“Where? What elevator man,” Shayne pressed him.
“I was at my office until a quarter of seven. I went down in the elevator at that time, then drove to the Seven Seas to meet Mr. Harsh for dinner.”
“Was anyone in the office with you?”
“No-”
“You can’t be serious about this, Shayne,” Harsh interjected angrily, tactfully easing his voice back to normalcy as he interceded in Garvin’s behalf. “I’ll vouch for Carl personally. He’s practically my son-in-law. If he needs money to pay off some foolish gambling debts, he knows he has only to ask me.”
Shayne lit a cigarette and blew several puffs of smoke toward the ceiling. Harsh, by his own admission, could vouch for Garvin’s gambling debt only if the story failed to appear in print. Sara Morton had been in a position not only to ruin him financially, but bring disgrace upon his family, and, alive, she could with one stroke leave Carl Garvin at the mercy of Leo Gannet’s thugs, also. Harsh and Garvin could have been together since a quarter of seven. The exact time of Sara Morton’s death was not established. Did Harsh meet Garvin immediately after Garvin left his office and go to Morton’s apartment, kill her, and then go on to the Seven Seas for dinner to establish an alibi?
During the short silence, Harsh sat solidly in his chair. Garvin mixed himself another drink at the chromium- plated bar against the wall and walked nervously around the room, clutching the glass tightly in an effort to keep his hand from shaking.
Shayne rubbed his jaw reflectively and turned to Harsh. “When did you learn that your future son-in-law was gambling considerably heavier than the dollar limit you mentioned tonight?”
“Tonight-just a short time ago,” he answered stubbornly. The heavy lines were still in his face and the natural, determined set of his square chin was at variance with the haggard look in his eyes.
Shayne considered this briefly. Tonight meant tonight, but a short time ago could mean a day-a week. He took a casual puff on his cigarette, turned to Garvin, and asked bluntly:
“Where did you go after leaving Gannet’s office tonight-after he put the screws on you for money or for some action on Sara Morton?”
Garvin dropped limply into his chair, sloshing the liquor in the half-filled glass over the rim. “Why-I went home,” he stammered, avoiding Shayne’s hard gaze. “I had encountered Miss Lally earlier, and Gannet told me she had been there with you. I knew nothing of Miss Morton’s death at that time. I heard it over the radio when I was getting ready for bed, and I thought I should come here at once and discuss it with Mr. Harsh.”
Shayne ground his cigarette in an end-table ash tray and growled, “We’d all make out a lot better if you’d stop lying to me. I know you didn’t go directly home from Gannet’s office and I know you promised to get hold of some cash and take it back to him tonight. Where did you expect to get cash at this hour?”
“I don’t know where you get all your information,” Garvin said sullenly. “I told Gannet I’d pay up as soon as I could. I was worried-and suppose I did stop for a drink or so on my way home,” he ended defiantly.
“Did it take you an hour to get a drink or so?”
“What if it did?” he flared. “Why are you cross-questioning me like this?” He brought the glass shakily to his lips and drained it.
“Where were you at twelve-fifteen?”
“I-don’t-know.” He spaced the words evenly and spoke with shrill vehemence. “I don’t keep a timetable of every move I make. But I would have if I’d realized I was going to be put on the witness stand and grilled like this.”
“See here, Shayne,” Harsh cut in impatiently, “you stated a moment ago that Carl had a motive for killing Miss Morton. Did you mean that? Do you think for one moment he’s the type to commit murder to curry favor with a gambler and get a small debt canceled?”
“Someone has been writing Miss Morton letters threatening her life unless she left town at once,” Shayne answered Harsh, but for the benefit of Garvin, whom he watched narrowly for some reaction, “Who? It’s not the sort of thing Leo Gannet would think of. The letters were prepared by someone with access to a paste pot and sharp scissors such as are used in an editorial office. If Garvin didn’t send them-”
“Which I didn’t,” he broke in caustically. “It’s preposterous. But I–I think I can tell you who was sending her such letters.”
“Who?”
“Ralph Morton-her husband. He came to my office several days ago and asked me what hotel his wife was stopping at. I knew nothing about the strained relationship between them, so I told him. Then he became abusive and wanted to know exactly how long she had been in Miami. I looked up the date for him. He began to rave, and told me of her intention to divorce him.”
Carl Garvin grew more and more excited as he continued to relate the incident. He took off his glasses and gesticulated with them. “Morton mentioned the fact that a few more days would complete the legal residence requirements, and had the effrontery to offer me money if I could devise some subterfuge to induce the syndicate to send her to some other state immediately-before her Florida residence was established. I told him, of course, that such a thing was entirely beyond my power to arrange, and finally got rid of him.”
Shayne considered this briefly, remembering also that Garvin showed no surprise upon hearing of the threatening notes. He said, “So Ralph Morton and Gannet were both offering you money to get Sara Morton out of town. What was Morton’s offer?”
“I didn’t encourage him to mention any sum,” said Garvin with dignity. “You can see that it must have been Ralph Morton who sent the threatening letters you mentioned.”
“Maybe. Where is Morton staying?”
After a barely perceptible pause Garvin replied, “I don’t know,” too emphatically.
“He must have given you an address. How were you to get in touch with him?”
“I wasn’t going to get in touch with him,” said Garvin, growing sullen again.
“Look-he comes in and makes you a proposition,” Shayne said patiently. “Even though you turned him down as you claim, he must have hoped you might change your mind-and he wouldn’t have left without telling you where to contact him.”
“If he did, I don’t remember.”
“But you made a note of it,” Shayne said flatly. “It’s in your office some place.”
Again there was a faint hesitation before he said, “It may be,” in an overly indifferent tone. “I don’t see-”
“The hell you don’t,” Shayne burst out savagely. “You know the police are looking for him. Why are you holding out his address? Do you hope he’ll get away?”
Garvin’s apathy was shattered abruptly. “I hadn’t thought-I didn’t realize the importance-you’re right,” he stammered, coming to his feet and drawing his slender frame erect. “I should have thought of it at once. I’ll go to my office and see if I can find it.”
“I’ll go with you,” Shayne grated. “But before we go there’s one more thing I need, Harsh. That blackmail note you received from Sara Morton.”
“It’s right here.” All three men were standing, and Harsh went to a secretary and drew a square white envelope from a pigeonhole. He handed it to Shayne.
The paper was of the same heavy consistency as the special delivery he had received. The address was typed, and the envelope bore no return address. He took the single sheet of notepaper out and saw Sara Morton’s printed blue signature at the top. The final paragraph read:
I don’t wish to discuss this matter with you further, and suggest you mail this sum to me immediately with a signed note stating that I am to consider it full payment for services rendered.
Sincerely,
The signature was in blue ink and as nearly like the printed name as signatures usually run.
After reading it, Shayne glanced at Garvin and asked, “Have you seen this?”
“Of course. Mr. Harsh called me over to see it last evening.”
“Can you identify the signature as Miss Morton’s?”
“Why-I presumed it must be. It certainly looks the same as the printed name at the top of all her note-
