Murder by Proxy by Brett Halliday

his office with the door closed. Then he asked, “Do you have to, Mike?”
    “I took a job… accepted a retainer from Harris to find his wife. Yeh, we have to, Bob.”
    “You can keep the name of the hotel out of it, can’t you?”
    “You know we can’t,” Shayne told him bluntly. “But we’ll keep the personal bits about the desk clerk, the bellboy, and her pickup in the bar out of it. Right, Tim?”
    “I can write in some curves around them,” he agreed. “Do you have the license number and description of the car she rented?” Shayne asked.
    “It’s here… since we were putting it on her hotel bill.” Merrill went to a file behind his desk and took out a very slim cardboard folder. He opened it and extracted a typewritten notation which he put on the desk.
    “Put that in, Tim.” Shayne lit a cigarette and sucked on it, tugging at his left earlobe while Rourke copied the information. “Right now, finding that car seems our best lead. Of course, the cops are looking for it already, but maybe you can prove the power of the press, Tim, by having one of your readers come up with it under the cops’ noses. Is Harris in the hotel, Bob?”
    “Right now? I don’t know. We gave him another room… right across the hall from his wife’s… when it kind of gave him the jimmies to stay in her room. At no charge, of course,” he added hastily. “You want me to check?”
    “I wish you would. If he’s in, I think you should talk to him, Tim. Sort of slant your story the way you feel it after sizing the guy up yourself.”
    Merrill had lifted the phone on his desk, and he spoke into it. He listened a moment and then said, “Mr. Harris? Mr. Shayne would like a word with you.” He passed the instrument to the detective.
    Shayne said, “Harris? I haven’t got anything definite yet, but I do have a couple of leads. In my office earlier, I mentioned getting a story in the News as a possible help. I have their top reporter downstairs with me right now and I’d like to have you talk to him. Timothy Rourke. He’s not only a fine reporter, but he also happens to be a hell of a decent guy and one of my closest friends. Don’t be afraid to tell him anything… and trust him to write the kind of story you’d like to see printed.”
    “Of course, Shayne. I’ll be happy to see him. Have you… do you… my God, Shayne! what have you found out?”
    “Nothing definite.” Michael Shayne grimaced as he made his voice sound cheerful and optimistic, neither of which he felt at the moment. “Just hold on tight and give us a few hours. In the meantime, Mr. Rourke will be right up.”
    He shook his head as he put the phone down and said, “Poor devil. What can you say in a case like this?”
    “You can hang up the phone,” said Rourke cynically. “I have to go up and face him… knowing what I do.”
    “You’re a reporter,” Shayne reminded him. “You make your living out of the tragedies in the lives of other people. Thanks for everything, Bob.” He swung toward the door.
    “Where are you off to?” demanded Rourke.
    Shayne paused with his hand on the knob. “Nothing for your story, Tim. Willy Arentz is manager of the Gray Gull, and he owes me a couple of favors. He just might be in his office this time of the afternoon. Then I think I’d better drop in on Petey Painter and see if I can stir him up a little by letting him know he can’t sit on this indefinitely. In the meantime, Bob. I don’t want it now, but maybe later. Get me up a complete dossier on your desk clerk… Lawford, was it… and your athletic young Bill Thompson.”
    “Good God, Mike! You don’t suspect either of them?”
    Shayne said, “I don’t suspect anyone. On the other hand, all we have at this point is their unsupported word about what happened last Monday. The more I look at Ellen Harris’ picture and hear about the way she was tossing her sex around last Monday, the more I think I’d like to check both of them.” He went out