Murder & the Married Virgin

by Brett Halliday

  Shayne’s gaze went to Clarice. “Well?”

  “I didn’t see or hear her at the phone,” Clarice said airily.

  “Did you have any phone calls?” Shayne asked.

  “No.” She added angrily, “If it’s any of your business.”

  “I wondered,” said Shayne gravely, “whether Lieutenant Drinkley called you that evening.”

  “Lieutenant Drinkley? Why should—” She stopped suddenly, her cheeks suddenly flaming.

  “But he didn’t arrive in New Orleans until the next morning,” Mrs. Lomax said sharply.

  Shayne disregarded her and advanced toward Clarice, his eyes boring into hers. “Your brother made some remarks about you and the lieutenant yesterday. Did he ever make love to you?”

  Eddie snickered. “That’s what burned her up. He didn’t fall for her line.”

  “He arrived on the morning train,” Mrs. Lomax stated flatly. “He telephoned directly from the station while the police were here.”

  Shayne turned to her. “Did any of you have your gas burning during that night?”

  “I’m sure we didn’t. I retired early.” Her tone was irascible.

  “And Mr. Lomax?”

  Her eyes were evasive. “He stayed up for a time after I retired. But the grate wasn’t lit in his room—nor in mine.”

  “How about you two?” Shayne swung on Clarice and Eddie.

  “No,” Eddie muttered.

  Clarice’s brown eyes were speculative. “I didn’t either. Why does it matter? Is it a clue?”

  “It might be. Do any of you happen to know if Katrin was in the habit of letting her grate burn all night?”

  Silence greeted his question. Clarice and Eddie were looking at their mother.

  Mrs. Lomax appeared to make up her mind and she told him decisively, “Katrin never used the grate in her room—I’m sure. She often found the house temperature too warm, and she disliked the odor of burning gas.”

  “Wait a minute.” Shayne’s shaggy brows came down in a fierce frown. “Do you mean it was never lit?”

  “I mean exactly that.” Mrs. Lomax’s tone was acid. “The girl often became faint when she stayed too long in a room where gas was burning.”

  Shayne drew in a long breath. This knocked hell out of the elaborate murder theory he had sold Quinlan on. He shook his head doggedly. It couldn’t be true.

  “There’s no need to lie about a thing like that,” he warned gruffly. “I’ll find out the truth.”

  “You’re insulting,” Mrs. Lomax said, her eyes flashing. “I don’t know why it matters, but anyone who knew Katrin will tell you that.”

  “We all know that’s the truth,” said Clarice, nodding her head, and Eddie put in a curt, “Sure.”

  Shayne caught his left ear lobe and massaged it gently between thumb and forefinger. The family watched him interestedly and there was perfect quiet in the room.

  Abruptly Shayne asked, “How old is Neal Jordan?”

  His question lashed into the silence, and the silence continued. Again Clarice and Eddie looked at their mother. Mrs. Lomax only stared at Shayne, an angry gleam in her black eyes.

  Clarice burst out, “You wouldn’t believe it, but he’s thirty-three.”

  Mrs. Lomax said quietly, “Neal is almost thirty-four.”

  Shayne turned toward the door. Halfway across the room he stopped, turned to Mrs. Lomax and asked casually, “What hotel do you prefer in Baton Rouge?”

  “Why—” Anger at his audacity overcame her. She clamped her lips and refused to answer.

  “The Victoria, Mother,” Clarice said. “I’ve heard you say it’s the only really decent hotel there.”

  “Yes,” Mrs. Lomax said firmly. “Of course, Clarice. The Victoria.”

  “Is that where you stayed Tuesday night?”

  “You’re taking advantage of us in Mr. Lomax’s absence,” Mrs. Lomax said, outraged. She arose from her chair with stiff dignity and faced him with blazing eyes. “It isn’t any of your—”

  “Is it?” Shayne interrupted with quiet insistence.

  “It was.”

  Shayne nodded and left the room. In the hall he swore under his breath. He’d bought a few hours of freedom and all he’d found out was that he had a theory without any solid facts under it. If Quinlan knew—but he couldn’t tell Quinlan.

