“Why-it looks like-I think-it’s one Miss Morton used to have,” she faltered. “I can’t be sure, of course, unless I check the serial number with her permit. But it’s the same kind hers is-was.”
“One she had, Miss Lally?” Gentry probed.
“Yes. Up until about a year ago. It was stolen. She always thought Ralph took it. He always took anything of hers he wanted and could get hold of. Where-where did you get it? I understood Miss Morton was stabbed.”
“She was. But a bullet from this gun killed Ralph Morton in room three-oh-nine at the Ricardo Hotel around twelve-thirty tonight.”
“Ralph Morton-dead? At the Ricardo where I–I-went tonight?” She drew away as far as the back of the straight chair permitted, staring at the pistol with hypnotic fascination.
“He is. And if his body hadn’t been discovered in that room by Shayne when it was,” he said grimly, “it is more than likely you would be dead, too. Suffocated in that closet.”
She gasped, looking slowly from Gentry to Shayne, her white skin suddenly suffused with a yellowish pallor. “Then you-found me?” she murmured.
“And lucky for you. Now you know why I asked if the voice over the phone sounded like Ralph Morton’s,” Shayne said.
“How horrible!” she burst out “Was he-murdered-too?”
“We think he was,” said Gentry flatly. He chewed the cigar, dead since the first puffs, across to the other side of his mouth, then resumed:
“It appears he hadn’t just arrived in Miami, but has been at the Ricardo several days and is the one who sent Miss Morton the threatening letters trying to force her to leave Miami before she completed her residence requirements for a divorce.”
“Ralph-sent those letters? Then he’s the one who killed her. But-” she included Timothy Rourke in her round of questioning glances now-“but who killed him? And who phoned me to go to that room? I don’t believe it was Ralph.”
“We’re fairly certain Ralph Morton didn’t phone you,” Gentry told her. “But it had to be someone who knew Morton’s room number-and who also knew Shayne had left you with Miss Hamilton. When we find that man-”
He was interrupted by a knock on the door and Riley opened it to report:
“We’ve got Mr. Harsh out here, Chief. He wants to phone a lawyer.”
“He can have all the lawyers he wants after we charge him with something,” rumbled Gentry. “I’ll be ready for him in a few minutes. Keep him away from Garvin.”
The door closed and Gentry asked, “Anything you want to ask Miss Lally, Mike?”
“There’s one thing I want very much to ask her. About Miss Morton’s watch, Miss Lally-was it any good?”
“Why, yes. It was a very expensive watch.”
“But did it keep time? Did she have it repaired often?”
“It always kept perfect time,” she declared. The puzzled expression in her eyes cleared, and she said, “Oh-you mean about it being an hour slow, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“That was one of her idiosyncrasies. She refused to ever change to daylight-saving time. She kept it on Standard the year ’round.”
“Didn’t that cause certain difficulties?”
“Oh, no. She was so used to it she always made a mental correction when she was where daylight saving was in effect.”
“As it is here right now,” Shayne muttered. “I guess that tears it, Will. Even if her watch did say seven-thirty when she wrote me the note she would have typed the correct time.” His bushy brows met over a scowl and he rubbed his lean jaw reflectively.
“Then none of the men involved has an alibi,” Gentry said heavily. “You’ve been most helpful and cooperative,” he told Miss Lally. “I may need more from you later, but right now I can’t think of anything else.”
“Then may I go back to the hotel? My eyes are terribly strained from going so long without my glasses. I have an emergency pair at the hotel.”
“Wait a minute,” said Shayne. “They should be bringing Paisly in soon, and I’d like to ask him a couple of questions in your presence.”
“Do you think it’s important?” She sounded tired and disappointed.
“Why do we need her, Mike?” Gentry demurred.
“I want her to listen carefully to his voice, for one thing, and see if she can recognize it as the voice that lured her to Ralph Morton’s hotel room.”
“But I’ve heard his voice often,” she argued. “The man on the telephone didn’t sound a bit like him.”
Shayne looked across at Timothy Rourke, who had gradually slumped in the straight chair until his vertebrae rested on the seat. His chin rested on his chest and his eyes were closed.
“Tim-wake up,” Shayne yelled,
Rourke’s eyes popped open. “I’m not asleep,” he said crossly. “And don’t yell at me.”
“Look, Tim, you told me Paisly used to be an actor. You know what kind? Was he an impressionist?”
“My guess would be the female chorus,” Rourke grated. “Back row. I told you she didn’t say.”
“Look, Beatrice,” he said. “If Paisly has studied acting he could probably imitate my voice. He heard me talking at the Golden Cock. When you listen to him this time, try to recall the telephone conversation and see if you hear any of the same inflections.” He stood up and stretched and added casually to Gentry, “Mind if I use your phone?”
“Who you calling this time of morning?” the chief asked suspiciously.
“Lucy. I promised I’d call her. She’ll be sitting on the edge of the bed waiting to hear from me.” He sauntered over to the chief’s desk and lifted one of the phones just as the man who had been sent to pick up Paisly opened the door and announced:
“We’ve got Paisly outside, Chief. And the dame who lives in the house. They think it’s a morals charge,” he added with a grin.
“Bring both of them in,” Gentry ordered.
Lucy answered just as Gentry spoke. Shayne shifted his position to watch Beatrice’s strained face as she waited for Edwin Paisly to be brought in.
He spoke softly into the mouthpiece. “Did I wake you, angel?”
“I’ve been waiting for you to call, Michael. Is Miss Lally all right?”
“She’s okay,” he assured her. “We’re in Will Gentry’s office right now and I’m going to take her home in a few minutes and tuck her in bed.”
“Then will you stop by here, Michael? I can’t possibly go to sleep until you tell me what happened.”
“Better take a pill,” he muttered. “I may be a long time with her. I’ve got to get hold of Sara Morton’s story on Harsh so I can destroy it before this thing blows up in my face and I lose half my fee.”
He looked around with the receiver to his ear as the door opened again and Edwin Paisly was ushered in. Behind him was a long-limbed blonde wearing sandals and a zippered housecoat. She glared at the occupants of the room with tight lips and contemptuous eyes.
Shayne spoke just above a whisper into the mouthpiece, “Hold it a minute, angel,” while he watched Paisly gesticulate in vehement protest at the outrage as the officer pushed him along. He was fully clothed, but disheveled, his hair twisted in little tufts across the front where it was longer, as if feminine fingers had playfully tried to curl it, and there was lipstick smeared around his mouth. He stopped suddenly and his features tightened with loathing and anger when he saw Miss Lally seated primly across the desk from Will Gentry.
“I knew you must be at the bottom of this,” he shrieked vindictively. “I hope you’re satisfied with all your snooping and spying.”
Lucy’s voice was protesting in Shayne’s ear, wanting to know what was going on, declaring she’d wait up hours for him to tell her-that she’d never go to sleep now.
“It’s no use, angel. Beatrice and I may even end up at my place-and you know she’s already got her toothbrush with her.” He grinned as he listened a moment, said, “Good night,” softly, and hung up.
“… and I was glad to tell the police where they could find you if that’s what you mean,” Beatrice was saying. “Staying with that woman while you pretended to make love to Miss Morton.”