Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 8, No. 6, May 1961

The murder evidence made the police very happy, for it all pointed strongly in one direction. But the redhead knew that there’s many a slip on Gallow’s Highway.

I

When Michael Shayne entered his Flagler Street office at nine fifteen A.M., there were two people waiting in chairs. The man was about forty, tall and good-looking in a theatrical sort of way, his dark hair worn a trifle long and his sideburns a bit thicker than most men wore them.

The woman, about five years younger, was a handsome platinum blonde with a remarkably youthful figure for her apparent age. There was something about her, too, possibly the way she wore her makeup, which made the detective think of show business.

They both looked at the detective expectantly as he hung his hat on the clothes tree near the door. Giving them a polite nod, he crossed to his private office, motioning Lucy Hamilton, who was seated at her typewriter beyond the wooden railing, to follow him as he went by her.

In the inner office Shayne seated himself behind his bare-topped desk and gave his secretary an inquiring look as she closed the door behind her.

“Don’t you recognize them, Michael?” Lucy asked.

He shook his head. “Should I, angel?”

“They’re television personalities, Michael. Breakfast with the Coles. They’re on from seven until eight every morning.”

“Oh, that!” Shayne said. “I’ve heard of it. A lot of sickeningly coy conversation over the breakfast table! I don’t get up that early.”

“You should,” Lucy said. “They’re really not bad. They have quite a local following among housewives.”

“I’m not a housewife,” the redhead growled. “What do they want?”

“They wouldn’t tell me, but one or both must be in some kind of danger. They asked if you ever hired out as a bodyguard.”

Shayne frowned. “You told them no?”

Lucy nodded. “They still want to see you, though. They obviously don’t want to tell me what it’s all about, so you’ll have to get it out of them.”

“Okay,” the redhead said. “Send them in.”

Lucy went out and a moment later the couple entered. Shayne rose to greet them, motioned them to chairs and reseated himself.

“Now which one of you is in danger?” he inquired.

Both looked surprised. The man asked, “How did you know one of us was in danger?”

Shayne said dryly, “You asked my secretary if I hired out as a bodyguard. It wasn’t much of a deduction.”

The woman said in a husky voice, “I’m the one who was threatened.”

“Oh? When did you receive this threat?”

“Five years ago yesterday.”

Shayne hiked shaggy eyebrows. With a thumb and forefinger he tugged at his left earlobe. “Maybe you’d better begin at the beginning,” he suggested.

Nervously she fumbled a silver cigarette case from her handbag. Her husband solicitously held the flame of a lighter to her cigarette. Snapping the lighter shut and dropping it into a pocket, he said in a rather precise, stage-manner voice, “It will take Marie forever to tell the story, Mr. Shayne. She’s so upset, she hardly knows what she’s doing. Her former husband was released from prison yesterday.”

Shayne gave a thoughtful nod. “I’m beginning to get it. The threat was five years ago, but until now he hasn’t been free to carry it out. Is that it?”

“That’s right He drew five to ten for aggravated assault with intent to kill. They hit him with the book because it was a second offense. He left Marie’s brother a permanent cripple.”

“Sounds like a pleasant character,” the redhead said. “What’s his name?”

Marie Cole managed to say in a strained voice, “Barry Trimble.”

Shayne’s eyebrows went up again. “The ex-fighter? I remember that case.”

“Then you can readily understand why my wife is worried,” Cole said. “Barry has an insane temper and he never forgets a grudge. I know. I grew up with him and I owned a piece of him when he was fighting professionally. That investment blew up in my face. He was barred from the ring after his first conviction for assault. He put a reporter in the hospital for writing that he was a dirty fighter.”

Shayne asked, “Why did he threaten you when he was sent away, Mrs. Cole?”

Her husband answered for her. “It was Marie who had him arrested for beating up her brother. She brought a divorce action before he came to trial and got her decree the day before he was sentenced. He told her right after the sentencing, just before they led him away, that he was going to kill her when he got out.”

Shayne pursed his lips. “Convicted felons often make threats,” he said. “He’s had five years to simmer down. What makes you think he still holds a grudge strong enough to make him carry out the threat?”

The platinum blonde whispered, “I know Barry. He never forgets.”

“Barry wouldn’t forget a resentment like that in fifty years,” Cole concurred. “I know him even better than Marie does.”

“Have you heard from him while he was in prison?” Shayne asked the woman. “Has be ever renewed the threat?”

She shook her head. “Barry’s not a letter writer. But that doesn’t mean anything. I know he’s been sitting in his cell letting the wound fester for five years. I know he still means to kill me.”

Shayne looked thoughtfully from one to the other. “How long have you two been married?” he inquired.

The blonde said, “Norbert and I were married four years ago, Mr. Shayne. About a year after Harry went to prison.”

Shayne gave his earlobe another tug. “Has it occurred to you that he might have a grudge against you too, Mr. Cole?”

“For marrying Marie?” He shrugged. “I’ve thought of it. Barry and I were pretty close once, and he might consider it a betrayal of friendship. On the other hand, Barry isn’t a jealous man. He’s just vindictive. Marie rather doubts that he ever really loved her. He was more angry at her for having him arrested than for divorcing him.”

After a thoughtful pause, Shayne asked, “What do you expect me to do about this? As my secretary told you, I don’t hire out as a bodyguard. Seems to me you ought to ask for police protection.”

The platinum blonde said quickly, “Oh, we couldn’t go to the police, Mr. Shayne. It would all be in the papers again. And we can’t stand any bad publicity at this point.”

“Why not?”

“Don’t you watch daytime television?” Cole asked.

“I’m too busy during the day,” Shayne said dryly.

The man looked a trifle hurt. “Marie and I have a daily program called Breakfast with the Coles. It’s a conversation thing where we sit around the breakfast table and discuss current events, local news and what department store sales are going on in Miami. The stores sponsor us, you see.”

“I knew who you were,” Shayne said. “But I don’t see the connection with not wanting the police in on it.”

“We’re supposed to be a normal, happily married couple,” Cole explained. “Having it spread all over the papers that an ex-convict former husband is out to kill Marie would destroy our public image. The public isn’t even aware that she was married once before. Since our contract renewal comes up in two weeks, we simply can’t afford that kind of publicity.”

The redhead grunted. “I still don’t see what I can do for you.”

“We hoped you’d agree to act as my bodyguard for a time,” Marie Cole said. “But if you won’t do that, perhaps you could at least see Barry and discourage any violent intentions he has.”

“What makes you think I could discourage him?” Shayne asked curiously.

“Well, you have the reputation of being a rather... ah... bad man to cross. Perhaps if Barry knew I was under your protection, he’d at least think twice before attempting anything.”

Shayne said dubiously, “If he actually plans to kill you for the motive you say, he must be insane. You can seldom deter insane people from revenge with threats, because they seldom worry about consequences. I’d be willing to see him in order to form an opinion about just how serious his intentions are. But I won’t guarantee that I can discourage any homicidal plans he has. Where do I find him?”

“Oh, we have no idea where he is,” Marie Cole said.

The redhead looked at her.

“All we know is that he was released yesterday,” Cole said. “We knew his release was pending, and we’ve been worried about it. I phoned the prison office and learned that he had been released as scheduled. However, when I wouldn’t give my name, they refused to give me his address.”

“Why wouldn’t you give your name?” Shayne asked.

