“If you’ve got a pipeline into City Hall. I know it’s Saturday, but this may be important.”
“We have pipelines, Saturday or not,” Fermi assured him.
“This should be relatively simple. I want all the dope on a wedding performed on…” He checked the date on the menu to be sure. “… November nineteenth, nineteen sixty-one. I don’t know the names of either bride or groom, but one of the witnesses was a man named Jerome Fitzgilpin. Do you think you can get that for me fast?”
“It shouldn’t be more than fifteen or twenty minutes,” Fermi told him. “Shall I call you back?”
“Please. Collect, of course.” Shayne gave him the number. “Everything from the record on that particular wedding.” He hung up and settled back comfortably to wait for the detective to call him back.
The telephone rang much sooner than he expected it to. He answered it, but instead of Fermi’s voice, it was Lucy Hamilton on the wire.
“Michael.” Her voice sounded worried and strained. “Are you getting anywhere on the Fitzgilpin case?”
“I’m beginning to move. Right now I’m waiting for a phone call from New York which may help. What gives with you?”
“I’m dreadfully worried about Linda. I brought the children home from the park a little while ago and she’s… well, she’s lying on her bed fully-dressed and passed out cold, Michael. She seems all right,” Lucy went on doubtfully. “I guess it’s just liquor because her breath reeks of it, but I never knew her to drink too much before, and I know she does take sleeping pills…” Lucy’s voice trailed off doubtfully.
“I think I’d just let her sleep it off,” Shayne advised. “She was well on her way to passing out when I saw her a little before noon. Another drink or two would have done it.”
“Poor woman,” said Lucy disconsolately. “It’s such a terrible thing. Have you found out anything important?”
“Quite a lot. Where are the children?”
“I brought them downstairs with me. I told them their mother was sick and couldn’t be disturbed and they accepted that explanation without question. They’re such darling kids, Michael.”
“Yeh,” he said gruffly. “Hang onto them for a time, Lucy. Do you know any other friends of hers whom you might call on to help out?”
“Well, I don’t know really.”
“There’s a couple down the street whom she mentioned to me. Let’s see. Cahill. Ernie and Emily Cahill. Do you know them?”
“Of course. I have met Emily Cahill. She’s very nice. Has a little boy of her own.”
“You might call her to help if the kids get restless.”
“All right. And, Michael… keep on trying.”
“I will. Hold the fort.” Shayne hung up and sat back to sip his drink and tug at his earlobe while his somber gaze kept going back to the menu and the rosebud in front of him.
When his phone rang again five minutes later, it was Detective Fermi in New York. “I’ve got the information you wanted, Shayne. Ready to take it down?”
Shayne said, “Sure,” and reached for a pencil.
“The bridegroom was Rutherford G. Rodman, thirty. Address: The Commodore Hotel, New York City. Bride: Rose McNally, three-two-six West 89th Street, City. Twenty-six. It was the first marriage for both of them. Witnesses, Jerome Fitzgilpin, also the Commodore Hotel, and Blanche Carson, same address as the bride. Have you got all that?”
“Got it,” Shayne said. “Thanks a million, Angelo.”
“I hope it’s what you wanted. If there’s anything else…?”
“If there is I’ll call you. If not… be seeing you on television, huh?”
“Well, I don’t know how soon. I’ve got this option from a Hollywood producer, but you know how they are.”
“I certainly do know,” Shayne agreed emphatically. “Thanks again.”
He hung up and frowned at the information he had jotted down on a scratch pad. Three names and a wedding date a year and a half ago. He glanced from the names to the photograph of the happy newly-weds. Now he had names for them. Rutherford G. Rodman and Rose McNally. How and why were they important in Jerome Fitzgilpin’s life?
Maybe they weren’t, of course. He had damned little to go on. But the nagging hunch persisted. If only one of them were named Kelly.
