“And you knew he was referring to Henderson when he talked that way.”
“I knew it in my own mind, yes. But he would not say so. And then the girl came one night like I told you, and everything else was just as I said.”
“Except that you didn’t admit to me that you knew his trip to Miami had some connection with Henderson?”
“That is right. That is all I told wrong. And how I saw the girl you say is Mr. Henderson’s stepdaughter.”
“And you decided to go to Henderson yourself day before yesterday? Using an assumed name.”
“I was afraid to say I was Mrs. Gleason. I thought I might learn something about Harry. It was all I could do.”
Shayne mashed out his cigarette and sat back, tugging at his ear lobe. He believed Hilda was telling the truth now. But what did it mean? Somehow he was now positive that the dead man he had seen on Henderson’s doorstep was her husband. He hated like hell to tell her so, but he knew it had to be done. But before doing so and while she was still calm and composed, he tried to pry further information from her.
“Going back to that first evening while you and your husband were watching TV. You’re sure he said, ‘His name is no more Henderson than mine is?’ Those were his exact words?”
“He said that, yes.”
“And he mentioned knowing something bad about him?”
“Very bad, I think. From the way he spoke.”
“When and where do you think he had known Henderson under a different name?”
“I do not know. It was before I met Harry, I am sure of that.”
“When did you first meet your husband?”
“Ten years ago. In Algonquin, where I was born. He came and went to work as a bartender.”
“What do you know about his past life?”
“Very little.” She sighed and fingered the edge of the coverlet at her waist nervously. “He did not like to talk about before he met me. He would mention sometimes places in the West he had been… tending bar, I think. He was a wandering man until we were married.”
“Did you ever have the impression he had a reason not to talk about his past? That he had something to hide?”
“Mr. Shayne, I have thought that, yes.” Tears brimmed in her eyes. “I did not care. I did not press to know. We were in love and our marriage was good. I did not wish to know the past. The present was all I thought or cared about.”
Shayne straightened in his chair restively and shook out a cigarette. “Did your husband own a pistol, Hilda?”
“Never. He was not a man who believed in violence.”
The last match in his book refused to light and he dropped it and the empty book into the ash tray with an exclamation of disgust.
Hilda reached to the bedside table beside her and lifted a book of matches questioningly. Shayne stretched out a long arm to take it, opened it and broke off a match, closed the book before striking it.
His gaze brooded on the lettering on the front of the book as he held the flame to the tip of the cigarette. He blew the match out and read the advertising legend aloud in a matter-of-fact tone: “The Lucky Tiger Bar.” He expelled his first puff of smoke and studied her face thoughtfully, “That’s on First Street here in Miami, isn’t it, Hilda?”
She said, “I do not know.”
Shayne said, “I want all of the truth now, Hilda. You lied to me about not finding your husband in Miami. You did find him. You were with him in this Lucky Tiger Bar. When?” He spat out the words like bullets and she flinched at their impact.
“That was when I first came,” she faltered. “On Monday afternoon. He had written in his note the name of that bar where he had met an old friend, but I swear he would not tell me where he was staying here. And I did not see him again after ten o’clock that night when he walked out the door very angry because I had begged him to return with me and give up whatever crazy plan he had.”
“What time did you reach Miami Monday?”
“The bus arrived at four o’clock. I had only the name of the bar to find him and I went straight there. Harry was drinking beer and he was angry to see me… thinking me still at home. We sat in a booth until ten o’clock that night and he drank beer and was drunker than I have ever seen him.
“He would not tell me anything, Mr. Shayne, except that I must leave him alone and we would be rich. It was going just as he planned, he told me, and I must not interfere. I begged him and I cried, but it only made him angrier, and he stalked out cursing me.” There were tears streaming down her cheeks when she finished, and she put her hands over her face to hide them.
“Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
“What good was it to tell? I was so ashamed, and I still did not know how to find him in this city. I went to the bar again next day and afterward, but he did not come.”
“What was your husband wearing the last time you saw him? When he walked out of the Lucky Tiger Bar?”
“Just his everyday clothes. Harry is not a fancy dresser, but neat.”
“Did he have a green suede jacket?”
“He wore that, yes. It was new this fall.” Her eyes were unwaveringly fixed on his. “You have found Harry, Mr. Shayne?”
“I’m afraid I have, Hilda. I think he’s… dead.”
She didn’t cry out. She didn’t blink her eyes, and tears began silently rolling down her cheeks. She said, “I think I knew it would be. Inside me. I knew. Tell me, Mr. Shayne.”
Shayne told her as gently as he could. “I’m not positive, of course. You’ll have to make the identification.”
“But why, Mr. Shayne? At Mr. Henderson’s house with a pistol in the night?”
Shayne said, “First, he must be identified.” He stood up. “You’d better get dressed.” He looked about the room and saw there was no telephone. “Is there a pay phone?”
“In the hallway outside.” Still outwardly composed, Hilda threw the covers off her legs and stood up.
Shayne said, “I’ll use it while you dress. Open the door when you’re ready.”
He went out into the dimly lit hall and found a wall telephone. He dialed Miami Beach Police Headquarters, and after a little difficulty got Painter himself on the wire.
“Mike Shayne calling. Have you identified Henderson’s corpse yet?”
“How could we with nothing at all to work on? Nothing whatsoever.” Painter sounded personally aggrieved. “He’s one of those cheap bastards who even did his own washing… and dry-cleaning too, I guess. All we’ve got is his prints and the serial number on his pistol.”
“His prints on it?”
“His and no others. If you’re holding out any information, Shayne…”
“On the contrary. I think I’ve got him identified for you.”
He heard a swift intake of breath over the telephone. “So you did know something, Shayne. By God, I…”
“I followed up a hunch and I think it’s going to pay off for you,” Shayne told him smoothly. “A Mrs. Harry Gleason is coming over in a taxicab to the morgue to look at him. I think he’s her husband.”
“Gleason? What’s the full story, Shayne?”
“Mrs. Gleason will give it to you… if it is her Harry. Better meet her at the morgue in twenty minutes.”
Shayne hung up before Painter could say anything more. The door of Hilda’s room opened as he turned away from the phone, and she stood in the doorway wearing a dark two-piece suit with a white silk blouse, and she was settling her Harlequin glasses over her eyes.
She stepped aside as Shayne re-entered the room, and he told her, “We’ll go down and I’ll put you in a cab to go across to the morgue on the Beach. Chief Peter Painter will meet you there, and will want a statement from you, if you identify your husband. I don’t want to be there while you make it.” He took both her hands in his and looked down at the blue-tinted glasses. “Do you trust me, Hilda? Will you do exactly as I say?”