When Hudson stopped talking, Painter whirled on Shayne and snapped, “None of that proves a damn thing, Shayne.”
“Wait a minute,” Shayne interjected. “Did you hear me say anything else, Hudson? While you were dialing?”
Hudson wrinkled his forehead. “I don’t know. Nothing much. You were sort of sore and asked her was she too busy with some other guy when you tried to phone her, and she says no she must have been in the tub-or something like that.”
“What else did you hear while you were waiting for Painter to answer the phone?” Shayne demanded.
“You told her you’d lost her address and had to get it from Information.”
Shayne turned to Painter. “There’s your verification of the whole thing. I hadn’t had time to fix up anything with Helen when your man overheard that conversation. You can see that Henty just got the wrong address when he eavesdropped.”
“Get out,” Painter said to Hudson.
Hudson looked startled. He mumbled, “Yes, sir,” and got out.
Shayne settled back on the couch and slid an arm around Helen. She snuggled against him and they picked up their drinks.
“Not in a month of Sundays,” Painter raged, “will you ever make me believe you landed here beside a corpse by mere accident. I don’t know how this Porter woman figures in it, but you’re in cahoots somehow.”
“Sure,” Shayne chuckled, “I killed the girl by remote control from New Orleans because I didn’t feel she was the right sort of neighbor for Helen.”
Painter glared at Helen for a moment, and then, “Maybe you killed the girl,” he said stonily, “and got Shayne up here in a hurry to keep you from hanging for it.”
Helen jerked herself erect, her light-brown eyes blazing. “Why, you-!”
Shayne held her tighter and whispered something in her ear. Helen subsided, drained her glass, and set it on the table with a sharp thud.
Painter set his thin lips in a bitter line, took a small black notebook from his pocket, and held a pencil poised above it. “Your full name,” he said to Helen.
“Helen Porter.”
“Miss or Mrs.?”
“Miss.”
“Age?”
“You guess, Inspector.”
He scowled and asked, “Occupation?”
She said, “I have a small income.”
“From what?”
“Investments. Bonds and stuff.” She waved one hand airily.
Painter said, “Humph. Live alone here?”
“I live alone and love it.”
Painter said, “Humph,” again. “What’s the name of the woman next door?”
“Madge Rankin.”
“Miss or Mrs.?”
“Mrs. I think she was divorced.”
“Age?”
“Around thirty, I guess. You couldn’t tell about Madge. She was the kind that-”
“Occupation?” Painter interrupted curtly.
“She was-retired, too.”
“On a small income from investments, bonds, and things?” Painter asked with heavy sarcasm.
“That’s right, Inspector. How’d you ever guess?”
Shayne chuckled and Painter made a funny noise in his throat. He asked, “Did she live alone and love it also?”
“She lived alone. I guess that’s the way she liked it.”
“When did you see her last?”
“Last Tuesday evening. She had a sort of party-” Helen hesitated.
“What kind of party?”
“Just some friends, I guess. I didn’t see who was there. They started whooping it up about nine o’clock-had the radio going real loud. I didn’t butt in because I wasn’t invited.”
“How long did the party last?”
“I don’t know for sure. Not very late. I heard some of them leaving about ten o’clock, but the radio stayed on loud for a while longer.”
“Did you hear a shot?”
“Of course not. I’d have known something had happened to her if I had.”
Shayne asked Painter, “Was the girl shot with a thirty-two?”
Painter frowned at the interruption, nodded curtly, and started to ask Helen another question.
“Through the heart from close up?” Shayne persisted.
Painter said with cold anger, “That could be a coincidence. It doesn’t prove there’s any connection between her death and the others.”
“Certainly not,” Shayne agreed happily. “Just an epidemic.”
Painter went on with his interrogation of Helen Porter. “You didn’t see Mrs. Rankin again?”
“No. I thought she was sleeping late the next morning. Then I decided she must have gone out with some of her friends to spend the night-or something.”
“Did she often do that?”
“Sure. She’d be gone two or three days at the time, so I didn’t think anything about it. I knew Madge could take care of herself.”
“You didn’t try the front door and find it unlocked?”
“I didn’t try the front door,” said Helen calmly.
“About this party you say she had Tuesday night. Were there men present?”
“I guess there were some men. I told you I didn’t go in.”
“How did your friend dress when she gave parties like that?”
“She was a pretty swell dresser. When Madge got fixed up and stepped out, men looked at her all right.”
“But for a party costume,” Painter insisted, “would she be likely to wear only a pair of black stockings?”
“That,” said Helen coyly, “would depend on what kind of party she was having.”
Painter snapped his notebook shut, put it in his pocket, and said to Helen, “I’ll ask you to come in and identify the body.”
“Do I have to?” Helen shuddered.
“It’s just routine,” Shayne told her. He got up and drew her up with him. “Come on. We don’t want Chief Painter accusing us of lack of co-operation.”
“Not you,” Painter snapped to Shayne. “According to your say-so you don’t know anything about it, and I don’t want you messing into it. I’ll have some more questions for you after the body is identified.”
Shayne patted Helen’s shoulder and said, “Run along with Painter and get it over while I mix a couple of drinks. Or shall I make it three, Chief?”
Painter said, “You know I never touch the stuff while on duty.”
Shayne grinned and said genially, “You ought to try it sometime. You might get a few ideas.”
Painter stiffened and strutted out the open door with Helen following him.
Shayne took the empty glasses to the kitchen to look for the gin and mixer.
Chapter Ten: TRYING TO MAKE SENSE
