business. I’ll tell you why. Because coveralls are a one-piece garment that can be stepped out of in a moment. Not even any underwear, you understand. Does he mind a little blood from his victim? Why should he? He’s naked. It’ll wash off in the shower.”
“Astounding,” murmured Timothy Rourke, reaching over to pluck the bottle out of Shayne’s hands. “There you have it, Will. Premeditation and motive and everything. This guy had rented this apartment right out from under him. So, Mike strips to the skin and slips on a pair of coveralls—Oh, my sainted grandmother! Sometimes you make me so sick I need a drink, Petey.” He took a long one.
“I told you to keep out of this,” Painter said angrily, half turning to glare at Rourke. “We’ll find a motive, all right,” he continued tenaciously. “It’s quite evident that Shayne used the ticket to New Orleans as a ruse to fix up an alibi for slipping back and murdering Slocum. Why else did he jump the plane and rush back here?”
“Suppose you tell us, Mike.” Gentry removed the sodden cigar stub from his full lips, contemplated the full inch of dead ashes at one end of it, and laid it on an ash tray. When Shayne hesitated, Gentry looked at him solemnly from under the crinkled folds of his lids.
Shayne gestured impatiently. “There’s no mystery about it. You know all about the Belton case in New Orleans that I was in such a rush to get to after the Leslie Hudson case was solved—by me,” he looked sourly at Painter. “But Painter had me tied into another murder on the Beach less than twelve hours ago, so I had to stay over and solve it for him. Just before the plane left I had a phone call from my secretary in New Orleans. She told me I was too late. The Belton case had gone flooey. And that took the pressure off getting back to New Orleans.”
“You say you had that phone call before the plane took off?” Painter pounced on his story and began to worry it like a terrier worrying a bone.
“You can check with one of the clerks at the terminal,” Shayne told him.
“Then why did you take off at all?”
“My bag was already checked,” said Shayne lazily. “I didn’t have time to think things over. But I did have time to think on my way to Palm Beach, and I remembered some unfinished business in Miami. I wanted to know more about a certain girl, so I came back to find out,” he ended serenely.
“Was she—” Rourke began.
“I’ve never known Shayne to take off all his clothes to commit a murder,” Gentry interrupted, “but I’ve heard rumors to the effect that he does sometimes to go to bed.”
“How did you get back from Palm Beach?” demanded Painter.
“Has Petey started running your department?” Shayne asked Gentry.
“He’s interested in your movements tonight from another angle, Mike. Better give it to him straight.” He took out a fresh cigar, examined the wrapper carefully, then lit it.
Shayne said, “I hitchhiked back from Palm Beach. The plane was a few minutes late and it was almost one o’clock by the time I got my bag and got out of the terminal. Happened to be an old fellow there who was driving down here, and I hooked a ride with him. It was almost two when he dropped me off on the outskirts of town.”
Gentry nodded and told Painter, “I don’t believe Shayne need be any further concern of yours on the kidnaping. If you’ve checked with National Airlines and know he actually rode as far as Palm Beach, he couldn’t possibly have been in that wrecked car.” He gave Shayne a despairing look and puffed on his cigar.
“What kidnaping?” Shayne asked with innocent interest. “That’s the second time I’ve heard it mentioned. What wrecked car?”
“Painter has been sucking wind ever since an eyewitness testified he saw you crawl out of a wrecked car on Thirty-sixth Street and slip away at one o’clock,” Rourke broke in.
“Who was the witness?”
“A character named Chick Farrel,” Painter
“Astounding,” murmured Timothy Rourke, reaching over to pluck the bottle out of Shayne’s hands. “There you have it, Will. Premeditation and motive and everything. This guy had rented this apartment right out from under him. So, Mike strips to the skin and slips on a pair of coveralls—Oh, my sainted grandmother! Sometimes you make me so sick I need a drink, Petey.” He took a long one.
“I told you to keep out of this,” Painter said angrily, half turning to glare at Rourke. “We’ll find a motive, all right,” he continued tenaciously. “It’s quite evident that Shayne used the ticket to New Orleans as a ruse to fix up an alibi for slipping back and murdering Slocum. Why else did he jump the plane and rush back here?”
“Suppose you tell us, Mike.” Gentry removed the sodden cigar stub from his full lips, contemplated the full inch of dead ashes at one end of it, and laid it on an ash tray. When Shayne hesitated, Gentry looked at him solemnly from under the crinkled folds of his lids.
Shayne gestured impatiently. “There’s no mystery about it. You know all about the Belton case in New Orleans that I was in such a rush to get to after the Leslie Hudson case was solved—by me,” he looked sourly at Painter. “But Painter had me tied into another murder on the Beach less than twelve hours ago, so I had to stay over and solve it for him. Just before the plane left I had a phone call from my secretary in New Orleans. She told me I was too late. The Belton case had gone flooey. And that took the pressure off getting back to New Orleans.”
“You say you had that phone call before the plane took off?” Painter pounced on his story and began to worry it like a terrier worrying a bone.
“You can check with one of the clerks at the terminal,” Shayne told him.
“Then why did you take off at all?”
“My bag was already checked,” said Shayne lazily. “I didn’t have time to think things over. But I did have time to think on my way to Palm Beach, and I remembered some unfinished business in Miami. I wanted to know more about a certain girl, so I came back to find out,” he ended serenely.
“Was she—” Rourke began.
“I’ve never known Shayne to take off all his clothes to commit a murder,” Gentry interrupted, “but I’ve heard rumors to the effect that he does sometimes to go to bed.”
“How did you get back from Palm Beach?” demanded Painter.
“Has Petey started running your department?” Shayne asked Gentry.
“He’s interested in your movements tonight from another angle, Mike. Better give it to him straight.” He took out a fresh cigar, examined the wrapper carefully, then lit it.
Shayne said, “I hitchhiked back from Palm Beach. The plane was a few minutes late and it was almost one o’clock by the time I got my bag and got out of the terminal. Happened to be an old fellow there who was driving down here, and I hooked a ride with him. It was almost two when he dropped me off on the outskirts of town.”
Gentry nodded and told Painter, “I don’t believe Shayne need be any further concern of yours on the kidnaping. If you’ve checked with National Airlines and know he actually rode as far as Palm Beach, he couldn’t possibly have been in that wrecked car.” He gave Shayne a despairing look and puffed on his cigar.
“What kidnaping?” Shayne asked with innocent interest. “That’s the second time I’ve heard it mentioned. What wrecked car?”
“Painter has been sucking wind ever since an eyewitness testified he saw you crawl out of a wrecked car on Thirty-sixth Street and slip away at one o’clock,” Rourke broke in.
“Who was the witness?”
“A character named Chick Farrel,” Painter
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