Brett Halliday - Michael Shayne’s Triple Mystery

She stopped talking and was pensively silent. Shayne lit a cigarette and drummed blunt finger tips on the steering-wheel. After a moment he said musingly, “Someone always gets hurt in situations like this. How often does your husband see Mrs. Carson?”

“As often as he can. If it’s divorce evidence you’re looking for, find out where they were last night. Harvey didn’t get home until after three.”

“Were they together?”

“Where else would he be?” she asked dispiritedly. “Mr. Carson went to New Orleans and she was at home alone.”

Shayne turned his eyes and looked with pity upon the woman. She appeared to be well educated, about thirty, he guessed, though anxiety and heartbreak had aged her. He said, “I’ll do what I can, Mrs. Barstow. You realize that when a man your husband’s age becomes infatuated with a woman, there’s little anyone can do.”

“I know.” She sat for a moment staring dazedly before her, then opened the car door. “I’d better be getting back. Harvey would be wild if he knew I was here talking to you.” She got out and walked around the front of his car.

Shayne asked, “Where do the Carsons live?”

“In the big house on the knoll two blocks north of the courthouse. The old Bancroft place. I guess Mr. Carson is there by now. Harvey said he’d be in on the afternoon train.”

She returned to her car and started the motor. Shayne got out of his car and pretended to examine his tires. When she drove past him headed toward town, he looked at her license plate and wrote the number in his notebook. Then he got in and turned around. He was suddenly very eager to have a talk with the mysterious Belle Carson.

The Carson House was set on a green knoll and surrounded by magnificent oaks. The architecture was early colonial.

Shayne went up the wide steps to the double front doors and pushed an electric button set in the casing opposite an old wrought-iron knocker. An elderly Negro opened one of the doors and said, “Yes suh?”

“I’d like to see Mr. Carson,” Shayne said.

“Mistah Cahson, suh, am not in.”

“I understood he was coming in on the afternoon train.”

The Negro said, “Yes suh, but he didn’ come.”

A musical voice floated out to them from the interior of the house. “Who’s at the door, Abe?”

“Genmun to see Mistah Cahson.” The Negro turned away and the woman stood before Shayne.

Belle Carson was a symphony in green and black, tall and slim-waisted, her full breasts swelling the black silk jacket. A green silk skirt revealed the graceful curves of her hips, and her black hair was smoothed back from a high forehead and curled up around her neck.

She said, “Well,” in a deep contralto, and lowered her long black lashes.

“I wanted to see Mr. Carson,” Shayne told her.

“Are you sure I won’t do?”

“Isn’t your husband here?”

“No. Come on in.”

Shayne decided she was nearer forty than thirty, a woman of lithe and well-preserved maturity. As she turned to lead the way into the wide hall, her hips swayed gracefully.

Halfway down the hall a magnificent staircase curved up to the second floor. Belle Carson laid her hand on his arm and ushered him into a spacious room bright with the afternoon sun streaming through long French windows.

Shayne stopped just inside and Belle moved past him with indolent, flowing grace, to a deep chair near one of the windows.

“Won’t you sit down?” She indicated a chair near by.

Shayne said, “Thanks,” and waited for her to be seated before seating himself. “I understood Mr. Carson was expected back on the three-twenty train.”

“Do you mind being alone here with me until he comes?” she parried.

Shayne grinned. “I’d like it better if I was sure he wasn’t coming at all.”

A slow smile quirked the corners of her full red mouth. “You’re from the city, aren’t you?”

Shayne nodded and took out a pack of cigarettes. He held them out to her and she took one. He lighted hers, and one for himself.

Presently she said, “And you came up here to see Walter? What for?”

“Business.”

“You haven’t told me your name,” she said.

“Let’s not bother about names.”

“But I have to call you something,” she insisted with a deep chuckle. “That is, if we’re going to become as well acquainted as I hope we are.”

“Some people call me Red,” he told her.

“Is it a secret — this business you have with my husband?”

“It’s private.”

She shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know whether he got in on the train or not. He hasn’t called.”

“The train has been in for more than an hour,” he reminded her.

“So it has. Will you be terribly disappointed if he wasn’t on it?” she asked.

“That depends on when the next one gets in.”

“Not until tomorrow afternoon.”

“Then I guess I’ll have to wait.”

She looked at him with limpid eyes and made a cupid’s bow of her mouth to puff out smoke. “The hotel is pretty awful.”

“I discovered that,” Shayne told her.

“We have a half-dozen guest rooms, Red.”

“Close to yours?” He quirked a bushy red brow at her.

A pulse quivered in her throat. “You’re not like the men in Cheepwee,” she said huskily.

“What in hell are you doing in a hick town like this, anyway?” he asked flatly.

“You ought to know.” She got up and moved slowly across the room and pushed a button. The aged Negro, Abe, came in silently. “Mr. Smith is an old friend of Mr. Carson’s,” she said. “He’ll use the green room tonight. See that it’s opened. And have Fandella serve some drinks in here. Martinis?” She looked at Shayne for confirmation.

He nodded.

“I like gin,” she said. “Martinis, Abe.”

“Yassum.” The Negro started away, hesitated in the doorway, and turned to ask, “How many fo’ dinnah, Mis’ Cahson?”

“Two. I don’t think Mr. Carson will be here. And tell Ben to put Mr. Smith’s car in the garage.”

The Negro bowed and went away.

Shayne asked, “Isn’t it possible that Mr. Carson went directly to the bank from the train?”

“It’s possible,” she agreed indifferently.

“To hell with this!” Shayne said angrily. “I like to know where I stand. Am I getting the run-around?”

“Not from me, darling,” she drawled, a smile of amusement on her full red lips. She sauntered toward him and sat down on the arm of his chair and ruffled his red hair.

Shayne ground out his cigarette in an ash tray on the table beside his chair. He looked up into her eyes, saw the hot glow burning in them, got up, and stepped over to one of the long embrasured windows and stood gazing out.

He didn’t know how to play this hand. He hadn’t had time to examine his cards carefully. Did she know who he was? Or did she think he was someone else? Or didn’t she give a damn? She had said he ought to know what she was doing in Cheepwee. That could mean a lot of things — or it could have merely been inane repartee on her part.

He heard movement behind him and turned to see a neat Negro maid setting a silver tray with a frosted cocktail shaker and two oversized cocktail glasses on the table beside the chair Belle Carson had been sitting in.

Belle Carson got up from the arm of his chair as the maid disappeared. She resumed her seat, filled both glasses to the brim, and said, “I never bother with olives. They take up too much room in a glass.”

Shayne walked over and picked up one of the cocktails. She put hers to her lips and watched him over the rim of the glass, her eyes half closed. “Let’s drink this one to dear Walter,” she suggested.