Murder & the Married Virgin

by Brett Halliday

  “What bank?” Shayne asked.

  “I didn’t notice the name, but it’s a savings and loan bank on the corner of Broad and Canal. She was in there a few minutes, and then she asked if I was going near the Union Station. So I took her there.”

  Shayne’s eyes were alert with interest. “Did she say what she wanted there?”

  “No. I was going to drop her there but she asked me to wait for her. She acted rather peculiar. She wasn’t in the station more than ten minutes, and when she came back to the car she asked me—right out of a clear sky—” Neal paused dramatically, gesturing with his pipe. “She asked me if I knew my way around in Storyville.”

  Shayne frowned. “The old red-light district?”

  “It knocked me for a loop,” said Neal. “I still don’t believe she knew what the district actually was. She was quite naive about things like that.” He paused again and Shayne had to prompt him.

  “When I recovered from my surprise,” he continued, “I told her I had been there a few times. Then she asked if I’d mind driving her there. I tried to argue with her, Mr. Shayne. I hinted that it was no place for a decent girl even in daylight, but she just compressed her lips and said she had to go and if I didn’t drive her she’d take a cab. So I drove her.”

  “Where—what address?” Shayne asked.

  “She had an address written on a piece of paper that looked as though it had been torn from the telephone pad here at the house. She referred to it and told me she wanted to go down along Iberville. She kept watching numbers as I drove, and finally told me to stop at the next corner.

  “I tried to get her to let me go with her, but she wouldn’t, and she wouldn’t tell me the address. She insisted that I let her out on a corner and drive on. Well, I let her out and turned around the corner while she started back along the street. I found a parking place and swung into it and hurried back on foot to see where she went.”

  Neal smiled wryly. “It was spying on her, but it really wasn’t mere spying. At least I convinced myself that I was worried about her. I was in time to see her go up the walk and enter an old building.

  “I waited fifteen or twenty minutes and she finally came out. I dodged back around the corner before she saw me, and drove back to town to do my errand. I didn’t mention it to her later.”

  Shayne got out a pencil and pad and jotted down the Iberville address Neal gave him. He said, “You’ve given me a lot to think about. Thanks.”

  Shayne went out to his car and drove slowly through the business section until he found a barber shop with all the chairs filled and men waiting. He parked and went in. Before sitting down he picked up a newspaper from a table, looked at the date, and began turning the pages.

  The item which Katrin Moe had evidently clipped was a brief account of a prison break from the State penitentiary the preceding morning. Two convicts, Anton Hodge and Raymond Gillis, had made their escape early Tuesday morning by the simple ruse of getting inside a laundry truck and concealing themselves under a pile of dirty clothes. Once outside, they had conked the driver and made their getaway toward New Orleans in the truck, abandoning it near the city.

  Anton Hodge was described as twenty-eight, blond and slender, of medium height, serving a seven-year term for burglary. Gillis was twenty-three, also blond, weight one hundred and seventy-five pounds, height five-feet seven inches, serving a ten-year term for aggravated assault. Both were described as dangerous.

  Shayne laid the paper down after reading the item. He yawned and looked at his watch, got up and went out to his car and drove to Iberville. He parked near the corner Neal had mentioned.

  The house Katrin Moe had visited the afternoon before she died was a decrepit old frame structure with a faded sign over the door that read: Rooms 50¢.

  He opened the door and entered a dark hallway thick with the stench of half a century of accumulated odors. A sign over an open doorway said Office. The room was foggy with smoke from half a dozen cigarettes roiling up to cloud a lone light bulb over a table where six men were playing cards.

  A hulking man got up and came toward Shayne. His eyes were wary, and he grunted, “Watcha want?”

  “Some information,” Shayne answered.

  “What kind of info?”

  “About a girl who came here yesterday.”

  The man began to shake his head. Shayne got out his billfold, took a bill from it and walked over to the far corner of the room.

  The big man followed him, moving around to face Shayne who stood with his back to the men at the table. Shayne held the bill, folded the long way, close enough for the man to see the figure.

