“I ran into a fist at Arch Bugler’s,” Shayne explained thickly. “And I picked up a chore for you.”
Rourke’s sigh sounded in Shayne’s ear. “Start checking the hotels for a man named Marlow,” Shayne instructed. “He arrived this afternoon, I imagine, from New York or thereabouts. Call me at my hotel in an hour with the dope.”
“Have you got a line on the corpse?” Rourke asked. “I can’t help wondering where she’ll turn up next.”
“Bodies are where you find them,” said Shayne cheerfully. He hung up and went back to his car, circled east on the peninsula to a private bridge over the inland waterway leading to Burt Stallings’s island estate.
The island was small, containing perhaps an acre of ground, protected by a sea wall of coral rock to prevent the ebbing tides from eating away the edges. The entire area was carefully landscaped to give the careless effect of natural luxuriant growth, and the Stallings mansion was situated in the center, screened from view by lush shrubbery and feathery-fronded palms. A narrow, twisting road led up to an impressive stone frontage with two wings guarding a rear patio.
There were no other automobiles in evidence, but lights glowed through the front window. Shayne parked near the steps on the double concrete driveway which circled around to the narrow road. He went up the steps and tried an ornamental bronze knocker without effect. He then searched for and found an electric button. There was a long interval of silence after he pressed the button.
Leaning against the stone casement, he waited patiently. There was an atmosphere of lassitude in the remoteness of the island, a sense of lethargic detachment which communicated itself to one as soon as the bridge was crossed and the mainland left behind. Moonlight silvered the fronds of graceful coco palms and the stately gray trunks of royal palms towering toward the sky. Fish pools set in the lush green lawn reflected the stars in their still waters, and marble benches gleamed ghostly white.
So this was what money could buy, Shayne reflected idly as he waited. He had thought Stallings a fool to sink so much money in a home. Now he wasn’t so sure, even if this island estate, as was rumored, had swallowed up a sizable portion of the fortune the man had acquired in his career as a building contractor. The rumored cost was probably very much exaggerated, he mused. It stood to reason that a contractor could build his own home at far less cost than he built for others.
The door opened to interrupt his vagrant thoughts. A big-bosomed, militant female challenged him with a coldly suspicious gaze. She wore a plain black silk dress buttoned snugly at the neck, like a uniform. Her upper lip fuzzed with black hair, and a cluster of black bristles surrounded a mole on her chin. She said, “Well?” in a harsh, forbidding voice.
Shayne tried to work up his most disarming smile, but his swollen lips were painful, and his heart was not in the effort. She didn’t look like the type to be impressed by any sort of smile. He stopped trying and said, “I want to see Mr. Burt Stallings.”