Shayne said with grating harshness, “Naturally not. It’s strictly a business proposition. A nice, gentlemanly deal that will bear the fullest scrutiny if it’s ever made public. Frankly, I hope the guy is guilty as hell and I collect your fee, but I warn you that Charles Roche is still my client, even though he is dead. Now if you’ll tell me how to get to Twelfth and Magnolia, I’ll go to work.”
Gerald stopped near them and said, “The police have already gone over Brand’s house with a fine-toothed comb. You won’t find anything there.”
“But I might find Mrs. Cornell at home… just across the street,” said Shayne quietly. “I want to hear her story about last night when a headache kept her from sleeping.”
“What’s that about Mrs. Cornell?” said a hoarse voice behind them. “She hasn’t anything to do with this.”
The three men turned to see Jimmy Roche standing in the doorway, swaying slightly.
Shayne said evenly, “Perhaps not. But I wondered if she might be the attraction that drew your brother to that vicinity… instead of George Brand.” He was trying a shot in the dark.
Jimmy Roche’s face was terrible to look upon. His naked eyes glared drunkenly and his outthrust chin accentuated the puffiness of his cheeks. His hair was tousled, slanting across his forehead. He caught the doorjamb with both hands and leaned against it.
“I hear,” said Shayne, “that Mrs. Cornell is a very attractive woman.”
Elsa Roche pushed past Jimmy. Her gray-green eyes were molten with anger and some super-induced emotion. She screamed, “You lie about Charles. He never looked at that woman. He never looked at any woman but me.” She stood there swaying, her hands tightly clasped.
Gerald was on his way to Elsa. Persona held his half-smoked cigar stiffly in the air and didn’t move. Jimmy Roche let go the doorjamb and fell to his knees, pulled himself up again and hung on.
Shayne said, “If you’ll tell me how to find her house, I’ll run along and pay her a visit.”
Seth Gerald had reached Elsa and was holding her up. He said, “You can get directions from anyone in the village. Turn left at the second intersection and right on the third street. That’s Twelfth. Magnolia Avenue is the second street down. Her house and Brand’s are east of the corner.”
Shayne was standing in the archway. He glanced swiftly at the occupants of the room, said, “Thanks,” and went out to his car.
7
There were only two houses on the block of Magnolia Avenue beyond Twelfth Street. They were near the center of the block, opposite each other. It was impossible to see a house number, but there were lights in the house on the left-hand side as he approached. Shayne drew up before it and stopped.
The cottage was small, the approach darkened by a spreading eucalyptus tree as he went up the planked walk toward a tannish glow from the shaded upper glass of the front door. He could hear loud dance music from a radio inside, through windows that were open with the shades drawn low. He went up four wooden steps and across the narrow porch. He rapped on the door, and it opened almost immediately, swinging far back to outline the woman standing there.
Shayne saw her face first. Her eyes were elongated and blue, her brows and lashes light brown beneath a mass of taffy-colored hair wound in thick braids around her head. She wore a playsuit, blue-striped, with the neck cut round and low. A separate skirt had three buttons buttoned at the top and it flared open to reveal panties of the same material. The skirt reached almost to her knees. She was tall, at least five-feet-nine, slim-waisted and full-breasted. Her legs were firm and extraordinarily long.
Shayne said, “Pardon the intrusion. I’m looking for Mrs. Ann Cornell.”
“I’m Ann Cornell.” She was not perturbed or curious. The corners of her mouth were lifted and there was a hint of amusement in her eyes.
Shayne took off his hat and said, “I’m Michael Shayne. I’d like to talk to you.”
“Talk?” She turned and led the way to a comfortable chair. “Please sit here,” she said, and went over to take a chair opposite him, buttoning the rest of the buttons on her skirt as she went.
“Yes. I’d like to have a talk with you,” he repeated.
“I thought that was what you said. I’ll turn down the radio.”
Shayne looked around the small room. The walls and ceiling were of pine panelling, painted a light gray. The wide rough boards of the floor were stained a dark brown with cotton rugs here and there. The furnishings and drapes were cheap, the colors blending to give the room a pleasant atmosphere.
When the radio was turned low, she said, “I’m sorry if I’m supposed to recognize your name. Michael Shayne?”
“There’s no reason why you should,” he told her. “Unless you’ve heard Roche mention me.”
“Jimmy?” She caught her lower lip between her teeth, frowned and shook her head. “Are you a friend of his? I supposed you were another newspaper reporter.”
There was a moment of silence between them. Then Shayne said, “I may as well begin by telling you I’m a detective… retained by the mine operators to look into Charles Roche’s murder.”
“To help hang it on George Brand,” she said placidly.
“If he’s guilty.”
“They don’t care whether he’s guilty or not,” she said unemotionally. She took a cigarette from a pack on the end table beside her.
Shayne got up and lit it for her, lit one for himself, and said, “Is he?”
She looked up at him, moving her head slowly. “I don’t know. If he killed Charles Roche he’s a bigger fool than I thought.” She sounded convincing, and her eyes were candid.
“You knew Brand well?”
“Quite well. He’s been living alone in that house across the street several months.”
Shayne returned to his chair, sat down, and crossed one knobby knee over the other. “And you were… neighborly?” he resumed.
Ann Cornell smiled. Her whole face lighted when she smiled. A healthy, youthful expression of real mirth. “He liked my corn,” she said. “Would you like to try some?”
“Corn?” Shayne asked, puzzled. Immediately he smiled and said, “I almost forgot this is Kentucky. I could use a whiff after the brandy I sampled at the Eustis Restaurant tonight.”
She lifted her voice to call, “Angus!”
Shayne had been hearing sounds coming from the rear of the cottage, running water and the clatter of dishes. These noises ceased at her call, and there was a shuffling of feet on the bare floor of the rear hall.
The figure of a man appeared in the living room doorway. He was short and slight, with sleek black hair and a thin, peaked face. His sleeves were rolled up on thin arms and his hands were red and dripping. He was enveloped in a long white apron that reached to the tops of carefully polished black shoes. His eyes were small and very bright, a look of hope or of expectancy burning in them. His gaze slid over Shayne and settled on Ann Cornell.
She said, “Bring in the jug, Angus. And two glasses.”
The glow in his eyes died. He wet his thin and colorless lips with the tip of his tongue, nodded, and made an abrupt about-face.
Ann Cornell was watching Shayne. She chuckled at the expression on his face and said, “Angus is a handy little guy to have around.”
“He looks as though he’d be more at home on Third Avenue than in Centerville.”
“He likes it here,” she assured him carelessly. “Don’t you Angus?” she demanded as the little man came back carrying a gallon jug half filled with colorless liquid in one hand and two glasses in the other.
“Don’t I what?”
“Like it in Centerville better than Third Avenue where Mr. Shayne thinks you belong.”
He slanted his eyes at Shayne as he passed him, and venom showed in them. “Sure I like it here.” His voice was dry and low. He set the jug and glasses on the table beside Ann and shuffled out, muttering, “I gotta finish up them dishes now.”
“Angus is a real fancy cook,” she told Shayne complacently, pulling the corncob stopper from the bottle. “And it’s nice to have a man around the house.”