“Blackmail?” asked Quinlan, his cold eyes looking from the clipping to Jones.
“That’s right.” Shayne moved forward and eased one hip to a corner of the Inspector’s desk. “Jones had a client who hired him to check on Belle Carson’s background, and he discovered she’d been married without divorcing Willis Durkin. So he double-crossed his client by withholding the information she had paid him to dig up, and went to Carson with it.
“Carson paid to the tune of five hundred a month to keep Jones quiet. He phoned Jones from the St. Charles Hotel last night, telling him he’d have a late dinner at Dupre’s and be up to see him about one o’clock. Carson was killed before he reached the Park Plaza.”
“You were blackmailing Carson, and he had a date to see you at one o’clock?” Quinlan asked Jones. “Had he threatened to expose you? Is that why you waited for him down the street and killed him?”
“I didn’t.” Jones’s nasal voice was thinned by fear. “I waited in my room for him, but he didn’t come. Read that clipping,” he urged. “See where it says Whitey Buford was headed in this direction. I figured Whitey had traced him. He had a reason to bump Carson.”
“But no opportunity,” Shayne growled. “Carson didn’t tell Whitey he was coming to town, for that very reason. He knew Whitey would kill him. Carson came here planning to hire me to blast Whitey in a phony attempted arrest. Whitey is a fugitive, wanted for murdering a prison guard in Georgia. Carson figured I could kill him and shut him up forever, and then go clear on it by claiming Whitey resisted arrest.”
“If this Whitey Buford is in town,” Denton growled derisively.
“Doc Mattson is fixing Whitey Buford up right now,” Shayne said to Inspector Quinlan. “I had to put a slug in his belly a few minutes ago. But he’ll live to talk — and to hang for murdering the guard in his prison break.”
Quinlan compressed his lips, and his eyes were coldly alert, probing Shayne’s gaunt face. “If you can prove that Jones was the only person who knew Carson was in town last night, the only person who knew he was dining at Dupre’s, the case is closed.”
“There’s one other guy,” said Shayne casually. “He was Carson’s assistant in the bank and took care of his correspondence. He wrote a letter to me asking for a nine o’clock appointment this morning — a letter that didn’t arrive until you were searching my office,” he went on sharply to Denton, “and Barstow also wrote a note to Dupre’s restaurant making a dinner reservation in advance for Carson. So, Barstow knew his employer would be leaving there late last night.
“Barstow’s wife says he didn’t get home until after three o’clock this morning. Just about time to make the trip by car after Carson was shot.”
“It’s a lie!” Barstow exploded in a choked voice. “I didn’t do it. I liked Mr. Carson. What reason did I have for killing him?”
“You knew he was coming in to see a private detective,” Shayne reminded him harshly. “You didn’t know why, of course, but you had reason to suspect it was to investigate the relationship between you and Belle Carson. You were panicky. You didn’t know what Carson might do if he got the lowdown on you and Belle. At the very least, you’d lose your job, and Belle. You had to stop him. So, you followed him up here in your car after dark and waited outside Dupre’s and shot him.”
“No! I don’t even own a gun!”
“But the bank does,” Shayne reminded him. “Every bank has a thirty-two Smith and Wesson lying around handy. They’re called Bankers’ Specials. Like this one.” He produced the stubby .32 he had wrested from Barstow and tossed it in front of Quinlan. “Run a comparison test on that with the bullet that killed Carson.”
Barstow cowered back in his chair and covered his face with his hands. “I didn’t know what I was doing,” he sobbed. “I was afraid my wife would find out. I couldn’t stand that. I loved Jenny and the children, but I couldn’t stay away from Belle. I hated myself and I hated her and I was so ashamed.”
Shayne turned to Quinlan with a grin. “Does an assault charge still stand against me for hitting Barstow?”
Denton swung around toward Shayne. “I’ll by God get you yet for meddling in my business,” he yelled, and stalked from the room.
Quinlan smiled. “One of these days he will hang something on you, Mike. Thanks for this one tied up in a bundle. If you’ll make up an expense account, it’ll be paid.”
Shayne’s grin widened. He said, “That’s all right. I was just trying to earn a retainer.”