The Private Practice of Michael Shayne (15 page)

“All right,” Gentry said impatiently. “Forget that part of it. What have you got now?”

“A God-awful headache!”

“Why not pick up the Marco girl?”

“That’s where we’re stymied. Marsha Marco has disappeared. She may not even be alive right now.”

“What makes you think that? She’s probably hiding out.”

“If
she
killed Grange, she’s just the type to suicide over it. If the killer knows she recognized him
—he
may have taken care of her. The hell of it is, I’ve only a few hours to fit all the pieces together. As soon as Painter tests that pistol—”

“Maybe it isn’t so bad,” Gentry offered consolingly. “You’re just guessing that the pistol you got from the Marco girl’s room killed him. If it didn’t—”

“But I can’t take that chance,” Shayne pointed out somberly. “If I’d only had brains enough to get you privately to make a test—but how the hell was I to guess? There was my gun lying by Grange’s body, jammed after one bullet had been fired. And I knew it had been taken from here that evening by a man who had worked up a first-class hate against me, and who planned to meet Grange that night. Good God! can you blame me for reading it was a perfect frame-up—and for doing what I could to protect myself?”

“I don’t blame you,” Gentry admitted. “But it’s going to look black as hell to a jury, Mike. You’ve been on the wrong end of a lot of publicity the past few years. You’ve encouraged the newspapers to paint you as black as their headlines. You’ve held out the inside stuff that would have cleared you on a lot of angles.”

“Sure, sure. That’s water under the bridge now. It was smart publicity while it lasted. And it’s been fun.”

Briefly, Shayne let his wide mouth stretch into a grin.

“I’m not finished yet, either. Here we are sitting around weeping crocodile tears over my demise. Hell, I’ve still got a few hours. I’ve broken tougher cases in less time.”

He got up and strode back and forth.

“We’ve got to find that Marco girl,” he muttered. “You can help me on that. Get out a general alarm over the radio. I’ll lose a slice of money if you find her, but this thing has gone beyond monetary considerations. And I wish to God I could locate Larry Kincaid. My gun places him at the scene of the crime at about the time it was committed. He and Marsha Marco must both know
something.
Either one of them might have killed Grange. And I can’t cover Larry any longer. The only way I can get clear is to square the whole thing up. Put the Jax police on his trail, Will. They might pick up something. I’ve wasted a day playing a goddamned fool when I should have been thinking of my own hide. Larry wired his wife from Jax yesterday morning. Wait a minute and I may be able to get the exact time the message was filed. It’ll be a slim lead, but—”

His long legs took him to the telephone and he called the Kincaid number. A brief talk with Helen brought him back to the table saying, “The time on the telegram is six-thirty-two yesterday morning. Make a note of that and pass it on to the Jax authorities. I’m afraid Larry has kept on going, but—”

He paused, an odd expression of uncertainty creeping over his angular face. He stood there looking past Will Gentry as though a veil had been suddenly lifted.

Gentry started to say something but didn’t, after one look at Shayne’s strained features. He sat silent until Shayne started talking in a queer monotone, as if to himself.

“My gun jammed after the first shot was fired. Where the hell did that bullet go? Larry didn’t know much about guns. If an automatic jammed on him, he’d probably think it was busted beyond repair.”

He paused, then burst out, “Goddamn it, Will, we’ve got to locate Marsha Marco. Give me all you’ve got on it.” He slumped into a chair and sat staring vacantly across the room.

“I will.”

Gentry got to his feet and put his hand on Shayne’s shoulder, then went out quietly, leaving him sitting there staring at the jumbled picture-puzzle of crime which gradually adjusted itself into a distinct pattern before his eyes.

A FULL HOUR LATER, Shayne stood up to stretch himself wearily. That was the way it had to be. Proving it was something else. His plan was dangerous only if it misfired. And there were a few things he could check first. He got his hat and went downstairs.

The hotel clerks had switched shifts the previous day, and the clerk now on duty had been night man the night Grange was killed.

The clerk glanced in Shayne’s mailbox as the detective approached the desk, turned with a negative movement of his head.

“Nothing this morning, Mr. Shayne. Your business seems to be rather slow.” He smiled pleasantly.

“On the contrary,” Shayne told him, “I’m getting pushed around by the rush of events.” He leaned on the counter, pushed his Panama back on his head. “You were on duty night before last, weren’t you?”

