With bitter irony, Shayne said, “Oh, no. That wouldn’t have been cricket. Hell, no. We’re solving this case without getting our kid gloves soiled —if we solve it. First, I let Joe Meade give me the run-around, then you let an important clue slip through your fingers.” Phyllis swallowed hard and blinked rapidly to hold back tears. Above everything else, her red-headed husband detested a weepy woman. But she had been so proud of the way she had handled a difficult situation—
Through a salty mist, she saw Shayne get up and stalk to the telephone. He told the operator, “I want to get hold of Sheriff Fleming.” Then, with snarling irritability, “How do I know where you’ll find him? Try his office and home and all the bars. Of course it’s important. Call me as soon as you locate him.”
He slammed up the receiver and went back to pour himself more cognac.
With determined cheerfulness, Phyllis asked, “Have you thought of something, Michael?”
“Something I should have thought of an hour ago.” He nursed the wineglass between his big palms and complained, “I’m losing my grip, Phyl. This thing is getting to be a nightmare. Every time I think I’ve got my finger on something — it eludes me. None of my usual methods work. I’ve always managed to bull my way through a case before. Take hold of a lead and squeeze it between my two hands until something broke. But there’s nothing—”
The telephone interrupted him. He jumped to answer it. He said, “All right, put him on. Sheriff? Mike Shayne talking. I want a guard put over Joe Meade. I don’t want him left alone a moment. Have you got a good man?”
He listened a moment, frowning at the wall. “Well, I want him guarded for both reasons. Station a man in his room to keep Meade in, and everyone else out. I’ll depend on that.”
Phyllis asked in a stifled voice, “Do you think Joe did it — then got remorseful and shot himself?”
Shayne grunted, “Could be. And could be he shot himself for a gag.”
Phyllis shuddered. “A gag?”