  After a moment’s hesitation the proprietor said, “Yeh. I know the one you mean. She wasn’t like most that come here. She was young and pretty with gold hair and blue eyes. Right?” He squinted at the banknote and wet his lips.

  “Right. Who did she come to see?” asked Shayne.

  The big man’s eyes flashed over to the table of card players and he said in a loud voice, “I ain’t no stoolie. A man comes here and signs the book John Smith and that’s all right with me.” He lowered his voice to a whisper to ask, “You the cops?”

  “Hell, no. I don’t like the cops any more than you do. What did the man look like and what’s his name?” Shayne pushed the bill toward the man.

  “Waal—he was sort of skinny and had light hair cut mighty short,” he told Shayne in a low tone. “But he dusted off early this mornin’. I dunno where he went.”

  “How long was he here?”

  “One day. Paid in advance.”

  Shayne eased the bill into his hand, turned away and said angrily, “Well, if you won’t tell his name I’ll find out some other way,” and stalked from the room.

  The big man laughed raucously and shuffled back to the table.

  CHAPTER SIX

  LUCY HAMILTON was powdering her nose at her desk when Shayne walked into the office. She smiled at her image in the mirror and asked, “How’s sleuthing?”

  Shayne tossed his soggy hat aside. “Not so hot. All I’ve been doing is asking questions and getting answers.”

  “Isn’t that the way to solve cases?”

  “Not my way,” he answered morosely. “Philo Vance might be able to sort out the truth from the lies, but I’ll be damned if I can.”

  She carefully rouged her upper lip, asked casually, “Want to buy an emerald necklace?” and applied rouge to her lower lip.

  “What?”

  “I said, do you want to buy an emerald necklace?” She ran a powder puff around her smooth chin and throat. “A man has a necklace for sale and he’s been calling you.”

  “Who?”

  “That seems to be a secret,” she told him, and patted her brown curls. “He won’t tell who he is. If you’d ever let me know what to tell people who want to sell you emerald neck—”

  “He’ll call again,” Shayne interrupted. His eyes glistened. “It’s pretty fast for the fix, so they must know I’m ready to light a fire.”

  The telephone rang and Shayne said, “If it’s him I’ll take it in the other room. You have the call traced.”

  Lucy was saying, “Mr. Shayne has just this minute returned. I’ll connect you.” She nodded, covered the mouthpiece and whispered, “It’s the man with the necklace.”

  Shayne reached his desk phone in six long strides. He said, “Hello, Shayne speaking.” He heard Lucy flip the switch and frantically call the operator to trace the call.

  A softly modulated voice said to Shayne, “I talked to a Mr. Teton at Mutual Indemnity this morning. He told me you were handling the Lomax matter.”

  “That’s right. Who’s speaking?”

  His caller chuckled urbanely. “Let’s waive introductions. And if you’re having this call traced, don’t bother. I’m in a public booth and I’ll be here only a minute. The necklace is for sale.”

  “How much?”

  “Forty grand.”

  Shayne sent a derisive laugh over the wire.
“You’ll be lucky to get rid of it for half that amount.”

  “Maybe.” His caller remained unruffled. “I’ll call every day or so until you’re ready to talk business.” He hung up.

  Lucy came in swiftly, her eyes glowing with the pride of success. “I had the call traced,” she announced. “It’s a public phone in a drugstore on the corner of St. Charles and Poydras.”

  “Skip it.” Shayne went around the desk and sat down, pulled out the top right-hand drawer and brought out a bottle and two glasses.

  Lucy’s bright eyes dimmed with disappointment, “And I thought I was doing something. Wasn’t that the man?”

  Shayne poured a drink of cognac into a glass and offered it to Lucy. She shook her head and said, “I have to stay sober and earn my eighty a week.”

  Shayne grinned. “You stay so damned sober you’ll never earn it.” He drank the cognac and poured another moderate drink. He said, “It seems our young lieutenant was right about his fiancée,” and sipped his second drink while he told his secretary the salient facts concerning Katrin Moe’s death, ending with, “What do you make of it? Give me the woman’s angle.”

  Lucy answered helplessly, “It just doesn’t make sense, Michael.”