Cole looked a little embarrassed. “Probably I was being over-cautious. But we’re so concerned about the possibility of publicity, I didn’t want even the prison officials to know there was any connection between Breakfast with the Coles and Barry Trimble.”

Shayne grunted. After reflecting for a moment, he said, “I can probably locate him if he’s in the Miami area. I’m willing to look him up for a talk and then give you my opinion of what you should do. That’s the best service I can offer you.”

“We appreciate you taking even that much action,” the blonde said fervently. “Frankly, Mr. Shayne, I’m badly frightened.”

“Where can I reach you?” Shayne asked.

Cole gave an address and phone number in South Miami. Lifting a small scratch pad from a desk drawer, Shayne jotted the information down, tore off the sheet and thrust it into a pocket. He dropped the pad back into the drawer.

“I’ll try to have a report for you by this evening,” he said, rising from his chair in indication that the interview was over.

The couple rose too. The woman said, “If you phone when we’re not there, you can leave a message with my brother Harlan, Mr. Shayne. He lives with us and he’s always home.”

“He can’t go out,” Cole amplified. “He’s confined to a wheelchair. Paralyzed from the waist down. That’s why Barry drew such a stiff sentence. He broke his back.”

Shayne accompanied them to the door, watched as they crossed the outer office and left. Then he said to Lucy, “Get me Will Gentry on the phone, will you, angel?”

A few moments later the inner office phone buzzed and Lucy informed Shayne that Police Chief Will Gentry was on the phone.

Shayne said, “How are you, Will?”

“Fine,” the chief said cordially. “What’s up, Mike?”

“I need a little information. A five-to-ten felon was released from the state penitentiary yesterday after serving five. Probably it was an unconditional release, inasmuch as he served the full lesser term, but it may be just a parole. He went in from here, so you’d automatically be informed of his outside address, wouldn’t you?”

Gentry said, “If he returned to Miami, we’d automatically get it even if he isn’t on parole. What’s his name?”

“Barry Trimble.”

“The ex-fighter?” Gentry asked in a surprised tone. “I remember that case. He made a cripple out of some guy. Just a minute, Mike.”

The chief was gone from the phone about two minutes. When he returned, he said, “It was an unconditional release, Mike. He’s not on parole. But he returned to Miami, so they sent us his local address. Ready?”

Shayne poised a pen over his scratch pad. “Shoot. It’s what I need most right now.”

Gentry reeled off the address of a rooming house on South Portage, and the redhead wrote it down.

“Thanks,” Shayne said. “See you, Will.”

“Wait a minute, Mike. What do you want with Trimble?”

“Just a welfare report, Will. An old friend wants to know what his prospects for the future are.”

“Oh. Well, you can let us know if you think he’s a problem case. We’re interested in knowing how ex-cons get along too.”

“Sure, Will,” the redhead said, and hung up.

He left the office, telling Lucy not to expect him back until after lunch.

II

Mike Shayne’s first stop was at the office of the Miami Daily News, where he got his reporter friend, Timothy Rourke, to dig out of the newspaper morgue both the story of Barry Trimble’s assault on a reporter and the later assault for which he had drawn his prison term. In both cases it seemed the man had been so drunk he didn’t know what he was doing.

In the latter case Marie Cole’s brother, whose name was given as Harlan Wright, apparently had been drunk also and couldn’t recall what had happened beyond a vague recollection of having an argument with his brother-in-law. He had fallen down a flight of stairs, fracturing his spine. The only witness was Trimble’s wife, who testified that Trimble had knocked her brother down the stairs in a drunken rage.

From the newspaper office Shayne headed for the rooming house on South Portage. He arrived about eleven thirty A.M.

The place was a two-story frame building badly in need of paint. A dim hall contained a double bank of mail slots with cards beneath them. A brand new card beneath slot number 212 had Barry Trimble inked on it.

Shayne climbed carpeted stairs to the second floor, located 212 halfway down the hall. His rap brought a burly, cheerful-faced man in his late thirties to the door. The man had a somewhat battered face and one cauliflower ear, but nevertheless there was something pleasant about his appearance. Years back Shayne had seen him in the ring a time or two and had liked his roughhouse style. Today, after reading the news accounts of the brutal beatings he had given two men, he had been prepared to dislike him on sight. But the ex-fighter gave him such a disarmingly friendly grin, he found himself instinctively smiling back.

“Barry Trimble?” the redhead asked.

“Uh-huh. What can I do for you?”

“I’m Mike Shayne,” the detective said. “Like to talk to you.”

“The private detective?” Trimble asked with pleased surprise. “I’ve heard a lot about you. Come on in.” Hospitably he held the door wide.

Shayne walked into a bare room furnished with an ancient double bed, a single dresser with a marble top and one straight-backed chair. In lieu of a private bath there was a grease-ringed washbowl in one corner.

“Have a seat,” Trimble invited, pointing to the lone chair. He seated himself on the edge of the bed and looked at Shayne expectantly.

Shayne took the proffered chair, brought out cigarettes and offered one. Trimble accepted it, allowed the redhead to hold a match to it, then leaned back and took an appreciative puff.

After lighting his own and reaching to drop the match into a dresser-top ash tray, Shayne said, “Understand you just got out of the big place yesterday, Barry.”

“Uh-huh,” the man said with cheerful lack of embarrassment.

“What are your plans?”

“Why?” Trimble inquired curiously. “Got a job lined up for me?”

Shayne shook his head. “Just making a welfare investigation. Somebody’s worried about you.”

“No fooling?” the ex-fighter said in surprise. “I didn’t think I had a friend left in the world. I didn’t get a single letter my last three years in the joint.”

There was no resentment in his tone. It was merely a statement of fact. Despite the man’s record of brutality, Shayne couldn’t help beginning to feel a liking for him.

He said casually, “Your ex-wife wonders if you’re still as sore as you were five years ago.”

Trimble’s cheerful expression evaporated. But he didn’t look angry. He merely looked reproachful, as though the redhead had disappointed him in some way.

“I always heard you were a right guy, Shayne,” he said in a wounded voice. “Don’t tell me you’re working for that witch.”

“Just to make a welfare investigation,” Shayne said mildly.

“Welfare investigation, hell,” Trimble said with a touch of bitterness. “She wouldn’t care if I starved in the gutter. Why’d she really sick you onto me? Because she’s scared that I’ll wring her rotten neck?”

“She’s a little upset by that possibility,” the detective admitted in the same mild tone. “She says that five years ago you promised to kill her. Still plan on it?”

Trimble’s good humor returned. Reaching out to crush his cigarette in the dresser ash tray, he chortled. “Losing some sleep, is she? I never said I’d kill her, Shayne. I said I’d wring her neck.”

“That often kills people,” Shayne said dryly. “Still plan to do it?”

The man made a gesture of amused impatience. “I never planned to kill her. It was just one of those things you say when you’re mad. It didn’t mean anything. I’d dance at her funeral, but I wouldn’t walk across the street to bat her one. I hope I never see her again.” He grinned widely. “No fooling, is she having nightmares?”

“A few.” Shayne examined him contemplatively. “Is this straight? You’re holding no grudge?”

“Sure I’m holding a grudge,” Trimble said. “I hate her guts. But I’m not going to the electric chair for the privilege of getting even. She railroaded me into five years. That’s enough.”

“Railroaded you?” Shayne said. “You made her brother a cripple.”

