Again he got a curt “No,” for an answer. Then Neal burst out, “What in hell are you trying to prove, Shayne? That Katrin Moe didn’t commit suicide?”
“Do you think she did?”
“Of course. What else could it be?” The chauffeur took a short turn up and down the room. He stopped close to Shayne, faced the red-headed detective squarely. “Sure. I know what you’re thinking. She was a sweet girl with everything in the world to live for. But there was some secret gnawing at Katrin Moe. Find out that secret and you’ll know why she killed herself.”
Shayne said, “You’re the first person around here who has hinted at anything like that.”
Neal snorted derisively. “What do you expect? These people don’t-” He checked himself, took time to choose his words. “They didn’t understand Katrin. To them, she was efficient, tireless-the perfect servant. But servants are also people. I don’t say that I understood Katrin. I do say she lived in a world of her own, and it wasn’t necessarily a pleasant one.” He paused again, then added quietly, “Find out what Katrin did with her Wednesdays off and I think you’ll find out why she committed suicide.”
Shayne said, “Yesterday was Wednesday.”
Neal nodded. “But she didn’t employ it as usual. Every other Wednesday she left the house soon after lunch and returned shortly after dinner.”
Shayne considered this in silence, tugging at the lobe of his left ear. “Did she ever tell anyone where she went?”
“Not that I know of. It caused some speculation at first, but it became a habit and ceased to be a novelty. She was always upset when she returned on Wednesday nights.”
“Upset?”
“A little more withdrawn, and under a tension.” He thought for a moment, then said dryly, “I think she had a lover.”
“What was unusual about yesterday?” Shayne asked.
Neal clasped his strong fingers around one knee, “I’ve been thinking about it. I guess it isn’t my secret any more.”
Shayne waited for him to continue.
“You see, she asked me not to say anything about it. I wouldn’t, except that-well, it might help clear up the mystery of her suicide. Shortly after Mrs. Lomax and I returned from Baton Rouge I had to drive to town on an errand. Katrin asked if I would take her down. She rode with me in the front seat, as silent and reserved as usual. She asked me if I’d stop by her bank a minute. It was right on the way, so I did.”
“What bank?” Shayne asked.
“I didn’t notice the name, but it’s a savings and loan bank on the corner of Broad and Canal. She was in there a few minutes, and then she asked if I was going near the Union Station. So I took her there.”
Shayne’s eyes were alert with interest. “Did she say what she wanted there?”
“No. I was going to drop her there but she asked me to wait for her. She acted rather peculiar. She wasn’t in the station more than ten minutes, and when she came back to the car she asked me-right out of a clear sky-” Neal paused dramatically, gesturing with his pipe. “She asked me if I knew my way around in Storyville.”
Shayne frowned. “The old red-light district?”
“It knocked me for a loop,” said Neal. “I still don’t believe she knew what the district actually was. She was quite naive about things like that.” He paused again and Shayne had to prompt him.
“When I recovered from my surprise,” he continued, “I told her I had been there a few times. Then she asked if I’d mind driving her there. I tried to argue with her, Mr. Shayne. I hinted that it was no place for a decent girl even in daylight, but she just compressed her lips and said she had to go and if I didn’t drive her she’d take a cab. So I drove her.”
“Where-what address?” Shayne asked.
“She had an address written on a piece of paper that looked as though it had been torn from the telephone pad here at the house. She referred to it and told me she wanted to go down along Iberville. She kept watching numbers as I drove, and finally told me to stop at the next corner.
“I tried to get her to let me go with her, but she wouldn’t, and she wouldn’t tell me the address. She insisted that I let her out on a corner and drive on. Well, I let her out and turned around the corner while she started back along the street. I found a parking place and swung into it and hurried back on foot to see where she went.”
Neal smiled wryly. “It was spying on her, but it really wasn’t mere spying. At least I convinced myself that I was worried about her. I was in time to see her go up the walk and enter an old building.
“I waited fifteen or twenty minutes and she finally came out. I dodged back around the corner before she saw me, and drove back to town to do my errand. I didn’t mention it to her later.”
Shayne got out a pencil and pad and jotted down the Iberville address Neal gave him. He said, “You’ve given me a lot to think about. Thanks.”
Shayne went out to his car and drove slowly through the business section until he found a barber shop with all the chairs filled and men waiting. He parked and went in. Before sitting down he picked up a newspaper from a table, looked at the date, and began turning the pages.
The item which Katrin Moe had evidently clipped was a brief account of a prison break from the State penitentiary the preceding morning. Two convicts, Anton Hodge and Raymond Gillis, had made their escape early Tuesday morning by the simple ruse of getting inside a laundry truck and concealing themselves under a pile of dirty clothes. Once outside, they had conked the driver and made their getaway toward New Orleans in the truck, abandoning it near the city.
Anton Hodge was described as twenty-eight, blond and slender, of medium height, serving a seven-year term for burglary. Gillis was twenty-three, also blond, weight one hundred and seventy-five pounds, height five-feet seven inches, serving a ten-year term for aggravated assault. Both were described as dangerous.
Shayne laid the paper down after reading the item. He yawned and looked at his watch, got up and went out to his car and drove to Iberville. He parked near the corner Neal had mentioned.
The house Katrin Moe had visited the afternoon before she died was a decrepit old frame structure with a faded sign over the door that read: Rooms 50?.
He opened the door and entered a dark hallway thick with the stench of half a century of accumulated odors. A sign over an open doorway said Office. The room was foggy with smoke from half a dozen cigarettes roiling up to cloud a lone light bulb over a table where six men were playing cards.
A hulking man got up and came toward Shayne. His eyes were wary, and he grunted, “Watcha want?”
“Some information,” Shayne answered.
“What kind of info?”
“About a girl who came here yesterday.”
The man began to shake his head. Shayne got out his billfold, took a bill from it and walked over to the far corner of the room.
The big man followed him, moving around to face Shayne who stood with his back to the men at the table. Shayne held the bill, folded the long way, close enough for the man to see the figure.
After a moment’s hesitation the proprietor said, “Yeh. I know the one you mean. She wasn’t like most that come here. She was young and pretty with gold hair and blue eyes. Right?” He squinted at the banknote and wet his lips.
“Right. Who did she come to see?” asked Shayne.
The big man’s eyes flashed over to the table of card players and he said in a loud voice, “I ain’t no stoolie. A man comes here and signs the book John Smith and that’s all right with me.” He lowered his voice to a whisper to ask, “You the cops?”
“Hell, no. I don’t like the cops any more than you do. What did the man look like and what’s his name?” Shayne pushed the bill toward the man.
“Waal-he was sort of skinny and had light hair cut mighty short,” he told Shayne in a low tone. “But he dusted off early this mornin’. I dunno where he went.”
“How long was he here?”
“One day. Paid in advance.”
Shayne eased the bill into his hand, turned away and said angrily, “Well, if you won’t tell his name I’ll find out some other way,” and stalked from the room.
