“You think someone else killed her?”
“That’s the way it has to be. I know why Joe climbed in a window and sneaked up there masked. He must have heard something that made him suspicious-something that drew him into the bedroom-we’ll never know what. A dying moan, maybe, a convulsive movement of stiffening muscles. At any rate, Joe must have made the fatal mistake of stepping aside to investigate-which drew a bullet from the husband who sees his wife lying in bed murdered.”
“It’s horrible.” Phyllis shuddered. “With everybody thinking Joe did it they won’t look any further. And if Mr. Thrip doesn’t tell why Joe was upstairs no one will ever believe he didn’t break in expressly to attack poor Mrs. Thrip.”
“We might as well take it for granted that Thrip isn’t going to tell the truth. When his plan miscarried he even took the precaution of ditching the jewel box and the incriminating thousand-dollar bill inside of it. For which we can’t blame him,” he went on calmly. “Why should he admit the truth? He won’t have to pull the fake theft now. Coming into his wife’s fortune will put him beyond such a necessity in the future. His two youngsters can stop hating their stepmother and start spending her money.”
“What about Carl Meldrum?” Phyllis asked sharply. “Where was he last night?”
“Dorothy Thrip says he left nearly a half-hour before the murder took place.”
“Which murder?” Phyllis asked sharply. “If your version is right, Mrs. Thrip might have been killed any time before the moment that Mr. Thrip caught Joe Darnell in her bedroom and shot him.”
“Good for you, angel. That’s putting your finger on what the newspapers would call the crux of the affair. With the present setup no one has bothered to check the times of death closely. Painter and his crew are assuming that they died practically simultaneously and that assumption suits Peter Painter right down to his little number seven boots. He’s got a ready-made victim unable to tell his own story-and it has the added virtue of putting me on the spot. I can’t expect any official help in proving that her death occurred before Joe’s.”
“But can’t you prove at least that Joe wasn’t working for you when it happened? That you just tipped him off about the money in the jewel box?” She paused reflectively, then added, “And there’s Dora-I feel terribly sorry for her-maybe her testimony about them needing the money so badly to get married-and the baby and all.”
“We’d better leave Dora out of it. She’d probably ball everything up if a lawyer got hold of her. I can tell my story,” he explained patiently, “but I haven’t an iota of proof to back it up.” His mouth tightened grimly; his eyes were sober. “Unless I can make Thrip admit his reason for calling me in yesterday,” he ended harshly.
He stood up, shaking his head while his wife scanned his face anxiously.
“You didn’t mean that about running away, did you, Michael? You’ll stay here and clear it up, won’t you? You always have.”
Shayne grinned down at her. “I meant it for your sake, angel, I didn’t know how you were going to take it. If I can’t clear Joe it’s going to be all up with me as a private detective. I’ll have my license revoked and I’ll be on the black list of every state in the Union.”
“Then you’ll have to clear Joe.” Mrs. Michael Shayne summed the thing up simply and firmly.
“With every card in the deck stacked against me,” Shayne muttered. He turned into the living-room and Phyllis followed him, saying excitedly:
“I’d check up on Carl Meldrum, If Joe didn’t do it, he must have. Mrs. Thrip admitted she was afraid of him. He probably got mad because she didn’t pay off on his notes and killed her in a fit of rage. She said he had terrible rages at times, and he was there last night at about the right time.”
Shayne stopped near the door, rubbing his lean jaw with its red bristle of beard. He didn’t mention his visit to Meldrum at his hotel nor the special delivery from Mona. He said, “That isn’t much of a motive for murder. As long as she was alive he had reason to believe he might be able to blackmail her. With her dead, that opportunity is gone.”
“But he’s got his clutches on Dorothy,” Phyllis reminded him. “She’ll come into money. Maybe he thought it would be easier to squeeze it from her than from her stepmother.”
Shayne said, “Maybe.” He reached a long arm out for his hat and turned to kiss Phyllis good-by. She clung to him, then stepped back and gave him a little shove toward the door. “I’ll be betting on you, Detective Shayne, and I might even be able to help some.”
Shayne was on the point of explaining just how much she had already helped when there was a light rap on the door. He put Phyllis aside and opened the door. He frowned when he saw Dora standing in the hall. Her eyes were enormous beneath the floppy brim of her hat, bloodshot and distended. She didn’t have any powder on her face and her cheeks had a scrubbed look. She wore a sleazy black dress that bulged in front, silk stockings with runs in them, and scuffed red slippers.
She stared at Shayne as though she didn’t recognize him, stared past him at Phyllis.
Shayne put a big hand on her elbow and drew her inside. Her fingers were clenched tightly in front of her on the clasp of a shabby patent leather bag.
Shayne said, “This is Mrs. Darnell, darling.”
Phyllis exclaimed, “Oh!” and started forward impulsively, holding out both her hands to the girl.
Dora made no move to take her offered hand. She stood looking at Phyllis with the same tragic lack of expression that had greeted Shayne. She wet her lips and said tonelessly, “Your wife, huh?”
“Yes. I’m Mrs. Shayne.” Phyllis caught her underlip between her teeth and glanced anxiously aside at Michael.
He had taken a step back and was watching Dora intently. Getting no response from him, Phyllis took Dora’s arm and urged her toward the divan, saying solicitously:
“Michael feels so terrible about Joe. And-oh, I’m so sorry. I-know how you must feel.”
Dora said, “No, you don’t.” She sat down stiffly, staring straight in front of her with terrifying fixity. The knuckles of her hands were strained and white with their grip on her bag.
“The reason you don’t know how I feel is because you’re married to him.” Dora nodded toward the detective. She sounded as though she was honestly trying to make Phyllis understand. She went on flatly: “Joe and me was goin’ to get married today.”
Phyllis glanced down at the girl’s swollen body in quick comprehension. She sank to her knees and caught Dora’s hand in hers. “That’s-oh, that’s too terrible,” she breathed.
Dora jerked her hand away with a violent gesture. “I ain’t-I’m not wanting your sympathy. That don’t help any. He sent Joe out there.” Again she nodded toward Shayne, who was still standing in the background.
He moved forward while Phyllis sank back on the floor. He said, “That’s right, Dora. I sent Joe out there. I’m not likely to forget that. I’m doing my best to make it up to him.”
“How can you make it up? What can you do? What can anybody do? Joe’s dead.”
Shayne said, “I know. But you’re going to have his child. Don’t forget that, Dora.”
“As if I could.” Her voice rose shrilly. “It’ll be tainted. Marked with murder-with a murder Joe didn’t do.” She was tensed and her eyes held a wild glitter in their depths. Thin white fingers played with the clasp on her bag. “Joe didn’t do it. He didn’t do what they say.”
“Of course not,” Phyllis soothed her. She reached forward to touch Dora’s fingers. “Michael knows Joe didn’t. He just told me so. He’s after the real criminal right now. Everything will come out all right.”
Dora blinked her eyes and looked down at Phyllis’s shining dark head as though just becoming aware of her presence.
“He done it. It’s your man’s fault.” She spoke slowly, as though it was by painful effort. “Joe trusted him, you know. It was him that got Joe to go straight and that’s why he was-why we were so broke we couldn’t get married. Las’ night we were-happy, and thought everything was going to be just grand.” She was silent. A tear trickled out of her left eye and down her cheek.