Murder & the Married Virgin

by Brett Halliday

  “It’s about those two escaped convicts. I think I have a line on one of them. This is Mike Shayne in New Orleans.”

  “What kind of a line, Mr. Shayne?”

  “I need a little dope from you to make certain. I’d like to know whether either of them had any visitors. Regular visitors. Your visiting day is still Wednesday afternoon, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. Just a moment and I’ll connect you with Purcell, the supervisor.”

  Shayne waited until a new voice said, “Purcell speaking.”

  “I’m checking on visitors to the pair of escaped convicts. Did either of them have a regular weekly visitor? Anton Hodge would be my pick.”

  “Just a minute.” The minute stretched to three before Purcell reported, “Hodge did have a regular visitor. His wife. She came every Wednesday afternoon.”

  Shayne sucked in his breath with sharp disappointment. “I’m afraid that won’t help much. No one else?”

  “No record of anyone else. Gillis had only one visitor while he was here.”

  Shayne said, “This thing gets worse by the minute.” He paused, then asked sharply, “Could you give me a description of Mrs. Hodge?”

  “You bet. She was the kind of girl a man remembers. You know how it is. You wonder how a girl like that can get herself mixed up with—”

  “This is costing me money,” Shayne cut in. “Describe her.”

  “Sure. Sorry,”

  The supervisor gave him a detailed description of the convict’s wife.

  Shayne knew he was listening to a careful and minute description of Katrin Moe. He broke the connection as soon as the supervisor finished, and went out to the reception room shaking his red head. “Those damned Norwegians,” he said helplessly. Lucy looked up at him with a gleam of amusement in her eyes.

  “What’s wrong with the Norwegians now?”

  “Married virgins,” Shayne told her. “Of all the goddamned—” He stopped abruptly and grabbed his hat “Be back in half an hour if anyone calls,” he tossed at her and hurried out before she began the question framing on her lips.

  He had a little trouble in the Federal Building with government clerks who weren’t greatly impressed by his private detective’s badge and who were jealous of their small authorities over minor affairs.

  Finally reaching a departmental head who could be bullied, he was allowed to see the records pertaining to recent naturalization proceedings.

  There was quite a dossier on Katrin Moe, and he studied it carefully, making several notations before hurrying out and getting in his car again.

  His next stop was at the bank where Neal Jordan told him Katrin transacted her business. It was a small savings and loan association with only two tellers. The first one he approached replied that he knew Miss Moe quite well, and deeply regretted her untimely demise.

  Shayne asked, “Do you remember her last visit here?”

  “I do, indeed. It was the day before she died. Day before yesterday afternoon, to be exact. Wednesday. She always came on Wednesdays. Just after lunch. To deposit her check, you know, so I didn’t think anything about it when she came in that day, though I believe it was a little later than usual.” He caught the lap of flesh under his chin and blinked his eyes thoughtfully. “Yes. It was decidedly later. At least an hour later than her regular time, though I must confess I didn’t notice anything else. Nothing peculiar, you know,” he went on regretfully, “and I’ve thought about it a lot since. It does seem that one should be able to tell, and I thought that if I’d just—”

  “Did she deposit her check as usual?”

  “Yes, indeed. She always withheld a certain amount in cash, but this time she deposited the check and withdrew fifty dollars in cash. I remember asking her, in a joking way, of course, what she was going to do with so much. She smiled in that slow way, and very attractively too, and said she was getting married and might need it for a honeymoon. Can you imagine that? Getting married the next day and—”

  “I certainly can’t,” Shayne said. He broke away and trotted out to drive back to his office without wasting any more time.

  Lucy Hamilton’s interest in her job had undoubtedly risen to a high pitch of enthusiasm. The moment Shayne opened the outer door she called excitedly, “Inspector Quinlan called a few minutes ago. He’s hot on your trail and said for you to call him the instant you returned. I’m sure he must have something that’ll clear you of—”

  “Get him,” Shayne said, stalking through to his office. He picked up the receiver and listened while Quinlan’s phone rang, said, “Quinlan?” when a voice answered.

