Brett Halliday - One Night with Nora

At police headquarters, however, she had the misfortune to be recognized by an eagle-eyed representative of the Herald as none other than Lucy Hamilton, secretary to the notorious and headline-grabbing crime-buster, Michael Shayne.

As soon as her identity was established, Miss Hamilton was taken before Chief of Police Will Gentry for questioning where it is believed she refused to implicate her employer by naming him as her accomplice.

When questioned on this point, Chief Gentry refused to give a statement to the press, stating only that Miss Hamilton had stood on her constitutional rights and refused to divulge further information without advice of counsel.

Shayne folded the paper four ways, put it in his pocket, eased his chair back, got up, went to a telephone booth, and dialed a number.

When a man’s voice answered, he grated, “Have you read the Herald extra?”

“Mike!” the voice exploded. “Of course I’ve read it. What the devil is this all about?”

“What have you done about it?”

“Nothing yet. I’ve practically blasted the telephone system trying to reach you.”

“Hell of a mouthpiece you are!” Shayne cut in bitterly. “Take your butt in both hands and get down there and release Lucy.”

“Sure, Mike.” The voice was placating, but worried. “What’s it all about?”

“What the hell do you care?” Shayne interrupted hotly. “Get her out of jail. I need her at the office.”

“Right. Where’ll you be?”

“At my office. I’ll expect her in half an hour.”

Shayne hung up. All through the Herald article he had felt sick with a sense of guilt and responsibility for Lucy’s predicament. Now that he had unloaded part of it on his lawyer’s shoulders, he managed a semblance of a grin for his secretary’s determination not to involve him.

“The crazy kid,” he muttered to himself as he returned to the table where the waitress had placed his breakfast.

The pain in his head had subsided to a monotonous throb, and the aroma of bacon and eggs reminded him that he was very hungry. He poured another cup of coffee and attacked his breakfast with relish.

The Herald’s story didn’t bother him. They had been sniping at him, ineffectually, for a long time.

The important thing now was that Lucy had evidently been unable to get the letter he had hoped she would find in Mrs. Carrol’s room. So that angle was out. So what angle was left?

One break for him, a lucky one, was that neither Gentry nor Officer Hagen had disclosed to the Herald reporter the name of the woman whose room Lucy was in at the Commodore. If they had hooked up Lucy’s arrest with Carrol’s murder, or had gotten to Nora Carrol, and been told by her that Michael Shayne had lured her into his bed at the time her husband was murdered, there would have been an entirely different story in the Herald.

Shayne wiped sweat from his face as he considered this. It would be only a matter of time, of course, until the story did come out. A lot depended on Bates and what he did or did not bring with him from Wilmington in the way of documentary evidence.

In the meantime, there were other angles screaming for investigation. A big clock above the counter told him the time was ten o’clock. He gulped the last of his coffee, put two one-dollar bills on the table, and went out to his car.

Eight minutes later he parked his car near his office on Flagler Street.

Two huge plain-clothes men stood in the corridor just outside his office door, and both appeared acutely uncomfortable at his approach.

Controlling his anger, Shayne said, “Morning, boys,” pleasantly. “You here to drag me in for prowling hotel rooms in the wee small hours of the morning?” He recognized one of the men. Len Sturgis.

Sturgis dragged a hat from his bald head and said, “Nothing like that, Shayne. You going to open up now?”

“Sure. Sorry I’m late.” He unlocked the door, opened it, and asked, “Been waiting long?”

“Not too long,” said Sturgis.

They started to follow him inside, but Shayne blocked the doorway. “Only clients allowed inside.”

“We got a search warrant,” Sturgis insisted. “Give us credit, Mike, for waiting instead of busting in before you got here.”

Shayne hesitated, his lips flattening against his teeth. Then he stepped back. “All right. I give you credit for not breaking in. Let’s see your warrant.”

Sturgis, the senior detective, gravely unfolded a document he had taken from his pocket and handed it to the detective. Shayne read it through carefully, his rangy body still blocking the doorway.

“All right. Come right in, the joint is yours.” He turned his back on them, crossed the reception room, and went into his private office, where he pulled out one of the steel drawers of a filing-cabinet and reached inside.

“Hold it, Mike,” Sturgis said from the doorway. “You know I can’t let you destroy evidence.”

“Evidence of what?” Shayne demanded.

“What we’re looking for. Your file on Ralph Carrol.”

Shayne’s hand came out holding a bottle of cognac. He said, “Everything in this cabinet is ancient history, including this cognac, I hope. You won’t mind if I destroy a little of it?” He carried it back to his desk and sat down. “Go right ahead and examine my files. If you find anything on the Carrol case I’ll be interested to see it.”

“Where do you keep recent correspondence? No use tearing everything up.”

Shayne poured cognac into a glass and took a drink. “You’ll have to ask Lucy about the current files,” he said. “I don’t know where she keeps things.”

“You know she won’t be here today,” said Sturgis patiently.

“All right. So you lock her up on a bum rap and then come crying around because she’s not here to help you go through my private papers. To hell with it.” He settled back and lit a cigarette.

Sturgis’s partner came to the door and said, “Hey, Len, there’s a file out here at the reception desk marked ‘Current Correspondence.’ Nothing in it on Carrol.”

The telephone on Lucy Hamilton’s desk rang. Shayne got up and trotted into the outer room. The other detective turned hastily toward the phone. Shayne slammed a big hand on his shoulder and jerked him back.

“Keep your goddamned hand off my phone.” All the frustrated rage that had been boiling inside the redhead since early morning was in his voice.

“Better be careful who you push around, shamus,” the big plain-clothes man growled while the phone continued to ring.

“Hold it, Gene.” Len Sturgis spoke placidly from the inner doorway. “Let him answer his phone.”

The detective stepped aside reluctantly. Shayne picked up the receiver and barked, “Hello,” but all he heard was the buzz of the dial tone. He slammed the instrument down and turned to face the detective. “Next time you get in my way like that, I’ll give you a hell of a good excuse for putting me in a cell with my secretary.”

“You listen to me, shamus,” the man began belligerently, but Sturgis stopped him with a curt: “That’s plenty, Gene. A search warrant doesn’t give you the right to push anybody around. Get on with searching the files.”

Shayne turned back to the desk, fumbled with the buttons, found and pushed the one that sent calls directly into his private office, then went back to his own desk.

Len Sturgis was standing in front of the steel filing-cabinet with all the drawers pulled out. He said, “Don’t pay any attention to Gene. What does give on the Carrol murder, Mike? You holding out on the chief?”

“I’m not holding out a damned thing,” Shayne said bitterly. “You tell me about Carrol.”