“Well, I’m representing the district attorney in the Linneker case — ”
“I know,” Shayon interrupted. “I read the papers. What’s your angle calling me?”
“I’d like to talk to you, Mr. Shayon,” said Holt, thinking that Shayon was not straining himself to appear co-operative. “I think it would be to your advantage as well as mine for us to get acquainted.”
“Thanks for the kind thoughts, but maybe I don’t agree. I’ve already told the cops all I have to say. I’ve got nothing to add.”
Holt didn’t let the obvious hostility deter him. “I’m not a cop, Mr. Shayon, and I’m not asking you for another statement. But since I talked with Miss Linneker this afternoon, I thought I should talk to you, too.”
“You talked to Tara already?” asked Shayon and a new note, which might have been apprehension, crept into his voice. “I thought she wasn’t … Did Tara tell you to call me?”
It was an easy opening but Holt didn’t take it. “No, this is my own idea. I’d like to meet you.”
Shayon hesitated. “Okay, why not?” he said finally. “I don’t mind. I’m at the store all day. Drop in any time.”
“I mean tonight. I can drop over there if it’s convenient.”
“What if it isn’t convenient?” Shayon asked. “Maybe I got something better to do.” Holt waited, not replying. “Okay, come on. But not before nine o’clock, huh?”
Holt looked at his watch; it was just eight o’clock. “That’ll be fine.”
“Nine o’clock,” Shayon emphasized and hung up without saying goodbye. Holt hung up too, thoughtfully. He didn’t know quite what to make of the insolent young man and his devil-may-care attitude. Nor did he understand Shayon’s insistence on delaying the meeting an hour. Holt, in his place, would have been anxious to get it over with. Unless there was something — someone — that Shayon didn’t want Holt to see … Holt rose suddenly, his mind made up. The best way to find out was to investigate. With a wry smile, he thought that McCoy and Connie didn’t have any monopoly on intuition.
Connie came back into the living room as he was putting on his coat. “Nancy’s ready to kiss you goodnight.” She looked startled at his preparations for leaving. “Where are you going, Mitch?”
“I’ve got to take a run across town and talk to Shayon.”
“Tonight? After we said we were going to have at least one evening together? If it was what I said — ”
“I know, honey,” Holt said. “I hate to run out on you but you know how it is.”
“Sure, I know how it is,” she said. “I don’t know where I got the silly idea that we could have just one evening together. Mitch, I have a bottle of champagne in the refrigerator — I was going to surprise you — ”
“I’ve already made an appointment with Shayon.”
“Oh? That was thoughtful of you.” She was icy now. “You’d better say goodnight to Nancy. She has to get to sleep.”
Uncomfortably, Holt went into his daughter’s bedroom. Despite what Connie had said, Nancy didn’t appear in the least need of sleep. After the usual ritual of prayers and blanket-arranging, she asked, “Daddy, aren’t we ever going to see Papa Grande at all?”
“Soon,” Holt said, raising his voice so the promise might carry into the next room. “Cross my heart.”
The effort was wasted. When he emerged, Connie had gone into the bathroom and the door was closed. He rapped on it but Connie merely said goodbye without coming out for the customary kiss, and Holt knew that she was more than a little upset. Frowning, he went out to his car.
And, as he drove across town to take up a cautious surveillance of Delmont Shayon’s abode, Holt realized that, after all, the evening had turned out just about as Van Dusen had predicted. He didn’t feel much like laughing about it now, though.
CHAPTER FIVE
DELMONT SHAYON lived in an apartment built over a garage at the rear of a lot on which a larger house stood. There was an unobstructed view of the front door and since the apartment had no other entrance it was easy to watch. The only trouble, Holt discovered, was that there was nothing to see. Although he sat in his car for a half-hour, his eyes fixed on the dwelling, his vigil was not rewarding. No one entered; no one left. There was a light in the apartment living room and the shades were up but Holt couldn’t detect any movement inside. He began to doubt that Shayon was even at home.