  “That you, Shayne? It looks like you were right and things are breaking faster than we expected. My men dug up a couple of witnesses who saw Neal Jordan, the Lomax chauffeur, sneaking around to the side entrance of the Laurel Club about the time Trueman got his.”

  “Good work, Inspector,” Shayne said heartily. “They’ve identified him?”

  “Conditionally. Jordan’s mug was in the papers yesterday, you know. They say the man they saw looks like him. I’ve sent a couple of men out to pick him up, and I’ll put him in a line-up. If they pick him, we’ll really have something to go to work on.”

  “You bet,” Shayne said. “I’ll be right over to see what goes.”

  He hung up and went slowly back to the outer office. “The wheels have started to turn,” he said grimly. “Neal Jordan has been fingered for the Trueman killing and Quinlan is bringing him in.” He watched closely for her reaction.

  She said, “It’ll be all right, Michael. I know it will. But”—she turned her eyes away—“I hope they don’t—beat him—too hard.”

  Shayne grinned. “Don’t worry too much about that. They don’t beat a man except as a last resort. You see, they try sweating it out of them first, and they’re pretty good judges of whether a man is actually guilty or not.”

  “Oh,” she breathed, “then it will be all right.”

  “Sure,” said Shayne. He took out the notes he had made at the Federal Building and studied them. “Call the depot, Lucy, and get the arrivals and departures of trains to Craigville, Wisconsin. Also the exact fare; coach, first-class, and Pullman. And call me at Quinlan’s office in about half an hour with the dope.”

  Lucy grabbed a pencil and notebook and asked, “Craigville, Wisconsin?”

  “That’s right,” Shayne said, and closed the door on his way out.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  SIX MEN STOOD IN LINE under a bright white light at one end of a big basement room at headquarters. From left to right they were a city detective in mufti, a police reporter, a derelict from the bull-pen, another detective, Neal Jordan, and a second vagrant.

  The detectives stood erect and unsmiling under the glaring light. The reporter grimaced into the semi-darkness of the big room where some of his colleagues were watching him. The two vagrants shuffled their feet nervously.

  Neal Jordan faced the two groups of men with folded arms and a faint smile of contempt twitching his mobile lips. He had been picked up at the Lomax residence and brought to headquarters to stand in the line-up without any explanation whatever.

  The two groups of men in the big room viewed the scene from widely separated vantage points. Each group was composed of a couple of officers and a reporter, and one of the two men who were there to identify the suspect. Each was being forced to make a separate identification in order to prevent any possible backfire when the case came to court.

  Shayne and Inspector Quinlan were in one of the groups. Their witness was a fat Italian with bulging eyes and very white teeth. He surveyed the row of men under the light for a long moment, then flashed his teeth at the inspector and declared, “Next one to the end—that-a-way.” He swung his arm to indicate Neal Jordan. “That’s him for sure.”

  “You want to be very sure,” the inspector warned. “You may have to testify in court.”

  “Sure I’m sure. Didn’ I see ’im last night?”

  “All right.” Inspe
ctor Quinlan raised his voice to call, “Any luck over there?”

  “We’ve got a positive identification,” a voice called back. “Are you ready for it?”

  “Shoot.”

  Quinlan nodded his satisfaction when the voice said, “Next to the end on the left—the chauffeur.”

  “Bring him back to the boudoir,” Quinlan said. Then warned the reporters, “There’s nothing to print yet. This is hot, but we need a confession. You’ll all be treated alike.”

  Shayne hung back a little as the inspector hurried forward to intercept the officers escorting Neal back to the bare little room reserved for the questioning of recalcitrant suspects.

  Quinlan stopped in front of them and confronted the chauffeur. “Why did you murder Dan Trueman?” His cold blue eyes bored into Neal’s.

  Neal glared back and said quietly, “So that’s what this is all about.”

  “You’ve just been identified as the man seen sneaking in the side entrance about the time Trueman got it. Might as well give us the whole story, Jordan, and save yourself a lot of trouble.”

  “Why,” asked Neal in a wondering tone, “would I kill Mr. Trueman?”

