Rourke leaned toward Shayne and whispered tensely, “What happened up the street? Do you mean we got her back?”
“I hope so.” Shayne groaned audibly. “This car smashed me and dumped her to make it look like she was riding with me. Come on, let’s check this lead and see what turns up.”
Cassidy was waiting for them at the elevator. As they got in, he warned the elevator boy, “We’re going into two-fourteen. Fellow named Marlow. If the clerk gives you the high sign, stall on bringing Marlow up till we can get clear.”
The operator nodded. Cassidy led the way to 214 and opened the door with a master key. They entered a bedroom which showed little sign of occupancy — an opened Gladstone on the bed, a closed leather grip in one corner.
Shayne went to the bed and began going through the Gladstone, laying articles of clothing out in a neat pile. The bag contained only the normal articles which a man might pack for a trip. Replacing the contents neatly, he went to the closed grip and unbuckled leather straps.
The grip, which was unlocked, was fitted with medium-priced toilet articles. There were shoes, a wad of soiled clothing and, among other things, a small flat scrapbook which Shayne seized upon eagerly. He rocked back on his heels and flipped the pages open, studied press clippings relating to the engagements of one Beany Baxter’s Band at various dance places and second-rate hotels throughout the New England states.
With Rourke and Cassidy peering over his shoulder Shayne pointed out a thin-faced boyish figure in a picture of Beany Baxter’s Swing Band. “That’s Marlow,” he said. “First saxophone.”
Disappointed, Cassidy declared, “There ain’t no law against tooting a sax that I know of. Hell, Mike, I don’t see anything wrong.”
“Neither do I,” Shayne said, and continued to turn the pages.
The last pasted entry was dated two months previous, from Northampton, Massachusetts. It was a brief item stating that the band had arrived to play a two weeks’ engagement at the Pavilion Royale in that city.