They had reached 309 and Shayne glanced in at the homicide experts. “Suicide or murder?” he asked.
Riley looked up, shrugged, and spread out his hands significantly, then walked over to Shayne. “It could be either,” he said.
Garvin had removed the tight-fitting hat. He handed it to Riley without a word or a glance. Riley looked at Shayne with a grin, but Shayne was looking toward the elevator.
The door opened and Will Gentry stepped out, followed by Tim Rourke and Lieutenant Hastings, who was in charge of the homicide division. They stopped at the door, and Shayne answered the unspoken questions in Gentry’s eyes:
“Ralph Morton is dead and Miss Lally’s glasses are lying on the floor just inside the door—broken. This is Carl Garvin, who paid Morton a visit about the time it happened, but sneaked away without reporting it. Claims he thought Morton had shot himself.”
Garvin moved unsteadily and leaned against the wall. Shayne swung around and demanded, “What about Miss Lally? Did you see her here? Was it you who phoned her to meet you here?”
Garvin’s face was gray. He began to retch and clawed at his throat, reeling sideways and then sliding limply to the floor. He lay very still on his side and the smell of liquor from a sour stomach rose from the vomit oozing from his mouth.
Shayne looked at him for a moment, then said to Gentry, “He’s all yours,” and swung on his heel toward the elevator.
“Hold on, Mike,” Gentry called out “Where are you going?”
“To see what I can find out about Miss Lally,” he flung over his shoulder. He got out a five-dollar bill as he approached the boy, who now stood boldly outside the elevator, watching and listening.
“You hit the jackpot a moment ago,” Shayne told him. “How are you on ladies?”
“I dunno, suh.”
“About an hour ago,” Shayne interrupted. He swiftly described Miss Lally and her glasses, and added, “It may have been a little more or a little less than an hour ago.”
The boy shook his head, looking wistfully at the bill in Shayne’s hand. “I tell you how ’tis,” he confided. “We gets lotsa ladies goin’ in an’ out all hours. Don’t none of ’em hardly wears glasses, though.”
“This lady might not have had hers on,” Shayne said. “Think hard. It would have been around twelve-thirty.”
“Sho wish I could say, but I jest cain’t.”
Shayne heard a commotion in 309 and turned to see Rourke’s head peering through the door and beckoning to him frantically.
Thrusting the bill into the boy’s hand, Shayne broke into a trot. Rourke met him outside the door and said excitedly:
“It’s Beatrice, Mike! They found her locked in the closet. I’m afraid she’s dead, too.”
Shayne stepped past him to the doorway. Beatrice Lally was lying on the floor and one of the detectives was applying artificial respiration. She was as limp as a rag doll and looked pitifully helpless with her hair disheveled and her clothing torn. Streaks of dirt and tears mingled on her waxen white face.
Gentry got in front of Shayne and shoved him back as he started toward the girl. “Take it easy, Mike,” the chief advised gruffly. “She’s breathing. She’ll come out of it. But my God, she must have been locked in there with no air for an hour or more.”
Shayne thought swiftly of the dead, thick air in the room when he first entered with Garvin. He caught Gentry’s arm and growled, “Where’s Garvin?” after looking around the room and not seeing him.
“In the next room,” said Gentry sourly. “It’s empty and I shoved him in there when he pulled that faint—or a phony. Where’d you get him, Mike? Where does he fit in?”
“He’s the local manager for Miss Morton’s syndicate. He first denied knowing Morton’s address, but we got it from his office and came here. I caught him in a couple of lies and he finally admitted coming here after midnight to see Morton. Claims the room was unlocked and the light on and Morton was lying like that when he looked in. So he beat it.”
Shayne spoke swiftly and in a low voice, watching Beatrice Lally steadily. When she blinked her eyes and moaned, he elbowed Gentry aside and pushed forward to drop on his knees beside her. She moved her head restlessly and her eyes fluttered open, only to close quickly as though to shut out the painful light.
When she finally held them open long enough to see Shayne’s grimly concerned face, she smiled faintly and said:
“What happened?” Her voice was a whisper and her round, sooty eyes looked wonderingly into his. “I came here—like you said—and—and someone hit me.” She shivered and closed her eyes tightly.
