When Shayne entered the hotel-apartment lobby, Roger, the day clerk, reached into a pigeonhole and took out several slips of paper. He beckoned to Shayne, winked significantly, and handed him a handful of papers.
“There’s a lady waiting to see you,” Roger whispered. “She’s on that couch between the two palms.”
Shayne fanned the slips of paper out. All were telephone messages, and all from Herbert Carlton. He turned slowly, leaning an elbow on the desk, and looked toward the couch.
He had never seen the girl who sat there. She wore a plain cloth hat with the brim rolled in the back and pulled down over her forehead, partially obscuring her face. Her dress was of some cheap material with red flowers and a white belt drawn tight around her slim waist. The skirt was short and skimpy and she kept pulling it down over her bony knees. Thin legs stretched out in front of her, her match-stick ankles were crossed. She wore red shoes with absurdly high heels. Her hands were folded in her lap and she appeared to stare fixedly down at the tips of the stocking toes sticking from the open-toed shoes.
Shayne studied her for a moment before asking Roger, “Did she give any name?”
“No sir. She’s been sitting there an hour maybe. Made me promise I’d tell her the minute you came in. She said she’d wait all night if she had to,” he went on excitedly, “when I told her you mightn’t be back this afternoon.” He kept looking at Shayne’s bruised face and swollen lips, but didn’t ask any questions.
Shayne dropped the telephone messages into the wastebasket, lit a cigarette, and walked across to the girl. He said, “The clerk says you’re waiting for me.”
She gave a start and looked up at him. “Yes… yes, that is… I’ve been waiting quite a while.”
Shayne saw that she was very young. Her cheeks were hollow and her eyes much too big for her face. Heavy rouge did not hide the dark circles of weariness beneath her eyes. Her mouth was too wide to be pretty, but the bone structure of her face would have been nice with more flesh over it.
She uncrossed her ankles and drew her legs up with her knees tight together. She wore a plain gold wedding ring and a large imitation diamond on her left hand.
Shayne said, “I haven’t much time. If you could tell me what you want…”
She sprang up and said, “I won’t take much time. Can we go some place and talk?”
When Shayne hesitated she put one hand on his forearm and gripped it with fingers that were like thin talons. “Please. I’ve got to talk to you.”
“We’ll go up to my office,” he said, taking her hand from his arm and placing his palm under her sharp elbow. They went up in the elevator and down the corridor silently.
Inside the office with the door closed she faced him squarely, her face taut and her eyes filled with fear. She asked, “Did my husband kill Mr. Wilson?”
“Your husband?”
“Yes. Did he commit that awful murder? I’ve got to know. Can’t you see I’m almost crazy not knowing?” Her voice trembled.
Shayne tossed his hat on a hook and said, “Sit down and try to relax.” He went to a wall cabinet and came back with a glass of wine.
“No… no,” she cried, “I don’t want any wine. I want to know whether Eddie’s a murderer.”
Shayne sat down opposite her and asked, “What is your husband’s name besides Eddie?”
“Edward Seeney.” Her enormous eyes were fixed on him fearfully when she spoke the name.
Shayne shook his head. “Unfortunately I don’t know the name of the man who killed Clem Wilson.”
“But the paper said…”
“Clem did talk to me just before he was killed, but he didn’t have time to mention any names. Tell me, why do you think your husband might be a murderer?”
Mrs. Seeney sat on the extreme edge of the chair with her thin legs under her at an angle indicating her readiness to leap up at the slightest provocation. “Was Mr. Wilson killed on account of some kind of gasoline deal like the paper said?”
A deep frown creased Shayne’s forehead. “I’m not answering any questions. Some people are damned anxious to find out how much I know. You may have been sent by them.”
“I’m not,” she cried, “I swear I’m not.” She leaned eagerly toward him. “I’m just crazy worried about Eddie.”
Shayne said, “Maybe. You go ahead and do the talking.” He got up and went into the bathroom, leaving the door open. He peered at his face in the mirror and was astonished to see that much of the swelling had gone from his lips. The salve, by God, was doing its stuff. He reasoned that if a little did a little good, a lot would do more. He took the jar from his pocket and smeared some more on.
When he went back into the room Mrs. Seeney was crouched back in her chair looking diminutive and appallingly childish to be a married woman. Shayne offered her a cigarette.
She shook her head listlessly. “Thanks. I don’t smoke.”
Shayne lit one and sat down. He explained, “I know a lot of things about Clem Wilson’s murder and I’m finding out more all the time. If you’ll explain about your husband… why you think he may be guilty… I’ll probably be able to add things up and give you some kind of an answer.”
“Well, Eddie has changed lately,” she said, pulling herself erect, “since the war and all. We got married just before the first draft. Just enough so it kept Eddie out. We were crazy about each other, and I couldn’t stand to think of him having to go to war.” A note of bitterness tightened her voice on the last words.
