Brett Halliday - She Woke to Darkness

He looked at Shayne with interest as he placed the glasses in front of them, and said, “You were asking about Miss Murray that got killed last night?”

Shayne said, “Yes,” and leaned back in his chair to look up at the waiter. Another five-dollar bill lay on the table. “Were you on duty here from midnight to closing about three months ago?”

“I would’ve been, sure. Always worked that shift until lately.”

“And you knew Elsie Murray by sight?” Shayne persisted.

“Yeh. Nice girl. She mostly dropped in alone late for a nightcap. Lived in that apartment right down the street.”

“I know. Do you remember one night around midnight when she came in pretty tight and borrowed a dime from you to make a phone call because she’d lost her purse and hadn’t any change?”

A slight movement from the girl across the table drew Shayne’s attention to her. Her eyes were rounded and thoughtful, no longer so cool a blue as they had been. Her mouth was open slightly in a small O and she was frowning intently.

Shayne swung his gaze back to Jack when the bartender said flatly, “I don’t recollect anything like that ever happening.”

“Wait a minute. I’m sure it did happen,” Shayne said just as flatly. “Maybe this will jog your memory. You advised her to go on home instead of telephoning, and she got sore and told you to mind your own business and give her the dime. So you did. And she looked up a telephone number here in the directory and read it out to you while you wrote it down for her. Now do you remember?”

“I sure would if it’d happened that way. But it didn’t. None of it.” Jack met Shayne’s gaze steadily with his jaw outthrust a bit.

Shayne said harshly, “Why are you lying about it, Jack?”

“Lying? Why should I?”

“That,” said Shayne, “is what I want to know. This is a murder investigation, you know.”

“I don’t care what it is,” blustered the bartender. “You can’t come, in here pushing me around. I tell you it never happened that way.”

“And I say it did.” Shayne stood slowly to face the man. Faces from the bar were turned in their direction curiously as their voices carried over the light hum of conversation. The lines in Shayne’s cheeks deepened as he said flatly, “I want the truth from you. And I particularly want to know why you’re lying about something that happened three months ago.”

Jack wet his lips indecisively. He glanced away from Shayne at the faces at the bar and at his paunchy colleague behind it, then back to the redhead to say angrily, “I won’t take that sort of talk from no one. One more crack like that will get you thrown out on your ear.” He turned on his heel and stalked away defiantly.

Shayne sat down, thoughtfully crumpled the bill that still lay on the table and replaced it in his pocket.

The girl across from him looked puzzled and worried. She leaned closer and asked in a low, troubled voice: “What is it about a telephone call Elsie made three months ago? Why it is important and why would he lie about it?”

“The lying part is most important,” Shayne told her grimly. “Until that happened, I wasn’t sure whether the call meant anything or not. Now I do know.” He lifted his pony of brandy to sip from it abstractedly.

The girl remained leaning forward tensely. “You say it happened one night when Elsie had lost her purse?”

Shayne nodded. “Mislaid it, at least. She had been to a party,” he went on swiftly, “and left her purse in a man’s car when he brought her home quite tight. Not only all her money, but the keys to her apartment were in the purse. So she dropped in here and borrowed a dime from Jack to telephone someone. Did you know her at that time, and do you know anything about the incident?”

The girl sank back against the wall and the fingers of one hand curled tightly about the stem of her glass. “I knew her when she was living down the street.” Her voice was steady and throbbed with something that sounded like gladness or relief to Shayne.

“Three months ago. I think it must have been the night Elsie passed out at a party and was questioned the next day by the police about the death of a man with whom she was suspected of having left the party and registered in a hotel room.”

“What makes you think it was that particular night?” Shayne kept his voice low, but it cut like a whip-lash.

“Isn’t it a natural assumption?” She looked at him in surprise. “Elsie was murdered last night, and you say you’re trying to help out a friend who may be suspected. So you come in here asking questions about a phone call she made three months ago. Wouldn’t you expect anyone of even normal intelligence to think there must be some connection between the two murders?”

“She proved she had nothing to do with the first one.”

“Did she?” Her upper lip curled disdainfully again.

“She was questioned by the police and produced an alibi they had to accept.”

“Is that what happened?” Her voice was light. “I never knew the exact truth. Except that she was questioned, and later moved very suddenly from her apartment down the street. And stopped coming in here altogether after that night. Who provided her so conveniently with an alibi for that night?”

“I hoped you could tell me that.”

“Sorry. I really didn’t know much about the affair.” She lifted her stinger glass and drank from it.

“Nevertheless,” said Shayne grimly, “you’re the first person I’ve contacted who had any connection with the unsolved murder of Elbert Green three months ago, and I’ve got a lot of questions to ask.”

“Do you think Elsie did it… and was killed last night for revenge or something?”

“I don’t think anything yet. See here, I’m a detective, Miss…?” Shayne hesitated.

“Stevens,” she told him promptly. “Estelle Stevens. I’d be awfully glad to help you, but really I must hurry along to keep an appointment.” She finished her cocktail and stood up as she spoke.

Shayne stood up with her and put a detaining hand on her arm. “This is a lot more important than any appointments you may have. Give me five minutes…”

“I’m really sorry but I haven’t a minute to spare.” She was all patrician hauteur now. She tried to move away, looking icily down at his hand on her arm.

His grip tightened and his voice became angry. “This isn’t a game, damn it. Sit down here…”

He was interrupted by a husky Irish brogue at his elbow: “This man giving you trouble, Miss?”

Shayne jerked his head around to see a burly enforcer of New York’s ordinances standing flat-footed beside him. A few paces back, the bald-headed bartender stood with venomous triumph glittering in his eyes. A complete hush had fallen over the cocktail lounge, and all eyes were interestedly taking in the tableau at the rear.

“Thank you, Officer.” Estelle Stevens spoke swiftly and nervously. “Yes. He is giving me trouble. He’s an utter stranger who insisted on sitting with me and detaining me from an important appointment. If I could just be allowed to go along now…?”

“Now wait a minute,” said the bluecoat officiously. “If you wanta make a complaint…”

“But I don’t,” she cried. “I simply want to be left alone.”

“Besides all that, Captain,” said Jack stepping up beside the policeman, “I’ll swear out a complaint if you want. Like I told you in the beginning, this bozo come in here and started asking questions and causing trouble and then…”

“I’m sure you understand, Officer,” said Estelle nervously, twisting her arm from Shayne’s grasp and sidling toward the door. “I simply want to be left alone. And I do thank you for your assistance.”