Michael Shayne’s Triple Mystery

Chapter one: A Corpse With No Name

Michael Shayne was asleep. Violent and insistent pounding on the front door of his apartment woke him with a start. He reached out a long arm and turned on the bedside lamp. An alarm clock on the table said 2:15.

He yawned and sat up in bed, a scowl bringing his ragged red brows together as the pounding went on, then swung long pajama-clad legs over the edge of the bed. Going to the door, he jerked it open.

“What in hell’s the idea?” he demanded.

A stocky man in police uniform had his heavy foot swinging toward the door. He stumbled off balance, caught hold of the door facing.

“Why the devil didn’t you say something,” he growled.

“You didn’t expect me to be sitting up waiting for you in the middle of the night, did you?” Shayne parried angrily. “What do you want, Frank?”

“Captain Denton needs you down at the Quarter. He’s got a stiff for you to identify.” Sergeant Frank pushed on into the room. “Put some clothes on, Shayne, and let’s get going.”

“Suppose I don’t want to go?”

“Why do you always make things tough on yourself, Shayne? All we’re asking is for you to come down and identify a murdered man.”

Shayne said, “All right.” He stood for a moment in indecision, yawning and stretching his arms.

Sergeant Frank was a young man, well built, with mild blue eyes and black, curly hair.

“What’s the trouble between you and Denton?” he asked.

“I hate his guts.”

The Sergeant chuckled. “But there’s no use bucking him. Besides, I thought murder was your business.”

After another brief period of hesitation, Shayne strode into the bedroom. In five minutes he came out settling his wide shoulders into a loose gray jacket, and the two men went down to a police sedan parked at the curb. Sergeant Frank slid under the wheel and Shayne got in beside him.

Shayne’s feud with Captain Dolph Denton of the French Quarter precinct went back fifteen years, and had been renewed last year when the red-headed private operator had come to New Orleans from Miami on a case, and had decided to settle in the city and open an office. It flared into the open during the investigation of the Margo Macon case, resulting in a draw that left each man backing away warily to measure his opponent. Since then, they had managed to avoid each other, but the bad blood still remained.

Sergeant Frank and Shayne drove in silence up Carondelet to Canal Street and on into the French Quarter. Frank turned off Royal onto St. Louis, and pulled over to the curb behind a cluster of cars at an alley entrance.

Shayne got out first and went directly to the spot where two white-coated men were kneeling beside a body. Glaring spotlights were trained on the corpse and a photographer was shooting off flashbulbs.

Captain Dolph Denton stepped forward aggressively from a group of men near the body. He was a big-girthed man with dark and brutal features. He accosted Sergeant Frank, who stood behind Shayne.

“I see you brought the shamus down, all right. Any trouble?”

Frank said, “Nope,” and moved on past Denton.

Shayne said, “What’s this all about?” His voice grated like a file drawn across rusty steel.

Denton’s black eyes bulged a trifle. He caught Shayne’s arm officiously and started to turn him toward the waiting group. Shayne brought his right forearm up in a horizontal position and struck his doubled fist a sharp blow with the open palm of his left hand. The blow drove his elbow into Denton’s potbelly.

Denton grunted and released his arm. “By God if you start anything I’ll let you have it,” he thundered.

Shayne ignored him and went over to Inspector Quinlan.

He said curtly, “I didn’t know you were in on this, Inspector.”

Quinlan smiled frostily and cleared his throat. “I just got here. Denton said he had sent for you to make an identification.” Quinlan was a slim, trim man of medium height with a shock of iron gray hair and a stoic expression. His eyes were a cold blue, and Shayne knew him to be hard as flint, but innately just.

Denton surged up beside Shayne, breathing hard. “One of these days you’ll pull a trick like that at the wrong time,” he growled.

Shayne didn’t look at him. He asked Quinlan, “What makes Denton think I can identify the corpse?”

“Never mind about that,” Denton barked. “Take a look and tell me who this stiff is.”

The two ambulance attendants rose and stepped away when Shayne went over and looked down at the corpse. Under the glare of the spotlight, the murdered man’s features were clearly outlined.

He was about forty, with the smooth, rounded features of a man who had lived well and carefully. He was well dressed, wearing a soft white shirt and black bow tie, a pin-striped, double-breasted blue suit. The coat was unbuttoned and pulled back, his shirt and undershirt pulled up to show a round hole in his chest.

Shayne stepped back and said to Inspector Quinlan, “I don’t know him. Why am I supposed to?”

Quinlan looked at Denton. The Captain shoved his burly frame forward. “Don’t pull that stuff,” he said. “You won’t get away with it.”

Shayne exhaled audibly and said in a dangerously soft voice, “Call me a liar, Denton, and so help me I’ll give you an excuse for locking me up on a charge of assaulting an officer.”

Denton scowled darkly and licked at his sensuously thick lips. “Do you deny that you know the dead man?”

“I do.”

“I suppose you’ve got so many clients you can’t remember all of ’em,” Denton snarled.

“My clients are my business,” Shayne told him. He turned his back on the Captain and addressed Inspector Quinlan. “I am not going to stick around here all night listening to Denton. If there’s any reason why I should know the dead man, tell me.”

Denton had his hand out as though to catch Shayne’s arm and whirl him around, but dropped it to his side and moved around to face him. “Who’ve you got an appointment with at nine o’clock this morning?”

“Nobody.”

“So you deny that you’ve arranged to see this man at nine o’clock?” Denton said in a churlish tone.

Inspector Quinlan said, “You’re not getting anywhere, Denton. Tell us what you know about the corpse. What’s this hocus-pocus about him being a client of Shayne’s?”

The Captain set his heavy jaw and muttered, “I was trying to trip Shayne up. If I tell him all I know—”

“You’d better give it to me,” Quinlan said with authority.

“There’s no identification on him. Not a damned thing in any of his pockets except one. Moran heard the shot from two blocks away, and by the time he found the body the killer had searched him and got away.”

“What was in one of his pockets?”

“This!” said Denton triumphantly. He drew out a thick black book about three by five inches in size, opened it, and displayed calendared pages for each day in the year, with a vertical row of hours from 9:00 a.m. to 8:00 p.m.

From between the pages he took a folded newspaper clipping and held it in the glare of the spotlight. It was from a month-old issue of the New Orleans Times-Picayune, and was captioned Local Investigator Scores in El Paso. It carried a picture of Shayne, and a somewhat embellished account of the detective’s latest case in El Paso, which had resulted in the arrest of both that city’s mayoralty candidates.

Shayne looked at the clipping and grinned. “So I’ve got a public. Can I help it if I’m the pin-up type?”

“All right, wise guy,” Denton snarled. “Laugh this off.” He flipped the book open to the current date of June 6.

Written in a precise hand on the first line of the page opposite 9:00 a.m. was the notation, M. Shayne. The only other entry on that page was two lines below at 11:0 °Catch train.

“What do you make of those two entries?” Denton asked the Inspector.

“Looks as though he had an appointment with you at nine this morning, Shayne.”

“That proves he didn’t know me, or he wouldn’t have expected to catch me in my office at that ungodly hour,” Shayne said.

“But he planned to catch a train at eleven,” Denton persisted in a surly voice. “That indicates a definite appointment with you.”

Shayne said irritably, “I told you I never saw the man before.”

“Maybe not,” Quinlan said. “But we can still use his name — and what his business was with you. That may have some bearing on his murder.”

“Hell, yes.” Denton exploded. “That’s what I figured right away. He was gunned to prevent him from keeping his appointment with you. When you tell us what he was seeing you about we’ll know where to look for his killer.”

Shayne shrugged. “Maybe. And maybe he’d been stepping out with the wrong guy’s doll. Looks like a straight burglary to me.”

“Those are possibilities we’ll investigate,” Quinlan agreed. “But we need to cover your angle, too.”

“I haven’t any angle,” Shayne snapped. “I don’t know who he is nor why he wanted to see me.”

Quinlan said, “If you get anything, Shayne, don’t hold out on us. This is murder.” He called to Sergeant Frank and ordered, “Drive Mr. Shayne home.”

“Wait a minute,” said Shayne. “If he was bumped off because he was a prospective client of mine, maybe I’ve got an interest in this thing. That appointment book might have some dope if we’d go through it carefully. Let’s have a look—”

“You’re staying out of this, shamus,” Denton growled. “You don’t know the stiff and he didn’t have an appointment with you. That lets you out.” Turning to the Sergeant, who had joined them, he said with heavy sarcasm, “Take him home and tuck him in bed, Frank.”

“All right — if that’s the way you want it.” Shayne swung around and followed Sergeant Frank to the waiting police car.

Back in his walk-up apartment, Shayne gulped down a stiff drink of brandy, then went to the phone and called the number of Lucy Hamilton, his secretary.

When she answered, he asked, “Were you asleep, Lucy?” and sent a chuckle over the wire.

There was a brief pause, then she asked, “What do you suppose I’d be doing at three-thirty?”

He teased her for a while, then asked seriously, “When did you start making nine o’clock appointments for me?”

“What’s the gag, Michael? You’ve never gotten to the office by nine.”

“You didn’t make an engagement for me this morning?”

“Of course not. What on earth’s the matter?”

“Do we have any new clients I haven’t met?”

“We don’t have any clients, period,” she told him. “You’re sort of drunk, aren’t you?”

He said, “Sort of.” He hung up, took off his clothes, and went to bed.

It was shortly before nine o’clock when he awoke. He didn’t loiter over his breakfast as was his custom, and by nine-twenty he was putting on his hat to leave for the office when the telephone rang.

Lucy Hamilton’s voice was apologetic. “I hate to disturb you, Mr. Shayne, but there’s a policeman here in the office. He was outside the door when I arrived at nine, and insisted on following me in. He’s watching every move I make, and a moment ago, when I started into your private office, he stopped me.”

Shayne said incisively, “Give Captain Denton my compliments and warn him that if he touches anything in my office without a search warrant I’ll see that he’s broken for it.”

Her voice came again, in a whisper. “There’s another policeman coming in, Michael. What’ll I do?”

“I’ll be right down,” Shayne said, and banged the receiver down.

Lucy was seated behind her desk beyond the low railing which separated her office from the rest of the reception room when Shayne went in. Her hands were folded in her lap and her brown eyes were blazing at a uniformed policeman lounging against the casing of the open door which led into his private office.

Lucy sprang to her feet, beckoned Shayne to the railing. “They’re in there — Captain Denton and the other one. This one,” she said, indicating the man at the door, “just came in. They searched my desk and found my appointment book and looked through it.”

In a deceptively gentle tone, Shayne asked, “Did you tell Denton what I said about a search warrant?”

“Y-yes.” Her voice broke angrily. “He’s got one.”

Shayne patted her shoulder and went toward his office. Captain Denton was examining the contents of the right-hand drawer of the desk. Sergeant Frank was behind him trying a series of flat keys on the locked drawers of a green steel filing-cabinet.

Denton looked up and said sourly, “I can’t find a thing in this desk.”

Shayne went to the desk and lowered one hip on it. He said, “My cognac is in the bottom drawer.”

“None of these keys work, Captain,” the Sergeant reported from the cabinet.

“Let’s have a key, Shayne,” Denton demanded.

“Sorry. I never have found the keys to that cabinet, Denton. It came locked like that and I’ve always wondered if there was anything inside. Hope you can get it open for me.”

“You know you’ve got a key,” Denton thundered. “Cough it up, Shayne.” The police captain held out a beefy hand, palm up.

Shayne lighted a cigarette and dropped the matchstick into Denton’s palm and said, “Thanks.”

Denton growled an oath. “I’m going through this office with a fine-toothed comb,” he said menacingly. “When I find something leading to that corpse we found last night I’ll have all I need to jerk your license.”

Shayne waved a big hand and said airily, “Go ahead. But you’d probably get better results if you used the finetoothed comb on your hair.”

Denton turned away and tossed Sergeant Frank another ring of keys. “Try those. If none of them fit we’ll call in a locksmith.”

Through the open door Shayne saw the postman come in and go over to Lucy’s reception desk. He waited a moment, then called, “You can bring the mail in if there’s anything I need to see, Lucy.”