Shayne realized then that the window was wide open and a cool, strong breeze was blowing in, but the gusty blasts of the impending storm has passed. “Better close that window,” he said. “She’s shivering with cold.”
Miss Lally was trying to sit up. Still on his knees, Shayne put his arm around her and lifted her to her feet as he came up. There was a dull reddish bruise high on her right cheekbone, just in front of the ear. Shayne kept his arm around her. She drew in a deep breath, moistened her lips, and looked around dazedly.
“Get her a glass of water,” Shayne ordered, and helped her to the only comfortable chair in the shabby room.
Gentry brought the water and she drank a few sips gratefully. “When you feel like talking—”
She puckered her near-sighted eyes at the chief and Shayne explained:
“This is Chief Will Gentry. But don’t talk until you feel like it.”
“I was unconscious for a time, I guess. Then I came to. Or, it seems I did. Perhaps I dreamed it. It’s like a horrible nightmare,” she went on, stopping to breathe deeply after each short sentence, while the men moved in closer to hear more clearly the words she spoke only slightly louder than a whisper. “It was all black and silent. Like being in a coffin. I screamed and pounded—and crawled around like an animal. I was so weak. Then everything faded. There wasn’t any—air—to breathe.”
“You were locked in the clothes closet over there,” Shayne explained gently. He looked at Gentry, who was bending close to her on the other side of the chair. “Do you think it’s wise to question her now, Will? Sometimes a case of shock has serious consequences.”
“It’s all right,” Beatrice said. “I’m all right now. I can breathe again. I’ll take another sip of water, please.”
Gentry held the glass until she had it firmly in her hand. She took larger swallows now, draining the glass. When Gentry took the glass and set it aside, Miss Lally squinted up at Shayne and asked:
“What happened? You said you’d be waiting for me.”
“Tell me exactly what I did say.”
“Don’t you remember?” She frowned and rubbed her hand weakly across her eyes, murmuring, “My—glasses.”
“I didn’t phone you at Miss Hamilton’s,” he told her patiently. “It was some other man.”
“His voice—sounded like yours,” she faltered. “He called me by name and said he was you and I was to meet him right away in his hotel room. Number three-oh-nine,” she went on, her voice growing gradually stronger and her breathing freer. “But I wasn’t to tell anyone where I was going. Not even Miss Hamilton. And I shouldn’t come directly here by cab because it might be traced, but to get out at a corner and walk a block or so. And I did, and—” Her voice trailed off and she began rubbing her eyes like a sleepy child. “Please, may I have my glasses? My eyes hurt and I can’t see very well.”
“Your glasses are broken,” Shayne told her. “You say someone struck you?”
“The minute I opened the door.” She shuddered with the memory. “I knocked and a man asked who it was. I still thought it was you. I told him my name. He said to come in. I opened the door and took one step inside. Then the lights went out and something hit me on the head.” She touched the bruised spot with shaking fingers. “I didn’t see anything or anyone. It was just black—like death—until I sort of half came to. But I’ve told you about that. If
it wasn’t you, Mr. Shayne, who was it?”
“I don’t know,” he said soberly. “Try to recall the voice. Could it have been Ralph Morton?”
She frowned briefly, closing her eyes to concentrate. “I don’t think so. Oh, I don’t know,” she cried out in despair. “How can I tell? I thought it was you.”
“I think we’ve got enough from her right now,” Gentry said gruffly. “There’s an ambulance downstairs. She’d better get to a hospital for a thorough examination.”
The back of her chair was toward the bed. Shayne and Gentry each took one of her arms and helped her up. The other men stood back, and with Shayne’s body blocking her short vision she was carried out without discovering the sheet-covered body of Ralph Morton.
In the hallway Gentry turned her over to the ambulance driver and his assistant, waited until they were in the elevator with the door closed, then turned a quizzical gaze on Shayne and asked:
“What do you make of it now, Mike—with all the inside information you’re holding out on me?”