“You must have been very young,” Shayne suggested.
“I was sixteen. Eddie and me eloped and we were awful happy. Then, when the baby came it seemed like he changed. He took to drinking and he admitted the only reason he married me was to get out of the draft. Well… I don’t want him to be drafted and taken away from me, but I didn’t figure on it the way Eddie did.”
Shayne smoked his cigarette and didn’t look at the girl.
“Eddie had a good job then,” she went on falteringly. “He sold a line of accessories to filling stations all up and down the coast. Then… priorities and things started, and pretty soon there wasn’t anything to sell.”
She stopped talking, and when Shayne glanced at her, her big eyes appealed to him for understanding.
“I’m listening,” he said gently, “go on.”
“Maybe I shouldn’t be telling you all this,” she said in a small voice. “None of it counts… now. What’s important is…”
“All of it counts,” Shayne told her. “Every little thing about Eddie counts. They all add up. What happened after he lost his job?”
“We… we didn’t have any money saved up and things were awful hard. He got some odd jobs off and on, but he’d drink most of the money up. Then last month he got a new job. He bragged about how good it was. He gave me money for the house and bought a car for himself. But he never has told me what he does. He stays away a lot. Mostly at night, and he’s only got a B card, but he always has lots of gasoline. I noticed last week he had two new tires, but whenever I ask him about the gas and tires he laughs and says he’s got connections.”
“So you think he’s mixed up in some kind of racket?”
“I… I don’t know. It’s got so I’m afraid to think.” A frown came between her smooth brows, stayed for an instant, and flickered away as she continued, “Eddie started carrying a gun after he got his new job. I saw it in his coat pocket. He got mad when I asked him why he needed to carry a gun.”
“What kind of a gun?”
“I don’t know… a pistol. Not a very big one,” she answered vaguely.
“What kind of car did he buy?”
“It’s a Chevrolet sedan… nineteen forty-one model. It’s black,” she ended breathlessly, straining toward him with stricken eyes, “and the Herald said…”
“There are ten thousand black sedans in Miami,” Shayne told her gently. “What happened last night to make you suspect that Eddie committed the murder?”
Mrs. Seeney wrung her hands together. “Well, he was gone all afternoon and evening. When he came home he’d been drinking… almost drunk… and there was lipstick on his mouth and face.” She began to cry silently and fumbled with the zipper of her purse to get a handkerchief. She wiped her eyes and blew her nose gently, then huddled back in the chair. Her skirt crept up over her knees, showing thighs no larger than Shayne’s forearms, but she did not notice it now.
Shayne swore softly, got up and went to the liquor cabinet, took down a square bottle of Cointreau which he kept for mixing sidecars, poured a jigger into the bottom of a wine glass and carried it back to her. He touched her shoulder and said, “Try sipping this. You can’t go to pieces now.”
She turned her tear-streaked face away, but her fingers reached for the glass. As she lifted it obediently to her lips, Shayne went back to the cabinet and poured a drink of cognac.
She had stopped crying when he returned and had shifted her position to one of comfort by drawing one leg under her and leaning her elbow on the upholstered arm of the chair. The liquor had brought some color to her pale cheeks and she began to speak rapidly:
“Eddie was drunk, as I said. Drunker than I ever saw him. He was so disgusting… vomiting on the bathroom floor and I had to take off his clothes and get him to bed. It was about two o’clock when he got home.” She stopped and chewed on her underlip, twisting her thin fingers together. Her eyes were flooded with tears, but she didn’t cry again.
Shayne waited for her to go on. He was certain, now, that she was on the level.
“That was more than I could stand,” she went on after a little while. “I decided to leave him. I had threatened to before, and he always got mad and said he’d beat me if I did. It was the draft, you see. I stayed on because I felt guilty too, but after we got in the war I didn’t feel the way I did before. But Eddie figured he was safe as long as he had a wife and baby. If I left him he was afraid they’d put him in one-A.
“Well, after I got him to bed last night I was determined to find out what I could, so I went through his pockets. He had a lot of money… over two hundred dollars. I took exactly half. There wasn’t any gun in his pockets, but I found a list of names written on a typewriter.” She paused, shivered violently, and looked at Shayne.
Shayne’s gray eyes were soft and sympathetic. He asked, “Would you like another sip of wine?”
“Could I? Just a little. It makes me feel… stronger.”
Shayne took her glass and poured a small portion of the sweet liquor into it. He sat down as he handed it to her, asked, “What about the list of names?”
“I don’t know anything about business, of course,” she said. “Some of the names had a checkmark in pencil and some weren’t marked at all. Two of them had a pencil line drawn through them.” Her voice trembled and slid into silence. She took a sip from her glass. She lowered her eyes to her lap, but no tears came out.
