While he lay quietly and smoked his first cigarette, he went over what she had told him about Jim Wallace and his amorous tendencies. It didn’t add up to the picture he’d gotten of Wallace from Lucy and Mrs. Wallace, but then a lot of things often didn’t add up in a murder case. It was hard to determine exactly how much truth there had been in Kitty’s words, but he felt there doubtless was a certain amount.
Of course, it didn’t have to mean very much when a man in his fifties tried to recapture some of the thrills of youth by pawing other women after a few drinks. It was accepted trade practice in the circles in which the Wallaces and Martins moved. Few men of that social status and age would be aroused to a murderous pitch even if they were aware their wives were being actively unfaithful. Certainly, on the surface Rutherford Martin did not appear to be the type to avenge his honor with a gun.
The fact that Kitty had seen him going back into his bedroom fully clothed two hours after he had ostensibly retired was not at all conclusive. With a female bridge party in the front room, it was definitely conceivable that Martin had excused himself with a plea that he was sleepy, and had merely gone back to the bedroom to relax with a drink. He might well have been returning from the kitchen or the bathroom when Kitty saw him.
On the other hand, it was a lead that would have to be followed up. How could it square with the two airline tickets in Wallace’s wallet? They were almost conclusive evidence that Wallace had planned to skip out to South America this morning with some companion. Certainly not with Mrs. Martin, Shayne thought. And that was the only possibility that could have led Martin to murder. Indeed, if it were true that Wallace and his wife were having an affair and Martin was aware of it, he should have been pleased rather than angered to discover that Wallace was skipping with someone else.
Shayne frowned and stretched out a long arm to mash out his cigarette. Of course, there was the possibility that, if Martin had known about the affair and had discovered Wallace’s plan, he might have jumped to the conclusion that Ella planned to go with Wallace and therefore felt it was his husbandly duty to stop them.
Because a husband, Shayne told himself, didn’t see his wife exactly as other men saw her. At least, the detective assumed he didn’t. It was more likely, Shayne thought, that, in middle-age, a husband probably still thought of his wife more as the lovely young girl he had married than as the dowdy woman she had become over the years. Thus, he would be much more liable to jealousy, much more liable to suspect another man of planning to elope with her than an outsider would be.
Shayne sighed and swung his leg out from under the covers and stood up in his wrinkled seersucker pajamas. He hated to open the door into the living room for fear he’d find Kitty Heffner there, but he couldn’t stay in bed all day. He got a bathrobe and slippers from a closet and put them on, then slowly opened the door as quietly as he could.
The sofa was vacant. The tray with its bottle and three glasses still stood on the table in front, and on the floor lay the empty wine-glass that had dropped from Kitty’s lax fingers just before she passed out.
Shayne stepped out cautiously and a swift glance around the room assured him she was not there. The bathroom and kitchen were also happily empty. He put on water to boil for coffee, filled the top of the dripolator, got out bacon and eggs and a heavy frying pan. He crisped four slices of bacon and laid them out on a sheet of paper towel to drain, poured boiling water in the top of the dripolator and dropped two slices of bread in the toaster. Then he poured off most of the bacon grease and broke four eggs into the hot pan, let the whites set a trifle before stirring them with a fork.
The toast was brown and the coffee had dripped through when he transferred the mess of eggs to a plate and arranged the bacon around the edge. He poured coffee and buttered the toast, put his breakfast on a tray and carried it in to the center table in the living room.
A sheet of white paper with penciled words on it lay on the table. He stood very still and read the words, holding the tray in both hands.
“I’ll always be sorry I don’t know what happened.”
There was no signature. Shayne sighed and set the tray down on top of the paper. He wondered when Kitty had awakened, how much she had actually remembered about the previous night. He knew exactly when she had passed out physically, but he also knew that drunken people often had mental blackouts that preceded the physical manifestation.
She must have felt like hell when she woke up in the strange room and found herself lying there alone on the sofa, fully dressed but with her clothing somewhat disarranged.
But Kitty was old enough to take it in her stride. He refused to brood about her as he ate the excellent breakfast with gusto, and went back into the kitchen for a second cup of coffee which he heated to boiling and then laced with brandy from the bottle by the sofa.
He had just sat down to enjoy it comfortably with a cigarette when his telephone rang.
He supposed it would be Lucy as he reached for it, but a man’s voice came over the wire. “Mr. Shayne. Bob Pearce. I just drove Lucy over to the office and I want to see you at once.”
“Come up here,” Shayne suggested, “and have some coffee with me.”
“Thanks. I’ll be there in a few minutes. And Lucy would like to speak to you.” Her voice followed immediately, “Any news, Michael?”
“Not much. Not really. How was it last night?”
“Pretty bad. Helen went all to pieces and we had a doctor in to give her a sedative, but Mrs. Wallace was wonderful. I hate to think what it might do to Helen if she finds out about those airplane tickets, Michael. You’ve just got to keep them quiet.”
He said, “They’re still in my pocket, angel. Any cops bother you?”
“Not really. Though I know one followed us home and watched the house last night. He’s still there this morning. Will Gentry is crazy, Michael, to even suspect Mrs. Wallace had anything to do with it.”
Shayne said, “U-m-m,” and took a sip of coffee royal. “Hold down the fort and I’ll be in later.”
He had shaved and dressed, and reheated the remaining coffee to the boiling point when his door buzzer sounded. He turned out the gas flame under the coffee and went to the door, opened it to admit Bob Pearce who smiled wanly as he walked in and dragged off his hat. “Nice of you to let me barge in so early, Mr. Shayne. And I’ll never be able to thank you enough for agreeing to keep quiet about those airplane tickets Mother found in Jim’s wallet.”
Pearce was inches shorter than the redhead, a well-fleshed young man in his middle twenties, with a smooth light complexion and crew-cut blond hair that made him look younger than he was.
Shayne said sardonically, “Think nothing of it. Lucy made it very clear that I’d be minus a secretary this morning if I didn’t play along. How did your wife take the news?”
“Very well. Considering everything.” Pearce pursed his lips nervously and thrust both hands deep into the pockets of his well-pressed slacks. “Neither Mother nor Lucy gave her any inkling about the indications that Jim was planning to leave town before Mother arrived today. Do you believe it, Mr. Shayne?” he burst out impetuously. “Isn’t there any other possible answer? It’s just fantastic to think that about Jim after all these years.”
Shayne shrugged and said, “There are always a lot of possible answers, Bob. Cup of coffee?”
“Thanks.” Pearce wandered across the room after him as the detective long-legged it to the kitchen. He stopped near the center table and stood there, looking young and helpless and worried while Shayne poured out two cups of coffee, calling in from the kitchen: “Cream, sugar… or cognac?”