The Herald’s story didn’t bother him. They had been sniping at him, ineffectually, for a long time.
The important thing now was that Lucy had evidently been unable to get the letter he had hoped she would find in Mrs. Carrol’s room. So that angle was out. So what angle was left?
One break for him, a lucky one, was that neither Gentry nor Officer Hagen had disclosed to the Herald reporter the name of the woman whose room Lucy was in at the Commodore. If they had hooked up Lucy’s arrest with Carrol’s murder, or had gotten to Nora Carrol, and been told by her that Michael Shayne had lured her into his bed at the time her husband was murdered, there would have been an entirely different story in the Herald.
Shayne wiped sweat from his face as he considered this. It would be only a matter of time, of course, until the story did come out. A lot depended on Bates and what he did or did not bring with him from Wilmington in the way of documentary evidence.
In the meantime, there were other angles screaming for investigation. A big clock above the counter told him the time was ten o’clock. He gulped the last of his coffee, put two one-dollar bills on the table, and went out to his car.
Eight minutes later he parked his car near his office on Flagler Street.
Two huge plain-clothes men stood in the corridor just outside his office door, and both appeared acutely uncomfortable at his approach.
Controlling his anger, Shayne said, “Morning, boys,” pleasantly. “You here to drag me in for prowling hotel rooms in the wee small hours of the morning?” He recognized one of the men. Len Sturgis.
Sturgis dragged a hat from his bald head and said, “Nothing like that, Shayne. You going to open up now?”
“Sure. Sorry I’m late.” He unlocked the door, opened it, and asked, “Been waiting long?”