Too Friendly, Too Dead

8

Linda Fitzgilpin stared down into her glass, then lifted it and drained the contents. She got to her feet and started for the kitchen, muttering, “’Nother drink won’t hurt.” She was swaying more obviously now than when Shayne had arrived.

He got to his feet and intercepted her, took the empty glass from her hand and turned her back firmly to the sofa. “Get just as drunk as you like after I leave. Right now, I want straight answers, Linda.”

He stood flat-footed in front of her while she sank back on to the sofa, and said, “Take it from the beginning. It is true that your husband came home somewhat unexpectedly about ten o’clock, found a cigar butt smouldering and suspected you had been entertaining another man?”

“That’s true.” She looked small and frightened, curled up on the sofa and avoiding his stern gaze.

“And the Cahill bit, and your quarrel? And the telephone call? Are you sure you can’t remember anything else he said over the phone?”

“I’m sure. I went into the bedroom immediately I realized the call wasn’t for me, and closed the door tightly. George was in there and I was scared to death what he might do. You see, just by the grace of God, he was in the bathroom when Jerome walked in, and he heard him and realized what had happened, and kept out of sight. But I didn’t know what moment he might take it into his stubborn head to walk out and ‘have it out with Jerome’ which is what he’d been threatening to do for the past hour. I was frantic, of course, and I begged him to hide in the closet while I tried to get Jerome out on some pretext, so George could slip out without being seen. He refused,” she went on dully. “He insisted he was coming on back out with me and have a showdown with Jerome. I finally opened the bedroom door and there was Jerome putting on his coat and going out the door. He said just what I told you… that he had to go out and would be back in an hour or so, and then slammed out of the apartment without ever guessing there was a man standing right behind me.”

Michael Shayne grimaced and tugged slowly at his earlobe. He moved back to his chair and sat down. “George being your lover,” he said calmly. “That was a close call. How often did you entertain him here?”

“I hadn’t seen him for more than a year until last night. Nor heard a word from him. He turned up completely unexpectedly about nine o’clock. He’d been out in California and just returned to Miami.”

“George who?” Shayne kept his voice amiable and interested.

“Nourse. He’s a professional gambler. I had an affair with him a year and a half ago. It happened while Jerome was in New York attending a convention,” she went on wearily. “I thought I was in love with him and I asked Jerome for a divorce. He refused point-blank. He was convinced in his own mind that it was just an infatuation which would soon wear off. He threatened to enter a counter suit if I tried to get a divorce, naming George as corespondent and demanding custody of the children. He even consulted a lawyer about it, and I knew he would have done it, so I gave George up and he went away. No matter what else you may think about me,” she ended defiantly, “I do love my children. Better than I loved George, I found out then. So Jerome and I patched up our marriage and we’ve got along. Only he’s been terribly suspicious and jealous ever since.”

Shayne said, “All right. We’ve got Jerome slamming out the door to keep some sort of appointment. Is that the last you saw or heard of him?”

“Until the police telephoned this morning and I looked over and saw his empty bed.”

“How long did George stay here?”

“That’s just it.” Suddenly Linda crumpled up on the sofa and began sobbing. “That’s the awful part. That’s why I didn’t know what to do this morning. He didn’t stay at all. He went right out behind Jerome saying, by God, he was going to settle it once and for all. And so this morning… don’t you see… my first thought was that George had followed him and they’d had a fight and… and Jerome was dead.”

Shayne said slowly and deliberately, “So you believed your lover had murdered your husband, and your only thought was to cover up for him.”

“Not murdered,” she cried out desperately. “I thought they’d had a fight. George has a terrible temper. Don’t you see, I didn’t know what to do?” She pleaded with him tearfully. “If I did tell the truth and it was George, don’t you see it would all have come out? The scandal! Don’t forget, there were two innocent children involved. I needed time to think,” she cried desperately. “I had to find out what had happened. I wouldn’t have protected George in the long run. You’ve got to believe that. But I thought maybe he was already arrested. In that case, what would have been gained by my telling? That’s why I fainted when they said Jerome had been poisoned. It was such a wonderful relief. Because then I knew it wasn’t George after all, and I wouldn’t have to implicate him.”