  “We know that, too,” Quinlan told him. “You left a little memento behind in your haste to get away.”

  “Did I?” Neal Jordan’s unruffled manner was a match for Quinlan’s stoicism.

  “We’ve got you dead to rights,” the inspector warned evenly. “The boys won’t be too easy when they start asking the questions. Better give it to me.”

  Neal shrugged his handsome shoulders. “There has been a mistake. I can’t tell you what I don’t know.”

  Quinlan stepped back, nodded, and said, “All right Take him, boys. But get a before-and-after photo. We won’t want any plea of strong-arm stuff after he confesses.”

  He was scowling when he rejoined Shayne and asked, “What do you think?”

  “I think he’ll be a tough one to crack,” said Shayne.

  “I’d better warn the boys,” Quinlan said. “They know a couple of tricks to make him talk.” He left Shayne and went to the room where Jordan had been taken for questioning.

  He returned presently and suggested, “Let’s go up to my office while they soften him up.”

  “Of course,” said Shayne as they walked along.

  In his office Inspector Quinlan took the bottle of brandy from the filing cabinet and set it on the desk before Shayne, saying, “Here it is—help yourself,” and permitted himself the rare luxury of becoming jubilant.

  “We’ve got him, all right,” he went on, seating himself comfortably in his desk chair. “Funny, too, the way my men pulled him in right after you’d showed me why it might be him. Just goes to show that two of us can reach the same objective by taking different forks in the path. Plain police work is what finally turned up the two witnesses, and we’d have got him anyway if you hadn’t cleared up a couple of things for me.

  “On the Trueman killing, that is,” he amended hastily. “I’m not saying we’d have hung the Moe thing around his neck without your help. I suppose you’ve checked that angle and found she did have her gas grate burning when she went to bed.”

  “I checked on it.” Shayne nodded and tilted the bottle to take a long drink. “And it’s still murder,” he added, wiping his lips with the back of his hand.

  “Good. He fits the bill right enough. No one knew more about the valves and such.”

  “That’s right. I hope your boys get it out of him.”

  “They will.” Quinlan took a box of cigars from his desk drawer and offered Shayne one. Shayne declined, and Quinlan lit one for himself, settled back in his chair and said, “Yes. We’ve got Jordan and we’ll get a confession.”

  Shayne lit a cigarette and asked, “How did your boys run onto the two witnesses that fingered Jordan?”

  “Just routine police work. You know how it is in a case like that. We cover every angle—even when it looks like we’ve already got the case sewed up.” He blew a smoke ring toward the ceiling and added, “I’m sorry about this morning. But hell—”

  “Skip it.” Shayne took another drink. If the New Orleans basement boudoir was like a lot of others he had seen in action he didn’t like to think what Neal Jordan might be enduring. He said, “When that Moore dame sprung her denial of my alibi I didn’t blame you for deciding to hold me.”

  Quinlan flipped ashes from his cigar and asked, “What about her—and the lieutenant?”

  “I’ve verified the fact that he was in New Orleans the night before he was supposed to arrive,” Shayne said gloomily. “He went to see Lana. Hell of a thing for a prospective bridegroom to do, but some men are funny. I think he was on the level about being in love with Katrin,” he added reflectively. “From what I could find out, he’d been playing around with Lana before he met Katrin and she’d dragged him in pretty deep. She had threatened to make trouble, and the poor devil came here ahead of time to try to talk her out of it. Lana’s a hard to handle bitch,” he ended with disgust. “Look at the way she threw the hooks into me as soon as she saw I was in a tight spot.”

  Quinlan indulged in a hearty laugh. He was in high good humor. With Neal Jordan identified for the Trueman murder and with the prospect of springing a big surprise by turning a supposed suicide into a solved murder, there was a step upward for him. He said, “They’re all alike—every one of them.”

  The phone rang and he answered it, handed the receiver to Shayne, saying, “It sounds like the girl in your office.”

  It was Lucy. She said, “Michael?”

  “Oh, hello, Lucy, what goes?”

  “I’ve got the information on the trains. You can leave New Orleans at noon or early in the morning and make connections to Craigville.”

  “Give me the morning train.”

