Brett Halliday - Heads You Lose

She gave a start and looked up at him. “Yes… yes, that is… I’ve been waiting quite a while.”

Shayne saw that she was very young. Her cheeks were hollow and her eyes much too big for her face. Heavy rouge did not hide the dark circles of weariness beneath her eyes. Her mouth was too wide to be pretty, but the bone structure of her face would have been nice with more flesh over it.

She uncrossed her ankles and drew her legs up with her knees tight together. She wore a plain gold wedding ring and a large imitation diamond on her left hand.

Shayne said, “I haven’t much time. If you could tell me what you want…”

She sprang up and said, “I won’t take much time. Can we go some place and talk?”

When Shayne hesitated she put one hand on his forearm and gripped it with fingers that were like thin talons. “Please. I’ve got to talk to you.”

“We’ll go up to my office,” he said, taking her hand from his arm and placing his palm under her sharp elbow. They went up in the elevator and down the corridor silently.

Inside the office with the door closed she faced him squarely, her face taut and her eyes filled with fear. She asked, “Did my husband kill Mr. Wilson?”

“Your husband?”

“Yes. Did he commit that awful murder? I’ve got to know. Can’t you see I’m almost crazy not knowing?” Her voice trembled.

Shayne tossed his hat on a hook and said, “Sit down and try to relax.” He went to a wall cabinet and came back with a glass of wine.

“No… no,” she cried, “I don’t want any wine. I want to know whether Eddie’s a murderer.”

Shayne sat down opposite her and asked, “What is your husband’s name besides Eddie?”

“Edward Seeney.” Her enormous eyes were fixed on him fearfully when she spoke the name.

Shayne shook his head. “Unfortunately I don’t know the name of the man who killed Clem Wilson.”

“But the paper said…”

“Clem did talk to me just before he was killed, but he didn’t have time to mention any names. Tell me, why do you think your husband might be a murderer?”

Mrs. Seeney sat on the extreme edge of the chair with her thin legs under her at an angle indicating her readiness to leap up at the slightest provocation. “Was Mr. Wilson killed on account of some kind of gasoline deal like the paper said?”

A deep frown creased Shayne’s forehead. “I’m not answering any questions. Some people are damned anxious to find out how much I know. You may have been sent by them.”

“I’m not,” she cried, “I swear I’m not.” She leaned eagerly toward him. “I’m just crazy worried about Eddie.”

Shayne said, “Maybe. You go ahead and do the talking.” He got up and went into the bathroom, leaving the door open. He peered at his face in the mirror and was astonished to see that much of the swelling had gone from his lips. The salve, by God, was doing its stuff. He reasoned that if a little did a little good, a lot would do more. He took the jar from his pocket and smeared some more on.

When he went back into the room Mrs. Seeney was crouched back in her chair looking diminutive and appallingly childish to be a married woman. Shayne offered her a cigarette.

She shook her head listlessly. “Thanks. I don’t smoke.”

Shayne lit one and sat down. He explained, “I know a lot of things about Clem Wilson’s murder and I’m finding out more all the time. If you’ll explain about your husband… why you think he may be guilty… I’ll probably be able to add things up and give you some kind of an answer.”

“Well, Eddie has changed lately,” she said, pulling herself erect, “since the war and all. We got married just before the first draft. Just enough so it kept Eddie out. We were crazy about each other, and I couldn’t stand to think of him having to go to war.” A note of bitterness tightened her voice on the last words.

“You must have been very young,” Shayne suggested.

“I was sixteen. Eddie and me eloped and we were awful happy. Then, when the baby came it seemed like he changed. He took to drinking and he admitted the only reason he married me was to get out of the draft. Well… I don’t want him to be drafted and taken away from me, but I didn’t figure on it the way Eddie did.”

Shayne smoked his cigarette and didn’t look at the girl.

“Eddie had a good job then,” she went on falteringly. “He sold a line of accessories to filling stations all up and down the coast. Then… priorities and things started, and pretty soon there wasn’t anything to sell.”

She stopped talking, and when Shayne glanced at her, her big eyes appealed to him for understanding.

“I’m listening,” he said gently, “go on.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t be telling you all this,” she said in a small voice. “None of it counts… now. What’s important is…”

“All of it counts,” Shayne told her. “Every little thing about Eddie counts. They all add up. What happened after he lost his job?”

“We… we didn’t have any money saved up and things were awful hard. He got some odd jobs off and on, but he’d drink most of the money up. Then last month he got a new job. He bragged about how good it was. He gave me money for the house and bought a car for himself. But he never has told me what he does. He stays away a lot. Mostly at night, and he’s only got a B card, but he always has lots of gasoline. I noticed last week he had two new tires, but whenever I ask him about the gas and tires he laughs and says he’s got connections.”

“So you think he’s mixed up in some kind of racket?”

“I… I don’t know. It’s got so I’m afraid to think.” A frown came between her smooth brows, stayed for an instant, and flickered away as she continued, “Eddie started carrying a gun after he got his new job. I saw it in his coat pocket. He got mad when I asked him why he needed to carry a gun.”

“What kind of a gun?”

“I don’t know… a pistol. Not a very big one,” she answered vaguely.

“What kind of car did he buy?”

“It’s a Chevrolet sedan… nineteen forty-one model. It’s black,” she ended breathlessly, straining toward him with stricken eyes, “and the Herald said…”

“There are ten thousand black sedans in Miami,” Shayne told her gently. “What happened last night to make you suspect that Eddie committed the murder?”

Mrs. Seeney wrung her hands together. “Well, he was gone all afternoon and evening. When he came home he’d been drinking… almost drunk… and there was lipstick on his mouth and face.” She began to cry silently and fumbled with the zipper of her purse to get a handkerchief. She wiped her eyes and blew her nose gently, then huddled back in the chair. Her skirt crept up over her knees, showing thighs no larger than Shayne’s forearms, but she did not notice it now.

Shayne swore softly, got up and went to the liquor cabinet, took down a square bottle of Cointreau which he kept for mixing sidecars, poured a jigger into the bottom of a wine glass and carried it back to her. He touched her shoulder and said, “Try sipping this. You can’t go to pieces now.”

She turned her tear-streaked face away, but her fingers reached for the glass. As she lifted it obediently to her lips, Shayne went back to the cabinet and poured a drink of cognac.

She had stopped crying when he returned and had shifted her position to one of comfort by drawing one leg under her and leaning her elbow on the upholstered arm of the chair. The liquor had brought some color to her pale cheeks and she began to speak rapidly:

“Eddie was drunk, as I said. Drunker than I ever saw him. He was so disgusting… vomiting on the bathroom floor and I had to take off his clothes and get him to bed. It was about two o’clock when he got home.” She stopped and chewed on her underlip, twisting her thin fingers together. Her eyes were flooded with tears, but she didn’t cry again.