Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 8, No. 6, May 1961

“Just wondered.” He stood up. “Thanks, Helen. You’ve been a big help.”

“It’s been a pleasure,” she assured him.

There was a phone booth in the restaurant. Shayne used it to call police headquarters. He asked for Chief Gentry.

When the chief answered his phone, Shayne said, “This is Mike, Will. Last night the M.E. told me that if I could give him the time that Trimble last ate, and what he ate, he could pinpoint the time of death to within a few minutes.”

“Yeah, they can do that,” Gentry agreed. “They estimate it by the stage of digestion.”

“Well, you can pass on to him that Trimble had stuffed peppers, mashed potatoes and string beans at seven o’clock and finished eating at seven-twenty.”

Gentry said in a puzzled tone, “We already know about when he died, Mike.”

“Pass it on anyway, will you?” Shayne said.

“All right, Mike,” Gentry said in the irritatingly agreeable tone of a man humoring a friend he believes is entirely wrong. “I’ll pass it on.”

“You don’t have to sound as though you’re doing me a favor,” Shayne growled. “I’m trying to do you one.”

After hanging up, he mused for a moment, then pulled from his pocket the piece of paper on which he had written the Coles’s address and phone number. Dropping another coin, he dialed the number. It was answered almost immediately by Harlan Wright.

“This is Mike Shayne,” the detective said. “Mr. Cole there?”

“Oh, hello, Mr. Shayne. No, he isn’t. He had to stop by the funeral parlor to make arrangements for Marie, then he was going to the TV station. Something about a contract termination because of Marie’s death.” There was a pause, then he said in a diffident voice, “I guess I was pretty hammy last night, breaking up like that. I’m embarrassed.”

“Forget it,” Shayne said. “Thanks for the information.”

He hung up.

VII

The television station where Breakfast with the Coles originated was a modern, brick, one-story building. A receptionist told Shayne that Norbert Cole had just come from the station manager’s office, and she thought the detective could find him in staff writer Lydia Mason’s office. She told him how to get there.

Shayne walked down a hall to the indicated door and found it open. Looking in, he saw Lydia Mason seated behind a typewriter desk. Norbert Cole sat smoking a cigarette and talking to her.

The woman looked up and said, “Why, hello, Mr. Shayne. Come on in.”

Norbert Cole rose and gave Shayne a polite greeting. Shayne found a chair and lowered his long frame into it.

“I was looking for you, Cole,” he said. “Your brother-in-law told me where to find you.”

Cole reseated himself. “You’re looking for me? Is anything the matter?”

“I just wanted to talk about last night.”

Cole frowned. “I’ve already been over all that with the police, Shayne.”

“I know,” the redhead said dryly. “You had a pretty good alibi.”

Cole’s frown deepened and Lydia Mason blushed. “See here, Shayne,” Cole said with a touch of anger. “Our personal affairs—”

“I’m not interested in your personal affairs,” the redhead interrupted. “But in view of your alibi, I don’t suppose either of you are terribly grief-stricken over Marie’s death.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Cole demanded.

“Only that I don’t feel I have to touch on the subject delicately out of respect for your feelings. I don’t think Trimble killed Marie and I don’t think he committed suicide. I think he was murdered, just as Marie was.”

Norbert Cole’s eyes narrowed and Lydia Mason looked shocked. In a faint voice she said, “What do you mean, Mr. Shayne?”

“I think the whole thing was rigged by someone who knew of the threat Trimble made five years ago. How many people does that include?”

After staring at the redhead for a time, Cole said slowly, “Only me and Lydia and Harlan. We never discussed it with anyone else. Is this an accusation?”

“Just a statement of fact. The police seem satisfied with your alibi, Cole.”

A puzzled frown formed on Cole’s face. “You can’t be suspecting Harlan.”

Shayne shrugged. “I understand you yourself suggested him to the police.”

Norbert Cole looked a trifle shamefaced. “They seemed to be suspecting me, and I merely pointed out that Harlan had just as good a motive. It was a defensive move that I regretted as soon as I made it. Of course Harlan can’t move out of that wheelchair.”

“You sure?” Shayne inquired. “How long has it been since he was examined by a doctor?”

Cole looked startled. “Why, a couple of years. Marie had a specialist re-examine him two years ago, I remember. But if you’re implying that he might be able to walk, why would he spend his life pretending to be crippled?”

“Some people will do anything to keep from going to work,” Shayne said. “And from all reports, Harlan isn’t the most ambitious guy in the world. What was the name of that specialist?” After corrugating his brow, Cole said, “Bacon. Dr. Clyde Bacon. I think he’s in the Medical Building. You can easily check on it if I’m mistaken.”