Brett Halliday: Too Friendly, Too Dead

“Yes. Let’s.” She began looking at her menu also, and Shayne asked, “Can you suggest anything in particular?”

“Their pot-au-feu is wonderful, if you like it. They make it as a specialty for two. A whole chicken in one pot, with herbs and vegetables and wine.”

Shayne said, “It sounds perfect to me,” and nodded to the waiter, who was listening attentively.

“When you did see Rose again, her husband had left her?”

“Yes. Just walked out without a word. After she’d been supporting him for two or three months. It was good riddance, of course, and she never wanted to see him again.”

“Did she?”

“I don’t think so. I didn’t see her much for about a year. Then suddenly she called me up about two months ago and asked me to have dinner with her. She was happy and excited… more like the old Rose I’d known before her marriage. And she had some kind of secret scheme for getting a lot of money. Oodles of it, she told me. But she was very mysterious and wouldn’t tell me how she was going to do it. Just that she was going to Miami the next day, and when she came back she’d call me and maybe we’d take a trip around the world together, and like that.

“She was so romantic. Always imagining things and making up stories. Like pretending to be a rich debutante when she first met Rutherford. So I was skeptical when she told me this, but she insisted it was true this time. She seemed so very positive that I was halfway convinced myself. And I kept waiting to hear from her, and never did. Not a word. And I called Bonwit’s after a couple of weeks and they said she’d quit her job and they had no new address for her. And I went around to her old place and they didn’t know anything. Now it’s your turn,” Blanche told Shayne soberly. “I’ve told you everything and you haven’t told me anything.”

“At this point,” said Shayne frankly, “I’m not sure what I’ve got to tell you. Does the name of Kelly mean anything to you? Ever hear Rose mention it?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Or George Nourse?”

“No. Who are they?”

“A couple of names that have come up in connection with Fitzgilpin’s murder last night. Both of them more or less leading back to his trip to New York a year and a half ago.”

Shayne paused as their chicken was placed before them in a large earthenware pot. He waited while the waiter deftly served joint portions to them, appreciatively sniffed the aromatic steam arising from his plate, and asked Blanche one final question.

“Did you ever know of Rose having a prescription for sodium amytal? It’s a high-powered sleeping drug.”

“No. Rose never took anything like that while she lived with me. Why?”

“That’s what killed Jerome Fitzgilpin last night. He was poisoned by sodium amytal.”

“Do you suspect Rose had anything to do with his death?” Blanche leaned toward him, her young face showing concern and strain. “Why? What reason can you have?”

“Right now,” growled Shayne, “I’m not being reasonable. I’m clutching at straws. You’ve been frank with me, and you deserve to know the truth. Eat your chicken while I explain what brought me to New York to talk to you.”

He started at the beginning with a recital of Fitzgilpin’s death and the homicide investigation which had followed. When he concluded the story, he spread out his hands and admitted, “That’s all I’ve got, Blanche. Admittedly, it’s damned little. If we only knew what Rose had in mind when she took off for Miami. You say she spoke of a lot of money. How much would have been a lot to a girl like Rose? Ten thousand? Fifty thousand? Half a million?”

“Fifty, I should think. Not ten. Not the way she was talking. But fifty or a hundred thousand would be really big money to her.”

“How could she possibly plan to get her hands on a sum like that? Think carefully, Blanche. You knew Rose. If it were an inheritance, she would have given you the details. You must have wondered about it… why she was so secretive. Didn’t you come to the conclusion that she’d planned something illegal… something she knew you wouldn’t approve, and thus didn’t tell you?”

Blanche nodded miserably. “Yes. I did think that. She was a peculiar girl. Nice, but… but, she was hard too. She was an orphan and had to make her own way from the time she finished high school. She didn’t exactly feel the world owed her a living, but she did feel… oh, I don’t know exactly. That whatever she could get out of life, she deserved. That’s why… she saw nothing really wrong about tricking Rutherford Rodman into marriage by making him believe she was rich. Later, when it developed he’d tricked her too, she was philosophical about it.”

“Blackmail?” suggested Shayne gently. “Would that be out of her line?”

“I don’t know,” Blanche confessed miserably. “Under certain circumstances. If the person had a great deal of money and Rose felt he didn’t deserve any decent consideration. Yes, I think I can see her justifying blackmail under those conditions.”

“Someone like Rutherford Rodman,” said Shayne flatly.

“Yes. Certainly Rutherford,” said Blanche with spirit. “I’m positive Rose wouldn’t have hesitated to blackmail him if she were given the opportunity. But he had no money.”

“Neither did Jerome Fitzgilpin,” said Shayne broodingly. “Not the sort of money that would appeal to Rose. I just don’t know at this point. You’ve been a big help,” he told Blanche, finishing his chicken and glancing at his watch. “And you’ve got a date to go dancing. Shall we just have coffee and skip dessert?”

“Oh, yes,” she said a trifle ruefully. “I never eat dessert though I can’t seem to lose a pound. You will let me know about Rose, won’t you? As soon as you find out anything. The one thing I can’t understand is why she didn’t let me know. That last night when I saw her… she promised me so faithfully that she would let me know how things turned out. I can’t think of any reason why she hasn’t even dropped me a card.”

Shayne could think of one reason, but he didn’t mention it to Blanche. If blackmail had been Rose’s object, it was a pretty dangerous project to embark upon.

They finished their coffee while talking about trivialities, and Shayne found a taxi outside which dropped Blanche at her apartment and then took him back to the airport in ample time for him to put in a call for Timothy Rourke at the News before his plane took off.

“I’m at the New York airport,” he told the reporter. “Catching an eight-thirty plane back. Eastern, Flight number six. Meet me at the airport?”

“What in hell are you doing in New York?” groaned Rourke. “All hell has broken loose here. The widow Fitzgilpin has disappeared and Painter is having kittens all over the place.”

“Disappeared? When? How?”

“No one knows. She just turned up missing when Painter finally got around to her. She and both the children. I guess he suspects you spirited them off to New York with you. Did you?”

“Hell, no,” growled Shayne. “I don’t know any more about it than you do. Has he caught up with Nourse yet?”

“That’s another thing,” said Rourke aggrievedly. “I’m sitting on that and wondering when in hell it’s going to blow up under me. Yeh. Painter caught up with Nourse. In L. A. this afternoon. Nourse is there and swears he hasn’t been in Miami for over a year. Painter believes him.”

“Doesn’t Petey realize it’s only five hours by jet plane to Los Angeles?”

“Evidently not. Anyhow, that’s when he decided it was time to interview the widow… and she wasn’t home when he got there. Have you got her hid out, Mike?”

“No. Look, I’ve got to get on that plane, Tim. One thing I want you to do. Check on any unsolved murders in the last couple of months. Unidentified bodies of gals in their mid-twenties on either side of the bay. I’ve run into a missing person here in New York.”