“Who do you want to talk to?”
“It’s about those two escaped convicts. I think I have a line on one of them. This is Mike Shayne in New Orleans.”
“What kind of a line, Mr. Shayne?”
“I need a little dope from you to make certain. I’d like to know whether either of them had any visitors. Regular visitors. Your visiting day is still Wednesday afternoon, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Just a moment and I’ll connect you with Purcell, the supervisor.”
Shayne waited until a new voice said, “Purcell speaking.”
“I’m checking on visitors to the pair of escaped convicts. Did either of them have a regular weekly visitor? Anton Hodge would be my pick.”
“Just a minute.” The minute stretched to three before Purcell reported, “Hodge did have a regular visitor. His wife. She came every Wednesday afternoon.”
Shayne sucked in his breath with sharp disappointment. “I’m afraid that won’t help much. No one else?”
“No record of anyone else. Gillis had only one visitor while he was here.”
Shayne said, “This thing gets worse by the minute.” He paused, then asked sharply, “Could you give me a description of Mrs. Hodge?”
“You bet. She was the kind of girl a man remembers. You know how it is. You wonder how a girl like that can get herself mixed up with-”
“This is costing me money,” Shayne cut in. “Describe her.”
“Sure. Sorry,”
The supervisor gave him a detailed description of the convict’s wife.
Shayne knew he was listening to a careful and minute description of Katrin Moe. He broke the connection as soon as the supervisor finished, and went out to the reception room shaking his red head. “Those damned Norwegians,” he said helplessly. Lucy looked up at him with a gleam of amusement in her eyes.
“What’s wrong with the Norwegians now?”
“Married virgins,” Shayne told her. “Of all the goddamned-” He stopped abruptly and grabbed his hat “Be back in half an hour if anyone calls,” he tossed at her and hurried out before she began the question framing on her lips.
He had a little trouble in the Federal Building with government clerks who weren’t greatly impressed by his private detective’s badge and who were jealous of their small authorities over minor affairs.
Finally reaching a departmental head who could be bullied, he was allowed to see the records pertaining to recent naturalization proceedings.
There was quite a dossier on Katrin Moe, and he studied it carefully, making several notations before hurrying out and getting in his car again.
His next stop was at the bank where Neal Jordan told him Katrin transacted her business. It was a small savings and loan association with only two tellers. The first one he approached replied that he knew Miss Moe quite well, and deeply regretted her untimely demise.
Shayne asked, “Do you remember her last visit here?”
“I do, indeed. It was the day before she died. Day before yesterday afternoon, to be exact. Wednesday. She always came on Wednesdays. Just after lunch. To deposit her check, you know, so I didn’t think anything about it when she came in that day, though I believe it was a little later than usual.” He caught the lap of flesh under his chin and blinked his eyes thoughtfully. “Yes. It was decidedly later. At least an hour later than her regular time, though I must confess I didn’t notice anything else. Nothing peculiar, you know,” he went on regretfully, “and I’ve thought about it a lot since. It does seem that one should be able to tell, and I thought that if I’d just-”
“Did she deposit her check as usual?”
“Yes, indeed. She always withheld a certain amount in cash, but this time she deposited the check and withdrew fifty dollars in cash. I remember asking her, in a joking way, of course, what she was going to do with so much. She smiled in that slow way, and very attractively too, and said she was getting married and might need it for a honeymoon. Can you imagine that? Getting married the next day and-”
“I certainly can’t,” Shayne said. He broke away and trotted out to drive back to his office without wasting any more time.
Lucy Hamilton’s interest in her job had undoubtedly risen to a high pitch of enthusiasm. The moment Shayne opened the outer door she called excitedly, “Inspector Quinlan called a few minutes ago. He’s hot on your trail and said for you to call him the instant you returned. I’m sure he must have something that’ll clear you of-”
“Get him,” Shayne said, stalking through to his office. He picked up the receiver and listened while Quinlan’s phone rang, said, “Quinlan?” when a voice answered.
“That you, Shayne? It looks like you were right and things are breaking faster than we expected. My men dug up a couple of witnesses who saw Neal Jordan, the Lomax chauffeur, sneaking around to the side entrance of the Laurel Club about the time Trueman got his.”
“Good work, Inspector,” Shayne said heartily. “They’ve identified him?”
“Conditionally. Jordan’s mug was in the papers yesterday, you know. They say the man they saw looks like him. I’ve sent a couple of men out to pick him up, and I’ll put him in a line-up. If they pick him, we’ll really have something to go to work on.”
“You bet,” Shayne said. “I’ll be right over to see what goes.”
He hung up and went slowly back to the outer office. “The wheels have started to turn,” he said grimly. “Neal Jordan has been fingered for the Trueman killing and Quinlan is bringing him in.” He watched closely for her reaction.
She said, “It’ll be all right, Michael. I know it will. But”-she turned her eyes away-“I hope they don’t-beat him-too hard.”
Shayne grinned. “Don’t worry too much about that. They don’t beat a man except as a last resort. You see, they try sweating it out of them first, and they’re pretty good judges of whether a man is actually guilty or not.”
“Oh,” she breathed, “then it will be all right.”
“Sure,” said Shayne. He took out the notes he had made at the Federal Building and studied them. “Call the depot, Lucy, and get the arrivals and departures of trains to Craigville, Wisconsin. Also the exact fare; coach, first-class, and Pullman. And call me at Quinlan’s office in about half an hour with the dope.”
Lucy grabbed a pencil and notebook and asked, “Craigville, Wisconsin?”
“That’s right,” Shayne said, and closed the door on his way out.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Six men stood in line under a bright white light at one end of a big basement room at headquarters. From left to right they were a city detective in mufti, a police reporter, a derelict from the bull-pen, another detective, Neal Jordan, and a second vagrant.
The detectives stood erect and unsmiling under the glaring light. The reporter grimaced into the semi-darkness of the big room where some of his colleagues were watching him. The two vagrants shuffled their feet nervously.
Neal Jordan faced the two groups of men with folded arms and a faint smile of contempt twitching his mobile lips. He had been picked up at the Lomax residence and brought to headquarters to stand in the line-up without any explanation whatever.
The two groups of men in the big room viewed the scene from widely separated vantage points. Each group was composed of a couple of officers and a reporter, and one of the two men who were there to identify the suspect. Each was being forced to make a separate identification in order to prevent any possible backfire when the case came to court.
Shayne and Inspector Quinlan were in one of the groups. Their witness was a fat Italian with bulging eyes and very white teeth. He surveyed the row of men under the light for a long moment, then flashed his teeth at the inspector and declared, “Next one to the end-that-a-way.” He swung his arm to indicate Neal Jordan. “That’s him for sure.”
“You want to be very sure,” the inspector warned. “You may have to testify in court.”
“Sure I’m sure. Didn’ I see ’im last night?”