  He shrugged off the thought on his way to the kitchen where he found Mrs. Brown cleaning out the enormous electric refrigerator.

  The housekeeper faced him with arms akimbo and belligerent eyes. Her attitude changed quickly when she recognized Shayne. She smiled and said, “Why, it’s the detective again. And have you detected yet how the lass came to die?”

  “Not quite,” Shayne confessed. “But I think you can help me. Who gets up first in the morning around here?”

  “And who would that be but me?”

  “How about Neal? Does he ever come in to make himself an early cup of coffee—or something?”

  “In my kitchen?” She shook her head emphatically. “He’d never dare. And besides there’s no way for him to get in if he’d a mind to.”

  Shayne murmured, “I thought perhaps he had an extra key to the back door.”

  “Not him. And the door from the basement is always locked, too, it being Mr. Lomax’s idea it’s not seemly for a bachelor man to have the run of the house at night.” She sniffed with disdain and added, “Though he’d do better to lock his own son out, I’m thinkin’.”

  Shayne passed over that angle. “Try to think back to the morning Katrin was found dead. Did you have any trouble with your gas range that morning?”

  She thought for a moment, then shook her head decidedly.

  “Are you certain the pilot light wasn’t out? There wasn’t any odor of escaping gas in the kitchen?”

  She shook her head more vigorously than before. “Lord, no. I’d remember a thing like that.”

  “All right,” Shayne said. “There’s just one more thing. Did Katrin Moe have her gas grate burning when you said good night that last night?”

  He waited tensely for her reply.

  Again he got a decided shake of her gray head, “That she didn’t, you may be sure. To my knowing she never had it lit. She hated the smell of burning gas, she did. Like poison it was to her. She’d complain of a headache, poor lass, if she stayed in my room long with it burning.”

  Shayne said, “Hell!” He studied Mrs. Brown’s kindly, good-natured face for a long time, muttered, “You, too, eh?” Then he grinned ruefully and started to the door growling, “There goes a hell of a good theory. Thank God Quinlan isn’t here.”

  All his plans seemed futile now, and he had been so sure in his own mind when he left Quinlan’s office. However, he thought he might as well push on with what he had planned. He might think of something. He wasn’t ready to accept Katrin Moe’s death as suicide.

  Standing beside his car he looked cautiously around before going quietly up the steps to Neal Jordan’s apartment. He opened the door and stepped into a small well-ordered living-room with a well-filled bookcase and an easy chair and writing desk.

  There was a lavatory and shower in a small bathroom and a bedroom beyond.

  Shayne darted an inclusive glance around the living-room, and not finding what he wanted, went on to the bedroom.

  There was a photograph in a cardboard frame on the dresser, a picture of Neal standing beside an elderly woman. Shayne judged the woman to be his mother. The likeness of Neal was extraordinarily good and was evidently taken only a couple of years previously.

  Shayne slid it under his coat and went back to his car, shifting his eyes around the house and grounds as he went. He could hear Neal hammering in the basement. Apparently no one had noticed his foray. He got in and drove back to his office.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  LUCY HAMILTON looked up at her employer with an expression of petulant boredom when he strode briskly through the door. An amused smile started on her lips when she saw the ridic
ulous angle at which he wore his hat to protect the sore lump on his head.

  The smile faded and she rolled a sheet of paper into the typewriter as he stalked toward her with his jaw set in a grim line and his eyes preoccupied.

  Shayne said, “Put in a call to the Victoria Hotel in Baton Rouge and find out whether Mrs. Nathan Lomax spent the night there last Tuesday night.”

  She looked at him with sparkling interest as her fingers rapidly typed. “Have you learned something new?” she asked when the notes were finished.

  “Nothing but dead-ends in this business,” he grumbled; and seeing the anxious look in her eyes he added, with a broad grin, “But I’ve always wanted to drive on through one of the damned things.”

  “Mr. Lane is waiting for you,” she told him, and picked up the receiver to dial long distance.

  Gabby Lane was waiting with his feet on Shayne’s desk. A wizened little man with big ears, he looked like a gnome. He wore an old, ill-fitting suit that enhanced the illusion. Shayne had known him well ten years before, and knew him to be one of the cleverest tails in the business.

