Free The Private Practice of Michael Shayne by Brett Halliday Page A

made a U-turn, drove to S. E. First Street where he turned west into one-way traffic and followed it to the F. E. C. railroad tracks, where he made a right turn and parked at the curb that said: NO PARKING, POLICE.
    He nodded pleasantly to a couple of loitering patrolmen and went into the Miami police station, down a hall to the private office of the chief of detectives. Pushing the door open, he found Will Gentry sitting back at ease with his feet on a scarred oak desk reading the latest edition of the Miami Herald.
    Gentry lowered the paper and glanced placidly at his visitor with a twinkle in his blue eyes.
    “’Lo, Michael. Why can’t you learn to stay out of Painter’s pretty hair?”
    Shayne grinned and slid into a chair in front of the desk.
    “To hell with Painter. Let him stay out of my hair. I heard you had a mysterious telephone conversation early this morning. Anything in it?”
    Will Gentry was a big man, stolid and lacking in imagination. He said:
    “Some bastard ruined my beauty sleep to report an automobile accident out on the Trail.”
    “So—?”
    “It was the goods, all right. The bodies have been brought in, and a wrecker is getting the car up now. One funny thing about the accident, Mike. The driver was alone in the front seat, and there was one man in the back. He drowned cuddling a typewriter.”
    Shayne lit a cigarette and spun the match across the room toward a cuspidor.
    “That is funny,” he conceded. “Mostly when two men are riding in a car, they’re both in the front seat.”
    “Yeh. I’ve got a hunch about it. Looks to me like—”
    “Skip it. I don’t suppose you’ve got any dope on the men or guns yet?”
    “Not yet. I think they must be new in Miami. The car had New York plates.”
    Shayne nodded casually. “Let me know if you get anything.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out the frilly square of linen, tossed it across to Gentry. “Can you see any good reason why that might be worth murder?”
    The detective chief picked it up and turned it over and over.
    “Looks like some dame’s handkerchief.”
    Shayne leaned forward tensely.
    “I wish you’d have your bright boys put it through every known test for secret writing or stuff like that, Will. It’s probably a crazy idea—” He leaned back and tugged at the lobe of his ear. “—But I’ve got to know.”
    “Sure. Anything else on your mind, Mike?”
    Shayne got up, but Gentry detained him by asking, “What’s it all about?”
    “I wish to God I knew, Will. I don’t. I’m trying to play sixteen different hunches.”
    Gentry cleared his throat and rustled the newspaper in his hands.
    “It says here that you positively identified the voice that called you over the phone to come to the beach.”
    Shayne nodded absently.
    “That’s bait. We’ll see what comes after it. I wish you’d leave any messages at my hotel, Will.”
    Gentry said he would do that, and Shayne went out.
    In his car, he drove to Fifth Street where he turned to the right for a few blocks, into the oldest residential section of the Magic City and parked in front of a two-story, gabled frame house set back in the center of a large lawn shaded with magnificent old trees. A neat sign on the lawn said: HOUSEKEEPING APARTMENTS TO LET.
    Shayne went up the walk to a sagging front porch that needed paint, and pressed the button. A dumpy woman with stringy black hair and a fat, dark face came to the door.
    Shayne tipped his hat back and said, “Hello, mamma. Is Chuck Evans in?”
    “It’s you, Mr. Shayne.” Mamma Julie shook her head. “Chuck hit it lucky at the track a few days ago. You know how those heels are. My place wasn’t good enough as soon as he got in the money. He pulled out to one of the fancy hotels. Him and that cheap little bitch that’s been keeping him all winter.”
    “Do you know which hotel?”
    “I’m not sure. Seems like I heard him talking about the Everglades. That Belle, she don’t know how quick