“What about his accusation today?” Shayne persisted. “What do you make of it?”
Carmela mumbled, “I don’t know. What does it matter what I think?” She lifted her head and finished the last of the whisky, carefully set the glass on the table, and fell back inert. “I’m getting drunk. Really drunk, Michael. I’ve never done that with any man before. I’ve always been afraid I’d act awful. You won’t mind, will you? If I get drunk and awful?”
Shayne said, “I won’t mind.”
“It’s good to just — let go.” Her black eyes were wide and staring again, covered with a film of tears. “I’ve held in — too long. I’ve always thought-”
“That Lance might come back?” Shayne supplied.
She nodded, closing her eyes and forcing two tears onto her thin cheeks. “I’ve been an awful fool, Michael.”
“You were a fool ten years ago.”
“And I’ve been one ever since.” She pulled herself up with an effort, and cried wildly, “I’ve kept myself for him! Do you know what that means? Do you know what it means to be a woman of thirty? I’m getting drab. I’ve dried up inside,” she ended, and the room rang with her loud, angry laughter.
Shayne said quietly, “You’ve got a lot of years left, Carmela.”
Hysteria was added to her laughter. Her eyes were dry now, and shone with an unnatural glitter. “Not as many years as you think. Men aren’t attracted to old women. Look at you! What do you do? You sit there and argue. If I were a luscious blonde of eighteen, you’d be kissing me. Don’t deny it. You know you would.”
Shayne said grimly, “We’re still transacting business, Carmela. I told you I wanted to get the business over with first. Take a look at this.” He reached in his pocket for the snapshot of Marquita Morales and showed it to her. “Have you ever seen this girl before?”
She glanced at it indifferently, then with intent speculation. “It’s the girl who was with Lance in the taxi that day,” she began in a low, harsh voice that rose to a shrill pitch as she went on, “That’s what I mean! She’s young and pretty! If she were here alone with you, I’ll bet you wouldn’t be sitting at arm’s length from her. Would you? Well — would you?” She was sitting upright, swaying a little, and pointing a long thin forefinger at him.
Shayne sighed and replaced the snapshot in his pocket. “You were going to get drunk, remember?” He fixed another drink and put it in her hand.
She took a long drink and sat back listlessly. “I remember. I warned you, didn’t I, that I might be awful?”
He said, “You warned me.” The whisky bottle was almost empty. He put the stopper in the bottle and walked around to lean over her and look down into her upturned eyes. “You’ve got plenty on the ball, Carmela. Haven’t you ever heard that the best years of a woman’s life are the thirties? I’m going to kiss you, and you’re going to discover that everything is all right. You’re beautiful as hell, Carmela. Don’t ever start doubting that.”
Her eyes held his steadily. Her lips were thinned against her teeth. He bent his head and kissed her. A shudder rippled over her taut body, and she went limp. With his mouth still close to hers he said, “See what I mean?”
She touched his gaunt cheek with her fingers and pushed him away. Carefully setting her half-filled glass on the table, she looked up at him with glazed and staring eyes. “Help me — I’m so tired,” she whimpered.
“Sure, Carmela,” he said gently, and his eyes were bleak. He moved around and sat on the edge of the chaise longue beside her. Carmela’s head rolled back, and she closed her eyes. A little moan carried from her moist red lips. Then she sighed convulsively and lay very still.
Shayne got up slowly and stood looking down at her. The muscles in his face were set, and he drew in a long, rasping breath. Carmela Towne didn’t stir under his gaze.
He picked up her glass and drank the rest of her drink, then strolled across the sitting room to a closed door. Opening it, he found a light switch on the wall.
He pushed the switch and flooded Carmela’s bedroom with light
He went back and gathered her up in his arms and carried her through the doorway. She was very light in his arms, and one of her furred mules slipped off and fell to the carpet. Easing her down on one side of the double bed, he turned back the covers on the other, then placed her on the sheet. He hesitated before untying the belt of her quilted gown and gently slipping it off.
She lay quiescent and breathed evenly. He pulled the covers over her and went out, closing the bedroom door.