When Lucy came through the door with two opened letters in her hand she hurried over to Shayne and said excitedly, “Here’s one from your friend in Miami,” and added on a tense note of warning, “and a check on that — other case.”

Shayne said, “Thanks.” He glanced at the note from Timothy Rourke and dropped it on the desk. He drew a check and letter from the other envelope. The check was drawn on the First National Bank of Cheepwee, Louisiana, in the sum of $200.00, and was signed by W. D. Carson.

The name was totally unfamiliar to him.

Chapter two: One Jump Ahead of the Cops

Shayne laid the check face down on top of Rourke’s letter and opened the note accompanying it. It was written on the letterhead of the First National Bank of Cheepwee. A list of the bank’s officers informed him that Walter D. Carson was president of the bank.

The note was brief, and read:

Shayne absently massaged his left earlobe as he read the letter over twice. It was dated June 2. Cheepwee was less than a hundred miles upstate from New Orleans, and it was inconceivable that the communication was just reaching him.

Placing the letter face down on the check, he picked up the envelope and looked at it. The delay was explained by the fact that it had been incorrectly addressed to the National Building instead of the International Building. A correction had been made by the New Orleans postal authorities.

Shayne glanced around at Frank and Denton. Frank was busily trying keys on the cabinet. Denton was bent over and digging into a bottom drawer, breathing hard, his face as red as a beet.

Casually Shayne refolded the letter, tucked it back into the envelope, put it in his breast pocket, and put the check in his billfold.

Frank moved back from the cabinet and swore. “None of these keys fit either, Captain. We’ll have to get a locksmith.”

“I’ll appreciate that,” Shayne said. “I’ve always meant to get it opened, but I figured if I’d wait long enough some nosy cop would do it for me.”

“Will you go on oath that there are no files in that cabinet pertaining to the man who was murdered last night?” Denton barked.

“Hell, no. Go ahead and find out for yourself.” Shayne slid from the desk and strolled out to the reception room. Lucy sat at her desk, her brown eyes round with wonder and fright. He grinned reassuringly at her and said, “See if you can dig up from our clipping file the story Hal Reynolds ran on me in the Times-Picayune about a month ago — after he got me tanked up and I spilled the El Paso story to him.”

“I know the one you mean.” She opened the center drawer of her desk and pulled out a slim ledger with newspaper clippings pasted on the blank pages. She turned the pages slowly until she came upon the clipping and handed the ledger to Shayne.

Shayne studied a clipping identical with the one found in the dead man’s pocket. It began: Michael Shayne, private detective with offices in the National Building in this city, has recently returned from El Paso where…

Closing the scrap book, he handed it back to Lucy, saying, “Hal should have sobered up before he wrote that story.” His hands were balled into fists and his knuckles showed white with strain.

Denton bustled into the outer office with Sergeant Frank at his heels. “I’ve decided not to bother with the filing-cabinet,” he said. “It’s probably loaded with empties.” He stopped close to Shayne with his blunt jaw jutting belligerently. “God pity you if you’re holding out on me, Shayne. We can’t even start an investigation until we learn the identity of the corpse. In the meantime his murderer is getting away. When we prove you knew who he was and refused to co-operate, you’ll be washed up in New Orleans.”

He stalked out of the office and his two men followed.

Lucy waited until their footsteps faded away before saying, “I don’t understand any of this about a nine o’clock appointment. But that letter—”

“That letter is it,” Shayne interrupted. “It puts me one jump ahead of Denton and if I move fast, I can stay one jump ahead.” His gray eyes were bleak as he went on: “Carson was murdered last night with no identification on him except a notation to meet me at nine this morning. Denton is running around in circles trying to find out who he is.”

“Shouldn’t you tell him?” Lucy asked, alarmed. “He can’t possibly catch the murderer without knowing who was killed.”

“Nuts. Denton couldn’t catch a cold in a flu epidemic. Get me the St. Charles Hotel. That’s where most out-of-town visitors stop if they can afford it. Ask if a W. D. Carson has registered with them and get his room number.”

He went back to his private office, sat down at the desk and took a bottle of cognac from the drawer, and took a long drink. As he returned the bottle to the drawer, Lucy appeared in the doorway.

“You were right, Michael,” she called out excitedly. “Mr. W. D. Carson has room 306, but he isn’t in.”

Shayne got up and put on his hat. “Okay,” he said. “You don’t know anything about this. You don’t know where I’ve gone or why.” He went out of the office and down the hall to the elevator.

After reaching the sidewalk, Shayne loitered along looking in shop windows. Out of the corner of his eye he was searching for anyone who showed signs of trailing him. Then he went into a drugstore where he looked over a magazine rack. In a couple of minutes he went out, walked a short distance to an alley and darted into it. He walked swiftly through the narrow passage and by a circuitous route made his way to another street, where he hailed a cab. He got in and said to the driver, “Go on a block, then swing down to Camp toward Canal.”

As they passed the intersection of Gravier, he told the driver to pull to the curb and stop. He got out, waited until the cab roared away, then hurried to the St. Charles Hotel.

Entering the lobby, he went directly to a waiting elevator, got in, and went up to the third floor. He swung purposefully down the hall to Room 306, studied the lock for a moment, and took out a ring of keys. The fourth key he selected opened the door. He slid inside and closed the door.

Except for a soiled white shirt tossed across the neatly made bed, and an expensive pigskin suitcase lying open on a chair, the room bore no evidence of occupancy.

Shayne wrapped a handkerchief over his right hand and went to the suitcase. It contained an extra clean white shirt, size fifteen; undershirts and shorts, 34 waist; and socks, handkerchiefs, and ties. The sizes were about right to fit the dead body he had seen the preceding night.

He prowled around the room, looking inside drawers and inspecting the clothes closet, but found no personal belongings. In the bathroom he turned on the light. One soiled towel lay on the edge of the tub, and there was an electric razor, toothbrush, and paste on the glass shelf over the lavatory.

He went down to the lobby and strolled around until he spotted a tall, thin-faced man dressed in brown tweeds leaning against a pillar.

Shayne went up to him and said, “Hi, Steve.”

Steve Rodell took a slim cigar from his mouth. “Hello, Mike. Working?”

“Sort of. Can you get me some dope on 306?”

The house detective studied Shayne warily with bright blue eyes. “What kind of dope?”

“Everything. I don’t know what. Phone calls made from the room or received — all that.”

Rodell nodded and straightened up. “Come on, we’ll see.”

“I don’t want to show. Get it for me, Steve.” Shayne moved around to a chair beside a brass smoking-stand and sat down. Rodell walked away.

He returned in ten minutes with a slip of paper in his hand. He sat down beside Shayne and read from his notes: “W. D. Carson. Small-town banker. From Cheepwee. Been stopping here off and on for four years. Sometimes with his wife. Checked in at four-thirty yesterday. Said he was only staying overnight. Made one phone call from his room.” He gave Shayne the telephone number.

Shayne recorded the number and said, “Thanks, Steve.”

Rodell folded the slip of paper and put it into his pocket. “Carson made that call at seven-sixteen, and no one remembers seeing him around since. His key is in the box and the maid reported he hadn’t slept in his bed.”

Shayne said, “Good work,” and started to get up. Rodell detained him by a gesture. “Hold it, Mike. What gives? Anything we ought to have?”

Shayne shrugged. “If you want to lend Captain Denton a helping hand you might take a bellboy or someone down to the morgue, look at a corpse, and tell Denton his name is W. D. Carson. And if you want to hang a real load of trouble around my neck you can tell him where the tip came from.”

“Denton has an unidentified body? Is that it?”

“That’s it.” Shayne hesitated, then explained the whole situation to Steve Rodell. “Do what you want to about it. If Denton can prove I refused to co-operate, he figures to jerk my license.”

“Can you keep the hotel out of it?” Rodell asked.

“I can try,” Shayne promised.

“That’s more than Denton would do,” Rodell said. “Let him identify his own bodies.”

Shayne grinned and got up. He thanked Rodell again, then went to a telephone booth, inserted a nickel, and called the number Rodell had given him.

A pleasant feminine voice answered, saying, “Park Plaza Apartments.”

Shayne hung up. He looked in the directory and found that the Park Plaza was on Bourbon Street between St. Louis and Toulouse. He hurried outside and got into a waiting taxi.

“Park Plaza on Bourbon,” he said, as the cab pulled away.

The Park Plaza was a new brick building squeezed in between a restaurant and a curio shop. Shayne entered a small lobby with a glass-enclosed office near the elevator.

The girl seated at the small open window was slim and straight with coppery hair falling in soft curls around her shoulders. When Shayne came up she smiled and said, “Yes?”

“I’m a detective,” Shayne told her. “I’m trying to get a line on one of your guests.”

The girl’s eyes were the same color as her hair. She widened them at Shayne and asked, “Do you mean one of our guests is in trouble?”

“Not necessarily. A man was murdered last night. We know he made a call from the St. Charles to this number at seven-sixteen last night. It might help us a lot to know whom he called here because that person may have been the last one who talked to him before he was killed.”

Her eyes grew still wider, and she shook her head regretfully. “I don’t see how I can help you. We don’t keep a record of incoming calls.”

“Could you check and see if any of your tenants called the St. Charles between four-thirty yesterday and two this morning?”

“That won’t be difficult.” She turned to a large ruled daybook, flipped a few pages, and began running her index finger down the entries.

Shayne lighted a cigarette while he waited. It was half smoked when she closed the book and said, “No calls to the St. Charles Hotel.”

Shayne frowned. “What sort of people live here? Could you give me a list of their names and some sort of description of them?”

“I’m afraid what I could give you won’t help,” she said hesitantly. “You see, all but two of our tenants are middle-aged couples who have lived here for years and years. Miss Etta Hobson in 1-F, and Mr. Sidney G. Jones in 2-A—”

“Do you know anything about either of them?”

“Well, Miss Hobson looks about thirty, but she dyes her hair. She’s a saleslady, but has more money than most salesladies.” She lowered her voice and added, “She tries to slip empty gin bottles out of her room and she flirts with some of the men around here.”

“What about Mr. Sidney Jones?”

The girl made a grimace of distaste with her full red lips. “He’s thin — and he has halitosis. I guess he’s about thirty. He tried to date me the very first day he came and has been trying ever since. I don’t know what he does. He has only been here about four months. Elaine — that’s the night operator — told me he never comes in until two or three in the morning.”

Shayne said, “Thanks very much,” and went out.

He took a cab and went directly to his office. His car was still parked in front of the building and he didn’t see anyone around who appeared to be watching it.

Lucy Hamilton looked at him with searching interest when he walked into the reception hall and stalked through to his private office. After about five minutes he summoned her to his desk.

Lucy sat down opposite him, her smooth brow rumpled, her brown eyes wide and questioning. She said, “I hope you know what you’re doing, Michael.”

He looked at her, surprised. “Getting jumpy?”

“It’s that Captain Denton,” she said angrily. “He frightens me. You know very well he’s had it in for you ever since the Margo Macon case when you made him look like an idiot.”

“Which he is. And don’t forget he framed you on a disorderly conduct rap,” Shayne reminded her teasingly. “I wonder if he’s still got a print of that picture of us. I kept my print. I look at it sometimes and think how lucky I was. I got a perfect secretary out of that case — besides a sizable fee.”

“Michael!” she cried, “Don’t joke about it. He hates you.”

Shayne grinned and said, “Here’s what I want you to do. Call the Park Plaza and ask for Mr. Sidney G. Jones. Tell him you’re Mrs. Carson from Cheepwee, and that you’re worried about your husband. Listen carefully to what he says, and use your woman’s intuition of what he doesn’t say.”

“Tell him I’m Mrs. — ” Lucy began.

“Then call the girl who’ll be on duty at the switchboard at the Park Plaza and find out where Miss Etta Hobson is employed as a saleslady.”

Shayne got up and reached for his hat, jammed it down over his unruly red hair, and started out.

“Where are you going now?” Lucy asked with deep concern.

