“I’m beginning to understand why you’ve stayed here-married to Carson.”
Belle said, “It hasn’t been so bad here except I thought I’d go crazy sometimes.”
“Didn’t you ever get away on a binge?”
“Not without Walter. He kept promising to sell out the bank and we’d travel, but he never did.” She sighed and got up abruptly. “Do you want a drink now?”
“I could stand a drink of brandy.”
“I’ll have Fandella bring some brandy into the living-room. I’m going upstairs a minute. I won’t be long.”
Shayne said, “Sure,” and went with her into the hall. She squeezed his hand tight before turning to the stairs.
He went on into the living-room. The pistol still lay on her chair. He picked it up. It was a .38. Carson had been shot with a .32. The .38 was loaded all around. He put it in his pocket.
Fandella came in with a tray containing a cut-glass decanter of brandy and a tall, flare-top glass beside the decanter. She set it on the table and went away.
He poured a couple of fingers of brandy into the glass, passed it under his nose. His nostrils widened and he made a grimace of distaste. He had been afraid of that. When you said brandy to a Southerner, they gave you a sweetened fruit concoction. This was peach brandy, a liqueur with sweet fruit juice added after distillation.
He closed his eyes and tossed it down without taking a breath, set the glass down on the table, and went over to the writing-desk from which Belle had taken the gun.
Swiftly he went through the pigeonholes containing household bills and personal letters addressed to Walter Carson. In a drawer he found a big, flat checkbook. The first stub was dated back more than four years ago, showing an initial deposit in Carson’s personal account of $1,000.
Leafing through the stubs casually, he found a meticulous notation naming the purpose for which each check was drawn. It was this precise attention to detail on Mr. Carson’s part that drew Shayne’s attention to a stub dated almost four months previously. It was for the sum of $500, and the check had been drawn to Sidney G. Jones.
Shayne’s gray eyes narrowed. Things were beginning to add up a little. He turned the stubs swiftly and came upon three other checks for the same amount issued to the same Sidney G. Jones at thirty-day intervals. The final stub in the book noted the check for $200 that Carson had mailed to Michael Shayne. On a designated line was the word retainer.
He hurriedly rummaged through the rest of the drawer, but found nothing of importance. He put the checkbook in the drawer, closed it, then dropped into a chair with a deep sigh of relief.
Why had Walter Carson suddenly begun paying Sidney Jones $500 a month shortly after Jones had been sent by Mrs. Barstow to Atlanta to dig into Belle’s past? It looked as though Jones had dug up something. Something so hot he figured Carson would pay more money to keep it quiet than Mrs. Barstow could afford to pay to have it revealed.
He sat for several minutes driving his thoughts into the possibilities of the case. Belle was taking a long time upstairs. He was torn between a desire to get back to New Orleans for an interview with Jones and the promise of heavy drinking with the voluptuous widow.
He got up and took another drink of the sweet brandy, cocking his head to listen intently. He could hear no sound in the house. Belle had seemed anxious to get back when she left him after dinner. He knew, with sudden certainty, that she was dangerous, and he felt trapped.
Setting the bottle down on the table, he went quietly out of the room. There was no one in the hallway. He went on tiptoe to the front door and eased out. Traces of daylight still lingered in the darkening sky. He stepped from the porch to the driveway and followed it to a triple garage in the rear.
All the garage doors were closed. No lights showed in the upper portion of the house on that side. There were two lighted bungalows adjoining the rear of the garage which he supposed were the servants’ quarters.
Quietly he opened the right-hand double doors and found his car in a stall where it had been parked by the chauffeur. He got under the wheel and started the motor, backed out smoothly, cutting the wheels sharply in the wide space in front of the doors, then headed out with the lights off.
At the end of the double rows of live oaks guarding the private drive to the Carson estate he noticed a car inconspicuously parked on the shoulder of the dirt road. He turned on his lights and saw it had a New Orleans police license. A pinpoint of light indicated a man slumped in the driver’s seat smoking a cigarette.
Shayne chuckled softly as he swung out past the parked car. The cop made no move to follow as he drove toward the city. It was evident that the cop had orders to intercept only cars turning into the Carson estate.
Shayne drove straight through Main Street, past the bank building on the corner and the Travelers’ Hotel. There were no lights in the bank, and two police cars were parked in front of the hotel. Shayne cut around another block, turned off on a side street, and parked. He had given up any hope of getting his suitcase from the hotel under Denton’s watchful eye, but there were a couple of questions he wanted to ask Harvey Barstow before he left Cheepwee.
He got out and went back on a rear street and approached the bank building from the side. Through the plate glass window he could see Barstow, wearing a green eyeshade, working on the ledgers behind a teller’s cage. He appeared to be alone in the bank.
Shayne circled along the dark rear wall of the building to a smaller door. There was no glass in the door, but light showed through the keyhole, and Shayne knew it must be directly behind the late-working cashier.
He rapped on the door softly and waited. Thirty seconds went by, then a bolt was drawn back and the door opened a couple of inches.
Barstow peeked through the crack and let out a smothered ejaculation of surprise. “Shayne! What do you want? The police have been here.”
“I know all about the police,” Shayne growled. He pushed the door open wider and grinned at the stubby pistol in Barstow’s hand. “I’m not going to hold up your bank.”
“Of course not. I didn’t know who it was, and naturally I used caution.” Barstow paused to clear his throat. “I’m afraid I’ll have to report your visit to the police. They say Mr. Carson has been murdered.”
Shayne said, “Step out where we can talk without being seen.”
“I don’t understand any of this,” Barstow said unhappily, moving outside and closing the door except for a tiny crack. “The police say you’re not to be trusted.”
“I’m trying to solve your boss’s murder,” Shayne interrupted impatiently. “I’ve been talking to Mrs. Carson and now I’m headed back to New Orleans. Did you ever hear Carson mention a man named Jones? A private dick in New Orleans.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Did you know Carson was paying this Jones five hundred a month out of his private checking account?”
“I know nothing about his private account. He didn’t confide in me.”
“Do you know any reason why he should have been paying hush money to a private detective?”
“I certainly don’t.” Barstow’s tone was frigid. “Really, Mr. Shayne, I feel it’s my duty to inform Captain Denton at once that you’ve been here.”
“And have them block the road so I can’t get back to New Orleans tonight?” Shayne growled. His left hand darted down and closed over the pistol in Barstow’s hand, while his right hand went around the man’s neck and closed tightly over his mouth.
He wrenched the pistol away and dropped it into his pocket along with Belle Carson’s .38 and spoke softly in Barstow’s ear. “I’m sorry, but your conscience worries me.”