“I’m not holding out anything, Will. That is—” He hesitated, shrugged his rangy shoulders, and said, “Not any more, I’m not. With Garvin tied into this so closely, you’ll have to hear where Burton Harsh comes in and decide for yourself.”
“Do you think Morton lured her here—attacked her and locked her in the closet and then either shot himself or was shot by someone who came in after she passed out?”
“I don’t know. How would Morton have known where to phone her?”
“I thought you might tell me that,” Gentry rumbled mildly.
“I want to talk to Garvin. And I’d like to get my hands on one Edwin Paisly.” Shayne started to the door next to 309 and Gentry went with him. He had his hand on the doorknob of 311, and before turning it he asked in a low voice:
“Do your boys make Morton murder or suicide?”
“Could be either from the preliminary examination,” Gentry told him. “But they’re inclined toward murder. No suicide note—several small indications—”
Shayne nodded and pushed the door open.
Chapter Thirteen
Suicide Doesn’t Fit
CARL GARVIN SAT DEJECTEDLY on the edge of the bed with his face buried in his hands. Gentry dismissed the officer on guard with a gesture and closed the door when he went out, then stood with his back against it while Shayne walked over to Garvin.
“What time did you come here tonight?” he asked.
Garvin lifted a wretched face. “It was about twelve-thirty. I don’t know exactly. I was brooding about things and wondering how to get hold of enough cash to satisfy Gannet. As I told you, I didn’t know at that time that Miss Morton had been murdered. I decided to come and talk to Morton about the proposition he made me. I knew, of course, that I couldn’t help him to persuade her to leave the state before she got the divorce, but thought I might be able to get some money from him by pretending I had thought of a way.” He drew in a deep breath and expelled it like a long, bitter sigh.
“The rest of it happened just as I told you,” he went on in a high-pitched monotone. “When I saw him lying there and smelled fresh gunsmoke I thought he had just shot himself. I realized that if I reported it to the police I’d have a lot of explaining to do, and I was too confused and upset to think clearly. I didn’t even go into the room. Just stood in the doorway for a moment and went away.”
“Directly to Burton Harsh to report to him that Ralph Morton was dead?”
“Yes. I thought he should know. It was all mixed up with Miss Morton blackmailing him, you see, and I still didn’t know she was dead. He told me that part of it when I got there.”
“Had you discussed Ralph Morton with Harsh? Given him the name of this hotel?”
“No. I swear I didn’t. I don’t believe Mr. Harsh knew anything about him until I told him tonight.”
“Leo Gannet told you Miss Lally left his place with me. Did he also tell you where I took her?”
Garvin removed his glasses and blinked up at Shayne in bewilderment. “No. I wasn’t interested in Miss Lally.”
“How and when did Harsh communicate with you between midnight and twelve-thirty?”
“He didn’t. I hadn’t seen him since we parted after dinner. I stopped for a few drinks—as I told you.”
“I know what you told me,” growled Shayne. “Miss Lally received a phone call from some man pretending to be me, which brought her to Morton’s room just before or after you were there. What do you know about that?”
“Nothing. I swear I know nothing about her being here.” Garvin covered his face with his hands and bent forward until his hands rested on his knees.
Shayne turned away, took a few steps toward the door, then whirled back to the moaning man.
“Isn’t it a fact that you and Harsh met outside your office at a quarter to seven and drove straight to Sara Morton’s hotel and murdered her before going to dinner? If she published Harsh’s story he’d be ruined financially and couldn’t raise the money to pay off your debt to Gannet. If you didn’t pay off you knew Gannet’s punks would take care of you in the usual way. Maybe Sara Morton didn’t suspect you of sending the threatening notes, and you’d be the one person she’d unlock her door for. It was a perfect set-up, wasn’t it, Garvin?” he ended savagely.
“No—no!” Garvin swayed and fell sideways on the bed and his body shook violently.
Shayne stood for a moment looking down at him with deep disgust, then went over to Gentry and said, “Call in your man, Will.”
Gentry opened the door and called the guard in. He went out with Shayne, and they stopped midway between the two doors while Shayne explained the Burton Harsh-Carl Garvin aspect of the case more fully.
