the office for a little while, but he’d be back for lunch sure.”
“Anything to do with the job he was doing for Mrs. Nathan?” Shayne asked casually.
“Max hardly ever tells me anything about his cases.” Then the name struck her hard and she drew in her breath and leaned forward intently. “You mean that Mrs. Nathan from the Beach? The one you busted in on last night with her paramour?”
“Wasn’t Max doing some work for her?”
“Not that he ever told me. Not even this morning when it was all on the radio. But he never does,” she added bitterly. “You’d think a private detective would come home with all kinds of interesting stories to tell, wouldn’t you? But not Max. He always says it’s just a job like anything else. From what I read in the paper, you don’t find it like that, Mr. Shayne. Murders and suicides and all. Beautiful blondes. Just like they showed it on TeeVee when your program was running. I used to get Max to watch it and I’d say, ‘Now, why don’t you get cases like that?’ and he’d just sniff and say detecting wasn’t anything like that in real life, and it was just a story they made up, like, out in Hollywood.”
“Did he work last night?” Shayne asked idly.
“Last night… and every Friday for the past month. Out till all hours. Some cheap divorce case, I guess.” Her upper lip curled. “That’s all Max gets mostly.” There was defeat in her voice and Shayne felt obscurely sorry for the woman who had married Max Wentworth expecting to share the glamour and excitement of his work.
He lit a cigarette and assured her, “My cases are pretty humdrum most of the time, too.” He glanced at his watch, aware of an obscure sense of foreboding that was tugging at him.
Every Friday night for the past month, she’d said. Out till all hours.
“How late was he last night?” he asked abruptly, without knowing he was going to ask her until he heard the words come out.
“I don’t know for sure. Midnight I guess, anyhow. I went to sleep about eleven and didn’t hear him come in.”
“And he didn’t say anything to you this morning… after he heard the broadcast about Mrs. Nathan?”
“No. That was at ten o’clock. He’d finished his breakfast and was getting ready to go to the office when we heard it. I hadn’t turned it on before that so he could sleep late. He said he’d just be a little while. I don’t know what’s keeping him.”
Shayne looked at his watch again and got to his feet. “I’m afraid I can’t wait any longer, Mrs. Wentworth. When Max comes in tell him I’d like to have him call me. Either at my office or my hotel.”
“I’ll surely tell him, Mr. Shayne. But I know if you just wait a little minute longer…”
Shayne said, “I’m sorry. I must go.” He went out and she followed him to the door, protesting that Max always came home for lunch when he said he would, and Shayne thanked her again and found himself unconsciously hurrying down the path to his car.
It took him less than five minutes to reach an empty parking space in front of the building on West Flagler Street that housed Wentworth’s office. There was a dingy lobby that was empty on this Saturday afternoon, an air of desolation and decay about the premises. There was an elevator at the rear but it wasn’t in use today, and a directory on the wall listed Wentworth’s office as 212.
Shayne climbed the stairs to the second floor without hearing anything to indicate that any of the offices were occupied. He stopped in front of 212 and knocked on the door perfunctorily, studying the simple lock at the same time and getting a ring of keys from his pocket.
He selected one which entered the lock but refused to turn inside it.
The second key he tried opened the door. He pushed it open directly onto a gloomy, square room with a big desk in the middle of it.
Max Wentworth lay on the floor in front of the desk. His head was smashed in and lay in a pool of thickening
“Anything to do with the job he was doing for Mrs. Nathan?” Shayne asked casually.
“Max hardly ever tells me anything about his cases.” Then the name struck her hard and she drew in her breath and leaned forward intently. “You mean that Mrs. Nathan from the Beach? The one you busted in on last night with her paramour?”
“Wasn’t Max doing some work for her?”
“Not that he ever told me. Not even this morning when it was all on the radio. But he never does,” she added bitterly. “You’d think a private detective would come home with all kinds of interesting stories to tell, wouldn’t you? But not Max. He always says it’s just a job like anything else. From what I read in the paper, you don’t find it like that, Mr. Shayne. Murders and suicides and all. Beautiful blondes. Just like they showed it on TeeVee when your program was running. I used to get Max to watch it and I’d say, ‘Now, why don’t you get cases like that?’ and he’d just sniff and say detecting wasn’t anything like that in real life, and it was just a story they made up, like, out in Hollywood.”
“Did he work last night?” Shayne asked idly.
“Last night… and every Friday for the past month. Out till all hours. Some cheap divorce case, I guess.” Her upper lip curled. “That’s all Max gets mostly.” There was defeat in her voice and Shayne felt obscurely sorry for the woman who had married Max Wentworth expecting to share the glamour and excitement of his work.
He lit a cigarette and assured her, “My cases are pretty humdrum most of the time, too.” He glanced at his watch, aware of an obscure sense of foreboding that was tugging at him.
Every Friday night for the past month, she’d said. Out till all hours.
“How late was he last night?” he asked abruptly, without knowing he was going to ask her until he heard the words come out.
“I don’t know for sure. Midnight I guess, anyhow. I went to sleep about eleven and didn’t hear him come in.”
“And he didn’t say anything to you this morning… after he heard the broadcast about Mrs. Nathan?”
“No. That was at ten o’clock. He’d finished his breakfast and was getting ready to go to the office when we heard it. I hadn’t turned it on before that so he could sleep late. He said he’d just be a little while. I don’t know what’s keeping him.”
Shayne looked at his watch again and got to his feet. “I’m afraid I can’t wait any longer, Mrs. Wentworth. When Max comes in tell him I’d like to have him call me. Either at my office or my hotel.”
“I’ll surely tell him, Mr. Shayne. But I know if you just wait a little minute longer…”
Shayne said, “I’m sorry. I must go.” He went out and she followed him to the door, protesting that Max always came home for lunch when he said he would, and Shayne thanked her again and found himself unconsciously hurrying down the path to his car.
It took him less than five minutes to reach an empty parking space in front of the building on West Flagler Street that housed Wentworth’s office. There was a dingy lobby that was empty on this Saturday afternoon, an air of desolation and decay about the premises. There was an elevator at the rear but it wasn’t in use today, and a directory on the wall listed Wentworth’s office as 212.
Shayne climbed the stairs to the second floor without hearing anything to indicate that any of the offices were occupied. He stopped in front of 212 and knocked on the door perfunctorily, studying the simple lock at the same time and getting a ring of keys from his pocket.
He selected one which entered the lock but refused to turn inside it.
The second key he tried opened the door. He pushed it open directly onto a gloomy, square room with a big desk in the middle of it.
Max Wentworth lay on the floor in front of the desk. His head was smashed in and lay in a pool of thickening
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