Shayne grinned and thumped the wrapped package on the desk.
“Is it potable?” Mattson asked, holding the bottle up to the light and squinting at its contents. “Ah, there’s a delightful word, Michael. Potable! One hears it too seldom nowadays.”
Shayne took the bottle from him and uncorked it, saying, “This is a bribe, you know.”
“So be it. I’m easily bribed these days. There was a time when I wouldn’t sell my soul for less than a case of Dewar’s finest.”
Shayne tilted the bottle and took a long drink, rolled some of it around in his mouth, swallowed and nodded his head with approval. Handing it back to the doctor, he said, “Go ahead and guzzle.”
Mattson sighed. “I’d best have a small nip first. You may change your mind and take it back, for you’ll not like what I’ve got to tell you.”
“Let’s have it,” Shayne said.
The police surgeon took a nip from the bottle, replaced the cork and set it on the table. “You asked me for two things on the girl. Here they are in simple terms. She died from inhalation of gas fumes. She was not drugged and there is no evidence of poison. She didn’t fight death. I told you that this morning. A quarter of a century of intimate association with stiffs has taught me to read the facial distortions of death.”
Shayne was absently rubbing his angular jaw, his gray eyes staring thoughtfully into space.
“You don’t like it, do you, Michael?”
“No. I’d hoped you’d find something else. Thanks just the same.”
Before driving away from the police building, Shayne sat sprawled in the driver’s seat, his big hands gripping the steering wheel. Abruptly he raced the engine and lurched into a stream of traffic.
The Dragoon was a small, modern hotel on Race Street. The time was a quarter past four when he went into the lobby and asked the clerk for Lieutenant Drinkley. The young man consulted a card-index file and said, “Four- twelve, sir. There’s a house phone if you wish to call,” pushing the instrument forward.
Shayne lifted the receiver and asked for 412. The phone rang four times before Lieutenant Drinkley answered.
“Shayne speaking,” he said, and when no further answer came immediately, he added, “the detective.”
“I know,” the lieutenant said. “I’ve been hoping you’d call.”
“I’m coming up to see you.” Shayne started to hang up, but the lieutenant said quickly, “Let me come to your office. In about half an hour.”
“I’m downstairs in the hotel now,” Shayne told him. He hung up and went to the elevator. It took him to the fourth floor at once. He stepped from the elevator into a corridor, glanced at the numbers, and turned right to 412 and knocked.
He knocked again after waiting a few seconds, glanced up to see that the transom was tightly closed. No sound came from the room. He tried the knob, but the door was locked, and he rapped again.
The door opened with a rush. Lieutenant Drinkley faced him with a strange expression of anxiety. His khaki shirt was rumpled and his blond hair was tousled as it had been that morning, and the lines of strain had deepened at the corners of his thin mouth.
He said, “I’m sorry. I was-I couldn’t come to the door at once.” He appeared nervous and confused, like a man wakened suddenly from deep sleep, but he didn’t look sleepy. The bed in the center of the room was neatly made.
Shayne heeled the door shut and brushed past Drinkley. The room was quite small, with a single window at one end and an upholstered chair turned to face a small, straight chair beside a writing table.
A bottle half filled with scotch and a bottle of white soda stood on the desk and a glass of the mixture floating with ice cubes made a wet ring on the blotter.
Shayne looked sharply at Drinkley. His cheeks were highly flushed, but he didn’t act or talk drunk. Shayne crossed over to the armchair and sat down, shook his head negatively when the officer invited him to have a drink.
“I never drink at this time in the afternoon,” he lied, and fished out a cigarette.
An open book of matches lay beside a glass ash tray on the desk. He struck one to light his cigarette and noticed that the folder had the picture of a bubbling glass of champagne on the front and the printed words, The Laurel Club.
The ash tray was full of half-smoked stubs. One of them still smoldered. It had a streak of lipstick on the end, as did two others in the ash tray.
Shayne slid the match folder into his pocket. He said, “I’m afraid I’m not getting very far on your case, Lieutenant.”
Drinkley sat on the foot of the bed resting his elbows on his knees. He said gloomily, “I suppose it was foolish to hope you could do anything. You think that Katrin did”-he paused to wet his lips with his tongue and looked up at Shayne doggedly-“commit suicide?”
“That’s the way it stands now.” Shayne drew in a deep breath, his nostrils flaring when he smelled the faint odor of perfume. He glanced around and noted that a clothes closet stood partially open. Another door, evidently leading to the bathroom, was closed.
“And I still can’t turn up any motive,” Shayne went on gravely. “Nor any indication that she made any attempt to leave you a message.”
In a bitter tone, Drinkley asked, “Do you suppose the jewel robbery out there has anything to do with it? I’ve been reading about it in the papers. An emerald necklace. I didn’t know anything about it this morning when I talked to you.”
Shayne hunched forward and asked, “Does the stolen necklace mean anything to you?” Then added harshly, “Some of the family seem to think Katrin stole it-and gave it to somebody who was working with her-on the outside.”
Drinkley drew back as though to evade a physical blow. “That’s a lie,” he shouted. “Katrin wouldn’t steal-and she wouldn’t be working with a criminal.” He got up and went to the writing table, took the mixed drink and carried it back to the bed after taking a large swallow. He set the glass on the floor and bowed his head in his hands and moaned, “I’ve been trying to think all day. I don’t know-I simply don’t know.”
Shayne said casually, “For a man who doesn’t drink, Lieutenant, you seem to be doing pretty well for yourself,”
“Yeh. I’m beginning to feel sort of numb.” He raised his head and glanced at the closed bathroom door, shifted his gaze to Shayne.
Shayne was looking at the door and his mouth was set in a grim line.
Drinkley came to his feet. “I’ve been trying to find out a few things for myself,” he said thickly. He walked up and down the room, hands thrust in his pockets, his head bowed. “I had a fantastic idea that perhaps someone might have been gossiping about me to Katrin. You know how those things are, and she was so idealistic. If someone who wanted to break up our marriage had lied to her-oh, God!” He sank down on the bed and moaned, “I still can’t realize this has happened to me-and to Katrin. It’s like I was seeing it happen to someone else. I guess I was just about out of my mind when I went to see you this morning.”
Shayne watched him with eyes that were like gray steel. He said harshly, “Whom do you suspect of gossiping to Katrin?”
“It was just-an idea-that came to me when I racked my brain for a motive. You haven’t-you didn’t learn anything that might make you think that’s what happened?”
“Not yet,” Shayne said softly. Then without warning he demanded, “Was Clarice Lomax in love with you?”
“Clarice? Of course-not,” he stammered.
“Did you ever encourage her? Go out with her?”
“Never. I saw her and talked with her a few times when I went to the house.”
“I just wondered,” Shayne mused. He got up and walked to the window. His back was turned to the officer when he asked, “Do you know what Katrin did on her day off-on Wednesdays?”
Drinkley didn’t answer immediately. Shayne pivoted to look at him. Drinkley was frowning as though he tried to remember. “When I was here,” he said, “we spent Wednesdays together. After I left, I-don’t-know. She never mentioned anything special in her letters. Is it important?”
“I don’t know.” Shayne took a step toward the bathroom door, asked, “May I go in here before I go?”