“To see Inspector Quinlan,” he said. “Start making those telephone calls right away.”

Chapter three: A Drummer for Death

Inspector Quinlan was sitting behind his desk slowly rolling a pencil between his palms when Shayne walked in.

“How are you and Denton hitting it off, Shayne?” he queried.

“Not too well.” Shayne pulled up a chair and sat down. “He searched my office this morning.”

“I advised him against it, but Denton is stubborn,” Quinlan told him in his crisp, quiet voice. “He thinks you’re holding out on him and he’s hell-bent on proving it.”

Shayne scowled. “What have you got on the dead man thus far?”

“All I know is what I hear rumored around the corridors.”

Shayne looked at him with incredulity and asked, “Aren’t you handling it?”

“It’s Denton’s baby.”

“Hell! You’re still head of Homicide, aren’t you?”

“Theoretically. But Denton got a special dispensation from the Police Commissioner to take over last night’s job. It was in his precinct.”

“And he’s looking for a chance to throw the hooks into me,” Shayne growled.

“That’s right. He wants revenge for the time you made a fool out of him on the Macon case. Better watch your step. He’s carefully laying the groundwork for a malpractice charge.”

“He didn’t find anything in my office this morning. Can you give me anything at all?”

Quinlan studied him musingly for a moment, then said, “Determined to stick your neck out?”

“You wouldn’t mind having the case tied up in a bundle and handed to you while he’s running around in circles.”

“No — I wouldn’t mind that at all,” Quinlan agreed quietly. “But don’t do it, Shayne. If you told the truth last night and don’t know the man, his murder doesn’t mean anything to you.”

“He was a prospective client,” Shayne said, “and somebody beat me out of a possible fee when he was gunned. I can’t sit back and let people kill off my clients before they can get to me.”

“You’ll sit back on this one if you’re smart.”

“I’m not smart.”

“You’re as stubborn as Denton.”

“He asked for this,” Shayne said angrily. “Dragging me out of bed last night with the idiotic idea of tricking me into some sort of admission, then pulling a search warrant on me this morning.”

“Pushing you out on a limb,” Quinlan agreed placidly.

“All right. So I’m out on a limb. What killed the man?”

“A slug from a thirty-two. One of those short-barreled S and W’s.”

“A Banker’s Special,” Shayne mused. “Very appropriate. Sure it wasn’t suicide?”

“What do you mean by appropriate?” Quinlan looked at him sharply with his cold blue eyes. “What suggests suicide to you?”

“Just shooting off my mouth,” Shayne assured him hastily. “Go ahead. So it wasn’t suicide?”

“Hardly. The direct course of the bullet into his heart from close up precludes that. Patrolman Moran heard the shot at one-twenty while on his beat. It took him about four minutes to get to the scene. A car pulled away fast as he came up on St. Louis. The man had died instantly and the body had been searched — evidently in great haste — since the appointment book wasn’t taken.”

“How about laundry marks or tailor’s labels?”

“Not much good yet. The laundry marks aren’t local. Denton is checking other cities, particularly Baton Rouge where the suit was tailored. There’s no record of his fingerprints here, and Denton is checking with Washington.”

“What does ballistics say about the slug?”

“They guess it was fired from a Bulldog S and W. It’s plenty good for comparison if they get another one to match it with.”

Shayne nodded and got up. His gaunt face was sober, his brows drawn in a straight line when he went out.

Lucy Hamilton was hanging up the receiver when he returned to his office. She made a wry face at him and said, “I just finished talking to that guy Jones.”

“Mr. Sidney Jones?” Shayne grinned widely. “What did you find out?”

“That Mr. Sidney Jones is a louse. He wanted me to call him Sid, and when I told him I was Mrs. Carson and was worried about my husband, he said he didn’t know why a babe with a voice like mine wasted time worrying about a husband. He wanted me to come to his apartment to tell him all about it.”

Shayne chuckled and reached over to pinch her pointed chin. “Did he say he’d show you his artifacts — or etchings — if you’d come over?”

Lucy pushed his hand away and became very prim. “You can do your own telephoning hereafter, Michael Shayne, when you want to know what Mr. Jones has to say.”

“What about Miss Etta Hobson?”

“The girl at the switchboard tried to find out why I wanted to know where Miss Hobson worked before she’d tell me. She sounded awfully curious and excited. She finally told me that Miss Hobson worked at the Vogue Dress Shop.”

Shayne said, “I’ll check on them later. Right now, I’m going to take a trip to Cheepwee. I’ll wire you if anything comes up.” He went out of the building and down to his car.

Shayne arrived in the little town of Cheepwee at 12:30. It lay some miles off the Airline Highway between New Orleans and Baton Rouge, a sleepy little village of about two thousand population. He drove slowly along Main Street, past a square brick bank building on one corner, and up to a two-story wooden structure with a mottled sign in front proclaiming it to be the Traveler’s Hotel.

He parked, got his suitcase out, and went into the dark, empty lobby. A handbell on the desk had a card propped against it inviting guests to Ring for Management. He set his suitcase down and rang the bell.

After a time a door behind the desk opened and a fat man waddled through, accompanied by the strong odor of boiled cabbage. “Afternoon, stranger. I was back gettin’ a bite to eat.” He swung an old, dirty ledger around, dipped a rusty pen in an inkwell, and handed the pen to Shayne with a flourish.

Shayne signed the register and wrote New Orleans, after his name.

The proprietor set a pair of spectacles on his nose, turned the book around, and inspected it carefully. “You a drummer from the city, Mr. Shayne?”

“I hope to drum up a little business. Have you a room with a bath?”

“Not exactly. I can give you 216 with the bathroom right across the hall. Only one other party on that floor right now.”

Shayne nodded and said, “I’ll probably only be here overnight.”

The fat man wrote 216 opposite Shayne’s signature. “What might your business be?”

Shayne said, “Corpses.”

The proprietor slowly pulled his glasses farther down on his bulbous nose and blinked owlishly at Shayne. “Only one funeral parlor in Cheepwee. Folks don’t die here much.” He chuckled happily. “Seems like they just sorta mildew with old age.” He plucked an iron key from a hook on his right and handed it to Shayne. “You got luggage you need help with?”

“Just this one bag,” Shayne told him, picking up the suitcase.

“Right up those stairs,” the man said. “Go down the hall to your right. Can’t miss it.”

Shayne went up the stairs. In the room, he dropped his suitcase on the bed, took a look around, then went out, locking the door behind him.

Chapter four: Heartbroken Wife

He went directly to the First National Bank. A thin tired-looking old man was behind the first teller’s window.

“Something I can do for you?” the old man asked in a shaky voice.

Shayne handed him a card that read: Michael Shayne, Private Investigator.

“Investigator?” He studied the card through his bifocals, looked up at the tall redhead and said hastily, “I’m Mr. Holcomb. Won’t you come in?” He went back to a door and opened it.

Shayne walked to the door and went in, sat down on a chair which Mr. Holcomb drew forward.

“I’ve been retained by Mr. Carson,” said Shayne.

“I see. Unfortunately, Mr. Carson is out of town today.”

“I know. I just drove up from New Orleans. I believe he expected to return on the afternoon train.”

“That’s quite correct.”

“He wanted me to get right to work on this matter. I’d like to have a look at his office and a chance to go over his files at once.”

Mr. Holcomb was both nervous and hesitant. “I’m sure — I don’t know what to say. Do you have an authorization from Mr. Carson?”

Shayne took Carson’s check from his pocket. “Perhaps this will do. It’s the check he gave me as a retainer. May as well cash it now,” he added casually. He got up and went over to a desk and scrawled his name on the back of the check and handed it to Holcomb.

Mr. Holcomb pursed his thin lips, meticulously studied the check and signature, and said, “I suppose — Yes, I presume this is sufficient.” He went to the teller’s window and counted out two hundred dollars and handed it to Shayne. “Come with me,” he directed.

Shayne followed him back along a narrow corridor between the rear of the tellers’ cages and the vault to the closed door of an office that said Private.

Holcomb opened the door unceremoniously and they went in. A blond man of about thirty-five stood in front of an open filing-cabinet with his back toward the door. He turned quickly and his eyes were startled.

“Harvey, this is Mr. Shayne from New Orleans,” said Mr. Holcomb. “Perhaps you will be able to help him out. This is Harvey Barstow, Mr. Shayne. Mr. Carson’s assistant.”

Barstow’s plump cheeks and boyish manner gave an initial impression of youth which a closer examination belied. He recovered his composure and came forward with an outstretched hand.

“Is the name Shayne?” he asked.

“That’s right.”

“It appears that Mr. Shayne has been sent here by Mr. Carson to investigate a certain matter,” said Mr. Holcomb.

“You must know about the letter Carson wrote me a few days ago,” Shayne told Barstow, “asking for an appointment.”

“Oh yes, of course. You’re the detective.”

“I’m to look things over in the interim before Carson returns.” He stepped forward, noting an almost furtive look of dismay in the eyes of both men.

Holcomb went out and closed the door.

“I presume,” said Shayne to Barstow, “you know why I’m here.”

“I’m afraid I don’t.” Barstow smiled apologetically. “W. D. didn’t confide in me. That is, I suppose it has something to do with our business, although I hadn’t heard of any irregularities.”

Shayne grunted and said, “How many people in the bank knew he intended to call me in on the affair?”

“I imagine I’m the only one.”

“How about his secretary who typed the letter? I think the initials were H. B.”

“Yes. Harvey Barstow.”

Shayne said, “I’d like to be alone and undisturbed while I go through his files. His instructions were to keep things private.”

“Certainly,” said Barstow. He closed the filing-cabinet and went out of the private office.

It was nearing the bank’s closing time, two hours later, when Shayne dropped into the chair behind the bank president’s desk and gave a grunt of disgust. There was absolutely nothing of a personal nature in any of the desk drawers or the files. He lit a cigarette and sat puffing smoke toward the ceiling.

When the cigarette was half finished, he went out and found Barstow at one of the windows. “I’m through here,” said Shayne. “Carson’s train not in yet?”

“It’s due in about twenty minutes,” Barstow told him.

“The one that leaves New Orleans at eleven o’clock?” Shayne asked, surprised.

“Yes. It’s a local and makes very poor time.” Barstow stepped back and held the door open for Shayne to go out.

Back in his hotel room, Shayne opened his suitcase and took out a bottle of cognac. There was no comfortable chair in the room. He went to the bed and arranged the two pillows against the headboard and stretched out with the bottle in his hand.

He had been mulling over the case for thirty minutes when he heard footsteps coming down the hall. Then there was a knock on his door.

He got up and opened the door. The fat hotel manager stood there, panting. “Telephone call for you, Mr. Shayne.”

Shayne followed him down the stairs. The receiver of the old-fashioned wall phone dangled at the end of the cord. He put it to his ear and said, “Shayne talking.”

“Mr. Shayne — the detective?” The woman’s voice was low and secretive, as though she tried to keep someone from hearing her.

“That’s right.”

“This is Mrs. Harvey Barstow. I’ve got to see you right away.” She sounded excited and frightened.

“Where are you?”

“I don’t want you to come out here. That is, it’d be best if no one knew. Could you drive out the road a ways?”

“Which road?”

“Straight past the courthouse from the hotel. There’s a crossroad a mile out. Turn to the right a little distance and stop.”

She was frightened, Shayne decided. He said, “In five minutes?”

“Yes. I’ll be there.” She hung up.

When Shayne reached the appointed spot he pulled to the side of the narrow road and cut off his motor. Soon, in the intense woodland silence, he heard a car approaching. It came into view, and he saw a black coupe with a woman behind the wheel.

She parked a dozen yards away, got out, and ran swiftly to Shayne’s sedan. “I just had to see you,” she panted. “After Harvey told me about you, I phoned as soon as I could.”

Shayne opened the car door. “Won’t you get in and sit down, Mrs. Barstow?”

She looked furtively around, then said, “Just for a little while. I told Harvey I had to get some groceries. I don’t want him to know.” She got in beside Shayne and closed the door.

