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.