“Married almost immediately thereafter to Miss Elsa Maywell of Boston, the young couple returned to Centerville after a honeymoon trip through the west, and settled in the gracious home on Mountaincrest Drive which was their wedding gift from the groom’s father and which has been a center of social life in Centerville since their occupancy.
“Immediately after his return, Charles Roche was appointed on the Board of Directors of the Roche Mining Properties, and plunged into the serious business of learning to manage the vast interests left to him in trust upon the death of his father, John Roche, in 1943. He was to have taken over the general managership when he reached the age of thirty, at which time the trusteeship would have ended.
“He leaves a widow, Mrs. Elsa Maywell Roche, and a brother, James L., of this city.”
There was a puzzled frown between Lucy Hamilton’s misty brown eyes. “What a shame, Michael. If we could have been just a day earlier getting here… maybe…”
“That jalopy of mine doesn’t fly,” he said sourly.
She looked around at his hard-set jaw and brooding eyes. “What… does the headline mean, Michael? Who has been arrested?”
Shayne said, “Scramble up ‘Pro-Communist Labor Agitator’. There may be a couple of letters missing, but it probably spells out George Brand. The actual arrest probably came just in time for them to jerk out the headline and substitute this one.” He emptied his glass of brandy and soda and mixed another.
“But what about Brand’s alibi? How can they get around the testimony of three witnesses? Four, actually, if they count the woman with the headache who saw him drive up at five-twenty.”
Shayne said, “If I’ve read the signs in this town right, those witnesses will be made of pretty tough stuff if they stick to their stories in the face of the grilling they’ll get from the police. And that noble speech of Seth Gerald’s will probably line the citizenry up on his side,” he ended disgustedly.
“But… what motive did Brand have? He was leading the strike, and he said right out loud he was hoping they would be able to reach a settlement as soon as Charles Roche took over the management.”
“What else would he say? Whether it’s true or not?”
“Well… you can see that Mr. Roche was trying to reach a settlement,” she pointed out. “Why else would he be going to see Brand?”
“Maybe to tell him he’d changed his mind about settling, and was prepared to fight it out to the end… by starving every miner. In that case, Brand might have lost his head and shot him. Look at it this way. Charles Roche was evidently schooled by Seth Gerald, after his father’s death, for his future management of the mines. Charles had been out of touch for several years when he was overseas. You read what Gerald thinks.”
Lucy nodded her brown head slowly, twirling her full glass around. “It looks as though public opinion will be solidly against them, and they’ll have to give up the strike to repudiate the leadership of a murderer,” she acknowledged.
“Yeh. That’s what’ll happen,” Shayne said, scowling. “Good God, you can’t stand up against that sort of propaganda. But killers sometimes fail to consider the possible consequences.”
“Michael!” Lucy turned quickly toward him. “You’re not going to side against the miners in their strike! You’ve seen the awful hovels they live in… and read the statistics on annual income. You don’t blame them… surely… for wanting enough money to buy food… while the mine owners live in the lap of luxury!”
“I’m not blaming them, Angel.” He was silent for a moment, then added, “I just don’t see where I come in.”
“You can find out who murdered Mr. Roche. I know you can. You’ve got to earn that five thousand dollars.”
“He hired me to prevent his murder,” Shayne told her grimly.
“It’s not your fault we were too late for that. Now… it’s your job to find out…”
“And what if that proves to be a certain George Brand?” He turned toward her and grinned.
“It… won’t be. I just know it won’t. I’ll bet it’s that Gerald man. He’s probably been stealing money from the firm… and… well, he was right there on the scene about the time it happened.” She was thinking hard as she spoke, a frown puckering her smooth brow, “He could have done it,” she ended on a note of triumph.
Shayne laughed heartily and poured himself a straight drink. “We’ll have dinner. Then I’ll pay my respects to Mrs. Elsa Maywell Roche and see what’s what.”
5
The Eustis Restaurant was beginning to fill up with evening diners. Most of the customers were young couples, the men in shirt sleeves, the women wearing simple cotton dresses; with a sprinkling here and there of overalled men who were obviously miners, scrubbed as clean as yellow soap could get them. Some of them were with their wives and families. Most of the children were tow-headed and pale, snub-nosed, their mouths open, suggestive of adenoids.
Shayne sat back and tried to enjoy the bad brandy as he watched the people about him and listened to snatches of their conversation. Many had brought their own bottles or flasks, and there was a lot of quiet drinking, but there was little conviviality. There was an atmosphere of somberness and preternatural gravity. Even the tunes they selected on the jukebox were mournful ditties, and the men and women who fed coins into the slot machines had no hint of enjoyment or hope in their expressions as they pulled the bandit’s arm.
It wasn’t a natural dourness, Shayne decided, nor yet an assumed solemnity, but more an ingrained listlessness and an apathetic acceptance of the unpleasant verities of life. He supposed this was a normal condition of life in Centerville, not directly attributable to the mine strike nor to the shadow of tragedy hanging over the town as the result of Roche’s murder and the arrest of George Brand.
That, he thought, was the explanation. Violent death was not an uncommon occurrence to these people. They were inured to these tragic happenings. This was Centerville. They had been born and reared beneath the shadow of tragedy, and scarcely realized that it was perceptibly darker today than yesterday.
The waiter brought them a dim carbon of a typed menu, and he and Lucy ordered the dollar steak dinner. The entree was preceded by a watery tomato soup, and accompanied by a limp lettuce and tomato salad. The steak was thin and tough and inundated with pale gravy. Carrots, mushy from over-cooking, and unseasoned mashed potatoes were served in thick white little dishes.
Lucy struggled with her steak with a dull knife, amputated a portion, and began to chew. She chuckled and said, “I’ll bet the patrons of the Eustis have strong teeth.”
Shayne sampled everything before him, pushing a forkful of mashed potatoes around in the white gravy before putting it in his mouth. “I was assured the Eustis was as good as any restaurant here,” he told her and made a wry face.
After a few minutes they pushed their half-filled plates away. Shayne poured himself half an inch of brandy in his empty water glass, raised his bushy brows inquiringly at Lucy before setting the bottle down.
Lucy shuddered. “Not for me. What are we going to tell Mrs. Roche, Michael?”
“I am going to tell her as little as possible and find out as much as possible.”
Lucy frowned at his emphasis on the personal pronoun. “You’re not going to leave me out there in that cabin to sweat it out while you visit a charming widow… alone.”
“I do better with widows,” Shayne said, “if not accompanied by a lovely young secretary,” and grinned at her.
“No,” said Lucy flatly.
“You’re going to stay right here at this table with this bottle in plain sight. You’re going to look as desolate as you feel, because I’ve deserted you. You’re going to feed quantities of silver into the slot machines and nickels in the jukebox. You’ll have a host of friends when I come back… men who’ll be anxious to cheer you up in your loneliness and drink your liquor.” He was looking straight into her surprised eyes, a crooked grin on his wide mouth. “You’ll pick up more damned stuff about Centerville in the course of an hour than I could get in two weeks,” he ended gravely. The crooked smile was gone. His gaze brooded around the dining room.