“He gets out mighty early,” Shayne growled.
“He sleeps at the sanitarium mostly. The number is—”
“I know,” Shayne cut in. “I’ll call him there.”
He disconnected the residence number and called the sanitarium. A crisp voice told him that Dr. Patterson was asleep and offered him an appointment at eight o’clock. Shayne thanked her and went into the bathroom, took a long time shaving around the bruised place on his face, then took a stinging cold shower.
Downstairs in the lobby he spoke to the clerk. “I’m going out on business. I imagine there’ll be some cops dropping around after a while, and I won’t be coming back. Don’t tell them that. Ask them to wait for me.”
“Sure, I get it,” the clerk answered in a conspiratorial tone.
“And take any telephone messages that come in for me,” Shayne went on. “Don’t hand out any information to the cops. I’ll call in for any messages, and keep that under your hat, too.”
“You bet I will, Mr. Shayne. Say, there’s a car waiting for you outside. A rental agency said you ordered it.”
“That’s right. I wrapped the old car around a lamppost last night.” He nodded to the clerk and strolled out.
The rented automobile was a medium-priced coupé. He got in and drove out Biscayne Boulevard to an all-night restaurant where he stopped for a hearty breakfast and glanced over the morning Herald.