the sentence.
“That’s exactly why we have to ask around for her. You’re in this with me now. You’ve got to play up. Right now we’re accessories after the fact. Every movement we make from now on will be checked by the police, and we’ve got to do every damned thing we would do if we were actually looking for Sara Morton in her favorite restaurants and cocktail bars.”
He slowed and turned into a circular, palm-lined drive leading off the Boulevard to a low building on the bayfront with the words Golden Cock flickering off and on beneath a huge rooster shimmering in golden lights. As they approached the canopy Shayne covered one of her hands with his and asked:
“Can you pull it off?”
“I’m all right,” she answered steadily.
He stopped and a beautifully caparisoned doorman opened the door and stood smartly at attention.
Shayne asked, “Do you know Miss Sara Morton by sight?”
“Mr. Shayne,” he said with a genial smile. “Is she a kind of oldish woman-this Miss Morton?”
“No. We’ll have to go in,” he said to the girl. “Or would you rather sit in the car and wait while I check?”
“I’ll go with you.” She opened the door and got out.
Shayne got out and circled the car. “Leave it here unless I send word to park it,” he said to the doorman. He took Miss Lally’s arm and they went into a small, ornate anteroom and past the check stand to the door.
A tall man in evening clothes hurried to greet them, frowning unhappily at Shayne’s informal attire, but his voice was pleasant when he said:
“Hello, Mr. Shayne. I’m afraid there isn’t a table right now.”
Shayne grinned disarmingly and said, “Don’t worry, Harold. I’m not going to embarrass you. Miss Lally and I are looking for her employer, Miss Sara Morton.”
“That’s quite a coincidence,” he said genially. “A friend of hers is expecting her. Been waiting for some time.” He nodded toward a man in impeccable white evening dress seated on a plush chair near the dining-room entrance. “She should be here soon,” he added.
The man’s profile was toward them. He was young and slender with a hint of arrogance in his aquiline features. His mouth was petulant, and he looked straight ahead as one determined not to look toward the entrance again for a woman who was late for a dinner engagement
Shayne felt Miss Lally give a slight start and tighten her fingers on his arm. He jerked his head around and looked at her just as she eased her glasses off.
“It’s Mr. Paisly,” she breathed. “He’s-”
She stopped when Mr. Paisly deigned to look once more toward the entrance. He came to his feet and rushed toward them, an anxious, hopeful smile lighting his face, and a large diamond glittering on the third finger of his right hand.
“Miss Lally!” he said vivaciously, the smile revealing a row of perfect white teeth. “Did Sara send you? What happened to her? I’ve been waiting since before seven.” He raised an arm gracefully and looked at a delicate platinum watch, trenched his brow with a row of frowns. “She’s generally so punctual. I don’t understand.” He let the frowns go and went on petulantly: “She might at least have telephoned me, don’t you think?” His big dark eyes held hurt and self-pity and gentle reproach.
“Miss Lally and I came here hoping to find her,” Shayne said quickly, before Beatrice answered.
“Excuse me,” she said. “Mr. Shayne, Mr. Paisly. Mr. Edwin Paisly. He’s Miss Morton’s-fiance.” The pause was definite and significant.
Paisly seemed to notice Shayne for the first time. His mouth tightened with disapproval and his brows went up. They stayed up while his eyes slithered all the way down to Shayne’s soiled sandals while Harold, the manager, hastily explained.
“This is Michael Shayne. Our famous detective.”
“Oh! That Shayne?” Paisly did a fast double-take and became agitated. “Is anything wrong? You say you’re looking for Sara-has anything happened? Tell me the truth at once, Miss Lally. I have a right to know.”
“She appears not to be at the hotel,” Shayne said casually. “I have a business matter to discuss with her. We are making the rounds trying to find her.”
“A business matter, you say? I wasn’t aware that she-that is, Sara hadn’t confided in me-what I mean is,” he stumbled on, “when she made this dinner date with me tonight she said nothing about expecting to talk business with a private detective.”
“At the time,” said Shayne blandly, “she probably hoped to be finished in time to keep her appointment. What time was she supposed to meet you?”
“Seven o’clock. She said she was meeting a reporter at her hotel for cocktails at six, but promised to get rid of him within an hour.”
“And you’ve been waiting here since seven?”
“Since before seven,” he corrected, coloring slightly at Shayne’s tone of doubt. “She doesn’t like for me to interfere with her professional duties,” he continued defensively. “She’s a very busy woman, and I kept thinking she would come as soon as she could possibly get away.”
