“Michael!” Lucy turned quickly toward him. “You’re not going to side against the miners in their strike! You’ve seen the awful hovels they live in… and read the statistics on annual income. You don’t blame them… surely… for wanting enough money to buy food… while the mine owners live in the lap of luxury!”
“I’m not blaming them, Angel.” He was silent for a moment, then added, “I just don’t see where I come in.”
“You can find out who murdered Mr. Roche. I know you can. You’ve got to earn that five thousand dollars.”
“He hired me to prevent his murder,” Shayne told her grimly.
“It’s not your fault we were too late for that. Now… it’s your job to find out…”
“And what if that proves to be a certain George Brand?” He turned toward her and grinned.
“It… won’t be. I just know it won’t. I’ll bet it’s that Gerald man. He’s probably been stealing money from the firm… and… well, he was right there on the scene about the time it happened.” She was thinking hard as she spoke, a frown puckering her smooth brow, “He could have done it,” she ended on a note of triumph.
Shayne laughed heartily and poured himself a straight drink. “We’ll have dinner. Then I’ll pay my respects to Mrs. Elsa Maywell Roche and see what’s what.”
5
The Eustis Restaurant was beginning to fill up with evening diners. Most of the customers were young couples, the men in shirt sleeves, the women wearing simple cotton dresses; with a sprinkling here and there of overalled men who were obviously miners, scrubbed as clean as yellow soap could get them. Some of them were with their wives and families. Most of the children were tow-headed and pale, snub-nosed, their mouths open, suggestive of adenoids.
Shayne sat back and tried to enjoy the bad brandy as he watched the people about him and listened to snatches of their conversation. Many had brought their own bottles or flasks, and there was a lot of quiet drinking, but there was little conviviality. There was an atmosphere of somberness and preternatural gravity. Even the tunes they selected on the jukebox were mournful ditties, and the men and women who fed coins into the slot machines had no hint of enjoyment or hope in their expressions as they pulled the bandit’s arm.
It wasn’t a natural dourness, Shayne decided, nor yet an assumed solemnity, but more an ingrained listlessness and an apathetic acceptance of the unpleasant verities of life. He supposed this was a normal condition of life in Centerville, not directly attributable to the mine strike nor to the shadow of tragedy hanging over the town as the result of Roche’s murder and the arrest of George Brand.
That, he thought, was the explanation. Violent death was not an uncommon occurrence to these people. They were inured to these tragic happenings. This was Centerville. They had been born and reared beneath the shadow of tragedy, and scarcely realized that it was perceptibly darker today than yesterday.
The waiter brought them a dim carbon of a typed menu, and he and Lucy ordered the dollar steak dinner. The entree was preceded by a watery tomato soup, and accompanied by a limp lettuce and tomato salad. The steak was thin and tough and inundated with pale gravy. Carrots, mushy from over-cooking, and unseasoned mashed potatoes were served in thick white little dishes.
Lucy struggled with her steak with a dull knife, amputated a portion, and began to chew. She chuckled and said, “I’ll bet the patrons of the Eustis have strong teeth.”
Shayne sampled everything before him, pushing a forkful of mashed potatoes around in the white gravy before putting it in his mouth. “I was assured the Eustis was as good as any restaurant here,” he told her and made a wry face.
After a few minutes they pushed their half-filled plates away. Shayne poured himself half an inch of brandy in his empty water glass, raised his bushy brows inquiringly at Lucy before setting the bottle down.
Lucy shuddered. “Not for me. What are we going to tell Mrs. Roche, Michael?”
“I am going to tell her as little as possible and find out as much as possible.”
Lucy frowned at his emphasis on the personal pronoun. “You’re not going to leave me out there in that cabin to sweat it out while you visit a charming widow… alone.”
“I do better with widows,” Shayne said, “if not accompanied by a lovely young secretary,” and grinned at her.
“No,” said Lucy flatly.
“You’re going to stay right here at this table with this bottle in plain sight. You’re going to look as desolate as you feel, because I’ve deserted you. You’re going to feed quantities of silver into the slot machines and nickels in the jukebox. You’ll have a host of friends when I come back… men who’ll be anxious to cheer you up in your loneliness and drink your liquor.” He was looking straight into her surprised eyes, a crooked grin on his wide mouth. “You’ll pick up more damned stuff about Centerville in the course of an hour than I could get in two weeks,” he ended gravely. The crooked smile was gone. His gaze brooded around the dining room.
“All right for you,” Lucy flared angrily. “Go on… and I don’t care if you never come back.”
Shayne drank the brandy in his glass and stood up. His face was grim as he stalked to the cashier’s desk without looking back. Those close to their table had heard Lucy’s angry outburst and were whispering among themselves, their eyes upon the flushed and bewildered girl he had left behind. Shayne looked back. Lucy was sitting stiffly erect, the half-filled bottle of brandy in front of her where he had placed it.
Shayne paid the bill and indicated Lucy with a jerk of his head. “The lady,” he told the cashier, “isn’t quite ready to leave yet. “
The cashier nodded understandingly, and Shayne went out. Darkness brought little relief from the sweltering heat. It was as though the sun’s burning rays lingered, pocketed there in the narrow gap between the two mountains and held by a roof of darkness, as though a heavy lid had been clamped upon it to prevent its escape.
A middle-aged couple were entering the restaurant. Shayne addressed the man and asked, “Could you direct me to the Charles Roche home on Mountaincrest Drive?”
They stopped, looked him over curiously, gave him the directions in a polite southern drawl, and went inside. Shayne got in his car and turned to the right around the first corner. He drove two blocks and turned to the left on a winding road, a sixteen-foot strip of macadam, which climbed steeply upward. The motor labored in second gear and the air grew cooler as he left the floor of the gulch. There were only a few residences here on the higher slope, and he passed two intersecting roads. He had been told he couldn’t miss the Roche house, that Mountaincrest Drive formed a dead end there. He kept pushing the car up until he reached the dead end in a wide gravelled circle in front of a one-story house blazing with lights from every window.
Two cars were parked in the driveway. One a new convertible Cadillac coupe, cream in color; the other a 1946 Buick. Both had Kentucky licenses.
Shayne parked behind them and got out. He walked up five concrete steps and across a wide verandah to twin french doors. The glass was heavily curtained, but enough light came through to outline an electric button. He pressed it, took off his hat, and the air was cool upon his damp red hair.
The door opened and a bulky Negress looked out at him. She looked surprised, started to close the door, but stopped when she saw Shayne’s face. She said, “Yessuh?” and he recognized the voice that had first answered the telephone.
He said, “I’d like to see Mrs. Roche.”
She hesitated, then asked, “Whut did you say y’all’s name wuz?”
“Shayne.” Shayne spread his wide mouth in an engaging smile. “Tell Mrs. Roche I’m an old friend of her husband’s just passing through Centerville, and when I heard the sad news, I had to come up and pay my respects.”
“Yessuh,” she said, “I’ll tell Miz Roche,” and stepped back, leaving the door slightly ajar. Shayne could hear the sound of low voices inside. Presently a tall, pleasant-faced man came to the door. He was in his forties, his hair graying at the temples, and he was immaculately groomed in a dark blue business suit. He wore a white shirt and a black bow tie. Shayne thought he must be the local undertaker and was prepared to speak in a grave and sympathetic tone.
