Murder and the Married Virgin ms-10

by Brett Halliday

  “Knows which side his company’s bread is buttered on,” Shayne finished for him dryly. He blotted Mr. Teton’s signature and folded the paper carefully and slid it into his inside coat pocket.

  They were seated in a long, pleasant office ten stories above Melpomene Street just off St. Charles. Mr. Teton was a fussy little man with pale, far-sighted eyes. He wore his nose-glasses on a black ribbon appended to the lapel of a gray tweed suit, and continually placed them astride his nose to scan the documents, and took them off to argue with Shayne.

  “Paying me twelve and a half grand to save a hundred and twenty-five isn’t a bad deal,” Shayne stated flatly. He leaned back in the comfortable chair and lit a cigarette. “Now that the mundane details are settled, give me the dope.”

  “Of course.” Mr. Teton hooked his glasses on his lapel and clasped his hands on the desk. “The necklace was stolen night before last.”

  “Wait a minute,” Shayne interrupted. “First, what about the necklace itself.”

  Mr. Teton sighed and put his glasses on again to study the data spread out before him. “It was purchased about five years ago from Levric and Corbin, jewel manufacturers here in the city. It was made up on special order by Lomax for a gift to his wife. The necklace was an unusually fine one, built around the twenty-five carat Ghorshki emerald as a centerpiece. Our appraisal upon insuring it was a hundred and fifty-five thousand-twenty per cent over the face of the policy.”

  Shayne whistled shrilly. “A hundred and fifty grand for a necklace isn’t peanuts. Lomax must have had plenty of stuff to toss around.”

  “He was retired at that time, and converted bonds into what he considered a good investment. And quite correctly, too. In the present gem market the necklace would easily bring two hundred thousand.”

  Shayne nodded absently, said, “But not if it has to be fenced while it’s hot. Broken up into individual stones it wouldn’t bring more than a tenth of that.”

  “Quite true,” said Mr. Teton, hooking his glasses on his lapel. “Particularly since the Ghorshki stone is too well known to permit it to be sold in one piece.”

  “So the thief will be pretty anxious to get rid of it,” Shayne mused. “How will the company feel about buying it back if worst comes to worst?”

  Mr. Teton looked distressed. “I thought you were being retained as a detective-not as a go-between.”

  Shayne tapped the folded paper in his pocket. “My ten per cent is contingent on recovery without loss to you. If you have to pay out more than twelve and a half grand for it, I lose. How’s Lomax fixed financially?” he asked abruptly.

  “Quite well, I believe. His credit rating is good. His firm is active in instruments production-making gadgets for submarines.”

  “But what about cash? Any chance that he’s caught short right at this time? For plant expansion, perhaps?”

  “I’m having that investigated. There should be a complete report on his financial status as of this date in my hands by tonight.”

  “Good enough. Now sketch in the actual theft.”

  “The necklace was kept with other valuables in a small safe of approved design and the combination known only to Mr. and Mrs. Lomax. The house was burglarized night before last, but no one missed the necklace until this morning. And, there seems to be a plausible reason. Two reasons, in fact, that the discovery was not made at once. First, the necklace was supposed to be in the safe in Mr. Lomax’s bedroom and he was in the room reading in bed when he heard the burglar in Mrs. Lomax’s dressing-room. He got up and chased the thief through the hall and down the stairs. He knew, of course, that the safe hadn’t been touched. Secondly, Mrs. Lomax didn’t remember until this morning that she hadn’t returned the necklace to the safe after wearing it.”

  Shayne asked, “Where was Mrs. Lomax at the time of the burglary?”

  “She was out of the city and didn’t return until yesterday afternoon. Evidently it did not occur to her that no one had checked up, and we have to remember that Mr. Lomax was in the room with the safe which he supposed held the necklace.”

  Shayne nodded and asked, “How about other members of the family? Any children?”

  “A boy and a girl,” Teton answered. “The boy, Eddie, is about twenty-one and Clarice is about nineteen.”

  After a moment of thoughtful contemplation Shayne asked, “Do you see any tie-up with the suicide out there last night?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know,” said Mr. Teton. “The girl was Mrs. Lomax’s personal maid and had access to the jewel case when it was left outside the safe. I presume the police are working on the suicide angle.”