A young couple whom Fitzgilpin had met once in New York by the merest chance and had bought a wedding dinner. Had he been in contact with them since, or had that been the end of it? Would he have mentioned it to his secretary if he had? Possibly, and quite possibly not.
Shayne frowned and drummed fingertips impatiently on the desk. Was this a dead-end? He hated to think so. Impulsively, he lifted the telephone, got the operator and said, “Will you please check with New York Information and see if they have a telephone listed under the name of Rutherford G. Rodman. I don’t know the address. Not even which borough it might be in, but it’s vitally important.”
She said, “Certainly,” and he listened in while she got New York Information and he was finally informed they had no such listing in any of the boroughs.
He got up to refill his cognac glass, came back and reseated himself, still deep in thought. He finally decided that having gone thus far he might as well go on to the end of the line, and he again lifted the phone to ask the operator if there were a New York number for Blanche Carson at the West side address Fermi had furnished.
This time he had more luck. He wrote the number down as New York gave it, and asked his operator to connect him with it.
The telephone rang in New York four times before a woman’s voice answered.
He asked, “Is this Miss Blanche Carson?”
“No. This is Doris Young. Who’s calling?”
“This is long distance from Miami, Florida,” Shayne said carefully. “Do you expect Miss Carson in soon?”
“Yes. She should be back about six o’clock. Who in Miami?”
“I’m a detective. Perhaps you could help me with some information, Miss Young. It’s in reference to a girl who used to live at that same address with Blanche Carson before she married. Her maiden name was Rose McNally.”
He heard a sharp intake of breath at the other end of the wire. “Has something happened to her?”
“What makes you think that?”
“Well, you said you were a detective, didn’t you?”
“Do you know Rose?”
“No. Not personally. I never met her. But I know she was Blanche’s room-mate until she got married and I moved in with Blanche.”
“And Blanche has talked about her?” Shayne encouraged the girl.
“Some. You know. Not very much, really. There was something happened a month or so ago. I know Rose called up one day unexpectedly and Blanche had dinner with her. I know she came home worried about her, and there was something said about Miami, but I don’t remember what. And so when you said you were a detective from Miami calling about Rose, I wondered.”
“I understand,” said Shayne patiently. “And that’s all you can tell me?”
“That’s about all. Has something happened to Rose?”
“We’re not sure,” said Shayne cautiously. “You’re sure Blanche will be home by six o’clock?”
“She said she would. Shall I tell her you called?”
“Yes. And that I’ll be in touch with her about six o’clock.” Shayne hung up, and sat back, musing over this information. Excitement was beginning to churn up inside him. There was some connection, damn it. Blanche had been at the wedding with Fitzgilpin. The bride was her former roommate, and must have confided in her. They had remained in touch after Rose’s marriage… as lately as a few months ago. And there had been something about Miami…
How those bits and pieces added up to the murder of Jerome Fitzgilpin last night, Shayne couldn’t possibly guess. But he was suddenly convinced that Blanche Carson held the key to the mystery. She was the only contact he had.
He looked distastefully at the telephone as he considered calling he
r at six o’clock. People were apt to clam up over the telephone. If she suspected Rose were in some kind of trouble in Miami…
Blanche and Rose must have been close friends. Blanche would probably be inclined to cover up for her if a detective started interrogating her over the phone.
On the other hand, you could learn so much more asking questions face to face. Not so much by what the witness said sometimes, but how she said it. How she evaded direct answers to certain questions.
Shayne looked at his watch and made a quick decision. Jet flights to New York took less than two hours. If there were one leaving soon he could be there before six o’clock.
He called the airport and found there was a nonstop flight scheduled to depart in forty minutes. He made a reservation and hung up, then called Lucy Hamilton’s number and asked her, “Everything under control?”
“Oh, yes, Michael.” She sounded calmer than before. “I called Emily Cahill and she was very nice. She’s coming over in about fifteen minutes to pick up the children. And I peeked in upstairs a few minutes ago. Linda is still dead to the world, but sleeping peacefully as far as I can tell. Her pulse is strong and she’s breathing easily.”
