Turning back to the living-room he let up one of the shades, opened the window, crossed to a table with a portable typewriter on top, and opened the center drawer. There was stationery inside. He drew out one sheet and read the letterhead neatly printed:
MICHAEL SHAYNE
Private Investigations
It carried Nash’s North Miami Avenue address and telephone number. He took the sheet with him when he went into the bedroom and shook Bill Nash ungently.
His former employee sat up with a grunt. His jaw gaped when he saw the redhead leaning over him. Shayne slapped him with his open hand before he could speak.
Nash fell sideways on the bed and cowered there, holding his hands up to ward off another blow.
“Don’t, Mr. Shayne! Don’t hit me again. I swear I’m sorry, but I didn’t mean any harm.”
“Shut up,” Shayne growled, towering over him and holding out the forged letterhead. “Where’s the correspondence with Bates about the Carrol case that you stole from Wilmington this morning?”
“I burned it all up.” Nash cringed and clawed at the flimsy sheet as if to pull it over him for protection. “Soon as I heard on the radio that Carrol was dead, I knew it was a bad mess. But I never meant any harm. It just seemed like a smart angle when I started it. You were turning down that kind of case all the time and I didn’t see why I couldn’t get in on some of them. I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“How many other cases did you take on in my name?” Shayne demanded, his right palm poised above Nash’s face.