  Shayne ground out his cigarette on a metal ash tray and said, “All right. I’ll get the rest from the cops. Let me know if anyone contacts you.”

  He swung into his trench coat when he reached the outer lobby of the International Building. Raindrops made a gay patter on the striped awning as he pushed through the door to the sidewalk. He turned the collar of his coat up around his neck and pulled his hat brim lower over his face as he made his way to his car.

  Chief of Police McCracken leaned back in his chair and smiled when Shayne barged into his private office at headquarters.

  “I hear you’ve settled yourself in a luxurious suite of offices with a beautiful secretary to mix drinks for you,” he boomed good-naturedly.

  Shayne waved a big hand and said, “I’ve got a hovel in the International Building with a girl who sits in a chair when she takes dictation. Who’s handling the Lomax thing?”

  “H-m-m. I thought you’d be nosing into that.”

  “I represent Mutual Indemnity. You got anything on it, Mac?”

  “Better see Inspector Quinlan. He’s in charge.”

  Shayne had one arm out of his coat sleeve. He slid the arm in again. “Where’ll I find Quinlan?”

  “Down the hall to the right. Hell, you ought to know where his office is. You practically lived in it while you were cracking the Margo Macon thing.”

  Shayne grinned. “I thought maybe he’d got a promotion and a new office out of that. He didn’t fail to grab the headlines.”

  “That was your own fault. If you’d-”

  “Sure it was. An investment. Now I’ll see if it’ll pay dividends.” He went out and down the hallway.

  Inspector Quinlan greeted him cordially. “Some of the boys said you were located here, Shayne. I’ve meant to look you up and buy a drink.” He half stood and reached across the desk to shake hands.

  Shayne dragged a straight chair up to the desk with the toe of his shoe and sat down. “I’m in the International Building,” he said.

  “There’s something I’ve wondered about, in connection with the Margo Macon case. What became of the Hamilton girl?”

  “Lucy?” Shayne looked at him in surprise.

  “Yes. I heard she’s lost her position because of her connection with the case. I’ve thought I should look her up and see if there was something I could do.”

  Shayne waggled his head gravely. “And you a married man, Inspector.”

  “It isn’t that at all,” Quinlan said hastily. “She seemed a pleasant and capable girl.”

  “Yeh.” Shayne frowned at the floor. “It was really a pity the way they batted her around. She took to drink-and worse, I’m afraid.” His voice was sad.

  The inspector cleared his throat. His cold blue eyes softened when he said, “That’s really too bad.”

  “Tragic,” muttered Shayne.

  Inspector Quinlan’s eyes narrowed. “Damn you, Shayne, you’re pulling my leg. You wouldn’t be that sad if your own grandmother-”

  Shayne chuckled. “She’s my secretary if you have to know. But hands off. Lucy’s a good girl-damn it.”

  Quinlan resumed his impersonal normalcy. He was a slender man who appeared taller than his height, which was average. His thick iron-gray hair was cut short and stood up, accentuating his high forehead. There was a practiced stoicism in his expression from long association with the crim
inal world, but Shayne knew him to be a man who would work tirelessly for justice.

  “Are you working?” the inspector asked.

  “Just started-on the Lomax necklace. Mac told me you were handling it.”

  “I was out there this morning checking on the Katrin Moe suicide.”

  “Does it add up?”

  “I don’t see how, but it’s a coincidence if it doesn’t. The girl was engaged to an army lieutenant and was to have been married today.” Quinlan picked up a fountain pen and rolled it slowly between his palms.

  “Oh?”

  “Yes.” He nodded slightly. “He just came in on the morning train. I was at the Lomax residence when he arrived and was shown the body of the girl.”

  “Did he take it very hard?” Shayne asked casually.

  “He was still dazed from the shock, of course,” Quinlan said slowly. “He didn’t show much emotion. He doesn’t think she committed suicide.”

  “Did she?”

  “What do you think?” he asked, surprised. “Her room was locked on the inside and the gas was turned on. She had retired early and Mattson’s first guess on time of death was between two or three this morning.”

