There was the muted sound of a doorbell from some place else in the silent house as he stood there.
He turned slowly and saw Belle arising from the sofa, her face rigid with fright. He went to her quickly while both could hear the shuffling footsteps of the Negro servant going to the door.
She moved around from behind the coffee table, putting out both hands to seize his and hold them tightly. “Don’t worry about anything. You stay here, Red. I’ll fix it.”
She let go of his hands and went swiftly toward the door into the hall. She disappeared through it, and Shayne heard her voice saying coolly, “I’m not in to anyone, Abe.”
And then the Negro’s voice, low-pitched and worried, “It am a genmun what says he am the law, Miz Carson. From Miami Beach, an’ he say he gotta see you.”
9
He heard Belle Carson say, “The law, abe? from Miami Beach? But what on earth …?”
And then he heard Peter Painter’s voice, far away toward the front door but rapidly coming closer as he spoke:
“Mrs. Carson? I’m Chief of Detectives Painter from Miami Beach, Florida. I understand that your husband spent last night in Miami Beach and hasn’t returned home yet.”
“That’s right.” Her voice was coolly challenging. “But what’s that to a chief of detectives? Don’t tell me Walter got in trouble with the law?” The emphasis she put on her husband’s name gave the questioning statement a sneering implication.
“I must ask you if you’ve had any communication whatever from your husband since last midnight.” Painter’s voice was severe, and Shayne could envision him standing stiffly erect in the hallway in front of Belle who was at least his height, in all probability thumb-nailing his mustache in a characteristic gesture while he waited to pounce on her reply.
She said wonderingly, “Why should he communicate with me? He intended to be back this afternoon.”
“Do I take it, then, that your answer is in the negative, Mrs. Carson?”
“Yes. That is … no, I haven’t heard from him since he left after lunch yesterday. What’s this all about?”
“I’m very much afraid I have bad news for you, Mrs. Carson.” Painter’s voice was gravely sympathetic.
“Bad news? About Walter?”
“Yes … he … I’m sorry to be the one to tell you, Mrs. Carson, but your husband is dead.”
“Dead?” Her voice was flat. “I don’t understand. He felt perfectly all right when he left yesterday. I just can’t believe.…”
“Murdered, Mrs. Carson. Shot down in cold blood on the street only a few blocks from his hotel. We had difficulty identifying him because the killer evidently took his wallet and all identification from the body.”
There was a brief silence from the hallway. Shayne tried to envision the widow’s likeliest reaction to the news, and wished he were where he could see her face. When she spoke again her voice gave no clue at all to her emotions:
“You’re quite sure it was Walter?”
“I’m afraid there’s little doubt, Mrs. Carson. A maid from the Donchester Hotel made a positive identification of him in the morgue this noon. I hurried here at once to present my sympathy and gather any information I can to the identity of his killer.”
“I … see. Then you haven’t caught the man?”
“We have absolutely nothing to go on, Mrs. Carson. There were no close witnesses. A pedestrian almost a block away heard the shot and saw an indistinct figure hurry away from the spot and drive off in an automobile that was parked nearby. Do you know anyone who had a motive for murdering your husband?”
“Certainly not. Walter did not have an enemy in the world. He was … a good man.” The last words were muffled and they were followed by a sob. Belle Carson was either genuinely grief-stricken, or putting on a good act. Good enough to fool Peter Painter at least, because his voice was gruffly sympathetic:
“There now. I realize what a shock this is for you. Perhaps you should sit down and rest for a moment.”
“Yes, I … do feel dizzy. I’ll sit … right here on the stairs.”
Shayne had tensed as Painter spoke, and glanced swiftly over his shoulder at the French doors leading out onto the terrace in case he had to move fast. But since the widow showed, no inclination to bring Painter into the room or give him any indication that she already had another visitor from Miami, he decided not to rush things, but tiptoed stealthily backward toward the fireplace without getting beyond the range of their voices.
“One very vital point in the case, Mrs. Carson, is the reason for your husband’s trip to Miami Beach yesterday. Can you tell me why he went? Whom he planned to see?”
“It was … just business. Something connected with the bank, I suppose. Walter didn’t … discuss business affairs with me very much.”
Shayne had reached the fireplace. He plucked the framed photograph of Belle from the mantelpiece and began moving cautiously back across the carpeted room toward the French doors.
“But this time didn’t he say anything at all to indicate it might have been a little different from an ordinary business trip? Didn’t he seem worried or keyed-up when he left? Didn’t he drop any hint at all, Mrs. Carson, about his plans in the city?”
“I don’t think so. I don’t remember anything. It was just a regular overnight trip, I guess.”
Shayne moved quietly around the end of the sofa to the French doors. He quietly turned the wrought iron knob of the nearest one, and it opened inward silently. Beyond was a sunlit, flagged terrace with comfortable canvas and aluminum lounging chairs scattered about. And beyond the end of the terrace was the garage and the gravelled area where his car was parked out of sight of anyone who stopped in the driveway beside the front porch as Painter had evidently done.
