Murder and the Wanton Bride

12

So belle had not only committed perjury when she applied for a marriage license with Walter Carson in 1955, but it appeared almost certain that she had committed bigamy as well.

Of course, the Peases were not in a position to know definitely that she had not obtained a divorce in the meantime. Divorces are granted in some states for desertion, but not unless the other party was available to have papers served on him so he could answer the charge.

Shayne knew, of course, that there is a legal provision that a person can be declared dead by the courts after he has been missing for seven years, and also that there is some sort of Enoch Arden ruling that grants a divorce in case there is a strong presumption of death — such as a soldier being officially reported missing in action.

But neither of these provisions seemed to apply to the Watson case, and as the plane carried him back to Tampa, Shayne was morally certain that proof of bigamy was what Mrs. Barstow’s detective had dug up against Belle in his Atlanta investigation.

That was certainly something she would wish to conceal from her staid banker husband. No wonder the detective had reported to Mrs. Barstow that he was on the trail of evidence that would effectually stop Belle in her tracks and force her to give up her affair with Harvey Barstow. After learning as much as Shayne had today and realizing it was most probable she had committed bigamy, he would have used the extra money from Mrs. Barstow to complete his investigation by studying the records and ascertaining that no divorce had been granted to her prior to her marriage with Carson.

With that knowledge, an astute and crooked operator would be in a position to put on the pressure for plenty of money. Having never met Carson, Shayne could not accurately gauge what the banker’s reaction would have been to such knowledge, but it was reasonable to assume that no respected president of a small-bank would condone bigamy.

So this could well be the motive for murder. He had gone to Atlanta wondering if any secret about Belle’s past was sufficiently important for her to have arranged her husband’s murder to prevent his becoming aware of it.

And now he had bigamy for his answer.

If that was why Carson had made the appointment to see him, and if Belle had known that was why.

Until he knew the answers to these questions, Shayne knew it was utterly useless for him to theorize further. And with Carson dead, there was only one place he could go to get the answers.

That was back to Belle in Denham, and he settled back on the plane with what patience he could muster to await a further interview with the widow.

Dinner was served on the plane before it reached Tampa, and the only thing Shayne lacked in his belly was a couple of large-size slugs of cognac as he hurried to his parked car and began the drive back to Denham.

But he didn’t take time out to stop at a roadside bar to fulfill that bodily need. It would be late in the evening, now, before he could reach Denham and he didn’t want to postpone a second interview with Mrs. Carson for another night. There was no telling what Peter Painter had turned up during the afternoon in town, but it was certain that the bank employees would have told him about Shayne’s visit, and the fact that the redhead had reached town ahead of him would convince him that Shayne had been holding out information from the beginning.

That was enough on which to base a warrant for Shayne’s arrest, and he hadn’t the slightest doubt that it would be served the moment Painter or any of his men caught sight of him.

So he had a few hours, maybe, to get in under the wire ahead of Painter and solve the case before he found himself behind bars where he could never solve it.

He increased the weight of his foot on the accelerator as the black strip of macadam in front of him stretched straight out into the night in a southeasterly direction. He didn’t think Painter would expect him back in Denham even though he did know Shayne had engaged a hotel room there and left a suitcase in it. He did suspect, however, that the Beach chief would have arranged to have a guard posted at the Carson house to prevent his interviewing the widow (in case she hadn’t told him that noon that Shayne had already been there); and when he finally reached the crossroads where he had turned off the County road to Tampa earlier, he took the same road back past the Carson estate instead of following the main route into town.

A three-quarter moon had moved up over the horizon while he drove from Tampa, and he slowed after a few miles, peering ahead and seeking the dirt road that led up along the edge of the orange grove to the rear of the banker’s house.

He came to it finally, and turned off, switching off his headlights just as he made the turn, and slowing to a snail’s pace while his eyes accustomed themselves to the moonlight and the absence of white beams directly ahead.

He followed the rutted road as much by instinct as by sight, and soon was able to make out dimly-lit windows of the big house on the knoll half concealed by the grove of oak trees.

He remembered how the garage had hidden his car from the house for a short distance that afternoon when he drove away, and when a black hulk blotted out the house lights tonight, he slowed even more, bringing the car to a gentle halt just as he began to round the curve that brought the house into view again.