“If we run into her within the next half hour,” he said kindly, “we’ll remind her you’re waiting.” He took Miss Lally’s arm and they turned to go.
“Thank you,” Paisly said with an inflection that indicated he would like to say something else.
As they drove away from the Golden Cock, Shayne said, “This Paisly isn’t exactly the sort of specimen I’d expect Sara Morton to go for.”
“He’s just the type she does go for,” she confided. “He’s years younger. I guess he brings out her latent maternal instincts. She always has someone like him dancing attendance.”
“Does she marry all of them?” Shayne asked with a hint of amusement as he circled the drive leading to the Boulevard.
“She has never gone that far. I don’t know about this time. Perhaps she really would have gone through with it. I’m sure he seriously expected her to.”
Shayne turned north, then east on 14th Street, and a few minutes later drove into a line of late evening traffic headed across the County Causeway to Miami Beach.
“The two places she’s known over here are the Green Barn and the Red House,” Miss Lally told him.
“They’re both Leo Gannet’s layouts,” muttered Shayne. “Does Gannet know what she’s after in Miami?”
“Oh, yes. She never wasted time being devious in making her investigations. I think she took a perverse pleasure in dropping into those two places often. I understand they have both closed their gambling-rooms since she started visiting them.” She spoke without rancor, with a touch of weariness or sorrow.
“Gannet must love that,” said Shayne with a chuckle. “The gambling concession in either of those joints would net several thousand dollars a night.”
“She told me four days ago Mr. Gannet had offered her twenty-five thousand dollars to get out of Miami and stay out,” Miss Lally revealed.
“She didn’t take it?”
“She laughed in his face and told him her professional integrity wasn’t for sale.”
“Your Miss Morton must have been quite a gal.”
“She was magnificent, Mr. Shayne.” Her voice was tremulous, but she steadied it and went on firmly: “That’s why there’s something you should know about. I didn’t want to mention it in front of Mr. Rourke, but now I suppose it’ll have to come out in the investigation.”
“The threatening letters?”
“Oh! You know about those? Then she did get in touch with you today?”
“She sat down in her room behind a locked door at six-thirty and wrote me a note that was delivered to my office by special-delivery some time before eight-thirty,” Shayne told her grimly. “After she had given up hope that I’d get her messages tonight.” He took the envelope from his pocket, handed it to her, and switched on the dome light.
Shayne’s face was impassive as he skillfully threaded his way through the three lanes of traffic, letting Miss Lally take her own time reading the last words her employer wrote before she was murdered.
The girl sighed when she finished, replaced the note and enclosures in the envelope. “She must have gone out and dropped the letter in the mail chute immediately after typing it. Why didn’t she tell me she took those threats seriously instead of sending me to the bar to meet Mr. Rourke? I could have stayed with her-had him come up-” Her voice broke gradually and ended on a note of despair.
“Then you didn’t think she took the threats seriously?”
“Of course not. Not really. She laughed at the first two, yesterday and the day before. You see, she’s had this sort of thing happen before on assignments like this. People try to frighten her away.”
“Like Leo Gannet trying to buy her off?”
“That-and the threats. She always laughed them off.”
“She showed you those notes?”
“I showed them to her,” Miss Lally corrected him. “I open all the mail and select whatever I think she needs to handle personally. That must be what she meant when she said I could tell you about them.”
“Go on,” urged Shayne. “Tell me.”
“There isn’t much. They came in envelopes bought at the post office. The addresses were typed. They were mailed locally, and nothing in them but the crude warnings, and no return address, naturally.”
“What became of the envelopes?”
“I imagine she destroyed them. All except the final one this morning. That may be in her room. I’m surprised she didn’t destroy the messages, too.”
“She laughed at the first two, but reacted differently on the third one-this morning?” Shayne prompted
“Yes. I-had a peculiar feeling something happened to convince her they might not be just the work of a crank. She seemed to-well, expect the one this morning. The minute I showed it to her she asked me to try to get you on the phone. I imagine Mr. Rourke had told her about you. I suggested the police, but she insisted it had to be a private investigation. That’s why I thought-why I wondered-” Her voice trailed off as if her mind was not quite clear about what she wondered.
They were at the end of the Causeway, and Shayne slowed for a traffic light. He made a left turn and drove slowly toward Leo Gannet’s swanky Green Barn.
