Carl Garvin sat dejectedly on the edge of the bed with his face buried in his hands. Gentry dismissed the officer on guard with a gesture and closed the door when he went out, then stood with his back against it while Shayne walked over to Garvin.
“What time did you come here tonight?” he asked.
Garvin lifted a wretched face. “It was about twelve-thirty. I don’t know exactly. I was brooding about things and wondering how to get hold of enough cash to satisfy Gannet. As I told you, I didn’t know at that time that Miss Morton had been murdered. I decided to come and talk to Morton about the proposition he made me. I knew, of course, that I couldn’t help him to persuade her to leave the state before she got the divorce, but thought I might be able to get some money from him by pretending I had thought of a way.” He drew in a deep breath and expelled it like a long, bitter sigh.
“The rest of it happened just as I told you,” he went on in a high-pitched monotone. “When I saw him lying there and smelled fresh gunsmoke I thought he had just shot himself. I realized that if I reported it to the police I’d have a lot of explaining to do, and I was too confused and upset to think clearly. I didn’t even go into the room. Just stood in the doorway for a moment and went away.”
“Directly to Burton Harsh to report to him that Ralph Morton was dead?”
“Yes. I thought he should know. It was all mixed up with Miss Morton blackmailing him, you see, and I still didn’t know she was dead. He told me that part of it when I got there.”
“Had you discussed Ralph Morton with Harsh? Given him the name of this hotel?”
“No. I swear I didn’t. I don’t believe Mr. Harsh knew anything about him until I told him tonight.”
“Leo Gannet told you Miss Lally left his place with me. Did he also tell you where I took her?”
Garvin removed his glasses and blinked up at Shayne in bewilderment. “No. I wasn’t interested in Miss Lally.”
“How and when did Harsh communicate with you between midnight and twelve-thirty?”
“He didn’t. I hadn’t seen him since we parted after dinner. I stopped for a few drinks-as I told you.”
“I know what you told me,” growled Shayne. “Miss Lally received a phone call from some man pretending to be me, which brought her to Morton’s room just before or after you were there. What do you know about that?”
“Nothing. I swear I know nothing about her being here.” Garvin covered his face with his hands and bent forward until his hands rested on his knees.
Shayne turned away, took a few steps toward the door, then whirled back to the moaning man.
“Isn’t it a fact that you and Harsh met outside your office at a quarter to seven and drove straight to Sara Morton’s hotel and murdered her before going to dinner? If she published Harsh’s story he’d be ruined financially and couldn’t raise the money to pay off your debt to Gannet. If you didn’t pay off you knew Gannet’s punks would take care of you in the usual way. Maybe Sara Morton didn’t suspect you of sending the threatening notes, and you’d be the one person she’d unlock her door for. It was a perfect set-up, wasn’t it, Garvin?” he ended savagely.
“No-no!” Garvin swayed and fell sideways on the bed and his body shook violently.
Shayne stood for a moment looking down at him with deep disgust, then went over to Gentry and said, “Call in your man, Will.”
Gentry opened the door and called the guard in. He went out with Shayne, and they stopped midway between the two doors while Shayne explained the Burton Harsh-Carl Garvin aspect of the case more fully.
“All three of them,” he ended grimly, “Harsh, Garvin, and Morton, had a reason to get Sara Morton out of the way fast. Leo Gannet, too.”
Riley came out of 309 with long, hurried strides, stopped short when he saw the chief and Shayne in the corridor. “Oh, here you are,” he said, and held out some crumpled pages of a magazine. “We found them in Morton’s wastebasket. They’re pages with words clipped out of the text. I just had one look at those threatening letters in your office, Chief, but the way I recall it, it looks like this is where they came from.”
Will Gentry reached in his pocket and drew out the three messages, handed them to Riley and said, “Check them against what seems to be cut from those pages-for positive identification.”
Shayne was scowling heavily, and when Riley went back to 309 he muttered, “Looks as if we know now who sent her the letters, at least. Morton had the strongest motive for getting her out of town before a certain date.”
