Shayne said, “She might have-but she didn’t,” emphatically.
“And the relationship between her and Drinkley and Lana suggests that he may not have been as true to her as he wanted you to believe. She might have discovered that and turned on the gas as a way out. Or he might even have told her he was calling the wedding off-written her a letter that we know nothing about. So, she goes to bed the night before her wedding and quietly ends it all. You’ve really fixed up the suicide theory, Shayne. I wish my men were as thorough.”
“You’ve got suicide on the brain,” Shayne charged, “and you can’t see anything else. Hell, doesn’t all that suggest something else?”
“I still don’t see how it could be murder unless her killer turned himself into a gremlin and slipped in through the keyhole. Are you asking me to believe that?”
Shayne said grimly, “Here’s how. And here’s why.” He outlined the nebulous theory he had been laboriously building ever since his first visit to the Lomax house. He gave it a lot more solidity in the telling than it possessed, and spoke with a lot more assurance than the facts warranted.
“After that, the necklace had to be gotten back from Trueman,” he ended persuasively, “and Trueman’s murder resulted. I don’t know yet how the killer learned that Trueman was dickering to sell the stuff to the insurance company. That’s the only kink-outside of getting the actual proof to support some things that have got to be true.”
Inspector Quinlan said, “I’ll be damned if you don’t make it sound plausible, Shayne. But how? That’s still the rub. You can’t get away from that locked door and Doc Mattson’s findings.”
Shayne slumped wearily. “I think I can. I think we’ve walked into one of the damndest murder plans you or I have ever met. I accept the locked door and I agree she died as a direct result of inhaling gas fumes from an open gas grate-one that she must have opened herself. But it’s still murder.” He closed his eyes and felt the lump on his head tenderly.
The inspector said dispiritedly, “You’re only contradicting yourself.”
Shayne’s eyes popped open. They were very bright “No. I’m not. Think this over.” He sat up straight and leaned toward the inspector. “Katrin locks her door and gets ready for bed. It was a cold night and maybe she likes it a little warmer than the warm air system keeps it. Or a burning gas grate is cheerful. So she lights it and lies down to dream about her lieutenant and whatever else a young girl dreams about on the eve of her wedding. Anyhow, she falls asleep with the grate still burning.”
He paused dramatically. Quinlan was slowly rolling a pencil in his palms and listening attentively, a judicious frown between his eyes.
Shayne went on, talking fast. “Sometime during the night her grate goes out. She’s sleeping soundly. When the flow of gas starts again it mixes slowly with the washed air coming in from the furnace. The bulk of the gas is carried off by the cold air outlet so that the air in her room becomes tainted very gradually. So gradually that she doesn’t waken after the first numbing effect. She sleeps right on-with a smile on her lips as Doc Mattson said-and drifts from dreams to death.”
Quinlan struck the desk with his fist. “By God!” And again, more emphatically, “By God! Shayne. Maybe you’ve got something.”
“At least you’ll have to admit it’s a theory that meets every angle. And it’s the only theory that does.”
“Could be accidental,” Quinlan said. “Something might have happened to interrupt service for a short time.”
“That’s out,” Shayne said firmly. “Nothing happens to interrupt gas service these days. There’s always an emergency plant. If service was interrupted from the plant you’d have hundreds of casualties-not just one.”
Quinlan got up and paced excitedly up and down the room. “If the gas in the Lomax house was tampered with,” he offered, “all the other gas appliances inside the house would go out at the same time. They’d all have to be relit after the valve was opened again.”
“All right. I’ll check on it. And I’ll find out if Katrin made a habit of leaving her grate burning all night-and how many people knew about that habit. The killer must have had some way of being sure that she, and she alone, would have her gas burning.”
“That narrows it down to someone who knew her very well,” the inspector said, staring steadily at Shayne. “Someone who had access to the basement and knew the location of the gas lines and valves.”
Shayne nodded. “That fits three people-and the same motive can fit them all. And that’s the hell of it. That’s why I’ve been moving so slowly and why I need more time and freedom to investigate. If we jump into it and frighten them now we’ll end up with three suspects and not enough evidence to convict any of them. Are you sold? And will you keep hands off until I’ve had a chance to use my own methods? I’m not hampered by official regulations, you know,” he ended sourly.
Quinlan went back to his desk and sat down. “I’m sold, Shayne. Don’t tell me what you’re going to do. I’d rather not know.”
“That’s the way I like it,” Shayne said with satisfaction. “I’ve wasted too much time here already.” He got up and hurried out.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Lucy Hamilton stared at Shayne when he walked into the office a short time later. Her brown eyes shone with deep concern and her generous mouth tightened in disapproval of the lump on his head and the patch of purplish skin on his right cheek.
Shayne’s grin faded to a frown. “This is a hell of a greeting,” he growled.
“I’ve been terribly worried about you-and frightened. You could at least let me know-about things.” Her lips trembled and she tightened them again.
“Everything’s all right-I hope,” Shayne told her in a tone that carried no conviction.
“Everything’s just fine and dandy,” she retorted, “except that you’ve got yourself all beaten up again and the police have a dragnet out all over New Orleans for you.” A film of tears misted her eyes.
Shayne leaned over and caught her chin, tilted her face up. His grin came back and he said with more assurance, “It’s all right. But you’ll have to get used to seeing my face like this-and maybe worse. And having the police looking for me, too.”
“You just go around barging into trouble,” she accused, “and getting your name in the headlines-for murder.”
“Yeh. This is one of my busy days.” He gave her chin a pinch and said, “By the way, remind me to make love to you sometime when you’re like this. What’s Drinkley’s first name?”
“Oh-you-” She pushed his hand away. “His name is Theodore.”
“How did he act last night?”
“A fine spot you put me in,” she charged. “He didn’t want to go with me. And you’re dead wrong if you think he wasn’t head over heels in love with the Moe girl. He talked about her all the time and hardly ate a thing. I believe he’ll go crazy wondering if you don’t find out why she did it.”
“I’m finding out,” he said. “Did you try to help him forget her?”
He arched a bushy red brow at her and lowered his right hip to the desk.
Lucy nodded. “But it wasn’t any use. He doesn’t even see another girl. He’s really a poet at heart, Michael. He spoke of their love in the most beautiful terms.” She sighed.
“I know. Their love was fine and clean-like wonderful music.” He made a sardonic gesture. “How long were you out with him?”
“He took me home about nine o’clock. I suggested doing something else, thinking it might cheer him up, but I think he wanted to be alone with his grief.” She looked up at him, the mist still in her eyes, saw the cynical smile on his mouth and burst out, “And I hate you when you’re cynical, Michael Shayne. There is that kind of love in the world. But you wouldn’t know about that.” She jammed a sheet of paper in the typewriter and turned it viciously.