“All three of them,” he ended grimly, “Harsh, Garvin, and Morton, had a reason to get Sara Morton out of the way fast. Leo Gannet, too.”
Riley came out of 309 with long, hurried strides, stopped short when he saw the chief and Shayne in the corridor. “Oh, here you are,” he said, and held out some crumpled pages of a magazine. “We found them in Morton’s wastebasket. They’re pages with words clipped out of the text. I just had one look at those threatening letters in your office, Chief, but the way I recall it, it looks like this is where they came from.”
Will Gentry reached in his pocket and drew out the three messages, handed them to Riley and said, “Check them against what seems to be cut from those pages—for positive identification.”
Shayne was scowling heavily, and when Riley went back to 309 he muttered, “Looks as if we know now who sent her the letters, at least. Morton had the strongest motive for getting her out of town before a certain date.”
“We’ll talk this development over later,” Gentry said, holding up a big hand to stop him. “In the meantime I’ll take Garvin in and bring Burton Harsh over from the Beach. With their stories and with what Miss Lally can tell us we may be able to make some sense out of this hash.”
“I’ve got five grand riding on keeping Harsh in the clear,” Shayne reminded him.
“If he’s in the clear,” said Gentry flatly, “I won’t stand in the way of your collecting.” He rolled his heavy lids up to look searchingly at Shayne. “Seems to me you tried to get Garvin to convict him.”
“I was trying to break a confession out of Garvin. I thought he might clear Harsh.” He rubbed his jaw reflectively and added, “Harsh has a pretty good alibi for both murders.”
“They’ve all got good alibis for Sara Morton’s murder,” Gentry exploded. “From seven o’clock on. Even Paisly.”
“We don’t know anything about an alibi for Morton.”
“That would tie it all up very neatly,” rumbled Gentry, “with his suicide to top it off and close the case. Too damned neatly, Mike. It doesn’t happen that way. I’ve never yet known a murderer to commit suicide just to make things easy for the cops.”
“But it could be that way this time,” Shayne argued. “Any fingerprints on the gun?”
“His. All over it. But hell, you know how easy it is to wipe a gun clean and press his prints on it.”
Shayne worried his left ear lobe between thumb and forefinger, staring morosely at the bare, worn floor. “Who got Miss Lally over here and knocked her senseless and locked her in a closet to smother? And why? Ralph Morton? And if he intended to kill himself, what in hell did that accomplish?”
“Let’s take it this way: Suppose it was Morton who phoned her to come over for some reason we don’t know. While waiting for her someone comes in and blows a hole in his head. Garvin, for my money,” Gentry said contemptuously, then resumed in his normal rumble:
“Before he can get out of the room she arrives and opens the door. He douses the light fast before she sees either him or the dead man, socks her on the head, and then doesn’t know what to do with her. He doesn’t want to kill her, but on the other hand can’t afford to leave her lying there where she may return to consciousness any moment and give the alarm. So he compromises by locking her in the closet and beating it.”
“That would fit Garvin,” Shayne agreed dispassionately, “if we can break his alibi. Those seven o’clock alibis bother me.”
“They bother me, too,” Gentry confessed gravely. “Her watch being an hour slow—”
“Wait a minute, Will.” Shayne gripped his arm hard. “Maybe we’ve been going at that watch the wrong way.” He paused briefly to clarify the sudden thought in his mind, then continued slowly and carefully:
“Suppose her killer knew she had written that letter to me giving the time as six-thirty? She might have just finished it and not sealed the envelope. So he mails it for her, enclosing the incriminating threats which he didn’t send. But—he turns her watch back an hour, hoping we’ll think it was slow when she typed the letter—then hurries out to get himself a good clean alibi for seven o’clock on.”
Gentry grunted sourly. “That would fit either Garvin or Harsh—or Paisly. They tell me you talked to Paisly at the Golden Cock when you went there with Miss Lally. What do you make of him, outside of being a wrist-slapper?” he added with a fleeting twinkle of humor.
This Is It, Michael Shayne Page 13