  “She could have been given something,” Shayne suggested. “A slow-acting poison.”

  “So she got up and turned on the gas when she knew she was dying of a slow-acting poison,” Quinlan scoffed.

  “Couldn’t it have been turned on afterward? As a blind?”

  “Mr. Lomax and the chauffeur broke down the door to get to her. They went up together when the housekeeper became alarmed, and both testified that the gas was stifling in the room and the grate was on.”

  “Just the same,” Shayne insisted, “I think it’d be smart to pull a P.M.”

  “As a matter of fact, we are. It was requested by her fiance who seems to be responsible since she had no relatives here. Some mention has been made of the girl having a brother, but no one knows his name or whereabouts. What do you know about it? Have you got an angle?”

  “Only a love that was like wonderful music-or like a day in spring with sunlight on the clover,” Shayne said somberly.

  Quinlan stared at him with curiosity and consternation. He said curtly, “You must have had several snorts this morning.”

  “All right,” Shayne said angrily, “maybe you don’t know what that stuff means. I knew a girl once-” He caught up his anger and explained, “I talked to Lieutenant Drinkley this morning. He sold me.”

  The inspector looked relieved. “I see. I’m not surprised. He came damned near selling me, too. He doesn’t know about the missing necklace.”

  “I wondered. He didn’t mention it to me,” Shayne admitted.

  “Nor to me. He assumed that we were out there on the death call, which we were. No one mentioned the necklace to him, nor the obvious implication.”

  “What is the obvious implication?” Shayne asked.

  Again Quinlan showed surprise. He said, “A necklace worth a hundred and fifty grand is missing and the maid commits suicide-with no obvious motive. Don’t tell me you’re going in for coincidence.”

  “Do you think she stole it?” Shayne asked sharply.

  “I don’t know-yet. Which are you interested in-the necklace or the girl?”

  “Both.”

  Quinlan laid the fountain pen aside and folded his hands. “Fair enough. Without the suicide, I’d say the necklace business was pretty open and shut. We investigated a burglary there yesterday. Flink and Brand handled it.” He picked up a report from his desk and read excerpts from it:

  “A library window downstairs was forced open from the outside. A neat, professional job. The whole house, except the servants quarters on the third floor, was prowled and a lot of small things were stolen. The necklace wasn’t reported until this morning because Mrs. Lomax was in Baton Rouge and everyone supposed she was either wearing it or had put it back in the safe. The safe hadn’t been touched. Mr. Lomax was in the room where the safe is when he heard the burglar in Mrs. Lomax’s dressing-room next door. It seems he chased the thief, but never got close enough to see him”

  “Who had a chance to know that Mrs. Lomax hadn’t put the necklace in the safe?”

  “No one will admit knowing anything about it,” the inspector told him. “If the case had been left on the dresser, Mr. Lomax could have seen it, but according to Mrs. Lomax, the case was in the dresser drawer. Katrin Moe tidied up the room after she had helped her mistress get off on her trip.”

  “And snatched an emerald necklace,” Shayne said harshly, “then went to bed and turned on the gas. It doesn’t make sense.”

  “No, it doesn’t,” Quinlan said quietly. “But who knows what goes on inside a girl’s mind? Her lover was due in town this morning. If she was in some kind of a scrape-and with a couple of guys around like Eddie Lomax and that chauffeur, God knows what was going on.”

  “Now we’re getting somewhere.” Shayne hunched forward and his gray eyes were very bright. “Give out.”

  “You know what I mean.” Inspector Quinlan lifted one shoulder and waved a hand in a gesture of derision. “Eddie Lomax isn’t any bargain, but he lived right there in the house where the girl was. She was young-a foreigner. Stranger things have happened.”

  “Katrin Moe was in love,” Shayne said evenly. “Is this Eddie quite a playboy?”

  “As much as he can be, I suppose, on what the old man lets him have. Liquor and women and dice, perhaps. I understand that Lomax is pretty tight with the boy.”

  “What about Clarice?”

  “She impresses me as being much bored with life. Flippant and hard-boiled. And then there’s the chauffeur-”

  “Yeh. There’s the chauffeur,” Shayne prompted when the inspector paused for a moment.

