Shayne nodded somberly. “One more death tonight chalked up against Michael Shayne. If I hadn’t tried to be smart and capture the man, she’d still be alive.”
“But it wasn’t your fault, Michael,” Lucy rushed to his defense. “You had no way of knowing things would go wrong — no reason to suspect he had her in his car.”
“That’s no excuse,” he countered fiercely. “Sure. You can say the same thing about everything that’s happened tonight. Poor old, dumb Mike Shayne! He’s not to blame. In his own blundering way, he done his best.” The self-contempt in his voice was withering. “In the meantime, people are dying right and left — all because I tried to play God and covered up for you in the beginning.”
Lucy leaned back and began to weep silently, tears cascading down her cheeks in twin streams.
Shayne glared at her for a moment, then said brusquely, “All right. Recriminations aren’t any good now.” To Rourke, he said, “So, where does that leave us?”
“We don’t have to worry about a one-o’clock deadline any more.”
Shayne got up to pace heavily back and forth across the room. “They’ll go to the motel and discover she and I are registered as Mr. and Mrs. Smith of Homestead.”
“How’ll they know it was you? Thus far, there’s nothing at all to connect you with the gray sedan or with her.”
“They’ll get my description. And the license number of my car. The description may not do it, but the jig will really be up when they check my license number.”
“But that won’t be before tomorrow morning, Mike.” Rourke’s voice was harsh with urgency. “You’ve got that much time.”
“For what?”
“For finding out what cooks. For solving three murders.”
“Three?” Shayne stopped to regard him oddly. “I can only think of two that need solving.”
“There’s the girl who was strangled. Jack Bristow. And now Mrs. Allerdice — if that’s her name.”
Shayne shook his head angrily. “All of us here know who killed her. I did that with my stupid plan for catching the blackmailer.”
“That’s absolutely nuts. She was mixed up in this to her teeth. Maybe she killed the girl — or Bristow. You simply don’t know.”
“That’s the whole hell of it,” muttered Shayne. “I don’t know anything about anything.”
“Then let’s start finding out.” Timothy Rourke got to his feet fast. “Remember me telling you that the name Allerdice seemed to strike a chord? The name together with the sum of eighty thousand dollars. I’m positive they’re connected with something I’ve read in a paper recently. Let’s go down to the morgue and dig through back files. If we turn up any sort of lead we’ll have something to go on.”
“Can’t do any harm,” agreed Shayne. “But if we don’t turn something up, I warn you I’m going straight to Will Gentry with the whole story.”
“All right. I’ll go with you.”
Michael Shayne stood rocklike in the center of the room for a moment, his unhappy gaze going to Lucy whose tears were still flowing. He went to her and said awkwardly, “Sorry I slipped a cog back there, angel. Tim’s right. Only thing now is to jump in with both feet and bull it through. You turn in and try to get some sleep.”
Lucy chewed on her underlip and nodded wanly, refusing to meet his eyes. He turned away and strode to the door where Rourke was waiting, and they went out together.
Alone in the apartment, Lucy got up and wandered about disconsolately. She bathed her eyes in cold water, made herself a stiff drink but took only one sip before putting it aside with a grimace, wandered into the bedroom where Jack Bristow had been murdered, and back to the living-room.
She should be doing something. She couldn’t just go to bed and sleep as Shayne suggested. God knew, she’d never sleep. Not tonight. Not with all this on her mind. For the simple, inescapable fact was that everything that had happened went back inexorably to her allowing Jack Bristow to stay without informing either Shayne or the police at once.
No matter how Michael Shayne tried to shoulder the responsibility, it was hers alone.
And he expected her to go to bed and to sleep!
She walked about the living-room, twisting her hands nervously and going over and over the problem in her distraught mind. If there were only something she could do to help out. If there were only some starting place where she at least could try her own hand at unraveling the puzzle. But that was Michael Shayne’s business, of course. For many years, his profession had been unraveling puzzles. What could she hope to do that he couldn’t do better and faster?
If there were only some starting point for her. Some small bit of information she had that Shayne didn’t have. But she had told him absolutely everything she knew.
Should she go direct to Chief Will Gentry and tell him the whole story? It would be better than having him hear it from Shayne. Her employer, she knew, would cover up for her as best he could if he did decide to go to Gentry. He would take some of the responsibility that was properly hers. It would be best, she knew, but it would be horrible if she went to him with the truth and thus prevented Shayne from having his chance to solve the case first.
That would be a real doublecross, and she knew she couldn’t take the chance. But she would, she decided resolutely, manage to get to Will Gentry first the moment Shayne gave up trying and decided it had to be done.
In the meantime, if she could only do something to help.
She resumed her helpless pacing up and down, going over and over every word Jack had spoken to her, every inflection of his voice and every facial expression.
There was nothing she could get hold of. No point of departure she could see to start on an investigation of her own.
Then it came to her suddenly. Arlene Bristow! Jack’s sister in New Orleans. Of course. She would call Arlene. The number was in her old address book. She’d call Arlene and force her to tell everything she knew or suspected about Jack. Surely Arlene would know something about him and his associates. Some tiny clue to what had happened tonight.
It would be horrible, she realized, to have to break the news of Jack’s death to Arlene. Particularly since she herself was at least indirectly responsible.
But she compressed her lips tightly and hurried in to the bureau in the bedroom where her old address book was carefully laid away. Perhaps she wouldn’t even tell Arlene the truth. Although she was determined she wouldn’t shrink from that if it seemed necessary. This was much too important to let any softheartedness or scruples stand in the way of the possibility of getting some information of value.
Yes. There it was on the third page in the book. Bristow, Arlene.
She looked at the clock as she hurried to the telephone. Almost half past twelve. Rather late to make a call, but then she remembered gladly that New Orleans was in a different time zone. Was it one or two hours’ difference? She could never remember, but she did know that it got earlier as you went west, so it couldn’t be later than eleven-thirty.
She sat down and resolutely dialed Operator and gave her Arlene’s telephone number.
There was a very brief delay at that time of night, and then she distinctly heard a telephone ringing at the other end. It rang three times before a feminine voice answered, and relief at getting her so quickly flooded through Lucy.
She said, “Arlene? This is Lucy Hamilton.”
“I’m sorry. Miss Bristow isn’t here. Who did you say was calling?”
“An old friend. I’m calling from Miami and it’s dreadfully important. Do you know when Arlene will be in?”