“How could you be sure it still wasn’t George?” demanded Shayne.

“George Nourse poison a man?” Linda stared at him disbelievingly. “You just don’t know George. He has a violent temper and associates with a tough crowd, but poison? Oh, no. As soon as I heard that, I knew it couldn’t be George.”

“Did Jerome know him by sight?”

“George? No. They never met face to face. George wanted to meet him man to man to discuss a divorce, but I wouldn’t let him. I was afraid of what might happen.”

“Then it’s possible he did follow Jerome last night… to some bar, say… start buying him drinks there and load Jerome’s with sodium amytal. You’ve said your husband was the type to be friendly with any stranger he met in a bar.”

“Yes. He was. But George isn’t that type. If he had approached Jerome he would have told him right out who he was and what he wanted to talk about.”

Shayne shrugged, unconvinced. “Tell me more about Nourse. Describe him.”

“I’ve told you he’s a gambler. Quite a successful one, I guess, though I never could understand how a man could be a successful gambler. I thought they always ended up broke. But he seemed to have plenty of money. He’d just laugh when I asked him why he won money and other men lost. He claimed it was luck and good judgment… that he worked at it as hard as other men work at any other profession.”

Shayne nodded. “Professional gamblers do,” he agreed. “The operating phrase among that fraternity is: ‘Never give a sucker a break.’ Never mind that. I want a full description of him… where he’s staying in Miami… who his associates are.”

“I don’t know much about that. He told me he’d just come back to Miami from the West Coast. I never did meet any of his friends or know very much about his personal life,” she added wistfully.

“What does he look like?”

“He’s tall and… dark… and handsome. About thirty, I guess. There’s something dashing about him. A quality of recklessness, I guess you’d call it. You just feel he’s a man who lives dangerously and loves it.”

Shayne said grimly, “Just the qualities to appeal to a woman married to an unimaginative, steady provider like Jerome Fitzgilpin. All right, Linda. I’m not going to preach you a sermon on morals. Those are your own affair. You’ve got to live with your conscience in the future. I haven’t. Answer a few more questions. Did you ever hear Jerome mention the Sporting Club on the Beach as one of his hangouts?”

“The Sporting Club?” she repeated. She shook her head. “I don’t think so. He had two or three favorite places where he used to drop in for a beer, but I don’t know the names of them. Why?”

“His body and his car were found near the Sporting Club last night. I wondered if that’s where he went when he left here.”

“I don’t know. Wait a minute, though.” Linda sat erect on the sofa with excitement and hope in her voice. “I always emptied the pockets of his suits when I sent them out to the cleaners and there were often half-used matchbooks in the pockets. I’ve a wicker basket in the bedroom where I always dumped them, and then we’d take one out whenever we ran short of matches. Let me get it.”

She hurried into the bedroom and returned with a round wicker basket filled to the brim with partially used matchbooks. She dumped the contents onto the coffee table in front of the sofa, and began pawing through them.

“The Sporting Club?” she asked. “I think I may have noticed one…”

“Here.” She sat back and held up a matchbook, her face flushed with excitement. “The Sporting Club.”

“See if there are any more like it. If I can establish the fact that he went there often, it may give me the wedge I need.”

She went on through the collection of matchbooks and ended up with a total of seven that had come from the Sporting Club.

Shayne pocketed them happily and said, “That’s plenty. That’s fine. Now, there’s one more thing, Linda.” From his pocket he withdrew the restaurant menu from New York City and opened it in front of her, displaying the faded yellow rosebud and the small photograph. “Do any of these mean anything to you? Do you recognize either one of the couple in the picture?”

She shook her head in what appeared to Shayne to be honest puzzlement. “No. I don’t think so.”

“Have you any idea why he would have this menu and rosebud carefully put away in his office desk?” Shayne paused and added, “The menu is dated November nineteenth, nineteen sixty-one.”