“You think she guessed who sent the threats?”
“I had never seen her so upset. She sent me out of the room while she phoned you. I should have known then it was something dangerous, after working with her so long and knowing all about everything. Hindsight is a miserable thing,” she ended in a strained voice. “You keep trying to turn time back so you can do the things you know you could have done to keep it from happening.”
Shayne said, “Yeh,” absently, and they drove the short distance in silence.
He parked at the curb outside the brilliantly lighted two-story stucco structure and got out. “I’ll make this one alone-and quick,” he said.
He was back within two minutes. “Just one more stop to put ourselves in the clear and convince Will Gentry we didn’t enter room fourteen-twenty tonight.” He got in and gunned the motor, pulled away fast, then asked, “Who else has a key?”
“I’ve been worried about that ever since I heard you tell Tim Rourke her door was double locked,” she confided. “Does that mean the murderer went in through my office?”
“He must have left that way. And it’s the only way he could have gone in unless she unlocked her door for him.”
“I have the only key,” Miss Lally told him unhappily. “And I don’t even know who else knew about us having the two rooms and always leaving the bathroom doors unlocked. Except Edwin Paisly, of course.”
Shayne thought that over a moment. “It wouldn’t be difficult for anyone to find that out,” he assured her. “A buck or so to the room clerk. You were about to tell me something you were wondering about a while ago,” he reminded her. “When Miss Morton insisted on a private investigator instead of police.”
She hesitated briefly, took off her glasses and nibbled on the end of the frame. They were on the Ocean Drive now, passing the Roney Plaza, nearing Gannet’s second Beach club.
“It’s her husband, Ralph Morton. He has followed her here.” Her low voice was suddenly venomous.
Shayne glanced aside, surprised at her words, her tone. “Her husband?” he echoed. “I didn’t know she had one. You said she was engaged to that Paisly character.”
“She was. Oh, she hadn’t lived with Ralph Morton for years. He’s a scoundrel and I don’t know why she hadn’t divorced him long ago. Perhaps she kept him as a safety valve to prevent her various young men from becoming too serious. But this time I think she really intended to marry. She filed papers when we first came to Miami. If he didn’t contest the case, the divorce would have been granted as soon as she completed the legal residence requirements next week.”
“Was he going to contest it?”
“We didn’t know. Papers were served on him when the suit was filed, but we didn’t hear anything from him until this morning when he phoned he was in town.”
“Did he say anything about the divorce?”
“Not in so many words. But there’s always trouble when he turns up.” She sighed deeply, as if the anger she felt wearied her.
“What sort of trouble?” Shayne persisted.
“He gets drunk and makes scenes. I mail him a check for five hundred every month. Wouldn’t you think that would satisfy him?”
“Doesn’t it?”
“No. He’s always after her for more. He sponges on her reputation. Goes around and introduces himself as her husband and pretends they work together and runs up bills and gets loans on the strength of her credit.”
Leo Gannet’s Red House was on their right, at the end of a short street leading to the ocean. Shayne turned into the street, squinting ahead and frowning at the lights showing in both upper- and lower-floor windows.
“Say, do you remember whether both floors of the Green Barn were lighted?”
“Certainly. There was light all over.”
“But you said Gannet closed down his gambling-rooms because Sara Morton kept dropping into his places unexpectedly.”
“Do you mean they gamble on the second floors?” she asked. “They were closed. She told me so herself.”
Shayne slowed the car to a crawl as they approached the club. He glanced down at his dungarees and muttered, “I’m not dressed for crashing a joint like this. They don’t know you here, do they?”
“No. I seldom go anywhere socially with her.”
Shayne thought for a moment, said, “I’ll pull up in front and let you out. Go inside and act as if you know your way around. Go straight up the stairs on your left and drop a few bucks on the roulette table-and mingle. Try to find out when they reopened, but be careful not to arouse any suspicion. Come down in about fifteen minutes and have the doorman call over the loudspeaker for Miss Lally’s car. I’ll swing around and pick you up.” He stopped in front of the marquee and the doorman hurried to open the door.
Miss Lally stepped out and said coolly, “I may not be here long, Michael. Please stay in the car and be ready to pick me up.”
“Very well, Ma’am,” said Shayne. He pulled into a well-lighted parking-lot and stopped near the exit. There were a number of cars parked, a few limousines, around one of which a group of uniformed chauffeurs smoked and talked.
