Free The Private Practice of Michael Shayne by Brett Halliday

that it was empty, and gave her a little shove through the door. She turned to make a grimace at him, but the door was already closed.

 
Chapter Eight: THE EMPTY ROOM
     
    SHAYNE SAT DOWN in a straight chair at the table and pushed coffeepot and cups back to clear a space in front of him. He opened a drawer and got out a sheet of blank paper and a pencil, lit a cigarette and started writing:
    1.  Who telephoned last night? Could it have been Grange disguising his voice?
    2.  Did Larry Kincaid do the job and leave my pistol to frame me?
    3.  Whose handkerchief? Left intentionally or by oversight or planted?
    4.  Did the mugs want the handkerchief—or something else that was taken from Grange by the murderer before I got there?
    5.  Who called Painter to the murder scene?
    6.  Why were the mugs waiting for me here when I was supposed to be locked up? (Phyllis, too.)
    7. When and how did Chuck Evans suddenly get in the money?
    8.  Did Grange know Chuck?
    9.  Did Chuck know Thomas?
    10. Was Marsha the girl Phyllis saw in Grange’s car? (Marsha’s handkerchief?)
    He stopped and stared down at the list of questions, frowning and tugging at the lobe of his left ear. Then he wrote:
    11. What the hell’s in it for me?
    He poured a short drink of cognac and sat there alternately sipping it and puffing on a cigarette. Then he checked questions six and eleven, folded the sheet of paper and put it in his shirt pocket. He went to the telephone and called a number.
    When a man replied, he said, “Hello, Tony. This is Mike Shayne.”
    “Hi, boss. Your neck, she ain’t stretched yet, huh?”
    “Not yet. Do you know where Chuck Evans hangs out?”
    “Lemme see, Mike. I think mebbe so. Him and Belle have been holed up at Mamma Julie’s all winter. But wait, boss. Somebody said last week Chuck made a killin’ out at Hialeah. I dunno whether he’s still there or not.”
    “Mamma Julie’s? That’s down on Fifth, isn’t it? Okay. And listen, Tony.”
    “Yeh, boss.”
    “Stick around close. I may have a job for you.”
    “You betcha. I’ll be on tap.”
    Shayne hung up and waited a minute, then called another number.
    When a woman’s voice answered, he said, “Helen? Mike Shayne speaking. Let me speak to Larry.”
    “Larry hasn’t come back.” Helen Kincaid sounded worried. “He’s in Jacksonville on business.”
    “Jacksonville?”
    “Yes. I didn’t know anything about it. I thought maybe you did. He left home last night saying he was going to see you at your apartment.”
    Shayne asked sharply, “How do you know he’s in Jacksonville?”
    “I had a telegram from him early this morning. Said he’d been called away unexpectedly and didn’t know how long he’d be gone.”
    She hesitated, then asked in a taut tone of repressed fear, “What—did you and Larry quarrel about, Mike?”
    “He told you about that, did he?”
    “Y-Yes. Not very much though.”
    “I’ll be out to see you later,” Shayne said abruptly. “If the police or anyone question you, don’t tell them about the telegram from Larry. Don’t tell them a damned thing.”
    “Is Larry—in trouble?”
    “It’s your fault if he is,” Shayne told her brutally.
    He hung up and went to the bedroom where he put on a tie and slid his wide shoulders into a light sport jacket. Stopping at the table on the way out, he pocketed the handkerchief and strode out to the elevator where he pressed the DOWN button.
    In a pleasant, sun-filled lobby downstairs, he sauntered to the desk and glanced at his empty mailbox. The clerk on duty greeted him respectfully.
     “Good morning, Mr. Shayne! That was a pretty close call last night.”
    “What?”
    Shayne’s ragged red brows came down in a straight line.
    “Over at the beach,” the clerk amplified hastily. “Walking into that dead man like you did.”
    Shayne said, “Oh—that? Yeh.”
    He turned and went out into the hallway leading to the side entrance, got into his car parked at the curb and