Free Dolls Are Deadly by Brett Halliday

chair arm and squeezed past him, rising and walking across the room with a lithe animal stride.
    “I thought I recognized you when I first saw you out there this evening. Your picture’s been in enough papers. You ought to start wearing a beard, Mr. Shayne.”
    “It’s not becoming—”
    “What do you want with me?” she asked harshly.
    “Your background.”
    “Why?”
    “Let’s say it’s a matter of close personal interest.”
    “That’s not true!”
    “All right then. I’m investigating a murder. A man was found dead today. His name was Henry Henlein and he had received two of your little dolls, one stabbed, one strangled.”
    She laughed humorlessly. “What have I to do with that? Hundreds of people have bought them. We don’t keep records.”
    “You keep a record of those who attend your séances regularly. Otherwise you wouldn’t be able to prepare the tape recordings in advance. Who does attend them regularly—besides the Thains and the Milfords?”
    “I don’t know. There are no tapes and I don’t keep records!” There was venom in her voice.
    “What about the Woodbines? Are they regulars?”
    Her manner changed. She became softer, almost placating, as if she now wanted to co-operate. “I’m not sure who you mean.”
    “A chunky, bald-headed man, blond. His skin’s peeling from sunburn. His wife’s dumpy and middle-aged.”
    “It seems to me they’ve been here once or twice, but I’m not sure. Really,” she smiled in sweet reasonableness, “I hold a séance every night. Tourists come and go. I can’t keep track of them all and don’t try to. I have no reason to.”
    “What were you—before this?”
    “I had a mentalist act. I was a mind-reader on the stage. Not that it’s any of your business.” She recovered her assurance suddenly, turned her back, jabbed her cigarette viciously in the ash tray and took another from a box on the table.
    “Who set you up here?”
    “I took my own money and set myself up. Now, will you get the hell out?”
    “I hate to leave on this note. We were getting along so beautifully.”
    “We’re not any more.”
    “One last question. Are you in love with Dan Milford?”
    She swung around, her mouth set in a crimson line, her eyes flashing. “Now I get it! Now I know who sent you. Murder, indeed! It was that jealous wife of his! She came here, threatening to interfere with the way I make my living, throwing her weight around and upsetting me so I could hardly go into a trance that night.”
    She flipped the ashes of her cigarette irritably in the direction of an ash tray, then using it as a pointer, shook it at him.
    Unaccountably, despite the show of anger and indignation, Shayne had a feeling that her true feeling at the moment was one of relief, almost as if she had welcomed mention of Dan Milford.
    Ostensibly still holding to her anger, Swoboda said, “Whoever murdered that Milford woman would be doing a good deed.”
    “Is that why you sent her a voodoo doll—to scare her to death?”
    She stopped, honestly surprised, her mouth agape, her aquiline nose uptilted, the flush of anger slowly receding. The respite was only temporary, however. On the next instant the fury returned.
    “It’s none of your damned business, but I didn’t. Now, for the last time, get out! You’re invading my privacy!”
    “I’d like to. The idea’s tempting. You’re not going to answer my question about Dan Milford?”
    “I am not.” She threw herself into the wicker chair and rocked violently, staring sullenly ahead, the cigarette sending a wavy stream of smoke up from her moving hand.
    Reaching out, Shayne touched her bare arm lightly with one finger.
    She jumped. “What are you doing?”
    “I wanted to see if you’d burn me. Dan Milford’s wife says you’re on fire.”
    “If I had my way, I would. The less Shaynes in this world, the better.”
    “And the more Swobodas?”
    “What do you think, Shayne?”
    “I don’t know yet. Dan Milford’s