  “It’s the Flyer. It reaches Craigville the following day at eleven-forty a.m.”

  Shayne said, “Fine. What’s the fare?”

  “One-way coach is twenty-nine forty-three. First-class is—”

  “Hold it,” Shayne said. He laid the receiver on the desk and got out his wallet and the slip of paper he had found in Katrin Moe’s wastebasket. After checking the figures he picked up the instrument and asked, “What’s the tax on that ticket?”

  “Two ninety-four,” Lucy said, and added anxiously, “You’re not going to take a long trip like that by coach, are you?”

  Shayne laughed. “I’m not going anywhere. Be seeing you later.” He hung up, took a long drink from Quinlan’s bottle of brandy and looked at his watch. It was 10:25.

  Quinlan had been puffing on his cigar and listening to Shayne’s side of the conversation with interest. He asked, “What’s all this about a trip?”

  Shayne settled back and lit a fresh cigarette from the end of his stub. He mashed the stub out in an ash tray and asked, “Do you want to take another long shot on my say-so?”

  “After the one you’ve just pulled out of the hat I’ll ride to hell and back with you,” the inspector assured him.

  Shayne winced. “I can be wrong,” he warned.

  “I’ll take a chance on you.”

  “All right. Wire Craigville, Wisconsin, and have the cops meet the Flyer at eleven-forty this morning and arrest Anton Moe, brother of the late Katrin Moe.”

  Inspector Quinlan’s exultant mood vanished before Shayne’s eyes and he became the cold-eyed officer of the law. He said curtly, “Say that again.”

  Shayne repeated his request, slowly and doggedly.

  “Arrest him for what? I thought they couldn’t locate her brother—or any relatives.”

  “Just arrest him and charge him with being an escaped convict named Hodge, for one thing,” Shayne told him.

  Quinlan picked up his fountain pen and slowly drew it through one cupped hand. His finely molded features were set, his eyes incredulous. “Holding out again,” he said.

  “Holding out hell!” Shayne said. “I’m telling you.”

  “One of the men wh
o escaped from the pen is Katrin Moe’s brother? Are you positive?” he asked.

  Shayne said wearily, “Hell, no, I’m not positive. It’s another hunch. Suit yourself about playing it.” He emptied the pint bottle and tossed it across at a waste-basket. He was getting damned tired of guessing, and he wasn’t too sure that any of his guesses were right.

  Quinlan stared at him for a long moment before saying, “All right. I’ll do it on your say-so.”

  Shayne didn’t say anything more. He let it lie like that. A feeling of lassitude possessed him. Always before, when it came to winding up a tough case, he was a mass of nerves. He was on edge and driven by a sharp certitude that demanded action. He felt none of this now. It didn’t help any when the inspector called over the intercommunication system and sent the telegram to Craigville. Shayne felt only a mild pity for any man who was so easily led to act on a Shayne hunch.

  After Quinlan hung up the receiver Shayne arose abruptly. He didn’t want to answer any more questions. He said, “Let’s go down and see what Jordan is giving out.”

  “Let’s,” said Quinlan, and they went silently down the steps.

  The boudoir was a small square room in the basement. A heavy backless chair was bolted to the floor in the exact center of the room.

  Neal Jordan sat on the chair with a wide leather band about each thigh to keep him from rising. He was completely naked. A single light was suspended just above his head with a cone reflector throwing the rays directly downward, making one circle of glaring radiance and leaving the rest of the room in shadow. Four men were loosely grouped around him. They were questioning him calmly and persuasively about the murder of Dan Trueman.

  He didn’t answer them. He didn’t look at them. He sat forward with his elbows on his knees, his forehead resting on his interlaced hands. Great beads of sweat ran together and formed rivulets running down from his magnificent body, but he remained relaxed and immobile.

  Shayne looked sharply for any sign of physical weakening. There was nothing more than a healthy redness and sweat from the heat of the glaring light.

  He knew that Jordan was waiting them out. There were no signs of a struggle on his body to show that he had fought with Dan Trueman, but he already knew that, having seen him stripped to the waist in the Lomax basement.