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

Alec turned to other clippings: The police are leaving no stone unturned... Miss Clark’s death is a great loss to the American stage and motion pictures...

One item was not clipped from a newspaper. It was a strip of galley proof.

MYSTERY WOMAN IN CLARK CASE

Pearson City, Monday, Jan. 9 — Marie Chester, chambermaid at the hotel where Diana Clark was murdered, told reporters today that police are making a big mistake in assuming that the murderer is a man.

“A woman killed Miss Clark,” insisted Miss Chester. “I was substituting for the night maid on the night of the murder and I saw a woman leave Miss Clark’s suite shortly after midnight. She went down the corridor and passed through the door leading to the fire stairs. I told the police but they wouldn’t pay any attention to me. I couldn’t see the woman’s face but she was wearing a long, brown coat.”

On the wide margin of the galley proof four words had been rubber-stamped in red ink: KILLED IN FIRST EDITION.

Norton showed it to one of the men at the table. “How come?”

The man grinned irreverently. “The big boss himself phoned down to the printer just as we were going to press and said to kill the story.”

“Why?” asked Norton.

“The police psychiatrist says Marie Chester is an unrealiable witness subject to hallucinations, sex antagonism and spots before the eyes. Rumor says the yarn was killed because Mr. Leo Benda doesn’t like to read about anything that worries him when he opens his morning newspaper.”

“Who is this Leo Benda anyway?”

The man stared. “People around here never have to ask. I’m surprised New York hasn’t heard of him. He owns Pearson City lock, stock and barrel. Everything from slot machines and clip joints to bucket shops and poultry markets.”

“And the police department?”

The Star man laughed and winked. “I wouldn’t know about that.”

Norton’s next stop was the district attorney’s office. His press card from the New York police department gained him admittance to the property clerk.

Diana Clark’s belongings were spread out on a table; one coat, red velveteen with a fox collar; two dresses, day and evening; one hat, also red velveteen; some flimsy rayon underthings and shabby toilet articles. No wonder she had wanted that lump sum from Forbes! She must have been living through one of those financial crises that come so often to stage people.

The sun had set when Alec Norton reached the sprawling white frame house in the suburbs where Jean Stacy had been living with her brother Martin. A golden afterglow lingered in the west as Norton crossed a windswept terrace and pressed the doorbell. The door was opened by a maid in a spotless white apron.

“Please tell Miss Stacy I’d like to speak to her about her brother. It’s important. I think I can help him. My name is Alec Norton.”

“Yes sir!” A tremulous smile on the maid’s face told Norton that Martin Stacy was well-liked by his household.

Norton waited in a broad hall furnished like a living room, shadowy in the early winter twilight. Jean Stacy came down the wide stairs alone.

“Did Marty send you?” She peered through the shadows. “Oh!” She had recognized Norton. Her lips grew as firm as her chin. “What are you doing here?”

Norton produced his New York press card.

Her anger turned to scorn. “I thought women did the sob stuff. Or do they just use rubber-stamps?”

“Oh, I get more than space rates,” said Norton, lightly. “And I’m not here for sob stuff. I really can help you — if you’ll let me.”

“What’s Marty to you?” Her voice shook with repressed feeling.

“Nothing.”

“Then you’re just a reporter looking for a story?”

“Say a trouble-shooter.”

“What’s the trouble in Pearson City?”

“Too many unsolved murders lately. My chief suggested I look into it. So I’ve been working on the latest — the murder of Diana Clark.”

“But—” Jean’s lips lost their firmness. “The case is solved now. I mean, they think it is. They think Marty did it.”

“They?”

“The police.”

“I wonder if they really do?” said Norton. “They seem to be suppressing the testimony of a chambermaid who saw a woman leave Clark’s suite the night of the murder. Your brother wasn’t arrested until I reached Pearson City. There were plenty of people in the lobby last night when I asked for Clark’s suite. I said I was with the Syndicated Press.