“Then the question is,” he resumed, “what sort of collateral did you put up to get that kind of credit from Gannet?” He addressed his words to Garvin, but included Harsh with an occasional glance as he continued. “Leo doesn’t let anyone get into him that deep unless he’s sure of collecting. I’m not forgetting that it was worth twenty-five grand to Leo to induce Miss Morton to leave town without completing her assignment. When she turned down his money, I’m wondering if he didn’t offer you at least a part of that amount to help get rid of her. Wasn’t that it?” he demanded.
Garvin had dropped into a chair. “Certainly not,” he answered. His high-pitched voice was steady now, and he explained: “Miss Morton was on assignment from New York, and the local office had no control over what she wrote. Good Lord, don’t you think I would have killed the story she was doing on Mr. Harsh if I had any such power?”
“I-don’t know.” Shayne was silently thoughtful, undecided whether to pursue that line further. “Whether you had the power or not,” he said, “it wouldn’t be difficult for you to make Gannet think you did.”
Garvin re-enforced his nerves by finishing his drink. “Suppose I did let him get some such idea?” he argued. “Is that a crime? All I wanted was a chance to recoup my losses. If I had been able to get square with him-”
“But you kept getting in deeper,” Shayne interrupted, “until it reached the point where he was refusing you further credit and you were faced with the necessity of making good on your boasts. Where were you between six-thirty and seven tonight?” he ended abruptly.
“Good Lord!” Garvin’s glass was knocked to the floor by a nervous jerk and shattered on the tiles. His thin face grew white and he gasped, “You can’t think that I-you’re not actually accusing me of murder?”
“You had a motive. Do you have an alibi?”
“No. But I assume the elevator man can verify the time I left.” He paused, extremely agitated, and moistened his short upper lip with the tip of his tongue.
“Where? What elevator man,” Shayne pressed him.
“I was at my office until a quarter of seven. I went down in the elevator at that time, then drove to the Seven Seas to meet Mr. Harsh for dinner.”
“Was anyone in the office with you?”
“No-”
“You can’t be serious about this, Shayne,” Harsh interjected angrily, tactfully easing his voice back to normalcy as he interceded in Garvin’s behalf. “I’ll vouch for Carl personally. He’s practically my son-in-law. If he needs money to pay off some foolish gambling debts, he knows he has only to ask me.”
Shayne lit a cigarette and blew several puffs of smoke toward the ceiling. Harsh, by his own admission, could vouch for Garvin’s gambling debt only if the story failed to appear in print. Sara Morton had been in a position not only to ruin him financially, but bring disgrace upon his family, and, alive, she could with one stroke leave Carl Garvin at the mercy of Leo Gannet’s thugs, also. Harsh and Garvin could have been together since a quarter of seven. The exact time of Sara Morton’s death was not established. Did Harsh meet Garvin immediately after Garvin left his office and go to Morton’s apartment, kill her, and then go on to the Seven Seas for dinner to establish an alibi?
During the short silence, Harsh sat solidly in his chair. Garvin mixed himself another drink at the chromium-plated bar against the wall and walked nervously around the room, clutching the glass tightly in an effort to keep his hand from shaking.
Shayne rubbed his jaw reflectively and turned to Harsh. “When did you learn that your future son-in-law was gambling considerably heavier than the dollar limit you mentioned tonight?”
“Tonight-just a short time ago,” he answered stubbornly. The heavy lines were still in his face and the natural, determined set of his square chin was at variance with the haggard look in his eyes.
Shayne considered this briefly. Tonight meant tonight, but a short time ago could mean a day-a week. He took a casual puff on his cigarette, turned to Garvin, and asked bluntly:
“Where did you go after leaving Gannet’s office tonight-after he put the screws on you for money or for some action on Sara Morton?”
Garvin dropped limply into his chair, sloshing the liquor in the half-filled glass over the rim. “Why-I went home,” he stammered, avoiding Shayne’s hard gaze. “I had encountered Miss Lally earlier, and Gannet told me she had been there with you. I knew nothing of Miss Morton’s death at that time. I heard it over the radio when I was getting ready for bed, and I thought I should come here at once and discuss it with Mr. Harsh.”
Shayne ground his cigarette in an end-table ash tray and growled, “We’d all make out a lot better if you’d stop lying to me. I know you didn’t go directly home from Gannet’s office and I know you promised to get hold of some cash and take it back to him tonight. Where did you expect to get cash at this hour?”
“I don’t know where you get all your information,” Garvin said sullenly. “I told Gannet I’d pay up as soon as I could. I was worried-and suppose I did stop for a drink or so on my way home,” he ended defiantly.
“Did it take you an hour to get a drink or so?”
“What if it did?” he flared. “Why are you cross-questioning me like this?” He brought the glass shakily to his lips and drained it.
“Where were you at twelve-fifteen?”
“I-don’t-know.” He spaced the words evenly and spoke with shrill vehemence. “I don’t keep a timetable of every move I make. But I would have if I’d realized I was going to be put on the witness stand and grilled like this.”
“See here, Shayne,” Harsh cut in impatiently, “you stated a moment ago that Carl had a motive for killing Miss Morton. Did you mean that? Do you think for one moment he’s the type to commit murder to curry favor with a gambler and get a small debt canceled?”
“Someone has been writing Miss Morton letters threatening her life unless she left town at once,” Shayne answered Harsh, but for the benefit of Garvin, whom he watched narrowly for some reaction, “Who? It’s not the sort of thing Leo Gannet would think of. The letters were prepared by someone with access to a paste pot and sharp scissors such as are used in an editorial office. If Garvin didn’t send them-”
“Which I didn’t,” he broke in caustically. “It’s preposterous. But I–I think I can tell you who was sending her such letters.”
“Who?”
“Ralph Morton-her husband. He came to my office several days ago and asked me what hotel his wife was stopping at. I knew nothing about the strained relationship between them, so I told him. Then he became abusive and wanted to know exactly how long she had been in Miami. I looked up the date for him. He began to rave, and told me of her intention to divorce him.”
Carl Garvin grew more and more excited as he continued to relate the incident. He took off his glasses and gesticulated with them. “Morton mentioned the fact that a few more days would complete the legal residence requirements, and had the effrontery to offer me money if I could devise some subterfuge to induce the syndicate to send her to some other state immediately-before her Florida residence was established. I told him, of course, that such a thing was entirely beyond my power to arrange, and finally got rid of him.”
Shayne considered this briefly, remembering also that Garvin showed no surprise upon hearing of the threatening notes. He said, “So Ralph Morton and Gannet were both offering you money to get Sara Morton out of town. What was Morton’s offer?”
“I didn’t encourage him to mention any sum,” said Garvin with dignity. “You can see that it must have been Ralph Morton who sent the threatening letters you mentioned.”
“Maybe. Where is Morton staying?”
After a barely perceptible pause Garvin replied, “I don’t know,” too emphatically.
“He must have given you an address. How were you to get in touch with him?”
“I wasn’t going to get in touch with him,” said Garvin, growing sullen again.