“Sure,” the ex-fighter admitted with a regretful frown. “When we were both so drunk neither of us remembered the fight. You don’t think I meant to cripple him, do you?”

“That’s beside the point. You did.”

“Listen,” Trimble said earnestly. “For five years I’ve regretted what I did to Harlan. Not just because it got me a sentence, but because I wouldn’t deliberately do that to anybody. But I never regretted choosing him that night. He’d been sponging on me since the day I married his sister. He lived with us, you know, and he never worked a day in his life.

“On top of that he rode me all the time about being a punch-drunk fighter. He deserved to have me clobber him. I don’t know just what happened, because we were both drunker than skunks. But it must have been an accident that he fell down the stairs. Marie could have said it was an accident. She was the only witness. But she testified that I picked him up and heaved him down the stairs. She didn’t have to say that.”

“You mean she could have lied to save you?”

“She could at least have shut up,” he said. “The law says a wife can’t be forced to testify against her husband. It doesn’t say she can’t, if she hates him enough to want to. They couldn’t have touched me without her testimony. But she got on the stand and deliberately sent me up.”

“Maybe she had some regard for her brother,” Shayne said.

“She hasn’t any regard for anyone but herself,” Trimble said cynically. “But why rehash things that are over and done with? Tell her to rest easy. I’m staying on the wagon.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

Trimble hiked thick eyebrows. “Don’t you know how I am? I’m a Jekyll and Hyde drinker. Sober, I’m a pretty nice guy, even if I do say so myself. Drunk I’m a slob. I might look her up and* bat her around if I got drunk. I might do almost anything. But I’ve already spent five years behind bars for getting drunk. You couldn’t pay me ever to take another drink.”

Shayne looked him up and down. “Think you can stick to that resolution? When you’ve been hitting the bottle for a long time—”

“I’m certain of it,” the man said in a definite tone. “I’ll never take another drink as long as I live. You can assure Marie of that. And tell Norbert to rest easy too. I haven’t got any grudge against him. All he has is my sympathy.”

“Oh, you know she’s remarried then?”

“Sure. We got the Miami papers in stir.” Suddenly he grinned. “I thought about sending them a wedding present, but I couldn’t get hold of the materials to build a bomb.” He shrugged and the grin was gone.

Shayne rose and killed his cigarette in the ash tray. “Okay, Trimble. I’ll report to my client that you’re willing to let bygones be bygones. Need a job?”

“I start as dish washer in a joint up the street today,” Trimble said. “I could use a better one.”

“I’ll speak to a couple of business acquainances,” Shayne said. “Maybe I can turn you up something.”

“I’d certainly appreciate that,” the man said, rising also. He glanced at a wrist watch. “Hey, I’ve got to report to work at noon. I’ll walk down with you.”

They went down the stairs together. Outside Trimble pointed to a sign up the street which read: SWARTZ’S CAFE.

“It only pays a dollar an hour,” he said. “But I get three meals, so it’s enough to tide me over. The food isn’t too hot, but at least the place is clean.”

They talked for a moment or two more, then Trimble walked up the street and entered the restaurant. Shayne climbed into his car and drove away.

III

Shayne stopped for lunch before driving to South Miami, so it was nearly two P.M. when he arrived at the home of Norbert and Marie Cole. It was a neat, two-story stucco building with a spacious lawn studded with palm trees.

When he rang the bell, a masculine voice from the front room called, “Come on in.” A television indoors was blasting so loudly, he barely heard the invitation over it.

Opening the door, the redhead stepped into a wide front room comfortably furnished with good quality furniture. Opposite the front door stairs led to the second floor. Just left of the stairs a blond, sullen-faced man of about thirty sat in a wheelchair with a shawl over his legs, facing a television screen.

A quizz program was on, and just as Shayne entered, the idiot M.C. emitted a hyena laugh at some joke he had just made. Shayne winced, partly at the volume but mostly at the M.C.

The man in the wheelchair lifted a small remote-control box from his lap, aimed it at the television set and pushed a button. The sound died and the screen went blank.

“I agree with your expression,” he said sardonically. “The worst loss to show business when vaudeville died was the hook they used to use to jerk lousy performers offstage. But I have to watch it because there isn’t anything else to do. You must be Mike Shayne.”

“Uh-huh,” Shayne said. “And you must be Mrs. Cole’s brother.”

The man in the wheelchair nodded. “Harlan Wright. If you’re looking for my sister and brother-in-law, they should be back any minute. They ran over to pick up Lydia Mason. She’s the writer responsible for the corn they inflict on the long-suffering public every morning. They meet here every afternoon to plan the next day’s horror session. Today Lydia phoned that her car broke down, so they had to go after her. Have a seat.”

Crossing the room, Shayne dropped his lanky frame into a chair and produced cigarettes. He gave Harlan Wright an inquiring look.

“No thanks,” the man said. “I don’t smoke. There’s a ash stand right behind you. Did you locate Trimble?”

Shayne nodded. Lighting a cigarette with a paper match, he twisted in his chair to move the ash stand behind it around in front of him. He dropped the dead match into it.

“How is my punchy ex-brother-in-law?” Wright asked.

“Seems in good spirits,” Shayne said laconically.

The man chuckled without humor. “So my lovely sister is worried that Barry will come after her, is she? He ought to. If ever a bitch deserved a clobbering, Marie does.”

Shayne hiked shaggy eyebrows.

“She railroaded the poor slob,” Wright said. “It was the easiest way to get rid of him. She had her greedy little eyes on Norbert.” He chuckled again. “Then she almost didn’t land Norbert after going to all the trouble of getting rid of Barry. It took her a full year to sink her hooks into him.”

Shayne said with a frown, “You mean Trimble’s conviction was a frame?”

“Oh, we had some kind of a scrap, all right. I vaguely remember clobbering him and getting clobbered back. But I’ve always doubted that he deliberately threw me down the stairs. I wouldn’t put it past Marie to have pushed me herself. She would have liked to be rid of me, too.” He emitted another cynical chuckle. “If she did, it sure backfired. Now she’s stuck with my support for life.”

Shayne took a thoughtful puff on his cigarette. “You don’t seem to harbor much resentment against Trimble.”

Wright shrugged. “I’m not sure he did this to me. And even if he did, it wasn’t on purpose. Aside from being dumb, Barry isn’t a bad guy when he’s sober.”

The front door opened and Marie Cole entered. Behind her came a slim brunette, of about thirty and behind the brunette was Norbert Cole. The brunette had a nice figure, but a rather plain face at first glance. At second glance you noted her ripe lips and sultry expression and realized that even if she lacked photogenic beauty, there was a definite feminine allure about her.

Killing his cigarette, Shayne rose to his feet.

“Oh, hello, Mr. Shayne,” Marie Cole said. “You’ve met my brother, I see.” She introduced the brunette as Lydia Mason, adding the information that the woman was the staff writer for Breakfast with the Coles.

Shayne gave Lydia a polite nod and the woman murmured, “How do you do?” She crossed to seat herself in the chair nearest the detective.

Marie Cole seated herself on the sofa. After closing the door behind him, Norbert Cole seated himself next to his wife and waved Shayne back to his chair.

Harlan Wright said, “Mr. Shayne located Barry, Marie. He’s coming over tonight to cut your ears off.”

The platinum blonde’s eyes widened. Shayne growled, “Your brother has a misplaced sense of humor, Mrs. Cole.” He threw a glance at Lydia Mason.

