“I’m still waiting to hear the truth about your argument with Dan Trueman.”
Shayne sat down and said, “Look, I’m trying to make a living. Recovery of the Lomax necklace means over twelve grand in my pocket—if I do the recovering. Where’d I be in my business if I came to you cops with all my dope?”
“Then you’re admitting that Trueman was tied in with the stolen necklace?”
“Sure. I’ll admit that much.”
“I’ve been waiting to hear you say that,” Quinlan said quietly, “because I’ve been wondering—” He laid the fountain pen aside and got an envelope from a desk drawer. He opened it and carefully emptied a single small emerald on the desk blotter. “This was found on the floor of Trueman’s office.”
The green gem blinked malignantly up at them.
Shayne’s eyes blazed. He leaned forward and poked the emerald with his forefinger. “One of the Lomax beads?”
Quinlan eased his stoic face with a slight smile. “It’s an emerald,” he corrected, “torn out of its setting.”
Shayne picked it up between thumb and forefinger and dropped it into the palm of his left hand. His eyes were fiercely questioning between shaggy red brows. He rolled it around in his cupped palm, held it up to the light and squinted at it as though fascinated by its polished green facets.
After a time he handed it back to Quinlan without comment.
Quinlan put the gem in the envelope and returned it to the drawer.
Shayne said with heavy meditation, “So the sonofabitch had it there in his office all the time,” and stared fixedly across the room.
The inspector cleared his throat and said, “That’s one thing that didn’t get in the paper. Don’t you think it’s time for you to start talking?”
“Sure. I’ll talk. I knew Trueman had the necklace—or was acting as go-between for somebody who had it. He telephoned me yesterday and offered to sell it back to the company for forty thousand. He didn’t tell me who he was, but I recognized his voice when I heard it in the Laurel Club last night. I went to his office to put it up to him straight that there’d be no fix on this one. He denied knowing anything about it, of course. The act he put on about me coming with a gambling beef was for the benefit of anyone listening in.”
“I guessed that much as soon as I learned the dice had been good to you.”
“You’ve got it,” Shayne said. “That’s what you wanted, isn’t it? I didn’t see Trueman again. I spent the rest of the night unconscious in Lana Moore’s apartment.”
“Which she denies.”
“But I told you she had it in for me.”
“You haven’t told me why.”
Shayne drew in a long breath and made a gesture of exasperation. The lines in his hollow cheeks deepened. “What are you going to do?”
“Hold you for Dan Trueman’s murder.”
Shayne said savagely, “And Trueman’s murderer will be laughing at you while you’ve got me locked up.”
“Maybe. I’ll take a chance on that.”
“Sure. You’re a cop.”
“That’s right,” Quinlan agreed amiably.
His insouciance drove the detective to snarl, “If you lock me up now you’ll end up with two unsolved murders on your hands.”
“Why two?”
“Count ’em.” Shayne held up two long bony fingers and folded them down. “Dan Trueman and Katrin Moe.”
“The Moe girl committed suicide.”
“Sure,” he jeered, “you’re a cop. Close up a case and keep the public satisfied no matter how many murderers walk your damned streets unhung.”
“I’ve been over all the evidence on that—and the coroner’s report. It can’t be anything but suicide.”
“It was murder,” Shayne insisted shortly.
“What the hell makes you think so?”
“All the evidence that’s worth a damn,” Shayne said slowly. “She was a virgin and in love with a guy she was going to marry the next day. Where’s the motive for suicide?”
“Where’s the motive for murder?”
Shayne was silent for a long time. Then he said quietly, “Will you make a deal with me, Quinlan?”
“I don’t know. Give it to me.”
“If I can give you a motive for Katrin Moe’s murder—if I can show you how she must have been murdered—and then show you that her killer is also the logical candidate for the Trueman job, will you forget this stuff you’ve got against me and give me a chance to prove I’m right?”
Inspector Quinlan studied him with a cold blue gaze as he silently considered the proposition.
