The man stepped out on the porch and closed the door firmly behind him. When Shayne heard his voice, he knew the man was not a local undertaker. It was an incisive voice, pleasant enough, but aloof. The voice of an educated man and one accustomed to issuing orders. “Mr. Shayne, did the maid say? Mrs. Roche doesn’t recall anyone bearing that name.”
“She probably never heard it,” Shayne told him. “That is, perhaps Charlie never spoke of me. I met him five years ago in Miami.”
The man stiffened slightly. Immediately and intuitively Shayne felt he had made a mistake in using the familiar form for Charles Roche’s first name. He had an instant hunch that the dead man was one who was always called Charles even by his most intimate friends.
The man’s voice was more austere when he said, “In that case I don’t believe it is necessary to disturb Mrs. Roche at this time. I will be glad to give her your name and your expressions of condolence.”
“I would like to give them to her myself,” Shayne said evenly.
“I’m afraid that’s impossible.” The tall man was courteously dismissing him. “She is prostrated with grief and I cannot allow her to be imposed upon by strangers.”
Shayne was sure he recognized the rolling smoothness of the phrases from the news story in the Gazette. He said, “You’re making a mistake, Mr. Gerald. I’m quite sure Mrs. Roche will wish to see me when you tell her I had a letter from her husband three days ago.”
The general manager of the Roche Mining Properties raised his black brows. “Indeed? I fail to see why that should interest her particularly.”
“Enclosing his personal check for five thousand dollars,” Shayne continued, “and prophesying his death very shortly.” His vision was keener now, more adjusted to the dim light coming through the curtains, and he could discern the expressions on Gerald’s face better.
“Ah.” Seth Gerald sucked in his breath and his dark eyes were reflective. He took a step nearer Shayne and looked at him with more interest than he had shown before. “Did you say the name was Shayne?”
“Michael Shayne.”
“From Miami?”
Shayne detected a faint tremor of uneasiness in the flowing voice. “From Miami,” he said.
“I see.” Seth Gerald moved aside and stood drumming his fingertips on the verandah’s low concrete enclosure. “I’ve heard the name, if I recall correctly.”
Shayne didn’t say anything. He put his hat back on his head and took out a pack of cigarettes. He lit one and puffed on it.
After a time, Gerald asked, “Exactly how much did Mr. Roche confide in his communication?”
“Enough to bring me up here as fast as I could come by car.”
“Would not the check have produced the same result?” Gerald’s tone was suave, but Shayne got the impression that he bared his upper teeth to ask the question.
Shayne said, “No,” and puffed on his cigarette.
“What do you want of Elsa… Mrs. Roche… now?”
“To decide whether to return the five grand retainer or keep it,” Shayne said bluntly.
“Indeed? And on what will your decision depend?”
“Several things.”
Seth Gerald stopped drumming on the concrete and strutted a few steps toward Shayne. He said, “Shall we stop fencing? As I understand it, you are a private detective from Miami who was called here by a letter from Mr. Roche written several days ago.”
“That’s correct.”
“And you arrived too late to be of any aid. Charles had discussed with me the advisability of calling in a private detective when he received those threatening letters, but I don’t recall that your name was mentioned. I don’t believe you need to bother Mrs. Roche with this matter, Mr. Shayne. I appreciate the ethics which caused you to consider returning the money, but I’m confident I can speak for Mrs. Roche in asking you to keep the money, since it was not your fault that you arrived too late to prevent what he feared. I feel quite certain Charles would wish it.”
Shayne was not more than a couple of inches taller than Seth Gerald’s six feet. They were standing close together. Shayne lowered his eyes to look into Gerald’s through a cloud of cigarette smoke. He said, “You’re missing the point completely. If I keep Roche’s retainer, I’ll feel morally bound to find his murderer.”
Seth Gerald took a short turn on the verandah, came back to face Shayne and asked, “Have you read the Centerville Gazette?”
“That’s why I’m here.”
“Perhaps you don’t fully understand the last-minute headline,” said Gerald stiffly. “The case against George Brand is complete.”
“What about his alibi?”
Gerald dismissed the question with an eloquent shrug. “Contemplating murder, Brand naturally prepared an alibi in advance. You can trust Chief Elwood not to be misled.”
Shayne took a final drag on his cigarette and spun it over the concrete enclosure at his right. “This has been very interesting, Gerald. But not informative. I’ll have a talk with Mrs. Roche now.” He went to the double doors and turned a knob.
Seth Gerald was quick. His hand gripped Shayne’s arm and he said harshly, “You can’t force yourself on a grieving widow.”
Shayne shook his hand off and pushed the door open. “Can’t I?” he growled, and put a number twelve shoe over the threshold.
Gerald grabbed him again before he reached the wide arch leading into the softly lighted and enormous living room which John Roche had designed for the wife of his eldest son. He snapped, “I warn you, Shayne…” then let his hand fall to his side when Shayne kept going.
A young man was leaning over a cabinet radio. He was thin and colorless and his eyes were murky. He wore fawn-colored slacks and a tan sports shirt with the tail hanging out.
Elsa Roche was relaxed in a deep chair, her small feet resting on an upholstered footstool matching the chair. She held a cocktail in her left hand and a long jewelled cigarette holder in the other. Black hair was brushed smoothly back from her low forehead, outlining the widow’s peak centering it. She wore a sheer black dress with a sweetheart neckline that revealed the beginning contours of youthfully pointed breasts. Long black lashes were lowered to half-close her eyes, and she did not raise them when Shayne entered the room.
Gerald said in a tone evidently intended to warn Elsa Roche, “This man is a private detective whom Charles engaged to come here… by letter… some three days ago. He insisted upon coming in, even though I assured him the need for his services no longer existed.”
The young man at the radio turned his head and looked at Shayne just as Shayne glanced in his direction. His dark hair was plastered down except where singed ends curled up. Shayne stared at him for an instant, noting the lack of eyebrows and lashes, and the puffy pallor of his skin.
Turning back to Elsa, he said, “The name is Shayne. I have accepted a retainer from your late husband and feel obligated to look into his murder.”
She said, “A private detective?” and made it sound like a ridiculous occupation. She did not change her position, but looked far up into Shayne’s face.
“Michael Shayne? The private eye in Miami who’s always grabbing headlines?” the young man asked.
Shayne said, “You have the advantage of me.”
“I’m Jimmy Roche.” He straightened his body and took a step toward Shayne. “So Charles got up enough gumption to write you. What did he say?”
“Quite a lot,” Shayne told him, turning his attention again to Elsa Roche. Her dainty left hand was curled into a tight fist and a large diamond glittered on the third finger above a yellow gold band set with tiny stones. She had set her cocktail glass down and was holding the long jewelled holder in her right hand. The cigarette had fallen from it, and there was the smell of the rug burning.
Shayne stepped forward and put his toe on the glowing cigarette. “Pardon me,” he said. “This looks like a pretty good rug.”
Elsa Roche ignored his act and his words. She continued to look up at him. Her gray-green eyes showed
