“You were sitting in a bar,” Shayne prompted. “When was that?”
“Half hour ago, I guess. I was sitting there, just killing time with a last drink before going home to the wife, I hadn’t noticed him much, until he sat up suddenly and gave a jerk that knocked over my drink. I started to get sore, but he apologized and ordered me another one. I could see he was pretty excited about a newscast that was coming over the radio.” Again he interrupted his story to look back as they rolled across the F.E.C. tracks. “Make the next right turn,” he ordered, “and take it slow for a few blocks.”
Shayne slowed down and made the turn, then asked, “What was the newscast about?”
“Mostly about a murder. Some fellow named Carrol that’d been found dead in a hotel. Stabbed to death, I think. You could tell that was what made him so jumpy. Stop here,” he ordered abruptly, “and turn off your lights. We’ll wait a few minutes and if nothing comes along I’ll show you where to go.”
The redhead cut his motor and lights, and rolled to a stop beside the pavement.
“After he bought me another drink for the one he’d knocked over,” the young man went on with evident relish, “he asked me if I’d listened to the murder report from the first. Said he hadn’t paid much attention until the murdered man’s name was mentioned. He wanted to know if I’d heard them mention the dead man’s wife.” He turned for another look at the deserted street behind them. “I told him they hadn’t, and that sort of worries me now,” he confided earnestly to the detective. “Because I hadn’t been listening careful. I didn’t hear them mention anything about the dead man’s wife, but I thought he was just curious. I didn’t think it mattered much. So I said no — you know, the way a man will in a bar. Just making conversation, sort of. And then he asked me if they’d mentioned your name, Michael Shayne. So, I said no again, and then he got up and went back to the telephone.”
The man again looked back, then said, “It’s okay, I guess. I got to be sure no cops follow us. That was the thing he told me to be careful about when he came back from telephoning. I don’t get my fifty bucks if anything like that happens. Drive back to the boulevard now, and turn north from Seventy-Ninth Street.”
Shayne started the motor, made a U-turn, cruised back to Seventy-Ninth, and turned east to recross the railroad tracks.
“I sure hope I didn’t give him the wrong steer,” the thin-faced man went on dubiously, “about the radio not mentioning Mrs. Carrol’s name. That’s what interested him most, I’m sure. Was I right, do you think? I swear I didn’t hear them say anything about a woman. Just that the police had an anonymous tip, and found the guy dead in his bed. Did you hear the broadcast?”
“No. But I’m quite sure you were right in saying they didn’t mention her,” Shayne reassured him. He reached the Seventy-Ninth Street intersection and again swung north on the boulevard. “How long do we keep this game up?”