“Hell, you’ve always got your case against me,” Shayne went on rapidly. “You’ve got the affidavits. I’m not going to run out on you. If I fail, you can slap me in jail so fast it’ll make my head swim.”
“I’ll still have you,” Quinlan agreed thoughtfully.
“What have you got to lose? I don’t want any of the credit on either of the killings. I’m after a fee.”
The inspector nodded slowly. “You’re on. But you’ll have to sell me.”
Shayne said, “I will,” with greater confidence than he felt. He lit a cigarette and settled back to a complete recital of all the pertinent facts he had unearthed since the beginning of his investigation, telling the story in sequence from Lieutenant Drinkley’s impassioned plea in his office to the moment when the inspector’s man picked him up at his apartment that morning.
Quinlan listened with concentrated attention. When Shayne finished he said, “Looks to me like you’ve dug up a lot of stuff that points to a motive for Katrin Moe’s suicide. What’s her connection with the escaped convict whom she visited day before yesterday? Did he steal the damned necklace? One of the pair was riding out a term for burglary and they both seem to have been in New Orleans the night it was stolen. She might have fingered the necklace for them, either intentionally or inadvertently, and later got an attack of conscience and killed herself in a fit of remorse.”
Shayne said, “She might have—but she didn’t,” emphatically.
“And the relationship between her and Drinkley and Lana suggests that he may not have been as true to her as he wanted you to believe. She might have discovered that and turned on the gas as a way out. Or he might even have told her he was calling the wedding off—written her a letter that we know nothing about. So, she goes to bed the night before her wedding and quietly ends it all. You’ve really fixed up the suicide theory, Shayne. I wish my men were as thorough.”
“You’ve got suicide on the brain,” Shayne charged, “and you can’t see anything else. Hell, doesn’t all that suggest something else?”
“I still don’t see how it could be murder unless her killer turned himself into a gremlin and slipped in through the keyhole. Are you asking me to believe that?”
Shayne said grimly, “Here’s how. And here’s why.” He outlined the nebulous theory he had been laboriously building ever since his first visit to the Lomax house. He gave it a lot more solidity in the telling than it possessed, and spoke with a lot more assurance than the facts warranted.
“After that, the necklace had to be gotten back from Trueman,” he ended persuasively, “and Trueman’s murder resulted. I don’t know yet how the killer learned that Trueman was dickering to sell the stuff to the insurance company. That’s the only kink—outside of getting the actual proof to support some things that have got to be true.”
Inspector Quinlan said, “I’ll be damned if you don’t make it sound plausible, Shayne. But how? That’s still the rub. You can’t get away from that locked door and Doc Mattson’s findings.”
Shayne slumped wearily. “I think I can. I think we’ve walked into one of the damndest murder plans you or I have ever met. I accept the locked door and I agree she died as a direct result of inhaling gas fumes from an open gas grate—one that she must have opened herself. But it’s still murder.” He closed his eyes and felt the lump on his head tenderly.
The insp
ector said dispiritedly, “You’re only contradicting yourself.”
Shayne’s eyes popped open. They were very bright “No. I’m not. Think this over.” He sat up straight and leaned toward the inspector. “Katrin locks her door and gets ready for bed. It was a cold night and maybe she likes it a little warmer than the warm air system keeps it. Or a burning gas grate is cheerful. So she lights it and lies down to dream about her lieutenant and whatever else a young girl dreams about on the eve of her wedding. Anyhow, she falls asleep with the grate still burning.”
He paused dramatically. Quinlan was slowly rolling a pencil in his palms and listening attentively, a judicious frown between his eyes.
Shayne went on, talking fast. “Sometime during the night her grate goes out. She’s sleeping soundly. When the flow of gas starts again it mixes slowly with the washed air coming in from the furnace. The bulk of the gas is carried off by the cold air outlet so that the air in her room becomes tainted very gradually. So gradually that she doesn’t waken after the first numbing effect. She sleeps right on—with a smile on her lips as Doc Mattson said—and drifts from dreams to death.”
