“Are you sure you saw nothing like this in Diana Clark’s suite when you were there the night of the murder?”
“Quite sure. If it was there I didn’t see it.”
Outside again in the pale winter sunshine Kimball turned his car toward Wickford, the real estate project promoted by Diana Clark’s divorced husband, Daniel Forbes.
Kimball drove in silence until Norton spoke. “Have you any idea who the man was Diana Clark planned to marry?”
Kimball frowned. “The police think it was Martin. They got to know each other when Martin and I handled her divorce from Forbes three years ago. The police claim that they were lovers — that Martin got tired of her and killed her when she threatened suit for breach of promise. Of course it’s nonsense. She was seven years older than Martin. He barely noticed her.”
Wickford was a raw, new development. Tarred roads and asphalt sidewalks divided meadow and wasteland into checkerboard squares. There were only two houses — one finished, the other in the lathe and plaster stage.
Kimball halted his car before the finished house, a naked cube of white stucco without shrubbery or trees. A billboard proclaimed the office of Daniel Forbes, dealer in real estate.
Forbes himself answered the doorbell. He was young, but his face was set in a permanent frown of worry. He wore practical country clothes — shoe packs laced to the knee, an old pair of riding breeches and a mackinaw.
“Oh, it’s you.” His face fell when he saw Kimball. “I thought it was somebody come to buy a lot.” He led the way into a roomy, plainly furnished office.
“How’s business?” asked Norton after introductions had been made.
“Not so good.” Forbes’ grin twisted wryly. “I suppose that gives, me a motive. I could never have paid the lump sum Diana wanted. And I haven’t an alibi either. My wife and I were alone together all evening and a wife’s testimony doesn’t carry much weight in a case like that. Everybody assumes she’ll lie like a lady to save her husband’s life. But I didn’t do it.” His grin faded. “Diana must have got her claws into some other poor guy and he shot her. I don’t believe it was Marty Stacy.”
“Why not?”
“He’s just starting his career. Not enough money for Diana. He’s too much like me. She wouldn’t make the mistake of marrying a poor man the second time.”
When Norton and Kimball rose to go, Forbes accompanied them to the front door. Two people were coming up on the porch — a little girl in a scarlet ski suit and a woman in a shabby old rabbit’s fur coat. Both were pink-cheeked, wholesome and gay. Forbes introduced them with pride. “My wife and daughter.”
The little girl had trouble curtsying in her ski suit. “My pants are too stiff,” she explained solemnly.
Mrs. Forbes hailed Kimball with outstretched hands. The seam of one glove was mended with tiny, looped stitches. There was a neat darn in one stocking. Obviously she did all her own mending. She didn’t seem to mind. But Norton thought: If she belonged to me I’d hate asking her to go without things so I could pay Diana Clark alimony. Forbes had a double motive: Clark was driving him to bankruptcy and he couldn’t face it with a second wife and a child to support...
Norton showed Forbes the black disc, casually, as if it were an afterthought instead of the purpose of this interview.
Forbes eyed it without apparent interest. “Doesn’t mean a thing to me.”
Norton looked up and met Mrs. Forbes’ gaze. Her cheeks were a bloodless white now. Her eyes were glazed and stony, fixed on the black disc.
“You recognize this, Mrs. Forbes?” asked Norton.
“No.” Her lips formed the word, but only the thinnest sound came from her throat. She tried again. “I’ve never seen anything like it before.”
Norton knew she was not telling the truth.
As they drove back to Pearson City, Norton gave Kimball a detailed account of the finding of the black disc.
“I’d like to hear the chambermaid’s story from her own lips,” said Kimball. “She’s an important witness.”
But when they stopped at the hotel, the management couldn’t find Marie Chester. None of the staff had seen her for hours.
“She must be out at luncheon,” suggested the housekeeper. “Try again after one o’clock.”
Norton and Kimball lunched at the Stacy house with Jean. Coffee was served in a long room with windows overlooking a winter landscape of pale sunshine and yesterday’s shopworn snow.
They sat around a roaring fire of birch logs that gave the room color and light as well as warmth. Norton told them about his interview with Benda.
“Mr. Norton, you must take the next plane back to New York,” said Jean.
Norton laughed and looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. “It’s only two p.m. Benda gave me until five fifty-three. A lot can be done in nearly four hours, perhaps more than he realizes.”
“I wish you would go.” Jean’s voice wavered. “I can’t help feeling Benda is up to something. I saw him once in a night club. He was—” She searched for a word. “Evil.”
“I’ve had the same feeling,” said Kimball. “I’ve seen him in the Criminal Courts when his men were on the witness stand. He looks like a sadist, a man who enjoys cruelty for its own sake. Perhaps it would be better if you did go back to New York, Mister Norton.
“I can take the black disc to John Bates, the district attorney, and tell him the whole story. He’ll jump at the chance of getting something on Benda. The governor appointed him for that very purpose and he has a staff of trained detectives who should be able to identify the black disc more quickly than you could.”
“When was Bates appointed?” asked Norton.
“Six months ago.”
“And he hasn’t got anything on Benda yet? He must be either bribed or incompetent! Our Mr. Benda doesn’t hide his light under a bushel. I wouldn’t trust a district attorney like that with the one concrete clue in the case.”
“Then you’re going on with this?” Jean asked.
“I’m not a quitter either!” Norton said. “You should be glad of that. Your brother is still in grave danger. The fact that Benda wants me to leave town proves that he is in the plot to protect the real murderer and railroad your brother. But I don’t believe Benda will dare to try any tricks on me.
“After all, he’s only a racketeer with police pull in a middle-sized Texas border town and I am an employee of a national organization. If I were killed or injured the Syndicated Press would make things so hot for him he’d have to stand trial. His battery of high-priced legal experts couldn’t save him and he knows it. That’s why he didn’t dare lay a finger on me yesterday.”
“Just what are you going to do?” Jean’s voice was taut and brittle.
“Identify the black disc and trace it back to the murderer who dropped it in Diana Clark’s hotel suite.”
Jean rose. “When do we start?”
“We?”
“Sure. I’m in on this. Marty is my brother. My car’s in front of the house.”
Norton shook his head. “It’s one thing to take chances for myself, but I’m not going to take chances for anyone else.”
“You’re not taking chances for me — I’m taking them for myself.” Jean lifted that firm little chin. “And you said there was no danger to an employee of the Syndicated Press. Can’t I be your temporary secretary or something?”
Norton admired her courage too much to refuse her. But Kimball shook his head, looking suddenly older and frailer. “I don’t like this,” he muttered. “I don’t like it at all.”
In the hall Norton consulted a classified telephone directory. From a dozen companies listed under cardboard he chose one at random — Elk River Mills Inc. As he climbed into the car, he gave Jean the address.