“Yes, sir.” The clerk was a bright young man with an inordinate admiration for the lanky detective which almost amounted to hero-worship.

“I had a caller while I was out.”

“Yes, sir. Your sister?” The young man spoke in a confidential, man-to-man tone.

“No.” Shayne grinned. “I mean the man who was here earlier in the evening.”

“Oh! Mr. Kincaid.”

“Yes. Can you tell me exactly when he was here?”

“It was around nine-thirty. I remember he stopped at the desk to ask if you were in—and said he’d wait for you in your apartment. I sent a boy up to unlock the door, knowing he was a friend of yours. You see, I never know when a visitor to your apartment is going to turn out to be something important—in your business, you know—and I always make a mental note of their coming and going. I hope I didn’t do wrong to let Mr. Kincaid in.”

“Oh, no. That was the natural thing to do. Did you see him leave?”

“Yes. He only stayed ten or fifteen minutes. He stopped on his way out and asked me to tell you he couldn’t wait any longer.”

The clerk paused, then added with sudden animation, “He made a call from your room. I remember that the girl at the switchboard called over to me to ask if she should put it through—knowing it wasn’t your voice.”

“You keep a record of outgoing calls, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir. I’ll look it up.”

Shayne lit a cigarette while the clerk went back into the office, returning presently with a written notation.

“The call went through at nine-thirty-eight exactly. It was a Miami Beach call.”

“You don’t keep a record of the number?”

“No. Just the destination for toll charges. But I remember that he came down right after putting the call through.”

Shayne puffed on a cigarette, squinting out through the entrance doorway.

“Nine-thirty-eight. Then he left at approximately nine-forty.”

“Very close to that,” the clerk agreed.

“Do you have a railroad schedule?”

“Right here.”

“See what night trains the F. E. C. runs north.”

“I can tell you that. There’s only one. At eleven o’clock.”

“And it arrives in Jacksonville…?”

“At six-thirty the next morning.”

“And two minutes is just about enough time to file a telegram,” Shayne muttered. “Thanks.”

He strode out the front door and across to a row of garages maintained for the use of regular tenants. Unlocking the padlock on a door, he got into his roadster and backed it out, swung around to S. E. Second Street and made his way down Biscayne Boulevard to the
Miami Daily News
building where he parked and went up to the city room.

He collided with Timothy Rourke on his way out on an assignment. Shayne grabbed the reporter’s arm and Rourke said, “What is it, Mike? I was just on my way out.”

“Forget it.” Shayne dragged him back into the room. “Turn your assignment over to one of the other punks. You’re about to be let in on a story so goddamned new it hasn’t even happened yet.”

Rourke studied Shayne’s face quizzically and a little doubtfully. Then he yelled to a tow-headed youth to take over his assignment.

“It’d better be good,” he warned as he led Shayne to his littered desk in the corner.

“Good?” Shayne exulted. “It’s colossal, Tim. When’s the deadline for your first edition?”

“One o’clock. We hit the street at two-thirty.”

“And it’s just eleven now. And I’m going to give you a headline that’ll knock this town cold. But you’ve got to do some checking for me first, Tim.”

“Shoot.”

“What dope have you got from the racing commission on their investigation of the Masiot stables?”

“Nothing new, officially. They’re still investigating.”

“Do you know any of the members of the commission?”

“Yeh. Leroy Johnson. He’s—”

“Call him.” Shayne gripped Timothy Rourke’s arm. “Make it personal. It’s not to be printed. Find out which way the investigation is going. What they’re digging up—unofficially.”

Rourke shook his head, tight-lipped.

“What are you up to, Mike? It’s that Grange killing, isn’t it?”

“It is. And we haven’t any time to waste if we’re going to manufacture those headlines. Get on the phone.” Rourke lifted the receiver on his desk while Shayne sat back and lit a cigarette. Hunching the instrument to his ear, the reporter carried on a lengthy conversation without seeming to notice the haywire din going on about him.

Presently he hung up and said, “This is strictly confidential, Mike. If it leaks out, a beautiful friendship will be spoiled.”

“It won’t leak. What have you got?”

