“On the Trueman killing, that is,” he amended hastily. “I’m not saying we’d have hung the Moe thing around his neck without your help. I suppose you’ve checked that angle and found she did have her gas grate burning when she went to bed.”
“I checked on it.” Shayne nodded and tilted the bottle to take a long drink. “And it’s still murder,” he added, wiping his lips with the back of his hand.
“Good. He fits the bill right enough. No one knew more about the valves and such.”
“That’s right. I hope your boys get it out of him.”
“They will.” Quinlan took a box of cigars from his desk drawer and offered Shayne one. Shayne declined, and Quinlan lit one for himself, settled back in his chair and said, “Yes. We’ve got Jordan and we’ll get a confession.”
Shayne lit a cigarette and asked, “How did your boys run onto the two witnesses that fingered Jordan?”
“Just routine police work. You know how it is in a case like that. We cover every angle-even when it looks like we’ve already got the case sewed up.” He blew a smoke ring toward the ceiling and added, “I’m sorry about this morning. But hell-”
“Skip it.” Shayne took another drink. If the New Orleans basement boudoir was like a lot of others he had seen in action he didn’t like to think what Neal Jordan might be enduring. He said, “When that Moore dame sprung her denial of my alibi I didn’t blame you for deciding to hold me.”
Quinlan flipped ashes from his cigar and asked, “What about her-and the lieutenant?”
“I’ve verified the fact that he was in New Orleans the night before he was supposed to arrive,” Shayne said gloomily. “He went to see Lana. Hell of a thing for a prospective bridegroom to do, but some men are funny. I think he was on the level about being in love with Katrin,” he added reflectively. “From what I could find out, he’d been playing around with Lana before he met Katrin and she’d dragged him in pretty deep. She had threatened to make trouble, and the poor devil came here ahead of time to try to talk her out of it. Lana’s a hard to handle bitch,” he ended with disgust. “Look at the way she threw the hooks into me as soon as she saw I was in a tight spot.”
Quinlan indulged in a hearty laugh. He was in high good humor. With Neal Jordan identified for the Trueman murder and with the prospect of springing a big surprise by turning a supposed suicide into a solved murder, there was a step upward for him. He said, “They’re all alike-every one of them.”
The phone rang and he answered it, handed the receiver to Shayne, saying, “It sounds like the girl in your office.”
It was Lucy. She said, “Michael?”
“Oh, hello, Lucy, what goes?”
“I’ve got the information on the trains. You can leave New Orleans at noon or early in the morning and make connections to Craigville.”
“Give me the morning train.”
“It’s the Flyer. It reaches Craigville the following day at eleven-forty a.m.”
Shayne said, “Fine. What’s the fare?”
“One-way coach is twenty-nine forty-three. First-class is-”
“Hold it,” Shayne said. He laid the receiver on the desk and got out his wallet and the slip of paper he had found in Katrin Moe’s wastebasket. After checking the figures he picked up the instrument and asked, “What’s the tax on that ticket?”
“Two ninety-four,” Lucy said, and added anxiously, “You’re not going to take a long trip like that by coach, are you?”
Shayne laughed. “I’m not going anywhere. Be seeing you later.” He hung up, took a long drink from Quinlan’s bottle of brandy and looked at his watch. It was 10:25.
Quinlan had been puffing on his cigar and listening to Shayne’s side of the conversation with interest. He asked, “What’s all this about a trip?”
Shayne settled back and lit a fresh cigarette from the end of his stub. He mashed the stub out in an ash tray and asked, “Do you want to take another long shot on my say-so?”
“After the one you’ve just pulled out of the hat I’ll ride to hell and back with you,” the inspector assured him.
Shayne winced. “I can be wrong,” he warned.
“I’ll take a chance on you.”
“All right. Wire Craigville, Wisconsin, and have the cops meet the Flyer at eleven-forty this morning and arrest Anton Moe, brother of the late Katrin Moe.”
Inspector Quinlan’s exultant mood vanished before Shayne’s eyes and he became the cold-eyed officer of the law. He said curtly, “Say that again.”
Shayne repeated his request, slowly and doggedly.
“Arrest him for what? I thought they couldn’t locate her brother-or any relatives.”
“Just arrest him and charge him with being an escaped convict named Hodge, for one thing,” Shayne told him.
Quinlan picked up his fountain pen and slowly drew it through one cupped hand. His finely molded features were set, his eyes incredulous. “Holding out again,” he said.
“Holding out hell!” Shayne said. “I’m telling you.”
“One of the men who escaped from the pen is Katrin Moe’s brother? Are you positive?” he asked.
Shayne said wearily, “Hell, no, I’m not positive. It’s another hunch. Suit yourself about playing it.” He emptied the pint bottle and tossed it across at a waste-basket. He was getting damned tired of guessing, and he wasn’t too sure that any of his guesses were right.
Quinlan stared at him for a long moment before saying, “All right. I’ll do it on your say-so.”
Shayne didn’t say anything more. He let it lie like that. A feeling of lassitude possessed him. Always before, when it came to winding up a tough case, he was a mass of nerves. He was on edge and driven by a sharp certitude that demanded action. He felt none of this now. It didn’t help any when the inspector called over the intercommunication system and sent the telegram to Craigville. Shayne felt only a mild pity for any man who was so easily led to act on a Shayne hunch.
After Quinlan hung up the receiver Shayne arose abruptly. He didn’t want to answer any more questions. He said, “Let’s go down and see what Jordan is giving out.”
“Let’s,” said Quinlan, and they went silently down the steps.
The boudoir was a small square room in the basement. A heavy backless chair was bolted to the floor in the exact center of the room.
Neal Jordan sat on the chair with a wide leather band about each thigh to keep him from rising. He was completely naked. A single light was suspended just above his head with a cone reflector throwing the rays directly downward, making one circle of glaring radiance and leaving the rest of the room in shadow. Four men were loosely grouped around him. They were questioning him calmly and persuasively about the murder of Dan Trueman.
He didn’t answer them. He didn’t look at them. He sat forward with his elbows on his knees, his forehead resting on his interlaced hands. Great beads of sweat ran together and formed rivulets running down from his magnificent body, but he remained relaxed and immobile.
Shayne looked sharply for any sign of physical weakening. There was nothing more than a healthy redness and sweat from the heat of the glaring light.
He knew that Jordan was waiting them out. There were no signs of a struggle on his body to show that he had fought with Dan Trueman, but he already knew that, having seen him stripped to the waist in the Lomax basement.
The men who were questioning him had grown hoarse and less persuasive. Inspector Quinlan drew Shayne aside and whispered worriedly, “Are you sure he’s the one? It’s a miracle if the man who killed Trueman got off without a scratch.”
Shayne said, “Your men picked him up. I gave you three to play with-the only three men in the house.”
“I don’t like it,” Quinlan said stonily. “They’re not getting anywhere with him.”
Before answering Shayne again studied the nude form in the chair. He said, “It’s pretty gentle treatment for a suspected murderer.”
“We have to be damned careful,” Quinlan complained. “A boy almost died down here a few years ago and he was later proved innocent. This generally wears them down.”
