“Forget it,” Shayne said. “Thanks for the information.”
He hung up.
VII
The television station where Breakfast with the Coles originated was a modern, brick, one-story building. A receptionist told Shayne that Norbert Cole had just come from the station manager’s office, and she thought the detective could find him in staff writer Lydia Mason’s office. She told him how to get there.
Shayne walked down a hall to the indicated door and found it open. Looking in, he saw Lydia Mason seated behind a typewriter desk. Norbert Cole sat smoking a cigarette and talking to her.
The woman looked up and said, “Why, hello, Mr. Shayne. Come on in.”
Norbert Cole rose and gave Shayne a polite greeting. Shayne found a chair and lowered his long frame into it.
“I was looking for you, Cole,” he said. “Your brother-in-law told me where to find you.”
Cole reseated himself. “You’re looking for me? Is anything the matter?”
“I just wanted to talk about last night.”
Cole frowned. “I’ve already been over all that with the police, Shayne.”
“I know,” the redhead said dryly. “You had a pretty good alibi.”
Cole’s frown deepened and Lydia Mason blushed. “See here, Shayne,” Cole said with a touch of anger. “Our personal affairs—”
“I’m not interested in your personal affairs,” the redhead interrupted. “But in view of your alibi, I don’t suppose either of you are terribly grief-stricken over Marie’s death.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Cole demanded.
“Only that I don’t feel I have to touch on the subject delicately out of respect for your feelings. I don’t think Trimble killed Marie and I don’t think he committed suicide. I think he was murdered, just as Marie was.”
Norbert Cole’s eyes narrowed and Lydia Mason looked shocked. In a faint voice she said, “What do you mean, Mr. Shayne?”
“I think the whole thing was rigged by someone who knew of the threat Trimble made five years ago. How many people does that include?”
After staring at the redhead for a time, Cole said slowly, “Only me and Lydia and Harlan. We never discussed it with anyone else. Is this an accusation?”
“Just a statement of fact. The police seem satisfied with your alibi, Cole.”
A puzzled frown formed on Cole’s face. “You can’t be suspecting Harlan.”
Shayne shrugged. “I understand you yourself suggested him to the police.”
Norbert Cole looked a trifle shamefaced. “They seemed to be suspecting me, and I merely pointed out that Harlan had just as good a motive. It was a defensive move that I regretted as soon as I made it. Of course Harlan can’t move out of that wheelchair.”
“You sure?” Shayne inquired. “How long has it been since he was examined by a doctor?”
Cole looked startled. “Why, a couple of years. Marie had a specialist re-examine him two years ago, I remember. But if you’re implying that he might be able to walk, why would he spend his life pretending to be crippled?”
“Some people will do anything to keep from going to work,” Shayne said. “And from all reports, Harlan isn’t the most ambitious guy in the world. What was the name of that specialist?” After corrugating his brow, Cole said, “Bacon. Dr. Clyde Bacon. I think he’s in the Medical Building. You can easily check on it if I’m mistaken.”
Shayne came to his feet. “That’s all I wanted. Think I’ll give Dr. Bacon a ring.” Moving to the door, he paused and said in seemingly idle interest, “What are your plans, Cole, now that your wife’s death ends Breakfast with the Coles?”
Cole said, “I really haven’t thought about it yet. It’s a little soon to think about anything but funeral arrangements.”
Lydia Mason said, “Norbert used to work the night club circuit. He’s really a very fine stand-up comedian.”
“With the right material,” Cole modestly admitted. “The trouble was getting good writers. If you pay what they’re worth, you work for nothing yourself. If you buy gags from second-raters, you die before the audience. It’s a rough racket.”
“I suppose,” Shayne said. “Well, thanks for the name of that doctor.”
With a nod of goodbye, he continued on out of the office and retraced his way down the hall toward the receptionist. Spotting a door lettered station manager, he hesitated, then, on sudden impulse, opened it and went in.
When a middle-aged secretary looked up at him inquiringly, he said, “Tell your boss I’d like to see him. The name is Michael Shayne.”
The secretary’s face registered surprised interest “The private detective? Just a moment, Mr. Shayne.”
Rising from her desk, she disappeared through a door marked: Private. A moment later she reopened it and said, “Mr. Carlson will see you now, Mr. Shayne.”
It was after two P.M. when Mike Shayne left the television station. Returning to his office, he made a phone call to Dr. Clyde Bacon. When he hung up, there was a look of satisfaction on his face.
Lifting his desk phone, he said to Lucy, “Phone Will Gentry, will you, angel? Ask him to call me here as soon as he gets a report back from the autopsy surgeon on Barry Trimble.”
“All right, Michael,” Lucy said.
The phone call from Chief Gentry came at four P.M. When Shayne answered, the chief sounded upset.
“You sure managed to louse up our whole case,” Gentry complained. “It’s wide open again.”
“I thought it might be,” Shayne said. “What did the autopsy surgeon say?”
“Trimble died between ten thirty and eleven P.M. A half hour to an hour before Marie Cole was murdered.”
Shayne emitted a pleased grunt. “That’s the clinching bit of evidence we needed, Will. Would you like to know who the real killer is now?”
“We’d prefer not to list both murders as unsolved homicides,” the chief said sarcastically.
“I’ll meet you at the Cole house in twenty minutes,” Shayne said, and hung up.
Chief Gentry was already parked in front of the stucco house when Shayne arrived. As the redhead pulled in behind him, Gentry got out of his car and scowled in his direction.
Climbing from his car, Shayne said, “Why the sour expression, Will?”
“You hung up on me,” Gentry said accusingly. “I phoned right back, but Lucy said you’d already left. You could have told me what this is all about.”
“You’ll find out inside,” Shayne said. “Let’s go.”
Norbert Cole came to the door. He looked surprised to see Gentry, but he invited both men in politely enough. Lydia Mason was seated in the front room and Harlan Wright was in his wheelchair.
Shayne said, “I’m glad you’re here, Miss Mason. It saves us the trouble of sending for you.”
The brunette raised her eyebrows and Cole said, “What’s this all about, Shayne?”
“A couple of murders,” Shayne said. “The autopsy surgeon has been able to fix the exact time of Trimble’s death. He died a half hour to an hour before Marie did.”
Lydia Mason looked confused. “How could that be?” she inquired.
“His killer banked on the police accepting the obvious,” Shayne said. “Maybe he knew that under ordinary circumstances it’s difficult to fix time of death closer than within a couple of hours, even with an autopsy. Or maybe he figured they wouldn’t bother having an autopsy when the situation was so obvious. At any rate, he set the scene at the rooming house first He had to. He knew Marie’s murder would only take minutes, but Trimble’s demanded a lot of advance preparation. There wasn’t time to begin working on Trimble after Marie was dead.”