Brett Halliday: The Homicidal Virgin

Shayne paused momentarily in the doorway, and then lounged over to the third empty table from the entrance and sat in the chair facing in that direction, drawn out for him by an eager, white-jacketed waiter.

Shayne said, “Cognac with ice water on the side. A drink, not a pony. Monnet if you have it.”

The waiter said, “Certainly,” and went to the bar. Shayne got out a cigarette and lit it, turned slightly in his chair with left shoulder against the wall, and studied the backs of the three women at the bar speculatively. The one at the far end he dismissed immediately. She was middle-aged and dumpy and giggly drunk. She swayed on her stool, pressing a bare shoulder against the dinner jacket of her younger male companion who looked sleek and competent. There was an empty stool between her and the next man, with the slender figure of a girl on the seat next to him.

She had nice shoulders that showed just enough above a conservative cocktail gown, and a slender straight neck surmounted by a gamin-like Italian hairdo of auburn hair.

Shayne’s gaze lingered on the pair of them as the waiter brought his drink. They both sat very straight and lifted their drinks purposefully and appeared unconscious of each other. From his position directly behind her, Shayne could not see the reflection of the girl’s face in the bar mirror, but long experience in many bars gave him the distinct impression that the two were not yet acquainted but were both hoping to be before the evening became much older.

There was another vacant stool beyond the girl, then a very fat man sitting alone with a bottle of Heineken’s beer in front of him engaged in a dreary dissertation on the past baseball season to one of the bartenders.

The front end of the bar was curved, with two stools at the end facing the room. The final occupant of the Crystal Room was seated on the last stool against the wall. Both her elbows were on the bar, and her chin was supported by the backs of the folded knuckles of both hands. She wore a low-necked ruby-red dress with a short-sleeved Angora jacket the same color that was very attractive. She appeared to be in her twenties, with strong, clean features that suggested fine bone structure. She wore tinted Harlequin glasses that effectively concealed her eyes, and had a wide, smooth forehead beneath an upswept hairdo of light brown curls that were in faint disarray.

Shayne sipped his Monnet reflectively and let his gaze rest on her face for a long, contemplative moment. She appeared to return his gaze steadily, though he couldn’t be sure because of the glasses. He let his gaze linger long enough on her face to indicate strong interest and polite invitation without being rudely aggressive. She held her posture without the outward movement of a muscle. An empty cocktail glass stood between her two elbows.

Jane Smith? Shayne wondered. She appeared to be the only possibility in the bar. If so, she was giving him a solid going-over and taking her time about it.

Shayne set his half-empty shot-glass down and took a sip of ice water. He turned squarely in his chair to face the entrance and dragged smoke into his lungs. A tall, svelte woman with a very dark complexion and startlingly white hair came through the doorway. The bartender glanced up from in front of the fat man and moved to his right, smiling a greeting that betokened recognition. She moved to the bar and put one hand on a vacant stool and said something in a husky voice, and then turned to survey the room carefully, her gaze going down the length of the bar to the rear of the room, returning to brush over Shayne’s face unhurriedly. Then she turned and said something else to the bartender, moved aside gracefully and sat at the empty front table directly facing Shayne with one empty table between them.

She was about forty, Shayne thought. With aquiline features that were classically beautiful, but marred by a discontented droop at the corners of too-thin lips. She opened a beaded evening bag and extracted a long ivory holder and a flat enameled cigarette case. Her brooding gaze rested directly on the detective while she fitted a cigarette into the holder and accepted a light from the waiter who set a champagne cocktail in front of her with a flourish.

Jane Smith? If so, it looked like adding up to an interesting evening. Shayne met her eyes steadily until she glanced aside, and then slid his own gaze back to the girl at the end of the bar. She appeared to be watching him intently, and suddenly she reached a decision.

She stood up and said something to the bartender, moved around the end of the bar just as another girl entered behind her.

This newest arrival was very young to be dropping into a cocktail lounge unaccompanied. Not yet twenty, Shayne thought, with a virginal and appealing look of timidity about her. She wore a plain black sheath dress tightly belted about her slender waist with a wide leather belt and glittering rhinestone buckle. She had piquant features and smooth black hair that framed her face and flowed to curled tips resting on her shoulders.

The girl with the Harlequin glasses moved toward Shayne, blocking out the newcomer from his sight. She paused pensively beside his table looking down at him, and he pushed back his chair and half rose with a smile which she could assume as welcoming if she chose.

In a light voice that held the faint trace of a foreign accent, she asked, “Are you expecting someone?”

Shayne said carefully, “Not exactly. More hopeful than expectant, shall we say?”

“I saw you were alone… and I am lonely. It always seems so foolish that strangers must follow the rules and drink alone.”

“So let’s break the rule,” said Shayne. “Will you join me?”

The waiter was hovering behind her and he drew out the chair opposite the detective as she inclined her head. She sat down and looked across the table at him through her blue-tinted glasses. “I would enjoy having a stinger.”

Shayne emptied his brandy glass and pushed it toward the waiter. “A stinger for the lady… and a refill.”

Glancing past his companion’s left shoulder, Shayne noted that the younger girl had seated herself at the corner stool where she faced their table. She was looking at him steadily with her lips half-parted, and jerked her gaze away with a faint flush when his eyes met hers. Keeping her face averted, she conferred with the bartender while the thin fingers of both hands nervously clutched and unclutched a black velvet bag on the bar in front of her.

Shayne dragged his attention back to the girl opposite him. Close up, she looked older than he had first guessed. There were tiny lines radiating from the outer corners of her eyes, and the flesh of her chin was not quite as firm as it must once have been.

To the redhead, she was the most intriguing and attractive of the three possible Jane Smiths, yet she was also the only one of the trio who had been waiting when he arrived, and therefore the least likely prospect.

He said conversationally, “I’ve often felt exactly as you do… that it’s stupid to drink alone just because a stupid convention insists that people must be properly introduced before they can speak to each other. So let’s circumvent that convention. My name is Mike Wayne.” He was studying her face carefully as he spoke. Did a trace of excitement cross her mobile features? He couldn’t be sure. Those damned glasses! He wished she would take them off.

The waiter deftly served their drinks. She toyed with the slender stem of her glass and said thoughtfully, “Must we use our correct names? My own is so commonplace.”

“Something like Smith?” hazarded Shayne. “Plain Jane Smith, maybe?”

A demure smile curved her lips. “Something like that, yes. What could be less alluring? What could be so disappointing as to meet a girl named Jane Smith?”