The night silence lay heavy on the knoll overlooking Denham as Shayne stepped out of the car onto the grass. He closed the door behind him with a gentle click and moved forward on the grass toward the terrace on the side of the big house.

Light shone dimly through curtained windows and the French doors onto the terrace, glinting on the aluminum of lounging chairs and outdoor tables, and as he approached, Shayne dimly made out the figure of a woman dressed in white relaxed at full-length in one of the long chairs.

He stopped for a moment at the end of the terrace, crouching to backlight the whole surface against the dim lights from windows and doors, and saw that the woman was Belle and that she was alone.

Her right arm lifted as he hesitated there, and he heard the clink of glass against a metal table-top as the arm lowered again. He straightened and moved forward along the edge of the terrace until he was opposite her, and then stepped up and forward so that he was looking directly down at her.

Belle made no movement, but her eyes were wide open, staring up directly at him without alarm and, so far as he could see, without surprise.

She said, “So it’s you back again, Red.” Her voice was thick with liquor and the words were softly slurred, but perfectly clear. “I thought you would be back.”

Shayne said, “I’ve been to Atlanta, Belle.”

He moved around behind her and pulled up a straight-back chair close to the table on which stood the martini pitcher and her glass.

She said, “You made a fast trip.”

Shayne lifted her glass and drank from it. From the taste, he judged it contained the same mixture of gin and nothing that she had been drinking that noon. He wondered how many pitchers she had emptied since he left her in the house with Painter.

He lit a cigarette and asked casually, “Did you tell Peter Painter that I had been talking to you?”

“The cute little detective from Miami Beach? I didn’t think it was any of his business, Red. Did you kill Walter?”

“That’s a hell of a question.”

“He thinks you did... or had something to do with it.”

Shayne said shortly, “I don’t make a practice of bumping off my clients... or prospective clients either. Why did Walter want to see me?”

“Don’t you really know?” She reached out for the glass and drank from it deeply.

“I got some ideas in Atlanta. I want you to confirm them.”

“I told you today that Walter didn’t confide in me.”

“How much did you confide in him?”

“What about, Red?”

There was an unreal quality about the question-and-answer session that bothered Shayne tremendously. Her voice was languid and slurred and he knew she must be very drunk indeed, yet she appeared to be in full possession of her faculties. On the other hand, she appeared to be more amused than alarmed by his reappearance and his questions. It was as though she had no personal interest in the matter under discussion. As though she remained completely untouched by her husband’s death and by Shayne’s allusion to Atlanta.

“About neglecting to get a divorce before you married him, for one thing.”

She said, “Oh, that?” and her voice expressed utter contempt for such legalities.

“You admit you didn’t?”

“I’m admitting nothing, Red. Look. You’re acting stone cold sober. Whyn’t you pour some more from the pitcher and try to catch up with me?”

“How did Walter feel about the bigamy charge?” persisted Shayne.

“You mean when that other louse of a stinking private eye brought it up, Red?”

“Sure. I’ve forgotten his name.”

“I never knew his name myself. You in cahoots with him, Red?”

“No. Did he come to Walter instead of you with the bigamy thing?”

“Course he hit Walter! Wanted a pay-off, didn’t he? Who the hell you think is the money-bags around this house?” She reached out gropingly for the glass beside her without looking at it. There was half an inch of liquid in the bottom, and Shayne watched her drain it in the moonlight. He reached out to retrieve the empty glass from her listless fingers, and set it down out of her reach.

“How much?” he asked quietly.

“How much what, Red?”

“How much money did he hit Walter for?”

“I dunno. Not too heavy, I guess. Walter said I wasn’t to worry about it. Whyn’t you move over closer to me, Red?”

Shayne moved his chair a little closer to hers. She lifted her hand and moved it toward him, and he enclosed it between his palms. Her eyes were closed and she said dreamily, “You know what, Red?”

“What?”

“I sure didn’t think you were any detective when you first showed up this morning.”

“Didn’t you?”

“Hell, no.” Her voice was quite belligerent. “Why should I? You don’t look like a detective.”

“What do detectives look like?”

“You know. Know what I did think at first, Red?”

“No. What did you think at first?”

“That Whitey’d sent you. That’s why I made that fast play for you. Remember?”

Shayne said, “I remember. But I didn’t know that was why.” He wanted to ask her who Whitey was, but restrained himself. Her eyes remained closed and her voice was somnolent. In her present mood she might tell him anything if she weren’t aroused from it.