“From New York,” she breathed. “That’s when his convention was. He stayed in New York a week. That’s when…”

“You had your affair with George Nourse,” Shayne completed for her. “Do you remember him mentioning anything about this when he returned home? Anything about attending a wedding, perhaps? That looks like a wedding corsage and picture to me,” he added.

Linda shook her head. “I’m afraid he didn’t mention it to me. You see,” she faltered, “right after he came back from that trip, I told him about George and asked for a divorce. It was extremely unpleasant and we… scarcely spoke for weeks afterward. I remember, when he was so holier-than-thou about George, asking him what he’d done all that week he was in New York at the convention. If he hadn’t maybe at least looked at another woman while he was away… and it made him very angry. He swore that he’d never been unfaithful to me in his life… even with a look.”

“All right.” Shayne folded the rose and picture inside the menu and returned it to his pocket. He settled back in his chair and asked casually, “Have you told me the works now, Linda? The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth? Are you holding anything back about George Nourse that might aid me in tracking him down?”

“Do you have to? You can’t suspect him, Mike.”

“It doesn’t make one goddamn whom I suspect or don’t,” he told her patiently. “Nourse is in this up to his ears, and until we find him and he proves an alibi he’s going to be our number one suspect. The sooner he comes forward and clears himself, the better. If he contacts you, tell him so. In the meantime, I’m looking for him. Tell him that.”

“I don’t think he’ll… be in touch with me,” she protested weakly.

“If he’s innocent, he should be. A man like Nourse knows what the score is. I’m surprised he hasn’t called you already. Now. Once more. Can you give me any line that might lead me to him?”

“Honestly, I can’t. I just don’t know anything to tell you.”

“All right.” Shayne finished off his gin and tonic and got to his feet. “Chief Painter from Miami Beach will be around to interview you any time now. I’ve already fixed it with the Miami police to have one of their men accompany Painter to see that he treats you decently. It may even be Will Gentry, the Miami chief of police. So I want you to promise me this: Tell them exactly what you told me. Tell them why you hesitated to admit the truth this morning, and be damned sure they get it straight that I didn’t know any better when I shot off my mouth in Painter’s office this morning. Have you got that?”

“Yes, Mike,” Linda said in a small voice. “I’ve got it.”

“One more thing. Don’t mention the fact that you’ve seen me and told me this in the meantime. Just let that ride. Give them the impression that you came to the realization all by yourself that you could no longer withhold the truth. Make a clean breast of it, and hope for the best. One thing I will say for Petey Painter,” Shayne went on. “One of the very few good things I can say about the little squirt. He isn’t really mean. He does have a couple of decent instincts. Unless it becomes absolutely necessary in solving the case and prosecuting it later, he won’t give out any personal items to the newspapers. Throw yourself on his mercy. Make big round eyes at him and admit what a bad girl you’ve been. Show him pictures of your two children and squeeze out a tear or two as you explain how they adored their daddy. He’ll play ball.”

“Oh, Mike!” Linda got to her feet and convulsively threw her arms around his neck. “You make me feel… oh, all cleansed and purified.” Shayne put both his big hands on her shoulders and pushed her back to look down into her face. “I suggest you remain on the purified binge,” he said drily. “It won’t hurt one damned bit to lay off the liquor at least until Painter has come and gone. A beautiful and bereaved widow is one thing. A sodden, drunken bum of a wife is another. If you do hear a word from Nourse, for God’s sake convince him he should give himself up to me if he didn’t catch up with Jerome last night. If he did, tell him South America is his best chance.”

He turned to the door and then paused with his hand on the knob. “I need a picture of Jerome. Do you have a late one I can take along?”

She said, “There are some snapshots we took last year with the children at the beach.”

She went into the bedroom and returned with an envelope containing several prints showing Jerome Fitzgilpin in bright sunlight with his children.

Shayne selected two of the clearest shots and pocketed them. “All right, Linda. Keep your chin up and I’ll be in touch.”