come into the picture?”
“Tim’s an old friend of both Betty and Bert. A sort of brother-confessor. He got Bert his first job on the News, and—”
“I want to know why Tim brought up Jackson’s name in your office tonight.”
“I’m coming to that,” said Shayne rapidly. “I didn’t understand it myself until Tim and I left the office together. It seems that Bert had told his wife he was hiring me to get evidence against her—gave her the impression, in fact, that I had already got enough dope to get him a divorce. Tim said she was hysterical about it, and wanted him to get the evidence from me. When he refused to help her he was afraid maybe she had gone to whoever is involved with her and gotten him to search my office for it.”
It wasn’t a very convincing story, Shayne knew, but it had to do for the moment. It would provide Gentry a tangent to investigate, and Shayne could only hope fervently that there wasn’t a man involved with Betty Jackson on whom suspicion would fall.
Gentry was frowning and chewing on a fresh cigar. His protuberant eyes were fixed on Shayne’s brightly illuminated face, but the redhead didn’t bat an eye.
“That sounds okay for a beginning,” said Gentry grudgingly, “but how does it fit in with this?”
“I told you I didn’t think Jackson’s death had anything to do with it. If I have to solve all your homicides for you—”
“Beat it!” Gentry roared. “Next time, come clean in the beginning and there won’t be any hard feelings.”
Shayne stalked to his car without replying, got in and gunned the motor viciously in a U-turn, hit Okeechobee Road fast, and followed it to Grapeland Boulevard, where he turned north to 67th Street.
The cool stillness of the hour before the dawn shrouded the city as he drew up in front of a three-story stucco apartment with Las Felice lettered on the archway above double entrance doors.
He got out and went up the walk, found the outer doors unlocked, and entered a small foyer with a row of letter boxes on each side. Shayne tried the inner door and wasn’t surprised to find it locked in the absence of a doorman to admit visitors.
He turned back and found the mailbox for apartment Three A. A small engraved card inserted in a slot read Miss Marie Leonard. He didn’t want to forewarn the occupant of Three A of his impending visit, and decided it was too early in the morning to ring bells at random.
Instead, he took out a well-filled key ring, stopped to study the lock for a moment, then began selecting keys and trying them. The fifth one opened the lock, and he entered a small lobby. A self-service elevator stood waiting. He got in and pressed the button for the third floor.
Three A was the front apartment on the right. Shayne put his finger on the button and held it down while he counted to twenty. He released it, listened, and started to press it again when a crack of light showed under the door and the knob turned cautiously.
A sleepy voice asked through the narrow opening, “Who is it?”
Shayne said, “Police,” and shoved the door hard to confront the occupant.
Chapter Six
ACCIDENTAL STRIP TEASE?
MARIE LEONARD LOOKED SMALL and appealing in a blue silk dressing-gown that trailed behind her and swept the floor around her bare feet. Her eyes were enormous and blue, round with fright in a heart-shaped face that seemed waxen without make-up. Her brows and lashes were dark; and blond, touseled hair fell around her shoulders. She looked almost childish until she drew back from the tall redhead and wrapped the robe tightly around her to reveal the mature curves of her body. She opened and closed her lips three times before she succeeded in gasping the three words, “You—said—police.”
“They’ll be here soon enough,” Shayne said gruffly. He closed the door, took off his hat, and absently rubbed his palm over his stubby hair as he looked around the living-room.
He recognized this as one of the
“Tim’s an old friend of both Betty and Bert. A sort of brother-confessor. He got Bert his first job on the News, and—”
“I want to know why Tim brought up Jackson’s name in your office tonight.”
“I’m coming to that,” said Shayne rapidly. “I didn’t understand it myself until Tim and I left the office together. It seems that Bert had told his wife he was hiring me to get evidence against her—gave her the impression, in fact, that I had already got enough dope to get him a divorce. Tim said she was hysterical about it, and wanted him to get the evidence from me. When he refused to help her he was afraid maybe she had gone to whoever is involved with her and gotten him to search my office for it.”
It wasn’t a very convincing story, Shayne knew, but it had to do for the moment. It would provide Gentry a tangent to investigate, and Shayne could only hope fervently that there wasn’t a man involved with Betty Jackson on whom suspicion would fall.
Gentry was frowning and chewing on a fresh cigar. His protuberant eyes were fixed on Shayne’s brightly illuminated face, but the redhead didn’t bat an eye.
“That sounds okay for a beginning,” said Gentry grudgingly, “but how does it fit in with this?”
“I told you I didn’t think Jackson’s death had anything to do with it. If I have to solve all your homicides for you—”
“Beat it!” Gentry roared. “Next time, come clean in the beginning and there won’t be any hard feelings.”
Shayne stalked to his car without replying, got in and gunned the motor viciously in a U-turn, hit Okeechobee Road fast, and followed it to Grapeland Boulevard, where he turned north to 67th Street.
The cool stillness of the hour before the dawn shrouded the city as he drew up in front of a three-story stucco apartment with Las Felice lettered on the archway above double entrance doors.
He got out and went up the walk, found the outer doors unlocked, and entered a small foyer with a row of letter boxes on each side. Shayne tried the inner door and wasn’t surprised to find it locked in the absence of a doorman to admit visitors.
He turned back and found the mailbox for apartment Three A. A small engraved card inserted in a slot read Miss Marie Leonard. He didn’t want to forewarn the occupant of Three A of his impending visit, and decided it was too early in the morning to ring bells at random.
Instead, he took out a well-filled key ring, stopped to study the lock for a moment, then began selecting keys and trying them. The fifth one opened the lock, and he entered a small lobby. A self-service elevator stood waiting. He got in and pressed the button for the third floor.
Three A was the front apartment on the right. Shayne put his finger on the button and held it down while he counted to twenty. He released it, listened, and started to press it again when a crack of light showed under the door and the knob turned cautiously.
A sleepy voice asked through the narrow opening, “Who is it?”
Shayne said, “Police,” and shoved the door hard to confront the occupant.
Chapter Six
ACCIDENTAL STRIP TEASE?
MARIE LEONARD LOOKED SMALL and appealing in a blue silk dressing-gown that trailed behind her and swept the floor around her bare feet. Her eyes were enormous and blue, round with fright in a heart-shaped face that seemed waxen without make-up. Her brows and lashes were dark; and blond, touseled hair fell around her shoulders. She looked almost childish until she drew back from the tall redhead and wrapped the robe tightly around her to reveal the mature curves of her body. She opened and closed her lips three times before she succeeded in gasping the three words, “You—said—police.”
“They’ll be here soon enough,” Shayne said gruffly. He closed the door, took off his hat, and absently rubbed his palm over his stubby hair as he looked around the living-room.
He recognized this as one of the
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