Quinlan struck the desk with his fist. “By God!” And again, more emphatically, “By God! Shayne. Maybe you’ve got something.”
“At least you’ll have to admit it’s a theory that meets every angle. And it’s the only theory that does.”
“Could be accidental,” Quinlan said. “Something might have happened to interrupt service for a short time.”
“That’s out,” Shayne said firmly. “Nothing happens to interrupt gas service these days. There’s always an emergency plant. If service was interrupted from the plant you’d have hundreds of casualties—not just one.”
Quinlan got up and paced excitedly up and down the room. “If the gas in the Lomax house was tampered with,” he offered, “all the other gas appliances inside the house would go out at the same time. They’d all have to be relit after the valve was opened again.”
“All right. I’ll check on it. And I’ll find out if Katrin made a habit of leaving her grate burning all night—and how many people knew about that habit. The killer must have had some way of being sure that she, and she alone, would have her gas burning.”
“That narrows it down to someone who knew her very well,” the inspector said, staring steadily at Shayne. “Someone who had access to the basement and knew the location of the gas lines and valves.”
Shayne nodded. “That fits three people—and the same motive can fit them all. And that’s the hell of it. That’s why I’ve been moving so slowly and why I need more time and freedom to investigate. If we jump into it and frighten them now we’ll end up with three suspects and not enough evidence to convict any of them. Are you sold? And will you keep hands off until I’ve had a chance to use my own methods? I’m not hampered by official regulations, you know,” he ended sourly.
Quinlan went back to his desk and sat down. “I’m sold, Shayne. Don’t tell me what you’re going to do. I’d rather not know.”
“That’s the way I like it,” Shayne said with satisfaction. “I’ve wasted too much time here already.” He got up and hurried out.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
LUCY HAMILTON stared at Shayne when he walked into the office a short time later. Her brown eyes shone with deep concern and her generous mouth tightened in disapproval of the lump on his head and the patch of purplish skin on his right cheek.
Shayne’s grin faded to a frown. “This is a hell of a greeting,” he growled.
“I’ve been terribly worried about you—and frightened. You could at least let me know—about things.” Her lips trembled and she tightened them again.
“Everything’s all right—I hope,” Shayne told her in a tone that carried no conviction.
“Everything’s just fine and dandy,” she retorted, “except that you’ve got yourself all beaten up again and the police have a dragnet out all over New Orleans for you.” A film of tears misted her eyes.
Shayne leaned over and caught her chin, tilted her face up. His grin came back and he said with more assurance, “It’s all right. But you’ll have to get used to seeing my face like this—and maybe worse. And having the police looking for me, too.”
“You just go around barging into trouble,” she accused, “and getting your name in the headlines—for murder.”
“Yeh. This is one of my busy days.” He gave her chin a pinch and said, “By the way, remind me to make love to you sometime when you’re like this. What’s Drinkley’s first name?”
“Oh—you—” She pushed his hand away. “His name is Theodore.”
“How did he act last night?”
“A fine spot you put me in,” she charged. “He didn’t want to go with me. And you’re dead wrong if you think he wasn’t head over heels in love with the Moe girl. He talked about her all the time and hardly ate a thing. I believe he’ll go crazy wondering if you don’t find out why she did it.”
“I’m finding out,” he said. “Did you try to help him forget her?”
He arched a bushy red brow at her and lowered his right hip to the desk.
Lucy nodded. “But it wasn’t any use. He doesn’t even see another girl. He’s really a poet at heart, Michael. He spoke of their love in the most beautiful terms.” She sighed.
“I know. Their love was fine and clean—like wonderful music.” He made a sardonic gesture. “How long were you out with him?”
“He took me home about nine o’clock. I suggested doing something else, thinking it might cheer him up, but I think he wanted to be alone with his grief.” She looked up at him, the mist still in her eyes, saw the cynical smile on his mouth and burst out, “And I hate you when you’re cynical, Michael Shayne. There is that kind of love in the world. But you wouldn’t know about that.” She jammed a sheet of paper in the typewriter and turned it viciously.
