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Authors: Brett Halliday
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nearly a half-hour before the murder took place.”
“Which murder?” Phyllis asked sharply. “If your version is right, Mrs. Thrip might have been killed any time before the moment that Mr. Thrip caught Joe Darnell in her bedroom and shot him.”
“Good for you, angel. That’s putting your finger on what the newspapers would call the crux of the affair. With the present setup no one has bothered to check the times of death closely. Painter and his crew are assuming that they died practically simultaneously and that assumption suits Peter Painter right down to his little number seven boots. He’s got a ready-made victim unable to tell his own story—and it has the added virtue of putting me on the spot. I can’t expect any official help in proving that her death occurred before Joe’s.”
“But can’t you prove at least that Joe wasn’t working for you when it happened? That you just tipped him off about the money in the jewel box?” She paused reflectively, then added, “And there’s Dora—I feel terribly sorry for her—maybe her testimony about them needing the money so badly to get married—and the baby and all.”
“We’d better leave Dora out of it. She’d probably ball everything up if a lawyer got hold of her. I can tell my story,” he explained patiently, “but I haven’t an iota of proof to back it up.” His mouth tightened grimly; his eyes were sober. “Unless I can make Thrip admit his reason for calling me in yesterday,” he ended harshly.
He stood up, shaking his head while his wife scanned his face anxiously.
“You didn’t mean that about running away, did you, Michael? You’ll stay here and clear it up, won’t you? You always have.”
Shayne grinned down at her. “I meant it for your sake, angel, I didn’t know how you were going to take it. If I can’t clear Joe it’s going to be all up with me as a private detective. I’ll have my license revoked and I’ll be on the black list of every state in the Union.”
“Then you’ll have to clear Joe.” Mrs. Michael Shayne summed the thing up simply and firmly.
“With every card in the deck stacked against me,” Shayne muttered. He turned into the living-room and Phyllis followed him, saying excitedly:
“I’d check up on Carl Meldrum, If Joe didn’t do it, he must have. Mrs. Thrip admitted she was afraid of him. He probably got mad because she didn’t pay off on his notes and killed her in a fit of rage. She said he had terrible rages at times, and he was there last night at about the right time.”
Shayne stopped near the door, rubbing his lean jaw with its red bristle of beard. He didn’t mention his visit to Meldrum at his hotel nor the special delivery from Mona. He said, “That isn’t much of a motive for murder. As long as she was alive he had reason to believe he might be able to blackmail her. With her dead, that opportunity is gone.”
“But he’s got his clutches on Dorothy,” Phyllis reminded him. “She’ll come into money. Maybe he thought it would be easier to squeeze it from her than from her stepmother.”
Shayne said, “Maybe.” He reached a long arm out for his hat and turned to kiss Phyllis good-by. She clung to him, then stepped back and gave him a little shove toward the door. “I’ll be betting on you, Detective Shayne, and I might even be able to help some.”
Shayne was on the point of explaining just how much she had already helped when there was a light rap on the door. He put Phyllis aside and opened the door. He frowned when he saw Dora standing in the hall. Her eyes were enormous beneath the floppy brim of her hat, bloodshot and distended. She didn’t have any powder on her face and her cheeks had a scrubbed look. She wore a sleazy black dress that bulged in front, silk stockings with runs in them, and scuffed red slippers.
She stared at Shayne as though she didn’t recognize him, stared past him at Phyllis.
Shayne put a big hand on her elbow and drew her inside. Her
“Which murder?” Phyllis asked sharply. “If your version is right, Mrs. Thrip might have been killed any time before the moment that Mr. Thrip caught Joe Darnell in her bedroom and shot him.”
“Good for you, angel. That’s putting your finger on what the newspapers would call the crux of the affair. With the present setup no one has bothered to check the times of death closely. Painter and his crew are assuming that they died practically simultaneously and that assumption suits Peter Painter right down to his little number seven boots. He’s got a ready-made victim unable to tell his own story—and it has the added virtue of putting me on the spot. I can’t expect any official help in proving that her death occurred before Joe’s.”
“But can’t you prove at least that Joe wasn’t working for you when it happened? That you just tipped him off about the money in the jewel box?” She paused reflectively, then added, “And there’s Dora—I feel terribly sorry for her—maybe her testimony about them needing the money so badly to get married—and the baby and all.”
“We’d better leave Dora out of it. She’d probably ball everything up if a lawyer got hold of her. I can tell my story,” he explained patiently, “but I haven’t an iota of proof to back it up.” His mouth tightened grimly; his eyes were sober. “Unless I can make Thrip admit his reason for calling me in yesterday,” he ended harshly.
He stood up, shaking his head while his wife scanned his face anxiously.
“You didn’t mean that about running away, did you, Michael? You’ll stay here and clear it up, won’t you? You always have.”
Shayne grinned down at her. “I meant it for your sake, angel, I didn’t know how you were going to take it. If I can’t clear Joe it’s going to be all up with me as a private detective. I’ll have my license revoked and I’ll be on the black list of every state in the Union.”
“Then you’ll have to clear Joe.” Mrs. Michael Shayne summed the thing up simply and firmly.
“With every card in the deck stacked against me,” Shayne muttered. He turned into the living-room and Phyllis followed him, saying excitedly:
“I’d check up on Carl Meldrum, If Joe didn’t do it, he must have. Mrs. Thrip admitted she was afraid of him. He probably got mad because she didn’t pay off on his notes and killed her in a fit of rage. She said he had terrible rages at times, and he was there last night at about the right time.”
Shayne stopped near the door, rubbing his lean jaw with its red bristle of beard. He didn’t mention his visit to Meldrum at his hotel nor the special delivery from Mona. He said, “That isn’t much of a motive for murder. As long as she was alive he had reason to believe he might be able to blackmail her. With her dead, that opportunity is gone.”
“But he’s got his clutches on Dorothy,” Phyllis reminded him. “She’ll come into money. Maybe he thought it would be easier to squeeze it from her than from her stepmother.”
Shayne said, “Maybe.” He reached a long arm out for his hat and turned to kiss Phyllis good-by. She clung to him, then stepped back and gave him a little shove toward the door. “I’ll be betting on you, Detective Shayne, and I might even be able to help some.”
Shayne was on the point of explaining just how much she had already helped when there was a light rap on the door. He put Phyllis aside and opened the door. He frowned when he saw Dora standing in the hall. Her eyes were enormous beneath the floppy brim of her hat, bloodshot and distended. She didn’t have any powder on her face and her cheeks had a scrubbed look. She wore a sleazy black dress that bulged in front, silk stockings with runs in them, and scuffed red slippers.
She stared at Shayne as though she didn’t recognize him, stared past him at Phyllis.
Shayne put a big hand on her elbow and drew her inside. Her
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