The Private Practice of Michael Shayne by Brett Halliday

trotted after Shayne when he started for the outer door. “Don’t be so damned tight with your info, Mike. You know more about this than you’re giving out.”
    “That’s the hell of it,” said Shayne irritably. “I don’t. You know I’ve never held out on you, Carl. If I turn anything up that’ll help you on this mess, I’ll let you know.” He went out into Miami’s bright mid-morning sunlight and got in his car. He thought suddenly of the money he had collected from Marco last night. He took out his wallet and examined the bills. They were still damp. He wiped each bill carefully with a linen handkerchief, laying them separately on the seat to dry. Then he drove slowly to the First National Bank where he deposited them.
    Back in his car, he headed it toward the beach, using the County causeway.
    He stopped at a drugstore on Fifth Street and looked up an address in the telephone directory, then drove straight to an ugly, two-story stucco house on a palm-lined street two blocks from the ocean.
    He went up the walk briskly and rang the bell. After a short interval the door was opened by a thin-featured middle-aged woman wearing a white apron over a black silk dress. She looked at Shayne suspiciously and asked, “What do you want?”
    Shayne lifted his hat politely and did his very best with a smile.
    “Is Mr. Marco in?”
    “No.” Her voice was vinegary.
    She started to close the door. Shayne got his foot in the way.
    “That’s all right. I really came to see Miss Marco.”
    “You can’t see her,” the woman told him sharply. “She’s sick abed.”
    “Of course,” Shayne said. “That’s why I’m here. I’m Doctor Shayne.”
    “But Doctor Holcomb’s already—”
    “I know,” Shayne told her with asperity. “As a matter of fact it was Doctor Holcomb who asked me to drop in and see his patient. He’s a little worried about certain phases of her case, and called me in consultation.”
    The woman looked at him doubtfully, her eyes lingering on his sport jacket, and Shayne realized he must look completely undoctorish. Still, in Miami a member of the profession was likely to call on patients in plus fours or fishing clothes, so he pushed forward impatiently, saying, “I haven’t a great deal of time. Going for a cruise today, but I promised Doctor Holcomb I’d see his patient first.”
    The housekeeper said, “Well—” and gave way before him with reluctance.
    He followed her through a wide hallway to the foot of the stairs where she stopped and pointed up.
    “There’s one of the maids in the hall upstairs. She’ll show you Miss Marsha’s room.”
    Shayne climbed the stairs and found a young woman rocking back and forth in a chair at the end of the upper hall. She had a broad, heavy-boned, Slavic face, and she was chewing gum rhythmically. She didn’t get up when he stopped in front of her. A thick braid of blonde hair was coiled above her forehead, and heavy breasts bulged the front of her starched uniform.
    “I’m Doctor Shayne,” the detective told her brusquely. “Which is Miss Marco’s room?”
    The maid stopped chewing. Her jaw sagged a trifle as she regarded him with dull bovine eyes.
    “This here’s her room.” She indicated a closed door behind her. “But Mr. Marco said—”
    “Mr. Marco would fire you like that if you kept the doctor away from his daughter.”
    Shayne snapped his fingers to indicate the speed with which she would be discharged. He moved quickly to the door, but the maid got to her feet to intercept him. A key hung from a piece of white tape around her neck, and she held it up in front of Shayne, saying placidly, “Wait, and I’ll unlock the door.”
    Shayne stood back to let her unlock the door, then pushed past her into the darkened bedroom, closing the door behind him, saying, “I don’t want to be disturbed while I’m diagnosing the case.”
    He looked at the bed, saw the covers were thrown back. It was empty. He swiftly crossed the room to a