“We’ll talk this development over later,” Gentry said, holding up a big hand to stop him. “In the meantime I’ll take Garvin in and bring Burton Harsh over from the Beach. With their stories and with what Miss Lally can tell us we may be able to make some sense out of this hash.”
“I’ve got five grand riding on keeping Harsh in the clear,” Shayne reminded him.
“If he’s in the clear,” said Gentry flatly, “I won’t stand in the way of your collecting.” He rolled his heavy lids up to look searchingly at Shayne. “Seems to me you tried to get Garvin to convict him.”
“I was trying to break a confession out of Garvin. I thought he might clear Harsh.” He rubbed his jaw reflectively and added, “Harsh has a pretty good alibi for both murders.”
“They’ve all got good alibis for Sara Morton’s murder,” Gentry exploded. “From seven o’clock on. Even Paisly.”
“We don’t know anything about an alibi for Morton.”
“That would tie it all up very neatly,” rumbled Gentry, “with his suicide to top it off and close the case. Too damned neatly, Mike. It doesn’t happen that way. I’ve never yet known a murderer to commit suicide just to make things easy for the cops.”
“But it could be that way this time,” Shayne argued. “Any fingerprints on the gun?”
“His. All over it. But hell, you know how easy it is to wipe a gun clean and press his prints on it.”
Shayne worried his left ear lobe between thumb and forefinger, staring morosely at the bare, worn floor. “Who got Miss Lally over here and knocked her senseless and locked her in a closet to smother? And why? Ralph Morton? And if he intended to kill himself, what in hell did that accomplish?”
“Let’s take it this way: Suppose it was Morton who phoned her to come over for some reason we don’t know. While waiting for her someone comes in and blows a hole in his head. Garvin, for my money,” Gentry said contemptuously, then resumed in his normal rumble:
“Before he can get out of the room she arrives and opens the door. He douses the light fast before she sees either him or the dead man, socks her on the head, and then doesn’t know what to do with her. He doesn’t want to kill her, but on the other hand can’t afford to leave her lying there where she may return to consciousness any moment and give the alarm. So he compromises by locking her in the closet and beating it.”
“That would fit Garvin,” Shayne agreed dispassionately, “if we can break his alibi. Those seven o’clock alibis bother me.”
“They bother me, too,” Gentry confessed gravely. “Her watch being an hour slow-”
“Wait a minute, Will.” Shayne gripped his arm hard. “Maybe we’ve been going at that watch the wrong way.” He paused briefly to clarify the sudden thought in his mind, then continued slowly and carefully:
“Suppose her killer knew she had written that letter to me giving the time as six-thirty? She might have just finished it and not sealed the envelope. So he mails it for her, enclosing the incriminating threats which he didn’t send. But-he turns her watch back an hour, hoping we’ll think it was slow when she typed the letter-then hurries out to get himself a good clean alibi for seven o’clock on.”
Gentry grunted sourly. “That would fit either Garvin or Harsh-or Paisly. They tell me you talked to Paisly at the Golden Cock when you went there with Miss Lally. What do you make of him, outside of being a wrist-slapper?” he added with a fleeting twinkle of humor.
“Slick and on the make. And he hates and fears Beatrice Lally,” Shayne said reflectively. “I don’t know why, but she can tell us. Could you check with the hospital and see if it’s all right to question her?”
“Right away.” Gentry was turning away when Lieutenant Hastings came out of 309.
“I’m through here,” he told the chief. “There isn’t much. The bullet was fired a few inches from his temple, entering the brain and killing him instantly. Somewhere around twelve-thirty, with a half hour leeway in either direction. Those words pasted on the three pieces of paper were definitely clipped from the pages Riley showed you, but we found no scissors or paste in the room. No definite fingerprints except the dead man’s. The twenty-five automatic has been fired once and was fully loaded to begin with. A woman’s gun,” he added. “Few men ever
