“How about laundry marks or tailor’s labels?”
“Not much good yet. The laundry marks aren’t local. Denton is checking other cities, particularly Baton Rouge where the suit was tailored. There’s no record of his fingerprints here, and Denton is checking with Washington.”
“What does ballistics say about the slug?”
“They guess it was fired from a Bulldog S and W. It’s plenty good for comparison if they get another one to match it with.”
Shayne nodded and got up. His gaunt face was sober, his brows drawn in a straight line when he went out.
Lucy Hamilton was hanging up the receiver when he returned to his office. She made a wry face at him and said, “I just finished talking to that guy Jones.”
“Mr. Sidney Jones?” Shayne grinned widely. “What did you find out?”
“That Mr. Sidney Jones is a louse. He wanted me to call him Sid, and when I told him I was Mrs. Carson and was worried about my husband, he said he didn’t know why a babe with a voice like mine wasted time worrying about a husband. He wanted me to come to his apartment to tell him all about it.”
Shayne chuckled and reached over to pinch her pointed chin. “Did he say he’d show you his artifacts — or etchings — if you’d come over?”
Lucy pushed his hand away and became very prim. “You can do your own telephoning hereafter, Michael Shayne, when you want to know what Mr. Jones has to say.”
“What about Miss Etta Hobson?”
“The girl at the switchboard tried to find out why I wanted to know where Miss Hobson worked before she’d tell me. She sounded awfully curious and excited. She finally told me that Miss Hobson worked at the Vogue Dress Shop.”
Shayne said, “I’ll check on them later. Right now, I’m going to take a trip to Cheepwee. I’ll wire you if anything comes up.” He went out of the building and down to his car.
Shayne arrived in the little town of Cheepwee at 12:30. It lay some miles off the Airline Highway between New Orleans and Baton Rouge, a sleepy little village of about two thousand population. He drove slowly along Main Street, past a square brick bank building on one corner, and up to a two-story wooden structure with a mottled sign in front proclaiming it to be the Traveler’s Hotel.
He parked, got his suitcase out, and went into the dark, empty lobby. A handbell on the desk had a card propped against it inviting guests to Ring for Management. He set his suitcase down and rang the bell.
After a time a door behind the desk opened and a fat man waddled through, accompanied by the strong odor of boiled cabbage. “Afternoon, stranger. I was back gettin’ a bite to eat.” He swung an old, dirty ledger around, dipped a rusty pen in an inkwell, and handed the pen to Shayne with a flourish.
Shayne signed the register and wrote New Orleans, after his name.
The proprietor set a pair of spectacles on his nose, turned the book around, and inspected it carefully. “You a drummer from the city, Mr. Shayne?”
“I hope to drum up a little business. Have you a room with a bath?”
“Not exactly. I can give you 216 with the bathroom right across the hall. Only one other party on that floor right now.”
Shayne nodded and said, “I’ll probably only be here overnight.”
The fat man wrote 216 opposite Shayne’s signature. “What might your business be?”
Shayne said, “Corpses.”
The proprietor slowly pulled his glasses farther down on his bulbous nose and blinked owlishly at Shayne. “Only one funeral parlor in Cheepwee. Folks don’t die here much.” He chuckled happily. “Seems like they just sorta mildew with old age.” He plucked an iron key from a hook on his right and handed it to Shayne. “You got luggage you need help with?”
“Just this one bag,” Shayne told him, picking up the suitcase.
“Right up those stairs,” the man said. “Go down the hall to your right. Can’t miss it.”
Shayne went up the stairs. In the room, he dropped his suitcase on the bed, took a look around, then went out, locking the door behind him.
Chapter four:
Heartbroken Wife
He went directly to the First National Bank. A thin tired-looking old man was behind the first teller’s window.
“Something I can do for you?” the old man asked in a shaky voice.
Shayne handed him a card that read: Michael Shayne, Private Investigator.
“Investigator?” He studied the card through his bifocals, looked up at the tall redhead and said hastily, “I’m Mr. Holcomb. Won’t you come in?” He went back to a door and opened it.
Shayne walked to the door and went in, sat down on a chair which Mr. Holcomb drew forward.
“I’ve been retained by Mr. Carson,” said Shayne.
“I see. Unfortunately, Mr. Carson is out of town today.”
“I know. I just drove up from New Orleans. I believe he expected to return on the afternoon train.”
“That’s quite correct.”
“He wanted me to get right to work on this matter. I’d like to have a look at his office and a chance to go over his files at once.”
Mr. Holcomb was both nervous and hesitant. “I’m sure — I don’t know what to say. Do you have an authorization from Mr. Carson?”
Shayne took Carson’s check from his pocket. “Perhaps this will do. It’s the check he gave me as a retainer. May as well cash it now,” he added casually. He got up and went over to a desk and scrawled his name on the back of the check and handed it to Holcomb.
Mr. Holcomb pursed his thin lips, meticulously studied the check and signature, and said, “I suppose — Yes, I presume this is sufficient.” He went to the teller’s window and counted out two hundred dollars and handed it to Shayne. “Come with me,” he directed.
Shayne followed him back along a narrow corridor between the rear of the tellers’ cages and the vault to the closed door of an office that said Private.
Holcomb opened the door unceremoniously and they went in. A blond man of about thirty-five stood in front of an open filing-cabinet with his back toward the door. He turned quickly and his eyes were startled.
“Harvey, this is Mr. Shayne from New Orleans,” said Mr. Holcomb. “Perhaps you will be able to help him out. This is Harvey Barstow, Mr. Shayne. Mr. Carson’s assistant.”
Barstow’s plump cheeks and boyish manner gave an initial impression of youth which a closer examination belied. He recovered his composure and came forward with an outstretched hand.
“Is the name Shayne?” he asked.
“That’s right.”
“It appears that Mr. Shayne has been sent here by Mr. Carson to investigate a certain matter,” said Mr. Holcomb.
“You must know about the letter Carson wrote me a few days ago,” Shayne told Barstow, “asking for an appointment.”
“Oh yes, of course. You’re the detective.”
“I’m to look things over in the interim before Carson returns.” He stepped forward, noting an almost furtive look of dismay in the eyes of both men.
Holcomb went out and closed the door.
“I presume,” said Shayne to Barstow, “you know why I’m here.”
“I’m afraid I don’t.” Barstow smiled apologetically. “W. D. didn’t confide in me. That is, I suppose it has something to do with our business, although I hadn’t heard of any irregularities.”