When the hands of his wrist watch told him that it was nine o’clock, he went to confirm his suspicions. To his surprise, the door was opened immediately upon his ring. Holt had no trouble recognizing Shayon from his photograph although he was shorter than Holt had expected. He was, Holt judged, about twenty-five, but some premature grey had crept into the dark curly hair, an effect which added to his rakish charm.
“Right on time,” commented Shayon, admitting him. One eyebrow was quirked in a mocking manner. “Come on in and get warm. You must be cold after sitting out in your car for so long.”
Holt blinked. “Then you knew I was there?”
“I’ve been watching you from the bedroom,” Shayon said, indicating the darkened adjoining room. He added, “By myself, in case you’re wondering.”
“Well, you told me not before nine o’clock,” Holt said.
Shayon laughed. “Sure, I did. I wanted to see just where you stood. I found out, all right. You couldn’t get over here fast enough to see what I was up to.”
“I plead guilty to being curious but that’s no crime.”
“Not like murder, huh? You gave me the pitch on the phone about not being a cop but you’ve got the same thoughts they have about me.” Shayon, with a confident swagger, went to the coffee table. A bottle of bourbon, partially empty, stood there. “Well, sit down and we’ll go over it all again. How I blew Linneker to smithereens. That’s what you want to hear, isn’t it?”
“Only if it’s the truth,” said Holt, sitting down gingerly in a canvas campaign chair. Shayon’s apartment, although small, was expensively furnished, in modern styling. All of the furniture was new.
“What’s the truth to you people?” Shayon asked with a slight sneer. He held up the bottle. “Don’t suppose you’d care for a drink, being on duty.”
“Why not?” replied Holt, not because he wanted a drink particularly but for the sake of upsetting Shayon’s cocksureness. “Straight, if you don’t mind.”
“Well, well,” murmured Shayon, and had to go into the tiny kitchen to get another glass. He poured generous amounts and held up his drink in a challenging toast. “Here’s to crime. Now then, where shall we begin, Holt? Do you want to make a direct accusation or shall we play around with some nasty questions first? Like, how does just a shoe clerk manage to own such expensive furniture? The answer is that Tara bought it.”
Holt said, “Tell me, Mr. Shayon, are you unpleasant to everybody or is it just me?”
“Was I being unpleasant? Terribly sorry, old man.” Shayon’s smile was bitter. “I’ve been told I have a very winning personality. The best shoe clerk the store ever had and sales to prove it. That’s the way I met Tara, you know, and I’ve been at her feet ever since. You might call it my most profitable sale, two million bucks’ worth. The only trouble was that her father objected to having a shoe clerk for a son-in-law and so, naturally, he had to be put out of the way. And, naturally, I blew him up with dynamite because that’s my cruel and vicious nature.” He paused, studying Holt. “Come on now, Holt, you’re making me do all the work. You might at least have the decency to ask the questions.”
Despite Shayon’s posture of deliberate antagonism, Holt was strangely not offended. There was something rather pathetic about the younger man, striking out so determinedly before he was hurt. And from the way he kept referring to himself as “just a shoe clerk,” it was obvious that he resented his status, particularly at this moment. Holt said calmly, “Now that you’ve gotten that off your chest, suppose we talk sensibly about this situation.”
Shayon looked down at his highbal
l for a while. He murmured, “I guess I was blowing off steam at that. But I’ve had cops up to here.”
“I wish I could say that you weren’t going to have any more. But I can’t.”
“Oh, I know. You’ve got me measured as the fall guy. The fortune hunter who latched on to the rich girl and hypnotized her into murdering her dad for the sake of the money.” Shayon laughed. “Boy, if I had that kind of power I wouldn’t be where I am today, believe me.”
“Then you don’t care about Tara’s money?”
“Don’t be a sap,” said Shayon, looking him in the eye. “You’re darn tooting I care about the money. I wouldn’t have given Tara a tumble in the first place, otherwise. I’ve been poor and I don’t like it one bit. I told her that right in the beginning. But she still wanted — ” He stopped and shrugged. “Why bother? You wouldn’t believe it, anyway.”
“Try me,” Holt suggested. “I’m a good listener.”