Shayne said, “Fine. Just keep a check on her, Angel. I’m off to New York in about forty minutes. You might let Tim Rourke know. I hope to be back before midnight with something definite to work on.”
“To New York, Michael? Whatever for?”
“I’ve got hold of something,” he told her cautiously. “Right now, I’m not sure what. Stay sort of close to Linda, huh? Personally,” he added slowly, “I wouldn’t be too much upset if she remained incommunicado to Peter Painter. What I mean to imply is… if she should come out of it and feel like another drink, I wouldn’t discourage her too much if I were you.”
“Michael Shayne! You mean you want me to keep her so drunk she can’t talk to Chief Painter?”
Shayne grinned at her indignant voice over the telephone. “I didn’t say I want you to keep her drunk, Angel. Just don’t keep her from staying drunk if she wants to. When Painter does get around to talking to her, she’s going to tell him some things that he’s likely to misconstrue. That’s all I’m saying. So if she feels like another drink when she wakes up, just be sure it’s handy and that you pour with a lavish hand. As long as the children are out of the way and being taken care of,” he added.
Lucy said doubtfully, “All right, Michael. I’ll… do my best.”
“It’s for Linda’s sake,” Shayne said sharply. “Very frankly, I think Painter will put her under arrest when he hears her story. Right now, I don’t want that.”
“Arrest her? Oh, no, Michael! Nothing in the world could make me believe Linda had anything to do with it.”
“I told Painter that,” Shayne said blithely, “and he’s considering putting you on his payroll as psychological consultant.”
“What?”
Shayne laughed. “I don’t think he’d pay as much as I do. I’ve got to get out to the airport. I’ll try to call either you or Tim from New York… around seven or so.”
13
At the New York airport, Shayne went directly to the Information counter to inquire about return flights that night. There was only one scheduled. For eight-thirty. Shayne made a reservation for it on the chance that he’d be able to make it.
It was a quarter to six when he called Blanche Carson’s West side apartment. A pleasant, youthful, feminine voice answered.
He asked, “Is this Blanche Carson?”
“Speaking. Who is this?”
“I’m a detective from Miami, Miss Carson.”
“Oh, yes. Doris told me. Something about Rose. What is it?”
Shayne said, “I wonder if I could possibly have a talk with you. I’m at the airport. Just flew in from Miami particularly to see you.”
“Well… I don’t know. I have a date to go dancing at eight. What did you say your name is?”
“Shayne. Michael Shayne, Miss Carson. I’m a private detective…”
“Oh!” she thrilled. “Mike Shayne? Really? That cute one that was on TV a year or so ago?”
Shayne grimaced wryly and said, “I’m afraid I’m not quite as cute as the actor who portrayed me. But I am Mike Shayne. And I want very much to see you at once. Could we possibly have dinner together? I have to fly back at eight-thirty.”
“I’d be thrilled to death to have dinner with you,” caroled Blanche Carson. “Where?”
“Can you suggest a place close to you? I can be there in thirty or forty minutes.”
“There’s a nice French restaurant about two blocks away.” She gave him the name and address. “I’ll be waiting for you there in half an hour.” Shayne said, “That will be wonderful,” and hung up. Well, that was one thing a television series did for you, he told himself sourly, as he went to look for a taxi. You could make dinner dates with strange women without any difficulty.
When he entered the dim foyer of the restaurant forty minutes later, a girl arose immediately from a bench and came up to him. She was slightly on the plump side and wore glasses, but she had an intelligent face and her eyes sparkled. “You’re Mike Shayne,” she said eagerly, offering him her hand. “I’d recognize you anywhere.”
“From watching TV?”
“Of course not.” She laughed happily. “I know he was just an actor. But I’ve read lots of the books about you and your cases, and you’re just like the author describes you.”
Shayne grinned and took her arm and they went into a small, quiet dining room and were promptly seated at a secluded table in a corner of the uncrowded room.