With a fast escape route open to him, Shayne stood just inside the doors to hear as much as he could of the interesting conversation from the hallway.
“We have reason to believe,” Painter was telling the banker’s widow solemnly, “that your husband had a definite and important engagement in the city of Miami this morning … that it was the primary purpose of his trip. Didn’t he tell you anything about that? Think carefully now.”
“I’m sure he didn’t. I can’t remember anything.”
“Does the name of Michael Shayne mean anything to you. Mrs. Carson?”
“Michael Shayne?” She repeated it somewhat faintly.
“I … don’t … believe it does.”
“Can you give me any reason why your husband might have required the services of a private detective?”
“A private detective?” From the tone of her voice Shayne knew she was hedging to gain time by repeating the chief’s words. He wondered if Painter realized it, too.
She said slowly, “I don’t believe it. Not Walter.”
“We have positive evidence, Mrs. Carson, that your husband made this trip for the express purpose of meeting Michael Shayne, a private detective in Miami with an exceedingly unsavory reputation, at nine o’clock this morning. Our only theory at the moment is that Mr. Carson was shot to prevent his keeping that appointment. This argues that his killer was aware of your husband’s intention, and had some strong motive for preventing his meeting with Shayne. So you see how very important it is for us to learn why he was going to a private detective.”
“I see that. Of course. But I just don’t know … something to do with the bank, I suppose. That must be it. It couldn’t have been anything else. Have you asked them?”
“Not yet. I came directly here from the Beach. I will question the personnel of the bank in due course. One thing, though I must warn you about, Mrs. Carson. Michael Shayne is utterly unscrupulous. We have every reason to believe that he has materially hindered our investigation into your husband’s death by refusing to identify his body last night and disclaiming any knowledge of Mr. Carson’s definite appointment with him this morning.
“Furthermore, Mrs. Carson, Shayne unexpectedly disappeared from Miami t
his morning and cannot be located in any of his favorite haunts. I gravely suspect that he knows a lot more about your husband’s death than he admits and is embarked on some nefarious affair of his own by which he hopes to profit by the information he illegally withheld from the proper authorities. He is a notorious money-grabber and will stop at nothing if he smells a chance to make a fast buck.”
Shayne grinned widely as he listened to Chief Painter’s unflattering characterization of himself.
“But why do you warn me about this private detective?”
“Because I have an idea he may turn up here in Denham like a bad penny and either threaten you with some form of blackmail or use other means to extort money from you. A common trick of his is to approach someone in your position and seek to obtain a large retainer for his services on the pretense that he has private information and is more capable than the police in solving a case. Which is utter nonsense, of course, but I warn you he is very persuasive and you must be on your guard against him. If he does show up, I want you to promise me to notify your local police at once. I will arrange with them to place him under arrest immediately.”
“What does this … Michael Shayne look like?”
“He’s big and uncouth and rangy and redheaded, Mrs. Carson.” Painter’s words were biting and acrid. “He manages to stay drunk nine-tenths of the time, and labors under the delusion that he is God’s gift to womankind. You’ll know him instantly if he shows up, and I’m certain you won’t be taken in by him.”
Shayne didn’t wait to hear more. He hadn’t the faintest idea how Belle Carson would react to the knowledge that the man Painter was warning her against was already in the drawingroom close by.
He slid through the door and drew it shut, trotted the length of the terrace and onto a path leading around the rear of the big house to his car.
He leaped in and closed the door quietly, started the motor without gunning it and saw that a dirt road led on past the garage and sloped down toward a citrus grove north of the house.
He slid away fast and quietly on the dirt road, glancing over his shoulder toward the sunlit terrace as he rounded the garage and put it effectively between his car and the house.
The terrace was still deserted and the French doors remained closed. Perhaps Belle wasn’t going to betray him to Painter after all. Perhaps she had reasons of her own for remaining silent about his visit. Perhaps, if he had waited a little longer.…
But as he drove down the dirt road that angled along the citrus grove toward the county highway beyond the house, he knew it would have been senseless to delay his departure any longer.
Even if Belle had turned Painter away without telling him Shayne was there. Even if there was a lot of gin still left in the martini pitcher, and no matter how pleasant it might have been to dally with the voluptuous widow who didn’t seem too upset by the news of her husband’s death.
Because he was still at least one jump ahead of Peter Painter, and he had a good chance of staying that way if he moved fast and kept on moving.
Right now he wanted to get to Atlanta before Painter figured out that some of the answers might be found there. Mrs. Harvey Barstow had told him that Belle came from that city, and it was from Atlanta that her detective had written her he was on the trail of some scandal about the banker’s wife that would provide her with plenty of ammunition to halt Belle’s affair with Harvey.
The fact that she had heard nothing further from the detective and that he had not written for more money to continue his investigation was a strong indication that he had turned up something hot. Something so hot that it was worth more to him to keep it to himself for blackmail purposes of his own rather than turn it over to his client.
