The picture of the man was quite clear, and was unmistakably that of the same Rutherford G. Rodman whose photograph Shayne had been carrying around inside a folded menu all day. The bride was wearing a wide, floppy- brimmed hat which obscured her features somewhat; she was as tall as her husband and stood very straight and gracious beside him.
Shayne studied the picture briefly without bothering to read the text. “That’s our boy,” he muttered. “This Betsy Ann Durand, Tim?”
“One of the important catches in Miami society,” Rourke told him. “You’ve heard of Durand. An associate of Flagler in the old days. Left a lot of millions when he kicked off ten years ago. Betsy Ann was the only child and inherited most of it. Rodman did all right for himself this time.”
He opened the bulging folder marked Durand, and began leafing through it. “Here’s Betsy Ann at Hialeah last year. And another one of her opening the Flower Show at the Woman’s Club.” He slid two glossy portraits out to show Shayne, and the detective studied them with at first a bewildered and then a growing and more positive sense of recognition.
He said, “It’s Mrs. Kelly, Tim. Goddamn it, it has to be Mrs. Kelly!”
15
“Mrs. Kelly?” echoed Timothy Rourke.
“That’s right. The woman who tried to take out a quarter-million dollar policy on her husband. This Betsy Ann Durand fits Fitzgilpin’s secretary’s description of her to a T.” Shayne closed his eyes and brought to his mind a vivid memory of Mrs. Perkins’ voice that morning. He quoted aloud: “She was pathetic with all her jewelry and mink. She was a woman who looked dowdy no matter what she wore. She was tall and awkward, with big hands and feet, and a great big nose and a thin mouth. You could just imagine her, as a young debutante, sitting on the sidelines and never getting asked to dance no matter how much money her family had.” He opened his eyes to look down at the pictures of Betsy Ann Durand again. “How’s that for a description of the heiress?”
“Absolutely perfect. The secretary was right, you know, about no man ever paying her attention. She must be in her mid-thirties now, and everyone figured her for a confirmed spinster.”
“So she was ready and ripe for a good-looking no-good like Rodman on a tropical cruise. Are they in Miami now?”
“I’m sure they are. They reopened the big house on the Beach. But, Mike. Why in hell would she want to take out a big policy on her new husband? She’s the one with the money. Millions of it.”
“Who knows why a woman does anything? Maybe she figures he’s worth that to her. Sort of coppering her bet.”
“Why would she use an alias?”
“That’s easier to understand. Probably she did know her proposal was illegal, and she was trying Fitzgilpin out. If he’d responded, she would have given her real name. As it was, she left no trail behind her.”
Both men were silent for a moment, staring down at the pictures and clippings and trying to see how this new development fitted into Fitzgilpin’s death.
“We’ve got several things,” Shayne said slowly. “We know he concealed his first wedding from his new wife. The clipping says it was the first marriage for both of them. That story was in a New York paper two months ago. If Rose read it she might well have been tempted to try a little blackmail.”
“Just because he hadn’t told his wife he’d been married before?”
“Well… that. And we don’t even know if he’d gotten a divorce, Tim. Rose hadn’t mentioned it to her best friend if there had been a divorce. Bigamy would make a nice juicy blackmail item. With him married to a millionairess this time. If that were true, you can’t blame Rose for thinking she was in a position to come down to Miami and collect a wad of cash.”
“Instead of which,” said Rourke, “she collected a lethal dose of sodium amytal.”
Shayne nodded somberly. “That’s the way it’s beginning to look. And it would lead directly to Fitzgilpin’s murder also. Don’t you see how one would follow the other? Assume Rodman did kill her when she showed up in Miami demanding money for her silence. He’d feel safe then. Until suddenly a couple of weeks ago he came across Jerome Fitzgilpin’s name in the interview you printed. According to Blanche Carson in New York, none of them knew Miami was Fitzgilpin’s hometown. But Jerome Fitzgilpin is quite an unusual name. Think how Rodman would feel knowing that one of the witnesses to his first wedding lived right here. Married to a rich woman, there were bound to be pictures of him in the papers and stories about him. Sooner or later, Fitzgilpin would see a picture and read one of those stories. And he’d wonder what had happened to Rose McNally. Rodman would really have been in a sweat if that’s the way it was.”
“But he couldn’t be sure this Fitzgilpin was the same man.”
“No. And that’s why he sent his wife to the office to see the man and find out if he was the right one.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” protested Rourke. “Your theory is that everything depended on him keeping the truth from Betsy Ann. How could he send her to the office to find out?”
“God knows what sort of story he dreamed up to get her to do it. Don’t forget that all our information points to Rodman as a fairly accomplished con man. He could have thought up some tale that would send her to Fitzgilpin. A woman like that… she’s probably completely enamoured of him and eager to believe any damned thing he tells her.”
“I’ll buy that much,” Rourke agreed. “But still and all… it’s a pretty far-fetched theory.”
“Have you got a better one?”
“No. Not right now.” Rourke scowled and began gathering up the clippings and pictures and putting them back in their proper folders.
Shayne shrugged and said, “There’s one good way to find out.”
“What’s that?”
“Ask him.” Shayne looked at his watch. “Do you know where the Durand house is?”
“Vaguely. It’s one of those little islands dredged up on the east side of the Bay that stick out from the peninsula.”
“A handy place to toss a former wife into the water and have her turn up on the other side of the Bay a few days later,” Shayne commented drily.
“Exactly. You going to take Painter along?”
“Hell, no.” Shayne looked at him in surprise. “Right now, this has got to be strictly off the record. Do you suppose the address is in the phone book?”
Rourke shook his head, reaching for a well-thumbed directory. “Not Rodman. But Durand should be.” He opened the book and looked for a moment, then nodded. “Five-sixteen Loma Vista. That’s out… oh, around Sixtieth Street.”
Shayne said, “Why not give him a call, Tim? Find out if he’s in, so we won’t waste a trip.”
“What’ll I say?”
Shayne looked at him in surprise. “Hell, that you’re a reporter and want an interview with him to get his expert opinion on the future of land values on the Beach.”
“At this time of night?” scoffed Rourke, reaching for his telephone nevertheless.
“At least we’ll find out if he’s home.”
Rourke dialed the number and waited. Shayne lit a cigarette, frowning absently at the spiral of blue smoke that rose up past his eyes. It was all pretty pat. Too pat? Who could say? Everything seemed to fit. And it was the only answer that did fit, he told himself. He listened to Rourke say, “Mr. Rodman, please.”
And then, “This is a reporter on the News in Miami. It’s important that I speak with Mr. Rodman as soon as possible.”
He paused a moment, then shook his head and said, “No, thanks. I’ll try again in about an hour.” He hung up and told Shayne, “I got a British accent you could cut with a knife. A butler, I bet, if they still have such things on the Beach. Mr. Rodman is out, but is expected to return within the hour.”
Shayne nodded and said, “So we’ve got a little time to kill. Look in your directory again and see if you can find a number for Mrs. Ella Perkins on the Beach.”
