As Nicholson approached the, desk, Sergeant Carter said, “Get anything?”
“The lab boys are still lifting prints. The guys from the morgue have been and gone.” He set the paper bag on the desk. “You can handle this. It’s already been checked for prints, and there aren’t any.”
Sergeant Carter peered into the bag, then reached in and drew out an open, thin-bladed clasp knife with a blade about five inches long. The blade was darkly stained.
Laying it on his desk blotter, Carter asked, “Anyone recognize this?”
Lydia managed to overcome her revulsion at the dark stain and leaned forward to examine the knife more closely. In its tan-colored bone handle the initials “J.H.” were inset in silver.
“It’s my husband’s,” she said in a whisper. “He always carried it.”
Carter looked up at Nicholson. “So he was killed with his own knife, huh? Probably he was passed out on the bed when the killer entered his room.”
“What I figured,” Nicholson said. “Of course we’ll have to get the lab to run a check of the blood type on the knife against Hartman’s, but I’ll bet a beer they match.”
“No bet,” Carter said, “Where’d you turn it up?”
“I was making a routine check of Weygand’s car,” Nicholson said casually. “It was in the glove compartment.”
It was nearly midnight when Lydia got back to her hotel room. She had stood by to protest Jules’ innocence to the two unbelieving homicide officers, then had phoned a lawyer, waited until he arrived, and had outlined the whole situation to him. None of it had done any good. There was no bail in first-degree homicide cases, so Jules Weygand was in jail.
Her performance had helped her own ease, she knew, even if it hadn’t helped Jules’. It would have been inconvenient if the police had suspected collusion between her and Jules, even though there had been none. As it was, they had seemed rather admiring that she had stood by her husband in his trouble to the extent that she had sent a friend to watch over him in case Jules attempted suicide.
Of course nobody, including Jules, suspected the real reason for her worry over Jim was that he might commit suicide before she could arrange a suitable accident.
Slipping off her dress and slip, she hung them neatly in the closet. As she peeled off her left stocking, she frowned at the small bloodstain on the inside of her thigh. Then she saw that a run had started where the point of the knife had punctured the nylon when she thrust it down inside the stocking.
Before removing the other stocking, she went into the bathroom and washed away the tiny bloodstain. Reaching down into the other stocking, she drew out a folded slip of paper, opened it and read it for the first time. There hadn’t been time to read it in Jim’s room, of course; only time to get it out of sight.
The note was almost illegible, obviously written in the last stages of drunkenness. But amid the erratic scrawling she could make out the phrase: “Sorry I have to take this way out, Lydia, but—” Nothing more was decipherable, but that was enough to indicate it was a suicide note.
Tearing it into small pieces, she flushed it away.
It was a good thing she worked for the insurance company where Jim was insured, she thought. Otherwise, she might have been unaware that his fifty-thousand-dollar policy contained a suicide clause which voided it in the event he took his own life.
It was only right that she should salvage something from a marriage to which she had devoted ten years, Lydia thought. And if she hadn’t removed the knife from Jim’s chest and the note from his hand, she would have nothing to show for the ten years.
Acting Job
Originally published in Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, January 1961.
The man was tall and pale, with a wooden expression and hooded eyes. He would have been perfect in the movie role of Jack-the-Ripper. Myrna Calvert hesitated before letting him in, then seemed to decide it was silly to let his appearance bother her.
“Come in, Mr. Moore,” she said coolly, stepping aside to let him go past her into the apartment and closing the door behind him.
He glanced around the actress’ front room, approving its tasteful furnishings. When she invited him to sit, he gave his head a nearly imperceptible shake.
“I won’t be here that long,” he said, barely moving his lips. “I’ll just say what I have to say and leave. But first, I didn’t quite tell you the truth over the phone.”
The woman’s green eyes narrowed. “You don’t really have any life-or-death information for me?”
“Oh, that part was the truth. Only my name isn’t Moore. I’m not going to tell you my real name.”
Myrna’s lovely features were marred by a frown. She studied him suspiciously.
He said, “Before I explain just what this is all about, I want you to know why I’m telling you. I’ve seen every play you’ve ever been in, Miss Calvert. I think you’re the finest actress and the loveliest woman who ever walked on a stage.”
Myrna’s back stiffened. “If this is just some trick to get an autograph—”
“It isn’t,” he interrupted. “I just don’t want you to be scared of me. You would be if I told you why I’m here before letting you know how I feel about you. I want you to know I wouldn’t harm you for anything.”
The actress looked surprised. “Why should you harm me?”
“It’s my business,” he said dryly. “I belong to an organization which disposes of people for a handsome fee.”
Myrna’s eyes gradually widened until they were enormous. In an incredulous tone she said, “You mean you’ve been hired to kill me?”
“My organization has. I’ve been assigned the job. I don’t intend to do it.”
After a period of shocked silence, she asked faintly, “Who wants me dead?”
The man raised his eyebrows. “I figured you’d know that. I was just given the job, not the reason.”
Myrna paced to a sideboard, took a cigarette from a box and lit it. “Why have you risked telling me this, Mr. whatever-your-name-is? Won’t your organization be angry with you?”
“I don’t plan on them finding it out.”
“Suppose I called the police and asked for protection? Wouldn’t they know then?”
He shrugged. “You could probably get me killed, if you’re that ungrateful. Are you?”
She studied him with an undecided expression on her face. “You’re taking this risk just because you’re a fan of mine?”
“A little more than that, Miss Calvert.”
“Oh? What?”
“I’ve been in love with you for five years,” he said quietly. “Don’t let it upset you. It’s from a distance and I never expected to meet you. I don’t plan to bother you. When I walk out of here you’ll never see me again. I just don’t want you dead.”
After contemplating him for a time, she said, “I’m flattered. And very lucky too, I suspect. You look like an efficient killer.”
“I am,” he said dryly.
She took a quick, nervous puff on her cigarette and stubbed it out. “You don’t know any details of this plot?”
“There was a condition attached,” he said. “I’m supposed to tail you. If you caught a plane for Europe tonight, I was supposed to forget it. If you didn’t, I was supposed to move in and do the job.”
Her nostrils flared. “Max Fenner!” she said.
“The theatrical producer?” he inquired.
She gave a jerky nod. “I knew he hated me, but I didn’t think he’d go this far. He must be mad.”
“What’s his beef?”
“He’s over a barrel,” she said viciously. “I want the lead in his new play. He’s already signed Lynn Jordan, and he knows she’ll sue his pants off if he reneges on the contract. But I’m in a position to cause him even more trouble if he doesn’t play ball.”