She gave him the woman’s name and address. Gentry wrote it down, pressed a button, and an officer entered immediately.
“Pick up Edwin Paisly if he’s at this address,” Gentry said, passing him the slip of paper. “And bring in whoever is with him. Keep them separated and try to find out how long Paisly has been there tonight, and specifically whether he was there before seven o’clock.”
“Right away, Chief,” the officer said, and went out.
“Now then, Miss Lally,” he resumed, “you say you’ve had a private detective watching Paisly. Was that Miss Morton’s idea?”
“Oh, no. It was entirely my own idea. She was hypnotized by that man,” she said vehemently, “and refused to listen to a word against him.”
“You disliked him?”
“I saw him for what he was.” She tried to suppress her anger, but hatred for Paisly was more convincing in her low, tight tones than in an angry shout. “Marriage to him would ruin her career. He would wring her dry of money-to spend on other women.”
“And you would lose your job?” Gentry probed.
“Probably. He was afraid of me because I had her complete confidence. I was prepared to give up my position if she married him.”
Gentry was rumbling, “We’ll go into that further after we’ve talked to Paisly. Now, Miss Lally, I want you to tell us about the quarrel you had with your employer early yesterday morning.”
She turned to Shayne again and asked in a low, tight-lipped voice, “You mentioned Mr. Harsh to me over the phone. Do I have to-tell Chief Gentry all about-that?”
“He already knows about that old story Sara Morton dug up about him and the letter he received from her demanding twenty-five thousand for suppressing it,” he told her. “Tell us about his visit to her hotel room night before last.”
“One thing at a time,” Gentry growled, with a hard glance at Shayne.
“It’s all right,” said Miss Lally. “They’re sort of mixed up together, anyway.” Color had washed into her face and neck. She folded her hands in her lap and turned back to the chief.
Gentry picked up a pencil and began doodling on the bottom of his notation sheet.
“I had hoped-I still hope,” she resumed, drawing a deep breath and puckering her eyes at Gentry, “that her character needn’t be publicly smirched. Of course, if Mr. Harsh killed her I suppose there’s no way it can be kept quiet. But I-it’s still so difficult for me to believe. I’ve been so close to her for years and never suspected she would do a thing like that.” She paused and nervously touched the small bandage before her ear.
“Get on to your quarrel,” Gentry said.
“It’s-after this,” she faltered in a hurt voice. “It was after midnight when Mr. Harsh came. I was asleep in fourteen-twenty, and wakened gradually at the sound of angry voices through the bathroom. My door was closed, but hers was open, so I didn’t hear much. Just enough to realize the horrible accusation he was making. Then she knocked on my bathroom door and called me. I got up, but by the time I put on my robe and got in there he had gone.”
“Did you hear him make an actual threat against her life?” Shayne asked.
“No. Not in so many words. But she told me he had. I was so confused-so horrified and ashamed for her that I’m afraid I spoke out very strongly. I couldn’t understand it. She had told me a couple of days previously that she had decided not to use the story because it would blacken a man’s character unnecessarily and possibly bring financial ruin to him and his associates. I had been proud of her for making that decision. Then to learn that she was still holding the threat of publication over his head to extort money from him-” Miss Lally’s mouth primped up like a hurt child’s and her voice broke, and tears ran down her cheeks.
“Would Carl Garvin have known of her decision to kill the story-at the time she told you about it?” Shayne asked.
She looked at him with wet and wondering eyes. “I don’t know.”
“Did Miss Morton clear her stories through his office?”
“Not-actually. She generally liked to have a local man check her stuff for accuracy.”
“Then it’s possible she had informed Garvin of her decision?” Shayne asked.
“I suppose it’s possible,” Miss Lally agreed. “But hardly likely since she still hoped to extract money from Mr. Harsh. She knew Mr. Garvin was engaged to Viola Harsh, and that he’d naturally tell the good news to Mr. Harsh as soon as he learned it.”
“She’s right, Mike,” said Gentry impatiently, laying his pencil aside and folding his arms across the desk. “To tell Garvin would be the same as telling Harsh. Is that what you quarreled with Sara Morton about?” he asked Miss Lally.
“Yes. I forgot myself-and I guess I stormed at her for doing such a despicable thing. She laughed at me in that hard, cynical way she had. She got terribly angry at me, and I guess we made a disturbance, because the manager phoned up about it. That made her furious. She blamed it all on me and had the manager prepare another room for me-and made me move out at two o’clock in the morning.”
She wasn’t crying now, but a tear stood in each eye and her straight black lashes were wet. She pressed a moist, balled-up handkerchief against them, and resumed wearily:
“Neither of us mentioned it the next morning. We both tried to pretend nothing had happened. We always passed off little spats that way. I tried to forget what she was going to do, and tried to tell myself it just proved she was human, after all. I blamed it a lot on Edwin Paisly,” she said, suddenly vicious at the mention of his name. “He had an unwholesome influence on her. She’s been so different these last few months.”
Shayne took the blackmail letter Harsh had given him from his pocket and handed it to Gentry. “Here, Will, take a look at this and compare the signature with the one she wrote me just before she died.”
Gentry spread the two notes on his desk and examined the signatures closely. Shayne got up and leaned across to compare them. After a long moment Gentry said:
“I’m not a handwriting expert, but they look the same to me.”
“And to me,” Shayne agreed morosely. He picked up both notes, folded them, and thrust them in his pocket. He sat down again, and Gentry asked:
“Anything else significant occur yesterday?”
“There were two things,” Beatrice said diffidently. “Ralph Morton called me in the morning and said he wanted to see his wife. I hung up on him.” Her lips rolled out in a sour grimace.
“Did he tell you where he was staying?” Gentry asked sharply.
“No. I got the impression he had just arrived in town.”
“What was the second thing?”
“She had a visitor late in the afternoon. I thought it was Ralph. But as I told Mr. Shayne, I didn’t go in to see. Both bathroom doors were closed and I couldn’t hear anything but a muttering of voices.”
Gentry dropped a soggy cigar butt in the trash basket beside his chair, took out a fresh one and turned it around to examine the wrapper. He bit off the end deliberately, took his time about lighting it, then squeaked his swivel chair back.
“Now we come to the telephone call,” he rumbled, “and your hurried trip to the Ricardo Hotel at twelve-thirty. Are you positive you didn’t see anything in that room before the light went out and you were knocked unconscious?”
“Not a thing. It all happened so fast-”
“And you don’t even know who the occupant of that room is?” he broke in casually.
“No. I went there to meet Mr. Shayne. I thought it was his room. Isn’t it?” Her round eyes held a moist question when she puckered them at Shayne.
“I have an apartment on the river,” he told her.
She was widening her eyes in surprised wonderment when Gentry hunched forward and asked abruptly:
“Have you ever seen this before?” His tone was a harsh growl.
Miss Lally jerked her head around and saw a pearl-handled. 25 automatic in Gentry’s square palm and not more than two feet from her naked, near-sighted eyes. She squinted at it worriedly, a perpendicular frown in her smooth white forehead. She leaned closer to examine it.