“It wouldn’t surprise me any if she’d been married three or four times and poisoned her husbands. I told Mr. Jones that. I told him to go to Atlanta and check up on her. That’s where she came from.”
“And he took your case?”
“After I paid him two hundred and fifty dollars for what he called a retainer and expense money. Then I got a letter from him in Atlanta about two weeks later saying he was on the trail of something and needed a hundred and fifty more for expenses. So, I sent it to him. It was every cent I had saved. But I thought it would be worth it if I could bring Harvey back to his senses.” Her voice broke suddenly and tears streamed down her cheeks.
Shayne let her cry for a moment, then asked, “But nothing came of Jones’s investigation in Atlanta?”
She wiped her eyes with her bare hands and tried to control her voice when she answered, “I never heard any more from him. I waited almost a month and then wrote him a letter and mailed it to New Orleans. It came back with Address Unknown stamped on the envelope. Well, I thought maybe he was still in Atlanta and I waited another month before writing again. The second letter came back stamped the same way.”
Shayne sighed again. The muscles in his gaunt cheeks quivered and his gray eyes were bleak. He said harshly, “There are men who call themselves private detectives and prey on clients that way. Especially women. No reputable investigator would touch a case such as you took to Jones.”
She turned her surprised and tearful eyes toward him again. “Why wouldn’t they? If a woman is in trouble she needs help. Why shouldn’t a woman like Belle Carson be shown up for what she is?”
“The whole thing stinks,” Shayne said shortly. “Seems to me I’ve heard gossip about a person called Skip Jones — because he has a habit of collecting a retainer and skipping out with it.”
“I don’t understand it,” she said miserably, “unless S. G. Jones is the man known as Skip. That would explain—”
“He didn’t give you any indication in his letter as to the nature of his information about Belle Carson?”
“No. He just said it was what I wanted, and as soon as he got all the evidence for me I could make her do anything I wanted.”
Shayne said, “When I go back to New Orleans I’ll try to locate your Mr. Jones. You might be able to get some of your money back, but playing around with blackmail is dangerous stuff. If Jones has anything on her, I advise you not to use it.”
“But it wouldn’t actually be blackmail,” she contended. “I wouldn’t try to get any money from her.”
“With the kind of information your sort of detective might give you, you’re liable to get yourself mixed up in a libel suit.”
“Then — what can I do, Mr. Shayne,” she asked dismally.
“Let your husband go, if that’s the way he wants it,” he said irritably. “You’ll be better off without him. By the way, is this Carson’s first marriage?”
“I guess so. He was considered an old bachelor when he came here.”
“So Carson isn’t a native of Cheepwee either?”
“Oh, no. He’s only lived here four or five years. There was Miss Aggie Boaks who set her cap for him when he first arrived. People thought they’d make a match and everybody was right happy for Miss Aggie. Then Belle came along.”
She stopped talking and was pensively silent. Shayne lit a cigarette and drummed blunt finger tips on the steering-wheel. After a moment he said musingly, “Someone always gets hurt in situations like this. How often does your husband see Mrs. Carson?”
“As often as he can. If it’s divorce evidence you’re looking for, find out where they were last night. Harvey didn’t get home until after three.”
“Were they together?”
“Where else would he be?” she asked dispiritedly. “Mr. Carson went to New Orleans and she was at home alone.”
Shayne turned his eyes and looked with pity upon the woman. She appeared to be well educated, about thirty, he guessed, though anxiety and heartbreak had aged her. He said, “I’ll do what I can, Mrs. Barstow. You realize that when a man your husband’s age becomes infatuated with a woman, there’s little anyone can do.”
“I know.” She sat for a moment staring dazedly before her, then opened the car door. “I’d better be getting back. Harvey would be wild if he knew I was here talking to you.” She got out and walked around the front of his car.
Shayne asked, “Where do the Carsons live?”
“In the big house on the knoll two blocks north of the courthouse. The old Bancroft place. I guess Mr. Carson is there by now. Harvey said he’d be in on the afternoon train.”
She returned to her car and started the motor. Shayne got out of his car and pretended to examine his tires. When she drove past him headed toward town, he looked at her license plate and wrote the number in his notebook. Then he got in and turned around. He was suddenly very eager to have a talk with the mysterious Belle Carson.
Chapter five:
Red-Hot Widow
The Carson House was set on a green knoll and surrounded by magnificent oaks. The architecture was early colonial.
Shayne went up the wide steps to the double front doors and pushed an electric button set in the casing opposite an old wrought-iron knocker. An elderly Negro opened one of the doors and said, “Yes suh?”
“I’d like to see Mr. Carson,” Shayne said.
“Mistah Cahson, suh, am not in.”
“I understood he was coming in on the afternoon train.”
The Negro said, “Yes suh, but he didn’ come.”
A musical voice floated out to them from the interior of the house. “Who’s at the door, Abe?”
“Genmun to see Mistah Cahson.” The Negro turned away and the woman stood before Shayne.
Belle Carson was a symphony in green and black, tall and slim-waisted, her full breasts swelling the black silk jacket. A green silk skirt revealed the graceful curves of her hips, and her black hair was smoothed back from a high forehead and curled up around her neck.
She said, “Well,” in a deep contralto, and lowered her long black lashes.
“I wanted to see Mr. Carson,” Shayne told her.
“Are you sure I won’t do?”
“Isn’t your husband here?”
“No. Come on in.”
Shayne decided she was nearer forty than thirty, a woman of lithe and well-preserved maturity. As she turned to lead the way into the wide hall, her hips swayed gracefully.
Halfway down the hall a magnificent staircase curved up to the second floor. Belle Carson laid her hand on his arm and ushered him into a spacious room bright with the afternoon sun streaming through long French windows.
Shayne stopped just inside and Belle moved past him with indolent, flowing grace, to a deep chair near one of the windows.
“Won’t you sit down?” She indicated a chair near by.
Shayne said, “Thanks,” and waited for her to be seated before seating himself. “I understood Mr. Carson was expected back on the three-twenty train.”
“Do you mind being alone here with me until he comes?” she parried.
Shayne grinned. “I’d like it better if I was sure he wasn’t coming at all.”
A slow smile quirked the corners of her full red mouth. “You’re from the city, aren’t you?”
Shayne nodded and took out a pack of cigarettes. He held them out to her and she took one. He lighted hers, and one for himself.
Presently she said, “And you came up here to see Walter? What for?”
“Business.”
“You haven’t told me your name,” she said.