Brett Halliday - The Homicidal Virgin

Shayne stood with his back to the room, facing the chair and Hilda as Henderson went away. She leaned back with her head against the cushion, looking up at him with parted lips and heaving breasts that showed inner tension.

In a low, harsh voice, Shayne said, “Take your glasses off, Hilda.”

The tip of her tongue came out to wet her lips. She reached up obediently and removed her Harlequin glasses. There was animal fright in her luminous brown eyes. “Why are you here, Michael Shayne?”

“I was invited. Why are you here?”

“I, too, was invited.” She lifted one hand appealingly toward him as he stood over her, blocking her off from the rest of the room. “Later, I will explain everything. Come to my room, yes? We cannot talk here.”

“Why not?” He kept his voice low and harsh. “After the run-around you gave me the other night I think I deserve an explanation.”

“It was no run-around as you call it, Michael. Please believe me it was not.”

“Do you want me to believe it’s sheer coincidence that you turned up here today using another name?”

“Perhaps as much coincidence as you being here,” she answered composedly. “Am I to believe that is true?”

“I had my own reasons for coming.”

“I, too, had my reasons. Have you… found any trace of Harry in the city?”

“No. Have you?”

Pain clouded her eyes as she moved her head slowly from side to side. “Nothing. But I am a stranger here and I do not know how to proceed.”

“You don’t appear to be a complete stranger to Henderson.”

“I have said I will explain that later.” She looked past him and sat up straight in her chair, taking a sip from her cocktail. In a fuller-bodied voice, she declared, “I think that would be most pleasant, Mr. Shayne. After the party is over, then?”

Henderson’s voice intruded just behind Shayne. “Just the sort of thing I’ve always heard about you private eyes. Leave you alone for one minute with a beautiful woman and you end up with an assignation.”

Shayne said, “Do you mind?”

“Of course I mind. But I don’t see what I can do about it. Now that you’ve got that settled, Shayne, would you mind stepping inside my office with me? I’ve a matter of extreme importance to discuss with you.”

“You will excuse me?” Hilda was on her feet and moving away from them before Shayne could reply.

Then he said flatly, “My office hours are nine to five. Make an appointment with Miss Hamilton.”

“This is off the record, Shayne. I need professional advice.”

“Do you invite your doctor to a party to get a free prescription from him?” Shayne’s face remained expressionless, but his voice was intentionally insolent.

“See here, Shayne.” Henderson stopped and controlled himself with obvious effort. He smiled thinly and his voice became placating. “I understand, of course, and I’ll be happy to pay your fee for any professional advice you give me. What is your regular charge for a consultation?”

Shayne drained his glass and said, “I think another sidecar will cover it.” He stood up and Henderson stepped aside, followed close behind him to the bar where the waiter smilingly emptied the contents of the shaker into Shayne’s outheld glass.

Saul Henderson murmured, “This way, if you don’t mind,” and went to a closed door beyond the bar which he opened and held for the detective to walk past him.

Beyond the door was a small den, efficiently equipped with a desk, portable typewriter on a wheeled stand, and filing cabinets.

Shayne went in and set his cocktail glass on the desk. He got out a cigarette and lit it while his host closed the door and sat down in front of the desk with a deep sigh. Shayne looked down at him quizzically, then pulled up a straight chair and also sat down.

“Let me say first, Mr. Shayne, that it’s like providence, having you here to talk to. I had a curious feeling that fate was taking a hand when your reporter friend called me out of the blue this morning. It came to me like a flash that you were exactly the man for me to confide in.”

Shayne took a deep drag on his cigarette and waited.

“I have to talk to someone. I don’t know why I didn’t think of you earlier. I did consider going to a private detective, but I hesitated because… well, the feeling one has about private detectives.”

“What sort of feeling does one have about private detectives?”

“I’m saying it badly. You’re not in that general category at all, of course. Now that I’ve met you socially I have no hesitancy to… to coin a phrase…” He laughed deprecatingly. “… to bare my soul to you. Everything about you bears out the impression I’ve got from reading newspaper accounts of your exploits.”

Shayne said placidly, “I’m glad I passed inspection.” He drank half his sidecar and set the glass down. “Shall we skip the pleasantries and get down to business?”

“It’s just that I… it’s so difficult to know where to begin.”

“Try the beginning.”

“Yes… well… I’m frightened, Mr. Shayne. In deathly fear for my life. Two attempts have been made to murder me in the last few days.” His voice quavered. “I need… protection.”

“Go to the police. That’s their job.”

“Naturally, I have been to the police. I reported each attempt on my life immediately. They made a cursory investigation of course, and then came up with the bright idea that they could have both been accidents. Wholly coincidental, of course, that the two attempts occurred within three days of each other.”

“Could they have been accidents?”

“Either one of them could, yes.”

Shayne emptied his glass and twirled it about reflectively by its long stem. “Tell me about them.”

“The first was last Monday. At dusk when I was driving home for dinner. I was just turning in my driveway when I heard the crack of a shot and a bullet embedded itself in the seat upholstery not more than an inch from my right shoulder.”

“You didn’t see anyone?”

“Naturally not. It was beginning dusk and I simply stepped on the gas and roared up the drive. I hurried inside and called the police to report it. A couple of stupid detectives came around eventually. They dug the bullet out and made some wild guesses about distance and muzzle velocity and so forth, and then said probably it was just some juvenile delinquent firing a rifle wildly into the air.”

“And the second one?”

“Yesterday afternoon. I had a Chriscraft twenty-footer in my boathouse which I often took out alone for a spin on a calm day. I thoroughly enjoy heading directly out to sea and being alone with the salt sea spray and the sun and the roar of a powerful motor in my ears. Yesterday afternoon I was at least four miles out when the motor exploded. There was a terrific roar and a blinding flash of flame and everything went up in pieces. The entire hull was torn apart and it sank in a matter of minutes. Luckily I escaped injury and was able to leap overboard into the water. I’m a very poor swimmer and could not possibly have remained afloat more than a few minutes, so whoever planned it had the expectation that if the explosion did not kill me I would almost surely drown.”

“But you didn’t.”

“But I didn’t. By an absolute miracle there was a fishing boat not more than five hundred yards away. The only craft within miles of me. They rescued me and brought me in safely.”

“And the police think that was an accident too?”

“They insist that it could have been easily enough. A spark from the engine igniting the gasoline tank. I explained it wasn’t that sort of explosion. That it was definitely a bomb of some sort. But I haven’t any proof. Just my own positive impression of what happened. And there’s no chance of recovering the boat to ever find out what caused it.”