CHAPTER 17
She died at 1:30 the next morning.
Shayne and the others were waiting in an unoccupied room across the hall. Hurlbut summoned Shayne out to the hall with a movement of his head.
“Goddamn it, Mike,” Hurlbut said in a savage undertone. “Fifteen minutes earlier and they think we could have saved her. She had looks, good health, brains, friends-why do they do it?”
Shayne lit a cigarette. “You think it was suicide?”
“That’s how it looks. We’ll have to go to an autopsy to find out. It’s either that or an accident-too much liquor and too many different pills. They had a case like it at the Sans Souci last week. I didn’t think she looked too bombed when she came through the lobby.”
“She’s been taking bennies all weekend to stay awake.”
The security man swore under his breath. “I really liked that kid, Mike.”
Shayne entered the room where the girl had died. She still lay on the bed, covered by the sheet. A Mt. Sinai interne was dismantling the resuscitator. The hotel doctor, a tired-looking man Shayne didn’t know, was closing his case at the bureau. Ruth’s sweatshirt was still in the middle of the carpet. It had been walked on.
Shayne went over to the doctor. “My name’s Michael Shayne. This girl’s part of a case I’m working on. I know you can’t give me a definite cause of death, but are there any indications one way or another?”
The doctor finished what he was doing. He was a young man, going bald. “You know better than that, Shayne. Wait for the autopsy.”
He went into the bathroom to wash his hands. Shayne was waiting when he came out. The doctor said angrily, “Is it important?”
“Damn important.”
The doctor buttoned his shut collar and tightened the knot of his necktie. He went to the bedside, where he turned down the sheet and lifted the dead girl’s left arm. Turning her wrist, he showed Shayne several spidery red lines.
“A prior attempt? Maybe. Several years ago, I’d say. I don’t know the girl, never been my patient. I think it’s a case of barbiturate poisoning, twenty-five grains minimum. No signs of alcohol complication. Half-empty prescription bottle, wrist scars. What does it look like to you? But I’d like it better if she’d left a note. People are so used to having pills around, they get careless.”
He looked down at Ruth’s face. Her expression was peaceful, not much changed from the way it had been in life.
“Not knowing what she had on her mind,” the doctor said, “I have to say it’s a tossup. Look at the room, the mess in that handbag. Not an orderly person, but the kind of person who would lose count and swallow too many pills accidentally?” He broke off. “The hell with it. I can’t help you. Talk to the medical examiner. Now I’m going to bed.”
He raised the sheet.
Shayne thanked him and stood at the bedside for a moment thinking, while the interne wheeled the resuscitator out of the room. Hurlbut came in, looked at Shayne’s preoccupied face, and went out again with the doctor.
Alone with the dead girl, Shayne began to move about restlessly, trying to put together an impression of Ruth Di Palma from the scattered personal objects amid the impersonal hotel furniture. There was only one book in the room, a paperback by a Protestant clergyman, known for his advice to lonely and unhappy people who dreamed of improving their chances in life without going back to infancy to start over. The binding was badly sprung, and sections had been read more than once.
The objects on the bedside table had been returned to the girl’s bag. Shayne emptied the bag again and picked over the contents. He did a careful job, trying to force each object to disclose its secrets before putting it back in the bag. Presently he was left with a curiously-designed pill container. It was flat and circular. The pills were arranged around the circumference of a movable calendar wheel, in sockets numbered from one to twenty.
After studying this for a long moment he dropped it in his pocket and went back to the hall, where Hurlbut was conferring with the doctor. When they were through, Shayne arranged for the use of the room across the hall for the remainder of the night. He went in. Candida was smoking in one of the two chairs, one leg over the chair arm. She looked at Shayne without expression.
“What do they think?”
Shayne poured a drink from a cognac bottle supplied earlier by Room Service. Forbes was outside on the terrace, leaning over the railing looking out at the ocean. His back was stiff.
Without raising his voice Shayne said, “Come in now, Forbes. We have things to talk about.”
Forbes turned. His eyes were red and puffy.
“What things?”
“Come in and sit down.”
Forbes did as he was told, moving jerkily.
“Your father’s right about one thing,” Shayne told him. “It’s time for you to start taking a little responsibility. You don’t realize it yet, but this is your worst jam to date.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re feeling sorry for yourself because your girl’s dead. I’m sorry too, sorry she let herself get mixed up with you people. Candida, are you going to stick to your story that you never met Forbes before tonight?”
“It’s true.”
“Maybe you can convince me of that, but not without doing a certain amount of talking. Here’s how things stand at the moment. Ruth may have attempted suicide a few years ago. There are scars on her wrist.”
“She got those in a car accident,” Forbes put in.
“Forbes,” Shayne said patiently, “if you have any sense at all, you won’t say one more word until I’m finished. She could have been lying to explain the scars. What I’m trying to tell you is that the doctor assumes this was another suicide attempt, only this one succeeded. The autopsy will probably bear that out. But I’m ninety-nine- percent certain that when she went to sleep she expected to wake up again. Here’s why I think so.”
He held out the pill wheel to Candida. “Do you know what these are? They were in her purse.”
She glanced at them. “Birth-control pills. Druggists don’t ask to see a marriage license before they fill that prescription.”
“Take a closer look.”
She took the wheel and studied it. When she spoke there was an undercurrent of excitement in her voice.
“Last night’s pill is gone.”
“So?” Forbes demanded.
“The idea is with these things,” Shayne explained, “you have to be careful not to miss a day. You build up immunity over a period-five days, I think it is, five days running. So for girls like Ruth, who might forget, they’re packaged this way. You buy them by the month. When you take the first pill in a new cycle, you turn the wheel to that day’s date and lock it. As you work your way through the month, you always know where you are.”
“I still don’t see-” Forbes said.
“Use your head, damn it!” Shayne said sharply. “Ruth’s in bed. She’s decided to kill herself, so she won’t have to get up in the morning to face another long empty day. Would she try to remember what day it was, so she could take a birth-control pill first? Those are for people with a future. Don’t tell me she’d do it as a matter of habit. She wasn’t that kind of a girl.”
“You think it was an accident?”
“Accidents happen,” Shayne said. “But I don’t think this was one. She was tired, not drunk. Here’s a theory. Listen to the way it sounds. You were there while she was getting ready for bed. The moment she came in, she got herself a glass of water and took a couple of pills. You got rid of the water while she was in the shower. She came out. ‘Did I take my pills? I guess not-no water.’ Two more. She was finishing up a tense weekend and she couldn’t stop thinking about all the interesting things that happened. She went on talking after she was in bed and reached for the bottle. Two more pills. A long goodnight kiss. ‘See you in the morning, Ruthie. Don’t forget to take your
