Mrs. Thrip rested her head on the back of the gold chair as if her story was finished. Shayne emptied his cup of cognac and looked into her tortured eyes. Phyllis got up quietly, turned the light up, and brought the bottle of cognac from the bar. She refilled Michael’s cup. Leora Thrip was staring out the window, her hands folded in her lap.
“A remarkable story,” Shayne said. “You were braver than any woman I know to have told it, Mrs. Thrip.”
“It was necessary to make you understand,” she said quietly. She straightened, caressed her purse with the palm of her hand. “But there’s more. Dorothy-that’s Arnold’s daughter-is twenty-five years old. I don’t understand her, though I’ve tried since Arnold and I were first married. How does a trapped animal feel? I was trapped. I’m not sure that Carl knew I was Dorothy’s stepmother before he met me at the house. He hadn’t known me as Mrs. Thrip in Atlantic City. But I think he knew. I think he had found out who I was and deliberately set himself to get his hands on Dorothy. You see, Carl hated me too, in the end, because I refused to be compromised and give him an advantage over me-and my money.
“Even though Dorothy has always hated me, I tried to save her from herself-and from Carl Meldrum. I warned her against him, telling her, of course, that my knowledge of his character had come to me indirectly. She-told me I was an old fool with sex repressions and had better read Freud.
“I decided to have it out with Carl. I begged him to leave Dorothy alone. He laughed at me and hinted that he might be persuaded to do so-for a price. I don’t know what he has told Dorothy about me. I’m sure he has told her something-probably a distorted account of our former meeting.
“Then the letters began coming. The letters my husband told you about this afternoon. Their vague hints were not clear enough to tell him what actually lay behind them, but I knew at once they were from Carl.
“Arnold wanted me to pay the money demanded in the letters. When I refused he was inclined to scoff at the entire matter. But I think he has become suspicious lately that there is more than he first thought. Perhaps Dorothy has told him something. I don’t know. I don’t know how much Dorothy knows. I don’t know how much my husband suspects.” She made a quick gesture of despair with her hands, clasped them together tightly.
“I am deathly afraid Carl will carry out the threats in the letters. He is subject to violent moods-and three nights ago I heard him stop outside my door as he went away from Dorothy’s room. He stood there a long time- then went away.” The high note of hysteria in her voice broke off suddenly. She was staring down at her empty teacup.
Phyllis refilled it without saying a word. Mrs. Thrip murmured, “Thank you,” and raised the cup to her lips.
Shayne frowned, marveling at the stuff some women are made of. After her long recital she was sipping tea as though she enjoyed it, as though she had come for nothing more important! He took a gulp of cognac from his own cup and asked, “Did Carl Meldrum really love you in the beginning?”
“I think he did. I-am afraid he still wants me, in one way anyhow-perhaps because I refused what he wanted most.” Red came up in her cheeks, but she looked at Shayne levelly.
“Yet you think you’re in danger from him?”
“Yes. Oh, yes, I’m sure of it. You don’t know Carl Meldrum, Mr. Shayne. You wouldn’t understand him. No normal man could. He has a twisted mind. He would enjoy hurting the person he loves. You can see the daily torment I live in-and I know it is a source of exquisite pleasure for him to see me writhe when he looks at me with that smile of secrecy in the presence of my family. I must have help, Mr. Shayne. I–I’m afraid to go to sleep at night.”
Shayne nodded reassuringly. He emptied his cup of cognac and stared across the pleasantly furnished living- room, catching together the threads of Mrs. Thrip’s story and balancing them against her husband’s story. It was evident that Mrs. Thrip knew nothing of her husband’s plan to pull a fake jewel theft.
After a long moment of thought Shayne turned to Leora Thrip and said, “This does put a different complexion on the case. I’m interested. I don’t take cases unless I’m interested, Mrs. Thrip.”
“Then you’ll take it?” Relief shone in the woman’s eyes. She glanced at Phyllis and Shayne caught a look of understanding, almost of triumph pass between them.