  He finished his drink, put the glass and depleted bottle back in the drawer and closed it. “I’ll see Teton, and then I’ll see Doc Mattson. And I’ll get some more answers that don’t add up. Then I’ll go out and get drunk…”

  “Be sure to call Lieutenant Drinkley first,” Lucy said hastily. “He called just before lunch and begged me to have you call him this afternoon. I promised you would, without fail.”

  Shayne regarded her balefully. “That’s a nice assignment. More poetic maundering about the sweetness of undefiled love.”

  “Sometimes,” said Lucy angrily, “I could slap you, Mike Shayne,” and went back to her desk.

  Shayne sighed, got up and followed her into the outer office. He jammed his hat down over his bushy hair and asked, “Where is our knight in shining armor staying?”

  “If you are referring to Lieutenant Drinkley,” she answered stiffly, “The Dragoon Hotel on—”

  “I know where it is,” He picked up his coat from the railing and went out, took the elevator up to the tenth floor and strode down the corridor to the offices of the Mutual Indemnity Insurance Company.

  Mr. Teton showed no surprise when Shayne entered. He said, “A man called here this morning, Shayne, and hinted that he might be able to recover the Lomax necklace. I told him—”

  “Yeh. He just called me,” Shayne interposed. “Have you got that financial statement on Lomax yet?”

  “Called you, did he?” Mr. Teton took off his glasses and dangled them on the black ribbon. “What did he—ah—”

  “He wanted forty grand.”

  “Forty thousand! Why that’s—”

  “I told him it was too early to start dickering, and he hung up. If you have that statement—”

  “Was that wise, Mr. Shayne? Wouldn’t it have been smarter to pretend to be eager to deal with him? Then, after you’ve learned his identity we could have him arrested.”

  Shayne slammed his fist down on Teton’s desk and growled, “I don’t run my business that way. People like that come to me because I’ve always played straight with them. If I ever pulled a fast one I’d never be able to put over another deal.”

  “But when one is dealing with crooks,” Mr. Teton protested, “I think one is justified in using any means to an end.”

  Shayne said, “No. I’ll run this my way. If you haven’t got that dope on Lomax, I’ll be on my way.”

  “It’s right here,” Teton said hastily. “I was just going over it when you came in.” He nervously adjusted his glasses on his nose, picked up several bound sheets of legal paper. “All assets are listed and segregated as to—”

  “Give it to me this way,” Shayne interrupted. “Is Lomax hard up for cash?”

  “Definitely not,” Teton snapped, as though it were Shayne’s fault that he wasn’t. “Six months ago it might have been a different matter. He was organizing this new company on a shoestring, but now his profits are simply prodigious, Mr. Shayne.” His round eyes ogled solemnly. “Mr. Shayne, you—”

  Shayne was on his way out. He said, “Write me a letter about it,” and closed the door behind him.

  He glowered at the mist of rain drifting with the wind when he stepped outside the building. The fog of mystery surrounding the stolen necklace and the death of Katrin Moe was no more penetrable than the lowering clouds and the rain mist. He turned the collar of his trench coat up and stood beside his car for a moment with the key in his hand.

  He put the key back in his pocket and went halfway down the block to a liquor store. Inside, he studied the labels on the shelves, stepped behind the counter and took down a bottle that proclaimed Ancient Age in big letters. Handing it to the clerk, he said, “Wrap it up.”

  The drive to the police station was short. He found the police surgeon sitting in a straight chair cocked back against the edge of a battered desk. He was reading a pulp magazine with a picture of a nude girl on the cover. The girl was cowering away from a slant-eyed yellow man who brandished a blacksnake whip.

  Doctor Mattson looked up when Shayne entered. His eyes twinkled happily behind round, thick lenses. “You’ve come at a good time, Michael. I need a drink to dispel the horrors of the occult I’m delving into.”

  Shayne grinned and thumped the wrapped package on the desk.

  “Is it potable?” Mattson asked, holding the bottle up to the light and squinting at its contents. “Ah, there’s a delightful word, Michael. Potable! One hears it too seldom nowadays.”

