Shayne went silently through the arch into a long sun porch to the right. He said, “Impossible is a word I don’t like, Mrs. Mattson.” He sauntered across the richly furnished, bright room, grinning at Mrs. Mattson’s gasp of outraged protest.
She stormed, “How dare you force your way in here? Marie, call the chauffeur to throw this man out.”
Shayne arched red eyebrows at the maid. “Marie? Katie would be more like it. Better send the yard man and the butler along with the chauffeur. I’m not easy to throw out.” He nudged a rose-satin footstool forward with his toe and lowered his lanky body onto it.
Olivia Mattson sank back on the chaise-longue, a baffled look of fear and dawning recognition in her eyes.
“The name is Shayne. I’m investigating a couple of murders in Central City last night.”
Mrs. Mattson dismissed the maid sharply. Her dark eyes were veiled with long black lashes. “What have I to do with murder?” she demanded.
“I’m not quite sure yet,” Shayne admitted blandly. “But when a man’s wife is murdered, we generally look for another woman. In this case I didn’t have to look very hard.”
“That’s preposterous — and you’re insulting. You can’t possibly suspect me.”
“I suspect everyone who had the opportunity and the motive. As far as I know now, you had both.”
Olivia’s eyes widened, and she held Shayne’s as she reached for a jeweled cigarette holder and a cigarette. Shayne got to his feet and struck a match. As he held it to her cigarette, he said with a disarming grin: “You’ve got to admit your proposed divorce looks suspicious. That Nora Carson’s death was — well, at least, convenient for you.” He blew out the match and resumed his seat on the footstool.