“They’ve found out that all those bets spread over the country on Banjo Boy originated right here in Miami from one source as yet unidentified. On the Q-T, the commission is pretty well convinced that our friend Elliot Thomas sent those bets out, though they haven’t proved it yet and may not be able to.”

Shayne nodded happily.

“Birdies are coming home to roost. John Marco used to donate heavily through the mutuels, but he seems to have quit two years ago when he opened his casino. Ever hear of a confirmed plunger getting off the horses?”

Rourke leaned back with new interest lighting his eyes.

“A man running a gambling place would hate to be known as a sucker at his own game. There’s other ways of placing bets than through the mutuels.”

“That’s it. With no one being the wiser. How can I find out whether Marco has been dealing through the bookies since he discontinued his public betting at the tracks?”

“That’s a tough one,” Rourke conceded.

He gently rubbed an old knife scar on his square, bony chin.

“Samuelson, down in the Flagler Arcade, handles most of the illegal heavy sugar. He and Marco used to be friendly. Ten will get you a hundred Marco places bets through him if he hasn’t been weaned yet.”

“Let’s call Samuelson and find out.”

“Won’t work. Bookies don’t hand out that kind of information. Not Sammy Samuelson.”

“Call Marco,” Shayne suggested. “Tell him you’re Samuelson. You ought to know Sammy’s voice. Maybe Marco’ll give something away.”

Rourke started to protest, then caught the intense gleam in Shayne’s eyes. “Okay. It’s your party. But I’m afraid my Yiddish accent isn’t what it ought to be.”

He scooped up the phone and got a connection with John Marco on the beach.

Shayne leaned close, and the reporter held the receiver so that both could hear while he squelched the faint brogue in his voice and slurred, “Hi-yuh, John. Sammy.”

“All right, all right,” came John Marco’s impatient voice. “You’d think I didn’t pay off like a slot machine, the way you jump me every time I hit a losing streak. I’ll have the dough over by a messenger this afternoon. Twenty-six hundred is the way I figure they ran for me yesterday. I got to get me a new handicapper or you’ll be owning this joint.”

He paused for the bookie to make some reply, and Shayne nodded to Rourke to hang up.

“That’ll give him something to think about,” Shayne chuckled.

“How about you giving me something to think about now,” Rourke complained.

“All right. I’m set.” Shayne leaned back, hugging one knee with laced fingers. “How’d you like to write a headline for your two-thirty edition on something that’ll be breaking when your papers hit the streets?”

“Swell.”

Rourke swung around in front of his typewriter and rolled a fresh sheet of paper in. Poising his forefinger over the keys, he waited.

Shayne said softly, “Here’s your headline:
Elliot Thomas Grilled in Drowning of Beach Debutante.”
Timothy Rourke had mechanically started pecking as Shayne spoke. He got as far as the second “l” in “grilled” before the detective finished. He stopped and yelled, “Good Lord! Are you nuts?”

“I’m just coming out of a fog,” Shayne explained. “Finish your typing chore, my man, and I’ll dictate the story that runs under it.”

“I can’t do it,” Rourke protested. “Do you expect me to set this up and print it at one o’clock when I’ve only got your word for it that it’s going to happen an hour or so later?”

“Hasn’t my word always been good enough for you, Tim?”

Rourke stared into his eyes for fifteen seconds, then said, “Okay, Mike. Tim Rourke has been kicked off better jobs for less cause.”

He completed the headline, then began pounding out copy as Shayne dictated it.

When it was finished he leaned back with feverish excitement in his Gaelic eyes.

“What a yarn! But they’ll never print it on my say-so, Mike. Not until they’ve got some proof.”

“How’ll some nice pictures to go along with it do?” Shayne asked easily.

A dazed look came into Tim Rourke’s eyes. He rubbed his brow with unsteady fingers.

“Pics? Of something that’s maybe
going
to happen?”

“No maybe’s about it. Can you give me a good cameraman that’ll keep his mouth buttoned?”

“Hell, I’ll do it myself. I was one of the best in the business until I turned softie and started writing stories instead of shooting them.”

“We’ll get some pictures that’ll be all the proof your editor will ask for,” Shayne promised. “Now, roll in a clean sheet of paper and I’ll give you the dope on an extra you can have ready to rush on the streets after you’ve sold out your regular edition. You can have them loaded in trucks waiting for the word go.”