“Nice going, Maxie,” Shayne jeered. “If she refuses your generous offer I suppose you’re prepared to give your mugs the go-ahead to steal the plans and model.”
“That is no nice thing to say,” Samuelson protested. “I take a chance when I offer a dollar of good money. The camera may be no good. There may be other patents. No one can say until the proper investigation is made.” He spread out his fat hands and diamonds flashed in the lamplight.
“Please-don’t talk loud enough to wake up the boy,” Mrs. Edwards pleaded. “He has cried himself to sleep.”
“Your pardon,” Shayne murmured. He kept his voice low and scathing when he turned to Samuelson again. “Why did you hurry up here with a couple of bodyguards after hearing what Mayme Martin had to say about the invention?”
A wary look crept into Max Samuelson’s hard black eyes. He put up both hands in protest. “I think that is a matter we should not discuss in front of Mrs. Edwards.”
“Why not? Don’t you want her to hear what Mayme told you?”
The lawyer’s multiple chins shook with agitation. He sat forward and the tips of his polished little shoes touched the rug. “Do you want me to say out loud what I found at the Red Rose Apartment when I arrived after you left?”
“Sure. Go ahead and say it.”
“The lady was dead.” Mr. Samuelson shuddered. “A shocking sight. Blood spilled on the bathroom floor.”
Mrs. Edwards uttered a low moan. She slumped sideways limply.
Shayne jumped to his feet and supported her. He said, “That’s a lousy choice of words before a lady who’s just been told her husband has been killed,” in a low, angry voice.
“It was the truth,” the lawyer insisted stubbornly. “I have told no one yet. And I expect you to tell no one she railed me and requested that I come to her apartment just before she died.”
Shayne was anxiously fanning the limp woman with his hat. Her face was stricken and flaccid, wrinkled lids were lowered protectingly over her eyes. Her lips began to move and Shayne put his ear close to hear her almost inaudible words. They were a faint sigh, scarcely formed, like words welling up from the subconscious with such agony that the lips were forced to form them.
“Mayme-and Ben-Gil. Gil-is he-next? Oh, God-did Gil-?”
“What is she saying?” Max Samuelson had crossed the worn carpet silently and was bending over the couch anxiously, straining to hear the woman’s words.
Shayne growled, “Nothing you’d be interested in. Nothing about the invention.” He shouldered the lawyer aside.
Mrs. Edwards’s eyelids flickered and faint signs of color began to creep into her cheeks. Shayne straightened up from her and stepped in front of Samuelson, backing him away inexorably.
“You’re through here, Maxie. As far as Edwards’s invention is concerned, you’re through altogether.” He backed the fat little lawyer toward the doorway, continuing in the same cold, hard tone:
“That doesn’t mean I’m believing your story about Mayme Martin. You wouldn’t have wasted much time getting to her after she phoned. I’m not sure she was dead when you got there. The bathroom looked a lot like Hymie’s idea of a good way to get rid of her.”
“No,” Samuelson breathed. His face was the color of putty. “I swear to you-”
“Don’t waste your breath. There’s also the little matter of Ben Edwards’s murder. A widow is easier to deal with, Max. What the hell were you doing out there on the road in your car when he was killed? You had gone to the track half an hour previously. Where were you in the meantime? A phone call took Ben to his appointment with death. Who made that call?”
“How do I know? How should I guess?” Samuelson backed through the door onto the porch before Shayne’s steady forward movement.
“You had better think up a good alibi for the time between seeing Hardeman and when I saw your car parked near Edwards’s body-headed toward town. Don’t tell me you were playing the races, because you never gambled a penny in your life.”
“Hey,” Hymie’s guarded voice called from the sedan. “Anything wrong, boss? You want Melvin and me to take that guy?”
“Sure,” Shayne called back. He gave Samuelson a shove that sent him teetering to the edge of the porch. “Come on, Hymie.”
Mrs. Edwards stood behind them, swaying in the doorway, her arms forming a cross outstretched to support her. “Please-gentlemen. Please don’t wake Tommy.”
There was movement in the front seat of the sedan. Samuelson called out through chattering teeth, “No, Hymie. Stay where you are.” He braced his short legs against a porch upright and summoned a semblance of dignity.
Shayne whirled around and assisted Mrs. Edwards back to the couch, assuring her that there would be no more loud talk, then hurried back to the porch. Moving close to Samuelson, he signaled for him to continue.
“I started back to town as soon as I saw Hardeman,” Samuelson said in a low voice. “There was no time between, when I could have been foolishly killing a man. I waited in Hardeman’s office for him to come.”
“With no witnesses?” Shayne said. “That’s a hell of an alibi. It won’t sound so good in court.” With a gesture of disgust he turned from Samuelson, muttering, “I’ll see you later.”
He hesitated at the door until Samuelson’s quick, short footsteps died away. He heard the motor start and a car door slam, then he went quietly into the living-room.
Mrs. Edwards was sitting at the end of the couch. She watched his approach with wide eyes that were gray pools of misery, of disbelief and dismay conflicting with terrible certitude.
Shayne stopped in front of her, moodily rubbing his jaw. “Maxie is gone,” he told her abruptly. “I don’t think he will worry you any more. Later I’ll put you in touch with a man who will honestly appraise your husband’s invention.”
She wet her dry lips and said, “Thanks.” Her hands mechanically strayed out for the sewing-basket beside her.
Shayne thrust his own hands deep into his pockets, stalked to the chair near the couch, and slouched down into it. “Isn’t it time you told me some things, Mrs. Edwards? Your husband is dead now. The truth can no longer hurt him. And Mayme Martin is past caring. There’s only Gil left.”
The widow’s left eyelid fluttered uncontrollably. Her hands lay quiet and relaxed on the garment in her lap. “Why-do you say that?”
“There’s something behind all this,” Shayne insisted. “Something I can’t put my finger on.” He paused, his hard gray eyes glowing speculatively. “Your husband was a very brilliant man. A genius in his line. Why did he bury himself here in this little town-working for the small salary Matrix could afford to pay on the Voice?”
“It wasn’t so bad,” she faltered. “We were happy here in our little home.”
“I don’t believe Ben Edwards was very happy. A man with his ability would be embittered and frustrated in the position of a small-town newspaper photographer. Yet he stayed here. Why?”
“He and Mr. Matrix were old friends,” she defended her husband feebly. “Gil needed his help when he started in the newspaper business here. Ben was-happy to have a part in the Voice’s success.” Her voice gained strength and conviction as she spoke.
“And Matrix and Mayme Martin were old friends,” Shayne mused aloud. “Now-two of the trio are dead. Only Gil is left. Don’t you see that you can’t hide the truth any longer?”
Mrs. Edwards shook her head stubbornly. She pressed her lips into a tight straight line. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr. Shayne. Is there anything odd in the fact that three people who had been acquainted before should meet here in Cocopalm-where people from everywhere come?”
He got up and paced the worn rug, darting sharp glances at her. She resumed her sewing on a boy’s small shirt. Her fingers scarcely trembled as she plied the needle in small, neat stitches. Her face was again placidly unresponsive.