Shayne asked if she would have a drink, and she said promptly, “I’d love one. I’ll drink a sidecar in your honor. With Martel cognac, if you have it,” she told the hovering waiter gravely, “and just a little easy on the cointreau.”
Shayne grinned and said, “You have been reading the books. I’ll have two or three of the same,” he told the waiter. “Just keep them coming as fast as I finish one.”
“Now,” said Blanche, planting her elbows on the table and becoming suddenly serious. “What is it about Rose? I haven’t heard a single word from her.”
Shayne said, “I’m not just sure how much of it is about Rose. I hope you’ll help me there. Actually, Blanche, a man was murdered in Miami last night, and that’s what I’m working on. His name was Jerome Fitzgilpin.” He watched keenly for the girl’s reaction to the name, and saw a look of puzzled doubt spread slowly over her expressive features.
“Fitz-gilpin?” She repeated the syllables slowly. “Wait a minute. I think I know. Isn’t that the name of the nice, little man who stood up with Rose and Rutherford Rodman when they were married?”
Shayne nodded. “And took you to dinner in the Village afterward.”
“Yes. He was so nice about everything.” She clasped her hands together tightly. “A complete stranger like that. He had just met Rutherford at the hotel the night before. He bought Rose a corsage of tiny yellow rosebuds and insisted on paying for the dinner… with a bottle of champagne and everything. And you say he’s dead? Murdered? Who would murder such a friendly little man?”
“That’s what I hope to find out.” Their sidecars arrived and Shayne sipped his with pleasure. It was astringently cold, with no sugar around the rim of the glass. “Do you remember what he talked about that night? Anything important?”
“I think he was in New York attending some sort of convention. Mostly he talked about young love and marriage. He was married and had a couple of children, I think. He showed us pictures of them. He was so sweet talking about his wife. Still terribly in love with her after being married so long. I remember he said they’d never had a single quarrel in all the years they’d been married. And he was so anxious to get home to her. I didn’t realize he lived in Miami,” she added. “I don’t believe he mentioned that.”
And that was exactly the time Linda had been having her affair with George Nourse, Shayne thought grimly. Poor d
evil. It had been a hell of a home-coming for him. Aloud, he said, “Tell me about your friend Rose and her husband. Was it a happy marriage?”
“Oh, no. It was dreadful. Perfectly horrible for poor Rose. But it was partly her own fault. I have to admit that. I told her she was out of her mind to marry a man under false pretenses like that, but she was crazily romantic and got caught up in a lie and it kept getting bigger and bigger and she didn’t know how to tell him the truth. She thought it would be all right after they were married, and they’d laugh about it, because you see she thought he had all kinds of money and he wouldn’t mind. But it turned out he was fooling her, too, and had just married her because he thought she was rich.”
“Wait a minute,” protested Shayne. “How long had they known each other?”
“Just about a week. They met at a party and he was introduced to her as a wealthy bachelor from Chicago. So she made up a silly story about having rich parents in Philadelphia and just being in New York on a visit… and… and that’s the way it happened,” she ended helplessly, spreading out her hands. “Rose was actually a salesgirl at Bonwit’s and she spent practically every penny of her salary buying clothes there at a discount. So she did have beautiful things to wear, but not a penny in the bank. And neither did he, as it turned out. He couldn’t even pay his hotel bill at the Commodore a few days later, and he was furious when he discovered she wasn’t rich at all. He was a thoroughly nasty man,” she went on, lowering her eyelids and hesitating. “I didn’t know about this until months later, after he had left her, because she was too ashamed to tell me in the beginning, but he actually wanted her to… well… have men come up to their room at the hotel to get money to pay the bill.”
“Did she?”
“No!” Blanche shot at him. “She was a good girl. They slipped out of the hotel without paying, and she went back to her job and rented a cheap room where they lived for a time. Then he just disappeared one day and she never heard from him again. I didn’t know about any of this until a long time later because she never even called me when it was going on.”
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