Norbert Cole said, “You can make any report you have in front of Lydia, Mr. Shayne. She’s like one of the family.”

The redhead shrugged. “All right, then, Mrs. Cole, your ex-husband is living in a rooming house at South Portage and Labat. He has a dishwashing job at Schwartz’s Cafe, a few door from the rooming house. He isn’t interested in any revenge. He said to tell you he plans to stay on the wagon.”

“Barry stay on the wagon?” she said unbelievingly.

Norbert Cole said, “If he does, there isn’t much to worry about. It’s only when he’s drunk that he goes nuts.”

Shayne said, “He admitted being a Jekyll and Hyde drinker. He blames drink for what happened and doesn’t want a repeat. I’m inclined to believe he really means to stay away from the stuff, though of course I can’t guarantee that he will. But my opinion after talking to him is that you aren’t in any danger from him so long as he stays sober.”

“He was sober when he threatened to kill me five years ago,” she said dubiously.

“He insists it wasn’t meant as a threat. He says when he promised to wring your neck, it was just an angry remark. He has no intention of coming anywhere near you.”

“How’s he feel about me?” Cole asked.

Under ordinary circumstances Shayne wouldn’t have repeated Trimble’s exact words in order to shield his ex-wife’s feelings. But his opinion of Marie Cole had been steadily dropping ever since he first met her and he was beginning to doubt that she had any feelings other than concern for her own skin.

He said dryly, “He’s holding no grudge against you for marrying Marie. He said all you have is his sympathy.”

The woman flushed. Harlan Wright chuckled delightedly and she threw him a baleful glare. Norbert Cole and Lydia Mason discreetly showed no reactions at all.

Shayne rose to his feet. “I guess that about winds it up, Mrs. Cole. If you don’t think he’s capable of staying on the wagon, I suggest you lock your doors at night and stay off the streets when you’re alone for a time. If he does stay sober, I don’t think you have to worry.”

“How will I know whether or not he’s sticking to his resolution?” she inquired dissatisfiedly.

The redhead shrugged. “You have a problem. As things stand, you don’t even have much grounds to ask for a police guard, unless he does get drunk and tries to commit some overt act. About all you can do is be careful and hope he stays on the wagon.”

“Couldn’t you make a periodic check on him?”

Shayne shook his head. “I’m not a nursemaid, Mrs. Cole. I agreed to see him once and give you my opinion. If you want a regular check kept on him, you’ll have to hire some other investigator. It isn’t the sort of case that interests me in the least.”

“Well, could I at least call on you if he threatens me again?”

“If he does that,” Shayne agreed. “Phone me any time if you think you’re in real danger, and I’ll come running.”

Norbert Cole rose to show the redhead to the door. “That ought to be satisfactory, Marie,” he said. “With Mr. Shayne on tap for emergencies, there isn’t anything to worry about. We certainly appreciate what you’ve done, Mr. Shayne. Don’t we, Marie?”

“I guess,” his wife said without much enthusiasm, still obviously not satisfied with what Shayne had told her.

There was nothing Shayne could do about that. Barry Trimble might go ten years without taking a drink, then fall off the wagon and decide to carry out his threat. It was a situation in which the only permanent solution was hope.

Bidding the Coles goodbye and telling Harlan Wright and Lydia Mason he was glad to have met them, the redhead left.

IV

At eleven thirty that night Shayne was having a cognac and ice water nightcap in his apartment when the phone rang. Setting down his glass, he went to answer it.

“Mike?” a frightened feminine voice said in his ear. “Mr. Shayne, I mean.”

“Mike is all right,” he growled. “What is it, Marie?”

“Barry just phoned. His voice was so thick with drink, I could hardly understand him. He said he’s on his way over here to kill me.”

“Is your husband home?” Shayne asked sharply.

“It’s his bowling night. No one’s here but Harlan, and he’s downstairs in bed. I’m phoning from bed too, as a matter of fact. I took Barry’s call on my bedside extension. The doors are locked, but both the front and back doors have glass panes. If he’s beserk, he could knock out a pane and reach through to unlock the door.”

“Do you know where he phoned from?”

“I haven’t any idea. I don’t think it was a pay phone, because there wasn’t any operator’s voice first. Barry was right there when I answered.”

“You don’t get an operator’s voice on pay-phone calls anymore,” Shayne said. “They’re all dial. It’s a fifteen minute drive from here to your place. I want you to call the police and tell them to come fast. I’ll get there as soon as I can.”

“Oh, Mike, I can’t drag the police into this,” she wailed. “It will be in the papers.”

“You won’t need a contract renewal if you’re dead,” Shayne snapped. “Call them.”

“But Mike—” Her voice ended in a gasp as there was a crash of glass far in the background.

Shayne said, “Marie!”

“That was the front door,” she whispered.

“Lock your bedroom door,” the detective said rapidly. “I’ll have the cops there in a matter of minutes. Hang up now, so I can dial.”

“All right,” she said in a panicky voice, and the phone went dead.

Shayne dialed police headquarters and barked the information to the desk sergeant in quick, staccato words. The call took him less than thirty seconds. Then he slammed down the receiver, grabbed his coat from where it was draped over a chair and shrugged into it on the way to the door.

He headed for South Miami with his accelerator to the floor. At stop lights and stop signs he slowed only enough to make sure there was no cross traffic, then whizzed on through. Where there was cross traffic, he blasted it to a stop with his horn and nosed through as soon as the other cars came to screeching halts.

If he had been driving like that to a party, he thought grimly, cops would be sounding a siren at him before he had gone two blocks. But because he wanted a police car to appear, so that it could clear the rest of the way with its siren, there wasn’t one in sight anywhere. It was the way the dice always seemed to fall.

Nevertheless he made the fifteen-minute drive in nine minutes flat, slamming to a halt behind a police radio car parked in front of the stucco home. As he long-legged it across the lawn, he noted that the front door stood wide open and every light in the house was on. The upper glass pane of the door was shattered, he saw as he entered the house, and broken glass was strewn all over the floor just inside.

He found Harlan Wright, pale-faced and tousle-haired, seated in his wheelchair in the front room. The man was in pajamas.

When Shayne gave him an inquiring look, Wright said huskily, “I don’t know what happened. It takes me five minutes to lift myself out of bed into my chair. By the time I got out here, cops were running upstairs. They’re still there.”

Shayne went up the stairs three at a time. He reached the top just as a uniformed officer came from a bedroom door. Shayne knew the man, whose name was George Gannon.

“Hi, Mike,” Gannon said in surprise. “What are you doing here?”

“I phoned in the complaint,” Shayne growled. “I was talking to Mrs. Cole on the phone when the door pane broke. Is she all right?”

Gannon gave his head a regretful shake. He nodded toward the open bedroom door.

Stepping to the door, Shayne looked in. A second police officer, whom Shayne didn’t know, was peering into the bathroom. Marie Cole, wearing a black lace nightgown, lay face up on the bed. Her face was purple and her swollen tongue protruded grotesquely from her open mouth. Her eyes were horribly distended.

“Strangled,” George Gannon said, unnecessarily from behind him.

His face trenched with anger, Shayne examined the door lock. When he turned the key, which was on the inner side, it worked perfectly. There was no sign that the lock had been forced.

“Was this door unlocked when you arrived?” he inquired.

Gannon said, “It was standing wide open.”

“He must have made it up the stairs before she could get to it from the bed,” Shayne said bitterly. “I told her to lock herself in.”

