She blinked at the tear, staring down at Phyllis with feral intensity.
“It ain’t right,” she said tonelessly. “It ain’t fair. Other people having everything and me with nothing. Not even Joe. Not even a father for my baby.” She threw Phyllis’s hand away suddenly and her fingers dived into her shabby black bag.
Her hand came out clutching a tiny, stubby automatic and it was pointing upward at Shayne before he saw it.
Phyllis gasped and threw herself against the girl’s legs as the automatic spurted flame. A bullet whizzed past the detective’s face and buried itself in the ceiling.
Phyllis’s hand closed over Dora’s and she struggled with her for the weapon. Shayne stepped backward and watched them, amazement and pride fighting for precedence on his face.
His lips twitched in a broad grin when Phyllis settled back with the pistol in her possession while Dora slumped down sobbing.
“What are you grinning about?” Phyllis panted. “Why, you-she might have killed you.”
“Not while I have such an able protector.” He held out his hand. “Better give me that toy before it does some damage.”
Reluctantly, Phyllis dropped the. 25 into his palm. Then she got up and bent over Dora, patting her shaking shoulders and comforting her with low words.
Shayne went to a desk in the corner and dropped the pistol into a drawer. He went back and kissed Phyllis’s hair and muttered, “You’re pretty swell doings, angel. I’ll leave you two gals to fight it out.”
Tears were rolling down Phyllis’s own cheeks when he went out and left them together.
Chapter Eight: THE GHOST OF MURDER PAST
A horse-faced butler with solemn eyes opened the Thrip door for Shayne. Before the detective could speak he murmured, “I beg your pardon, sir, but you are not perhaps aware there has been an-ah-tragedy here and I don’t believe-”
“I’m fully aware of it,” Shayne assured him pleasantly, pressing forward.
The butler gave way reluctantly, protesting, “Mr. Thrip is indisposed and has given strict orders that no one is to be admitted.”
“He’ll see me. But first I want to ask you a couple of questions about the man who was killed in your mistress’s room last night. Did you admit him at five when he first came?”
“Yes, sir.” The butler’s long nose quivered and his watery eyes turned a paler blue. “I’ll never forgive myself for not sending him about his business as I was tempted to do. I judged him to be a low criminal type but I knew Mr. Thrip was expecting a detective and I guessed immediately that the man belonged in that category. But my first impression proved correct, sir, and I shouldn’t have allowed-”
“Exactly what did he say when he asked for Mr. Thrip?” Shayne broke in impatiently.
“He said he had an appointment-that a man named Shayne had sent him. As I have already reported to the police-”
“All right.” Shayne cut him off. “So you took him to Thrip. What then?”
“I have no idea, sir. I’m sure I don’t know what you mean nor why these questions should be directed at me.” The man folded his arms with solemn dignity.
“I’m trying to find out who killed Mrs. Thrip,” Shayne said bluntly. “If you’re interested in helping, you’ll answer my questions truthfully.”
The butler’s jaw sagged. Anger turned his gaunt cheeks a rosy hue. “I don’t know who you are nor what right you have to question me.”
“I’m Shayne,” the detective growled. “And don’t start accusing me of murder or I’ll slough you one. I’m tired of getting the run-around.”
The butler pulled the door open and pointed outside. “If I may suggest-”
“You may, and to hell with you.” Shayne set himself solidly with his jaw jutting. “You’ll either give me information or I’ll beat it out of you.”
“Y-yes, sir.” The butler gulped. His Adam’s apple slid up and down rapidly.
“Where did Thrip talk to Darnell-in which room?”
“In the library, sir.”
“Alone?”
“Y-yes, sir.”
“And it was the library window that was found open later in the night?”
“Y-yes, sir.”
Shayne said, “H-m-m.”
“If I may say so, it is my theory that the criminal unlatched the window while he waited in there for Mr. Thrip to come down. I suggested that possibility to the police and they concurred heartily.”
“You’re a big help,” Shayne muttered, “All right, let’s get on from there. Did they go out of the library after their conference? Together, I mean.”
“If my memory serves me right, Mr. Thrip showed the fellow over the upstairs, probably in the belief that the man could fulfill his duties more efficiently if he was acquainted-”
“Leave your conjectures out of it,” Shayne snapped. “Was Mrs. Thrip at home when the man was here?”
“No, sir. She arrived some time later. She inquired about the man you were to send and appeared deeply gratified when I informed her the fellow had talked with Mr. Thrip earlier and had departed.”
“Who locks up at night?”
“It is one of my duties, but Mr. Thrip is often in the library late and he allows me to retire without closing up in there.”
“Is that what happened last night?”
“Yes, sir. Otherwise I would have tested all the windows and the tragedy might have been averted.”
Shayne changed the subject abruptly, asking him about the other servants.
There were, it appeared, two maids, a cook, and the chauffeur besides the butler employed in the Thrip mansion. They all slept on the third floor and the butler said they had all retired about 11:30. The butler explained that the corps of servants was quite inadequate to the duties to be performed, and that they were usually tired and retired early. The servants were aware of a strain upon the household and it was impossible for them not to learn of existing conditions by a word overheard here and there. They were a little on edge and nervous, but they had been given to understand that there was a private detective guarding the house and all of them had slept more soundly than on any night since Mrs. Thrip began receiving the threatening notes.
After learning that Mr. Thrip had been left in the library, that Mrs. Thrip was in her bedroom, and that Dorothy and Ernst were out last night instead of “having a gang in the house,” Shayne demanded to be taken to Mr. Thrip.
With a be-it-on-your-own-head look on his long face, the butler acquiesced and led Shayne up the stairs, past the closed door of the fatal room, and to a door standing ajar just beyond.
The man started to rap, but Shayne caught his arm and pulled it back when he heard Thrip talking to someone inside. Pushing the butler aside after a gesture commanding perfect quiet, Shayne opened the door silently and walked into a living-room connecting two bedrooms, a duplicate of the one across the hall between Dorothy and Ernst’s rooms.
Thrip was talking over the telephone. He sat in a low chair with his back to the door. He wore a dressing-gown of black satin with yellow piping. Smoke curled up from a partly smoked cigar in an elaborate smoking-stand beside the chair, Moving silently forward on the thick rug, Shayne saw that the French phone was a jade color ornamented with gold.
“Why don’t you come out in the open so that I can know what I’m fighting?” Thrip was saying irritatedly. “Your veiled threats mean nothing to me. I won’t listen further to such nonsense. Reveal your identity and I’ll deal with you.”
Shayne was standing behind Thrip when he clicked the instrument on its prongs and turned to pick up his cigar.
It was as if Thrip felt rather than heard Shayne in the room. He turned, frowned, and demanded fretfully, “How did you get in and what do you mean by eavesdropping?”
“I’m a detective,” Shayne’s wide mouth curved in a sardonic grin. “I didn’t want to interrupt your interesting conversation so I waited until you finished.”