  Shayne took the bottle from him and uncorked it, saying, “This is a bribe, you know.”

  “So be it. I’m easily bribed these days. There was a time when I wouldn’t sell my soul for less than a case of Dewar’s finest.”

  Shayne tilted the bottle and took a long drink, rolled some of it around in his mouth, swallowed and nodded his head with approval. Handing it back to the doctor, he said, “Go ahead and guzzle.”

  Mattson sighed. “I’d best have a small nip first. You may change your mind and take it back, for you’ll not like what I’ve got to tell you.”

  “Let’s have it,” Shayne said.

  The police surgeon took a nip from the bottle, replaced the cork and set it on the table. “You asked me for two things on the girl. Here they are in simple terms. She died from inhalation of gas fumes. She was not drugged and there is no evidence of poison. She didn’t fight death. I told you that this morning. A quarter of a century of intimate association with stiffs has taught me to read the facial distortions of death.”

  Shayne was absently rubbing his angular jaw, his gray eyes staring thoughtfully into space.

  “You don’t like it, do you, Michael?”

  “No. I’d hoped you’d find something else. Thanks just the same.”

  Before driving away from the police building, Shayne sat sprawled in the driver’s seat, his big hands gripping the steering wheel. Abruptly he raced the engine and lurched into a stream of traffic.

  The Dragoon was a small, modern hotel on Race Street. The time was a quarter past four when he went into the lobby and asked the clerk for Lieutenant Drinkley. The young man consulted a card-index file and said, “Four-twelve, sir. There’s a house phone if you wish to call,” pushing the instrument forward.

  Shayne lifted the receiver and asked for 412. The phone rang four times before Lieutenant Drinkley answered.

  “Shayne speaking,” he said, and when no further answer came immediately, he added, “the detective.”

  “I know,” the lieutenant said. “I’ve been hoping you’d call.”

  “I’m coming up to see you.” Shayne started to hang up, but the lieutenant said quickly, “Let me come to your office. In about half an hour.”

  “I’m downstairs in the hotel now,” Shayne told him. He hung up and went to th
e elevator. It took him to the fourth floor at once. He stepped from the elevator into a corridor, glanced at the numbers, and turned right to 412 and knocked.

  He knocked again after waiting a few seconds, glanced up to see that the transom was tightly closed. No sound came from the room. He tried the knob, but the door was locked, and he rapped again.

  The door opened with a rush. Lieutenant Drinkley faced him with a strange expression of anxiety. His khaki shirt was rumpled and his blond hair was tousled as it had been that morning, and the lines of strain had deepened at the corners of his thin mouth.

  He said, “I’m sorry. I was—I couldn’t come to the door at once.” He appeared nervous and confused, like a man wakened suddenly from deep sleep, but he didn’t look sleepy. The bed in the center of the room was neatly made.

  Shayne heeled the door shut and brushed past Drinkley. The room was quite small, with a single window at one end and an upholstered chair turned to face a small, straight chair beside a writing table.

  A bottle half filled with scotch and a bottle of white soda stood on the desk and a glass of the mixture floating with ice cubes made a wet ring on the blotter.

  Shayne looked sharply at Drinkley. His cheeks were highly flushed, but he didn’t act or talk drunk. Shayne crossed over to the armchair and sat down, shook his head negatively when the officer invited him to have a drink.

  “I never drink at this time in the afternoon,” he lied, and fished out a cigarette.

  An open book of matches lay beside a glass ash tray on the desk. He struck one to light his cigarette and noticed that the folder had the picture of a bubbling glass of champagne on the front and the printed words, The Laurel Club.

  The ash tray was full of half-smoked stubs. One of them still smoldered. It had a streak of lipstick on the end, as did two others in the ash tray.

  Shayne slid the match folder into his pocket. He said, “I’m afraid I’m not getting very far on your case, Lieutenant.”

  Drinkley sat on the foot of the bed resting his elbows on his knees. He said gloomily, “I suppose it was foolish to hope you could do anything. You think that Katrin did”—he paused to wet his lips with his tongue and looked up at Shayne doggedly—“commit suicide?”