cab—a round bundle about ten inches in diameter tied securely in brown wrapping paper and white string. No writing on it. It feels like old clothes, but is heavier than that. Got it?”
“Almost—wait a minute.”
Shayne waited until Veigle said, “Okay, shoot. What’s it all about?”
“It’s a cognac bottle,” Shayne went on, “wrapped in a bath towel and in wrapping paper, but don’t open it in the claim office when you pick it up. The clerk might be allergic to the sight of blood.”
Veigle said, “What the hell?”
“It killed a girl tonight,” Shayne told him calmly. “I want you to get the bottle right away, Harry. The cab number is one-two-six. Take it to your lab before you unwrap it. It’s got the dead girl’s fingerprints and mine all over it, and, I hope, the murderer’s prints. My prints are on file at headquarters and the girl’s will be in a couple of hours. If the bottle has any other prints, bring them out. If it hasn’t—get rid of the damned thing, Harry. I might beat the chair that way.”
“Wait a minute, Mike. How’d your prints get on the bottle? If it’s murder evidence—”
Shayne said, “There was a time when you trusted me without asking questions.”
In a resigned tone, Veigle said, “Check. I claim this bottle from the cab office, try to bring out a set of prints other than yours and the dead girl’s. If I fail, I destroy the evidence and face a rap for accessory after the fact. That it?”
Shayne said, “That’s it.”
“Who pays for the job if you burn?”
Shayne chuckled and hung up. He mopped sweat from his face and riffled through the directory again, turning to the H’s and frowning at the long column of Hamiltons. Near the top was a Becky Lucile on Chartres Street. He dialed the number, and a female voice said, “Hello,” after the fifth ring.
“Lucile Hamilton?”
“Uh—yes. Who’s calling?”
“This is a friend of Margo’s.”
“I’m sort of friendly, too.” The voice was cooing, fencing with him. “I’m all undressed. Would you like to see me?”
Shayne said, “Some other time. When you are dressed.” He hung up and ran his finger down the column of names, stopped at a Lucile Hamilton on North Rampart.
He tried that number and waited a long time while the ringing went on monotonously at the other end.
His persistence was finally rewarded by a sleepy voice saying, “Miss Hamilton speaking.”
Shayne said, “This is a friend of Margo’s.”
“Margo Macon?”
“That’s right. I’m sorry to disturb you at this hour, but it’s really important that I see you at once. May I come up?”
“Why should you? It’s past midnight.”
“I’m sorry. It’s still important.” He paused briefly, then added, “I gather that the police haven’t got to you yet.”
“The police? Why should they?”
“There’s no use discussing it over the phone,” Shayne said brusquely. “I’ll see you in ten minutes.” He hung up and went out to find a cab.
CHAPTER NINE
THE ADDRESS ON NORTH RAMPART STREET was a neat brick apartment house. Shayne found Lucile Hamilton’s name above a brass mailbox in the small entrance hall and pressed the button above it. He had his hand on the doorknob when it clicked. He opened the door and went up the carpeted stairs, turned right when he saw a girl peering anxiously from an apartment at the end of the hall.
Lucile Hamilton had a sweet, rounded face, and her clear brown eyes were wide with anxiety as she greeted Shayne from the doorway. “Are you the man who telephoned just now?” she asked softly.
“I’m the man—Michael Shayne.” He took off his hat and extended his hand.
She hesitated an instant before offering her hand, her direct gaze flickering over his coarse red hair and his bruised face and on to the big hand he was offering. Her smile was sincere when she put her hand in his and said forthrightly, “You’re the man Margo told us about. And I’m sure she was right,
“Almost—wait a minute.”
Shayne waited until Veigle said, “Okay, shoot. What’s it all about?”
“It’s a cognac bottle,” Shayne went on, “wrapped in a bath towel and in wrapping paper, but don’t open it in the claim office when you pick it up. The clerk might be allergic to the sight of blood.”
Veigle said, “What the hell?”
“It killed a girl tonight,” Shayne told him calmly. “I want you to get the bottle right away, Harry. The cab number is one-two-six. Take it to your lab before you unwrap it. It’s got the dead girl’s fingerprints and mine all over it, and, I hope, the murderer’s prints. My prints are on file at headquarters and the girl’s will be in a couple of hours. If the bottle has any other prints, bring them out. If it hasn’t—get rid of the damned thing, Harry. I might beat the chair that way.”
“Wait a minute, Mike. How’d your prints get on the bottle? If it’s murder evidence—”
Shayne said, “There was a time when you trusted me without asking questions.”
In a resigned tone, Veigle said, “Check. I claim this bottle from the cab office, try to bring out a set of prints other than yours and the dead girl’s. If I fail, I destroy the evidence and face a rap for accessory after the fact. That it?”
Shayne said, “That’s it.”
“Who pays for the job if you burn?”
Shayne chuckled and hung up. He mopped sweat from his face and riffled through the directory again, turning to the H’s and frowning at the long column of Hamiltons. Near the top was a Becky Lucile on Chartres Street. He dialed the number, and a female voice said, “Hello,” after the fifth ring.
“Lucile Hamilton?”
“Uh—yes. Who’s calling?”
“This is a friend of Margo’s.”
“I’m sort of friendly, too.” The voice was cooing, fencing with him. “I’m all undressed. Would you like to see me?”
Shayne said, “Some other time. When you are dressed.” He hung up and ran his finger down the column of names, stopped at a Lucile Hamilton on North Rampart.
He tried that number and waited a long time while the ringing went on monotonously at the other end.
His persistence was finally rewarded by a sleepy voice saying, “Miss Hamilton speaking.”
Shayne said, “This is a friend of Margo’s.”
“Margo Macon?”
“That’s right. I’m sorry to disturb you at this hour, but it’s really important that I see you at once. May I come up?”
“Why should you? It’s past midnight.”
“I’m sorry. It’s still important.” He paused briefly, then added, “I gather that the police haven’t got to you yet.”
“The police? Why should they?”
“There’s no use discussing it over the phone,” Shayne said brusquely. “I’ll see you in ten minutes.” He hung up and went out to find a cab.
CHAPTER NINE
THE ADDRESS ON NORTH RAMPART STREET was a neat brick apartment house. Shayne found Lucile Hamilton’s name above a brass mailbox in the small entrance hall and pressed the button above it. He had his hand on the doorknob when it clicked. He opened the door and went up the carpeted stairs, turned right when he saw a girl peering anxiously from an apartment at the end of the hall.
Lucile Hamilton had a sweet, rounded face, and her clear brown eyes were wide with anxiety as she greeted Shayne from the doorway. “Are you the man who telephoned just now?” she asked softly.
“I’m the man—Michael Shayne.” He took off his hat and extended his hand.
She hesitated an instant before offering her hand, her direct gaze flickering over his coarse red hair and his bruised face and on to the big hand he was offering. Her smile was sincere when she put her hand in his and said forthrightly, “You’re the man Margo told us about. And I’m sure she was right,
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