“I’m not surprised, Will,” Shayne broke in impatiently. “I think we can drop Margrave. Where’s Bates?”
“In the next room, frothing,” Gentry rumbled. “Talking about habeas corpuses and suits for false arrest. See here, Mike—”
But Shayne was halfway across the room, headed for another door. Attorney Bates was seated at a desk in the smaller office, talking into a telephone in his dry, precise voice.
Shayne reached him in two strides and put his big hand over the mouthpiece. “I need just one answer from you,” he said curtly. “Did you write me a letter soon after Christmas about investigating the anonymous letters Ann Margrave wrote to Carrol?”
“What’s this?” sputtered Bates. “Can’t you see I’m on the telephone?”
“You’re off it now.” He took his hand from the mouthpiece, pressed his finger on the prongs, and broke the connection. “Did you go so far as to write to me at that time?”
“I think I did,” the outraged lawyer snapped. “Later when Mr. Margrave informed me that his daughter was responsible, we dropped the matter, of course.”
Shayne drew a deep breath and relaxed. “How did you get my address for that first letter?”
“I believed I addressed it simply Miami, Florida. I assumed you were well-enough known to receive it.”
“And I replied to that letter early in January,” Shayne persisted.