Brett Halliday - The Homicidal Virgin

“There won’t be any bill,” Shayne told him harshly. “I won more money playing poker the last two nights than I spent on the project.” He chuckled mirthlessly. “Three hot-shots are sitting around a stud table right now, chewing their fingernails and wondering why in hell I haven’t shown up for the kill they had planned.”

Rourke stood up and yawned. “Well, if you don’t mind,” he said politely, “I guess I’ll drift along. Thanks for the drink.”

Very formally, Shayne said, “You’re always welcome.”

He waited until Rourke had his hand on the doorknob and then asked, “Does the name Saul Henderson mean anything to you, Tim?”

“Saul Henderson?” The reporter turned slowly, speculative interest in his eyes. “What about him?”

“That’s what I’m asking you,” said Shayne patiently. “Do you know anything about him?”

“Sure. What connection has a guy like Henderson got with Jane Smith or this thing tonight?”

“I didn’t say he had any connection.”

“I know you didn’t.” Rourke released the doorknob and turned back into the room. “All the same it made me wonder… in view of the fact that Henderson has a stepdaughter about nineteen years old. Utterly charming, I’d say, and what a guy like you might well call a ‘nice girl.’”

Shayne said, “So what? I didn’t ask you about Henderson’s stepdaughter.”

“I know you didn’t.” For a brief moment their glances interlocked. Rourke’s gaze, keen and challenging; Shayne’s, cool and unperturbed. Then Rourke sighed and shrugged his shoulders. “All right, Mike. Saul Henderson. A thumbnail sketch. He’s been a resident of the Beach for a few years, running a small brokerage house, I think. Dabbled in public affairs and been on a few committees. I think his wife died recently, and there’ve been rumors that he inherited a million or so. Whether that’s true or not, he’s being groomed to run for mayor of Miami Beach in the next election as the reform candidate. His candidacy isn’t official, but it’s pretty well in the bag, I guess.”

“What sort of man is he personally?”

“I met him once at some civic dinner. Bland, easygoing type. Pleasing personality.”

Shayne said harshly, “I’d like the opportunity to size him up for myself.”

“Easiest thing in the world. He’s been tossing some parties since his wife’s death. I’ll get you and Lucy an invite.”

“Why Lucy?” Despite himself, Shayne was unable to keep a note of venom out of his voice.

If Rourke detected it he gave no indication. “I’d say Saul Henderson has got a roving eye for a pretty gal. Lucy’s more likely to make time with him than you are.”

Shayne said, “All right. Maybe I can concentrate on the stepdaughter. Don’t forget it-the sooner the better.”

Rourke said, “I’ll ask around in the right places tomorrow.” He half turned back to the door, hesitated, and asked, “You still determined to clam up on Jane Smith?”

“I have to, Tim.”

The telephone rang and Shayne grabbed for it. Rourke paused to listen, halfway out the door.

The desk clerk’s voice said conspiratorially, “There’s a doll here to see you, Mr. Shayne. A real doll.”

He said, “Send her on up, Pete.”

“Sure. I would’ve, but I thought maybe you’d like a chance to get rid of that reporter first… for one like this here.”

Shayne said, “Tim Rourke is on his way out.” He hung up and stood up, moved toward the door telling Rourke pleasantly, “You are, you know. Down the stairs, Tim.”

He took his arm firmly and led him past the elevator. “You don’t need to give me the bum’s rush,” Rourke protested. “Is it Jane Smith?”

“I don’t know, but I’m hoping. Down the stairs with you, pal, and no peeking when I meet the elevator.” He heard it stopping behind him and gave the reporter a little shove down the stairs, then turned and strode back along the corridor as the elevator door opened.

A woman got out and paused uncertainly. She wore a low-necked ruby-red dress with a short-sleeved Angora jacket, and Harlequin glasses that were tinted a light blue.

She turned toward him as she heard his approaching footsteps, and smiled tentatively when she recognized him. Shayne stopped beside her and took her arm. She was taller than he had realized in the Crystal Room, the top of her head just level with his eyes. She said, “I am pleased to see you again, Mr. Shayne. I am in great trouble.”

Shayne said, “It’s an unexpected pleasure.” He turned her toward his open door and she walked beside him with a lithe, free-swinging stride, matching her steps exactly with his. Inside his sitting room, he closed the door while she moved across to the sofa against the wall and sat down. “I took the chance of coming directly to you without telephoning because I did not know what I could say over the telephone. How was I to explain that I… tried to pick you up in a bar earlier tonight and had you taken away from me by a prettier and younger girl?”

“Younger, certainly. I can probably whip up a better stinger than they gave you in the bar.”

“That would be nice.” She spoke with gravity and the same faint trace of a foreign accent which he had discerned in her voice earlier.

He picked up the cognac bottle from the center table, paused beyond the end of the sofa to reach for a squat bottle of white creme de menthe from a wall cabinet. In the small kitchen he half filled a quart measuring pitcher with ice cubes, poured in a brimming cup of cognac and a careful three ounces of the sweet liqueur. Stirring it leisurely with a tablespoon, he carried the pitcher back to the table and got two cocktail glasses from the cabinet. He filled both of them and crossed to hand her one, then returned to lounge into his chair by the table. She took a sip and nodded, “Yours is better, Mr. Shayne.”

He said, “You have the advantage of me.”

“My name is Hilda Gleason. Mrs. Harry Gleason. I was sure I recognized the famous private detective even when you said your name was Wayne and the pretty girl called you that.”

Shayne asked, “Is that why you came to my table tonight?”

“Yes. I sat at the bar, distraught and frightened and so alone. And I recognized you from pictures in the papers, and the thought came to me that Michael Shayne was the one person in the whole world who might be able to help me. So I got up my nerve to approach you, and then… pouf! You were otherwise occupied.”

“What sort of help do you need, Mrs. Gleason?”

“To find my husband before… before there comes a tragedy and it is too late to prevent it. He is in Miami and I cannot find him.” She was sitting very erect, taking short compulsive sips from her cocktail glass and staring at him over the rim from behind the blue-tinted glasses.

He said, “Relax and tell me about it. And for God’s sake, can’t you take off those glasses? I’ve got a hunch you’re hiding a pair of beautiful eyes behind them and it seems a silly thing to do.”

Dutifully she removed her Harlequin glasses. Her eyes were soft brown and luminous. Without her glasses, Shayne decided she must be in her late thirties.

“Harry came to Miami a week ago from our home in Illinois near Chicago. For some reason that he refused to tell me, but I sensed it had danger for him. Something to do with getting a large sum of money. He made big promises with hints about this and that, you understand, though I begged him to do nothing foolish. But he has become a changed man in the last two months. Silent and brooding much of the time, and with wild fits of anger against the unjustness of life that we have so little when others less deserving have so much. And it angered him when I said we were comfortable with his salary and mine, and that I could be happy with so little, and this thing grew and festered in his mind while he formed some plan for getting money which I think is dangerous.”