He left the floor lamp burning in her sitting room and went downstairs. The front door was equipped with an inner bolt and a chain, a heavy lock with a night latch. He checked the night latch to see that it was on, then went out and pulled the door shut.
Most of the city of El Paso was stretched out below the front steps of Jefferson Towne’s house. The glitter of moonlight on water made a winding serpentine of the Rio Grande, with a cluster of yellow lights on the other side marking the Mexican city of Juarez.
Shayne sighed, and went down the marble steps to his coupe. He got in and drove away without looking back, idly wondering what he might have done had Carmela remained conscious. Given a chance at happiness, she could be a damnably attractive woman. He recalled his light words to Lucy Hamilton before he left New Orleans for El Paso, and made a sour grimace.
He had never felt as sorry for any woman as he did right now for Carmela, nor as disgusted with any man as he was with Lance Bayliss. He wondered if Lance had been in the house before he arrived, or if he had merely sat in his parked car without making his presence known.
He was a fool for considering Lance Bayliss at all, and was disgusted with himself and ready to go back to New Orleans where he belonged when he parked the coupe in the hotel garage and went up to his room.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Shayne read the morning paper with his breakfast in the coffee shop downstairs. It gave a full and fair account of Josiah Riley’s accusation and Jefferson Towne’s arrest, pointing out the discrepancy in time between the struggle Riley had purportedly witnessed and the time when Towne’s automobile ran over the body, and giving a full account of the bad blood between the two men without pointing out that this might be a motive for Riley to falsify what he had claimed to see on Tuesday afternoon.
On the second page there was a gruesome photograph of the corpse that had been fished out of the Rio Grande the preceding night. To make the morning edition, the newspaper photographer hadn’t had time to wait for the body to be fixed up any, and the bloated features in the picture were hardly distinguishable as those of a man. A complete description of the body was given, however, and the public was urged to view the remains at the city morgue that afternoon to try to identify the dead man. The news story did not venture any speculations as to why the body was stripped of all its clothing, nor was there any hint of a possible connection between the two deaths.
Shayne left the paper folded on the table when he finished breakfast. He found Chief Dyer in his office at headquarters, and the chief didn’t appear happy. He greeted the detective with a surly grunt. “Why do you private dicks always try to complicate things?”
Shayne grinned and asked him what he meant.
“Trying to find a tie-up between an open-and-shut murder and an unidentified body,” Dyer snarled. “Spy rings and so on! Gerlach says you told him to look for a similar head wound on this new body. Good God, Shayne, do you think Towne’s gone in for wholesale murder?”
“What does Thompson say about it?”
“He says ‘No.’ There are neck abrasions, but death came from being beaten over the head with some blunt instrument. Not a single blow with a hammer.”
Shayne shrugged. “That would have made it too easy,” he admitted. “How long does Thompson give him in the water?”
Chief Dyer scowled, and waved his cigarette in its long holder. “You know how a medico is. With a lot of hedging and buts and maybes — from two to five d
ays, and be damned if he’ll set it any closer.”
Shayne said, “Knowing the flow of the river, we can figure out some limits as to where the body could have been thrown in.”
Dyer shook his head. “I tried him on that, too. Nothing doing. Some bodies sink to the bottom and lie there for days. Others never sink at all. That’s no good.”
“Located any missing soldiers?”
Dyer shook his head dispiritedly. “That’s another blind alley. Fort Bliss hasn’t any reports on any. But with all the men on furloughs and passes — and going through the city from other posts — it’ll be weeks before we’ll know for sure.”
The door opened, and Captain Gerlach poked his head in. He said, “Hi, Mike,” and then to the chief, “I’ve got a couple out here I’d like to have you talk to.”
Dyer nodded. The captain opened the door and stepped back, saying, “Go right on in, folks. The chief will want to hear your story.”
Shayne moved to go out as a middle-aged couple came in, but Gerlach stopped him. “You’d better sit in on this, too, Mike.” He closed the door behind the couple and said, “This is Mr. and Mrs. Barton, Chief. They think they may have some information on the body we found in the river last night.”
