Brett Halliday - Michael Shayne’s Triple Mystery

Jones cowered back, his eyes frightened and his sallow face turning a peculiar pea-green. “Carson murdered?” Shayne nodded toward the newspapers littering the floor. “Unidentified body found half a block from here last night. A picture of Carson on the front page. Don’t pretend you didn’t recognize him.”

“But I didn’t!” Jones cried out in terror. “I swear I didn’t. I never saw the guy in my life.”

“You’ve been cashing his checks.”

“Sure I have. I got ’em by mail. But I never saw him.”

His thick voice quivered with fright. “I wrote him a letter to Cheepwee, see? I showed him how things stood and asked was it worth five C’s a month to keep it quiet. I guess he thought it was. I got the first check by return mail.”

“And I suppose it never occurred to you to return the money you extorted from Mrs. Barstow. What were you keeping quiet for Carson’s benefit?”

“That his wife was a bigamist,” Jones choked out. “She didn’t bother to get a divorce from her first husband before she married Carson.” He struggled to get up. When Shayne didn’t let go, he whined, “For God’s sake let me go in the bathroom and clean up. I’ll give it to you straight. I swear I will. If he’s dead, like you say, I guess I won’t collect any more on it anyhow.”

Shayne loosened his grip, and stood back, and let him go to the bathroom. He didn’t know how much time he had. It was a cinch that Harvey Barstow would tell Captain Denton about his inquiries concerning Jones.

As matters stood now, he didn’t know how much difficulty Denton might have tracing Jones to this address. If Jones hadn’t left a forwarding-address from his former office in the Downtown Building, and didn’t have his name in the telephone book, some considerable time might elapse.

Going to the telephone stand, he went swiftly through the directory. He felt better when he didn’t find Sidney G. Jones listed. That would delay Denton unless he knew the man personally.

Jones came back to the living-room. He tried to hold himself erect and dignified, but his body sagged and it looked as though his nose was broken.

“You didn’t need to hit me that way,” he grumbled. “I would’ve told you all about it if I’d known Carson was dead.” His voice was still thick and slurred, but he was trying to speak seriously. “You can’t blame a man for wanting to hold onto something that’s making an easy living for him.”

Shayne’s nostrils quivered and he snorted in disgust. “How do you know Belle Carson committed bigamy when she married Carson?”

“Because she was married to another guy for about six years. His name was Durkin — Willis Durkin. They lived in Atlanta, where he was an accountant for a big lumber firm. He was a quiet little guy,” Jones went on, trying to control his thick tongue and speak plainly. “They fought some, and people say she stepped out on him, and those that knew them both blame her for what happened.” Jones paused, and took a long drink of whisky and water.

“What’d you mean about being one jump ahead of the cops?” Jones went on suspiciously. “How do you figure in this?”

“Get on with your Atlanta story,” Shayne demanded impatiently.

“Sure. About five years ago the baby girl of the president of the lumber company Durkin worked for was kidnaped. It made a big stink at the time. Big shot by the name of Crawford. The kidnapers wanted fifty-grand ransom and sent notes saying that Willis Durkin should be the go-between to deliver the ransom money and all that.” He paused and waved his hands feebly. “Crawford was rich and he coughed it up. Fifty grand in small, old bills. He turned it over to Durkin for delivery, and Durkin skipped out with it. Later, they caught the kidnaper. His name was Whitey Buford. They got the baby back.” Jones paused again, his pale glazed eyes staring into space.

“Go on,” Shayne demanded again.

“Buford was sore as hell and accused Durkin of double-crossing him. He claimed he and Durkin figured the deal together, with Durkin playing innocent and acting as go-between.

“But Durkin took it on the lam with the fifty grand. At least that was Buford’s story. He couldn’t prove it, of course. But Durkin and the money were gone, and Belle Durkin was left behind. She swore she didn’t know anything about it, and maybe she didn’t, but folks think it was her nagging for more money that drove Durkin into it.” Jones took another drink and sagged back in his chair, his chin resting on his chest.

Shayne let him loll a moment, then prompted him again.

“Willis Durkin got away clean,” Jones resumed slowly and thickly. “Belle left Atlanta soon after that and resumed her maiden name, Belle Brand. She turned up here in Louisiana a few months later, got next to a smalltown banker in Cheepwee, and married him. She committed perjury in her license application by stating she’d never been married before.

“I don’t imagine Carson knew anything about it until I wrote him that letter, and from what Mrs. Barstow told me about her, it seems she was leading him the same kind of life she’d led her first husband.”

Shayne thought over what Jones had told him, then said slowly, “I’m surprised he covered up for her. He knew she was two-timing him, according to Mrs. Barstow.”

“I dunno,” said Jones. “He was a big-shot around Cheepwee. It would have kicked up a big scandal. It wasn’t like I was pushing him too hard. I was careful about that. Five hundred a month wasn’t a hell of a lot to a guy like him.”

“What did Carson say to you over the phone last night?”

“He called me about seven-fifteen and told me who he was and said he wanted to see me. He hinted he’d like to talk over a lump sum payment to keep things quiet. That suited me, but I was just ready to go out on a date. I asked him how about later.

“He told me he was having dinner at Dupre’s just down the street, and how about coming up here afterward — around one o’clock. That suited me, and we made the date. I got home a quarter of one and waited for him. He didn’t show up by one-thirty, so I turned in.” Jones lifted his thin shoulders weakly and added, “How was I to know he was getting gunned about then, right down the street?”

“That’s a fair story,” Shayne said coldly. “But you’re going to have one hell of a time proving it. You’re the only person he called in New Orleans — the only one who knew he was here. You were blackmailing him and you knew he would be leaving Dupre’s about one. The cops are going to make a case against you. You had the motive and the opportunity.”

“What motive?” Jones snarled. “He was my bread and butter. He was ready to make a big settlement.”

“That’s your story,” Shayne pointed out. “You’ve no proof he didn’t tell you over the phone that he was tired of being blackmailed and threatened to expose you.”

“Wait a minute,” Jones said thickly. “Maybe somebody else was blackmailing him or his wife. Maybe somebody else had a motive.” He jumped up and went to a small desk on unsteady legs. He dug around in a drawer and came back with a newspaper clipping.

“I happened to see that in the paper two weeks ago and clipped it out just in case. Whitey Buford knew Belle when she was married to Durkin. How do we know Whitey didn’t trail Belle here and was putting the screws on her the same as me?”

Shayne read the story with mounting excitement. The clipping carried pictures of two men, with captions stating that they were Whitey Buford and his suspected kidnaping accomplice, Willis Durkin. It described the escape of Whitey Buford from a Georgia prison camp after murdering a guard, and asserted that authorities had reason to believe the fugitive might be headed toward New Orleans.