and, after some further discussion and the issuance of orders by Painter, the group began to disintegrate.
Two white-coated ambulance attendants moved toward the rear of the ambulance carrying the sheet-draped body on a stretcher, while some of the men went back to their parked cars and drove away. Others fanned out on foot in both directions from the doctor’s house, and Shayne, who knew the routine well, knew they would be ringing neighborhood doorbells for the next few hours, arousing neighbors who were not already aroused, taking statements and gathering as much information on the private life of the Ambroses as possible.
Chief Painter came back across the grass carrying a.32 automatic dangling by the trigger-guard from his forefinger. He stopped in front of Rourke and held the weapon up to him and demanded, “Ever see this before?”
The reporter stared at the gun and said, “Hell, I don’t know. All automatics look alike to me. That what killed him?”
“What I mean is,” said Painter silkily, “since you were such buddies with the doctor, did you ever see a gun like this in his possession?”
“We weren’t buddies,” protested Rourke. “The guy saved my life that time I was shot here in your territory. I’ve seen him a few times off and on since then. No reason I’d know whether he owned a gun or not.”
“How about you, Shayne?”
The detective shook his red head. “I met him for the first time this evening. I didn’t frisk him before he went to make the pay-off, but I did ask him and he swore he wasn’t carrying a gun.” He frowned, recalling the neat, tan suit the doctor had worn. “I don’t believe he was,” he added flatly.
Painter said, “H-m-m. This thirty-two was lying on the ground beside him. One shot fired from it. Only blurred fingerprints. He was killed with a thirty-two slug. Powder burns indicate the muzzle was rammed up against his body.” He sighed. “So far, we haven’t found anybody who heard the shot.”
“What about the widow?” asked Shayne. “Was she home?”
“Now, that’s something I want to ask you both. Do you know Mrs. Ambrose?”
Shayne shook his head. “Never met the lady.”
Rourke said, “I met her a couple of times. Haven’t seen her for at least two years.”
“Pretty much of a lush?” demanded Painter.
Rourke hesitated. “I don’t know her well enough to say. She’s one of these, well, sort of professional southern belles, if you know what I mean. Pretty and plump and young-looking, and never forgetting that her family was real southern gentility. In a nice way,” he hurried on. “Nothing overt about it. Just… the way she’d been brought up. She just couldn’t help flirting, but you knew all the time it didn’t mean a damned thing. Doctor Ambrose treated her like a child-bride, and she gobbled it up.” He paused thoughtfully. “I always had a hunch she was the type of southern gal who had been taught by her mother that it was perfectly ladylike to sip a pint of Southern Comfort in the privacy of her own room, but who was shocked to see other, more emancipated females tossing off cocktails in public.”
“A secret drinker.” Painter nodded with satisfaction.
“Wait a minute. Don’t quote me on that. It’s just that I got an impression…”
“It adds up,” said Painter. “She was passed out cold when we got here. Not Southern Comfort, but straight vodka, apparently. With a couple of ounces of Peppermint Extract mixed into the bottle, from an analysis of the dregs from an empty quart bottle in her room.
“The doctor has just got her sobered up enough to do some talking,” Painter went on briskly. “I want you both to come and sit in on it. I’ll do the questioning, but since you both talked to her husband about blackmail, you’ll be better able than I to decide whether she knew what was going on or not.”
He wheeled about precisely on his heels and marched toward the front door of the neat stucco house which showed light from every window.
Timothy Rourke fell into step with Shayne behind him, and muttered nervously, “This isn’t like Petey. Since when did he start asking for any cooperation?”
“He thinks we’re both lying our heads off,” Shayne told him quietly. “Watch it, if you’re holding anything back.”
“I’m not, Mike. I swear I’m not.”
“Then take it easy,” growled Shayne. “And let him do the talking.”
In front of them, Painter opened the front door and marched inside stiffly, leaving the door standing open behind him.
They entered directly into a square living room with subdued gray wall-to-wall carpeting, comfortably though unostentatiously furnished with overstuffed chairs and a long sofa against the far wall. There were innumerable floor lamps with pastel silk shades in various colors, and all of them were lighted. There were also a lot of footstools scattered about, with small, puffy cushions in each chair and cushions bunched on the sofa.
Mrs. Ambrose sat huddled at the far end of the sofa. A couple of feet back from it, regarding her intently, was a tall, thin-faced man whom Shayne recognized as the Assistant Medical Examiner on the Beach. Chief Peter Painter crossed the rug in front of them with sprightly steps and stopped directly in front of her.
Dr. Ambrose’s widow had soft, platinum hair that was cut quite short and formed a riotous mass of tiny curls all over her head. She had a petulant face that was streaked with tears and needed make-up badly, and a babyish mouth that Shayne supposed had often been likened to a rosebud when it was properly lipsticked. Right now, the lips were plump and pouting.
She had very wide and very blue eyes in which tears were forming and sliding down her cheeks. She wore some sort of formless Mother Hubbard housecoat of citron yellow and lavender blue which effectively concealed whatever sort of figure she had.
Peter Painter rocked back on his heels in front of her and said gravely, “I realize this is a terrible ordeal for you, Mrs. Ambrose, and I’ll make this as brief as possible. Tell me first: When did you last see your husband?”
“This morning. When he left for the office.” She shut her eyes tightly and two big tears squeezed through under the lids.
“Did you hear from him during the day?”
She nodded violently without opening her eyes. “His nurse telephoned about four o’clock to say Doctor was tied up and wouldn’t be home for dinner. She said not to expect him until some time late this evening.”
“Was this… unusual?”
“Not so very,” she faltered. “He was a doctor, you know. And this morning he said, well… that something might come up to detain him tonight and I shouldn’t plan anything fancy for dinner.”
“What sort of thing, Mrs. Ambrose?”
She hesitated and tightened her plump lips and then opened her eyes wide and said, “It was those gamblers. I know it was. I knew it all the time. They killed him. He couldn’t get enough money for them and so they killed him. Oh God, what am I going to do now?” She turned her head to the police doctor and implored in a trembling voice, “Couldn’t I please have just a tiny drop of something for my nerves? I’m going to pieces. I know I am.” Her voice rose thinly. “Don’t just stand there looking so supercilious. I know what I need. What do you know about it? Is your husband lying out there in the yard murdered by gangsters?”
Painter glanced at the doctor who shook his head slightly, and told her cheerfully, “I’ve administered a sedative, Mrs. Ambrose. It will begin to take effect in about five or ten minutes and you’ll be fine. Please try to answer Chief Painter’s questions in the meantime.”
Painter asked, “What’s this about gamblers?”
“They were after him… hounding him all the time for money. He’s always gambled. It was a sort of compulsion with him. On the horses, you know. He confessed to me the first year we were married, and I forgave him. He was lucky and often won as much as he lost. Sometimes he was real lucky and we’d go out for a big splurge. But lately it’s been different. He was unlucky, and I’m afraid he started plunging. Just a month or so ago he told me he was in too deep. He said they were pressing him, and he broke down and cried like a baby with his head in my lap and said he was afraid they’d do something to him, if he didn’t pay up. And he promised he’d never bet on the horses again, if I’d help him this time, and I signed all the papers. You know. Insurance and on the house and all.
“And I thought it was enough and everything would be all right again and just the same as before, but I could see he was worried again, the last few days, and it frightened me and I wondered. And now… oh God!” She put the backs of both her hands up against her mouth and her wide blue eyes were anguished as they looked up at the chief