“I’ll take it under consideration, Mrs. Thrip. I’ll need to check up on Carl Meldrum-” He paused, drumming his finger tips on the chair arm.
Mrs. Thrip nodded. “I’m so relieved after telling you everything, Mr. Shayne. I feel sure you will know just what to do. It’s been such a horrible burden and it’s wonderful to shift it onto your shoulders.”
Mrs. Thrip stood up. Again she was a placid, middle-aged woman with neat gray hair and tranquil eyes.
Shayne stood up and told her not to worry. He went out of the apartment with her and to the elevator.
Phyllis was sitting before the coffee table when he returned. Her chin was cupped in one hand and she looked frightened. While Shayne poured a drink, she said mournfully, “The poor dear, reaching out for life and love before she became forty-and finding only disillusionment. It’s pitiful.”
“Tough,” Shayne agreed somberly. He stood behind her chair and rumpled her hair. “I’ve just been thinking- when you reach the dangerous age of thirty-nine I’ll be a decrepit fifty-four. You had no damn business marrying an old man, angel.”
Phyllis laughed and sprang up. She put her hands on his wide shoulders and stood laughing. “Don’t say things-like that, Michael. When I’m old I’ll have-all this to look back on.” She stood on tiptoe to kiss him.
He put an arm around her and led her to the divan where he carefully set his glass on an end table and pulled her down beside him. She snuggled close and said, “It’s grand that you can do something for a woman like that. I felt like crying when she first came and told me how you had refused to take the case.”
Shayne lit a cigarette for each of them and put one between her lips. “And I suppose you promised to use your influence to get me to change my mind?”
“Not only that,” Phyllis admitted gaily. “I promised her you would. In fact, I collected a retainer in advance.” She zipped her hostess gown open a few inches and took out a folded check.
Shayne took it and spread it out on his knee, staring in open amazement at a check payable to Michael Shayne in the sum of one thousand dollars, signed by Leora Thrip.
“I told her your services came high but were worth it,” Phyllis explained guilelessly. “You can’t say I’m not starting out being helpful.”
“Yeh, a big help,” he muttered. He got up suddenly. “I’ve got to do some telephoning, angel.”
In the bedroom he called several numbers and asked for Joe Darnell. After half an hour without success, he stalked back into the living-room with a strange, set look on his face. He shook his head in response to Phyllis’s anxious queries and said dully, “We’ll keep our fingers crossed, angel. That’s all we can do now.”
Chapter Four: TWO DIE VIOLENTLY
Phyllis awoke to hear rain coming down softly outside the open window and the telephone ringing on the little table on her husband’s side of the bed. She nudged him and waited with a chill shivering through her as he groped for the phone. She sat up, urging him to hurry. It was the first night call that had come since their marriage.
It was like being a doctor’s wife, she thought confusedly, only worse. A doctor’s wife knew that an urgent call wasn’t taking her husband into danger, while a private detective never knew.
Shayne was saying, “Yep, Shayne talking,” then listened a full two minutes.
Phyllis could faintly hear a rasping voice that sounded excited, but Shayne finally ended the conversation by growling, “All right. Sure, I’ll be out but I don’t see what good I can do.” He clicked the phone down and Phyllis grabbed his arm.
“What is it, Michael? Do you have to go? It’s raining and you sounded hoarse this evening.”
Shayne patted her hand, then pulled the cord on a bed lamp. “It’s nothing important, angel. Mr. Painter just hates to think of me sleeping soundly while he’s out chasing down clues.” He yawned and flexed the muscles of his arms, threw the covers back, and grinned down at the absurdly little-girl features of his wife. “Nice of you to remind me of the danger of catching cold. Shows the true wifely instinct. To keep you from worrying I’ll fortify myself against the rainy night.”
He swung his pajama-clad legs over the edge of the bed and uncorked a cut-glass decanter by the telephone.
