Painter. “Did you get a phone call this morning that concerns me?”
“I think I’ve had two. One from your secretary, and one from a William Fox of the William Fox Medical Laboratories. I’m sure Mr. Fox was describing you. ‘Paranoiac type,’ he said. ‘Delusions of grandeur. Probably homicidal.’ In fact, he thinks you’ve already murdered somebody. So do I. Henry Henlein.”
“No, it would be William Fox,” Shayne said, “except that I didn’t have time. What did my secretary say?”
“She wanted me to report to you that Sylvester Santos’ blood type is Rh.”
Shayne said grimly, “Then I want to report to your office, Painter, what I believe to be the murder of Sylvester Santos. He’s been running the Santa Clara, a charter boat, for years.”
“I know who you mean.”
“If you work fast enough before they move it, I think you’ll find Sylvester’s knife-stabbed body on the harbor bottom, weighted down by his own boat anchor, at the slip where he rents mooring space.”
Painter made notes on a pad. “Would it be in order,” he asked sarcastically, “for the police department to inquire how citizen Shayne came by this rather precise information?”
“It would be in order,” Shayne said evenly, “but I haven’t time to tell you. Get going on this, will you?”
“I gather this is of close personal interest to you, shamus.” Painter’s thin lips stretched in an unctuous smile. “And inasmuch as you’re asking me to do something—there was a murder yesterday in which you also were involved…”
A muscle twitched in Shayne’s cheek. “I can’t help you on that one, Petey.”
“It’s just possible you won’t have to, hard as it will be for you to believe it. Ballistics has reported that he was shot by his own gun.”
“That .32 Colt with the walnut handle that was lying beside him?”
Painter nodded.
“That’s funny. Henlein was a muscleman. I heard he didn’t usually carry a gun.”
“That was the rumor. Maybe he bought one and committed suicide.”
“Sure. And tied that noose around his own neck. Look, Painter, the one thing I can help you with—Sylvester—you don’t seem to want to listen to. If you find him murdered where I told you to look, I can name you three prime suspects.”
Painter reached for his pen with simulated weariness, holding it poised and waiting.
“Ed Woodbine, Blue Grotto,” Shayne said, “Slim Collins, Blue Grotto, Vince Becker, Mirador. I haven’t checked the addresses yet, but I think they’re right. These men are putting on a good, honest front.”
“What if they are on the up and up?”
“Then we look elsewhere. You might check back where they say they came from. They’re vacationists. Ed Woodbine’s in the insurance business in Detroit. He’s here with his wife. Slim Collins is a contractor with a hobby for working on internal-combustion engines. He’s from Philadelphia. Vince Becker owns a motel in Arizona. That’s what they told me, anyway. Their names may be phony. Becker looks Sicilian. In fact, none of them fit, but I’ll leave the checking to you.”
“Your trust is gratifying. However, how do I know all this isn’t a red herring you dreamed up to dilute our efforts to probe into the Henlein murder?”
A muscle jumped in Shayne’s cheek and his knuckles strained as his big hands gripped the table edge. He fastened his gray eyes on Painter with such bleak savagery that the Detective Chief drew back and lowered his own eyes to the neat pile of papers on his desk. “I don’t give a damn about Henlein,” Shayne snapped, “but Sylvester was a friend of mine.”
“All right,” Painter murmured. “I was only asking. Your co-operation with this office isn’t always so good, you know.”
Shayne swung away. “Phone Lucy at my office when you turn anything up on Sylvester.” At the door, he added, “I’ve got two tails on me this morning. If one of them’s yours, you’d better warn him not to get
“I think I’ve had two. One from your secretary, and one from a William Fox of the William Fox Medical Laboratories. I’m sure Mr. Fox was describing you. ‘Paranoiac type,’ he said. ‘Delusions of grandeur. Probably homicidal.’ In fact, he thinks you’ve already murdered somebody. So do I. Henry Henlein.”
“No, it would be William Fox,” Shayne said, “except that I didn’t have time. What did my secretary say?”
“She wanted me to report to you that Sylvester Santos’ blood type is Rh.”
Shayne said grimly, “Then I want to report to your office, Painter, what I believe to be the murder of Sylvester Santos. He’s been running the Santa Clara, a charter boat, for years.”
“I know who you mean.”
“If you work fast enough before they move it, I think you’ll find Sylvester’s knife-stabbed body on the harbor bottom, weighted down by his own boat anchor, at the slip where he rents mooring space.”
Painter made notes on a pad. “Would it be in order,” he asked sarcastically, “for the police department to inquire how citizen Shayne came by this rather precise information?”
“It would be in order,” Shayne said evenly, “but I haven’t time to tell you. Get going on this, will you?”
“I gather this is of close personal interest to you, shamus.” Painter’s thin lips stretched in an unctuous smile. “And inasmuch as you’re asking me to do something—there was a murder yesterday in which you also were involved…”
A muscle twitched in Shayne’s cheek. “I can’t help you on that one, Petey.”
“It’s just possible you won’t have to, hard as it will be for you to believe it. Ballistics has reported that he was shot by his own gun.”
“That .32 Colt with the walnut handle that was lying beside him?”
Painter nodded.
“That’s funny. Henlein was a muscleman. I heard he didn’t usually carry a gun.”
“That was the rumor. Maybe he bought one and committed suicide.”
“Sure. And tied that noose around his own neck. Look, Painter, the one thing I can help you with—Sylvester—you don’t seem to want to listen to. If you find him murdered where I told you to look, I can name you three prime suspects.”
Painter reached for his pen with simulated weariness, holding it poised and waiting.
“Ed Woodbine, Blue Grotto,” Shayne said, “Slim Collins, Blue Grotto, Vince Becker, Mirador. I haven’t checked the addresses yet, but I think they’re right. These men are putting on a good, honest front.”
“What if they are on the up and up?”
“Then we look elsewhere. You might check back where they say they came from. They’re vacationists. Ed Woodbine’s in the insurance business in Detroit. He’s here with his wife. Slim Collins is a contractor with a hobby for working on internal-combustion engines. He’s from Philadelphia. Vince Becker owns a motel in Arizona. That’s what they told me, anyway. Their names may be phony. Becker looks Sicilian. In fact, none of them fit, but I’ll leave the checking to you.”
“Your trust is gratifying. However, how do I know all this isn’t a red herring you dreamed up to dilute our efforts to probe into the Henlein murder?”
A muscle jumped in Shayne’s cheek and his knuckles strained as his big hands gripped the table edge. He fastened his gray eyes on Painter with such bleak savagery that the Detective Chief drew back and lowered his own eyes to the neat pile of papers on his desk. “I don’t give a damn about Henlein,” Shayne snapped, “but Sylvester was a friend of mine.”
“All right,” Painter murmured. “I was only asking. Your co-operation with this office isn’t always so good, you know.”
Shayne swung away. “Phone Lucy at my office when you turn anything up on Sylvester.” At the door, he added, “I’ve got two tails on me this morning. If one of them’s yours, you’d better warn him not to get
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