Carlton watched Shayne’s face as he read the note, then said anxiously, “I’m afraid I did make a mistake.”
“You mean you think you can’t identify the killers?”
“Precisely. I’m afraid I let my natural desire to be of help run away with me.”
Shayne laid the anonymous threat down. “You had to expect something like this. They’re not passing up any bets.”
“That’s just what I told you, Herbert,” Mrs. Carlton said sharply.
Shayne looked at the publisher’s wife. A flicker of disdain curled her unrouged lips. Bartel had quietly moved away from the desk and was sitting in a chair near the window a little behind Mrs. Carlton. He sat stiffly with his legs crossed and his arms folded, staring impassively through the window. There was a curious air of tension between the trio that made Shayne’s Irish blood pound a little faster. He studied the two by the window gravely for a moment, then turned to Carlton.
“You have a policeman on guard, haven’t you, Carlton?”
“What good is a policeman?” Carlton’s voice rose nervously. “I understand there were two on guard at your door when the rifle bullet was fired at you. I am a prisoner in my own house,” he went on fretfully. “I dare not go to my office. Though we get the Trumpet out only once a week we have a large volume of commercial printing and I can’t afford to be away from my office this way. It’s a preposterous situation.”
“It won’t last long,” Shayne said with assurance. “Another day or so and…”
“You don’t understand,” Carlton interrupted. “I’m positive I wouldn’t recognize either of those men again.”
Shayne said, “It’s cowards like you who encourage rackets and murder.”
There was a long moment of flat silence in the sunlit library. Carlton sat down heavily behind the desk. His eyes were steely and focused on Shayne. He said, “I’ll have to ask you to apologize for that, Shayne.”
“Don’t be absurd, Herbert.” Mrs. Carlton’s voice dripped malice. “Mr. Shayne is simply saying what everyone else will be thinking.”
Carlton’s face grew flaccid. He said, “Laura!” hoarsely.
“Don’t you agree with me, Mr. Bartel?” she asked.
Shayne turned again to look at them. Bartel was still staring out the window. Mrs. Carlton’s profile showed intense concentration, as though his reply mattered terribly to her.
Bartel said gruffly, “It’s not for me to say.”
Shayne didn’t see the man’s lips move, though his words came clearly across the room.
Laura Carlton turned from him and looked directly at Shayne. She said in a tired voice, “You can see how it is. I’ve tried to argue with Herbert. After all those editorials he’s written about Americanism, too. About putting shoulders to the wheel, being a good soldier on the home front, the necessity for rationing restrictions…” She paused with her voice high, as though she would add more if her memory served her.
Carlton flushed at his wife’s tone and put his head in his hands.
Laura went on slowly, “I was almost proud of you last night when you told me what you had done. That was foolish of me. After being married to you all these years…” Her upper lip curled away from nice teeth. She stood up suddenly and pulled a silken bell cord. “I need a drink,” she said, looking at Shayne.
He nodded. “It might help to wash the taste out.”
Turning to Bartel, she asked, “Will you join us?”
“Just a small one before I go back to the office,” he said in his odd, tight-lipped tone, and did not look at her.
The maid appeared in the doorway. Mrs. Carlton said, “Scotch, Emily… for three.”
When the maid went away Carlton lifted his head from his hands and said, “Must we quarrel before a stranger, Laura?”
“I’m not quarreling.” To Shayne she said, “I’m ashamed of my husband.”
“Would you like a cigarette?”
“Please.”
Shayne stood beside the chaise longue and she took a cigarette from his pack. The maid brought a tray holding three tall glasses, a bottle of Scotch, an icetub of cubes, a siphon, and three large ponies. As Mrs. Carlton put ice in the tall glasses, Bartel got up stiffly and said, “No soda for me.”
She filled a pony and passed it to him, then glanced up at Shayne inquiringly, tilted the bottle over his glass. He nodded when it was half full. She poured as much in her glass and filled them with soda.
Bartel drank his and set the small glass back on the tray. He said to Carlton, “You can send that stuff down after you’ve checked it,” and went out abruptly.
Laura Carlton held her glass out to touch Shayne’s and said, “Here’s to happy hunting, Mr. Shayne.”
In the silence, as they drank, Carlton snapped from the desk, “You might have some consideration for my feelings, Laura. You know I don’t approve of your drinking in the afternoon.”
She ignored his plea, raised her eyes to Shayne and said, “It must be wonderful to live dangerously.”
“It takes all kinds to make up the world,” Shayne responded genially.
“And I had to draw Herbert.” She emptied her glass and reached for the whisky bottle.
Carlton said, “Laura,” forlornly, as though he knew she would not answer.
She didn’t. She said between her teeth, “I hate little people. I detest hypocrisy. Don’t you, Mr. Shayne?”
“That gives you a lot of detesting to do,” he said.
“Do you think they’ll kill you?” she asked suddenly.
“They’ll do their best.”
“They’ll probably succeed.” She sounded very sad. “And after I’ve just met you, Michael.”
Shayne grinned. “I’m hard to kill.”
“But they’ll get you, and Herbert will keep on living. And I’ll keep on living with him, because I’m a coward, too, Michael.” Twin tears rolled down her smooth cheeks. She sank back on the chaise longue with a glass of whisky between her palms.
Shayne took out a handkerchief and wiped the tears away. He heard Carlton get up and move hesitantly toward them across the soft rose rug, but kept his back turned.
Laura caught Shayne’s wrist and held it tightly. “You’re not afraid of anything, are you?”
“Laura!” Carlton spoke harshly from close behind Shayne. “You’re making a ridiculous scene. I demand that you go to your room at once. You’re disgustingly drunk.”
“Go down and publish your paper,” she said thickly. “You know, I hate you.”
Carlton stepped forward to face Shayne. He said meekly, “Perhaps you’ll listen to reason, Shayne. Surely you can see that my wife is… indisposed.”
Shayne stood up, wincing with pain from his broken ribs. He looked at Laura Carlton as he finished his drink and thought he knew why her hair was white. He said, “I feel sorry for you, Carlton.”
“Your opinion does not interest me.”
“You were almost a man for a little while last night,” Shayne reminded him.
“The maid will show you out,” he said severely.
Mrs. Carlton pulled herself up and said tearfully, “I wish you’d stay, Michael.”
“I’ll be back and we’ll have another drink together,” he promised with a puffy smile.
Carlton seized his arm as he turned toward the door. His grip was surprisingly strong. He exclaimed, “It isn’t fair… what either of you think. I tell you I’ve decided…”
“Save it for the editorial page,” Shayne said. He shook the editor’s hand from his arm, and Carlton turned away in despair.
Laura had dropped back against the cushions and her blue eyes were closed when he said, “Good-by.”
Bending over her slightly, Shayne slid the first two fingers of one hand inside the shot glass Bartel had used, and widened them against the inner edges. He dropped the glass into his pocket, turned and went out of the library, down the wide hallway and out into the sunlight. He glanced over his shoulder and shivered as he went down the circuitous flagged walk to his car. He felt sorry as hell for Laura Carlton.
The sun was dipping low in the west as he drove to Miami police headquarters. He went directly to Chief Gentry’s private office.
Gentry looked up hopefully as Shayne walked in. “Well… well,” he began jovially.