steady forward movement.
“You had better think up a good alibi for the time between seeing Hardeman and when I saw your car parked near Edwards’s body-headed toward town. Don’t tell me you were playing the races, because you never gambled a penny in your life.”
“Hey,” Hymie’s guarded voice called from the sedan. “Anything wrong, boss? You want Melvin and me to take that guy?”
“Sure,” Shayne called back. He gave Samuelson a shove that sent him teetering to the edge of the porch. “Come on, Hymie.”
Mrs. Edwards stood behind them, swaying in the doorway, her arms forming a cross outstretched to support her. “Please-gentlemen. Please don’t wake Tommy.”
There was movement in the front seat of the sedan. Samuelson called out through chattering teeth, “No, Hymie. Stay where you are.” He braced his short legs against a porch upright and summoned a semblance of dignity.
Shayne whirled around and assisted Mrs. Edwards back to the couch, assuring her that there would be no more loud talk, then hurried back to the porch. Moving close to Samuelson, he signaled for him to continue.
“I started back to town as soon as I saw Hardeman,” Samuelson said in a low voice. “There was no time between, when I could have been foolishly killing a man. I waited in Hardeman’s office for him to come.”
“With no witnesses?” Shayne said. “That’s a hell of an alibi. It won’t sound so good in court.” With a gesture of disgust he turned from Samuelson, muttering, “I’ll see you later.”
He hesitated at the door until Samuelson’s quick, short footsteps died away. He heard the motor start and a car door slam, then he went quietly into the living-room.
Mrs. Edwards was sitting at the end of the couch. She watched his approach with wide eyes that were gray pools of misery, of disbelief and dismay conflicting with terrible certitude.
Shayne stopped in front of her, moodily rubbing his jaw. “Maxie is gone,” he told her abruptly. “I don’t think he will worry you any more. Later I’ll put you in touch with a man who will honestly appraise your husband’s invention.”
She wet her dry lips and said, “Thanks.” Her hands mechanically strayed out for the sewing-basket beside her.
Shayne thrust his own hands deep into his pockets, stalked to the chair near the couch, and slouched down into it. “Isn’t it time you told me some things, Mrs. Edwards? Your husband is dead now. The truth can no longer hurt him. And Mayme Martin is past caring. There’s only Gil left.”
The widow’s left eyelid fluttered uncontrollably. Her hands lay quiet and relaxed on the garment in her lap. “Why-do you say that?”
“There’s something behind all this,” Shayne insisted. “Something I can’t put my finger on.” He paused, his hard gray eyes glowing speculatively. “Your husband was a very brilliant man. A genius in his line. Why did he bury himself here in this little town-working for the small salary Matrix could afford to pay on the Voice?”
“It wasn’t so bad,” she faltered. “We were happy here in our little home.”
“I don’t believe Ben Edwards was very happy. A man with his ability would be embittered and frustrated in the position of a small-town newspaper photographer. Yet he stayed here. Why?”
“He and Mr. Matrix were old friends,” she defended her husband feebly. “Gil needed his help when he started in the newspaper business here. Ben was-happy to have a part in the Voice’s success.” Her voice gained strength and conviction as she spoke.
“And Matrix and Mayme Martin were old friends,” Shayne mused aloud. “Now-two of the trio are dead. Only Gil is left. Don’t you see that you can’t hide the truth any longer?”
Mrs. Edwards shook her head stubbornly. She pressed her lips into a tight straight line. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr. Shayne. Is there anything odd in the fact that three people who had been acquainted before should meet here in Cocopalm-where people from everywhere come?”
He got up and paced the worn rug, darting sharp glances at her. She resumed her sewing on a boy’s small shirt. Her fingers scarcely trembled as she plied the needle in small, neat stitches. Her face was again placidly unresponsive.
Shayne stopped in front of a framed and tinted photograph hanging on the wall. The picture was of a lean- jawed young man and a plump young lady with a determined look of pride on her face. Stoop-shouldered Ben Edwards might easily have posed as the young man a decade before, and there was little doubt that the proud woman by his side had turned into the placid-faced mother on the sofa. Worry over something had turned her hair gray prematurely, he decided.
In the lower right-hand corner of the framed photograph was printed: Herrick-Lane Studio, Urban, Illinois.
Shayne turned away from the picture and resumed his pacing. Mrs. Edwards continued to sew and said nothing. After a time Shayne broke the silence by asking, “How long have you and Ben been married?”
“Ten years. Ten years lacking only a few days.” Mrs. Edwards’s voice faltered, but she went on resolutely: “Tuesday would have been our tenth anniversary. We had planned-we were going to Miami to make a day of it. Just the two of us. A regular celebration.” She dropped her hands into her lap and gazed past the detective, her eyes wet again, her lips trembling a little.
He said, “I’m sorry-to bring up memories and regrets,” but she interrupted him with a fierce gladness:
“You needn’t be sorry. Memories are all I have left of Ben. I’ll live with memories the rest of my life. Fine memories-nothing can take them away from me. Ben was a good man-a good husband, and a splendid father to our son.”
Shayne said, “No. No one can take away your memories.” He went to a chair and picked up his hat, twisted it in his big hands. “I don’t think Samuelson will come back, Mrs. Edwards. If he does, refuse to deal with him on any basis. And I’d be careful of your husband’s model camera and his plans. As long as they are not patented, any crook who got his hands on them could call them his own.”
The widow nodded listlessly. “They are perfectly safe for the time being-in the office safe.”
Shayne said, “Good night, Mrs. Edwards,” abruptly, and went out.
The street was deserted. The quarter moon was not visible above the tropical growth and houses westward. A strong salt-tanged breeze blew in from the east. Shayne took off his hat and let the breeze ruffle his hair as he walked briskly toward town.
When he entered the Tropical Hotel, Will Gentry jumped up to greet him. “Where the devil have you been?” the Miami detective chief demanded. “Did you know there had been another murder out on the highway toward the dog track?”
Shayne said, “Yeh. I know all about that, Will. Haven’t you seen Phyl?”
“No. I just came in a few minutes ago. The clerk said Phyllis was in, but that you hadn’t come back.”
Shayne nodded, absently running his long fingers through his disheveled hair. “What date is next Tuesday, Will?”
“Next Tuesday? How the hell do I know. Count it up for yourself. This is Thursday. What do you care? With people getting murdered right and left-”
Shayne was not listening. He was counting on his fingers and muttering to himself. He turned abruptly and strode to the hotel switchboard. “Get me police headquarters in Urban, Illinois,” he said to the pretty blond operator.
She scribbled on a pad, looked up at him and asked, “Who’s calling?”
“Charge it to my account, Michael Shayne, room three-ten.”
“You can take the call in the second booth, Mr. Shayne.” Shayne went straight to the booth and closed the door tightly. He stood drumming his fingers on the little wooden shelf as he waited for the connection. Through the glass door he could see Will Gentry standing indecisively where he had left him, staring at the booth with open suspicion and hostility.
It was stifling hot in the narrow enclosure. Shayne whipped out a handkerchief and mopped his face as the telephone rang. He picked up the receiver and a voice said, “Here’s your party, sir.”
“Hello-Headquarters, Urban,” a gruff voice at the other end of the line was saying.
“Go ahead, Mr.-”
“Hello,” Shayne’s voice roared, when the operator was about to call his name. “Let me speak to the