Shayne looked at her frightened indigo-blue eyes. Her cheeks were deeply suntanned and her flaxen hair clung damply to her high forehead. She was slim, and wore a clean house dress flowered in blue.

Shayne said quietly, “What did you want to see me about?”

“You’re a detective, and Mr. Carson hired you to come up here.” She was calmer now, and she turned sideways in the seat to look earnestly into Shayne’s eyes.

“That’s right.”

“Tell me — what are you after, Mr. Shayne? I’m afraid.”

“It’s a private matter,” Shayne told her.

“I knew it.” Her voice rose with an intonation of triumph. “Harvey doesn’t think so. He believes it’s just something about the bank’s business, but I know better. It’s about Mr. Carson’s wife, isn’t it?”

“I don’t think Mr. Carson would want me to discuss it with anyone else.”

“You can’t tell me anything I don’t know already,” she said earnestly. “You can see why I’m frightened for Harvey. It isn’t his fault. She went after him from the very beginning. He didn’t know what to do. He tried to be nice to her because she was Mr. Carson’s wife, and — well, you know how a woman like that operates, Mr. Shayne.

“I don’t know why she picked on Harvey. He never encouraged her. I know that. She deceived her husband from the very beginning of their marriage. It’s common knowledge, but Harvey doesn’t think Mr. Carson knows — yet. But I knew what had happened as soon as he told me about your being here. A man’s bound to find out sometime.”

Shayne lighted a cigarette and puffed on it and didn’t interrupt her. Mrs. Barstow put a work-roughened hand on his coat sleeve.

“You’ve got to tell me what Mr. Carson’s going to do. Is he going to divorce Belle when you get the evidence? Harvey will go off with her if he does. He’ll leave the children and me for her. She has completely bewitched him.”

Shayne sighed heavily. “I met your husband this afternoon, and he hardly seems the type to desert his wife and children,” he said.

“He isn’t, Mr. Shayne. He’s a good man. He never looked at a woman in the ten years we’ve been married until she came along.”

“How long has this affair been going on?”

“Over a year now.” She turned her anguished eyes away from him. “Harvey began driving out to meet her nights and going to her house when Mr. Carson wasn’t there. She drinks with him — and Harvey loses his wits when he drinks.”

“Why are you telling me this if you think I’m here to gather evidence against Mrs. Carson and your husband?”

“You could find it out from anyone in Cheepwee,” she told him. “She gloats about her influence over men.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“I thought you might talk to Harvey. If he saw what a terrible mess it was going to be he might come back to his senses. I don’t know. It just seems that I’ve got to do something. I did try a few months ago.” She paused, turning her eyes upon him again. “Do you know the other private detectives in New Orleans?”

“Some of them.”

“Do you know Mr. Jones?”

Shayne frowned thoughtfully, shook his red head, and said, “There are a lot of private detectives in New Orleans.”

“I suppose so,” she said wistfully. “I just wondered. I don’t know what to do. Since you’re in the detective business, I thought maybe you could advise me.”

“I’ll try to if you’ll give me the facts,” he said gently.

“Well — I went to see Mr. Jones about five months ago in his office in the Downtown Building. I got his name from the telephone book. It said he specialized in divorce evidence and domestic difficulties.”

Shayne said, “Jones — in the Downtown Building?”

“Yes. His initials are S. G. He had a dinky little office and not even a stenographer that I could see, but he seemed smart enough. I was just about crazy with worry about Harvey. I’d tried to talk to Harvey about Belle Carson and Harvey had warned me to mind my own business.”

“Why did you go to a private detective?”

“To try to get something on her,” Mrs. Barstow said viciously. “Something I could hold over her to make her leave Harvey alone. I felt like there had to be something — if a detective would go to work and dig it up. Anybody can see she’s nothing but a hussy. Lord knows how many men she had before she popped up here and married Mr. Carson.

“It wouldn’t surprise me any if she’d been married three or four times and poisoned her husbands. I told Mr. Jones that. I told him to go to Atlanta and check up on her. That’s where she came from.”

“And he took your case?”

“After I paid him two hundred and fifty dollars for what he called a retainer and expense money. Then I got a letter from him in Atlanta about two weeks later saying he was on the trail of something and needed a hundred and fifty more for expenses. So, I sent it to him. It was every cent I had saved. But I thought it would be worth it if I could bring Harvey back to his senses.” Her voice broke suddenly and tears streamed down her cheeks.

Shayne let her cry for a moment, then asked, “But nothing came of Jones’s investigation in Atlanta?”

She wiped her eyes with her bare hands and tried to control her voice when she answered, “I never heard any more from him. I waited almost a month and then wrote him a letter and mailed it to New Orleans. It came back with Address Unknown stamped on the envelope. Well, I thought maybe he was still in Atlanta and I waited another month before writing again. The second letter came back stamped the same way.”

Shayne sighed again. The muscles in his gaunt cheeks quivered and his gray eyes were bleak. He said harshly, “There are men who call themselves private detectives and prey on clients that way. Especially women. No reputable investigator would touch a case such as you took to Jones.”

She turned her surprised and tearful eyes toward him again. “Why wouldn’t they? If a woman is in trouble she needs help. Why shouldn’t a woman like Belle Carson be shown up for what she is?”

“The whole thing stinks,” Shayne said shortly. “Seems to me I’ve heard gossip about a person called Skip Jones — because he has a habit of collecting a retainer and skipping out with it.”

“I don’t understand it,” she said miserably, “unless S. G. Jones is the man known as Skip. That would explain—”

“He didn’t give you any indication in his letter as to the nature of his information about Belle Carson?”

“No. He just said it was what I wanted, and as soon as he got all the evidence for me I could make her do anything I wanted.”

Shayne said, “When I go back to New Orleans I’ll try to locate your Mr. Jones. You might be able to get some of your money back, but playing around with blackmail is dangerous stuff. If Jones has anything on her, I advise you not to use it.”

“But it wouldn’t actually be blackmail,” she contended. “I wouldn’t try to get any money from her.”

“With the kind of information your sort of detective might give you, you’re liable to get yourself mixed up in a libel suit.”

“Then — what can I do, Mr. Shayne,” she asked dismally.

“Let your husband go, if that’s the way he wants it,” he said irritably. “You’ll be better off without him. By the way, is this Carson’s first marriage?”

“I guess so. He was considered an old bachelor when he came here.”

“So Carson isn’t a native of Cheepwee either?”

“Oh, no. He’s only lived here four or five years. There was Miss Aggie Boaks who set her cap for him when he first arrived. People thought they’d make a match and everybody was right happy for Miss Aggie. Then Belle came along.”

She stopped talking and was pensively silent. Shayne lit a cigarette and drummed blunt finger tips on the steering-wheel. After a moment he said musingly, “Someone always gets hurt in situations like this. How often does your husband see Mrs. Carson?”

“As often as he can. If it’s divorce evidence you’re looking for, find out where they were last night. Harvey didn’t get home until after three.”

“Were they together?”

“Where else would he be?” she asked dispiritedly. “Mr. Carson went to New Orleans and she was at home alone.”

Shayne turned his eyes and looked with pity upon the woman. She appeared to be well educated, about thirty, he guessed, though anxiety and heartbreak had aged her. He said, “I’ll do what I can, Mrs. Barstow. You realize that when a man your husband’s age becomes infatuated with a woman, there’s little anyone can do.”

“I know.” She sat for a moment staring dazedly before her, then opened the car door. “I’d better be getting back. Harvey would be wild if he knew I was here talking to you.” She got out and walked around the front of his car.

Shayne asked, “Where do the Carsons live?”

“In the big house on the knoll two blocks north of the courthouse. The old Bancroft place. I guess Mr. Carson is there by now. Harvey said he’d be in on the afternoon train.”

She returned to her car and started the motor. Shayne got out of his car and pretended to examine his tires. When she drove past him headed toward town, he looked at her license plate and wrote the number in his notebook. Then he got in and turned around. He was suddenly very eager to have a talk with the mysterious Belle Carson.

Chapter five: Red-Hot Widow

The Carson House was set on a green knoll and surrounded by magnificent oaks. The architecture was early colonial.

Shayne went up the wide steps to the double front doors and pushed an electric button set in the casing opposite an old wrought-iron knocker. An elderly Negro opened one of the doors and said, “Yes suh?”

“I’d like to see Mr. Carson,” Shayne said.

“Mistah Cahson, suh, am not in.”

“I understood he was coming in on the afternoon train.”

The Negro said, “Yes suh, but he didn’ come.”

A musical voice floated out to them from the interior of the house. “Who’s at the door, Abe?”

“Genmun to see Mistah Cahson.” The Negro turned away and the woman stood before Shayne.

Belle Carson was a symphony in green and black, tall and slim-waisted, her full breasts swelling the black silk jacket. A green silk skirt revealed the graceful curves of her hips, and her black hair was smoothed back from a high forehead and curled up around her neck.

She said, “Well,” in a deep contralto, and lowered her long black lashes.

“I wanted to see Mr. Carson,” Shayne told her.

“Are you sure I won’t do?”

“Isn’t your husband here?”

“No. Come on in.”

Shayne decided she was nearer forty than thirty, a woman of lithe and well-preserved maturity. As she turned to lead the way into the wide hall, her hips swayed gracefully.

Halfway down the hall a magnificent staircase curved up to the second floor. Belle Carson laid her hand on his arm and ushered him into a spacious room bright with the afternoon sun streaming through long French windows.

Shayne stopped just inside and Belle moved past him with indolent, flowing grace, to a deep chair near one of the windows.

“Won’t you sit down?” She indicated a chair near by.

Shayne said, “Thanks,” and waited for her to be seated before seating himself. “I understood Mr. Carson was expected back on the three-twenty train.”

“Do you mind being alone here with me until he comes?” she parried.

Shayne grinned. “I’d like it better if I was sure he wasn’t coming at all.”

A slow smile quirked the corners of her full red mouth. “You’re from the city, aren’t you?”

Shayne nodded and took out a pack of cigarettes. He held them out to her and she took one. He lighted hers, and one for himself.

Presently she said, “And you came up here to see Walter? What for?”

“Business.”

“You haven’t told me your name,” she said.

“Let’s not bother about names.”

“But I have to call you something,” she insisted with a deep chuckle. “That is, if we’re going to become as well acquainted as I hope we are.”

“Some people call me Red,” he told her.

“Is it a secret — this business you have with my husband?”

“It’s private.”

She shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know whether he got in on the train or not. He hasn’t called.”

“The train has been in for more than an hour,” he reminded her.

“So it has. Will you be terribly disappointed if he wasn’t on it?” she asked.

“That depends on when the next one gets in.”

“Not until tomorrow afternoon.”

“Then I guess I’ll have to wait.”

She looked at him with limpid eyes and made a cupid’s bow of her mouth to puff out smoke. “The hotel is pretty awful.”

“I discovered that,” Shayne told her.

“We have a half-dozen guest rooms, Red.”

“Close to yours?” He quirked a bushy red brow at her.

A pulse quivered in her throat. “You’re not like the men in Cheepwee,” she said huskily.

“What in hell are you doing in a hick town like this, anyway?” he asked flatly.

“You ought to know.” She got up and moved slowly across the room and pushed a button. The aged Negro, Abe, came in silently. “Mr. Smith is an old friend of Mr. Carson’s,” she said. “He’ll use the green room tonight. See that it’s opened. And have Fandella serve some drinks in here. Martinis?” She looked at Shayne for confirmation.

He nodded.

“I like gin,” she said. “Martinis, Abe.”

“Yassum.” The Negro started away, hesitated in the doorway, and turned to ask, “How many fo’ dinnah, Mis’ Cahson?”

“Two. I don’t think Mr. Carson will be here. And tell Ben to put Mr. Smith’s car in the garage.”

The Negro bowed and went away.

Shayne asked, “Isn’t it possible that Mr. Carson went directly to the bank from the train?”

“It’s possible,” she agreed indifferently.

“To hell with this!” Shayne said angrily. “I like to know where I stand. Am I getting the run-around?”

