“Killed? Right next door to me and I didn’t hear it! Mercy me, you’d of thought I’d heard something.” Her toothless mouth worked nervously, and she shook her snow-white head from side to side in anger or sheer disappointment. She made a clucking sound and said, “So she did it so quiet I never even suspected. Oh, she’s a sly one, all right. Cut his throat-or was it a blunt instrument like they say in the radio plays?”
“He was shot and his body found in a ditch several miles from here,” Shayne told her gravely. He watched keenly for her reaction, and decided that it was definitely one of disgust and disappointment.
“How’d he get out of the house?” she asked, greatly agitated, the end of her sharp nose twitching. “I thought for sure he was dead drunk when I heard the telephone ringing and ringing and nobody answering it.”
“When was that?” Shayne asked quietly.
“About half after ten-and then again a minute or two past eleven.”
“How can you place the time so close?”
“Because I had my radio on, that’s why,” she retorted. “I keep it on all evening with the lights out while I’m sitting here-now that they’ve got so careful to be quiet that a body can’t hear anything even when it’s off.”
“If you think he was too drunk to answer the phone, didn’t you think it was queer that she didn’t? Didn’t it make you wonder if maybe she had slipped out before he got home without your seeing her?”
“I know she didn’t, so why should I think that? Besides, she’s always taking those sleeping-pills and going to bed early so she doesn’t hear the phone, and it rings lots of times at night when she’s by herself. Too many sleeping-pills, eh? I’m not surprised. No, sir, not one speck surprised. Are they pumping her out-or is it too late to save her?”
“I imagine the doctor is pumping her out,” Shayne told her. “What time did Bert Jackson go out again after he came in?”
“He didn’t,” she said flatly. “Not till after midnight anyway when I went to bed. Land sakes! If I’d just had any idea-”
Grandma Peabody went on to assure him emphatically that if she’d known what to look forward to she certainly wouldn’t have closed her eyes during the night, but Shayne was convinced of that fact and he didn’t listen to her.
His mind was busy with the puzzle of Bert Jackson returning at ten o’clock when Rourke had told him positively that at twelve o’clock Betty denied that she had seen him all evening. If Mrs. Peabody was right-if Betty had been home at ten-
But perhaps she had already taken the sleeping-tablets by that time, he thought, trying not to listen to the old woman’s chatter which had turned into personal grievances.
That didn’t check. Rourke admitted talking to her at twelve-and comforting her. And he distinctly recalled that Rourke had mentioned talking to her on the phone again at two o’clock and advising her to take the tablets.
He got up suddenly and moved across the room to the window, looked out, and noted that the corner of the Jackson house cut off her line of vision of the front walk at a point about ten feet in front of the Jackson’s front porch.
Pointing this out to her he said casually, “When the police get around to questioning you, I advise you not to be too positive in saying that Mr. Jackson entered his house soon after ten o’clock and didn’t leave it until midnight.”
She came over and peered out the window with him, reluctant to give up her role as the all-seeing eye. “I’d like to know why not,” she snapped. “I saw him with my own eyes, didn’t I? Staggering up that path and land knows how he managed to walk all the way from the bus in that condition.”
“You saw him walk up the path to within ten feet of the front porch,” Shayne corrected her. “You don’t know that he went in. He could have circled around either side of the house without you seeing him.”
“Why in the name of goodness would he do a fool thing like that?” she asked, slightly crestfallen.
Shayne shrugged and returned to his chair. “Drunks get queer ideas sometimes. I’m just showing you what a lawyer would do with your testimony if you got on the witness stand.”
Her old eyes beamed with anticipation. “I’ve never been a witness in court before.” She paused, savoring the idea, then said, “Still and all, I don’t see why he’d sneak around his own house without going in. Not unless he saw something through the front window when he came up-or somebody inside with his wife. But-I reckon that couldn’t of been,” she ended limply, “because nobody else came after she came home by herself.”
“There’s always the back door,” Shayne reminded her, hoping to God as he implanted this thought in her mind that Rourke would be able to prove where he was between ten and twelve last night.
“You mean that other man slipped back in the back way after going off with her so openlike?” She was eager again, nodding her white head knowingly. “Just like in a play I saw once. And him so broke up and noble he went off and shot himself so he wouldn’t be in their way any longer and they could get decently married.”
“You have to keep in mind that drunk men get queer ideas sometimes, Mrs. Peabody,” Shayne reminded her, choking a desire to laugh. He arose and added, “This has been very pleasant, and I’m sure the police will want to hear everything you can tell them.” He paused near the door, a frown creasing his brow, asked, “Are you positive Bert Jackson didn’t come home in a taxi when he arrived at nine minutes after ten?”
She shook her head emphatically. “I watched him walking all the way from the corner. But I did notice a car come up behind him when he turned in his walk, and I remember thinking it was stopping at his walk and wondering who it’d be at that time of night, but it went on after a minute, and I guess it was just somebody watching him stagger down the sidewalk and was curious to see if he’d fall flat on his face or make it home all right. Some people are pretty curious like that.”
Shayne gravely agreed that some people were. He escaped by promising to bring her news of Betty Jackson’s condition before he left, and recrossed the driveway and patch of lawn to the Jacksons’ walk.
The front door opened as he stepped up on the porch. A detective sergeant whom he knew slightly said with an unwelcoming scowl, “Sorry, Shamus. We got orders you’re not to talk with Mrs. Jackson.”
Chapter Ten
Shayne lifted his ragged red brows in simulated surprise. “Oh?” He lounged against the doorframe and lit a cigarette, then asked, “Who gave the orders, Sergeant?”
“The chief,” Sergeant Allen replied mildly. He smiled briefly, then added in a confidential tone, “Not that you’re missing much, just between you and me and the gatepost. Some doctor got here first, and he’s in there working on her now. Looks to me like she did a job with sleeping-pills that’ll keep her quiet for a good long time.”
“She’s not dead?” Shayne asked quietly.
“Nope. But she’s sure as hell out like a light. Morgan’s in there arguing with the doc.”
“If she isn’t conscious,” said Shayne good-naturedly, “it can’t do any harm to go in and see what the score is.”
Sergeant Allen pursed his full lips, creased his forehead and finally agreed, “I guess not. Chief didn’t say anything except you wasn’t to talk to her.”
“I’m sure Morgan will be happy to run me out if she recovers enough to talk.” Shayne pushed past the sergeant into a living-room identical in size and shape with Grandma Peabody’s. There the resemblance ended, for here was cluttered disorder in contrast to the immaculate neatness of the other room.
A long, narrow table was stacked with magazines and old newspapers, and half a dozen ash trays were filled with cigarette stubs. The pillows on the couch were crushed and rumpled, and books were thrust haphazardly in dusty bookshelves.
A narrow passageway led from the center of the room to two bedrooms with a bath in between. Shayne heard the sound of angry voices and sauntered down the narrow hall to an open door.