  Apparently feeling that a special greeting was in order after ten years, Lane said, “Hi,” as Shayne walked in.

  Shayne grinned. “You’re as long-winded as ever, I see,” and held out his hand to grip Gabby Lane’s limp fingers. “How’s tricks?”

  Lane’s feet remained on the desk. He lifted his thin shoulders and dropped them in answer to the question.

  “Glad to hear it,” Shayne said. He sat down in his swivel chair and leaned forward. “Did you read the paper this morning?”

  Gabby stifled a yawn and nodded.

  Shayne said, “I need the man who killed Dan Trueman. You got any ideas?”

  “Nope.”

  “Have you any contacts around the Laurel Club? Anybody to help me pull a fast one—a frame?”

  Gabby considered this for a moment. He finally nodded and said, “It’ll cost.”

  “You know the side entrance to the club?”

  Gabby nodded.

  “I need a couple of bozos who saw a certain man in that vicinity about the time Trueman got his. That’s all. Just place him there. They don’t have to swear they saw him go in or anything complicated like that.”

  “Was he?”

  Shayne answered honestly, “I don’t know. Up until fifteen minutes or so ago I was sure of it. Now, I’ll be damned if I know what makes. But I’m way out on a limb and I’ve got to play it straight.”

  “Cost more if he wasn’t. How many in the know?”

  “You and I. It’s got to look legitimate. I want the cops to pick him up and your men to point him out in a line-up.”

  “Bad business if it’s a bust.”

  Shayne shrugged. “Mistaken identity. They can’t hang a man for making a mistake.”

  “Hurt their reps,” Gabby pointed out. He studied his fingertips for a moment, then said, “Five C’s on the line. If it busts, another five C’s.”

  Shayne said bitterly, “And fifty for you, I suppose.”

  “Right.”

  “Perjury has gone up since I was here.”

  Gabby shrugged.

  Shayne said, “All right.” He took out his wallet and counted out five of the bills he had won at the Laurel Club. He pulled the photograph of Neal and his mother from his vest and handed it to Lane. “That’s the guy. It’s a good likeness. Here’s the easy part of it. His picture was in yesterday’s paper in connection with the Moe girl’s suicide. He had driven her several places the afternoon before. Now when your boys turn in the tip, they say they spotted him from that. Keep this photo out of it but have them study it so there won’t be any slip-ups in the identification at headquarters.”

  Gabby studied the photograph. He said, “Lomax—chauffeur,” pocketed the bills Shayne gave him and got up.

  “When can I expect to hear from you?” Shayne asked.

  “Couple hours,” said Gabby, and ambled out.

  Shayne followed him to the outer door. When he closed it and turned around he was surprised to see an expression of violent aversion on Lucy’s face.

  He asked, “What the hell?”

  “I thought you were a detective,” she said bitterly. “I didn’t know you went around framing people.” She yanked a desk drawer open and took out her purse, opened it, and began stuffing it with small personal belongings from the drawer.

  “You eavesdropped,” Shayne said.

  “I couldn’t help it. The door was open. You made it plain enough. You’re paying five hundred dollars to have some men perjure themselves by swearing the Lomax chauffeur was at the Laurel Club last night while a murder was being committed.” She sprang up and jammed an absurd little hat down on her brown hair.

  Shayne covered an amused smile by pretending to rub his jaw.

  “And I thought you were decent,” Lucy went on, averting her eyes. “I thought, by golly, I was in love with you this morning.” She started toward the door with her head high.

  Shayne stopped her with a big hand on her wrist. “Don’t walk out on me, Lucy.”

  “Get out of my way, Michael Shayne. I certainly am walking out. You think you can buy anything, but you can’t buy me. Not for a hundred times eighty dollars a week.” She laughed hysterically, and her fingernails scratched at Shayne’s hand on her wrist.

  Shayne held her wrist tighter and slowly moved her toward one of two chairs in the small reception room. He said, “Sit down.”

  She sat down and he let her wrist go. She massaged the angry red spot his tight hold had made and did not look at him when he drew the other chair up in front of her.