The other policeman said, “Nobody in the bathroom. Let’s check the other rooms.” He looked at the redhead curiously.

“Mike Shayne,” Gannon told him. “You’ve heard of him.”

“Oh, sure,” the policeman said. “How are you, Mr. Shayne?”

“Sore,” Shayne growled.

As both officers went off to search the rest of the house, the redhead bent over the dead woman. The nail of the ring finger on each hand was broken, he noted, indicating that she had struggled to tear the throttling grip from her throat. Close examination of the nails failed to show any skin particles or blood beneath them, however, as would have been the case had she managed to scratch her assailant’s flesh. Shayne could not be sure, but it seemed highly probable that the killer had worn long sleeves, and possibly gloves.

He moved out into the hall just as Officer Bannon came from another room.

“Nobody up here,” Gannon said. “Let’s see what Joe found downstairs.”

As they reached the bottom of the stairs, the other officer came from the back of the house.

“Nobody but him,” he said, jerking a thumb at the man in the wheelchair. “I phoned in a report, so Homicide will be along soon.”

He looked at the redhead. “What do you know about this, Mr. Shayne?”

“She was a client of mine,” Shayne growled. “You can phone in another report. Get out an APB on Barry Trimble. They can get his description from his card downtown. He was released from prison yesterday.”

The officer named Joe hiked his eyebrows. “You think he did it?”

“He phoned my client that he was coming over here to kill her. You can add to the description that he’s drunk. If you get it on the air fast, you may still net him in the vicinity.”

The policeman headed for an extension phone on a small table next to the stairs.

It was midnight before the homicide team showed up. It consisted of a plump, middle-aged lieutenant named Sam Mosby and a gaunt detective named Allen Buck. They brought a medic and a lab man with them.

The lieutenant did all the questioning, while his gaunt partner took notes. After the medic and lab man went upstairs, Mosby got the stories of the two officers first on the scene, of Harlan Wright and Mike Shayne.

When he had all the essential information, Mosby said, “We’ve got fifty cops searching the area. If he’s still around, we’ll get him.”

“Send anyone to his home address?” Shayne inquired.

Mosby looked at him. “Naturally. His room door’s locked and the manager doesn’t have a duplicate key. The place is staked out. If the dragnet doesn’t snare him and he doesn’t show at home, I’ll run over there after while and break the door down. Maybe he’s hiding in the closet.”

George Gannon came in the front door leading Norbert Cole by the arm. “This guy says he lives here, Lieutenant,” he announced. “Says he’s the woman’s husband.”

“What’s happened?” Cole inquired, looking from Mosby to Shayne. There was a sharp anxiety in his stare.

Ignoring the question, Mosby said, “Where you been tonight, mister?”

“It’s my bowling night. What’s happened? Is my wife all right?”

Harlan Wright said in a harsh voice, “She’s dead, Norbert. Barry broke in and strangled her.” Then he lowered his face into his hands and suddenly began to sob.

Everyone stared at the weeping man in the wheelchair. The police officers looked vaguely embarrassed at seeing a man in tears. Norbert Cole seemed too stunned by his brother-in-law’s announcement to be affected by his sobbing. Shayne’s primary reaction was puzzlement at Wright’s display of grief over the death of a sister he had obviously disliked.

Wright cleared up his puzzlement by dolefully inquiring through his tears, “Now who’s going to take care of me? I’ll have to go to some home.”

It wasn’t grief, the redhead realized, making no attempt to conceal his disgust. It was merely sudden understanding by the cripple that he had lost his only source of support. He seemed to possess the same self-interested philosophy that his sister had.

The medic came down the stairs and said, “Death by strangulation, all right. Within the last hour, I’d guess.”

Lieutenant Mosby said, “We’ve got the time of death pretty well pinpointed, Doc. She talked to Shayne here on the phone at eleven thirty. When the boys arrived seven minutes later, she was already dead.”

“Then why’d you call me out of a poker game?” the medic rasped. “Just to tell you she was dead? Any moron could have looked at her and have told that.”

He stormed out of the house.

“I’d hate to have his disposition,” Mosby said. “Al, see if the dragnet has snared anything.”

Silently his gaunt partner crossed to the phone by the stairs and dialed. After a brief conversation, he hung up and shook his head.

“Then I think I’ll hit the guy’s apartment,” Mosby said. “Gannon, you and Joe can come along. You both have door-breaking shoulders. Al, you stay here for the lab report and until the morgue wagon shows up.”

Shayne said, “Mind if I trail along, Lieutenant?”

Mosby shrugged. “Suit yourself, Shayne. If he’s locked in that room and he’s drunk, it may take four of us to subdue him. I’ve seen Trimble in the ring, and he’s strong as a bull.”

He strode out the door trailed by the two uniformed policemen. Shayne followed them out, climbed into his car which was parked behind the police car. The two policemen got in the front seat of the radio car, Lieutenant Mosby got in back.

Shayne kept behind them all the way to South Portage and Labat. It was a fifteen-minute drive, even with the police car’s siren open. As Lieutenant Mosby’s investigation had taken nearly an hour at the scene of the crime, it was past one A.M. when they got there.

V

The stakeout car in front of the rooming house was an unmarked undercover car with a single plainclothesman in it. Lieutenant Mosby stopped to have a brief word with him before going inside.

They found the outside man’s partner posted in the hallway outside of room 212. He straightened up from a slouching position when he saw the lieutenant.

“I don’t think there’s anybody in there, Lieutenant,” he said. “I’ve listened at the door a half dozen times, and I can’t hear a sound.”

“Go get the manager,” Mosby ordered.

The man went down the stairs. The lieutenant, Shayne and the two uniformed officers waited as a good five minutes passed. While waiting, Mosby went over to lay his ear against the door, then shrugged and leaned against the wall. Eventually the stakeout man reappeared with a thin, elderly man wearing a robe over pajamas.

“You the manager of this place?” Lieutenant Mosby asked.

“Yes, and this is the second time I’ve been routed out of bed,” the man complained. “What is it this time?”

“What’s your name?”

“Henry Fellinger.”

“How come you don’t have a pass key to all the rooms, Mr. Fellinger?”

Fellinger said in an aggrieved tone, “Like I told this other officer here, I had one, but I lost it last week. You’ll just have to wait until Mr. Trimble comes home if you want to get in there.”

“I don’t think so,” Mosby informed him. He turned to his two uniformed companions. “Break it in.”

“Hey!” the manager protested. “You can’t do that!”

“Watch us,” Mosby said. “Go ahead, boys.”

George Gannon examined the door, which was held by a spring lock. Then he backed across the hall, charged forward and threw a beefy shoulder against it. The door shuddered but the lock held.

Rubbing his shoulder, Gannon stepped aside as his partner Joe hurled himself against the door. There was the rending sound of screws being torn from wood and the door crashed inward against the inside wall.

Lieutenant Mosby entered the room, followed by Shayne. The center light was off, but a small light burned over the corner washbowl. There was a strong odor of whisky in the room. An empty pint bottle stood on the dresser. A second, also empty, lay on the floor. A wet stain on the rug around it explained the odor. Apparently it had been at least half full when it spilled.

A straight-backed chair lay on its side near the room’s center. A section of doubled clothesline was securely tied to the overhead light fixture and hung downward.

Hanging limply from the end of the rope was the body of Barry Trimble.

