He swung his left fist against the point of Barstow’s jaw and the man sagged limply in his arms. Shayne pushed the door open, dragged the senseless man inside the back room of the bank, pulled the door shut, and trotted down the street to his car.
With good luck, he would be well away from Cheepwee before Barstow regained consciousness and notified Denton.
Chapter seven:
A Visit To Dumpty’s
The description of Sidney G. Jones which the Park Plaza switchboard girl had given Shayne proved to be a fair thumbnail sketch. He stood in the doorway of his apartment and studied Shayne curiously after the detective had rung his bell.
Jones had black hair which was getting thin on top, a pair of crafty blue eyes, a cadaverous face, and large flaring ears. He wore a spotted silk smoking-jacket and held a highball in one hand.
“Who’re you and what do you want?” he demanded, blocking the doorway.
Shayne said, “I want to talk to you, Jones.” He moved forward and the slighter man reluctantly stepped aside.
The apartment was small, with a couch that could be made into a double bed. The floor was littered with newspapers. Ash trays overflowed with cigarette butts, and a whisky bottle and pitcher of ice cubes stood on an end table by the couch.
“Who the hell do you think you are, busting in here like this?” asked Jones in a ready, aggressive voice.
“You’d better listen close, Jones,” Shayne said flatly. “I haven’t much time. The cops may be getting here any minute.”
“The cops?” Jones’s pale, ferrety eyes squinted drunkenly. “What’s the lay?”
Shayne looked him over with disgust. “I place you now,” he said slowly. “You’re the louse they call Skip Jones.”
“What if they do?” Jones staggered into an armchair, crossed one emaciated leg over the other, and swung his foot to and fro.
“That’s easy to answer, Skip,” said Shayne sharply. “They want you because you’re a vulture with a private license and a habit of sucking clients for as much as possible on all sorts of promises that never materialize.”
“Look here, you can’t come in here and talk that way to me,” Jones whined.
Shayne moved over and stood on widespread feet before the seated man. “I’m interested in one of your clients, Jones. This is a murder investigation and I’m one jump ahead of the cops. You’ll save yourself a lot of grief if you give me the answers I want.” Shayne’s eyes narrowed. “What did you find out about Belle Carson in Atlanta four months ago when you were retained to dig into her background by Mrs. Harvey Barstow of Cheepwee?”
“Belle Carson? You got me wrong. I don’t know her.”
“I said give me the answers — and quick.” Shayne opened his right hand and held it up warningly.
Jones sucked in his breath and tried to straighten up. “Who are you, anyhow? And what d’you wanta know?” he mumbled.
“The name is Mike Shayne. I’ve got a private license, too, but mine doesn’t stink. What did you dig up about Belle Carson?”
“I didn’t get anything on the Carson dame.”
Shayne reached down with his left hand and tightened his knobby fingers on Jones’s smoking-jacket, lifted him half out of his chair, and smashed his right fist into his face. “Don’t waste time lying. I know you dropped your client and started blackmailing Belle Carson’s husband. Five C’s a month. You closed your office and moved in here to live off an easy thing. What did you learn about Belle in Atlanta that brought you five hundred a month from Walter Carson?”
“All right,” Jones croaked. “What’s wrong in that? Carson was rich. He could afford to pay.”
“And now Walter Carson is dead — murdered.”
Jones cowered back, his eyes frightened and his sallow face turning a peculiar pea-green. “Carson murdered?” Shayne nodded toward the newspapers littering the floor. “Unidentified body found half a block from here last night. A picture of Carson on the front page. Don’t pretend you didn’t recognize him.”
“But I didn’t!” Jones cried out in terror. “I swear I didn’t. I never saw the guy in my life.”
“You’ve been cashing his checks.”
“Sure I have. I got ’em by mail. But I never saw him.”
His thick voice quivered with fright. “I wrote him a letter to Cheepwee, see? I showed him how things stood and asked was it worth five C’s a month to keep it quiet. I guess he thought it was. I got the first check by return mail.”
“And I suppose it never occurred to you to return the money you extorted from Mrs. Barstow. What were you keeping quiet for Carson’s benefit?”
“That his wife was a bigamist,” Jones choked out. “She didn’t bother to get a divorce from her first husband before she married Carson.” He struggled to get up. When Shayne didn’t let go, he whined, “For God’s sake let me go in the bathroom and clean up. I’ll give it to you straight. I swear I will. If he’s dead, like you say, I guess I won’t collect any more on it anyhow.”
Shayne loosened his grip, and stood back, and let him go to the bathroom. He didn’t know how much time he had. It was a cinch that Harvey Barstow would tell Captain Denton about his inquiries concerning Jones.
As matters stood now, he didn’t know how much difficulty Denton might have tracing Jones to this address. If Jones hadn’t left a forwarding-address from his former office in the Downtown Building, and didn’t have his name in the telephone book, some considerable time might elapse.
Going to the telephone stand, he went swiftly through the directory. He felt better when he didn’t find Sidney G. Jones listed. That would delay Denton unless he knew the man personally.
Jones came back to the living-room. He tried to hold himself erect and dignified, but his body sagged and it looked as though his nose was broken.
“You didn’t need to hit me that way,” he grumbled. “I would’ve told you all about it if I’d known Carson was dead.” His voice was still thick and slurred, but he was trying to speak seriously. “You can’t blame a man for wanting to hold onto something that’s making an easy living for him.”
Shayne’s nostrils quivered and he snorted in disgust. “How do you know Belle Carson committed bigamy when she married Carson?”
“Because she was married to another guy for about six years. His name was Durkin — Willis Durkin. They lived in Atlanta, where he was an accountant for a big lumber firm. He was a quiet little guy,” Jones went on, trying to control his thick tongue and speak plainly. “They fought some, and people say she stepped out on him, and those that knew them both blame her for what happened.” Jones paused, and took a long drink of whisky and water.
“What’d you mean about being one jump ahead of the cops?” Jones went on suspiciously. “How do you figure in this?”
“Get on with your Atlanta story,” Shayne demanded impatiently.
“Sure. About five years ago the baby girl of the president of the lumber company Durkin worked for was kidnaped. It made a big stink at the time. Big shot by the name of Crawford. The kidnapers wanted fifty-grand ransom and sent notes saying that Willis Durkin should be the go-between to deliver the ransom money and all that.” He paused and waved his hands feebly. “Crawford was rich and he coughed it up. Fifty grand in small, old bills. He turned it over to Durkin for delivery, and Durkin skipped out with it. Later, they caught the kidnaper. His name was Whitey Buford. They got the baby back.” Jones paused again, his pale glazed eyes staring into space.
“Go on,” Shayne demanded again.
“Buford was sore as hell and accused Durkin of double-crossing him. He claimed he and Durkin figured the deal together, with Durkin playing innocent and acting as go-between.