“That was why at first. Until you kissed me, Red.”

Shayne didn’t bother to mention the fact that his recollection of the incident was that she had kissed him. “After that, you didn’t think Whitey had sent me?”

“After that, I didn’t give a damn,” she told him. She turned on her side toward him and her fingers tightened on the flesh of his palm. Her eyes remained closed but her lips were wetly parted. “Do it again, Red.”

“What?”

“Kiss me so I won’t give a damn again.” Her voice was thicker than before and he realized she was slipping away into an alcoholic stupor. He released one hand from hers and bent forward a little to press fingertips against her parted lips. The tip of her hot tongue came out to move against the calloused flesh.

He said roughly: “Listen to me, Belle.”

She complained, with her lips pressed hard against his hand, “You talk too much, Red.”

“There’ll be time for other things later. Right now, I’ve got to move fast to find your husband’s killer. You want that, don’t you?”

“What good’ll it do? Walter’s dead.”

“Did you kill him, Belle?” Shayne’s voice was fiercely urgent. “Did you set him up on that street corner for a bullet in his forehead?”

She remained lying indolently facing him with her eyes lightly closed. In the moonlight he could not detect the faintest quiver of emotion on her smooth face.

“Suppose I told you I did, Red? What kind of guy are you? Would you arrest me and let me burn for it?” There was a queer sort of eagerness in her reply, a sense of ghoulish anticipation.

Shayne asked harshly, “Did you?”

“Would you like me better if I said yes? How do you get your kicks, Red? Is that what you look for in a woman? There was something about you when you first looked at me today, Red. Something that went right through me. What makes you tick, Red? Tell me and let’s tick together.”

Her fingers gripped his hand fiercely, tugging to pull him closer to her. Her eyes opened abruptly under his gaze and flame glinted there in the moonlight. She had the tips of his fingers between her white teeth and was biting hard into the flesh and bone. There was something utterly wanton and primitive about her, and an instinctual drive deep within Shayne’s body responded to the naked lust that called out to him from her in the night.

He found himself leaning closer and closer to her and her breathing became ragged and harsh in the silence, and then there was another sound that impinged on the pounding of blood in his eardrums.

A slight, grating sound from beyond the terrace, but completely alien in the night silence.

He continued leaning toward her, but lifted his eyes to look beyond her to the edge of the terrace without otherwise changing his posture.

He saw a faint glint of moonlight on blued steel and the dim outline of a crouching figure blurred against the background of green shrubbery. Light from behind him faintly touched the hawklike, pallid features of a man he had never seen before.

His muscles tensed and he slowly got his feet solidly underneath him as he bent closer to brush his lips across her forehead.

Without warning, he launched his body across hers toward the crouching figure, smashing her lounging chair to the floor of the terrace with the weight of his body at the instant that a tongue of flame lanced at them from the glint of steel.

The bullet raked his left bicep, passing inches above Belle’s body as it struck the floor, and there was a crashing sound in the shrubbery as Shayne disentangled himself from her chair and leaped off onto the grass.

He hesitated a second, heard fleeing footsteps to his left around the front of the house, started running in that direction but came to an abrupt halt when a motor roared loudly by the front porch.

He turned back, saw one of the French doors swing open and the figure of the colored man-servant dart out onto the terrace and bend over the figure of his mistress whom Shayne knew was not harmed.

He circled back swiftly around the shrubbery and beyond the range of light, reached his own car and leaped in, turned on the headlights, started the motor and lunged forward around the garage and into the driveway from the rear of the house just in time to see red taillights turning into the highway at the end of the gently curving drive.

He stepped on the accelerator and gained speed down the slope braking hard at the end of the driveway when he saw a car parked without lights just inside the turnoff.

His headlights showed the insignia, “DENHAM P. D.” in large white letters on the side of the car, and he slammed to a stop beside it at sight of a uniformed figure slumped behind the wheel.

He got out and jerked the door of the police car open, felt first for the man’s steady pulse, and then found a large lump on the side of his head just above his left ear.

He slammed the door shut and grimly got back into his own car and pulled away fast. It was a cinch the Carson servant would already be phoning in an alarm about the attack on his mistress, and he would have a hard time explaining his presence in the vicinity if he were caught there now.