He hung up, turned to Phyllis, and grinned broadly. “My humanitarian instincts are developing rapidly under your influence, angel.” He yawned and stretched long arms above his head. “I can sleep now.” He loosened his tie and started undoing his shirt.
“Michael Shayne! You know who did it,” Phyllis accused.
“No, Phyl.” His voice was smothered by his undershirt being pulled over his head. “I’m not a storybook dick who knows and refuses to tell just to keep up the suspense. I’ve still got a lot of things to find out before I confront Joe Meade tonight.” He dropped his pants to the floor and strode to the window clad only in shorts, expanded his chest and drew in a great lungful of the near-freezing air.
With his back to Phyllis, he cogitated:
“Maybe Bryant had the right idea about hitting the jackpot out here. A man might invest in a mine and make a million, and never have to leave Colorado.”
Chapter fifteen
MICHAEL SHAYNE looked at his watch when he got off the bus in Denver. The time was ten o’clock, and he decided the hour was not too early to pay a society woman a call. He went to a telephone booth and looked up the number of John Mattson’s residence, wrote it down in a notebook, and went outside to hail a taxi.
In twenty minutes the driver stopped before an old stone mansion in a fashionable district. He paid the fare, strode up the flagstone walk and pushed the button. The heavy paneled door was wide open, and he saw a trim uniformed maid with a broad face and twinkling eyes cross the spacious living-room to answer his ring.
Shayne asked, “Is Mrs. Mattson in?”
“Who is calling?” she asked in a pleasant voice.