Mrs. Barton was a small lady with silvery hair. She had a sweet, unlined face, and she had been crying. The tears started flowing again as she took a step toward the chief’s desk and said, “It’s our boy. We know it is. The picture in the paper don’t look like Jack but we know it’s him.”
Her husband was a tall, stooped man wearing what was evidently his “good” suit of blue serge, shiny in the seat and elbows, but neatly pressed. He moved to his wife’s side and took her arm and said, “Now, Mother. We don’t know for sure. Don’t take on like that.”
Captain Gerlach pushed a couple of chairs around for them, and Chief Dyer reseated himself. Mr. Barton got a clean white handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it into her withered hand, murmuring something in her ear.
She put the handkerchief up to her face and sobbed into it. Dyer asked, “Is your son missing?”
“Yes, sir. Jack’s been gone since last Tuesday. We’ve tried not to worry, but when we read about it in the paper and how it said he wasn’t identified yet, and all — well, we’re afraid it’s him.”
“Does the description fit him?”
“It fits him too good,” Mr. Barton said fearfully. “If we could look at him, sir. You haven’t identified him yet, I reckon?” He leaned forward, despair overcoming the faint hope in his voice.
“Murder,” Mrs. Barton sobbed through the handkerchief. “Jack said ’twould be murder, and that’s what it is. If we’d only opened his letter in time to stop him-”
“Now, Mother.” Mr. Barton clumsily patted his wife’s shoulder. “No need to blame yourself. We couldn’t stop him from going to see Mr. Towne. You know we couldn’t. Jack was always that stubborn.”
Captain Gerlach moved uneasily, and Chief Dyer’s hand trembled as he took the cigarette holder away from his mouth. “Jefferson Towne?”
“Yes, sir. The big mining man. Him that’s running for mayor. I dunno what this is in the paper about him killing a soldier last Tuesday, but I guess we better tell you the whole thing.”
“I think you’d better,” Dyer said dryly.
Mr. Barton reached inside his coat pocket and drew out a much-thumbed sheet of paper. He passed it across to Dyer, exclaiming dully, “Here’s a letter Jack wrote last Tuesday just before he went out right after noon. He left it pinned on his pillow and Mother didn’t find it till late that evening. But we didn’t worry so much after we read it, because a Mexican came by about five o’clock to get Jack’s Gladstone bag and he said Jack was going on a trip and for us not to worry. Jack had packed his bag, seems like, before he went out, but he never said anything to us about it. You better read the letter, and then you’ll see why we think it’s Jack.”
Dyer looked at Gerlach and Shayne as he unfolded the sheet of paper. He mashed out his cigarette and began to read aloud:
Dear Mother and Dad — I can’t stand the way things are going any longer. I’m just a burden on you and I’m going to quit letting you support me. You’ll think what I’m going to do is blackmail, but I don’t care any more. I’m leaving this note so you’ll know who’s to blame if anything happens to me. I’m going to see Mr. Jefferson Towne this afternoon and he has promised to give me ten thousand dollars in cash to pay me for keeping still about something I know so he can win the election. But I don’t trust Mr. Towne and am afraid he may try to kill me to keep from paying the money.
I’m going to take the risk because I don’t see any other way to quit being a burden on you. If I’m not back by tonight when you find this, you’ll know I’m probably dead and Mr. Towne is responsible.
If that happens, take this letter to the police, and get the notebook out of my Gladstone and take it to Mr. Neil Cochrane on the Free Press and he will give you $500 for the notebook, and he will use the information in it against Mr. Towne. I have sort of told Mr. Cochrane what it is and he has promised to pay that much for it. He suspects Mr. Towne will kill me instead of paying the money, and I’m leaving this letter at his suggestion.
No matter what happens I love you even if I haven’t been much good. Jack.
Chief Dyer refolded the letter and laid it on his desk. Mrs. Barton’s sobbing had ceased. She twisted the white handkerchief in her fingers and said falteringly, “You can see why we’re so worried about Jack. We even got to wondering last night — when we read in the Free Press Extra about Mr. Towne being arrested — well, we got wondering if that had anything to do with Jack. It being on Tuesday afternoon and all.”
