“But Durkin took it on the lam with the fifty grand. At least that was Buford’s story. He couldn’t prove it, of course. But Durkin and the money were gone, and Belle Durkin was left behind. She swore she didn’t know anything about it, and maybe she didn’t, but folks think it was her nagging for more money that drove Durkin into it.” Jones took another drink and sagged back in his chair, his chin resting on his chest.
Shayne let him loll a moment, then prompted him again.
“Willis Durkin got away clean,” Jones resumed slowly and thickly. “Belle left Atlanta soon after that and resumed her maiden name, Belle Brand. She turned up here in Louisiana a few months later, got next to a smalltown banker in Cheepwee, and married him. She committed perjury in her license application by stating she’d never been married before.
“I don’t imagine Carson knew anything about it until I wrote him that letter, and from what Mrs. Barstow told me about her, it seems she was leading him the same kind of life she’d led her first husband.”
Shayne thought over what Jones had told him, then said slowly, “I’m surprised he covered up for her. He knew she was two-timing him, according to Mrs. Barstow.”
“I dunno,” said Jones. “He was a big-shot around Cheepwee. It would have kicked up a big scandal. It wasn’t like I was pushing him too hard. I was careful about that. Five hundred a month wasn’t a hell of a lot to a guy like him.”
“What did Carson say to you over the phone last night?”
“He called me about seven-fifteen and told me who he was and said he wanted to see me. He hinted he’d like to talk over a lump sum payment to keep things quiet. That suited me, but I was just ready to go out on a date. I asked him how about later.
“He told me he was having dinner at Dupre’s just down the street, and how about coming up here afterward — around one o’clock. That suited me, and we made the date. I got home a quarter of one and waited for him. He didn’t show up by one-thirty, so I turned in.” Jones lifted his thin shoulders weakly and added, “How was I to know he was getting gunned about then, right down the street?”
“That’s a fair story,” Shayne said coldly. “But you’re going to have one hell of a time proving it. You’re the only person he called in New Orleans — the only one who knew he was here. You were blackmailing him and you knew he would be leaving Dupre’s about one. The cops are going to make a case against you. You had the motive and the opportunity.”
“What motive?” Jones snarled. “He was my bread and butter. He was ready to make a big settlement.”
“That’s your story,” Shayne pointed out. “You’ve no proof he didn’t tell you over the phone that he was tired of being blackmailed and threatened to expose you.”
“Wait a minute,” Jones said thickly. “Maybe somebody else was blackmailing him or his wife. Maybe somebody else had a motive.” He jumped up and went to a small desk on unsteady legs. He dug around in a drawer and came back with a newspaper clipping.
“I happened to see that in the paper two weeks ago and clipped it out just in case. Whitey Buford knew Belle when she was married to Durkin. How do we know Whitey didn’t trail Belle here and was putting the screws on her the same as me?”
Shayne read the story with mounting excitement. The clipping carried pictures of two men, with captions stating that they were Whitey Buford and his suspected kidnaping accomplice, Willis Durkin. It described the escape of Whitey Buford from a Georgia prison camp after murdering a guard, and asserted that authorities had reason to believe the fugitive might be headed toward New Orleans.
It gave a brief rehash of the sensational case of the Crawford baby kidnaping, corroborating what Jones had told him, and suggested that the daring prison break might have been more than a little influenced by the convict’s corroding desire for revenge against Durkin.
Shayne’s face was grim when he folded the clipping and put it in his pocket. He didn’t tell Jones that it explained the things Belle had told him that afternoon in Cheepwee.
“We haven’t any proof that Carson got in touch with Whitey Buford last night,” he said, “even supposing Whitey is here and he had traced Belle. Until we have some such proof, you’re the only suspect we’ve got. The police are already watching this place, so don’t try to get out of town.” Shayne strode to the door and went out without looking back.
He headed for Dupre’s. It was a small, exclusive, and exceedingly popular restaurant on the corner of Royal and St. Louis. At this early hour of the evening there were at least twenty couples already lined up in the small foyer waiting their turns to secure tables.
Shayne strode down the line, unhooked the rope that held the crowd back, and went through toward a harried maitre d’hôtel who was anxiously consulting his reservation book.
“I’m not crashing the line,” he explained with a wide grin. “Police. A customer of yours was murdered last night after leaving here. His body was found half a block from here.”
The maitre d’hôtel looked up at the tall redhead, startled. “So?” he inquired. “I read of the tragedy, but did not recognize the picture in the morning paper.” His eyes were worried.
“I know you have hundreds of customers during an evening,” Shayne said rapidly. “I imagine this man had a reservation. His name was Walter Carson.”
A series of rumples formed in the headwaiter’s forehead. After a thoughtful moment he said, “But yes. Mr. Carson — so it was he? The reservation was for nine o’clock. A single.”
“Can you tell me how and when the reservation was made? Did he telephone you yesterday afternoon?”
“But no.” The man let the rumples smooth out and immediately formed them again. “How could we make a reservation on so short notice when we are booked days in advance?”
“Then he must have written in beforehand,” Shayne suggested.
“Of course. The letter requesting a table was received several days ago. Mr. Carson is an old customer and the request was given consideration.”
“Can you tell me anything about how long he stayed?”
The man shrugged expressively. “If you are the police — and Mr. Carson is dead — why not? There is a girl in whom he was interested. A dancer in the floor show.”
“Her name?”
“Do you need that? I assure you the relationship was innocent.”
“We won’t use it unless it’s necessary,” Shayne assured him.
The maitre d’hôtel sighed. “Her name is Yvette. She sat with Mr. Carson at his table between shows.”
“I want to know when Carson left and whether anyone met him here.”
“I can tell you that. It was after the second show ended. A little after one o’clock. Mr. Carson went out by himself.”
“Did he take a cab or walk?”
“I’m sorry — I cannot say,” said the man.
Shayne thanked him and went out. Things added up to fit Jones’s glib story, but the fact still remained that Sidney G. Jones was, so far as Shayne could learn, the only person who knew he would be walking up St. Louis Street at that time.
From Dupre’s, Shayne drove down several blocks and turned to the right toward the old French Market. In this section of the Quarter, where the old houses had gone to seed, the street lights were set far apart and burned dimly. An atmosphere of depression and gloom hung over the area.
Pulling up on a narrow and dimly lighted street, he got out and walked half a block back to one of the older houses set far back from the sidewalk in a wide, untended lawn behind a sagging picket fence.
Lights glowed dully from some of the windows, like evil eyes watching him, as he strode up the walk and around to a side entrance where a green bulb burned over an embrasured door. He pushed the door open and went down four stone steps into a sour-smelling cellar.