“Denton got a deathbed confession,” he said. “That closed the case as far as I can see.” He went to the breakfast table and took a long drink from the cognac bottle.
When Shayne returned, Lucile was sitting rigidly upright on the couch. Her young face was tense with thought. “I’ve been thinking. From what you’ve told me, Captain Denton is thoroughly dishonest. Do you suppose he made up that story about Evalyn confessing?” She picked up the newspaper. “It says here that he was the only witness. No one else heard her confession. If he walked in and found her dying—”
“Or dead,” Shayne supplemented harshly. “Sure. Denton’s an opportunist. It would have been too perfect to pass up. But we haven’t any proof.”
Shayne paced the length of the room and came back to sink into the comfortable chair opposite the couch. He closed his eyes and massaged his left earlobe gently.
Lucile watched him, but said nothing. Perfect quiet was in the room until Shayne hunched forward and said, “I’m going to use your telephone.”
“You know where it is,” she said.
Shayne stalked to the instrument and called Harry Veigle. When a voice answered, he said, “Mike Shayne, Harry.”
“Mike — where the hell have you been hiding? Wherever it is, I hope you’re well hidden.”
“Is it that bad?”
“It is, Mike. Your prints are all over the bottle.”