“Depends on who you ask about him,” growled Gentry. He shifted his unlit cigar across his mouth, bent forward, and planted a hand on each broad thigh. “Describe Shayne for me, Mrs. Carrol.”
“Why, I haven’t met him personally. I thought I told you that. There was a letter from him, enclosing the key, waiting for me when I checked in yesterday. Then two telephone calls — one in the afternoon to check my arrival and confirm everything, and the other one at one o’clock.”
“I see,” mused Gentry. “And what sort of voice did Mr. Shayne have?”
“Why—” She hesitated. “A rather nice voice, I thought. He was very businesslike and pleasant.”
“Would you recognize the voice again?”
“I don’t know. Possibly.”
“Did he leave a number where you could reach him?”
“No, he didn’t. I asked him for it the first time he called, but he said it wouldn’t be necessary; and besides, he would be moving around and couldn’t say where he’d be.”
“This letter from him with the key and the instructions, was it on a printed letterhead? Do you recall the address?”
She frowned again, biting her underlip, then faltered, “I think so. I’m not positive, but I seem to recall a printed letterhead. It was typewritten and signed with his name,” she ended brightly.