“What happened?”
“I wanted a divorce, and Fran wouldn’t give me one. She knew by that time I was in love with Stella and did everything she could to block us. She swore that if she couldn’t have me, Stella couldn’t.”
“So you and Frances separated, and you and Stella started living together?”
“Well, in a way. Not quite like that.”
“Why didn’t you live together all the time, Pete? Why those surreptitious weekends?”
“Stella was afraid of Fran. She didn’t want Fran to find it out, but— Well, in a way we were married.”
“What do you mean?”
“We went down to Mexico and had a marriage ceremony performed.”
“When?”
“Four or five months ago.”
“Why didn’t you tell the police about this?”
“Well, I was trying to make up my mind. That’s what I was doing when you rang the bell. I don’t know what to do. Fran, of course, would have me right where she wanted me, but under the circumstances— I just don’t know.
“Fran can be a bear cat. She’s been married before. The man she was married to wrote me a letter. He said Fran was poison, that she wouldn’t give him a divorce, that she was a dog in the manger.”
“What did you do?”
“I hunted him out and beat him up.”
Peggy, looking at the anguished face, was thinking rapidly. There had to be an angle — there had to be!
“You knew Stella was going to have a baby?”
“Yes. Our baby. She’d only just found out herself. She told me Saturday.”
Meeting his eyes, Peggy said, “Pete, she really was your wife. Your marriage to Fran was illegal. Fran had never been divorced.”
“She told me she’d been divorced.”
“Did you check on it?”
“No, I took her word for it.”
“You were married to Stella, in Mexico. That marriage was legal. Stella was your legal wife. Now tell me about Bill Everett.”
“That crook! He ran with a gang. They all got caught on that stickup in Cofferville.”
“Had he been in touch with Stella recently?”
“Not that I know of. Not since he got out of prison.”
“You haven’t seen him?”
Pete shook his head.
“Did you know Stella had asked Don Kimberly to meet her at the Royal Pheasant?”
“No, I didn’t. She didn’t say anything.”
“Do you know where Bill Everett is?”
“No.”
“You have no idea how I could locate him?”
“No.”
“How long had he been mixed up with the gang, Pete? Was it just one slip or—”
“One slip, nothing,” Pete said. “The guy was just no good right from the start. He’d been lying to us all the time. That’s the way he was making his money — he was a member of a stickup gang. He thought he was smart, thought he was beating the law.”
“Do you know the other members of the gang?”
He shook his head. “Guess you could find out who they were from the court records. They were all caught on that service-station stickup.”
“They’d been working together for some time?”
“Apparently so,” Pete said. “I don’t know too much about it. Anyway, I’m all broken up. I can’t think good.”
Peggy said, “Try and think. Tell me everything you know about Bill.”
Pete said. “The gang used to communicate with each other by ads in the personal column of a newspaper. Bill told me that once. They’d arrange meeting places and things of that sort. That’s all I know.”
Peggy said, “Pete, I want you to do exactly what I am going to tell you.”
“What?” he asked.
“This,” she said, “is the way to clear the thing up, provided you do exactly as I tell you. I want you to go down to the morgue and claim the body of Stella Lynn. Claim the body as that of your wife. Do you understand? You’re her husband.”
“But,” he said, “our marriage— Well, you know, it wasn’t—”
“How do you know it wasn’t? You have Stella’s memory to think of. Do exactly as I tell you. Go down to the morgue at once. Claim the body on the ground that you’re Stella’s husband. Don’t let anyone get you to admit that there’s even the faintest doubt in your mind about the validity of that Mexican marriage. Do you understand?”
He nodded.
“Do you have any money?” she asked.
“Enough.”
“I can help—”
“No. This is on me,” he said. As he pushed back his chair his manner showed the relief of one who has had a load lifted from his shoulders.
In the newspaper office Peggy consulted the back files, carefully scanning the want-ad section.
In a paper of four days before she found the ad in the personal column:
Fran, get in touch with me on a big deal. I can’t handle it alone, but together we can make big dough. Call Essex 4-6810 any time day or night. Bill E.
Pieces of the jigsaw puzzle were beginning to fall into place in Peggy’s mind. The next question was whether she should pour her story into the ears of Detective Fred Nelson or get some additional evidence.
A silver dime was to determine Peggy’s next course. She called Essex 4-6810 and waited, her pulses pounding with excitement. If things went through without a hitch now, she’d handle it herself. If she struck a snag over the telephone, her next call would be to Detective Nelson.
At length a masculine voice, wary, uncordial, said, “Yeah?”
“Is Bill Everett there?”
“Who wants him?”
“A girl.”
The man laughed and said, “You could have fooled me.”
She heard his voice raised in a call. “Bill in there? Some dame wants him on the phone.”
A moment later she heard steps approaching the phone; another voice, cold, guarded but curious, said, “Yes? Hello.”
“Bill?”
“Who is it?”
“I’m a friend of Fran’s. It’s about a butterfly.”
The voice at the other end of the line instantly lost all coldness and reserve.
“Well, it’s about time!” he exclaimed. “Where the hell is Fran? Why didn’t she call me about the insurance interview?”
“She’s where she can’t call.”
“Good Lord, you don’t mean she’s—”
“Now, take it easy,” Peggy said. “I have a message for you.”
“What is it?”
“Don’t be silly. I can’t give it to you over the phone. Where can I meet you?”
“You got a car?”
“Yes.”
“Come on out here.”
“Now, wait a minute,” Peggy said. “There’s a lot of this I didn’t get from Fran. She only gave me the number to call and—”
“Adams and Elmore,” he said. “It’s on the corner. What kind of a car are you driving?”
“Fifty-one green coupé.”
“How long will it take you?”
“About fifteen minutes.”
“Okay, okay, get out here! Park your bus on Elmore just before you get to Adams — on the right-hand side of the street, headed south. Sit there and wait for me. Got that?”
“Yes.”
“The last fireplug in the block,” he said. “Slide in there and wait. Now, when is Fran going to—”
“Wait until I see you,” Peggy interrupted. “You talk too much over the phone.”
“Damned if I don’t,” Everett said, and she could hear the receiver being slammed into place at the other end of the line.
Peggy then dialed police headquarters, asked for Detective Fred Nelson, and was lucky enough to find him in.