Free Counterfeit Wife by Brett Halliday Page B

CAME to a sudden decision when he reached Flagler Street. He needed a bath and some clothes, and he could use a drink. He swung to the left on Flagler, deserted now at two-thirty in the morning, drove two blocks toward the bay front and turned right to the side entrance of an apartment building on the north bank of the Miami River.
    He parked, took the keys from the ignition, went in through the side door and across the empty lobby on unshod feet.
    The night clerk was a slight, middle-aged man. When awake, he bustled around with a great show of energy, his lips compressed and three deep lines of worry between his eyes. Now he was hunched forward at the desk, asleep. His cheek was pressed against one outstretched arm. He looked neither precise nor efficient. His mouth was laxly open, and the lines between the eyes were not so deep.
    Shayne stopped beside the desk and considered the sleeping man gravely for a moment. It seemed to him a wonderful thing to be able to sleep like that, as though he had nothing whatever on his mind. Then the thought came that all over Miami there were people sleeping soundly, with nothing whatever on their minds and with all the lines of daytime worry smoothed from their brows because they had chosen other professions than that of the harried private detective.
    He touched the man on the elbow and said apologetically, “Wake up, Henry.”
    Henry gave a little start, an involuntary twitching of his shoulder muscles, and snorted faintly.
    Shayne joggled his elbow and said, “Henry,” louder than before.
    Henry sat up and blinked at him, then compressed his lips and managed to look primly efficient. The deep vertical lines showed between his eyes again and deepened a trifle as he became aware of Shayne’s appearance.
    “My goodness, Mr. Shayne,” he said, “I thought you’d left us. Is something wrong?” he added delicately.
    Shayne asked, “Did a taxi driver bring my Gladstone back here with a message saying I’d missed the plane?”
    “Yes, he did. I’d almost forgotten that. In fact, I’m afraid it slipped my mind altogether when those policemen from the Beach were in here asking about you.”
    “When was that?”
    “Half an hour ago, I imagine.” Henry glanced at the clock. “I gathered from the way they talked and acted that they suspected you hadn’t left town on the midnight plane, Mr. Shayne.”
    Shayne’s ragged brows lifted. “So?”
    “So, knowing that—er—you are sometimes in difficulties with policemen from across the bay, I decided it might be just as well not to mention the bag or the driver’s message.”
    “You shouldn’t lie to the police just to keep me out of trouble, Henry.” Shayne’s voice was warm with comradeship and gratitude. Henry had been night clerk at the apartment hotel for years, and it wasn’t the first time he’d lied for Shayne.
    “Oh, I didn’t lie to them. I really can’t help it if my memory is faulty, Mr. Shayne.”
    Shayne said, “I hope it won’t improve if they question you again. I hear you already have another occupant for my apartment.”
    “Yes. A Mr. Slocum. He rented it this afternoon.” The little man didn’t ask how Shayne knew this. The years had accustomed him to the fact that the detective often knew all sorts of amazing things.
    “But he hasn’t taken possession yet?”
    “I believe not. He took one grip up when he rented the apartment, but I believe the rest of his luggage is at a local hotel and he’s coming in with it in the morning.”
    “Have you anything else for me? I may decide to stay in town for some time.”
    The clerk spread out his thin hands helplessly. “Nothing, Mr. Shayne. Not a single thing.”
    Shayne reached up and slowly massaged his ear lobe. “I’m not my usual fashionable self, as you’ll notice, Henry. I had to leave a certain place rather suddenly and I had to grab what was handy.”
    Henry looked at him primly, his gaze sliding down the stiff, dirty coveralls to Shayne’s