Quinlan stared at him for a long moment before saying, “All right. I’ll do it on your say-so.”
Shayne didn’t say anything more. He let it lie like that. A feeling of lassitude possessed him. Always before, when it came to winding up a tough case, he was a mass of nerves. He was on edge and driven by a sharp certitude that demanded action. He felt none of this now. It didn’t help any when the inspector called over the intercommunication system and sent the telegram to Craigville. Shayne felt only a mild pity for any man who was so easily led to act on a Shayne hunch.
After Quinlan hung up the receiver Shayne arose abruptly. He didn’t want to answer any more questions. He said, “Let’s go down and see what Jordan is giving out.”
“Let’s,” said Quinlan, and they went silently down the steps.
The boudoir was a small square room in the basement. A heavy backless chair was bolted to the floor in the exact center of the room.
Neal Jordan sat on the chair with a wide leather band about each thigh to keep him from rising. He was completely naked. A single light was suspended just above his head with a cone reflector throwing the rays directly downward, making one circle of glaring radiance and leaving the rest of the room in shadow. Four men were loosely grouped around him. They were questioning him calmly and persuasively about the murder of Dan Trueman.
He didn’t answer them. He didn’t look at them. He sat forward with his elbows on his knees, his forehead resting on his interlaced hands. Great beads of sweat ran together and formed rivulets running down from his magnificent body, but he remained relaxed and immobile.
Shayne looked sharply for any sign of physical weakening. There was nothing more than a healthy redness and sweat from the heat of the glaring light.
He knew that Jordan was waiting them out. There were no signs of a struggle on his body to show that he had fought with Dan Trueman, but he already knew that, having seen him stripped to the waist in the Lomax basement.
The men who were questioning him had grown hoarse and less persuasive. Inspector Quinlan drew Shayne aside and whispered worriedly, “Are you sure he’s the one? It’s a miracle if the man who killed Trueman got off without a scratch.”
Shayne said, “Your men picked him up. I gave you three to play with-the only three men in the house.”
“I don’t like it,” Quinlan said stonily. “They’re not getting anywhere with him.”
Before answering Shayne again studied the nude form in the chair. He said, “It’s pretty gentle treatment for a suspected murderer.”
“We have to be damned careful,” Quinlan complained. “A boy almost died down here a few years ago and he was later proved innocent. This generally wears them down.”
“If you can get them started talking,” said Shayne. “As long as he dumbs up like this he’s safe.” Worms began eating at the lining of his belly. He recognized the feeling. He had to get going. He couldn’t stand around and wait it out. “I’m going to try my luck,” he said, and walked inside.
Shayne shouldered one of the detectives aside and reached out to brush aside Neal’s clasped hands. He laughed and said, “You should stay at home when murders are being committed.”
Neal’s muscular body tautened. He said, “You bastard.”
Shayne laughed again. “You’re outsmarted and you might as well admit it.”
“Outsmarted hell! I’ve just been figuring this out. It’s one of your frames. You needed somebody to take the rap and you picked on me.”
Shayne laughed with genuine amusement. He jeered, “You’re perfect for it. You’ll have to admit I pick a good sucker.”
“I see it all now.” Neal was excited. “That picture you stole from my dresser. That is what you stole it for-to be sure your phony witnesses would recognize me in a line-up. You know it was too dark there last night for-” He stopped suddenly and breathed hard through set teeth as he realized what he had said.
Shayne exhaled a long sigh and turned to Quinlan. “Is that what you wanted, Inspector?”
“It’s plenty,” Quinlan said, “to hang him.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Neal said, “You’re crazy. This whole thing is crazy.”
“So you think it was too dark on the street last night for you to be recognized,” Quinlan said. “I don’t know what picture you’re talking about, but the identification was authentic and Shayne had nothing to do with it.”
“I didn’t say anything about the street last night,” Neal said with controlled fury. “I just said it was too dark last night for anyone to recognize anybody.”
The inspector spoke to a policeman behind Jordan: “Read that line back.”
The policeman read from his notes: “You know it was too dark there last night for-”
“Why did you stop so suddenly? Why didn’t you finish the sentence?” Quinlan demanded.
“Because I realized how it sounded. I didn’t mean to say there. I didn’t mean any particular place. Why do you think I would have killed Trueman? He’s never harmed me. I scarcely knew him.”
“What did you do with the necklace?”
“What necklace?”
“The emerald necklace you passed to him. The one you fought over in his office.”
“You’re crazy,” Neal said again, and there was more conviction in his voice.
“We’ve got you dead to rights,” Quinlan told him in a cold, even tone. “We’ve got the motive and we’ve got an identification from eye-witnesses.”
Neal had recovered his normal composure. He shrugged and replied with deliberation, “You’re doing the talking.” He put his face down against his hands again to shield it from the awful brightness.
The inspector stepped back, shook his head at Shayne, and admitted in a low, worried tone, “You’re right. He’s plenty tough.”
Shayne grinned. His eyes were very bright and his expression was one of certitude. One word from Neal Jordan had given him assurance. He said confidently, “I can make him talk.”
“Go to it.”
Shayne moved forward to face Neal. He said harshly, “I’m going to give it to you straight. You’re too smart to scare into talking, and it was pretty dark last night outside the Laurel Club for a witness to recognize anybody.”
Neal lifted his head and looked at him with a caustic smile.
“You’re admitting it now?”
“It isn’t going to help you. You might beat the Trueman rap before a jury. But I can prove to any jury that the same man who killed Katrin Moe killed Trueman. Fingered for one, you’re dead set for the other.”
“Katrin Moe committed suicide,” Neal growled.
“You hoped we’d think so. But I can prove it was murder-without any phony witnesses on dark nights; You might get a hung jury on Trueman if you keep your mouth shut, but I’ll hang you for the Moe job.” Neal was sweating freely and his voice was strained when he asked, “How could it be murder? I don’t see how you figure it.”
Shayne laughed softly. “It wasn’t so hard to dope out how and why she was murdered. But you and Lomax and Eddie all had about the same motive and opportunity. Until we got something else on one of you we couldn’t make the pinch. Now, we’ve got what we needed.”
He turned as though to walk away. “Wait a minute.” Neal was breathing fast and audibly. “If you’re telling the truth-”
“I’ve no reason to lie about it,” said Shayne, turning back. “You know Katrin was murdered.”
“I didn’t know. I swear I didn’t.” His protest was high-pitched and anguished. “I thought a lot of her. If I had even suspected-” He stopped abruptly and his labored breathing was loud in the silent room.
Neal Jordan clenched his fists and stared down at them, then lifted them over his head and said evenly. “That old bastard. So that’s what he did. All right. I won’t protect him any longer. Trueman was different. That was a clean struggle and a lucky blow. But coldblooded, premeditated murder of an innocent girl is different.” He shuddered as if with revulsion. “And I never even suspected it.”