That was fairly clear, Shayne thought morosely, or would be, if he were mixed up in the situation as Mrs. Carrol and the Wilmington attorney claimed. He summed up the Ludlow angle.
Ludlow had discovered Carrol’s body, reported it to the police, and was now panicky. He wanted to be assured that he could be kept in the clear. He had been certain that Michael Shayne had arranged the reconciliation scene. He had gotten Shayne’s apartment number from Information. That made sense. Anyone seeking to reach him at three-thirty in the morning would get his number from that source. But Ludlow suddenly came to the conclusion that Michael Shayne’s voice didn’t sound right. He had hung up. He had expected another voice to answer, but had been too excited and afraid, at first, to recognize his error.
Scowling through the windshield, he thought of Nora Carrol and wondered how much of her story was true.
He turned his thoughts to the more immediate future when he would meet his second caller at Seventy-Ninth Street. The man had said, “You wouldn’t know my name... but it’s very important. We must keep Nora out of it... ten thousand dollars to forget everything you know about tonight... I don’t trust you... if you’re on the square and there aren’t any cops, you’ll get your money!”
Ten thousand dollars! A nice round sum, as Shayne had told the man over the phone. But what was it being offered for? That had not been made clear. Was this caller another who believed that he had set the scene for Mrs. Carrol’s entrance to her husband’s bedroom? Or did he know the truth and was offering Shayne money to keep still about what actually happened?
There was almost no traffic on the boulevard, and the roadside filling-stations and refreshment stands were dark.
The designated station on the southeast corner of Seventy-Ninth appeared to be deserted when Shayne pulled into the drive. There was no car, and no sign that his caller was waiting. Shayne parked in front of the pumps and cut off his motor. He looked at his watch and saw it was three minutes past four. He yawned, took out a cigarette, and leaned forward to press in the dashboard lighter.
There was a faint sound in the night silence at his right. He jerked his head aside to see the figure of a man materialize in the faint moonlight from the deep shadow of the station building.
The man moved toward Shayne’s car. Still leaning forward with the unlighted cigarette drooping from his lips, his fingers on the lighter, as he waited for it to heat and pop out, Shayne watched the man come toward him.
He was medium-sized and wore a hat that shadowed his face. He stopped beside the open right-hand window and asked cautiously, “Shayne?”