“In that case,” he said, after a short silence, “I think you’d better get your answers from the source, Will.” He strode across to the bedroom door, and opened it.
Nora Carrol jumped up from the edge of the bed, a question forming on her lips. Shayne led her into the living-room and said to Gentry, “This is Mrs. Ralph Carrol.” And to the girl he explained gently, “Will Gentry is our police chief. He tells me your husband has been murdered.”
She went white and swayed against him. “Murdered?” she gasped with a convulsive sob. Shayne put his arm around her waist and half carried her to a chair opposite Gentry and eased her onto it. He held his brandy glass to her lips. “Drink this,” he ordered.
Gentry had risen, his rumpled eyelids rolled high as he stared at the girl in complete bewilderment.
Nora Carrol stiffened. Resisting Shayne’s efforts, she seemed ready to spring from the chair. She looked up into Gentry’s agate eyes, then subsided meekly and drank the remaining ounce of liquor in the glass. A series of retching coughs came with her sobs. Shayne thrust the water glass into her hand and stood over her while she gulped it down.
“Get hold of yourself,” said Shayne swiftly. “Sit right where you are, and repeat your story to Chief Gentry. And tell all of the truth this time. If you lied to me in one single instance before, now is the time to change it.”
“I didn’t lie,” she protested, suddenly shaken from her shock and grief by his accusation. “Why should I?”
“I don’t know,” he growled. “But I’ll be getting some clothes on and I’ll leave the bedroom door open while you’re talking. You might just happen to remember something else, this time, that’ll be important.
“She’s all yours, Will,” he went on to Gentry. “When you’re through with her, you’ll know as much about this as I do.”
He turned away to the bedroom, and scowled heavily, as he listened to Nora Carrol’s tearful, anxious questions about her husband’s death.