Because the wife of a banker was manifestly in a position to pay a great deal more to have unpleasant information suppressed than the wife of a mere teller in the bank. Indeed, Mrs. Barstow had explained that she had used up the last of her private savings and been forced to borrow from a friend to pay the detective’s last demand. Doubtless, she had been naïve enough to tell the detective that fact at the time, and he had acted accordingly.
That was presupposing that the detective she had approached was one of the scavengers of the profession whom Shayne detested. And it seemed almost certain that he was that type from the fact that he had never reported back to Mrs. Barstow after taking her money for an investigation of Belle … and had even taken the precaution of changing his business address without leaving a forwarding address.
There were, Shayne knew, direct air connections between Tampa and Atlanta, and Tampa wasn’t more than an hour’s drive from Denham.
He turned north on the county highway when the dirt road led into it, and stepped the heavy car up to seventy along a straight stretch between neat orange groves, watching ahead for a turn westward that would put him back onto the direct route to Tampa.
True, he had little to go on when he did reach Atlanta. Just Mrs. Carson’s maiden name, Belle Brand, and the fact that she came from that city. But the other detective had managed to trace her without too much trouble, and Shayne felt he would be able to do at least as well. One thing more he had was the framed photograph of Belle that lay on the seat beside him. It was a good likeness and might help him cut some corners. Besides, there was the name of the photographer which he would try to decipher later.
He stepped on the brake and slowed fast as he came to a sign denoting a crossroads ahead, paused to read the signboard with an arrow pointing left which said,
Logan 6 mi.
Tampa 49 mi.
He spun the wheel to the left and stepped up to seventy again, frowning while he strove to recall where he had heard of a town named Logan recently.
Then he remembered. From the hotel-keeper at lunch. Logan was the County Seat where Mr. Carson had taken his secretary to turn her into a bride. That meant the marriage license application would be recorded with the County Clerk.
His frown deepened as he tried to recall what vital information about the couple was required on a license application. It seemed to him that the former addresses of bride and groom were a part of the form. If that were so, here at hand was a chance to get another big jump ahead of Painter.
It shouldn’t take many minutes to find out, and he decided it was well worth wasting those few minutes, and he slowed as he approached Logan, apparently only slightly larger than Denham, and pulled smoothly to the curb in front of the shady courthouse lawn in the center of the village.
10
The stone steps leading up to the wide-open doors of the courthouse were well-worn, and the smell of disinfectant and sweeping compound inside the aged building was exactly the same as Shayne had encountered in scores of such public buildings in the past.
A large black-lettered sign with an arrow pointing down a corridor to the left said, COUNTY CLERK, and the detective followed it to a big room at the end with a breast-high counter behind which a pleasant and plump woman sat on a high stool looking exactly like every assistant county clerk Shayne had ever seen.
She was making meticulous entries in ink in a large ledger spread open on the counter in front of her, and she finished making a notation before looking up at him with eyebrows arched questioningly.
“Do you keep a file of applications for marriage licenses?’ Shayne asked.
“Yes, we do.”
“Would it be possible for me to have a look at one from two or three years back?”
“Yes. If you can give me the name and year.”
“Carson,” Shayne told her, “and Brand. I’m not sure just what year it was.”
“Carson? Would that be Banker Carson from Denham?”
“Yes,” said Shayne thankfully. “W. D. Carson.”
She nodded, pursing her lips and tapping them with the end of her pen. “Nineteen fifty-five or fifty-six.” She slid off her stool with a nod, and went back through a door into an inner room.
Shayne lit a cigarette and leaned an elbow on the c
ounter and waited patiently. The cigarette was not more than half-consumed when she came back with a large printed form which she placed in front of him. “December nineteen fifty-five,” she told him in a tone of pleased triumph. “I knew it was about that time because I remember when Mr. Carson came in just as well as if it was yesterday.”
Shayne glanced at the form swiftly and saw it was signed by both applicants for the license; Walter D. Carson and Belle Brand. But he was disappointed to learn that the State of Florida did not require a great deal of personal information about people who wanted to get married. The groom’s age was noted as 43, and the bride gave her age as 32. Both disclaimed any former marital experience, and both gave their addresses as Denham and their birthplaces as the USA. He studied it carefully, then courteously thanked the lady for her trouble and hurried out. He still had the photograph as a possible jumping-off place if the Atlanta directories didn’t help.
Less than an hour later he reached the outskirts of Tampa where he turned off the main route and drove directly to the airport without encountering heavy city traffic.
There, he got a real break. There was an Eastern Airlines plane due to depart for Atlanta in twenty minutes, and there was a vacant seat. He bought a round-trip ticket, learned that a return flight was scheduled to leave Atlanta at 5:58, and made a tentative reservation to return on it. That didn’t give him much time in the city, but he knew he could cancel by telephone if he saw he couldn’t make that flight.
The plane was loading passengers by the time he had his ticket in order, and not more than ten minutes later they were airborne.
Murder and the Wanton Bride Page 7