“Not from me, darling,” she drawled, a smile of amusement on her full red lips. She sauntered toward him and sat down on the arm of his chair and ruffled his red hair.

Shayne ground out his cigarette in an ash tray on the table beside his chair. He looked up into her eyes, saw the hot glow burning in them, got up, and stepped over to one of the long embrasured windows and stood gazing out.

He didn’t know how to play this hand. He hadn’t had time to examine his cards carefully. Did she know who he was? Or did she think he was someone else? Or didn’t she give a damn? She had said he ought to know what she was doing in Cheepwee. That could mean a lot of things — or it could have merely been inane repartee on her part.

He heard movement behind him and turned to see a neat Negro maid setting a silver tray with a frosted cocktail shaker and two oversized cocktail glasses on the table beside the chair Belle Carson had been sitting in.

Belle Carson got up from the arm of his chair as the maid disappeared. She resumed her seat, filled both glasses to the brim, and said, “I never bother with olives. They take up too much room in a glass.”

Shayne walked over and picked up one of the cocktails. She put hers to her lips and watched him over the rim of the glass, her eyes half closed. “Let’s drink this one to dear Walter,” she suggested.

Shayne said, “To Walter,” and took a long drink.

She emptied her glass without removing it from her mouth. Shayne went back to his chair.

Refilling her glass, she said, “This is a good starter. After dinner I’ll mix us a real drink. My own recipe.”

“That,” said Shayne, “should be worth waiting for.” He began slowly sipping his drink.

“You’re wondering about me, aren’t you, Red?” she said archly.

He looked at her and shook his head. “You aren’t hard to figure out.”

“Is that so?” Her voice was suddenly sharp and her dark eyes blazed. “I guess you know all about women,” she added with light sarcasm.

“Plenty to know that you’re bored to hell-and-gone here in Cheepwee married to a small-town banker.”

“There are plenty of other men,” she reminded him.

He made a gesture of derision. “Sure. I saw some of them around town today — like the fat hotel-keeper and that pale-faced guy in the bank. No wonder you get a sloppy feeling inside when a man shows up.”

“Meaning you?”

“Meaning me.”

She drank her second cocktail and complained, “These things have about as much kick as a virgin’s kiss. Why do you think I stay here if I’m bored?”

“It’s a soft spot,” he said with harsh contempt. “It’s what you thought you wanted when you settled down here with Carson.”

Her eyes were aflame, but with what emotion he could not be sure. It might have been fear or anger or passion. She got up and brought the cocktail shaker over to refill his glass. She said, “You act like you know a lot of things.”

“Does that surprise you?”

“I don’t know. Why don’t you tell me who you are and what you’re doing here?” She stood before him, looking down into his face speculatively.

“I came to see Carson.”

“What about?”

“If there’s any talking to be done, I’ll let him do it.”

“You were quick enough to move in,” she blazed at him.

“I didn’t invite myself.”

She stared at him, the tip of her tongue moistening her lips. “Why do you have to be like this?”

Shayne muttered, “You started asking the questions.”

Belle Carson put the shaker down, sat down on the arm of his chair again, and asked, “Don’t you want to kiss me, Red?”

He set his glass on the table, put his arms around her, and drew her down to kiss her hard on the mouth.

The doorbell rang somewhere from the front of the house. Mrs. Carson sprang up and went back to her chair as Abe shuffled through the living-room door.

“They’s a genmum wants to see yo’, Mis’ Cahson,” he said.

She said, “Send him away. I’m not in.” Her head lolled back against the chair and her eyes were half-closed.

“Yassum.” The aged Negro shuffled away.

There was the faint sound of male voices at the front door. The Negro came back, hurried and frightened. “He say he’s de law, ma’am. Came all de way f’om N’Yorleans an’ say he ain’ goin’ till he see you. He out in de hall, ma’am.”

Belle sat up quickly and darted a worried glance at Shayne. “A cop from New Orleans?” she exclaimed. “Is he looking for you?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“You can go out on the terrace — through those French doors. I’ll get rid of him.”

Shayne picked up his glass, got his hat from a chair where he had tossed it, and moved toward the doors. Opening the one on the right side he stepped out onto a green terrace with flagstone walks. He went silently along the side of the house until he reached a spot where he was hidden from those inside the room, yet close enough to hear Captain Denton’s voice.

“Good evening, Mrs. Carson,” said Denton. “I’ve got some bad news for you.”

“What kind of bad news?” Her voice was so low Shayne could scarcely distinguish the words.

“It’s about your husband. He’s been murdered.”

“Murdered!”

“Last night in New Orleans. I’m Captain Denton of the New Orleans police. We’ve been all day getting his body identified by some laundry marks and tailor’s labels. It’s not a nice way for you to hear about it, but sometimes I think getting it straight like this is best. That is, if this is the first you’ve heard of it.”

“Of course — it is.”

“I wondered. You see — there’s a fellow here in town — big redheaded fellow — and I thought maybe he’d been to see you.”

“He knows about my husband’s — death?”

“He knows plenty about it.” Denton’s voice was charged with gruff anger. “Has he been here?”

“No one has been here,” Belle Carson told him.

“If he comes, you give us a ring down at the hotel. Now, ma’am, I wonder if you can tell me anything that’ll help us catch the murderer.”

“I — don’t think so. What could I tell you?”

“Who’d want to kill him? Come on — speak up.”

“No one that I know of. How did it happen?”

Captain Denton gave her the details. He said he had come to Cheepwee direct from Baton Rouge, and it was evident that he didn’t know about the empty room in the St. Charles Hotel. He didn’t tell her about the appointment book or the newspaper clipping found in the dead man’s pocket.

“We have obtained certain information that indicates your husband went to New Orleans intending to contact a private detective named Michael Shayne this morning,” Denton said. “Looks as if he might have been killed to prevent that meeting. Do you know what your husband wanted to see Shayne about?”

“I’m afraid I can’t help you,” said Belle Carson.

“What reason did he give for the trip?”

“Just business.”

“Expected him back this afternoon, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I did.”

“What’d you think when he didn’t come in on the train?”

“Just that he’d been detained in the city.”

Captain Denton asked a few more questions and Shayne could hear her answering in evasive monosyllables. The Captain went away after a time with her promise to telephone him at the local hotel the moment a tall redheaded stranger showed up.

Chapter six: Puzzle in Cheepwee

Shayne stayed pressed against the wall of the house until he heard the Captain’s police car drive away. Then he went back to the French doors and stepped inside. Belle was at the far end of the room fumbling in the drawer of an escritoire.

She turned around with a stubby pistol in her hand. “You better sit down and do some fast explaining,” she said.

Shayne put his hands deep in his pockets and grinned at her. “Is that a thirty-two?” he asked casually.

She looked at the gun and said, “I don’t know.” Her eyes were hard and her face contorted with ugliness. “It’ll do plenty of damage to a man’s insides, if that’s what you mean.”

“Your husband was killed with a thirty-two,” he told her. “If the police saw that they might ask where you were last night.”

“Let ’em ask.” She held the short gun steady, pointed at Shayne’s stomach. “Sounds to me like the police know where you were.”

Shayne walked over and poured a Martini. Belle moved a couple of steps toward him, her eyes more curious than angry. “So you killed him,” she said.

“What gives you that idea,” he demanded harshly.

“I’m not a fool, Red. That cop said they just got the body identified. But you knew all about it before they did. What do you want in Cheepwee?”

“Right now I could be made to want you,” said Shayne. He took his drink from the table and sat down, looked up at her with a half smile of amusement on his wide mouth.

Belle Carson’s eyes wavered before his steady gaze. She looked at the pistol in her hand as though suddenly embarrassed. “You’ve got a nerve — after murdering my husband,” she said huskily.

“You’ve got a nerve talking like this if you think I murdered him,” said Shayne harshly.

Belle wet her lips and watched him with an odd and intent appraisal. “You’re from Whitey,” she declared after a moment, and sat down in her chair.

“Suppose I am?”

“You and Whitey killed him last night. I don’t get it, Red. He’s no good to you dead.”

“You are,” he said soberly.

She shook her dark head dismally. “I’ve got to figure this out. Why did Whitey send you here?”

“I didn’t say he did.”

“It has to be that way,” she argued. She sounded weary and defeated. “How much does this cop know about you, Red? How much do they know about Whitey?”

“Don’t worry about the cops,” he replied harshly.

“I could turn you in.”

“But you won’t,” he retorted and grinned at her.

“I don’t know.” Her eyes gathered flame again. “Was Walter fool enough to go to Whitey last night and threaten him?”

“What would he threaten Whitey with?”

“That detective he was going to see in New Orleans by the name of Michael Shayne. You heard the cop talking, didn’t you?”

“Oh — him,” said Shayne contemptuously.

“Why else would Whitey kill him?” she asked sharply. “If he wasn’t afraid of Shayne. He must know he’ll never get a penny out of me. Not with Walter dead. All I’ve got to do now is sic the cops on him. I don’t care how much he talks.”

She got up abruptly and the pistol slid to the floor. Pacing nervously before him, she went on, “I can cash in Walter’s chips and get the hell out of here. Back to the bright lights and some real living.” Her voice was suddenly coarse and vulgar.

“You’re forgetting Harvey.”

She whirled on him. A haunting fear crept into her eyes. “How much do you know?”

“I make it a point to know lots of things.”

“Well, if you know so damned much you must realize I just played around with Harvey because I was stuck here.” She walked rapidly across the room to push the call button again. There was feline grace in her movements. She came back, sat down, picked up the pistol and slid it underneath her thigh.

Fandella appeared promptly and without asking questions took the empty cocktail shaker and glasses away.

“You must have guessed who I was when I first showed up,” Shayne said.

Belle showed her teeth in an unpleasant smile. “Sure. I figured Whitey had sent you. That’s why I wanted you to stick around — because I figured Walter had made arrangements.”

“With Michael Shayne?”

“Yes. You know all about it, don’t you.”

“But that’s when you still thought Walter was alive,” Shayne said.

“Of course.”

Fandella came back and set the frosted shaker on the table. Shayne brought his empty glass over and held it out to her. Belle filled his glass and then her own.

“You don’t have to sit so damned far away,” she complained.

He pulled a light occasional chair up close to hers and sat down. “That New Orleans cop is waiting to hear from you,” he reminded her.

“How much does he know about you, Red? Why does he expect you here?”

“How the hell do I know how much any cop knows?” he parried.

“Can they pin Walter’s murder on you?”

He said, “No.”

“On Whitey, then?”

“I don’t know about that.”

“Whitey must not be too worried,” she argued, as though trying to convince herself. “Else he wouldn’t have sent you here. But why did he do it, anyway?” she went on plaintively. “Like I say, he hasn’t got anything on me. I never did anything. I’m not afraid of publicity here like Walter was.”

Shayne didn’t say anything. He feigned deep and troubled thought over what she was saying and watched her with calculating eyes.

“So what are you doing here?” She demanded truculently. “How’d you come to meet Harvey?”

“At the bank,” Shayne said. “I was nosing around.”

“Asking questions?” Her tone was one of sudden anger. “What good will it do you? How’d you get in the bank?”

“They were sort of expecting that detective from New Orleans.”

“Michael Shayne?”

“Yeh. Harvey knew your husband had gone to see him. They didn’t know he got bumped before he saw Shayne.”

“So they thought you were the detective?” She scowled at him before draining her glass. “I ought to turn you in.”

“But you’re not going to.”

Her eyes widened with suspicion. “Not as long as you and Whitey act smart and don’t try to push me.”

“I’d feel better if you gave me that gun.” Shayne held out his hand.

Belle shook her head and said, “I think I’ll keep it handy.”

Shayne relaxed deep in his chair and confessed, “You’ve got me wondering. After the come-on you first handed me. I’ll never know whether you’re playing it straight or still handing me a line.”

“Why would I hand you a line?”

“Why did you at first?”

“I told you that’s when I thought Walter had things fixed for you to come. I figured you were casing the layout for Whitey.”

“Did your husband tell you to expect us today?”

“He didn’t tell me anything. He never did. But I knew he figured to sic that shamus on Whitey, and when he left he said not to be scared if Whitey showed up here.”