“Well, just suppose it was the other way around. Instead of the man chasing the girl, it was the girl’s idea. Suppose she came back to the store day after day, practically begging for him to notice her and be nice to her. And suppose he finally did, just to see how the other half lives, just for laughs. And then he finds out that she’s a nice, sweet kid even though she’s a couple of years older. He gets to like her a lot and when she says let’s get married, he says, well, why not? What should he do — draw himself up proudly and say, no, my dear, you and I could never be happy because of your money? Baloney! Money never made anybody miserable. It’s not having it that makes you miserable. Of course, what this guy doesn’t know is that the girl’s father doesn’t figure on her ever marrying anybody. No, Dad plans to keep her around to entertain him in his old age. And when the shoe clerk finds this out, he’s ready to call it off but the girl won’t let him, because she needs him so bad. So that leaves this guy right in the middle. What would you do, Holt?”
“The question is, what did you do?”
Shayon had been leaning forward intensely. Now he sat back and his face resumed its mocking sneer. “Why, everybody knows that. Tara and I blew her father up, of course. What else could we do?”
Holt said, “Mr Shayon, you ought to know by now that there are a number of people who think that is precisely what you did do, and you don’t help your own cause by treating it as a joke. You’d be better off to start thinking about your defence. And Tara’s.”
“Maybe you’d better talk to our lawyer. That’s his job. Name is Wahl.”
“Are you sure he’s representing both of you?” Holt asked pointedly.
Shayon looked surprised. “Well, I guess so. Why shouldn’t he?”
Holt knew that Tara’s attorney, Wahl, had represented Rudy Linneker and would naturally consider himself to represent Linneker’s daughter. But it was likely that Wahl shared the dead man’s opinion of Shayon and felt no loyalty to the young man in this situation. Holt sensed an opportunity to drive a wedge between the suspected pair, play one off against the other, yet he hesitated. He wanted the truth, not merely to be clever and score a point. “What does Tara say?”
“Well, I haven’t talked to her about it. We’re not seeing each other for a few days.”
“Was that her attorney’s suggestion?” Holt asked and got a grudging nod. As he had suspected, Wahl was still working for the dead father rather than the young couple. Tara and Shayon stood more alone than they really knew. “How long have you known Tara Linneker?”
“Oh, four or five months, maybe a little longer.”
“Since about last October, then. I’d like to ask you one direct question and you can answer it or not, as you choose. Did anything particular happen about the first of December between you and Tara, or between you and Rudy Linneker?” It was the same question he had put to Tara earlier.
He got a different answer. “Did it!” said Shayon and chuckled. “That was when the lid blew off. Tara and I got engaged on December first.”
Holt was taken aback by his candour. Whatever else he might be, Shayon was not stupid. Yet to admit to a violent quarrel with the murdered man the same week that the dynamite had been purchased was stupid in the extreme, unless … He said slowly, “Can I borrow your phone?”
Shayon indicated the instrument on an end table. “Help yourself.”
Since the hour was late, there was no use trying to locate McCoy at police headquarters. Holt looked up his home number — a rural exchange east of the city — and waited for the operator to connect him Shayon, watching him, began to fidget when he realized whom Holt was calling.
McCoy was surprised to hear from Holt. “Getting anxious, huh? I remember when I was young and eager myself.”
“I was curious as to what you found out in Seacliff,” Holt said, more loudly than the telephone connection demanded. He kept his eyes fixed on Shayon. But there was nothing in the other man’s face or the movement of his hands to betray that the name of Seacliff held any significance for him.
“We’re doing fine,” said McCoy with satisfaction. “We got a probable on the Shayon picture. We’d have gotten a positive but, just our luck, the clerk who sold Shayon the dynamite has bifocals an inch thick. But there’s no doubt about it, we’re on the right track.”
“That’s very interesting, Captain. I’ll be in touch with you tomorrow.”
“That McCoy you were talking to?” asked Shayon as Holt hung up. “How’s the great detective doing on framing me?” He tried to sound amused and scornful but it was only bravado. Shayon was both young and human.