  “He’s what a lot of girls dream about when they’re married to guys like us,” Quinlan mused. “Not bad either. That’s the hell of it. Good-looking enough to be a movie actor or a matinee idol, but not that type. He’s quiet and unassuming and looks you squarely in the eye and you wonder why the devil he’s a chauffeur. Apparently well educated, too.”

  “H-m-m,” Shayne muttered, “but Katrin Moe was in-”

  “Sure, Katrin’s in love with her second looey,” the inspector interrupted. “But he’s stationed in Miami Beach and here’s God’s gift to women and a little weasel like Eddie Lomax with money right close at hand. I don’t know what went on, but there’s the picture as I see it.”

  “Yeh.” Shayne’s eyes were morose. “A missing necklace worth a hundred and fifty grand-and a dead girl.” He flung his cigarette to the floor and ground it out with the toe of a big shoe.

  “And here’s something else for you to chew on, Shayne,” Quinlan told him, a sardonic smile twitching his mouth. “Katrin Moe had a plain gold wedding ring in her handbag and it had been worn. It fitted the third finger of her left hand.”

  Shayne shot a startled look of surprise at the inspector. He started to say something, but instead he came to his feet and went toward the door. Turning his head he asked, “Has Doc Mattson got her?”

  “Over at the lab. You want a note or something?”

  “Thanks. I don’t need it with Doc. If you get anything else let me know.”

  “I won’t forget you. I’m glad you’re working on it, Shayne. Looks like another one that may call for your special brand of rabbits out of a hat.”

  Shayne’s jaw was set, deepening the hollows in his cheeks, as he stalked into the police laboratory.

  Doctor Mattson chuckled. “Look who’s come howling.” A stout little man with a round head as bare as a billiard ball, he wore a Vandyke and thick-lensed glasses through which he peered at the world with a sort of puckish glee. He was attired in a white surgeon’s gown and smelled of formaldehyde.

  “Quinlan said you were doing a P.M. on the suicide case,” Shayne told him as he advanced toward a straight chair filled with old magazines.

  “She’s a lovely girl,” Doctor Mattson s
aid, waving his soft, well-kept hands enthusiastically. “Why can’t I ever meet one like that while she’s still warm? They all come to me in the end-the port of dead desire. Sit down, Michael. Got a drink on you?”

  Shayne tilted the chair and let the magazines fall to the floor, toed it around to face the police surgeon and sat down. He grinned broadly but there was no mirth in the grin. He said, “You stay sober till you finish with Katrin Moe. Then I’ll fix you up. Still lean toward bourbon?”

  “Anything with an alcoholic content, Michael.” He shook his head. His eyes, which were like two black peas behind the thick lenses, were sad. “It was different when I used to have live patients and tried to save them.”

  “What about her?” Shayne said impatiently.

  “Katrin Moe,” he murmured, rolling the name over his fat, pouched lips. “She died with a smile on her young mouth, Michael. Put this down-a slim, unsullied body, clean-limbed and full-breasted. Like a young sapling in the spring when the sap begins to run.” He smacked his lips and sat down on a corner of the scarred oak desk.

  “Wait a minute,” Shayne said hastily. “This is a medical report, not a flight into poetic fancy. Is unsullied a figure of speech? Or a fact?”

  “A fact, Michael. She has never been touched by man.”

  “How much farther have you gone?”

  “Not much.”

  “I wish you’d hurry up with the rest of it.”

  “What’s the need of a post-mortem?” Doctor Matt-son demanded. “It’s a desecration to carve up that body. The girl committed suicide, didn’t she?”

  “That’s what I want you to tell me.”

  The doctor squinted at him for a long moment, then said:

  “What are you looking for?”

  “Positive evidence that she died as a direct result of breathing gas. If that evidence isn’t present, some slow-acting poison, I’d say.”

  “That won’t take long,” Mattson told him cheerfully. “But you can put it down without a post-mortem that she didn’t mind dying. She welcomed death. She greeted it with outflung arms and a smile. A girl like that!” He waggled his bald head again, and his eyes were sad.