too.”
“That all depends on what she told you,” he said.
“Now you’re fishing,” she accused. Her cool hand gave him back a firm pressure, and she invited him into a tiny efficiency apartment. She wore a flowered housecoat that zipped up the front and trailed the floor behind her. She was about 20, Shayne guessed, with a disarming simplicity of manner. Her brown hair was brushed back from her face and tied at the nape of her neck with a pink ribbon.
“Please sit here,” she said, indicating the one comfortable chair beside which a tall metal ash tray stood. She curled up on the studio couch which was converted into a bed, making the small room appear crowded. “Now tell me what you meant by the police—and what about Margo? Is something wrong?”
Shayne offered her a cigarette, took one for himself and struck a match to light both. “It’s bad news,” he said quietly. “Margo is dead.”
“No!” She flinched as though she had been struck a blow in the face. Her brown eyes were probing at Shayne for the truth behind his stark words.
“But—I saw her just a few hours ago,” she faltered. “Was it an accident?”
Shayne got up and paced restlessly to the chintz-curtained windows, turned, and let his brooding gaze rest on the girl. “Margo was murdered. A short time after you left her. It looks as though you and your friend, Evalyn, were the last to see her alive.”
“Murdered? Oh, no!” Her voice cried out vehemently against the unfairness of it. “Not Margo! She was so vitally alive. How terrible!” Her eyes flashed angrily when she realized the full import of his words. “Tell me how it happened. Who murdered her?”
“I found Margo dead when I went to keep my date with her. I was detained until after eleven. It must have happened soon after you girls left. They don’t know who did it,” Shayne continued harshly. “Right now I’m the chief suspect. That’s why I want you to tell me everything you can—to help find her murderer.”
“They think you did it?” Lucile gasped.
Shayne nodded grimly. “They learned about our meeting this afternoon. The woman who served your dinner swears she saw a man leap from Margo’s balcony to mine just about the time the murder was committed.”
Tears filled Lucile’s eyes and overflowed on her cheeks, but she made no sound. Shayne sat down beside her, put an arm around her shoulders, and said, firmly, “I know this is tough on you, but you’ve got to help all you can. You’ve got to tell me about Margo—about tonight.”
She turned her face against him and cried for a while. After a few moments her slender body grew rigid. She lifted her face and said, “I’m sorry.”
Shayne got up and crushed his cigarette out in the ash tray. “Why don’t you try some cold water on your face? Then we’ll talk.”
“I will.” She went to a door beyond the end of the couch, and before entering, said, “I won’t be long.”
Shayne paced restlessly around the room, walking through an archway into a small breakfast nook and making a cursory examination of the tiny kitchenette.
He resumed his seat when she came out. Her clear skin was flushed from the cold water and she hadn’t put on any make-up. She said, “I’m all right now. I’m sorry I went to pieces.” She made herself comfortable on the couch with two pillows propped against the end. “Margo’s death tonight struck me as being particularly horrible,” she explained quietly, “because she was happier than she’s been since I’ve known her. I think you did that for her. Just the couple of drinks she had with you this afternoon. Don’t get me wrong,” she went on, “I don’t mean she was in love with you. It wasn’t anything silly, but it was what she had looked for here in the Quarter. She’s had a couple of cheap substitutes,” Lucile ended with a grimace, “and she was sure you were going to be different.”
Shayne asked, “What time did you leave
“That all depends on what she told you,” he said.
“Now you’re fishing,” she accused. Her cool hand gave him back a firm pressure, and she invited him into a tiny efficiency apartment. She wore a flowered housecoat that zipped up the front and trailed the floor behind her. She was about 20, Shayne guessed, with a disarming simplicity of manner. Her brown hair was brushed back from her face and tied at the nape of her neck with a pink ribbon.
“Please sit here,” she said, indicating the one comfortable chair beside which a tall metal ash tray stood. She curled up on the studio couch which was converted into a bed, making the small room appear crowded. “Now tell me what you meant by the police—and what about Margo? Is something wrong?”
Shayne offered her a cigarette, took one for himself and struck a match to light both. “It’s bad news,” he said quietly. “Margo is dead.”
“No!” She flinched as though she had been struck a blow in the face. Her brown eyes were probing at Shayne for the truth behind his stark words.
“But—I saw her just a few hours ago,” she faltered. “Was it an accident?”
Shayne got up and paced restlessly to the chintz-curtained windows, turned, and let his brooding gaze rest on the girl. “Margo was murdered. A short time after you left her. It looks as though you and your friend, Evalyn, were the last to see her alive.”
“Murdered? Oh, no!” Her voice cried out vehemently against the unfairness of it. “Not Margo! She was so vitally alive. How terrible!” Her eyes flashed angrily when she realized the full import of his words. “Tell me how it happened. Who murdered her?”
“I found Margo dead when I went to keep my date with her. I was detained until after eleven. It must have happened soon after you girls left. They don’t know who did it,” Shayne continued harshly. “Right now I’m the chief suspect. That’s why I want you to tell me everything you can—to help find her murderer.”
“They think you did it?” Lucile gasped.
Shayne nodded grimly. “They learned about our meeting this afternoon. The woman who served your dinner swears she saw a man leap from Margo’s balcony to mine just about the time the murder was committed.”
Tears filled Lucile’s eyes and overflowed on her cheeks, but she made no sound. Shayne sat down beside her, put an arm around her shoulders, and said, firmly, “I know this is tough on you, but you’ve got to help all you can. You’ve got to tell me about Margo—about tonight.”
She turned her face against him and cried for a while. After a few moments her slender body grew rigid. She lifted her face and said, “I’m sorry.”
Shayne got up and crushed his cigarette out in the ash tray. “Why don’t you try some cold water on your face? Then we’ll talk.”
“I will.” She went to a door beyond the end of the couch, and before entering, said, “I won’t be long.”
Shayne paced restlessly around the room, walking through an archway into a small breakfast nook and making a cursory examination of the tiny kitchenette.
He resumed his seat when she came out. Her clear skin was flushed from the cold water and she hadn’t put on any make-up. She said, “I’m all right now. I’m sorry I went to pieces.” She made herself comfortable on the couch with two pillows propped against the end. “Margo’s death tonight struck me as being particularly horrible,” she explained quietly, “because she was happier than she’s been since I’ve known her. I think you did that for her. Just the couple of drinks she had with you this afternoon. Don’t get me wrong,” she went on, “I don’t mean she was in love with you. It wasn’t anything silly, but it was what she had looked for here in the Quarter. She’s had a couple of cheap substitutes,” Lucile ended with a grimace, “and she was sure you were going to be different.”
Shayne asked, “What time did you leave
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