Brett Halliday: Too Friendly, Too Dead

“Jerome Fitzgilpin?” Shayne asked.

“Was that his name? I’m afraid I didn’t pay much attention. You don’t mean to say the police are interested in my trying to take out an insurance policy?”

“The police are interested in Jerome Fitzgilpin’s murder last night,” Shayne told her grimly. He was somewhat baffled by her ready explanation of her visit to Fitzgilpin’s office. Rodman appeared baffled too, but by this time Shayne had reached the conclusion that the man was a consummate actor.

“Can you alibi your husband for the period between ten and twelve?”

“Of course I can. We were right here at home together. Murder, you say?” Her plain, bony face showed an expression of revulsion.

“You spent the entire evening together?” Shayne demanded swiftly.

“Don’t answer any more impertinent questions, darling,” Rodman put in before she could reply. “This is utterly ridiculous, but I think I should call an attorney.”

“But I don’t mind answering his questions, Rutherford. We were together all evening, you know.”

“Your husband says differently, Mrs. Rodman.”

“Why would you do that, Rutherford?” Her voice was soothing and almost maternal. She pressed his arm closer to her angular body. “You know you’ve nothing to hide.”

“He’s been hiding other things from you,” Shayne told her harshly. “Did you know, for instance, that you aren’t his first wife?”

“Of course I knew that. You mean that silly little Rose in New York? Rutherford tells me everything.”

For a long moment there was a queer silence in the room. There was a curious, baffled expression on Rodman’s face which Shayne was at a loss to understand. It was as though the two of them had somehow got their signals crossed. As though each one was desperately playing it by ear, and neither was quite sure what the other would say next.

Shayne said, “Did he tell you also that he had neglected to get a divorce from Rose before marrying you?”

“That’s a lie!” Rodman jerked around to glare at the redhead. “I told you there was a Mexican divorce.”

“Have you seen the decree, Mrs. Rodman? Are you sure you’re legally married to him?”

“I trust Rutherford implicitly,” she stated with quiet and dignified poise.

“Will you continue to trust him after it’s proven that he murdered his first wife because she was trying to blackmail him, and then murdered Fitzgilpin last night to cover up the first crime?”

“But that’s ridiculous,” she said aloofly. “Rutherford couldn’t do such a thing. He wouldn’t harm a fly. And I’ve told you we were together last night.”

“Please, Betsy Ann,” begged Rodman helplessly. “Let’s not say anything more. I insist upon consulting an attorney.”

This was the weak point, Shayne realized anew. This was where they hadn’t gotten together in advance and synchronized their stories.

“Exactly what time did you return home last night?” he demanded of the heiress.

“I was with Rutherford all evening. He couldn’t possibly have done anything to that little man.”

“He said you were still out when he went to bed with a strong sleeping pill at ten o’clock,” Shayne told her. “Why do you suppose he told me that?”

“But, Rutherford, dear,” she protested. “You know I was right here…”

Rodman’s face was ashen. He swallowed hard, looking at her with an odd expression as though he were seeing her for the first time.

“But you weren’t, Betsy Ann. Why do you keep on saying you were here with me? Why do you lie about it?” His voice rose shrilly. Frightened and nearing hysteria.

She replied quietly, “Because I thought you wanted me to, darling. Because I thought you needed an alibi.” Her voice became warm and possessive, “You know I’d lie for you any time, my dearest one.”

“And provide yourself with an alibi at the same time,” Shayne put in swiftly. “Isn’t that it, Mrs. Rodman? Isn’t that what you really wanted? It was you who phoned Fitzgilpin, wasn’t it, and asked him to meet you some place for a drink? Did you tell him you had reconsidered about the insurance policy and had told your husband all about it? He would have responded to that sort of invitation. There was a hell of a big premium involved if you made it a legitimate proposition.”

“Betsy Ann,” begged Rodman, a look of horror on his face. “You didn’t! You…?”

“Don’t look at me like that,” she told him coldly. “I did it for you. I did everything for you. I love you so much. I can’t lose you, Rutherford. You’re all I have. My husband.” Her face was awed as she crooned the two words. She held her chin aloofly and closed her eyes as though in unbearable pain, but tears streamed from under the closed lids and coursed down her cheeks.

“Rose came to you in New York, didn’t she? You were the one with the money. She knew better than to bother with your husband.”

“Yes. That bitch! That supremely self-satisfied little bitch. Only three days after we were married. And she had her marriage certificate showing she was married to Rutherford.”

Betsy Ann opened her eyes wide and stared candidly at Shayne. “He was mine,” she said simply. “I didn’t care what the law said, he was mine. Do you think I wouldn’t kill to protect my marriage? She didn’t. She was a fool. A simple little fool. She didn’t know the meaning of love. I promised her anything. She wanted fifty thousand dollars. I told her, of course, but she’d have to come to Miami to collect it. And she believed me. The little fool believed me.”

Betsy Ann Rodman started laughing hysterically. “It was so easy. I took three of Rutherford’s sleeping pills which he’d told me were terribly strong. She enjoyed the vodka martini I dissolved them in. And then we went for a boat ride. Just the two of us. I told her I wanted to give her the money where there would be no witnesses.”

Her eyes became glazed as she spoke. Little bits of froth appeared between her lips. Rodman had drawn away from her and he was regarding her with open-mouthed astonishment.

“The little fool,” she said again, viciously and flatly. “She deserved what she got. She even laughed at me for thinking one minute that Rutherford really loved me. He loved only money, she said. My money. That’s what I couldn’t stand. That’s when I decided to kill her. When she laughed at me.”

“You saw Fitzgilpin’s name on the marriage certificate as a witness,” Shayne said helpfully. “Later, when you saw the story about him in the Miami paper you were afraid it was the same man, and you went around to his office to see him and find out if he was the right Fitzgilpin.”

“Yes. What else could I do? It was my happiness,” she cried out stridently. “My life. My… my husband. I did it for you, Rutherford.”

She turned to him, crying out fearfully, “Don’t look at me like that. My God, don’t look at me as though I’d done anything wrong.”

She held out her arms and swayed toward him, and when Rodman stepped aside hastily with a look of loathing on his handsome face she fell into a crumpled, sobbing heap at his feet.

It was a little after one o’clock in the morning when Shayne pressed Lucy Hamilton’s button in the foyer of her apartment house, signaling that it was he downstairs. The almost immediate click of the release catch on the door told him that she was still up and waiting for him.

He went up one flight of stairs and found her standing in her doorway. She wore her chenille robe and white silk pajamas, but she hadn’t removed her makeup and her brown hair was neatly combed and fluffy. She put up her face sweetly for his kiss and breathed, “I’m so glad you came, Michael. I was afraid you were still in New York.”