“Mr. Lomax does. And Eddie, I presume.” Neal shrugged his bare broad shoulders. “Women seldom bother to learn about gas furnaces unless they have to.”
“I suppose not,” said Shayne absently. “Thanks for the demonstration. It cleared up one or two things I’ve been wondering about.”
“Glad to be of any assistance I can,” Neal Jordan said, and went back to his work when Shayne went out.
At the front door Shayne rang and Rosie answered, widening her black eyes in recognition and shaking her head. “I don’t think Mr. Lomax-”
“How about the others?” Shayne interrupted.
“Mrs. Lomax is upstairs, and Miss Clarice and Mr. Eddie-”
“You needn’t bother to tell them I’m here.” Shayne pushed past the maid and went directly up the stairway. The door to the sitting-room was open and he walked into what appeared to be a family squabble.
Eddie was sprawled in a chair with his hands thrust deep in his pants pockets and a heavy scowl on his face. Mrs. Lomax sat erect in a straight chair across from him, and anger or weariness made her look older than she appeared when Shayne first saw her. Clarice was striding back and forth in front of the fireplace with her arms folded and her lips compressed.
It was she who first saw Shayne standing in the doorway. She stopped to glare at him and said angrily, “What are you snooping around here for?”
Mrs. Lomax and Eddie looked around with a start. Eddie’s scowl deepened and his mother’s thin features stiffened. She said, “Well, Mr. Shayne-do you make a practice of sneaking in like this?”
Shayne lounged forward, saying pleasantly, “I don’t like formalities,” but his eyes were coldly appraising as he glanced from one to another of the trio. “Did I interrupt an argument?”
Clarice started to answer. Mrs. Lomax interrupted her: “I’m sure our private conversations are no affair of yours.”
Shayne said, “I’m not so sure of that.”
“Are you still dodging the police?” Eddie asked, leaving his mouth open and drawing his overhanging brows farther over his pale blue eyes. “The paper said you had a fight with Dan Trueman last night.”
Shayne ignored him. He asked Mrs. Lomax, “Did Katrin Moe have any telephone conversations the evening before she died?”
“I’m sure I don’t know. You might ask Mrs. Brown.”
“Or Clarice,” Eddie growled. “She dashes to the phone every time it rings.”
Shayne’s gaze went to Clarice. “Well?”
“I didn’t see or hear her at the phone,” Clarice said airily.
“Did you have any phone calls?” Shayne asked.
“No.” She added angrily, “If it’s any of your business.”
“I wondered,” said Shayne gravely, “whether Lieutenant Drinkley called you that evening.”
“Lieutenant Drinkley? Why should-” She stopped suddenly, her cheeks suddenly flaming.
“But he didn’t arrive in New Orleans until the next morning,” Mrs. Lomax said sharply.
Shayne disregarded her and advanced toward Clarice, his eyes boring into hers. “Your brother made some remarks about you and the lieutenant yesterday. Did he ever make love to you?”
Eddie snickered. “That’s what burned her up. He didn’t fall for her line.”
“He arrived on the morning train,” Mrs. Lomax stated flatly. “He telephoned directly from the station while the police were here.”
Shayne turned to her. “Did any of you have your gas burning during that night?”
“I’m sure we didn’t. I retired early.” Her tone was irascible.
“And Mr. Lomax?”
Her eyes were evasive. “He stayed up for a time after I retired. But the grate wasn’t lit in his room-nor in mine.”
“How about you two?” Shayne swung on Clarice and Eddie.
“No,” Eddie muttered.
Clarice’s brown eyes were speculative. “I didn’t either. Why does it matter? Is it a clue?”
“It might be. Do any of you happen to know if Katrin was in the habit of letting her grate burn all night?”
Silence greeted his question. Clarice and Eddie were looking at their mother.
Mrs. Lomax appeared to make up her mind and she told him decisively, “Katrin never used the grate in her room-I’m sure. She often found the house temperature too warm, and she disliked the odor of burning gas.”
“Wait a minute.” Shayne’s shaggy brows came down in a fierce frown. “Do you mean it was never lit?”
“I mean exactly that.” Mrs. Lomax’s tone was acid. “The girl often became faint when she stayed too long in a room where gas was burning.”
Shayne drew in a long breath. This knocked hell out of the elaborate murder theory he had sold Quinlan on. He shook his head doggedly. It couldn’t be true.
“There’s no need to lie about a thing like that,” he warned gruffly. “I’ll find out the truth.”
“You’re insulting,” Mrs. Lomax said, her eyes flashing. “I don’t know why it matters, but anyone who knew Katrin will tell you that.”
“We all know that’s the truth,” said Clarice, nodding her head, and Eddie put in a curt, “Sure.”
Shayne caught his left ear lobe and massaged it gently between thumb and forefinger. The family watched him interestedly and there was perfect quiet in the room.
Abruptly Shayne asked, “How old is Neal Jordan?”
His question lashed into the silence, and the silence continued. Again Clarice and Eddie looked at their mother. Mrs. Lomax only stared at Shayne, an angry gleam in her black eyes.
Clarice burst out, “You wouldn’t believe it, but he’s thirty-three.”
Mrs. Lomax said quietly, “Neal is almost thirty-four.”
Shayne turned toward the door. Halfway across the room he stopped, turned to Mrs. Lomax and asked casually, “What hotel do you prefer in Baton Rouge?”
“Why-” Anger at his audacity overcame her. She clamped her lips and refused to answer.
“The Victoria, Mother,” Clarice said. “I’ve heard you say it’s the only really decent hotel there.”
“Yes,” Mrs. Lomax said firmly. “Of course, Clarice. The Victoria.”
“Is that where you stayed Tuesday night?”
“You’re taking advantage of us in Mr. Lomax’s absence,” Mrs. Lomax said, outraged. She arose from her chair with stiff dignity and faced him with blazing eyes. “It isn’t any of your-”
“Is it?” Shayne interrupted with quiet insistence.
“It was.”
Shayne nodded and left the room. In the hall he swore under his breath. He’d bought a few hours of freedom and all he’d found out was that he had a theory without any solid facts under it. If Quinlan knew-but he couldn’t tell Quinlan.
He shrugged off the thought on his way to the kitchen where he found Mrs. Brown cleaning out the enormous electric refrigerator.
The housekeeper faced him with arms akimbo and belligerent eyes. Her attitude changed quickly when she recognized Shayne. She smiled and said, “Why, it’s the detective again. And have you detected yet how the lass came to die?”
“Not quite,” Shayne confessed. “But I think you can help me. Who gets up first in the morning around here?”
“And who would that be but me?”
“How about Neal? Does he ever come in to make himself an early cup of coffee-or something?”
“In my kitchen?” She shook her head emphatically. “He’d never dare. And besides there’s no way for him to get in if he’d a mind to.”
Shayne murmured, “I thought perhaps he had an extra key to the back door.”
“Not him. And the door from the basement is always locked, too, it being Mr. Lomax’s idea it’s not seemly for a bachelor man to have the run of the house at night.” She sniffed with disdain and added, “Though he’d do better to lock his own son out, I’m thinkin’.”
