“All right.” Inspector Quinlan raised his voice to call, “Any luck over there?”
“We’ve got a positive identification,” a voice called back. “Are you ready for it?”
“Shoot.”
Quinlan nodded his satisfaction when the voice said, “Next to the end on the left-the chauffeur.”
“Bring him back to the boudoir,” Quinlan said. Then warned the reporters, “There’s nothing to print yet. This is hot, but we need a confession. You’ll all be treated alike.”
Shayne hung back a little as the inspector hurried forward to intercept the officers escorting Neal back to the bare little room reserved for the questioning of recalcitrant suspects.
Quinlan stopped in front of them and confronted the chauffeur. “Why did you murder Dan Trueman?” His cold blue eyes bored into Neal’s.
Neal glared back and said quietly, “So that’s what this is all about.”
“You’ve just been identified as the man seen sneaking in the side entrance about the time Trueman got it. Might as well give us the whole story, Jordan, and save yourself a lot of trouble.”
“Why,” asked Neal in a wondering tone, “would I kill Mr. Trueman?”
“We know that, too,” Quinlan told him. “You left a little memento behind in your haste to get away.”
“Did I?” Neal Jordan’s unruffled manner was a match for Quinlan’s stoicism.
“We’ve got you dead to rights,” the inspector warned evenly. “The boys won’t be too easy when they start asking the questions. Better give it to me.”
Neal shrugged his handsome shoulders. “There has been a mistake. I can’t tell you what I don’t know.”
Quinlan stepped back, nodded, and said, “All right Take him, boys. But get a before-and-after photo. We won’t want any plea of strong-arm stuff after he confesses.”
He was scowling when he rejoined Shayne and asked, “What do you think?”
“I think he’ll be a tough one to crack,” said Shayne.
“I’d better warn the boys,” Quinlan said. “They know a couple of tricks to make him talk.” He left Shayne and went to the room where Jordan had been taken for questioning.
He returned presently and suggested, “Let’s go up to my office while they soften him up.”
“Of course,” said Shayne as they walked along.
In his office Inspector Quinlan took the bottle of brandy from the filing cabinet and set it on the desk before Shayne, saying, “Here it is-help yourself,” and permitted himself the rare luxury of becoming jubilant.
“We’ve got him, all right,” he went on, seating himself comfortably in his desk chair. “Funny, too, the way my men pulled him in right after you’d showed me why it might be him. Just goes to show that two of us can reach the same objective by taking different forks in the path. Plain police work is what finally turned up the two witnesses, and we’d have got him anyway if you hadn’t cleared up a couple of things for me.
“On the Trueman killing, that is,” he amended hastily. “I’m not saying we’d have hung the Moe thing around his neck without your help. I suppose you’ve checked that angle and found she did have her gas grate burning when she went to bed.”
“I checked on it.” Shayne nodded and tilted the bottle to take a long drink. “And it’s still murder,” he added, wiping his lips with the back of his hand.
“Good. He fits the bill right enough. No one knew more about the valves and such.”
“That’s right. I hope your boys get it out of him.”
“They will.” Quinlan took a box of cigars from his desk drawer and offered Shayne one. Shayne declined, and Quinlan lit one for himself, settled back in his chair and said, “Yes. We’ve got Jordan and we’ll get a confession.”
Shayne lit a cigarette and asked, “How did your boys run onto the two witnesses that fingered Jordan?”
“Just routine police work. You know how it is in a case like that. We cover every angle-even when it looks like we’ve already got the case sewed up.” He blew a smoke ring toward the ceiling and added, “I’m sorry about this morning. But hell-”
“Skip it.” Shayne took another drink. If the New Orleans basement boudoir was like a lot of others he had seen in action he didn’t like to think what Neal Jordan might be enduring. He said, “When that Moore dame sprung her denial of my alibi I didn’t blame you for deciding to hold me.”
Quinlan flipped ashes from his cigar and asked, “What about her-and the lieutenant?”
“I’ve verified the fact that he was in New Orleans the night before he was supposed to arrive,” Shayne said gloomily. “He went to see Lana. Hell of a thing for a prospective bridegroom to do, but some men are funny. I think he was on the level about being in love with Katrin,” he added reflectively. “From what I could find out, he’d been playing around with Lana before he met Katrin and she’d dragged him in pretty deep. She had threatened to make trouble, and the poor devil came here ahead of time to try to talk her out of it. Lana’s a hard to handle bitch,” he ended with disgust. “Look at the way she threw the hooks into me as soon as she saw I was in a tight spot.”
Quinlan indulged in a hearty laugh. He was in high good humor. With Neal Jordan identified for the Trueman murder and with the prospect of springing a big surprise by turning a supposed suicide into a solved murder, there was a step upward for him. He said, “They’re all alike-every one of them.”
The phone rang and he answered it, handed the receiver to Shayne, saying, “It sounds like the girl in your office.”
It was Lucy. She said, “Michael?”
“Oh, hello, Lucy, what goes?”
“I’ve got the information on the trains. You can leave New Orleans at noon or early in the morning and make connections to Craigville.”
“Give me the morning train.”
“It’s the Flyer. It reaches Craigville the following day at eleven-forty a.m.”
Shayne said, “Fine. What’s the fare?”
“One-way coach is twenty-nine forty-three. First-class is-”
“Hold it,” Shayne said. He laid the receiver on the desk and got out his wallet and the slip of paper he had found in Katrin Moe’s wastebasket. After checking the figures he picked up the instrument and asked, “What’s the tax on that ticket?”
“Two ninety-four,” Lucy said, and added anxiously, “You’re not going to take a long trip like that by coach, are you?”
Shayne laughed. “I’m not going anywhere. Be seeing you later.” He hung up, took a long drink from Quinlan’s bottle of brandy and looked at his watch. It was 10:25.
Quinlan had been puffing on his cigar and listening to Shayne’s side of the conversation with interest. He asked, “What’s all this about a trip?”
Shayne settled back and lit a fresh cigarette from the end of his stub. He mashed the stub out in an ash tray and asked, “Do you want to take another long shot on my say-so?”
“After the one you’ve just pulled out of the hat I’ll ride to hell and back with you,” the inspector assured him.
Shayne winced. “I can be wrong,” he warned.
“I’ll take a chance on you.”
“All right. Wire Craigville, Wisconsin, and have the cops meet the Flyer at eleven-forty this morning and arrest Anton Moe, brother of the late Katrin Moe.”
Inspector Quinlan’s exultant mood vanished before Shayne’s eyes and he became the cold-eyed officer of the law. He said curtly, “Say that again.”
Shayne repeated his request, slowly and doggedly.
“Arrest him for what? I thought they couldn’t locate her brother-or any relatives.”
“Just arrest him and charge him with being an escaped convict named Hodge, for one thing,” Shayne told him.
Quinlan picked up his fountain pen and slowly drew it through one cupped hand. His finely molded features were set, his eyes incredulous. “Holding out again,” he said.
“Holding out hell!” Shayne said. “I’m telling you.”
“One of the men who escaped from the pen is Katrin Moe’s brother? Are you positive?” he asked.
Shayne said wearily, “Hell, no, I’m not positive. It’s another hunch. Suit yourself about playing it.” He emptied the pint bottle and tossed it across at a waste-basket. He was getting damned tired of guessing, and he wasn’t too sure that any of his guesses were right.