“Then you’ve left Eddie… left home?” Shayne prompted.
“No… well, I didn’t leave then. The baby was sick and I didn’t want to take her out at night. But… I hid my half of Eddie’s money and I wired my folks I’d be home today. They live up at Sebring.”
Shayne looked at his watch when she stopped talking. It was five-thirty. He took the jar from his pocket and rubbed some more salve on his lips. His upper lip was feeling almost normal again.
Mrs. Seeney roused and said, “I couldn’t sleep all night. Jessica… that’s the baby… kept waking up and crying. She had a little fever and I was busy with her. When the Herald came I read about the murder last night and I remembered that one of the names crossed out on Eddie’s list was the same as the man who was murdered… Clem Wilson.” She had drunk the small portion of Cointreau Shayne had poured. The glass sagged in her right hand, resting against the cushion of the chair. She stared at him with big dark eyes that seemed empty of emotion.
Shayne frowned. “Now let’s get this straight. You saw a typewritten list of names with two of them crossed out. One of those was Clem Wilson.”
She nodded mutely.
“What was the other name?”
“I don’t know. I can’t remember. As soon as I read about the rationing racket and all I began remembering all those things about Eddie’s new job… the amount of gas he has and his new tires. I remembered the gun… and then that list.” She shuddered and slumped in the chair.
Shayne stood up and caught her bony shoulders in his big hands. “All this is very important,” he said. “What did you do then?”
She wriggled, pulled her foot from under her and planted it solidly on the floor beside the other. She appeared to have gained control of her fear and her emotions. She said, “I didn’t know what to do. I kept thinking about the baby. I couldn’t stand to think of calling the police and telling them about Eddie.” Her voice broke, but she straightened her shoulders and went on:
“The more I thought about it the more I knew I had to see you. It was bad enough for me having a slacker for a husband, but thinking of Jessica having a father who was a murderer… a traitor… like the paper said, and I couldn’t stand that. So I packed up and got ready to go. I left the baby with a friend and came over here to see you.”
Shayne looked at his watch again and asked, “When does your train leave?”
“At six-thirty. Do you think…?”
“You’ve done the right thing,” Shayne interrupted hastily, “and your husband has a lot of explaining to do.” Shayne got up and took a pencil and a sheet of paper from a drawer. “Give me a description of your husband… everything about him.” He had the pencil poised, ready to write.
“Well… Eddie is twenty-four years old. His hair is brown like his eyes, and he is dark. Sort of good-looking. He’s not very tall…”
“Know of any places he might go nights when he doesn’t come home?” Shayne asked.
“He goes to the Heigh-Ho club sometimes… somewhere on Seventy-ninth… beyond Little River.”
“Have you got a picture of him?”
“Oh, yes. It’s hanging on the wall in our apartment.” She gave him the number of an apartment in the northwest section.
“What’s his license number on the Chevrolet?”
“I never noticed,” she admitted.
Shayne jotted down the information, then said, “The best thing for you is to take Jessica and go home to your mother. Give me your address there and I’ll let you know how things turn out.”
She gave him the address of her parents in Sebring and stood up shakily.
Shayne went to the door with her and asked, “Do you have to go back to your apartment? Where’s your baby?”
“I’ve got my things checked at the depot,” she told him. “And Mrs. Jones… the friend I left the baby with… lives in an apartment here in town.”
Shayne said, “That’s fine.” He patted her shoulder and said, “Try not to worry about things. A clean break with Eddie will be the best thing that can happen to you.”
She appeared to have matured in the short time during which she had poured out her troubles to Shayne. She looked up at him with dry eyes and said, “I think you’re right, Mr. Shayne, and I’m thankful to you.”
Shayne went back into his apartment and telephoned Will Gentry. He gave the chief of detectives a succinct resume of Mrs. Seeney’s damning information against her husband, a complete description of Eddie and the address of the apartment. “His car was bought here about a month ago, Will,” he said, “and you can look up the number. I’d put a man at his apartment if I were you, and get out a pick-up on Eddie.”
“You think he’s the one, Mike? Does he fit with the dope you got from Wilson?”
“I’m pretty sure Seeney can tell us a lot of things we need,” Shayne told him grimly. “I’d like to know the minute you pick him up and have a chance to sit in while he’s being grilled.”
“Damn it, Mike,” Gentry complained, “I don’t believe you know a hell of a lot more than I do about this case. Sounds to me like you’re fumbling in the dark.”
“I’m finding things out,” Shayne reminded him. “That’s more than you’re doing.” He hung up and grinned.
It was almost six o’clock.
Shayne went into the bathroom and inspected his lips, washed them carefully with soap to get the salve off, then took a quick shave before keeping his cocktail date with Edna Taylor, vice-president of the Motorist Protective Association.