“Using you for the stake-out?” Shayne spoke carelessly, watching her through slitted eyes.

“I wouldn’t know,” she said irritably. Her voice was getting thick. “What did Whitey expect him to do? Take it lying down?”

“I’m like you,” Shayne told her. “Whitey didn’t tell me much either.”

“What do we care about either one of ’em? Walter’s dead and Whitey’s—” She paused, her eyes glittering, then continued in a deadly serious voice: “Well, he must know I’ll turn him in quick as a wink if he fools with me.”

“Or maybe make a deal with Michael Shayne yourself?”

“Where’d you get that idea?”

“I’ve heard of Shayne,” he growled. “If you expect him here today, why should you change your plans? That’s what I meant a little while ago when I said I’d never be sure where I stand with you again.”

Her breath came rapidly. “Why should I expect Shayne today?”

Shayne straightened and spread out his big hands. “Look, I’m doing a lot of guessing. I know all about Shayne. He’s big and tough and he likes his women the same way. How do I know you haven’t made a private deal with him? Hell,” he went on angrily, “how do I know it wasn’t in the cards for him to bump your husband last night? Yeah. That’s the way Shayne might play it. You and him together.”

“You’re crazy,” she snapped. “I don’t even know Shayne.”

“You seem to know a hell of a lot about him. Hasn’t he been here to see your husband?”

“No.”

“When did they plan it all, then? Your husband hasn’t been to the city for months.”

“They didn’t plan it. Walter just knew about him and figured he was the man to take care of Whitey. He went up to see Shayne yesterday. Isn’t that what he told Whitey? Isn’t that why Whitey bumped him off — to keep him from getting to Shayne?”

“Maybe that’s what he told Whitey,” Shayne growled. “That doesn’t make it the truth. I’m still wondering if you fixed that room upstairs with me for the stake-out.”

“Nuts,” she said, and poured herself another drink.

“You also later admitted you were making it easy for me to stay because you figured your husband had it fixed for Shayne to cool me — along with Whitey. How the hell do I know that doesn’t still stand?”

“I didn’t turn you in to the cop, did I?” All expression had gone from her eyes. Only a dazed stare remained.

“No,” Shayne laughed sardonically. “Why not? I’ll tell you why.” He straightened up and leaned toward her, his mouth grim and his eyes cold. “Because you didn’t want me to talk. Because you thought a gun-crazy shamus could do it better and without so much publicity.”

She drained her glass and her head lolled back against the chair. “Red! Don’t say those things. Come over here and kiss me.”

“I’ll kiss you,” he said brutally. “But I’ll never know the truth.” He threw his cocktail glass across the room and stood up.

Belle staggered to her feet, leaving the pistol in the chair. She put both arms around his neck and pulled his face down to hers. When she stopped kissing him she giggled drunkenly. “Satisfied now?”

Shayne laughed shortly. “Satisfied?”

“That I’m not putting anything over on you.”

He said, “Hell, no.”

Fandella called from the doorway, “Dinner is ready, ma’am.”

Shayne scrubbed the lipstick from his mouth and steadied Belle with his arm around her as they went across the hall where the table was set for two.

The meal began with a slice of chilled honeydew melon, progressed through fried chicken, flaky boiled rice and cream gravy, hot biscuits, and broccoli. They talked little. Belle ate like a farm hand who had been plowing all day, heartily and with gusto that disdained all pretense.

Shayne liked that about her. She was an amazing woman in many ways. Less than an hour ago she had been told of her husband’s murder. She had reason to suspect the man across the table from her of the murder, or of having guilty knowledge of his death. She had not shed a tear. She seemed moody and preoccupied as she ate, but he thought that came from trying to fit him into the picture rather than from any grief over her husband’s death.

He remembered the man he had seen lying in the alley last night and tried to imagine what sort of life they had spent together. He wondered whether Walter Carson had loved her in the beginning. With her magnificent body and her complete disregard of convention, it was easy to conceive how a country banker had been tricked into marrying her.

Shayne brooded over the fact that he had learned so little about the man she called Whitey. Thus far, he knew only that Whitey had something on Walter Carson and that Carson had chosen to go to a private detective rather than the police. Yet she had made it very clear that Whitey himself was in some sort of danger from the law.

It was evident, too, that both men had some hold on the other, and Whitey was using Carson’s position of respectability to blackmail him. Carson had planned to go to a private detective who was reputed to have a ruthless gun for hire in lieu of turning Whitey over to the police and running the risk of having him talk. Belle had clearly implied that Carson had hoped to lure Whitey to Cheepwee where Michael Shayne could blast him down.

This made it plain that Whitey was outside the law and the killing could be made to look legal. Otherwise, Carson would have sought a regular killer for the job. Shayne was aware of his own reputation in this regard. Newspaper stories were always hinting that he enjoyed killing if it had the cover of legality.

He had never bothered to stop such rumors. He found them good for business. The newspaper clipping in Carson’s pocket when he died gave him reason to believe Michael Shayne would do the job for him.

Shayne ate slowly, relishing every morsel. Belle’s silence offered him an opportunity to mull over the meager facts he had learned so far. He was wondering whether Carson had actually gone to Whitey and threatened him with Michael Shayne, as Belle suspected, when the maid brought the dessert in.

The dessert proved to be fresh peach ice cream piled with whipped cream. To Shayne it was a rare treat. When he had finished he leaned back in his chair and grinned at Belle.

“I’m beginning to understand why you’ve stayed here-married to Carson.”

Belle said, “It hasn’t been so bad here except I thought I’d go crazy sometimes.”

“Didn’t you ever get away on a binge?”

“Not without Walter. He kept promising to sell out the bank and we’d travel, but he never did.” She sighed and got up abruptly. “Do you want a drink now?”

“I could stand a drink of brandy.”

“I’ll have Fandella bring some brandy into the living-room. I’m going upstairs a minute. I won’t be long.”

Shayne said, “Sure,” and went with her into the hall. She squeezed his hand tight before turning to the stairs.

He went on into the living-room. The pistol still lay on her chair. He picked it up. It was a .38. Carson had been shot with a .32. The .38 was loaded all around. He put it in his pocket.

Fandella came in with a tray containing a cut-glass decanter of brandy and a tall, flare-top glass beside the decanter. She set it on the table and went away.

He poured a couple of fingers of brandy into the glass, passed it under his nose. His nostrils widened and he made a grimace of distaste. He had been afraid of that. When you said brandy to a Southerner, they gave you a sweetened fruit concoction. This was peach brandy, a liqueur with sweet fruit juice added after distillation.

He closed his eyes and tossed it down without taking a breath, set the glass down on the table, and went over to the writing-desk from which Belle had taken the gun.

Swiftly he went through the pigeonholes containing household bills and personal letters addressed to Walter Carson. In a drawer he found a big, flat checkbook. The first stub was dated back more than four years ago, showing an initial deposit in Carson’s personal account of $1,000.

Leafing through the stubs casually, he found a meticulous notation naming the purpose for which each check was drawn. It was this precise attention to detail on Mr. Carson’s part that drew Shayne’s attention to a stub dated almost four months previously. It was for the sum of $500, and the check had been drawn to Sidney G. Jones.

Shayne’s gray eyes narrowed. Things were beginning to add up a little. He turned the stubs swiftly and came upon three other checks for the same amount issued to the same Sidney G. Jones at thirty-day intervals. The final stub in the book noted the check for $200 that Carson had mailed to Michael Shayne. On a designated line was the word retainer.

He hurriedly rummaged through the rest of the drawer, but found nothing of importance. He put the checkbook in the drawer, closed it, then dropped into a chair with a deep sigh of relief.

Why had Walter Carson suddenly begun paying Sidney Jones $500 a month shortly after Jones had been sent by Mrs. Barstow to Atlanta to dig into Belle’s past? It looked as though Jones had dug up something. Something so hot he figured Carson would pay more money to keep it quiet than Mrs. Barstow could afford to pay to have it revealed.

He sat for several minutes driving his thoughts into the possibilities of the case. Belle was taking a long time upstairs. He was torn between a desire to get back to New Orleans for an interview with Jones and the promise of heavy drinking with the voluptuous widow.

He got up and took another drink of the sweet brandy, cocking his head to listen intently. He could hear no sound in the house. Belle had seemed anxious to get back when she left him after dinner. He knew, with sudden certainty, that she was dangerous, and he felt trapped.

Setting the bottle down on the table, he went quietly out of the room. There was no one in the hallway. He went on tiptoe to the front door and eased out. Traces of daylight still lingered in the darkening sky. He stepped from the porch to the driveway and followed it to a triple garage in the rear.

All the garage doors were closed. No lights showed in the upper portion of the house on that side. There were two lighted bungalows adjoining the rear of the garage which he supposed were the servants’ quarters.

Quietly he opened the right-hand double doors and found his car in a stall where it had been parked by the chauffeur. He got under the wheel and started the motor, backed out smoothly, cutting the wheels sharply in the wide space in front of the doors, then headed out with the lights off.

At the end of the double rows of live oaks guarding the private drive to the Carson estate he noticed a car inconspicuously parked on the shoulder of the dirt road. He turned on his lights and saw it had a New Orleans police license. A pinpoint of light indicated a man slumped in the driver’s seat smoking a cigarette.

Shayne chuckled softly as he swung out past the parked car. The cop made no move to follow as he drove toward the city. It was evident that the cop had orders to intercept only cars turning into the Carson estate.

Shayne drove straight through Main Street, past the bank building on the corner and the Travelers’ Hotel. There were no lights in the bank, and two police cars were parked in front of the hotel. Shayne cut around another block, turned off on a side street, and parked. He had given up any hope of getting his suitcase from the hotel under Denton’s watchful eye, but there were a couple of questions he wanted to ask Harvey Barstow before he left Cheepwee.

He got out and went back on a rear street and approached the bank building from the side. Through the plate glass window he could see Barstow, wearing a green eyeshade, working on the ledgers behind a teller’s cage. He appeared to be alone in the bank.

Shayne circled along the dark rear wall of the building to a smaller door. There was no glass in the door, but light showed through the keyhole, and Shayne knew it must be directly behind the late-working cashier.

He rapped on the door softly and waited. Thirty seconds went by, then a bolt was drawn back and the door opened a couple of inches.

Barstow peeked through the crack and let out a smothered ejaculation of surprise. “Shayne! What do you want? The police have been here.”

“I know all about the police,” Shayne growled. He pushed the door open wider and grinned at the stubby pistol in Barstow’s hand. “I’m not going to hold up your bank.”

“Of course not. I didn’t know who it was, and naturally I used caution.” Barstow paused to clear his throat. “I’m afraid I’ll have to report your visit to the police. They say Mr. Carson has been murdered.”

Shayne said, “Step out where we can talk without being seen.”

“I don’t understand any of this,” Barstow said unhappily, moving outside and closing the door except for a tiny crack. “The police say you’re not to be trusted.”

“I’m trying to solve your boss’s murder,” Shayne interrupted impatiently. “I’ve been talking to Mrs. Carson and now I’m headed back to New Orleans. Did you ever hear Carson mention a man named Jones? A private dick in New Orleans.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Did you know Carson was paying this Jones five hundred a month out of his private checking account?”

“I know nothing about his private account. He didn’t confide in me.”

“Do you know any reason why he should have been paying hush money to a private detective?”

“I certainly don’t.” Barstow’s tone was frigid. “Really, Mr. Shayne, I feel it’s my duty to inform Captain Denton at once that you’ve been here.”

“And have them block the road so I can’t get back to New Orleans tonight?” Shayne growled. His left hand darted down and closed over the pistol in Barstow’s hand, while his right hand went around the man’s neck and closed tightly over his mouth.

He wrenched the pistol away and dropped it into his pocket along with Belle Carson’s .38 and spoke softly in Barstow’s ear. “I’m sorry, but your conscience worries me.”

He swung his left fist against the point of Barstow’s jaw and the man sagged limply in his arms. Shayne pushed the door open, dragged the senseless man inside the back room of the bank, pulled the door shut, and trotted down the street to his car.