With a far-away look in his gray eyes, Shayne said, “No, I wouldn’t know about that. Put a call through to the warden of the state penitentiary. While you’re waiting for it look in the directory and see if you can find a man by the name of Lane listed under private detectives. Alex Lane,” he added after a moment’s thought.
She typed the instructions as he gave them, looked up at the knot on his head and said, “Before I do anything you’re going to tell me what happened to you. Why do you always forget to duck?”
Shayne said gravely, “I made a pass at the wrong girl.”
“No girl did that to you.”
“Her boy friend came in at the wrong time.” He got up from the desk and said, “Shake it up on those calls,” and went into the inner office.
He was somberly contemplating the bare clean walls, when Lucy came in and perched herself on the corner of his desk. “Your call to the warden is in,” she said, “but the operator said the lines were all busy and it would be at least an hour before they’d be ready on it. And there’s a Lane and McGregor Detective Agency listed. Will that be the one?”
“Might be. Gabby Lane was on his own when I knew him. Try them.”
Lucy referred to a number on a paper in her hand, pulled his desk phone toward her and dialed. She said, “One moment, please,” and handed the receiver to Shayne.
He asked, “Is Alex Lane connected with your firm?”
A girl said, “Yes. I’ll put him on.”
Shayne waited until a heavy voice said, “Yeah?”
He grinned at Lucy and said, “Gabby?” into the mouthpiece.
He got a “Yep” this time.
“This is Mike Shayne, Gabby, and I wish you wouldn’t be so damned garrulous.”
Gabby Lane said, “What’s that mean? Read about you this morning. Trouble, huh?”
“Plenty,” Shayne told him. “I need some help from a man who’s kept up his contacts here.”
Gabby Lane didn’t say anything.
“On your regular basis,” Shayne told him impatiently. “I’ll pay the bill.”
“Twenty-five and expense
s for an op?”
“I don’t want any damned op,” Shayne shouted. “I want you.”
“Fifty. Part days count full rate.”
Shayne said, “That Scotch partner of yours has got you trained. Fifty’s all right. Can you come to my office in about an hour?”
“See you,” said Gabby, and hung up.
“Some day,” Shayne told Lucy, “Gabby is going to choke himself trying to find one word that’ll do the job of two.”
Lucy was excited. “What’s the rush about, Michael? Is it the necklace?”
He nodded absently.
“What about Trueman’s murder? Did you threaten him last night over gambling—or something?”
“Don’t ever read the papers,” he advised slowly. “I didn’t kill Trueman and Quinlan knows I didn’t. I just came from his office.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful,” she breathed. “When I saw you come in looking all beaten up—all I could think of was the newspaper story.”
He touched his bruised and swollen head and asked, “How does it look? Feels like the lump’s getting smaller.”
Lucy chuckled and cocked her head sideways, “Looks as if you were trying to grow another head—or a blunt horn.” She leaned toward him and ran the tip of her finger over a portion of his face and added, “There’re three purplish streaks on your face.”
“I must have fallen on my face when the guy bopped me. It’s nothing.”
“Why do you always have to get so rough solving a case?” she asked, annoyed. “Isn’t there some other way?”
Shayne chortled. “Not that I’ve learned. Some people do it by sitting around and adding up the answers, but I’m not smart that way.” He patted her hand and added in a lighter tone, “Don’t worry about me, Lucy. Lots of jobs nowadays and you can always get another one.”
Lucy swung from the desk. “I hate you,” she said succinctly, “and I hope the girl’s boy friend has a gun next time he comes in unexpectedly.”
Shayne grinned at her stiff straight back as she walked out and slammed the door. He went to the window and stared out for a long moment, then turned abruptly and strode out to Lucy’s desk.
Murder & the Married Virgin Page 11