Shayne locked the ignition and got out, lit a cigarette, and wandered to the end of a tall, unclipped hibiscus hedge that hid the ocean from view. There was no moon, and he stood for a moment looking up at the star-sprinkled sky and listening to the dark breakers rolling in, then circled swiftly around the hedge and made his way to the rear of the club building.
Cautiously opening the first door he came to, he went into a service entrance and on through to a storeroom with a door on either side. On the left he heard kitchen sounds, and after hesitating briefly he quietly opened the door on the right. It opened onto a narrow hallway with steps leading to the second floor. He climbed the steps to a small landing and stood for a moment before a closed door before trying the knob. The door was heavy and solidly locked. He located an electric button and pressed steadily for a time, relaxed against the jamb, and waited.
A key turned in the lock and the door opened a few inches. The ceiling fixture outlined a bulky figure wearing a dinner jacket, and a broad, unintelligent face was stuck through the narrow opening.
“Leo in?” Shayne asked.
“Who wants to know?”
Shayne’s shoulder hit the door with the weight of his body behind it. The man reeled backward, off balance, and Shayne stepped through into a corridor, saying, “I want to know, punk. The name is Shayne and I’m in a hurry.”
He stopped at the first door on his left and opened it. Leo Gannet sat behind a desk in the center of the room talking to a tall, white-haired man who stood across from him.
Gannet was a short, thin man with an enormous head shaped like a pumpkin and a long, scrawny neck on the stem-end. His thick black hair was parted in the middle and smoothed down on the flat top. His forehead bulged above thick black brows and his full, well-shaped lips moved slowly as he spoke in soft tones. His eyes were large and dark and softly shining. From his expression, he might have been urging the man to give up his life of sin and hit the sawdust trail.
Gannet glanced idly at Shayne, then turned away as the dinner-jacketed man pushed in and grated, “This guy crashed in the back way, Leo. Do you want I should-”
Gannet said quietly, “It’s all right, Mart. Get back where you belong.” He ignored Shayne and turned back to the white-haired man.
“Take his marker up to one grand, but if he tries to go past that, send him in to me.”
The man nodded and started out. Shayne put out a long arm to block his exit and said, “I’m looking for Miss Sara Morton. Has she been around tonight?”
The man paused and turned to glance at Gannet.
“She hasn’t been in tonight and she won’t be in,” said Gannet. “Get back to your tables, Breen.”
Shayne let the man go and walked over to the desk to face the gambler, who asked, “What do you want, Shayne?”
“Miss Morton.” Shayne grinned down into the softly solemn eyes, stepped aside and hooked the toe of his shoe around a chair leg, dragged it across the rich, red carpet, and sat down.
“She’s not here tonight,” the gambler told him in a tone that could have been mistaken for deep regret.
“I didn’t think she was,” Shayne admitted, “when I saw you were running again. How do you know she won’t be in?”
“Because she won’t be able to get past the front door in the future.” Leo Gannet sighed and leaned back in his swivel chair. “Women reformers,” he murmured. “What’s she to you, Shayne?”
“Somebody’s trying to run her out of town.”
“Give her some advice from me. Tell her she’ll run like hell if she’s smart.”
“And if she isn’t smart?” Shayne lit a cigarette and narrowed his eyes at Gannet through a cloud of smoke blown in his direction.
“I know for a fact,” said the gambler dispassionately, “that if she keeps on poking her nose into things that don’t concern her she has a fair chance of never leaving town.”
“Is that a threat?”
“Advice.”
“Do any of your boys spend their spare time cutting out paper dolls?” Shayne asked blandly.
“I wouldn’t be surprised. Some of the punks you get nowadays-” He slowly straightened in his chair and rested his elbows on the desk. “What’s that crack got to do with anything?”
“It just occurred to me, when I saw Mart-”
The door was suddenly and violently flung open and Miss Lally stumbled in, then fell sprawling on the rug from the force of a shove. Her glasses fell off, and she slowly rose to her knees sobbing angrily while a heavy man with colorless, pig-like eyes explained:
“Here’s one of that Morton dame’s stooges, Chief. You told us-”
Shayne was on his feet, but stayed where he was when he saw the gun in Leo Gannet’s hand, knowing that the soft glow in his eyes and the gentle smile on his lips were more dangerous than the stupid leer and twisted mouth of the punk who had shoved the girl into the room.
“Take it easy, Shayne, while we talk this thing over,” said Gannet quietly.