“Of course — it is.”
“I wondered. You see — there’s a fellow here in town — big redheaded fellow — and I thought maybe he’d been to see you.”
“He knows about my husband’s — death?”
“He knows plenty about it.” Denton’s voice was charged with gruff anger. “Has he been here?”
“No one has been here,” Belle Carson told him.
“If he comes, you give us a ring down at the hotel. Now, ma’am, I wonder if you can tell me anything that’ll help us catch the murderer.”
“I — don’t think so. What could I tell you?”
“Who’d want to kill him? Come on — speak up.”
“No one that I know of. How did it happen?”
Captain Denton gave her the details. He said he had come to Cheepwee direct from Baton Rouge, and it was evident that he didn’t know about the empty room in the St. Charles Hotel. He didn’t tell her about the appointment book or the newspaper clipping found in the dead man’s pocket.
“We have obtained certain information that indicates your husband went to New Orleans intending to contact a private detective named Michael Shayne this morning,” Denton said. “Looks as if he might have been killed to prevent that meeting. Do you know what your husband wanted to see Shayne about?”
“I’m afraid I can’t help you,” said Belle Carson.
“What reason did he give for the trip?”
“Just business.”
“Expected him back this afternoon, didn’t you?”
“Yes, I did.”
“What’d you think when he didn’t come in on the train?”
“Just that he’d been detained in the city.”
Captain Denton asked a few more questions and Shayne could hear her answering in evasive monosyllables. The Captain went away after a time with her promise to telephone him at the local hotel the moment a tall redheaded stranger showed up.
Chapter six:
Puzzle in Cheepwee
Shayne stayed pressed against the wall of the house until he heard the Captain’s police car drive away. Then he went back to the French doors and stepped inside. Belle was at the far end of the room fumbling in the drawer of an escritoire.
She turned around with a stubby pistol in her hand. “You better sit down and do some fast explaining,” she said.
Shayne put his hands deep in his pockets and grinned at her. “Is that a thirty-two?” he asked casually.
She looked at the gun and said, “I don’t know.” Her eyes were hard and her face contorted with ugliness. “It’ll do plenty of damage to a man’s insides, if that’s what you mean.”
“Your husband was killed with a thirty-two,” he told her. “If the police saw that they might ask where you were last night.”
“Let ’em ask.” She held the short gun steady, pointed at Shayne’s stomach. “Sounds to me like the police know where you were.”
Shayne walked over and poured a Martini. Belle moved a couple of steps toward him, her eyes more curious than angry. “So you killed him,” she said.
“What gives you that idea,” he demanded harshly.
“I’m not a fool, Red. That cop said they just got the body identified. But you knew all about it before they did. What do you want in Cheepwee?”
“Right now I could be made to want you,” said Shayne. He took his drink from the table and sat down, looked up at her with a half smile of amusement on his wide mouth.
Belle Carson’s eyes wavered before his steady gaze. She looked at the pistol in her hand as though suddenly embarrassed. “You’ve got a nerve — after murdering my husband,” she said huskily.
“You’ve got a nerve talking like this if you think I murdered him,” said Shayne harshly.
Belle wet her lips and watched him with an odd and intent appraisal. “You’re from Whitey,” she declared after a moment, and sat down in her chair.
“Suppose I am?”
“You and Whitey killed him last night. I don’t get it, Red. He’s no good to you dead.”
“You are,” he said soberly.
She shook her dark head dismally. “I’ve got to figure this out. Why did Whitey send you here?”
“I didn’t say he did.”
“It has to be that way,” she argued. She sounded weary and defeated. “How much does this cop know about you, Red? How much do they know about Whitey?”
“Don’t worry about the cops,” he replied harshly.
“I could turn you in.”
“But you won’t,” he retorted and grinned at her.
“I don’t know.” Her eyes gathered flame again. “Was Walter fool enough to go to Whitey last night and threaten him?”
“What would he threaten Whitey with?”
“That detective he was going to see in New Orleans by the name of Michael Shayne. You heard the cop talking, didn’t you?”
“Oh — him,” said Shayne contemptuously.
“Why else would Whitey kill him?” she asked sharply. “If he wasn’t afraid of Shayne. He must know he’ll never get a penny out of me. Not with Walter dead. All I’ve got to do now is sic the cops on him. I don’t care how much he talks.”
She got up abruptly and the pistol slid to the floor. Pacing nervously before him, she went on, “I can cash in Walter’s chips and get the hell out of here. Back to the bright lights and some real living.” Her voice was suddenly coarse and vulgar.
“You’re forgetting Harvey.”
She whirled on him. A haunting fear crept into her eyes. “How much do you know?”
“I make it a point to know lots of things.”
“Well, if you know so damned much you must realize I just played around with Harvey because I was stuck here.” She walked rapidly across the room to push the call button again. There was feline grace in her movements. She came back, sat down, picked up the pistol and slid it underneath her thigh.
Fandella appeared promptly and without asking questions took the empty cocktail shaker and glasses away.
“You must have guessed who I was when I first showed up,” Shayne said.
Belle showed her teeth in an unpleasant smile. “Sure. I figured Whitey had sent you. That’s why I wanted you to stick around — because I figured Walter had made arrangements.”
“With Michael Shayne?”
“Yes. You know all about it, don’t you.”
“But that’s when you still thought Walter was alive,” Shayne said.
“Of course.”
Fandella came back and set the frosted shaker on the table. Shayne brought his empty glass over and held it out to her. Belle filled his glass and then her own.
“You don’t have to sit so damned far away,” she complained.
He pulled a light occasional chair up close to hers and sat down. “That New Orleans cop is waiting to hear from you,” he reminded her.
“How much does he know about you, Red? Why does he expect you here?”
“How the hell do I know how much any cop knows?” he parried.
“Can they pin Walter’s murder on you?”
He said, “No.”
“On Whitey, then?”
“I don’t know about that.”
“Whitey must not be too worried,” she argued, as though trying to convince herself. “Else he wouldn’t have sent you here. But why did he do it, anyway?” she went on plaintively. “Like I say, he hasn’t got anything on me. I never did anything. I’m not afraid of publicity here like Walter was.”
Shayne didn’t say anything. He feigned deep and troubled thought over what she was saying and watched her with calculating eyes.
“So what are you doing here?” She demanded truculently. “How’d you come to meet Harvey?”