SHAYNE TURNED THE COLLAR of his tuxedo up around his neck and strode rapidly toward the Teller House. Daylight spilling through the mist had scattered the crowd, and a parade of cars moved down the hill. The barroom was closed.
Knowing Phyllis as he did, he decided to look for her in the patio where he had left her, and went through the rear hall.
He found her sitting at a table with Celia Moore, whose stout torso sprawled on the table, her face cradled in the crook of her arm
Phyllis sprang up and cried, “Michael! I thought you’d never come. I don’t know what to do about her.”
The patio was deserted except for the two forlorn women. Shayne grinned and reached Phyllis in a few quick strides.
“What’s the meaning of this?” he demanded. “I thought you were going to interview Miss Forbes for me.”
“Oh — I did,” she said irritably. “And it was awful. She was nearly out of her mind when she left — and Miss Moore is to blame for it”
Shayne sat down close to her and slipped his arm around her. “Is she conscious?”
He indicated Miss Moore who was breathing evenly and audibly. A trickle of saliva ran down from her mouth, wetting her coat sleeve.
Phyllis whispered, “I don’t think so. She has been like that for an hour, and I didn’t want to leave her. I thought she’d come out of it in a little while.”
“What did she do to make Miss Forbes miserable?”
“She was downright nasty. Told Christine that Joe Meade had been writing notes to Nora Carson. Claims she found one of them and read it — and tore it up. Of course she did that to keep Christine from being jealous and worried,” Phyllis went on ironically. “And then she told us that Nora was dead — and that there would be another murder, because things like that always went in threes in the theater, especially on opening night.”
“Bunk,” Shayne grunted. “What else, angel? Did you find out what was in the note Joe wrote to Nora?”
“I couldn’t question her while Christine was here,” Phyllis wailed. “And when the policeman came for Christine, Miss Moore passed out. She had been propping her eyes open for an hour with her fingers and squinting at us. She was mad because her escort skipped out on her and because she said they used little gold thimbles to measure liquor here — and, oh, it was simply terrible, Michael!”
“What did the police want with Christine?” Shayne asked.
“I don’t know. The man just said that Joe Meade had shot himself and he’d been sent to get Christine.”
“Well — we’d better rouse Miss Moore and get her to her room.”
“If you had heard her talking about murders going in threes! Her voice sounded like a — well, like one of those awful people who predict things like that. It scared Christine half to death.”
Shayne got up and pulled Celia Moore’s shoulders up against her chair. Her arms slid from the table and lolled in her lap. He started talking close to her ear in a persuasive voice. Phyllis caught her plump hands in one of hers and began chafing them.
One of Celia’s eyes opened and squinted at them. “What you doing, big boy?” she asked thickly.
“I want to know what was in the note Joe Meade wrote to Nora Carson.”
The woman giggled. “Can’t tell you, big boy. Don’t wanna hurt Christy’s feelings. Say — I thought you were the gal with redhead. C’mon, let’s all have a drink.”
“The bar is closed — it’s morning. Come on, Miss Moore, we’ll take you to your room,” Phyllis pleaded.
“About that note,” Shayne interrupted. “What was in it?”
Miss Moore shook her head emphatically. “Won’t tell anybody that.”
“You’ll tell tomorrow,” Shayne said angrily. He put a long arm around her waist and pulled her weight from the chair, motioned to Phyllis to take her other arm. “Now walk straight,” he warned Miss Moore. “You don’t want people to think you’re drunk.”
“Got a drink, big boy?” she asked.
“What’s your room number?”
She giggled again and gave him the number, and the trio moved slowly through the rear hall and the bar, and into the lobby. As they started up the stairs, the older woman jerked away from them, caught the banister rail, and pulled herself up, carefully planting both feet on each step.
Shayne and Phyllis waited until she reached her room, then Shayne picked his wife up in his arms and carried her to their room.
As he unlocked the door, he glanced down the hall and noticed a light shining from the open door of 123. He said, “Go on in and get to bed, angel. I’ll look in on Frank Carson.”
Phyllis said stubbornly, “I’ve worked on this case all night with you, and I’m not quitting now.”
Shayne said, “Okay,” with a chuckle, and she followed him down the hall.
Frank Carson lay flat on his stomach across the bed. He wore a striped dressing gown, and bare feet and shanks protruded over the edge.
Shayne said “Carson!” sharply, but there was no movement of the inert body, and no reply.
Phyllis swayed against the door jamb and watched with tired, frightened eyes.
“I told you you shouldn’t come, angel,” Shayne said gently. “Run along, now, and relax.”
She shook her head and stiffened her limbs against the rubbery feeling overcoming them. She clamped her hand over her mouth to keep from screaming, after she said:
“He’s dead, Michael. Frank Carson is the third Celia was talking about.”
Shayne went into the room and began examining the inert body. Phyllis followed him, clinging to his arm. He grinned and pointed mutely to an empty whisky bottle on the floor directly beneath the lax fingers of Carson’s right hand. Carson’s eyes were closed, but his mouth sagged open. He was breathing quietly.
Shayne drew her back, extinguished the light and went out, closing the door. He said gruffly, “Let the poor devil sleep it off. He has had it pretty tough tonight. I suppose he heard about Nora and decided to take this way out of his misery.”
Phyllis swayed against him and whispered, “Do you mean — Celia was right about Nora?”
Shayne looked down into her tired face compassionately. “Hasn’t the news got around town yet? Christine seemed to know all about it. Nora is dead — murdered.”
“But you said ‘bunk’ when I was telling you what Miss Moore said about — three murders. And you knew all the time,” she accused him, her voice teary.
“I wasn’t sure she was passed out,” he told her, “so I just said ‘bunk.’”
“So Nora was the second,” she breathed.
Again Shayne swung her into his long arms and carried her across the threshold of their room and dumped her on the bed.