it will be available for rental again.”
“It will require that,” Shayne agreed somberly. “A couple of days, I imagine. I’m going up now to make another check. I’m expecting a couple of men from headquarters in about half an hour. Will you see they are let in the front?”
“Certainly.” Barstow got to his feet as Shayne did, and came around the desk. “I’ll speak to Miss Mayhew.”
Shayne stood aside and followed him out of the office where he spoke to the typist and she twisted around in her chair to pull out a drawer of a filing cabinet and find a cardboard folder which she opened and laid before him. It contained only a single page of fine print, headed RENTAL AGREEMENT at the top and signed at the bottom, “Robert Lambert,” in what appeared to Shayne to be the same handwriting as the suicide notes in his pocket.
He took it from the folder and folded it up with the other papers Gentry had given him, and told Barstow, “You can have this back after we’ve compared signatures.”
“No hurry at all. I’m sorry I haven’t been of more assistance.”
Shayne smiled and shrugged. “I’m sure you’ve done your best. I assume you’ve discussed Lambert with Miss Mayhew and she has nothing to add to your description?”
She said, “I was at home ill the day he rented the apartment. So far as I know I didn’t even see him at all.”
Shayne was about to turn away when he had a sudden thought. He turned back and asked, “The telephone. Are tenants charged for their calls?”
Mr. Barstow and Miss Mayhew nodded in unison. Barstow said, “They are billed at the end of each month.”
“Then you keep track of each apartment,” Shayne said to the girl.
“On the outgoing calls, yes. It’s twenty cents for each call. I simply make a notation on each card.”
“And don’t keep a record of the numbers,” Shayne guessed.
“Not on local calls. On long distance, of course.” She turned to her desk and a circular index file. She flipped it expertly to the letter L, and Shayne leaned over her shoulder to look at the card headed, LAMBERT, Robert.
The first date on the card was that same Friday, three weeks before, on which Lambert had rented the apartment. He had made a call to Miami Beach at 9:20 p.m. and the number was written down. Beneath that in a lightly penciled scrawl was jotted down a local telephone number.
Shayne put his finger beneath it, saying, “I thought you didn’t list local numbers.”
“We don’t normally. That number was probably busy, and Nina wrote it down and told the party she would keep trying.”
On the following Friday evening at 9:15 Lambert had called the same Miami Beach telephone number as before, and last night he had again called that same Beach number at 9:25.
Shayne picked up a scratch pad and pencil from her desk and made a note of the only two numbers that had been called from the Lambert apartment. He asked, “Is there any chance that you overheard anything that was said on these calls? You or the other operator?”
She shook her head strongly. “We don’t eavesdrop.”
“Mightn’t you just hold on long enough to hear the answer… enough to know whether it was a man or woman he called?”
She hesitated, giving the appearance of trying to give an honest answer. “Sometimes, I suppose… I just might. If I weren’t too busy. But I don’t remember any of his calls.”
“Not even last night?” persisted Shayne. “Stop and think. You can’t be very busy at nine-thirty in the evening. You were on last night, weren’t you?”
“Happens I was. Nina… that’s the girl usually takes the switchboard at five to midnight… had a heavy date and I took over for her. Last night?”
She puckered her brow and thought deeply. “I think… maybe… a woman answered. And he said, ‘Darling’ or something like that. And then I cut out. Because I don’t ever try to eavesdrop,” she ended strongly with a glance at Mr. Barstow.
Shayne thanked them
“It will require that,” Shayne agreed somberly. “A couple of days, I imagine. I’m going up now to make another check. I’m expecting a couple of men from headquarters in about half an hour. Will you see they are let in the front?”
“Certainly.” Barstow got to his feet as Shayne did, and came around the desk. “I’ll speak to Miss Mayhew.”
Shayne stood aside and followed him out of the office where he spoke to the typist and she twisted around in her chair to pull out a drawer of a filing cabinet and find a cardboard folder which she opened and laid before him. It contained only a single page of fine print, headed RENTAL AGREEMENT at the top and signed at the bottom, “Robert Lambert,” in what appeared to Shayne to be the same handwriting as the suicide notes in his pocket.
He took it from the folder and folded it up with the other papers Gentry had given him, and told Barstow, “You can have this back after we’ve compared signatures.”
“No hurry at all. I’m sorry I haven’t been of more assistance.”
Shayne smiled and shrugged. “I’m sure you’ve done your best. I assume you’ve discussed Lambert with Miss Mayhew and she has nothing to add to your description?”
She said, “I was at home ill the day he rented the apartment. So far as I know I didn’t even see him at all.”
Shayne was about to turn away when he had a sudden thought. He turned back and asked, “The telephone. Are tenants charged for their calls?”
Mr. Barstow and Miss Mayhew nodded in unison. Barstow said, “They are billed at the end of each month.”
“Then you keep track of each apartment,” Shayne said to the girl.
“On the outgoing calls, yes. It’s twenty cents for each call. I simply make a notation on each card.”
“And don’t keep a record of the numbers,” Shayne guessed.
“Not on local calls. On long distance, of course.” She turned to her desk and a circular index file. She flipped it expertly to the letter L, and Shayne leaned over her shoulder to look at the card headed, LAMBERT, Robert.
The first date on the card was that same Friday, three weeks before, on which Lambert had rented the apartment. He had made a call to Miami Beach at 9:20 p.m. and the number was written down. Beneath that in a lightly penciled scrawl was jotted down a local telephone number.
Shayne put his finger beneath it, saying, “I thought you didn’t list local numbers.”
“We don’t normally. That number was probably busy, and Nina wrote it down and told the party she would keep trying.”
On the following Friday evening at 9:15 Lambert had called the same Miami Beach telephone number as before, and last night he had again called that same Beach number at 9:25.
Shayne picked up a scratch pad and pencil from her desk and made a note of the only two numbers that had been called from the Lambert apartment. He asked, “Is there any chance that you overheard anything that was said on these calls? You or the other operator?”
She shook her head strongly. “We don’t eavesdrop.”
“Mightn’t you just hold on long enough to hear the answer… enough to know whether it was a man or woman he called?”
She hesitated, giving the appearance of trying to give an honest answer. “Sometimes, I suppose… I just might. If I weren’t too busy. But I don’t remember any of his calls.”
“Not even last night?” persisted Shayne. “Stop and think. You can’t be very busy at nine-thirty in the evening. You were on last night, weren’t you?”
“Happens I was. Nina… that’s the girl usually takes the switchboard at five to midnight… had a heavy date and I took over for her. Last night?”
She puckered her brow and thought deeply. “I think… maybe… a woman answered. And he said, ‘Darling’ or something like that. And then I cut out. Because I don’t ever try to eavesdrop,” she ended strongly with a glance at Mr. Barstow.
Shayne thanked them
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