Shayne stopped in front of a framed and tinted photograph hanging on the wall. The picture was of a lean-jawed young man and a plump young lady with a determined look of pride on her face. Stoop-shouldered Ben Edwards might easily have posed as the young man a decade before, and there was little doubt that the proud woman by his side had turned into the placid-faced mother on the sofa. Worry over something had turned her hair gray prematurely, he decided.
In the lower right-hand corner of the framed photograph was printed: Herrick-Lane Studio, Urban, Illinois.
Shayne turned away from the picture and resumed his pacing. Mrs. Edwards continued to sew and said nothing. After a time Shayne broke the silence by asking, “How long have you and Ben been married?”
“Ten years. Ten years lacking only a few days.” Mrs. Edwards’s voice faltered, but she went on resolutely: “Tuesday would have been our tenth anniversary. We had planned-we were going to Miami to make a day of it. Just the two of us. A regular celebration.” She dropped her hands into her lap and gazed past the detective, her eyes wet again, her lips trembling a little.
He said, “I’m sorry-to bring up memories and regrets,” but she interrupted him with a fierce gladness:
“You needn’t be sorry. Memories are all I have left of Ben. I’ll live with memories the rest of my life. Fine memories-nothing can take them away from me. Ben was a good man-a good husband, and a splendid father to our son.”
Shayne said, “No. No one can take away your memories.” He went to a chair and picked up his hat, twisted it in his big hands. “I don’t think Samuelson will come back, Mrs. Edwards. If he does, refuse to deal with him on any basis. And I’d be careful of your husband’s model camera and his plans. As long as they are not patented, any crook who got his hands on them could call them his own.”
The widow nodded listlessly. “They are perfectly safe for the time being-in the office safe.”
Shayne said, “Good night, Mrs. Edwards,” abruptly, and went out.
The street was deserted. The quarter moon was not visible above the tropical growth and houses westward. A strong salt-tanged breeze blew in from the east. Shayne took off his hat and let the breeze ruffle his hair as he walked briskly toward town.
When he entered the Tropical Hotel, Will Gentry jumped up to greet him. “Where the devil have you been?” the Miami detective chief demanded. “Did you know there had been another murder out on the highway toward the dog track?”
Shayne said, “Yeh. I know all about that, Will. Haven’t you seen Phyl?”
“No. I just came in a few minutes ago. The clerk said Phyllis was in, but that you hadn’t come back.”
Shayne nodded, absently running his long fingers through his disheveled hair. “What date is next Tuesday, Will?”
“Next Tuesday? How the hell do I know. Count it up for yourself. This is Thursday. What do you care? With people getting murdered right and left-”
Shayne was not listening. He was counting on his fingers and muttering to himself. He turned abruptly and strode to the hotel switchboard. “Get me police headquarters in Urban, Illinois,” he said to the pretty blond operator.
She scribbled on a pad, looked up at him and asked, “Who’s calling?”
“Charge it to my account, Michael Shayne, room three-ten.”
“You can take the call in the second booth, Mr. Shayne.” Shayne went straight to the booth and closed the door tightly. He stood drumming his fingers on the little wooden shelf as he waited for the connection. Through the glass door he could see Will Gentry standing indecisively where he had left him, staring at the booth with open suspicion and hostility.
It was stifling hot in the narrow enclosure. Shayne whipped out a handkerchief and mopped his face as the telephone rang. He picked up the receiver and a voice said, “Here’s your party, sir.”
“Hello-Headquarters, Urban,” a gruff voice at the other end of the line was saying.
“Go ahead, Mr.-”
“Hello,” Shayne’s voice roared, when the operator was about to call his name. “Let me speak to the chief.”
“This is the chief talking,” the midwestern twang assured him.
“This is Will Gentry, chief of detectives from Miami, Florida,” Shayne lied briskly. “I’m calling from Cocopalm, Florida, where I’m working on a double murder. I need your co-operation.”
“Why, sure, sure. You bet, Gentry.” The chief of police in Illinois sounded suitably impressed. “What can I do for you?”
“Rout your county clerk or recorder out of bed and have him look up the marriage records for 1931. I’m interested in a marriage on January 14, 1931. Got that?”
“You bet. Got it written down. I’ll call Alonzo Twiggs right away and check up for you in a jiffy.”
“Wire me at the Tropical Hotel in Cocopalm, Florida. Give me the names of bride and groom in any marriage on that date-all of them if there was more than one.”
“’Tain’t likely there’ll be more’n one,” the Urban chief said. “It’s a red-letter day in Urban when there’s more than-”
“That’s fine,” Shayne cut in heartily. “I’m depending on you, chief, and I’ll see that you get full credit when I crack the case.”
He hung up and strolled out to the fuming Miami detective chief. “I just used your name and influence on a long-distance call, Will. You should be getting a wire from Urban, Illinois, before very long. If it comes collect, I’ll pay the bill.”
“Now look here, Mike,” Gentry exploded, “what the devil do you-?”
Shayne held up a big hand and backed away. “I don’t know-yet. I’ve got to see Mr. Albert Payson first. After that I hope I’ll know what I’m doing.”
“I hope to God you do,” Gentry said irritably. “I’ve got a job to do too.” He went back and sat down in a deep chair, an expression of morose resignation on his broad, beefy face.
Chapter Fifteen: OUTSIDE OF BANKING HOURS
Shayne went over to the desk and asked the hotel clerk whether Phyllis had left his car keys there. The young man obligingly produced them, and Shayne then inquired about directions for reaching the Albert Payson residence.
“The Paysons live two blocks north of here, on Main Street. You can’t miss the house. It’s twice the size of any other house on the block.”
Shayne said, “Thanks,” and long-legged it out to his car. He drove north two blocks and slowed in front of an impressive two-story residence, swung into a concrete driveway. He was halted by a seven-foot iron gate swung onto a concrete and native rock wall. He got out to open the gate and found it padlocked.
Leaving his roadster with the bumper against the gate, he strode to a slightly lower iron gate which opened onto the wall leading to the main entrance. This, too, was padlocked.
Gripping the bars firmly, he vaulted over it and went up the walk. There were lights in the front upstairs windows, but the lower portion of the mansion was dark. He pressed the button and waited.
He heard a window open above his head and Mr. Payson called down fretfully, “Who’s there?”
“The law,” Shayne called back cheerfully.
“But that’s absurd,” Payson protested. “Chief Boyle released me on my own recognizance after assuring himself I was in no way culpable.”
“This isn’t Chief Boyle.”
There was a brief pause. Through the open upstairs window Shayne could hear a woman’s voice, subdued and tearful. Then Payson demanded, “Are you the detective from Miami?”
“Yes. I want to talk to you about that news story Matrix killed for you this afternoon.”
A briefer pause this time, and in a changed tone Payson said, “Very well. Though you’ll have to wait a few minutes.” His voice no longer came through the window, but Shayne could hear him saying to his wife, “I haven’t the slightest idea, Sarah, but I presume it’s something about that race-track business.”
Shayne lit a cigarette and waited. The few minutes lengthened into five. Then a light came on inside the door and presently a key turned in the lock.