The men in the hall had now all crowded in behind Mike Shayne. Everyone stared at the dead man.

Henry Fellinger squeaked, “He’s dead! He hung himself!”

Swinging toward the rooming-house manager, Lieutenant Mosby snapped, “We won’t need you any more, Mr. Fellinger. Go on back to bed.”

The man continued to stare open-mouthed at the dead man. George Gannon took his arm and gently steered him from the room. He stood watching from the doorway until he was sure the manager had gone back downstairs, then re-entered the room.

Lieutenant Mosby moodily circled the dangling corpse. “Well, I guess that’s that” he said. “Murder and suicide.” He glanced at his watch and his expression turned from a moody look to one of satisfaction. “Both neatly tied up in less than two hours.”

Shayne went close to examine the body. Trimble’s face was as congested as Marie Cole’s had been, his tongue was equally swollen and his eyes were distended. The knot of the noose was expertly placed to the side and slightly to the rear of the man’s neck, in the traditional spot that hangmen place it, but it hadn’t succeeded in breaking the neck. Trimble had strangled to death, by all appearances.

Mosby said, “He stood on the chair, tied the rope around his neck, then kicked the chair from under him.”

Shayne went over to examine the broken door lock. It was a simple spring lock, with no extra bolt which could be thrown from the inside.

The lieutenant asked, “What are you looking at, Shayne?”

“It’s too pat,” the redhead growled. “It looks rigged.”

“Rigged?” Mosby repeated with a frown. “He was locked in.”

“It’s a spring lock, Lieutenant All you have to do is pull the door closed from outside.”

Mosby’s frown deepened. “The guy phoned Mrs. Cole that he was coming over to kill her. You said so yourself. He carried out his threat, then came back here and hanged himself. Why do you want to complicate a simple picture? It all fits.”

Shayne irritably tugged at his left earlobe. “Somebody phoned her and said he was Trimble. According to Marie, his voice was so thick she could hardly understand him. Thick with drink, she said. But it could merely have been a disguised voice.”

“She used to be married to the guy,” Mosby said impatiently. “She’d recognize his voice. She’d be certain to.”

“She hadn’t heard it for five years. And for all we know, she’d never before heard it over the phone when he was drunk. Would you recognize your wife’s voice over the phone if she called you, said she was someone else and talked so thickly you could barely make out the words?”

After staring at the redhead for a moment, the lieutenant made a dismissing gesture. “Why would anybody rig a thing like this, Shayne? What would be the motive?”

“I don’t know,” Shayne admitted. “I just don’t like the smell of it.”

“Why?”

“I talked to Trimble right here in this room less than fourteen hours ago. He said he was permanently on the wagon. He sounded like he meant it. If a couple of months had passed, or even a couple of weeks, I might swallow it. But it’s hard to believe he didn’t even have enough will power to hold off one night.”

“He’d been in stir five years. In that time you can build an awful thirst.”

“If he was that thirsty, he’d have gotten drunk as soon as he got out. Why would he wait over twenty-four hours?”

Mosby shrugged. “It’ll be easy enough to settle. I’ll ask the autopsy surgeon to check his alcohol content. That’ll show whether he was drunk or sober.”

He turned to George Gannon. “Phone Al Buck at the Cole residence and see if that lab man is still there, Gannon. If he is, have him sent over here. Then phone headquarters and tell them to drag Doc away from his poker game again. I want this guy looked at before he’s cut down.”

Shayne waited around until the lab man and the medic arrived. The latter got there a moment before the lab man, so the lab technician quietly waited to one side until the doctor was finished. The medic seemed in an even more irascible mood at being called from his game a second time than he had at the Cole home.

After examining the body, he said peevishly, “Strangulation. At least an hour ago, maybe two or three. Say between ten thirty and one thirty.”

Shayne asked, “Can’t you cut it any finer?”

“On the autopsy table tomorrow, maybe. If you can tell me what and when he last ate. By figuring the rate of digestion, we can pinpoint it within maybe fifteen or twenty minutes. But if you can’t get me the dope on what he ate, don’t expect a much better answer than I just gave you.”

Lieutenant Mosby said, “We know he was alive at eleven thirty, because he was murdering his wife then. Even if he drove like a bat out of hell, he couldn’t have gotten back here before about ten of twelve, or a quarter to at the earliest. The stakeout arrived about a quarter after and didn’t hear any sound in the room. So he must have done it about midnight.”

The medic’s face slowly turned red. “You mean you called me out for a second time in one night when you already knew the answer!” he blared.

Mosby said pacifically, “Shayne here thinks it might have been rigged. I want to know if he was really drunk.”

The doctor continued to glare at the lieutenant. “I can’t tell that on the scene, genius. You expect me to dissect him right here? Get him down to the morgue and I’ll tell you everything you want to know in the morning.”

He stalked out of the room.

Mosby looked at Shayne. “Touchy, isn’t he?”

“Maybe he was winning,” Shayne said. “You need me any more, Lieutenant?”

“Not tonight,” Mosby said. “You’ll have to come down tomorrow and dictate a statement to sign. But I guess we’re set for tonight.”

Shayne went home and went to bed.

VI

At eleven the next morning Shayne arrived at police headquarters. After dictating his statement of the night’s previous events to a stenographer and signing it, he dropped by the police chief’s office.

Chief Will Gentry looked up from some papers he was reading and gave the detective a cordial nod. “Morning, Mike. I was just looking over Sam Mosby’s report about last night. He notes that you disagreed with his conclusions.”

Shayne dropped his lanky frame into a chair. “I just can’t see Trimble falling off the wagon so soon after he told me he was permanently through with the stuff, Will.”

Gentry shuffled the papers in front of him until a different one was on top. “Here’s the post mortem report. He had enough alcohol in his bloodstream to knock the average man out. It’s a wonder he was able to stand on that chair.”

Shayne frowned. “Were they able to fix the time of death any closer?”

After examining the report, Gentry said, “A little. Between ten thirty and twelve-thirty. That fits, Mosby figures he hanged himself around midnight.”

The redhead gave his left earlobe an irritable tug. “I still don’t like it, Will.”

Gentry said patiently, “Just for the sake of argument, let’s assume it was rigged, Mike. Look at the impossible time table the killer would have had to keep. At eleven thirty he breaks into the Cole home. He takes at least five minutes to strangle the woman, gets out again about eleven thirty-five. Mosby says it’s a fifteen-minute drive from the Cole place to Trimble’s house, even with the siren wide open. Give him the benefit of the doubt and get him there at ten of twelve. Twenty-five minutes later the stakeouts have the place covered, so he had to finish his business and be gone by then. You think he could get Trimble dead drunk and hang him in that time?”

“Maybe he knew Trimble was already drunk, so all he had to do was walk in and hang him.”

Will Gentry grinned. “Now you’re contradicting yourself. Your objection is based on the premise that Trimble wouldn’t have fallen off the wagon on his own hook, isn’t it?”

Shayne irritably ran a hand through his coarse red hair. “All right, I’m contradicting myself. I still don’t like it, Will. I have a feeling that it’s too pat.”

“Well, you must have an alternate suspect, then. Who do you think rigged it?”

Shayne shrugged. “The obvious one comes to mind. Who’s always the first suspect you consider when a woman is murdered?”

