Dolls Are Deadly by Brett Halliday

wheeled out from the curb, a gray sedan started up down the block.
    Noticing how the redhead stared bleakly into the rear-view mirror, Lucy asked acutely, “Why should anyone tail you, Michael?”
    “I don’t know. Percy Thain found out at the séance that his sister-in-law, Clarissa, had hired me. He didn’t like it much, but I don’t think he could have rounded up a tail this fast. It was on me when I left Swoboda’s, but I ditched him. He must have staked out here on the chance that I’d see you.”
    “Then it’s somebody who knows that I’m—your secretary, at least.”
    “At the very least.” Shayne smiled a wry, warm smile.
    “You don’t seem worried.”
    “About your being—at least—my secretary, or about the tail?”
    “About the tail, of course.”
    “I’m not. I’m not going anywhere tonight that I give a damn if anybody knows.”
    Lucy fell silent a moment, then said, in a small worried voice, “I don’t see why it would be Percy Thain.”
    “I don’t either. What’s he got to gain by knowing where I go?”
    “Nothing—unless he’s the one who sent Clarissa Milford the voodoo doll. If he’s really planning to kill her, he’d want to do it when you weren’t around.”
    “Good figuring, but at this point I don’t think it’s Percy Thain. I can’t figure what connection he’d have with a cheap hood like Henlein, and it’s a good bet the same person sent dolls to both Clarissa and Henlein.”
    “Why?”
    “Too much of a coincidence otherwise.”
    It was a moonless night and out in the country the dew was thick. The windshield clouded and Shayne started the wipers, listening to the rhythm of their faint, regular squeak as they swept across the glass.
    After a while he slowed, turning his spot on the mailboxes. At the one reading Milford, he entered a long driveway.
    A half a block in, the Milfords’ house faced the Thains’ across about an acre of untended ground. They were identical one-story, red-brick, L-shaped houses, with a small front stoop and detached garages, and they looked out of place so far from any other sign of community living. They sat in a deserted field, squat and ugly, combining city and country living in an almost comic way. While it wasn’t difficult to picture Percy and Mabel Thain living out their lives within these lonesome, unimaginative walls, Clarissa Milford seemed out of place here. Perhaps she lived here because it was cheap. If her husband was a compulsive gambler, she’d need to keep a tight hand on the budget.
    Across the way the Thains’ house was dark, but a light shone behind drawn shades in the Milford living room.
    As Shayne reached for the door handle, Lucy said, “I’ll wait here for you, Michael.”
    “Just to prove you trust me with another woman?”
    “No, but she’s so upset. I think she’d rather talk to you alone.”
    “Angel.” He slid across the seat and kissed her quickly. “You are a good angel. I won’t be long.”
    As he walked across the thin sward of grass to the front door and rang the bell, from the corner of his eye he caught a movement in a spotting of shrubbery. Bill Martin was on the job. It had probably been his light-colored convertible parked on the road.
    Clarissa came to the door, wearing the same blue suit she had worn to the office this afternoon and at the séance. Her eyes were tight and she looked tired. When she recognized Shayne, fine lines appeared on her forehead.
    “May I come in for a minute?”
    “Of course.” She stepped aside, a little reluctantly, adding, “My sister and brother-in-law are here.”
    “Maybe we could talk outside for a minute then.”
    She closed the door behind her, walked down the steps and out onto the sparse grass. About ten feet from the house she stopped, turned suddenly and said, “Dan hasn’t come home yet. He called to say he was tied up—on business he said, but I know what kind. Have you found anything out yet?”
    He smiled. “You’ve got to give