Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 34, No. 5, April 1974

June reached up to take his arm, but he brushed her hand away and strode over to stand directly in front of Stan and me.

“Who’s the head man on this case?” he demanded, looking at me. “You?”

I nodded. “My name’s Selby,” I said. “This is Detective Rayder.”

Courtney walked to the couch and sat down heavily beside Warren Eads. June sat down on the other side of her father.

“I was never sick a day in my life before,” Courtney rumbled, giving the belt of his bathrobe a savage jerk to tighten it about his hard-looking waist. “And when keeping something to himself can make a man sick, it’s time to stop. June, we’re going to bring this whole thing out in the open, right here and now.”

“But, Father—!” June began.

“Quiet,” Courtney said sharply. “We’ve all been fools. It’s time we stopped.” He looked at me from beneath shaggy eyebrows and nodded slowly. “You were right, Selby. The reason June and Warren gave Larry Yeager a part in the show was that they had to. They had to because that sniveling idiot of a Yeager had got hold of that film.”

“Father—” June began again.

“Shut up, June,” Courtney said. “The first I knew about it, Selby, was when June told me she’d hired him. I knew there had to be some reason for such an unlikely thing to do, and I kept hammering away at her until she told me what it was.” He paused, shaking his head incredulously. “That idiot. He actually thought that a part in the show would make him a star.”

“Is that all he wanted?” I asked. “Just the part? He didn’t ask for money as well?”

“He hadn’t quite got around to that yet,” Courtney said.

“He paid a thousand dollars for that film,” I said. “I’m wondering where he got it.”

“Not from us,” Courtney said.

“By the way, Mr. Courtney,” Stan said. “Where were you yesterday, between half-past eleven and half-past twelve?”

“In bed,” Courtney said promptly. “Where, according to my doctor, I ought to be at this minute.”

June leaned forward a little, her slanted eyes slightly narrowed. “Is that when Larry was killed, Mr. Rayder?” she asked. “Between eleven-thirty and twelve-thirty?”

“Yes.”

“Father!” June exclaimed triumphantly. “Warren! Isn’t that wonderful?”

“What’s so wonderful about it?” Stan asked.

“We were here,” June said. “We were all right here, right in this apartment. Father and Warren and I. And Jill and Tony Edwards were here too.” She turned her smile from Stan to me. “So you see, none of us could have had anything to do with it.”

“Congratulations,” Stan said. “Who are Jill and Tony Edwards?”

“They’re doing the choreography for our show. They’d dropped by to talk about the girls’ costumes.”

“Where do they live?” I asked.

“The Colmar Arms, on West End Avenue.”

“A charming couple,” Warren Eads said. “You’ll enjoy talking to them.”

“And do give them our best,” June said, glancing pointedly at the door. “You’ll be able to find your way out, I’m sure.”

“Too bad you’re in such a rush,” Eads said.

“Warren, baby, I think little June could use a drink,” June said. “And Father, you’d better go back to bed.”

“Bed be damned,” Courtney said in his rumbling voice. “You think you’re the only one around here old enough to take a drink? Fix me one, too, Warren — and this time, damn it, put a little whiskey in it.”

June Courtney’s story proved to be as easy to verify as it had been hard to hear. Less than an hour after we’d heard it, we had corroborated her story with Jill and Tony Edwards at the Colmar Arms and were on our way back to the precinct.

We reached the squad room just as Barney Fells started out the door.

“Well, you boys have one less suspect than you thought you had,” Barney said. “Roy Cogan.”

“How come?” Stan asked.

“A patrolman up in the 20th Precinct caught him with the meat in his mouth. Burglary.”

“What about the time of the homicide?” I asked. “Where was he then?”

“Just exactly where he ought to have been — at the parole office, reporting in per schedule, right on the button,” He grinned crookedly. “Try breaking that alibi.”

Stan looked at me and shrugged resignedly. “Another ex-suspect,” he said. “We’re getting quite a collection of them.”

“Pete, there was a phone call for you,” Barney said. “Mrs. Robert Farrell.”

“Fine,” I said. “But who’s Mrs. Robert Farrell?”

“You didn’t know? She’s the lady that owns the house where Larry Yeager had his apartment.”

“I thought she was in Europe.”

“She just got back. She wanted to know what that police seal was doing on the door of Yeager’s apartment. She seemed pretty p.o’d about it, for some reason. I left her number on your call spike.” He started down the stairs to the muster room.

“I think I’ll shave,” Stan said, heading in the direction of the washroom. “Maybe it’ll wake me up a little.”

I walked over to my desk, glanced at the number Barney had left on the call spike, and dialed it.

“This is Detective Selby, Sixth Pre—” I began.

“Well!” she snapped. “You certainly took your time about calling me, didn’t you?”

“Sorry,” I said. “I just got back to the squad room.”