Gentry nodded. “I thought of that when I saw Mosby’s note that you disagreed with him. We don’t think you’re a fool, Mike. We’ve got a pretty healthy respect for your opinion in matters like this around here. It occurred to me that if it was rigged, it was just the sort of frame a husband might pull to prevent us from looking any farther. There wouldn’t be any point in pushing the blame onto Trimble if the real killer was someone we wouldn’t automatically suspect anyway. So we checked Norbert Cole’s alibi.”

“And it stood up?”

Gentry shook his head. “He was supposed to be bowling. He hasn’t showed to bowl with his team in five weeks.”

Shayne’s eyebrows went up. “He rigged an alibi?”

“Yeah,” the chief said dryly. “But not for our benefit. For his wife’s. For five weeks on the nights he was supposed to be bowling, he’s been at the apartment of a TV writer named Lydia Mason. When we busted his first alibi, he broke down and confessed where he really was. She confirmed it. She says he was with her from nine until midnight. If he’d never missed bowling before, we might suspect that she was just covering for him. But with the pattern of his spending every bowling night at her place, it rings true.”

Shayne gave his earlobe a thoughtful tug. “I guess that eliminates my prime suspect,” he said reluctantly. “The only other possible is Marie’s brother, Harlan Wright. And he’s a cripple.”

Gentry nodded. “We thought of him, too. Norbert Cole steered us Wright’s way when he realized he was under suspicion. According to Cole, Wright hated his sister’s guts. Cole says Harlan half suspected that it was really Marie instead of Trimble who pushed him down the steps five years ago. Cole claims Wright accused her of it on a number of occasions during arguments. But Wright couldn’t even get up the stairs, let alone drive across town and lift a guy as heavy as Trimble up on a chair. We’re closing the case as murder and suicide, Mike.”

Shayne rose to his feet. “You do as you like, Will. But I think I’ll poke around a bit more before I close my personal file on it. See you around.”

Will Gentry frowned after the redhead as the latter walked out of the office.

By then it was nearing noon, and on a sudden impulse Shayne drove to South Portage. Entering Swartz’s Cafe, he sat at the counter and ordered a blue plate special of roast beef, potato and vegetable.

As Trimble had told him, the food wasn’t very good, but at least the place was clean. After finishing his meal, the redhead beckoned to the little blonde waitress who had waited on him.

Coming over, she said, “Dessert, sir?”

“No thanks,” he said. “Did you work with Barry Trimble yesterday?”

“Yes,” she said. “Wasn’t that terrible what he did? Did you know him?” Then her eyes widened in sudden recognition. “Hey, you’re Mike Shayne, aren’t you?”

“Uh-huh,” he admitted.

“Barry told us you dropped in on him yesterday. Gee, I never thought I’d meet a real celebrity. My name’s Helen Gorka.”

“How are you, Helen?” he said solemnly. “I suppose Barry ate his evening meal here last night, didn’t he?”

“Sure. We sat down together. We were both on duty until eight, so we took our dinner break at seven.”

“Exactly at seven?”

She nodded. “Seven until seven-twenty. All we get is twenty minutes.”

“What did he have to eat?”

Her eyebrows went up in surprise at the question. “Stuffed peppers, mashed potatoes, string beans. Yesterday’s blue plate special. Why?”

“Just wondered.” He stood up. “Thanks, Helen. You’ve been a big help.”

“It’s been a pleasure,” she assured him.

There was a phone booth in the restaurant. Shayne used it to call police headquarters. He asked for Chief Gentry.

When the chief answered his phone, Shayne said, “This is Mike, Will. Last night the M.E. told me that if I could give him the time that Trimble last ate, and what he ate, he could pinpoint the time of death to within a few minutes.”

“Yeah, they can do that,” Gentry agreed. “They estimate it by the stage of digestion.”

“Well, you can pass on to him that Trimble had stuffed peppers, mashed potatoes and string beans at seven o’clock and finished eating at seven-twenty.”

Gentry said in a puzzled tone, “We already know about when he died, Mike.”

“Pass it on anyway, will you?” Shayne said.

“All right, Mike,” Gentry said in the irritatingly agreeable tone of a man humoring a friend he believes is entirely wrong. “I’ll pass it on.”

“You don’t have to sound as though you’re doing me a favor,” Shayne growled. “I’m trying to do you one.”

After hanging up, he mused for a moment, then pulled from his pocket the piece of paper on which he had written the Coles’s address and phone number. Dropping another coin, he dialed the number. It was answered almost immediately by Harlan Wright.

“This is Mike Shayne,” the detective said. “Mr. Cole there?”

“Oh, hello, Mr. Shayne. No, he isn’t. He had to stop by the funeral parlor to make arrangements for Marie, then he was going to the TV station. Something about a contract termination because of Marie’s death.” There was a pause, then he said in a diffident voice, “I guess I was pretty hammy last night, breaking up like that. I’m embarrassed.”

“Forget it,” Shayne said. “Thanks for the information.”

He hung up.

VII

The television station where Breakfast with the Coles originated was a modern, brick, one-story building. A receptionist told Shayne that Norbert Cole had just come from the station manager’s office, and she thought the detective could find him in staff writer Lydia Mason’s office. She told him how to get there.

Shayne walked down a hall to the indicated door and found it open. Looking in, he saw Lydia Mason seated behind a typewriter desk. Norbert Cole sat smoking a cigarette and talking to her.

The woman looked up and said, “Why, hello, Mr. Shayne. Come on in.”

Norbert Cole rose and gave Shayne a polite greeting. Shayne found a chair and lowered his long frame into it.

“I was looking for you, Cole,” he said. “Your brother-in-law told me where to find you.”

Cole reseated himself. “You’re looking for me? Is anything the matter?”

“I just wanted to talk about last night.”

Cole frowned. “I’ve already been over all that with the police, Shayne.”

“I know,” the redhead said dryly. “You had a pretty good alibi.”

Cole’s frown deepened and Lydia Mason blushed. “See here, Shayne,” Cole said with a touch of anger. “Our personal affairs—”

“I’m not interested in your personal affairs,” the redhead interrupted. “But in view of your alibi, I don’t suppose either of you are terribly grief-stricken over Marie’s death.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Cole demanded.

“Only that I don’t feel I have to touch on the subject delicately out of respect for your feelings. I don’t think Trimble killed Marie and I don’t think he committed suicide. I think he was murdered, just as Marie was.”

Norbert Cole’s eyes narrowed and Lydia Mason looked shocked. In a faint voice she said, “What do you mean, Mr. Shayne?”

“I think the whole thing was rigged by someone who knew of the threat Trimble made five years ago. How many people does that include?”

After staring at the redhead for a time, Cole said slowly, “Only me and Lydia and Harlan. We never discussed it with anyone else. Is this an accusation?”

“Just a statement of fact. The police seem satisfied with your alibi, Cole.”

A puzzled frown formed on Cole’s face. “You can’t be suspecting Harlan.”

Shayne shrugged. “I understand you yourself suggested him to the police.”

Norbert Cole looked a trifle shamefaced. “They seemed to be suspecting me, and I merely pointed out that Harlan had just as good a motive. It was a defensive move that I regretted as soon as I made it. Of course Harlan can’t move out of that wheelchair.”

“You sure?” Shayne inquired. “How long has it been since he was examined by a doctor?”

Cole looked startled. “Why, a couple of years. Marie had a specialist re-examine him two years ago, I remember. But if you’re implying that he might be able to walk, why would he spend his life pretending to be crippled?”