“But Riley claims he saw Mr. Towne kill a soldier that afternoon.”
“That’s just it,” she hurried on. “Jack was wearing khaki breeches and high laced boots and a tan shirt when he left home. Sort of like a soldier’s uniform. Same color and all.”
Dyer nodded thoughtfully. “But you hadn’t worried about your son until then?”
“We worried about him plenty,” Mr. Barton put in. “About what he’d gone and done. But we didn’t think no harm had come to him, what with the Mexican coming for his Gladstone and saying he was going away on a trip. We thought, well, that he was ashamed to come back home after doing it and that he’d be writing to us.”
“He was a good boy,” Mrs. Barton cried out suddenly. “He never did anything bad in his life. He brooded about his sickness that kept him out of the army and a war job, and he worried about us not having much money.”
“He’s been changed and strange-acting since about a month ago when he came back from a prospecting trip in the Big Bend,” Mr. Barton explained apologetically. “You see, he went to the School of Mines two years and then the doctors told him he should get out in the open, so he went off on a prospecting trip by himself and was gone almost six months. He came back different and bitter, sort of. Kind of blaming God, it seemed like, because a rich man like Mr. Towne had a big silver mine down there and he couldn’t find nothing at all.”
“He was downright blasphemous about the injustice of it,” Mrs. Barton sobbed. “And we brought him up a good, religious boy, too.”
“Then he tried to get a job out to Mr. Towne’s smelter,” Mr. Barton went on, “but they said he wasn’t strong enough to do the work and he brooded over that some more. Then a couple of weeks ago he ups and goes off on a trip without saying nothing to us, and when he come back last Sunday he was extra cheerful and talked like he’d made some kind of strike. He never mentioned the bad thing he was planning to do when he left home Tuesday.”
“Could we see him now?” Mrs. Barton pleaded. “Seems like I can’t go on wondering anymore. It’d be a blessed relief to just know it was him.”
Dyer glanced at Gerlach. The homicide captain shook his head and explained, “They’re busy fixing him up right now. Doc Thompson didn’t get through with him until a little while ago, and they’re f
ixing him to look as natural as possible. You’d better wait until this afternoon,” he advised the Bartons in a kindly voice.
“Well, then, maybe we’d better go, Mother.” Mr. Barton got up. She put the handkerchief to her face and began to sob again as she got up. He took her arm and tenderly guided her from the office. Gerlach went out with them and returned a few moments later. He shook his head angrily and asked, “Why do homicide victims invariably have parents like that?”
“How does it strike you?” Dyer asked.
He shrugged and admitted, “It seems to fit slick as a whistle. I never was satisfied with Riley’s identification of the soldier’s picture as Towne’s victim, but I had an idea all the time he’d seen something down by the river Tuesday afternoon.”
“Strike you that way, Shayne?” Dyer asked him.
“It makes sense,” Shayne agreed. “Too much, maybe. Almost as though it was planned to fit.”
“Do you mean to say you doubt their story — and this letter?” The chief struck the folded sheet of paper in front of him with his fist.
“I think they’re straight enough all right.” Shayne hesitated. “But I hardly see Towne playing the role it puts him in. Wouldn’t young Barton warn him that such an incriminating letter existed? Towne would know he’d be arrested as soon as the body was fished from the river and identified.”
‘That’s why he stripped all his clothes off. Hoping the body wouldn’t be discovered until too late for it to be recognized as Jack Barton.”
Shayne shook his head. “Jeff Towne hasn’t gotten where he is by taking long chances. Let’s not forget that Cochrane figures in this deal. He knew Jack Barton was going to meet Towne Tuesday afternoon to blackmail him. He’d already offered Barton five hundred for the information worth ten grand to Towne. It was Cochrane who warned Barton that Towne might kill him instead of paying off, and he advised the boy to leave an accusing letter behind.”
“Isn’t it what Cochrane would do?” Dyer demanded.
“Maybe. The question is, who got the Gladstone bag with the notebook containing the information? Someone sent a messenger to Barton’s house for it.”
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