With good luck, he would be well away from Cheepwee before Barstow regained consciousness and notified Denton.

Chapter seven: A Visit To Dumpty’s

The description of Sidney G. Jones which the Park Plaza switchboard girl had given Shayne proved to be a fair thumbnail sketch. He stood in the doorway of his apartment and studied Shayne curiously after the detective had rung his bell.

Jones had black hair which was getting thin on top, a pair of crafty blue eyes, a cadaverous face, and large flaring ears. He wore a spotted silk smoking-jacket and held a highball in one hand.

“Who’re you and what do you want?” he demanded, blocking the doorway.

Shayne said, “I want to talk to you, Jones.” He moved forward and the slighter man reluctantly stepped aside.

The apartment was small, with a couch that could be made into a double bed. The floor was littered with newspapers. Ash trays overflowed with cigarette butts, and a whisky bottle and pitcher of ice cubes stood on an end table by the couch.

“Who the hell do you think you are, busting in here like this?” asked Jones in a ready, aggressive voice.

“You’d better listen close, Jones,” Shayne said flatly. “I haven’t much time. The cops may be getting here any minute.”

“The cops?” Jones’s pale, ferrety eyes squinted drunkenly. “What’s the lay?”

Shayne looked him over with disgust. “I place you now,” he said slowly. “You’re the louse they call Skip Jones.”

“What if they do?” Jones staggered into an armchair, crossed one emaciated leg over the other, and swung his foot to and fro.

“That’s easy to answer, Skip,” said Shayne sharply. “They want you because you’re a vulture with a private license and a habit of sucking clients for as much as possible on all sorts of promises that never materialize.”

“Look here, you can’t come in here and talk that way to me,” Jones whined.

Shayne moved over and stood on widespread feet before the seated man. “I’m interested in one of your clients, Jones. This is a murder investigation and I’m one jump ahead of the cops. You’ll save yourself a lot of grief if you give me the answers I want.” Shayne’s eyes narrowed. “What did you find out about Belle Carson in Atlanta four months ago when you were retained to dig into her background by Mrs. Harvey Barstow of Cheepwee?”

“Belle Carson? You got me wrong. I don’t know her.”

“I said give me the answers — and quick.” Shayne opened his right hand and held it up warningly.

Jones sucked in his breath and tried to straighten up. “Who are you, anyhow? And what d’you wanta know?” he mumbled.

“The name is Mike Shayne. I’ve got a private license, too, but mine doesn’t stink. What did you dig up about Belle Carson?”

“I didn’t get anything on the Carson dame.”

Shayne reached down with his left hand and tightened his knobby fingers on Jones’s smoking-jacket, lifted him half out of his chair, and smashed his right fist into his face. “Don’t waste time lying. I know you dropped your client and started blackmailing Belle Carson’s husband. Five C’s a month. You closed your office and moved in here to live off an easy thing. What did you learn about Belle in Atlanta that brought you five hundred a month from Walter Carson?”

“All right,” Jones croaked. “What’s wrong in that? Carson was rich. He could afford to pay.”

“And now Walter Carson is dead — murdered.”

Jones cowered back, his eyes frightened and his sallow face turning a peculiar pea-green. “Carson murdered?” Shayne nodded toward the newspapers littering the floor. “Unidentified body found half a block from here last night. A picture of Carson on the front page. Don’t pretend you didn’t recognize him.”

“But I didn’t!” Jones cried out in terror. “I swear I didn’t. I never saw the guy in my life.”

“You’ve been cashing his checks.”

“Sure I have. I got ’em by mail. But I never saw him.”

His thick voice quivered with fright. “I wrote him a letter to Cheepwee, see? I showed him how things stood and asked was it worth five C’s a month to keep it quiet. I guess he thought it was. I got the first check by return mail.”

“And I suppose it never occurred to you to return the money you extorted from Mrs. Barstow. What were you keeping quiet for Carson’s benefit?”

“That his wife was a bigamist,” Jones choked out. “She didn’t bother to get a divorce from her first husband before she married Carson.” He struggled to get up. When Shayne didn’t let go, he whined, “For God’s sake let me go in the bathroom and clean up. I’ll give it to you straight. I swear I will. If he’s dead, like you say, I guess I won’t collect any more on it anyhow.”

Shayne loosened his grip, and stood back, and let him go to the bathroom. He didn’t know how much time he had. It was a cinch that Harvey Barstow would tell Captain Denton about his inquiries concerning Jones.

As matters stood now, he didn’t know how much difficulty Denton might have tracing Jones to this address. If Jones hadn’t left a forwarding-address from his former office in the Downtown Building, and didn’t have his name in the telephone book, some considerable time might elapse.

Going to the telephone stand, he went swiftly through the directory. He felt better when he didn’t find Sidney G. Jones listed. That would delay Denton unless he knew the man personally.

Jones came back to the living-room. He tried to hold himself erect and dignified, but his body sagged and it looked as though his nose was broken.

“You didn’t need to hit me that way,” he grumbled. “I would’ve told you all about it if I’d known Carson was dead.” His voice was still thick and slurred, but he was trying to speak seriously. “You can’t blame a man for wanting to hold onto something that’s making an easy living for him.”

Shayne’s nostrils quivered and he snorted in disgust. “How do you know Belle Carson committed bigamy when she married Carson?”

“Because she was married to another guy for about six years. His name was Durkin — Willis Durkin. They lived in Atlanta, where he was an accountant for a big lumber firm. He was a quiet little guy,” Jones went on, trying to control his thick tongue and speak plainly. “They fought some, and people say she stepped out on him, and those that knew them both blame her for what happened.” Jones paused, and took a long drink of whisky and water.

“What’d you mean about being one jump ahead of the cops?” Jones went on suspiciously. “How do you figure in this?”

“Get on with your Atlanta story,” Shayne demanded impatiently.

“Sure. About five years ago the baby girl of the president of the lumber company Durkin worked for was kidnaped. It made a big stink at the time. Big shot by the name of Crawford. The kidnapers wanted fifty-grand ransom and sent notes saying that Willis Durkin should be the go-between to deliver the ransom money and all that.” He paused and waved his hands feebly. “Crawford was rich and he coughed it up. Fifty grand in small, old bills. He turned it over to Durkin for delivery, and Durkin skipped out with it. Later, they caught the kidnaper. His name was Whitey Buford. They got the baby back.” Jones paused again, his pale glazed eyes staring into space.

“Go on,” Shayne demanded again.

“Buford was sore as hell and accused Durkin of double-crossing him. He claimed he and Durkin figured the deal together, with Durkin playing innocent and acting as go-between.

“But Durkin took it on the lam with the fifty grand. At least that was Buford’s story. He couldn’t prove it, of course. But Durkin and the money were gone, and Belle Durkin was left behind. She swore she didn’t know anything about it, and maybe she didn’t, but folks think it was her nagging for more money that drove Durkin into it.” Jones took another drink and sagged back in his chair, his chin resting on his chest.

Shayne let him loll a moment, then prompted him again.

“Willis Durkin got away clean,” Jones resumed slowly and thickly. “Belle left Atlanta soon after that and resumed her maiden name, Belle Brand. She turned up here in Louisiana a few months later, got next to a smalltown banker in Cheepwee, and married him. She committed perjury in her license application by stating she’d never been married before.

“I don’t imagine Carson knew anything about it until I wrote him that letter, and from what Mrs. Barstow told me about her, it seems she was leading him the same kind of life she’d led her first husband.”

Shayne thought over what Jones had told him, then said slowly, “I’m surprised he covered up for her. He knew she was two-timing him, according to Mrs. Barstow.”

“I dunno,” said Jones. “He was a big-shot around Cheepwee. It would have kicked up a big scandal. It wasn’t like I was pushing him too hard. I was careful about that. Five hundred a month wasn’t a hell of a lot to a guy like him.”

“What did Carson say to you over the phone last night?”

“He called me about seven-fifteen and told me who he was and said he wanted to see me. He hinted he’d like to talk over a lump sum payment to keep things quiet. That suited me, but I was just ready to go out on a date. I asked him how about later.

“He told me he was having dinner at Dupre’s just down the street, and how about coming up here afterward — around one o’clock. That suited me, and we made the date. I got home a quarter of one and waited for him. He didn’t show up by one-thirty, so I turned in.” Jones lifted his thin shoulders weakly and added, “How was I to know he was getting gunned about then, right down the street?”

“That’s a fair story,” Shayne said coldly. “But you’re going to have one hell of a time proving it. You’re the only person he called in New Orleans — the only one who knew he was here. You were blackmailing him and you knew he would be leaving Dupre’s about one. The cops are going to make a case against you. You had the motive and the opportunity.”

“What motive?” Jones snarled. “He was my bread and butter. He was ready to make a big settlement.”

“That’s your story,” Shayne pointed out. “You’ve no proof he didn’t tell you over the phone that he was tired of being blackmailed and threatened to expose you.”

“Wait a minute,” Jones said thickly. “Maybe somebody else was blackmailing him or his wife. Maybe somebody else had a motive.” He jumped up and went to a small desk on unsteady legs. He dug around in a drawer and came back with a newspaper clipping.

“I happened to see that in the paper two weeks ago and clipped it out just in case. Whitey Buford knew Belle when she was married to Durkin. How do we know Whitey didn’t trail Belle here and was putting the screws on her the same as me?”

Shayne read the story with mounting excitement. The clipping carried pictures of two men, with captions stating that they were Whitey Buford and his suspected kidnaping accomplice, Willis Durkin. It described the escape of Whitey Buford from a Georgia prison camp after murdering a guard, and asserted that authorities had reason to believe the fugitive might be headed toward New Orleans.

It gave a brief rehash of the sensational case of the Crawford baby kidnaping, corroborating what Jones had told him, and suggested that the daring prison break might have been more than a little influenced by the convict’s corroding desire for revenge against Durkin.

Shayne’s face was grim when he folded the clipping and put it in his pocket. He didn’t tell Jones that it explained the things Belle had told him that afternoon in Cheepwee.

“We haven’t any proof that Carson got in touch with Whitey Buford last night,” he said, “even supposing Whitey is here and he had traced Belle. Until we have some such proof, you’re the only suspect we’ve got. The police are already watching this place, so don’t try to get out of town.” Shayne strode to the door and went out without looking back.

He headed for Dupre’s. It was a small, exclusive, and exceedingly popular restaurant on the corner of Royal and St. Louis. At this early hour of the evening there were at least twenty couples already lined up in the small foyer waiting their turns to secure tables.

Shayne strode down the line, unhooked the rope that held the crowd back, and went through toward a harried maitre d’hôtel who was anxiously consulting his reservation book.

“I’m not crashing the line,” he explained with a wide grin. “Police. A customer of yours was murdered last night after leaving here. His body was found half a block from here.”

The maitre d’hôtel looked up at the tall redhead, startled. “So?” he inquired. “I read of the tragedy, but did not recognize the picture in the morning paper.” His eyes were worried.

“I know you have hundreds of customers during an evening,” Shayne said rapidly. “I imagine this man had a reservation. His name was Walter Carson.”

A series of rumples formed in the headwaiter’s forehead. After a thoughtful moment he said, “But yes. Mr. Carson — so it was he? The reservation was for nine o’clock. A single.”

“Can you tell me how and when the reservation was made? Did he telephone you yesterday afternoon?”

“But no.” The man let the rumples smooth out and immediately formed them again. “How could we make a reservation on so short notice when we are booked days in advance?”

“Then he must have written in beforehand,” Shayne suggested.

“Of course. The letter requesting a table was received several days ago. Mr. Carson is an old customer and the request was given consideration.”

“Can you tell me anything about how long he stayed?”

The man shrugged expressively. “If you are the police — and Mr. Carson is dead — why not? There is a girl in whom he was interested. A dancer in the floor show.”

“Her name?”

“Do you need that? I assure you the relationship was innocent.”

“We won’t use it unless it’s necessary,” Shayne assured him.

The maitre d’hôtel sighed. “Her name is Yvette. She sat with Mr. Carson at his table between shows.”

