“Hell of a thing for Dick to be sick last night when it happened. The man you had on the switchboard didn’t even warn me I was trying to call a stiff when I asked for Carrol.”
“We’re all sorry about that, Mr. Shayne,” the clerk told him soberly, lowering his voice and glancing at an elderly couple near the desk. “And that’s something I’ve been wanting to see you about in private. Dick called up this morning and told me to tell you he tried to call you at your office about ten o’clock, but no one answered.”
Shayne’s memory flashed back to the call he had been prevented from taking by the interference of one of Gentry’s men, the burly, surly Gene Benton. He asked, “What did Dick have on his mind?”
“Something that worried him when he heard about Mr. Carrol being murdered. He knew it might be important, but Dick sure wouldn’t spill it to the cops unless you gave him the okay. It’s about your man casing Mr. Carrol’s apartment last week.”
Only a muscle twitching in his left cheek gave an indication of Shayne’s intense interest. This was it. This was what had been nagging at him.
“My man?” he asked quietly. “I thought all of you knew I work alone.”
“Dick didn’t give me too much on the phone,” the clerk said apologetically, “but that’s what he said. You did have an assistant a couple of months ago. Remember? You brought him in and introduced him around and said he was to use your room any time he wanted.”
Shayne’s eyes were very bright, but he said, “Yeh, Nash,” casually. “For a couple of weeks in January. He was around last week asking about Ralph Carrol?”
“Dick didn’t say it was him. Just said he was your man. ’Course we all know you always worked by yourself, but I recollect you did have this man that one time, and—”
“I remember,” Shayne cut in impatiently. “What’s Dick’s home number?”