Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 12, No. 6, May 1963

The disc was the sort of thing you would expect to find on the floor if it were lost — a round, flat object that would drop and roll out of sight like a coin. It had been hidden behind the radiator valve, the one piece of furniture that could not be moved out from the wall during an ordinary search of the room. The disc could easily have lain there for two weeks, unnoticed by anybody.

But would they have been wiser if they had found the black disc? What was it used for? What was it called? A clue without name or function was not much of a clue! It must be evidence — but evidence of what?

Whistling tunelessly, Norton slipped the nameless clue into his wallet and reached for his hat. In the long, dim corridor he passed a linen closet. A chambermaid was sorting clean towels and sheets.

“Hello! What’s your name?”

“Marie Chester.”

Norton leaned against the door of the linen closet. “I’m in Eleven-O-five. Are you the maid for that room?”

“Yes.” Her eyelids dropped when she heard the number. She went on sorting linen. Black hair framed her pale face, thin and worn as a profile on an old coin. It was a mature, intelligent face with a discontented mouth.

“Do you dust behind the radiator?” asked Norton.

She paused and braced herself, one hand against a shelf. Her brows knotted, her narrow lips hardened. She had a temper. “If you have any complaints, sir—”

“Oh no,” said Norton. “But I found something behind the radiator this morning. I thought it might have been dropped by a maid.” He fished the black disc out of his wallet. “Is this yours?”

There was no gleam of recognition in her eyes. “I don’t even know what it is,” she said carefully. “It certainly doesn’t look valuable.”

“No.” He tossed the disc into the air and caught it with one hand. “Was it there the last time you dusted behind the radiator?”

His casual tone caught her off guard. “I haven’t dusted behind the radiator since—” She stopped short.

“Since when?” he prompted gently.

“So you’re a cop! I might have known!” Naked fear looked out of her eyes. The work-roughened hand on the shelf began to tremble. Even her voice shook. “Two weeks ago I tried to tell the police my story. They wouldn’t even listen. If there’d been a woman detective working on the case; she’d have listened. But nobody can tell men anything! The reporters listened, but they didn’t print a word I said.”

“I suppose there were no women reporters either?” said Norton with a half smile.

“If there were they wrote all their stuff in the office. They never came here. And the men weren’t interested in me. If I’d been ten years younger with bleached hair and a come-hither eye— But perhaps it’s just as well I’m not.”

“Why?”

“That room has been vacant ever since the cops cleared out. But yesterday morning when I went in there the furniture was all moved around and the rug rolled back. Do you think I’d stop to dust behind radiators in a place like that? It hasn’t had a real dusting since the morning before the murder. The housekeeper won’t go in there at all and I wouldn’t myself without the bathmaid!”

“Was there a black disc behind the radiator when you dusted there the morning before the murder?”

“No!” She was almost pleading. “Now will you leave me alone?”

Norton studied the mature, intelligent face. “What are you afraid of?”

“I’m afraid of him.”

“Him?”

Her answer came in a whisper. “Leo Benda.”

“Who’s that?”

“I’ve said too much already.” Her thin lips clamped together. “Please, let me alone!”

Outdoors, winter sunshine was pale and thin as lemonade. Norton picked his way through drifts of dingy city snow to the offices of the Pearson City Star. The newspaper’s morgue was a long, light airy room filled with filing cabinets. Three men sat at a table clipping stories from yesterday’s paper.

“Syndicated Press,” announced Norton. “Got a file on Diana Clark?”

One man thought the case was too recent. But another intervened, “Sure there’s a file. I just sent it up to the city room. If you’ll wait a while you can have it when it comes back.”

After twenty minutes, a copy boy trotted in carrying a manila envelope stuffed with newspaper clippings. Norton dumped them out on the table and rearranged them in chronological order.

It was the cuts illustrating the various stories that interested him. One picture was obviously a snapshot enlarged for newspaper use. It showed a boy and girl arm in arm. The girl was hatless, short hair blowing in the wind. Her eyes were darker than her hair. There was character in the firm line of her chin, tenderness in the soft curve of her mouth. He looked at the caption.

Last Man To See Diana Clark Alive — Martin Stacy with his sister, Jean, at the opening of the Melbrook County sheep dog trials.