“I want to know when Carson left and whether anyone met him here.”

“I can tell you that. It was after the second show ended. A little after one o’clock. Mr. Carson went out by himself.”

“Did he take a cab or walk?”

“I’m sorry — I cannot say,” said the man.

Shayne thanked him and went out. Things added up to fit Jones’s glib story, but the fact still remained that Sidney G. Jones was, so far as Shayne could learn, the only person who knew he would be walking up St. Louis Street at that time.

From Dupre’s, Shayne drove down several blocks and turned to the right toward the old French Market. In this section of the Quarter, where the old houses had gone to seed, the street lights were set far apart and burned dimly. An atmosphere of depression and gloom hung over the area.

Pulling up on a narrow and dimly lighted street, he got out and walked half a block back to one of the older houses set far back from the sidewalk in a wide, untended lawn behind a sagging picket fence.

Lights glowed dully from some of the windows, like evil eyes watching him, as he strode up the walk and around to a side entrance where a green bulb burned over an embrasured door. He pushed the door open and went down four stone steps into a sour-smelling cellar.

A grossly fat man sat at a desk beneath a droplight. He looked up and smiled with a great show of welcome when Shayne stepped through the doorway.

“Ah, Mr. Shayne,” he said, extending a fat hand. “It’s delightful to see you here in my monastic retreat. If you’ll pull out the second drawer of that filing-cabinet behind you, you’ll find a bottle.”

Shayne said, “Thanks, Dumpty, but this isn’t a social call. You’re not going to like it, but I want one of your guests.”

“Indeed?” The fat man swiveled his chair back and looked up at the redhead from beneath gray-fringed and shriveled eyelids. He folded his pudgy hands over his paunch and said, “I’m afraid I won’t care for that.” His voice was purring and guttural. “The needy come to me for shelter.”

“Cut it,” said Shayne sharply. “The police let you run this dump because they pick up some info now and then — and because you’ve been careful to harbor only small-fry criminals. Don’t make the mistake of trying to cover up for a murderer.”

“I assure you I have no intention of covering for anyone,” Dumpty said mildly.

Shayne made an impatient gesture. “I know. But your place is known all over the country, and wanted men naturally drift here. Maybe you don’t know Whitey Buford killed a prison guard escaping from the pen. I want him.”

The fat man moved his round gray head from side to side. “There’s no one here by that name.”

“Hell, he wouldn’t use his right name.” Shayne took the clipping from his pocket and held it under the bright light. He pointed out Buford’s picture, a man with deep-set eyes and shaggy brows set in an emaciated face. His chin was sharp and pointed, as was his nose.

“Don’t bother telling me that man isn’t here,” Shayne said. “He’s wanted in connection with a local murder, and I’ll have your place raided in ten minutes if you don’t give him to me.”

“My, my,” said the fat man with a deep sigh. “Murder? I don’t like that. You put me in a quandary, Mr. Shayne. If this person were here, and I were to accede to your demand—”

“I’ll make it easy for you,” Shayne interrupted. “Send him out and I promise you’ll never show. Give him a message. Say a telephone message from Belle. Ask him to meet me in Degado’s Bar down the street.”

Dumpty swiveled his chair forward and drummed fat finger tips on the desk. “It might be,” he said cautiously, “that some of my tenants are acquainted with this Whitey Buford and could deliver the message to him.”

“I don’t care how he gets it. I’ll go to Degado’s and wait. If it’s more than thirty minutes, you’ll be through in New Orleans.”

Chapter eight: Tied Up in a Bundle

After leaving Dumpty’s place, Shayne drove to Degado’s. He parked in the driveway with Belle Carson’s gun in one coat pocket and the pistol he had taken from Harvey Barstow in the other. Going up to the bar, he ordered cognac.

Two elderly men were drinking together at the far end of the bar. Otherwise, the place was deserted. When the low-browed proprietor set out a bottle of Hennessy, Shayne turned and looked at it in surprise.

Leaning on the bar, his eyes watching the door, he filled a double-shot glass from the bottle and sipped the drink slowly.

He emptied the glass and drank another, taking his time to enjoy it, then paid the bartender two dollars. He walked out, crossed the sidewalk toward his car as a tall, bony man neared Degado’s from up the back street. The man had a limp black hat pulled low over his forehead.

Shayne fumbled with the key in the lock of his car door and waited until the man was opposite him, then swung around with Belle Carson’s .38 in his hand.

“This is it, Whitey,” he said.

Whitey Buford cursed and dropped toward the pavement, his hand darting inside his coat.

Shayne shot him in the belly. Buford groaned, and his long body jerked at the impact of the bullet. He rolled to one side and slowly dragged out a gun.

Shayne stepped swiftly forward and kicked the gun out of his hand just as the two old men burst out of the saloon. Motioning them back with his gun, Shayne said curtly, “Police.”

They disappeared inside without asking any questions.

Shayne dragged Whitey Buford to his car and pushed him into the back seat. Buford was unconscious with a bullet in his stomach, but his pulse was strong. Shayne got behind the wheel and drove to police headquarters.

Doc Mattson helped Shayne bring the unconscious prisoner in. The plump little police surgeon made a quick examination and nodded.

“Nice shooting, Mike,” he said. “You nicked a large artery, but he’ll pull through.”

Shayne shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. You’ll just make him hang for a murder.” He hurried out and went across town to Inspector Quinlan’s private office. The door stood open, and he could hear Captain Denton swearing. He stepped a few feet away and listened.

“I got Shayne exactly where I want him this time.” His coarse voice was triumphant. “He won’t, by God, wiggle out of this. Mr. Barstow, here, is ready to swear out an assault charge and I can prove Shayne knew who Carson was all the time. As soon as my men bring in Jones, we’ll get the whole story.”

Shayne heard feet scuffling down the corridor behind him. He turned and saw Sergeant Frank and a patrolman with Skip Jones between them. Shayne grinned at Frank and followed the trio into the Inspector’s office.

“Found him in his room at the Park Plaza,” Frank was reporting to Denton. “But from what he says, I guess Shayne got to him first.”

“That shouldn’t surprise Captain Denton,” Shayne drawled, walking forward from the door. “I’ve been ahead of him all the way through the case.”

Inspector Quinlan sat erect behind his desk. Harvey Barstow sat slumped down in a chair off to one side, looking very unhappy.

Denton turned and looked at Shayne with his mouth wide open, then let out a roar. “Sure you have,” he shouted. “That’s what I’ve been telling Quinlan. You knew the stiff was Carson all the time. You withheld evidence while I chased laundry marks clear to Baton Rouge. You’re through, by God, in New Orleans!” He brought his fist down hard on Quinlan’s desk.

Shayne asked, “Is that your case against me?”

“It’s enough!” Denton was raging. “That, and assault on Mr. Barstow.”

Shayne grinned at the bank cashier. “I didn’t hit him very hard. I had to paste him in order to get back here and clean this thing up before you ruined everything.” Turning gravely to Inspector Quinlan, Shayne continued, “Denton’s wrong again, of course. The dead man wasn’t named Carson.”

Denton’s face grew dangerously red. He opened his mouth to say something, but Quinlan held up his hand and spoke in caustic tones.

“You’d better let Shayne talk,” he said.

“The murdered man’s name was Willis Durkin,” Shayne told them. “He was wanted in Atlanta, Georgia, on suspicion of complicity in a five-year-old kidnaping case. He doubled-crossed his partner out of a fifty-grand ransom and came to Cheepwee, where he took the name of Carson and bought controlling interest in the local bank.”

Denton’s jaw dropped open with amazement and chagrin.

“Here’s the story.” Shayne took out the newspaper clipping Jones had given him and handed it to Quinlan. “You saw the body last night. That’s his picture, taken five years ago.” Turning to Jones, he said, “Belle Carson didn’t commit bigamy. She merely followed her husband to Cheepwee and forced him to remarry her under the new name he’d taken. That’s why Carson was glad to pay you five hundred a month blackmail. If you ever broke the truth, Carson’s past would become known.”

“Blackmail?” asked Quinlan, his cold eyes looking from the clipping to Jones.

“That’s right.” Shayne moved forward and eased one hip to a corner of the Inspector’s desk. “Jones had a client who hired him to check on Belle Carson’s background, and he discovered she’d been married without divorcing Willis Durkin. So he double-crossed his client by withholding the information she had paid him to dig up, and went to Carson with it.

“Carson paid to the tune of five hundred a month to keep Jones quiet. He phoned Jones from the St. Charles Hotel last night, telling him he’d have a late dinner at Dupre’s and be up to see him about one o’clock. Carson was killed before he reached the Park Plaza.”

“You were blackmailing Carson, and he had a date to see you at one o’clock?” Quinlan asked Jones. “Had he threatened to expose you? Is that why you waited for him down the street and killed him?”

“I didn’t.” Jones’s nasal voice was thinned by fear. “I waited in my room for him, but he didn’t come. Read that clipping,” he urged. “See where it says Whitey Buford was headed in this direction. I figured Whitey had traced him. He had a reason to bump Carson.”

“But no opportunity,” Shayne growled. “Carson didn’t tell Whitey he was coming to town, for that very reason. He knew Whitey would kill him. Carson came here planning to hire me to blast Whitey in a phony attempted arrest. Whitey is a fugitive, wanted for murdering a prison guard in Georgia. Carson figured I could kill him and shut him up forever, and then go clear on it by claiming Whitey resisted arrest.”

“If this Whitey Buford is in town,” Denton growled derisively.

“Doc Mattson is fixing Whitey Buford up right now,” Shayne said to Inspector Quinlan. “I had to put a slug in his belly a few minutes ago. But he’ll live to talk — and to hang for murdering the guard in his prison break.”

Quinlan compressed his lips, and his eyes were coldly alert, probing Shayne’s gaunt face. “If you can prove that Jones was the only person who knew Carson was in town last night, the only person who knew he was dining at Dupre’s, the case is closed.”

“There’s one other guy,” said Shayne casually. “He was Carson’s assistant in the bank and took care of his correspondence. He wrote a letter to me asking for a nine o’clock appointment this morning — a letter that didn’t arrive until you were searching my office,” he went on sharply to Denton, “and Barstow also wrote a note to Dupre’s restaurant making a dinner reservation in advance for Carson. So, Barstow knew his employer would be leaving there late last night.

“Barstow’s wife says he didn’t get home until after three o’clock this morning. Just about time to make the trip by car after Carson was shot.”

“It’s a lie!” Barstow exploded in a choked voice. “I didn’t do it. I liked Mr. Carson. What reason did I have for killing him?”

“You knew he was coming in to see a private detective,” Shayne reminded him harshly. “You didn’t know why, of course, but you had reason to suspect it was to investigate the relationship between you and Belle Carson. You were panicky. You didn’t know what Carson might do if he got the lowdown on you and Belle. At the very least, you’d lose your job, and Belle. You had to stop him. So, you followed him up here in your car after dark and waited outside Dupre’s and shot him.”

“No! I don’t even own a gun!”

“But the bank does,” Shayne reminded him. “Every bank has a thirty-two Smith and Wesson lying around handy. They’re called Bankers’ Specials. Like this one.” He produced the stubby .32 he had wrested from Barstow and tossed it in front of Quinlan. “Run a comparison test on that with the bullet that killed Carson.”

Barstow cowered back in his chair and covered his face with his hands. “I didn’t know what I was doing,” he sobbed. “I was afraid my wife would find out. I couldn’t stand that. I loved Jenny and the children, but I couldn’t stay away from Belle. I hated myself and I hated her and I was so ashamed.”

Shayne turned to Quinlan with a grin. “Does an assault charge still stand against me for hitting Barstow?”

Denton swung around toward Shayne. “I’ll by God get you yet for meddling in my business,” he yelled, and stalked from the room.

Quinlan smiled. “One of these days he will hang something on you, Mike. Thanks for this one tied up in a bundle. If you’ll make up an expense account, it’ll be paid.”

Shayne’s grin widened. He said, “That’s all right. I was just trying to earn a retainer.”