“McCoy is doing his job and I’m doing mine.” Holt was mulling a strategem. “As I understand it, you claim that you and Tara were out driving around aimlessly the night her father was murdered. That’s a pretty weak alibi, as you know. You could do yourself a lot of good by making it stronger, if you could produce somebody who might have seen you somewhere.”
“Who do you see when you’re driving in a car? Anyway, what’s it to you, Holt? You’re not in my corner.”
“I’m in nobody’s corner.” Holt took from his pocket a loose leaf notebook and his fountain pen. “Suppose you give me the route you took and I’ll do a little checking.” He started to uncap his pen and winced. “Forgot about my finger. I banged it in the car door tonight. Would you mind writing down the streets and the approximate times you were there and maybe we’ll find someone — bus driver or service station attendant — who may remember seeing you.”
“There wasn’t anybody,” Shayon objected and then sighed. “Oh, well, why not? Give it to me.” He sat down at the coffee table and began to write, pausing now and then to ponder. Holt watched him silently. When Shayon had covered one of the small pages he handed the notebook back to Holt. “I’ve got to admit you’ve got a different approach from the rest of them. I don’t know what it adds up to yet. You’re probably out to get me same as the others but at least you’re polite about it.”
“It’s one of the first things we learn in law school.” Holt went to the door. “One other thing we learn in law school, Mr. Shayon. In every litigation, one attorney is wrong. So if you’re really sincere about Tara, I wouldn’t take what Mr. Wahl had to say as gospel. She might need you now more than before.”
Holt left Delmont Shayon staring after him and strode out to his car. As he put the key into the ignition, he flexed his supposedly injured finger a couple of times and chuckled. Then his smile slipped away under the impact of his thoughts and, driving almost automatically, he returned across the city to his home.
Connie hadn’t waited up for him but in their bedroom one of the bedside lamps was burning. She had put on her laciest nightgown and the room held the delicate scent of the expensive cologne she reserved for special occasions. But she had fallen asleep waiting for him.
Holt sat beside her on the bed and she came awake, blinking. “Mitch! Oh, I must have dropped off. Honey, please forgive me for the way I acted tonight, won’t you?”
“When?” He had forgotten it. “Oh, th
at’s okay. You were right, Connie.”
“You’re sweet, Mitch, but it wasn’t right for me to say — ”
“No,” he interrupted impatiently. “I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about the other thing, the important one. You were right, Connie, and everybody else is wrong. Tara and Shayon didn’t do it.”
CHAPTER SIX
VAN DUSEN had long, slender fingers that didn’t match his pudgy body. They were accomplished fingers, able to pick a lock, play a violin or blind an antagonist as the need arose. Right now, his fingers were engaged in fashioning a paper hat from the restaurant napkin.
When it was finished, he passed it across the table to Holt. It was a deer-stalker cap. “Here you are, Sherlock. See if it fits.”
Holt laughed. For the past quarter hour, he had been outlining his altered views of the Linneker case to the district attorney’s chief investigator and he guessed he had sounded a bit more didactic than he had intended. “Okay, Van, I’m just an amateur at this end of it. But I can’t help how it looks to me.”
“All right, counsellor. Sum up and tell me again why Tara Linneker and Delmont Shayon didn’t do it.”
“I’ve met them both. They’re not the type of person who plans and commits a cold-blooded murder of that sort.”
“Matter of opinion. Over-ruled.”
“The motive doesn’t stand up. Sure, Linneker didn’t approve of Tara’s fiancé, but Tara was old enough to marry with his consent or without it. This isn’t the Middle Ages. And Tara stood to get the money, anyway, sooner or later. Linneker had no one else to leave it to, and he couldn’t take it with him.”
“That presumes knowledge you don’t have. Over-ruled.”
“The dynamite. It’s not the right weapon. As we both know, Van, most murders are done with a gun, a knife, or other sharp implement, a blunt instrument — or with the hands. Occasionally, poison. But dynamite — heck, no. It’s uncertain, clumsy, dangerous to handle, attracts immediate attention to the crime; why, there’re a hundred reasons why you shouldn’t set out to kill anybody with dynamite.”
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