  He said, “You’re going to listen to me and then you can suit yourself about walking out. I’m in a tight spot with a murder frame around my neck. I fast-talked Inspector Quinlan into a few hours of grace to give him another suspect. If I don’t produce, he’ll slap me in jail and two murders will never be solved.”

  “Two murders!” she gasped.

  “Two,” he told her implacably. “Katrin Moe and Dan Trueman.

  “Do you think the chauffeur—is guilty?”

  Shayne hesitated, tugging at the lobe of his left ear. “This is the God’s truth, Lucy,” he said finally. “I should lie to you but I’ll be damned if I will. I don’t know. I thought I did. I had a beautiful theory all built up and I sold the inspector on it. I thought the chauffeur was our man, and Quinlan thinks so. He’s waiting for me to prove it. He doesn’t know my theory has been blown sky-high.”

  Lucy’s interest was gaining over her anger. “But if you haven’t any evidence against the chauffeur—”

  “I’ve got to go on the way I started. I can’t stop now. I’ve got to give the inspector somebody to work on while I build up another theory.”

  Lucy shuddered. “And they’ll beat him with hoses and things until he confesses, whether he’s guilty or not,” she argued, anger flaring again.

  Shayne said, “All right. So maybe they’ll beat him.” His eyes were bleak. “Maybe he’s guilty. Even if he isn’t I’ll be gaining time to find out who is. I’ve got to keep going now,” he went on earnestly. “If Quinlan ever suspected how uncertain I am he’d throw me in the can and let me rot there.”

  Lucy said in a subdued tone, “But there is such a thing as playing square.”

  “Not in homicide work. Not if you stay on top. Scruples are something the boys write about in detective novels.”

  She shuddered again and looked away from him. “You sound so ruthless. I don’t think you care about anything—or anybody.”

  “I’m working for a fee,” he said. “Twelve and a half grand is riding on this case.” He considered her averted face for a moment, and a look of humility erased the harshness of his features. He started to say something else, but turned abruptly and said over his shoulder, “If you walk out now don’t come back. I’ll send a check for two weeks’ salary.” He went into his office and closed the door.

  At his desk he sat with his
heavy shoulders hunched forward easing his fingertips around the wound on his head. He felt old and tired and he wondered if he ought to get out of the business. It was no place for a man when he got soft. Once you started wondering whether an end justified a means, you were lost.

  He sat like that for a long time without moving. His eyes brooded across the room, unseeing. Subconsciously, he was listening for some movement from the outer office—the scrape of a chair or the slam of the outer door that would tell him Lucy was walking out. No sound came to him. The silence grew oppressive. There had been another girl once who had walked out on him in a different way. Death was one thing you couldn’t beat. For the first time in months he hungered acutely for Phyllis. He had thought that pain was whipped after leaving Miami and its memories behind him. Lucy was helping him to whip it. She was a lot like Phyllis. If Lucy left him too—His telephone rang.

  He stiffened and held a long breath waiting for it to ring again.

  It didn’t ring again. He relaxed and didn’t feel as old or as tired as he had a moment before. A driving tension took hold of him when he heard Lucy’s vibrant voice speaking into the outside phone.

  He lit a cigarette and covertly watched the door. It swung open and Lucy came in. “It was the Victoria Hotel in Baton Rouge. They say Mrs. Lomax wasn’t registered there Tuesday night.”

  Shayne nodded, his gray eyes bright. “Anything on the call to the state pen?”

  “They haven’t reported. Shall I check on it?”

  “Please do,” said Shayne.

  Lucy turned to go.

  Shayne said, “Wait a minute. I’m sorry I hurt your wrist.”

  “I suppose I deserved it,” she said. “I was acting like a fool.” She smiled and added, “I guess I’ll just have to get used to being in the detective business.” She went back to her desk and called long distance.

  After a brief interchange over the phone she called in to Shayne, “They’re ready to connect you now.”

  He picked up the receiver and waited. Presently a voice said, “Hello—ready on your call, Mr. Shayne.”

  “Hello. Warden’s office?”

  “Who do you want to talk to?”