“Some people will do anything to keep from going to work,” Shayne said. “And from all reports, Harlan isn’t the most ambitious guy in the world. What was the name of that specialist?” After corrugating his brow, Cole said, “Bacon. Dr. Clyde Bacon. I think he’s in the Medical Building. You can easily check on it if I’m mistaken.”

Shayne came to his feet. “That’s all I wanted. Think I’ll give Dr. Bacon a ring.” Moving to the door, he paused and said in seemingly idle interest, “What are your plans, Cole, now that your wife’s death ends Breakfast with the Coles?”

Cole said, “I really haven’t thought about it yet. It’s a little soon to think about anything but funeral arrangements.”

Lydia Mason said, “Norbert used to work the night club circuit. He’s really a very fine stand-up comedian.”

“With the right material,” Cole modestly admitted. “The trouble was getting good writers. If you pay what they’re worth, you work for nothing yourself. If you buy gags from second-raters, you die before the audience. It’s a rough racket.”

“I suppose,” Shayne said. “Well, thanks for the name of that doctor.”

With a nod of goodbye, he continued on out of the office and retraced his way down the hall toward the receptionist. Spotting a door lettered station manager, he hesitated, then, on sudden impulse, opened it and went in.

When a middle-aged secretary looked up at him inquiringly, he said, “Tell your boss I’d like to see him. The name is Michael Shayne.”

The secretary’s face registered surprised interest “The private detective? Just a moment, Mr. Shayne.”

Rising from her desk, she disappeared through a door marked: Private. A moment later she reopened it and said, “Mr. Carlson will see you now, Mr. Shayne.”

It was after two P.M. when Mike Shayne left the television station. Returning to his office, he made a phone call to Dr. Clyde Bacon. When he hung up, there was a look of satisfaction on his face.

Lifting his desk phone, he said to Lucy, “Phone Will Gentry, will you, angel? Ask him to call me here as soon as he gets a report back from the autopsy surgeon on Barry Trimble.”

“All right, Michael,” Lucy said.

The phone call from Chief Gentry came at four P.M. When Shayne answered, the chief sounded upset.

“You sure managed to louse up our whole case,” Gentry complained. “It’s wide open again.”

“I thought it might be,” Shayne said. “What did the autopsy surgeon say?”

“Trimble died between ten thirty and eleven P.M. A half hour to an hour before Marie Cole was murdered.”

Shayne emitted a pleased grunt. “That’s the clinching bit of evidence we needed, Will. Would you like to know who the real killer is now?”

“We’d prefer not to list both murders as unsolved homicides,” the chief said sarcastically.

“I’ll meet you at the Cole house in twenty minutes,” Shayne said, and hung up.

Chief Gentry was already parked in front of the stucco house when Shayne arrived. As the redhead pulled in behind him, Gentry got out of his car and scowled in his direction.

Climbing from his car, Shayne said, “Why the sour expression, Will?”

“You hung up on me,” Gentry said accusingly. “I phoned right back, but Lucy said you’d already left. You could have told me what this is all about.”

“You’ll find out inside,” Shayne said. “Let’s go.”

Norbert Cole came to the door. He looked surprised to see Gentry, but he invited both men in politely enough. Lydia Mason was seated in the front room and Harlan Wright was in his wheelchair.

Shayne said, “I’m glad you’re here, Miss Mason. It saves us the trouble of sending for you.”

The brunette raised her eyebrows and Cole said, “What’s this all about, Shayne?”

“A couple of murders,” Shayne said. “The autopsy surgeon has been able to fix the exact time of Trimble’s death. He died a half hour to an hour before Marie did.”

Lydia Mason looked confused. “How could that be?” she inquired.

“His killer banked on the police accepting the obvious,” Shayne said. “Maybe he knew that under ordinary circumstances it’s difficult to fix time of death closer than within a couple of hours, even with an autopsy. Or maybe he figured they wouldn’t bother having an autopsy when the situation was so obvious. At any rate, he set the scene at the rooming house first He had to. He knew Marie’s murder would only take minutes, but Trimble’s demanded a lot of advance preparation. There wasn’t time to begin working on Trimble after Marie was dead.”

Norbert Cole asked, “What kind of advance preparation?”

“First he had to get him drunk. My guess is that he walked in on Trimble with a gun in his hand and forced him to drink at gunpoint. Probably he made him down the stuff as fast as he could take it, and forced him to keep drinking until he passed out. Then he strung him up, came home and made the phone call to Marie.”

“Came home?” Wright said.

“The phone call was made from right here,” Shayne said. He pointed to the extension by the stairs. “Probably from that extension. He dialed the service number which makes your own phone ring, hung up, and as soon as the ringing stopped, indicating that Marie had answered upstairs, picked it up again and went into his act. It had to be that way because of the timing. He had to know that Marie had called me and he had to know what she said, because if she suspected it wasn’t really Barry Trimble who phoned her, everything was off.

“He listened on the extension to her conversation with me. As soon as he was satisfied that the plot was working, he let the receiver dangle, walked out on the porch and broke the door pane. That was a fine touch, because I could hear the glass shatter in the background in the extension pickup.”

“Who?” Norbert Cole asked tensely. He shifted his gaze to the man in the wheelchair.

Shayne gave his head a sardonic shake. “It won’t work. Cole. I talked on the phone to Dr. Bacon. Harlan is permanently paralyzed from the waist down, and nothing in the world could ever make him walk again. Did Marie manage to get her bedroom door locked before you got upstairs? It wouldn’t matter, of course. She would be so relieved at hearing your voice assuring her that it was only you, she’d unlock it again.”

Cole’s face had paled. “You’re crazy, Shayne. You can’t pin this on me.”

“Yes I can,” the redhead assured him. “You managed it beautifully, but it didn’t quite work. Not wanting publicity because of your pending contract renewal was a particularly fine touch. You handled all the business arrangements for the team, so Marie didn’t know your option wasn’t being picked up. I talked to the station manager this afternoon. Breakfast with the Coles was leaving the air permanently in two weeks. You knew that Marie could make your life a hell, Cole? You knew what kind of woman she was. She’d never divorce you and every cent you earned would go to her. With Marie out of the way, you could go back to the night club circuit. You’d have Lydia to write your material for you. And you’d be free to live a life free of recrimination and petty tyranny. Even the brother would be off your neck.”

Lydia Mason said in a faint voice, “Is this true, Norbert?”

“Sure it’s true,” Shayne shot at her. “Still want to furnish him with an alibi, Lydia?”

The woman was staring at Cole. “You said it was just to avoid bother,” she whispered. “You said her first husband killed her, but it would be awkward to explain your movements. You swore to me you didn’t have anything to do with it.”

“Shut up, you little fool!” Cole yelled at her.

Will Gentry said, “I’ve heard enough. You’re under arrest for murder, Cole.” He took a ponderous step toward the man.

“Wait,” Cole said, raising one palm. “I can prove I’m innocent. Look at this. If you’ll just wait—”

Quickly Cole moved toward a desk against the wall and started to open a drawer. Shayne moved right behind him. The man’s hand dipped into the drawer and came out again.

He was pivoting with a gun in his hand when the redhead’s large fist crashed into his jaw. Shayne expertly plucked the gun from the air as it fell toward the floor, stepped aside and let Cole topple forward on his face. He tossed the pistol to Gentry.

“Probably the gun he held on Trimble to make him drink,” he said.

Lydia Mason started to cry.