look?”
“Of course not.” She turned away from the open door to the interior of a reception room similar to the one next door Shayne had glimpsed briefly the preceding night. She went behind her desk and leafed through the directory, and looked up and nodded. “Belle Jackson.” She started to read off the street address, and Shayne said, “If I could borrow a piece of paper…”
She said, “I’ll write it down for you.” She did, and handed it to him, her eyes bright with curiosity. “You’re that famous detective from Miami, aren’t you? Michael Shayne?”
He said, “I’m Michael Shayne,” and accepted the slip of paper. “Thanks a lot.”
“Do you have any idea who did it? I remember I was still working when he left the office last night about seven. He smiled at me so nicely as he went past the door, and called out, ‘There are better things for a pretty girl like you to be doing of an evening.’ He was always kidding me about working so hard and not having dates.”
Shayne asked, “Why don’t you?” as he backed out of the door.
“Oh, I do. All I want. You tell Belle if there’s anything I can do, to just call me.”
Shayne said, “I will, and thanks again.” He walked back to his car, glancing down at Belle’s address. It wasn’t very far. South of Fifth Street near the bay side of the peninsula. He got in his car and circled back, threading his way among narrow streets until he found the address. He frowned incredulously, and checked the number on the paper again to be sure he had it right. It was one of the very old buildings of Miami Beach, that had been built long before the Beach became an exclusive and luxurious resort center. A two-story building of crumbling stucco built around a patio with outside iron stairways leading up to private little balconies by which the tenants could go to and from the beach in dripping bathing suits without discommoding their neighbors. There were beach towels and bathing suits displayed on most of the balconies, and a squad of small children playing in the patio.
It had been originally designed for cheap summer rentals where a family could come from the mainland and occupy cramped quarters near the Bay at weekly or monthly rates, and Shayne knew it was the sort of place now occupied mostly by permanent residents who worked on the Beach and could not afford the higher rentals farther north.
A professional woman like a registered nurse, he thought, should be able to afford better living quarters. What was it the doctor had said last night? Something about paying his nurse over six thousand dollars a year.
He shrugged and opened the door to get out. Maybe Belle Jackson had a pair of crippled parents and a couple of small children to support. Or maybe she was a miser and preferred to live like this and hoard her money.
He crossed the sidewalk to the main entrance, and went into a small, damp-smelling hallway that had rows of dingy mailboxes with names above them. He found one marked Miss B. Jackson, and the number I-F. He went out and started to circle the patio, finding, as he had guessed, that the first-floor apartments were numbered I and alphabetically.
I-F was halfway down on his right. The children stopped their noisy play and stared at the stranger with bright, inquisitive eyes, and there was a curious sort of silence in the sun-drenched courtyard as Shayne stopped in front of I-F and knocked on the door.
The door opened after a brief interval, and Belle Jackson faced him across the threshold. She wore her white nurse’s uniform this morning, and it bulged in the right places. Her hair was neatly coiled up in braids again at the back of her head, and though her eyes were red-rimmed, her face was carefully made up and she seemed placidly in control of herself.
Her baby-blue eyes widened and she blinked at him, and then she said, “ It’s Mr. Shayne, isn’t it?” She hesitated only momentarily, sucking in a full underlip between her
“Of course not.” She turned away from the open door to the interior of a reception room similar to the one next door Shayne had glimpsed briefly the preceding night. She went behind her desk and leafed through the directory, and looked up and nodded. “Belle Jackson.” She started to read off the street address, and Shayne said, “If I could borrow a piece of paper…”
She said, “I’ll write it down for you.” She did, and handed it to him, her eyes bright with curiosity. “You’re that famous detective from Miami, aren’t you? Michael Shayne?”
He said, “I’m Michael Shayne,” and accepted the slip of paper. “Thanks a lot.”
“Do you have any idea who did it? I remember I was still working when he left the office last night about seven. He smiled at me so nicely as he went past the door, and called out, ‘There are better things for a pretty girl like you to be doing of an evening.’ He was always kidding me about working so hard and not having dates.”
Shayne asked, “Why don’t you?” as he backed out of the door.
“Oh, I do. All I want. You tell Belle if there’s anything I can do, to just call me.”
Shayne said, “I will, and thanks again.” He walked back to his car, glancing down at Belle’s address. It wasn’t very far. South of Fifth Street near the bay side of the peninsula. He got in his car and circled back, threading his way among narrow streets until he found the address. He frowned incredulously, and checked the number on the paper again to be sure he had it right. It was one of the very old buildings of Miami Beach, that had been built long before the Beach became an exclusive and luxurious resort center. A two-story building of crumbling stucco built around a patio with outside iron stairways leading up to private little balconies by which the tenants could go to and from the beach in dripping bathing suits without discommoding their neighbors. There were beach towels and bathing suits displayed on most of the balconies, and a squad of small children playing in the patio.
It had been originally designed for cheap summer rentals where a family could come from the mainland and occupy cramped quarters near the Bay at weekly or monthly rates, and Shayne knew it was the sort of place now occupied mostly by permanent residents who worked on the Beach and could not afford the higher rentals farther north.
A professional woman like a registered nurse, he thought, should be able to afford better living quarters. What was it the doctor had said last night? Something about paying his nurse over six thousand dollars a year.
He shrugged and opened the door to get out. Maybe Belle Jackson had a pair of crippled parents and a couple of small children to support. Or maybe she was a miser and preferred to live like this and hoard her money.
He crossed the sidewalk to the main entrance, and went into a small, damp-smelling hallway that had rows of dingy mailboxes with names above them. He found one marked Miss B. Jackson, and the number I-F. He went out and started to circle the patio, finding, as he had guessed, that the first-floor apartments were numbered I and alphabetically.
I-F was halfway down on his right. The children stopped their noisy play and stared at the stranger with bright, inquisitive eyes, and there was a curious sort of silence in the sun-drenched courtyard as Shayne stopped in front of I-F and knocked on the door.
The door opened after a brief interval, and Belle Jackson faced him across the threshold. She wore her white nurse’s uniform this morning, and it bulged in the right places. Her hair was neatly coiled up in braids again at the back of her head, and though her eyes were red-rimmed, her face was carefully made up and she seemed placidly in control of herself.
Her baby-blue eyes widened and she blinked at him, and then she said, “ It’s Mr. Shayne, isn’t it?” She hesitated only momentarily, sucking in a full underlip between her
Similar Books
