“I hadn’t heard, but it was in the cards. George Brand is the only man with enough guts to come in here and stir ’em up. With him out of the picture, what else would they do?” Ann Cornell tipped her glass and drank from it as though it contained only water, then lolled back in her chair.
“So, Roche’s death actually broke the strike?” mused Shayne.
“In more ways than one, brother. Hanging it on Brand was the way to speed things up. Charles Roche was their only chance to win, and Brand knew it. That’s why he’s the last man on earth to’ve killed Charles.” She spoke slowly. The natural up-curve of her full mouth drooped and her deep blue eyes were dull.
Shayne said, “You’re a smart woman, Mrs. Cornell.”
Her mouth twisted ironically and her gaze brooded across the room, then she twitched her shoulders impatiently, emptied her glass and said, “I’ve lived in Centerville all my life. I’ve seen other labor organizers come… and go. This time they had a chance. George Brand had the guts, and he had Charles Roche convinced.”
“Who did kill Charles Roche?” Shayne asked abruptly.
“What d’you care?” she said dully. “Doesn’t Brand suit you for a fall guy?”
Shayne made an impatient gesture. “Maybe I don’t like the idea of a fall guy.”
“You’re working for the mine operators,” she accused.
“That doesn’t mean I’ve sold out to them,” Shayne growled. He got up and poured more into her glass, went back and sat down and muttered, “Roche had been receiving threatening letters.”
She nodded slowly. “Jimmy told me about ’em.”
“What did he tell you?”
“Not much. All he knew, I guess,” she said carelessly. “I don’t think he saw one, but he seemed to think they had something to do with the strike… and Charles wanting to give the men a union contract.”
“You’ve seen a lot of Jimmy?”
“All of ’em,” she said thickly. “Him… and others. Ask around town and they’ll tell you Ann Cornell don’t play favourites. They tell a lot of goddam lies about me, too.” She didn’t sound bitter. Just passive and weary and drunk.
“What about Charles?” Shayne demanded bluntly. “Did he ever drink out of your jug?”
“I wouldn’t tell you… if he had. Every married man comes here is plenty safe.”
“Charles wouldn’t have,” Shayne suggested, as though he argued the point with himself. “Not married to that hot little sketch I met tonight. She’d keep a man busy.”
“I expect you’re right.” She was not drunk enough to be trapped. “You’re not drinking much,” she complained.
“I’m working,” Shayne reminded her again. He drained his glass and set it down. “I guess I’d better get at it.” He stood up. He had tossed his hat on the floor beside his chair, and stooped over to pick it up. His head reeled dizzily. Straightening slowly, he asked, “What proof is that stuff I’ve been drinking?”
She giggled. “I don’t know exactly. Lafe Heddon don’t bother with any of them gadgets when he runs off a batch. Three times through the coils and whatever comes out the last time is what you get in one of Lafe’s jugs.” She had grown careless of her grammar. She giggled again and said, “’Nother short one’ll take the edge off what you’ve got.”
“Not for me.” Shayne shook his head angrily, then asked, “If you saw Brand had a chance… would you help me clear him?”
She said, “Don’t be a fool. No need for you to waste any effort on Brand. You can figure his chances by the men going back to work. They’d stay out if he had a nigger’s chance.”
Shayne hesitated, studying her face. “You don’t look like a girl who’d scare easy.”
“I don’t.” She was looking up at him, trying to focus her eyes on his. When she succeeded, she held his gaze levelly and said, “I know what you’re up against in this town.”
“But the police would give you protection if…”
“The police?” She laughed. “Are you joking? Those crummy bastards! If I knew anything to help Brand I’d forget it. If you run across anything, you’d better forget it, too.”
Shayne said, “I’m not very good at taking advice. Thanks for the drinks.” He turned and stalked through the door.
He got in his car, started the motor and turned on the headlights. As he pulled onto the pavement, lights showed in the rear-view mirror from a car behind him. They appeared to come from a car waiting at the intersection where Charles Roche had left his car parked last night while he kept a date with death.
The car gained on him slowly as he drove straight ahead, down the slope toward the east-west highway through Centerville. He vividly recalled the incident on the highway earlier as he and Lucy were driving into town. A car deliberately forced off the road and over a cliff and an armed deputy waving all traffic on while his buddy beat the driver to death. It wasn’t a pretty picture to remember, but his mind dwelt upon it as he watched the queer maneuvers of the car behind him.
It had speeded up to a distance of two hundred feet back, and appeared to slow deliberately to follow him at that distance. As though it were stalking him. It couldn’t be an ordinary tail. No cop would be fool enough to hope to follow so close and remain unobserved.
The road began to twist around the side of the hill and there was a steep embankment on his right. At this precise instant the car behind him picked up speed. Shayne’s perceptions sharpened, and he instinctively edged toward the center of the pavement.
The other car was coming up fast and a horn sounded impatiently. Shayne pulled further to the left to let it pass on his right between his car and the steep embankment which was so remindful of the scene of the accident that afternoon.
He grinned sourly when the pursuing car slowed suddenly, and did not accept the challenge. The horn blew steadily, but Shayne held to the left-hand side until the road flattened out on both sides, then edged slowly to his rightful place. In a moment the other car rushed past. There were two men in the front seat of the heavy sedan, and Shayne’s headlights picked out the two letters, “P D” above the license plate in the rear.
He wondered why they hadn’t stopped to arrest him for taking the right-of-way and refusing to let them pass on the left. He had never known cops to pass up that sort of an insult before. They evidently had orders not to arrest him. He wondered what orders they did have… and who had given them during the short time that had elapsed since he visited Charles Roche’s widow.
He debated savagely with himself as he drove on toward the Eustis Restaurant. The smart thing would be to get out of town at once. But the more his mind dwelt upon every single angle of the case, the greater the challenge became.
His mouth was grim and his eyes bleak when he parked in front of the restaurant and went in.
8
Two men were seated at the table with Lucy Hamilton. One was a balding, wiry, middle-aged man in his shirtsleeves with bright red and yellow suspenders. The other was younger and heavier, wearing a seersucker suit. He was holding Lucy’s left hand, leaning close and talking rapidly. Two gold teeth showed beneath his short upper lip as he talked.
Lucy’s face was flushed, and she nodded continually, her brown eyes glowing as though she listened to pearls of great wisdom. The brandy bottle was practically empty. She didn’t look up when Shayne threaded his way between the tables. The bald man glared with open hostility when the tall redhead stopped beside her and laid his hand on her shoulder.
Lucy was startled. She drew away from the heavy man when she saw Shayne, and said vivaciously, “I’ve been having such a good time, Michael. These gentlemen have been telling me all about Centerville, and it’s simply fascinating.” She put her hand on the bald man’s forearm. “This is Mr. Rexard… Mr. Shayne. And this is Titus, Michael. He’s a state representative and very important.”
Shayne nodded and said, “It was kind of you to entertain Miss Hamilton while I was gone.” He seated himself between Lucy and Rexard, looked at the depleted bottle with raised brows. “I’m afraid you haven’t been very hospitable, Lucy. Shouldn’t we order another bottle?”